From Buyer's Remorse to Bengali Pride: How the Jeep Meridian Won Over a Skeptical Family

Let me tell you, the anxiety of signing a check for nearly 50 lakh rupees for a car—your first big car—is enough to make you question every life choice that led you to that showroom. For months after our pearl-white Meridian Overland 4x4 arrived, a little voice in my head, sounding suspiciously like my practical, value-conscious uncle, wouldn't shut up. "A stretched Compass!" it hissed as I navigated the tight lanes of North Kolkata. "For this price, you could have a Fortuner, or wait for that new MG Majestor!" The initial weeks were a parade of first-world problems. The third row? Best for small children or grocery bags, not uncles with a fondness for mishti. And the diesel clatter on a cold morning felt louder than the political rallies on Loudon Street. I was convinced I'd made a monumental mistake, a classic case of "shob bhalo lagar jonno" (liking something just because it looks good).

The turning point came not on a showroom floor, but on NH12, headed towards the mangroves during a surprise Kalbaishakhi storm. The sky turned the colour of burnt charcoal, and the road disappeared under a sheet of water. My previous sedan would have been a nervous, aquaplaning mess. But the Meridian, with its 214mm of ground clearance and that reassuringly heavy "thunk" of the doors, transformed. My wife, initially anxious, simply said, "Gaadi-ta toh solid," and went back to her podcast. The monsoon-ready composure was its first silent victory. It wasn't just moving; it was ploughing, stable and secure, washing away a chunk of my buyer's remorse with the rainwater.

The real magic, however, unfolded on a family trip to the hills of Darjeeling. This is where the "backseat comfort for family" promise was put to the test. The captain seats in the second row were thrones. My parents, usually vocal about backaches after an hour, dozed off peacefully. The Alpine music system drowned out the diesel drone, and the panoramic sunroof (when not covered by clouds) was a hit. The 60-litre fuel tank meant we skipped the chaotic fuel stations in Siliguri. And that legendary boot? It swallowed enough luggage, blankets, and boxes of Sacher pastry to appease a dozen relatives. The car ceased to be just my purchase; it became the family's favourite travel companion.

Now, in the cold light of January 2026, with the economic sentiment being cautious and the market flooded with new options like the MG Majestor and the revived Renault Duster, do I still think it was the right call? Honestly, yes. The ADAS, which I thought was a gimmick, has been a guardian angel on late-night returns from work on the bypass. The evolving EV infrastructure gives me range anxiety for my next car, but for now, this diesel tank feels just right for our long, unpredictable trips across Bengal and beyond. It's not perfect—the service network could be better, and yes, it's thirsty around town—but it has earned its keep. It provided a sense of safety and occasion that a more common, badge-focused SUV couldn't.

An imperfect, thirsty, but deeply capable and reassuring fortress that grows on you, especially when the skies open up or the highway calls for a family adventure.