Life's Little Luxuries |
| Saturday, 14 March 2009 19:34 | |
 Today one of my favourite magazines thudded onto the floor through the letterbox. It's another French interiors magazine whose special feature this issue is all about bathrooms and the theme is simplicity.I know a thing or two about bathing in simplicity so I was intrigued to see what the sumptuously photographed bathrooms would offer. Yes, there were lots of clean lines, perfectly folded opulent towels, manicured bottles of soap positioned just-so on the edge of an ice white bath, and a huge umbrella sized shower head in the middle of a room. Was it simple? Not really. It appeared uncluttered, uncomplicated, and the epitome of zen chic, but somehow something had got lost in the whole process. The intimacy of bathing was absent. When I first turned up in Punjab during that stifling hot summer the first word I learnt was Balti. Until then I had thought it was a dish in the local Indian restaurant. Here, it's true significance and impact became all too important. Balti means bucket. And without a bucket collecting water from the tap is a problem. So off I went to the local bazaar to make my first purchase: a big Barbie-pink plastic bucket, complete with rather insubstantial handle. That bucket and I had a long history together. Bathing became essential, as in back to basics. There was nothing superfluous about it. Quite simply, the bucket was filled from the dripping tap, when there was water, at whatever was the ambient temperature for that season. So in the summer when it was about 45 degrees centigrade outside the water felt almost boiling hot to touch. In the winter it was, fr-fr-fr-freezing cold as I dunked the jug into the bucket to tip the water over myself. Bathing in the winter was a much quicker experience. Soon I forgot to dream of lying soaking in a deep tub with bubbles on the top. I began to enjoy that sensuality of the spring water, gently pouring it over my skin and then massaging it, applying a small amount of soap and then washing it off. I stopped noticing how bare the walls were, how risky it was to drop anything in case it went down the waste pipe straight into the earth, and how vulnerable I felt squatting there naked behind a flimsy wooden door with the world on the other side. I discovered how far one bucket of water can go in a day, how many times you can "flush" the loo with so little, how just a couple of jugs of water is enough to wet the whole body. I revelled in the sheer exhilaration of being able to tip the last six inches of water over myself in one big wave. As the summer heat faded, I made a new discovery in the bazaar. I bought a 2,500 watt heater element which I balanced in the bucket precariously. Only once did I forget to pull the wires (no plug) out of the wall before testing the water temperature, and, sure enough, it blasted me across the room. That one bucket of hot water with which to wash my hair was as luxurious an experience as being wrapped in a deep pile towelling bathrobe at a Spa. Back home here in London I love to relax in a deep hot bath. Bathing is an experience, it's a relaxation, a deep self cleansing. If that experience is lost, then it doesn't matter how much the taps cost, how perfectly proportioned the bath is, it's never going to be satisfying. That's what I learned from my pink bucket: luxury isn't how much it costs, it's how much you let go of your preconceptions of what you need. |