I have always bought underpriced phones but have been gifted expensive Android phones by my wife and kids. I have never found iPhones or any Apple product attractive. I have also found expensive Android phones confusing and over featured
by Debasish Roy, CEO, Royalle Corporation (www.royalle.in)
The story of my relationship with smartphones is less a tale of technological aspiration and more a quiet commentary on how consumer culture, identity, and class anxieties intersect in modern India. I have always bought underpriced phones—devices chosen for utility rather than symbolism. Yet, paradoxically, some of the most expensive Android phones I have owned have come not from my own purchasing decisions but as gifts from my wife and children. Those gifts were well intentioned, expressions of care and a desire to give “the best.” Still, each time I unboxed one of those premium devices, I felt the same mild discomfort: a sense that I was holding something that promised far more than I either needed or wanted. This personal experience has shaped my skepticism not only toward expensive Android phones but even more toward iPhones and Apple products in general, which I have never found attractive. To me, the iPhone increasingly appears less like a tool and more like a badge—a product designed and marketed for the wannabe middle class, often purchased through extended EMI plans that mask its true cost.
At the heart of this discomfort lies a basic question: what is a smartphone supposed to do? For me, the answer has always been simple. A phone should make calls clearly, handle messages reliably, browse the internet without fuss, run essential apps smoothly, and last a full day without anxiety about battery life. Underpriced phones—especially those emerging from competitive Android ecosystems—have, for years now, been more than capable of meeting these needs. They have improved incrementally but meaningfully, offering better cameras, decent screens, and acceptable performance at prices that feel rational. In contrast, expensive phones often feel like over-engineered solutions in search of problems. They arrive loaded with features that demand learning curves, configuration menus, and constant updates, many of which I never asked for and rarely use.
Expensive Android phones, in particular, tend to overwhelm rather than empower. Multiple camera modes, AI-driven enhancements, gesture controls, proprietary app stores, layered user interfaces, and aggressive ecosystem lock-ins combine to create an experience that feels cluttered. Instead of simplifying life, these devices demand attention and adaptation. They seem designed not just to be used but to be explored endlessly, as if the phone itself were a hobby. For users who enjoy tinkering, this may be appealing. For those who see technology as a means rather than an end, it is exhausting. The irony is that these phones are often marketed as productivity tools, yet their complexity can actively detract from productivity.
My aversion to iPhones goes even deeper, because Apple’s value proposition is not merely about features but about identity. Apple has mastered the art of selling aspiration. The iPhone is presented as a symbol of taste, success, and belonging to a global elite that “gets it.” Minimalist design, carefully curated launch events, and an aura of exclusivity all contribute to this narrative. Yet when one looks past the polish, the device itself offers little that justifies the premium, especially for users whose needs are basic. In markets like India, where price sensitivity remains high for the vast majority of people, the iPhone’s appeal cannot be explained by functionality alone.
This is where the idea of the “wannabe middle class” enters the picture. India’s middle class is not a monolith; it is a spectrum ranging from financially secure households to families living one medical emergency away from debt. Within this spectrum, consumption often becomes performative. Products are not just bought for use but to signal arrival—socially, economically, and culturally. The iPhone fits perfectly into this logic. It is instantly recognizable, universally understood as expensive, and strongly associated with global modernity. Owning one sends a message, regardless of whether the owner actually benefits from its capabilities.
Extended EMI plans are the financial lubricant that makes this signaling possible. By breaking down a large sum into smaller monthly payments, EMIs create the illusion of affordability. The psychological barrier of a high upfront cost disappears, replaced by a manageable-looking number that can be absorbed into monthly expenses. What often gets overlooked is the opportunity cost: the cumulative burden of long-term payments, the interest, and the silent trade-offs made elsewhere in the household budget. In many cases, the phone ends up costing far more than its sticker price, not just in money but in financial flexibility.
The normalization of EMIs for lifestyle products reflects a deeper shift in consumer behavior. Credit is no longer reserved for assets that generate value, such as education or housing; it is increasingly used to finance symbols of status. This shift is particularly potent among those who feel caught between aspiration and reality. The iPhone becomes a way to participate in a global consumer culture, to momentarily bridge the gap between where one is and where one wishes to be. In this sense, Apple is not just selling hardware; it is selling emotional reassurance.
What makes this phenomenon especially striking is how little actual engagement many iPhone users have with the ecosystem they pay so dearly to access. Features like seamless integration across Apple devices, cloud-based workflows, and tightly controlled app environments matter primarily to users who are deeply embedded in the Apple universe. For someone who owns only an iPhone and perhaps a pair of earphones, much of this value proposition remains theoretical. Yet the price is paid in full, regardless of whether the benefits are realized.
There is also a subtle homogenization at play. Walk into any corporate office, café, or airport lounge, and you will see the same phones, the same white cables, the same minimalist cases. Individuality gives way to conformity under the guise of sophistication. Ironically, in trying to stand out by owning an iPhone, many end up blending into a carefully constructed aesthetic that Apple has defined. The device becomes less an expression of personal preference and more an adherence to a template.
In contrast, underpriced phones often encourage a healthier relationship with technology. Because they are not fetishized, they are used pragmatically. Scratches are tolerated, batteries are replaced without anguish, and upgrades are driven by necessity rather than hype. There is a quiet freedom in not being emotionally or financially over-invested in a gadget. When a phone is just a tool, it can fade into the background of life, which is arguably where good technology belongs.
This is not an argument against quality, nor is it a denial that Apple makes well-designed products. The critique is about proportionality and purpose. When the cost of a device far exceeds the value, it delivers to its user, something has gone awry. In the Indian context, where economic inequality is stark and aspirations are intensely commercialized, the iPhone becomes a mirror reflecting broader societal tensions. It embodies the desire to leapfrog stages of development, to be seen as global without necessarily being grounded.
Ultimately, my preference for underpriced phones is not about frugality for its own sake. It is about resisting the idea that worth—personal or social—can be measured by the price of what one carries in one’s pocket. Technology should adapt to human needs, not the other way around. When devices become symbols first and tools second, they distort priorities. The iPhone, especially when bought on extended EMI plans by those stretching beyond their means, exemplifies this distortion. In choosing simpler, cheaper phones, I am not rejecting progress; I am choosing relevance. I am opting out of a race that confuses consumption with success and visibility with value. In a world saturated with over-featured devices and over-amplified desires, there is quiet dignity in using what works, paying what is fair, and remaining indifferent to the performative allure of status gadgets. That, to me, is not a rejection of the middle-class dream, but a refusal to become a wannabe version of it.
