Indian luxury hotels just don’t feel the same anymore. Sure, the marble’s still imported, the flowers still arrive from who-knows-where, and you can drop more on a room than most people get paid as a monthly salary. But all that gloss can’t hide what’s missing.
Back in the day, the best hotels earned their reputation on substance, not flash. It started in the kitchen—with people who actually cared. Walk through the doors of the Taj Mahal Palace and you’d find yourself in Hemant Oberoi’s world. ITC? That was Imtiaz Qureshi’s turf. The Oberoi Group didn’t just raise the bar—they obsessed over every inch of it. Rai Bahadur Mohan Singh Oberoi, and later his son “Biki”, didn’t just pose for photos. If a chair were out of place, he’d fix it himself. Leadership back then meant sweating the details, not just showing up for ribbon-cuttings.
And it wasn’t just about the bosses barking orders. Excellence felt personal. The spirit of the place mattered, and leaders protected it. Guests weren’t statistics or “room nights”—they were treated like actual people. Comfort wasn’t a line item in a budget; it was a way of doing things. You felt it in every handshake, every greeting.
Now? The vibe’s different, and not in a good way. There’s a tired sameness everywhere you turn.
Room rates have shot up—₹30,000 and ₹50,000 a night are almost normal in the big cities. But something’s emptier than ever. Breakfast and lunch buffets, which used to be worth showing up early for, feel like an afterthought. Instead of showcasing local flavours, most of the food is just generic. Room service is no better: limp sandwiches, sad fries, and a bellhop who’s clearly counting the minutes until his shift ends.
It’s not about resources—they’re still buying the best ingredients, still connected to international suppliers, and still spending money. The missing piece is ownership.
Chutneys, which should be the heartbeat of a great Indian breakfast, taste like they came out of a factory. The fruit? Bland, like it’s been shipped halfway around the world. On the surface, everything looks fine. But nothing actually stands out. That relentless focus on details—the kind that would make Biki Oberoi pause to straighten a lamp or fix a chair—just isn’t there anymore. Chefs like Manish Mehrotra and Vineet Bhatia used to pour themselves into their work. They didn’t let mediocrity slide just because the paperwork looked good.
Now, it’s “manager-chefs”. They know the brand manual and can run a spreadsheet, but somewhere along the line, the magic has disappeared. The simple stuff—a perfect dal tadka—doesn’t taste like it’s made by someone who cares. And it’s not just the food. At these prices, you expect spotless rooms and everything working. Instead, you’ll find broken bidets, frayed duvets, and ACs that rattle like old coolers. Ask for help and you get bounced around between departments. Back in Biki Oberoi’s day—or Captain Nair’s at Leela—that would’ve been unimaginable. Not because it hurt profits, but because it was just plain embarrassing.
Service has slipped, too. The staff used to anticipate what you wanted before you even asked. Now, every word feels scripted. High turnover and cost-cutting have wiped out mentorship and the old traditions. Complacency’s set in, and nobody seems bothered by it.
The industry’s different now. Profit is the only thing that matters. Craft gets squeezed out by the push for uniformity. That quirky perfectionist—always checking the bread or fiddling with the lights—is now seen as a nuisance.
Luxury has become predictable, and when that happens, you forget it the moment you leave.
You see it most at conferences, weddings, and retreats. Ballrooms are packed, but the experience never rises above average. Guests pick at dry pastries and sip lukewarm coffee, shrugging off the mediocrity like it’s just how things are. Tables are loaded with food, but there’s no spark. The goal’s just to cycle people in and out, not to make anyone feel special.
And here’s the real twist: as Indian luxury hotels keep hiking prices, they’re losing the very thing that set them apart. They used to understand that real luxury wasn’t about gold leaf or designer taps. It was emotional—the quiet confidence that someone skilled was paying attention. Walking into a room where everything just worked. A welcome that felt real, not robotic. The sense that every detail mattered to someone who actually gave a damn.
Now, management’s too busy with spreadsheets to bother with guests. And when the soul slips out of a brand, nobody falls in love with it. You feel it when service turns into box-ticking. That’s why more people are drifting to small, independent hotels—places where the owner’s actually on site, the chef gets to experiment, and problems get fixed right away instead of getting lost in the system.
It’s not about nostalgia. It’s about wanting things to make sense again.
Indian hospitality was built on something deeper than any brand slogan: Atithi Devo Bhava—the guest is God. That spirit dies the moment kitchens become just another line on a cost sheet, or when engineering is seen as a drain instead of an advantage. To revive it, hotels need real leaders. Chefs who run the show. And, most of all, a return to the obsessive attention to detail that defined Biki Oberoi’s time. Luxury isn’t a glitzy lobby or a branded scent pumped through the vents. It’s a shower that never leaks. A breakfast where every bite feels considered. Staff who actually notice you.
Right now, India’s big hotel chains face a choice. Or they can get back to what made them legendary: hands-on leaders, proud craftspeople, and a sense that every detail matters. Because if they don’t, the era of the great Indian hotelier—when leadership meant being there, when craft meant pride, and when detail was everything—will just become another story people tell.
And no amount of imported marble can bring back what really matters: the human soul of hospitality.
