There are some daily occurrences that seem so ordinary, I had simply stopped noticing them. The tiffin house around the corner. The coconut vendor outside the metro station. The stationery shop that somehow stocks everything from strawberry scented sketch pens to posters of Puneet Rajkumar. I think it’s probably because I know where they are without looking them up.

But off late, I am interested in the ordinary. The mundane and the less exciting. And the more I look at it, the more extraordinary it actually reveals itself to be. In Bengaluru, there’s one experience that quietly belongs on this list: the hot chips shop.

As someone who only moved here two summers ago, I found myself wondering why they happen to be everywhere. Beside supermarkets, opposite schools, next to temples, malls, and bus stops. They look remarkably similar, featuring a bright signboard, perfectly arranged interiors, some adorned with images of goddesses and gods, others with posters of posing film stars. The store design has a standard format that proudly displays glass shelves vertically stacked with thinly sliced potato crisps, crunchy banana chips, swirling murukku, spiced kodubale, sweet rose cookies and other savoury chivda. Just two steps outside the kiosk, there is usually an individual expertly slicing and frying potatoes in a large wok of bubbling oil. An ardent task to an outsider but a daily routine for the fryer, come rain, come sunshine.

The more I noticed them, the more I realised they weren’t just snack shops. They were neighbourhood businesses and hubs. Small enterprises that had quietly become part of the city’s everyday rhythm, its food history and cultural identity.

Then there’s the name. And what’s in a name?

‘Hot Chips’ began as a way of describing freshly fried chips, distinguishing them from packaged alternatives. Over time, particularly across Tamil Nadu and Karnataka, the phrase evolved into something much bigger. It became shorthand for an entire format—the friendly snack shop around the block where nibbles are sold by weight, where freshness matters more than branding and where regular customers matter more than footfall. In an era where names are trademarked, protected and fiercely defended, it’s oddly refreshing that ‘Hot Chips’ has come to function almost like a common noun. Every neighbourhood seems to have one, each with its own identity, despite sharing the same name. And none of them go out of business!

Perhaps that’s why so many of these shops look familiar. The formula works and it doesn’t require reinvention every season. It just needs discipline. Behind every warm packet of freshly cooked chips, is a business built on timing, judgement and routine. Every batch is a calculation and every kilogram of potatoes carries a cost.

At 23, Manoj has already spent 7 years learning the craft of perfecting the perfect wafer chip and the business of selling it too.

His father started the shop 15 years ago. Today, the family runs multiple hot chips outlets across Bengaluru, supported by a small production unit in Chickpet. What began as a single store has steadily grown into a family enterprise, one built without investors, delivery apps or marketing campaigns. Tucked between Phoenix Marketcity and Singayyanapalya Metro Station lies his shop: Sri Ganapathi Hot Chips.

My colleague Akshara and I made a quick stop to interview Manoj and his brother.

Your father started this business. What made you join it? 

Yes. My father started this shop and he still runs it. My brother and I help him. From an early age itself, we just wanted to continue what he built.

Did you ever imagine a different future for yourself?

No. I never had that desire. This chip shop is what I wanted to manage all along. It might sound strange, but I’ve always felt this is where I belong. My father built this business and I want to take it forward. That’s my dream.

You say that very confidently.

Because this is what I enjoy. Some people like travelling and some people like playing cricket. I like making chips and I treat this shop like my God. Nothing comes before it.

What does an ordinary day look like?

I come at 10 in the morning. First we clean the shop, the counters, the vessels. Everything has to be cleaned and washed before we begin. Then we prepare the potatoes. I scrub them and peel them. Around noon we fry the first batch and then in the evening we make another batch. We wrap up and close around 11 in the night and the next day we do it all over again.

Does the routine ever get repetitive?

No. Each day is the same but different. When you’ve been doing it for years, you know what needs to happen and when. Things fall into place and it is all in all satisfying.

How do you know how much to make every day?

You learn with time. School holidays are quieter but when schools reopen, business becomes busy again. Weekends are always better. One has to develop patience to observe and learn these things. Time and our customers have taught us that. And before you know it, you begin to understand the community. School students stop by after class or families come to pick up snacks for the evening or office-goers drop in on their way home. Sometimes we get big bulk orders from companies and restaurants for birthdays. Over time, customers become predictable enough to shape production itself.

Do you make everything fresh?

Yes yes, always. We don’t keep old stock because the oil can go rancid. Morning we make one batch. Evening we make another. We only make what we know will sell.

What happens behind the counter and what else do most people not know?

There’s a lot happening behind the counter. We have multiple shops and a single production unit. Some snacks are made there and brought here. And some, like these potato chips, are made fresh in this shop.

Is it a profitable business?

A hundred grams of chips costs ₹50. On an average day, the shop brings in between ₹5,000 and ₹6,000 in sales. Against that are potatoes, oil, spices, transport, rent and wages. Profit is less and expenses are more but we save a little.

Then what keeps you going?

Customers. When they eat the chips and tell us they’re good, we feel happy. When they come back again, we feel happy. When we get a big order for a birthday or a company, we feel even happier. That’s what makes this work worth doing.

What do you hope this business becomes?

We already have a few shops and slowly we want to expand but we’re in no rush build more. We’re already quite happy and content in a way but there’s always more to look forward to.

Cities often celebrate their biggest companies and newest ideas.

But they’re equally shaped by businesses like these. The ones that become so reliable, so embedded in everyday life, that we miss noticing them altogether. Perhaps that’s the real story of Bengaluru’s hot chips shops. Not that they sell good chips. But that they’ve quietly built one of the city’s most enduring business models, one area at a time.

Tomorrow morning, before most of us have thought about our first snack of the day, someone will already be peeling potatoes, heating oil and preparing the first batch that we unconsciously end up munching on during a chai break.

The business begins long before the customer arrives.

A special thank you to Akshara Jayaraj for helping document this excursion and conducting this interview in Kannada.

Walking away from certainty

Just a year prior to that first surprise harvest, Ramakrishna had walked away from a life he’d built in Canada over 17 years. 

When the COVID-19 pandemic brought the world to a pause, his elderly mother expressed the desire to return to India for good. Coincidently, he too, felt a silent need to put Toronto behind. Around the same time, a few friends in India began discussing a business idea. The plan was just a faint blueprint, but something about it felt right.

So, in just 30 days, he quit his job, vacated his house, packed up his life, and returned to his roots in Kakinada, Andhra Pradesh.

When he left Canada, he knew very well that everything around him, predictably and inevitably, was about to change. No more waking up in the familiar concrete jungles of Toronto; the comfort of a corporate job and stability in daily routines suddenly became a distant dream.

"Most techies leave their job because they're tired, but not me," he observes. "I loved what I was doing." Ramakrishna was not someone who’d run away from changes. And the possibility of building something of his own gave him hope.

The idea

Fruit picking, as an activity of leisure, was very popular in the West but not in India. This thought excited Ramakrishna. He and his friends agreed that strawberries were the best fruit to begin with. It was a pretty fruit; red and glossy. It was a fairly commercialised fruit too, and had kids drooling over it.

They wanted to set up the farm in Bengaluru; surely, the city's crowd would want an escape from its mundanity and traffic! They spotted a market opportunity in a population that was increasingly health-conscious and looking to invest in sustainable, farm-to-table experiences. They'd found the perfect plot to lease, too. Two hours from the city, winding roads, endless fields, and countless cows will lead you to 10 acres of land. There, grew a small forest of Allahabad Safed guavas that vouched for the soil's fertility. The sweet scent of the fruits intoxicated the surroundings at all times. Thus, The Bangalore Berry Company had found its place in the world.

Can this actually work?

The initial six months after returning to India went entirely into research.

The team scoured the internet, watched videos, read farming guides, and absorbed everything they could find about strawberry cultivation. But theory alone could only take them so far.

That’s why Ramakrishna and his friends decided to walk into the Indian Institute of Horticulture Research (IIHR). It was an impulsive decision, but one that’d prove to be beneficial in the long run. At IIHR, someone pointed the party towards the director of the institute. He was kind enough to meet them for 30 minutes. Ramakrishna recounts that conversation as fruitful. The director nudged them towards growing Italian strawberry varieties rather than just sticking to the popular American ones. It was also a reality check. The director listed out the problems they could possibly face, but the new farmers were too determined to give up.

On another day, a group of local experts visited the farm. They gently discouraged Ramakrishna from growing strawberries. "Stick to guavas," they said. It came from a place of concern, but the team was in too deep to just throw their hands up without even trying. "That kind of blind confidence was necessary at that initial stage," Ramakrishna laughs.

Learning the hard way

Safe to say, that blind confidence really did help. For his own endeavour was not devoid of mistakes, and each one taught him more than the internet ever did.

The mother plants are imported from countries like Italy and America. They arrive by flight to different parts of the country, frozen and sealed. These are then transported to Bengaluru by road or rail. In the first year, a bunch of mother plants arrived by rail on a rainy day. As Ramakrishna carried them to his vehicle, the damp boxes gave way and the plants plopped onto the floor. On another occasion, a new variety of strawberry plants he ordered bore no fruit. He even planted the saplings in a new patch, and once again, none of them yielded. These mistakes taught him about planning, experimenting with new varieties, and the importance of soil fertility. He had to—grudgingly—cut down all but a line of guava trees to use that fertile soil for strawberry patches.

A year on the farm

Through trials and errors, Ramakrishna finally cracked the code. 

The strawberry crop cycle in Bengaluru starts as early as the end of March, when the land is prepared by tilling and sun-drying the soil. In April, legumes are sown. These help enrich the soil by promoting beneficial microbes and improving fertility. Around May–June, the mother plants are imported and maintained at the plant nursery. Small cups filled with cocopeat are placed near them. The runners from the mother plants grow into these cups and sprout daughter plants. A single mother plant can produce about 10–12 daughter plants. By July, the legume crop is cut and fed back into the soil as green manure.

By September, the young strawberry plants are transplanted into the prepared fields. Within two months, delicate white flower buds begin to appear. Pollination takes place naturally and by December, the white blooms give way to the green of baby strawberries. Strawberries thrive in cool conditions, so harvesting continues through the winter until March.

And so, the fruit picking season begins.

Come, pick a strawberry

During the fruit picking season, Ramakrishna opens the gates of The Bangalore Berry Company on weekends to visitors. From tiny, wobbly toddlers to wise elderlies, everyone enjoys the farm. He tells the children that all the fruits at the farm are theirs, but not the sunflowers bobbing their big heads—those belong to the birds. The sunflowers distract birds from the strawberry flowers. He also plants broccoli to attract pests, because pests love broccoli more than strawberries. Since Ramakrishna encourages his visitors to eat fruits right off the plants, he cannot risk using any unnatural fertilisers—hence the use of broccoli and cabbage as safer alternatives. 

The people behind the farm

Men are largely hired for tilling the soil, ploughing the land, and preparing it for a new cycle. But according to Ramakrishna, it’s the women who are the backbone of The Bangalore Berry Company, “The local women help with the major chunk of the work, tending to plants with a steady care that no machine can replicate.” They water them, work fertiliser into the soil, and pinch off the heads of flowers that have trailed and withered, so the plant's energy goes where it matters. 

Weekdays are quiet. There are no tiny prying hands in the vicinity. But nature does not take a break; the fruits do ripen and need to be plucked regardless. To prevent these from going bad, the women make all kinds of jams and ice creams. The farm’s cafe offers a variety of strawberry-focused dishes. Aloo parathas with strawberry thokku (a delicious, spicy and tangy chutney), nachos with strawberries, a classic strawberry shake, and strawberry sandwiches are some of the crowd favourites.

When the season winds down and the plants are cut back, nothing goes to waste. Neighbourhood goatherds collect the cuttings and carry them off to feed their animals. 

What's next

Five years on, Ramakrishna now has two farms where he grows strawberries every year, along with other crops. His friends, with whom he had started the business, either got pulled back to their corporate careers or found a different path. But not Ramakrishna. Maybe it was the dopamine kick those first barely-strawberry bulbs gave him, or maybe it is his passion that goes into everything he does. Even when months yielded no fruit, Ramakrishna never quit. It didn’t even occur to him. "I had enough savings from my 17-year-long corporate career. The money gave me the confidence to start the farm. For that, I'm grateful," he explains.

In the future, he wants to try growing other crops; melons, mangoes, and some more vegetables. The idea is to bring people closer to nature. The Bangalore Berry Company has expanded beyond its signature fruit-picking events, collaborating with local NGOs to host special gatherings for children. Tiny humans walk into the farm to play and have fun. And just as he envisions, a community is slowly being built around nature.

To young people who want to try their hands at farming, Ramakrishna asks them to be cautious. Do not expect immediate gratification. Be patient.

Ramakrishna is a proud owner of a Spring Yellow Indie since April 2025.

Vishnu Mohandas works as an art mediator for this season of the Kochi Muziris Biennale. Narrating the story, the cultural and historic significance, and the artist behind each work of art, comes naturally to him. He loves the constant rotation of new artists as it introduces him to many new concepts and forms of art. It almost feels like he can’t get enough of it. It’s easy to believe this because Vishnu is a multi-hyphenate professional. He’s done a little bit of this and a little bit of that, and continues to find ways to monetise his interests—not skills—which is a rather unconventional way of being financially independent.

“Moving from Kochi to Pune for higher education pushed me out of my comfort zone. It helped nurture some of my interests—travel, meeting people, gathering stories, and documenting these experiences.” Through the years, Vishnu began exploring how to monetise these interests. His journey isn’t linear; which makes him easy to be mistaken for someone who doesn’t “stick” at a job. Or someone who isn’t “focused”. But truthfully, he just wants to taste everything that life offers him professionally. 

Vishnu never really expected his career to pan out this way—switching between industries and sectors—but he’s carried forward the skills he’s picked up from each of his stints onto the next. As a sales associate, he learned how to sell. From his creative marketing roles, he learned how to sell using purpose and storytelling. In theatre, he channelled selling a story through words, expression and movement. As a filmmaker, he’s mastering how to capture all these elements while tinkering around with light, shadows, and composition. He’s found a rhythm in letting his interests and skills work for him. The same rhythm one feels as he conducts immersive walkthroughs of warehouse-turned-art galleries at the Biennale. “How do I stay rooted through all of this? The credit goes to my family and school friends. I actually count myself lucky to still be able to stick with friends who wore the same school uniform as I did. They don’t judge even when I hit a wall and have to start all over again.” Changing routes isn’t easy. Every time Vishnu took up a new stint, he faced a similar set of challenges; starting from scratch again; being in an unfamiliar territory, learning a new skill, keeping up with work and industry trends, pitching yourself multiple times for new opportunities, managing different schedules while switching between different gigs, staying calm through invoice-chasing email threads—the list is long.

Some 1,430 km away from Vishnu, Nikitha Warrier shares the same professional “fate” that comes with being a freelance writer, author, and dance choreographer. “My biggest learning through my freelance journey is that I can be flexible with changing the nature of the role I take up. For instance, when I realised that I could monetise my dancing for wedding choreographies, it was the admin and operations part of the role I ultimately found joy in.” It’s only been a couple of months since Nikitha has stepped into choreographing dances for weddings, events and workshops. The idea came to her when she was practising for her brother’s wedding, and had a few inquiries from acquaintances. “My aim was never to compete with well-established and bigger names in this field because I found a gap in the market for the kind of dance services I could offer.” And so Dancing Warriers was formed, headed by Nikitha and supported by her equally talented cousins. “What got me really excited about this new journey was all the preliminary calls, ideation, and creating a playlist before the choreography began. I’m a yapper so talking with people and learning about themselves, how they met, their love language, the kind of music they love, helps me create a playlist that reflects who they are as a couple. Once I’m done with this process, I hand over the choreography to my cousins to manage.”

Nikitha has transitioned from being a software engineer to a freelance content writer—a transition that’s taken about five years. “I was that typical class-topper, school headgirl type. So when I was asked to take up Science in college, it was the safest and most obvious bet. It didn’t take long though to realise this wasn’t meant to be. I was creative inherently but had no idea about the kind of roles I should be looking out for. I wanted to write but didn’t know where to start.”

It has taken Nikitha about five years to find her sweet spot as a freelance writer. “Despite being a fulltime writer for only 1–2 years, it was becoming clearer that freelancing was giving me better growth—I was working on a wider range of subjects, different formats, some really impactful projects, and of course meeting a diverse set of people. But I was very cautious about going independent completely.” She goes on to explain how she set financial goals every six months and if they weren’t met, she would switch back to being an employee. Even though it has been years since then, she still follows this method as a way to keep herself grounded and meet her financial goals. “There have been months when I’ve earned double, and there have been low months. One way of circumventing these low months was seriously considering if I should launch Dancing Warriers. Other times, I apply for opportunities way out of my league to understand how I need to improve in pitching myself, and also wade through the job market as a safety net.”

When asked about a piece of advice she’d like to share for those considering the freelancer route she said, “Everyone has a different journey; some would want to jump all in, some would want to test waters—both methods work when mindfully done.” A version of ‘what-works-for-one-may-not-work-for-another’ school of thought is how Nikitha monetises her skills, as Vishnu does with his interests—two different approaches with a similar outcome.

Yet both Nikitha and Vishnu share the same opinion that one should always stay realistic when going independent. Working from the mountains or featuring in big productions isn’t the poster-face of this lifestyle. It’s knowing when to give up, when to push forward, when to diversify, and more importantly, always doing one’s homework before trying something new. It’s not so easy to know early on which hat suits you best, or how many, but trial and error definitely helps. And that’s how people begin to wear many hats.

First, there’s Kavitha. She comes from a traditional farming family from rural Karnataka, where the economy of daily life left her dependent on everyone but herself. So one day, she left. Not dramatically, just a quiet decision to find a livelihood she could call her own.

Her first big idea? Donkey farming. On paper, viable. In practice, a complete disaster. But failure does strange, generous things if you’re paying attention. In the mess of that experiment, she noticed mushrooms. Low investment. Reliable demand. A gap in Bengaluru’s fresh supply. She tried again.

And this time, it worked. Slowly. Unevenly. With patience that only farming can teach

“In the beginning, it was incredibly difficult, especially as a woman from a rural background with financial limitations. But I’ve grown into it,” she says. “It takes about 41 days before you see anything. But when the mushrooms finally bloom, all the hard work is worth it.” She’s now in conversations with Zepto, hoping to shift from customers showing up at her doorstep to something more scalable.

Across the city in a completely different universe, an ex-marketer named Biplab Mahato was having his own quiet pivot. The 2020 lockdown pushed him toward holistic healing and mushrooms. Medicinal, mysterious and resilient, mushrooms became his gateway to a different life. What started as experiments in his mother’s kitchen garden in Jamshedpur turned into Shroomin, his small urban farm with a mission: grow great mushrooms and decode them.

He’s currently documenting a rare species found only in parts of Jharkhand.

“These mushrooms grow here,” he says. “Each species is a superfood with a story. Most of the foragers are women who really hold that knowledge. But this knowledge is at risk of disappearing. I want to archive it, share it, maybe even bring it into school classrooms. Imagine kids learning about ecology through something that actually grows in their backyard.”

Both Kavitha and Biplab are, in their own ways, running the same marathon at different speeds. Kavitha wants to scale; Biplab wants to go deeper. She thinks in markets, he thinks in ecosystems. But their stories bend toward a similar truth: nothing about this kind of work is linear. There are no glossy milestones. Just detours, pivots, experiments, and the occasional small miracle.

Their ambitions will shift. Their methods will evolve. But the instinct they share, the ability to move through uncertainty with curiosity, is what sustains them. Does success look less like climbing a mountain and more like growing a mushroom? I wonder. Because at some point, the mountain you climb will ask you to ascend. But a mushroom consistently asks you to pay attention.

And so, River became the response to those who hustle differently. Our purpose remained simple so as to address these wants and needs with one solution—to meet the unresolved, ignored and untapped requirements of the humble two-wheeler. After months of research and countless iterations, we launched the Indie—the SUV of Scooters. When we say Indie is a scooter that’s made to work for you, we mean features for utmost safety, ultimate convenience and unmatched versatility. It is literally built for those who are constantly chasing their dreams, fulfilling their goals and finding purpose in what they do. 

A certain hustler who knew Indie was for them is Abhijeet Pokharnikar. Someone who lives life at full throttle. At 26, he’s already doing what many only dream of—creating tangible change. From balancing a career as an advocate at the Pune High Court, and pursuing a master’s degree in law, to running six schools, he embodies the hustle that drives India’s next generation.

Born in Pune (Maharashtra), Abhijeet grew up hearing stories not of kings and queens, but of social reformers like Phule and Ambedkar—figures who fought for equality and rights. These stories planted a seed in him, one that would grow into his life’s mission: to give every child the opportunity to have a bright future, regardless of where they come from.

His journey began six years ago, at just 20. Frustrated by the lack of meaningful work after a brief stint as a software engineer and a failed attempt at cracking UPSC, Abhijeet had a moment of clarity. Sitting with friends, he decided that he would do something to help the children begging on the streets of Pune. With no formal resources but a fierce will to make a difference, he started a school for them right by the side of the road. What began with 17 children has now blossomed into Dada Chi Shala—an NGO that serves over 1,700 kids across six schools and several makeshift centres at traffic signals in different areas of Pune.

Abhijeet’s days are a testament to the art of multitasking. After attending college in the mornings, he heads to court in the afternoon, and by evening, he’s teaching social studies to children at one of his schools. With the kind of course material he carries around, coupled with having to stick to strict timings, he knew he couldn’t rely on public transport. So he hops onto his Indie, and navigates narrow streets and big highways to get through his day. 

“I live my life on my two-wheeler,” he says with a laugh. “It’s how I get from one place to the next—court, class, school.” His purpose is about giving these children something many of them would never have: a chance. A chance to escape the cycles of poverty and build a future they never thought possible. “We’re not just teaching them academics,” Abhijeet explains. “We’ve opened small banks in our schools, so they learn the power of financial independence and investment early on.”

After riding around the city with Abhijeet, we see the change he’s creating with every pitstop; at court and in the classroom, as a student and as a teacher. The grind continues. The hustle never stops. And through it all, Abhijeet gets to fulfil his dream, everyday.