Brand Compass

Author: Srinivasan Mohan

  • Why Some Work Feels Premium—and Some Doesn’t

    Why Some Work Feels Premium—and Some Doesn’t

    “Hey, that’s a really nice outfit,” I told a friend when we met for dinner. She smiled and said it was from a platform that sold handcrafted, sustainably made clothing. Curious, I looked it up later—the outfit cost ₹6,500. I didn’t flinch. If anything, my admiration for the brand grew.

    Earlier that same day, I had ordered groceries through a quick commerce app. When prompted to tip the delivery partner, I declined. An hour later, I ordered handcrafted décor for my home and once again paid a visible premium, without hesitation.

    The contrast bothered me. It forced me to confront a quiet hypocrisy in how I—and many of us—decide what labour is worth.

    That discomfort showed up publicly on New Year’s Eve, when the founder of a large Indian quick commerce company (its name rhymes with Tomato) posted a series of tweets defending the gig economy. He argued that gig work provided livelihoods to many unemployed, unskilled Indians and implied that rewarding gig workers through tips was the customer’s responsibility, not the company’s. This came on the same day gig workers had tried, unsuccessfully, to strike for better pay and working conditions.

    The reactions were polarised. Some praised the founder for being honest. Others felt he was deflecting blame by moving responsibility away from platform economics and placing it on individual consumers.

    All of this led me to a simple question: why are we comfortable paying a premium for handcrafted or customised products, but hesitant to extend the same generosity to gig workers—whose effort is often greater and far more visible?

    Part of the answer lies in how we think about different kinds of work.

    Handcrafted products aren’t just seen as skill-heavy. They’re seen as intentional. Someone made a choice, added a personal touch, and left behind a sense of authorship. Branding, storytelling, and the language of craft make that technique visible.

    Gig work, on the other hand, is seen as task execution. Even when it involves navigating traffic, rain, unsafe roads, and restrictive housing rules, the work is framed as operational rather than creative. The bias is subtle but real: we reward visible agency more than raw effort.

    This isn’t because we don’t notice how hard gig workers work. We do. The delivery rider in the rain is right in front of us. What reduces the perceived value is repetition. When effort is repeated every day, it becomes routine. What is routine, becomes expected. And what is expected struggles to command a premium.

    Handcrafted labour escapes this because it is framed as exceptional, not routine. Its effort is not just visible—it is presented as scarce.

    Behavioural psychology explains part of why we hesitate to tip, but economics matters just as much.

    Paying more for a handcrafted product feels like a clean transaction. Tipping, however, carries discomfort. It reminds us of inequality. It forces us to judge who deserves what. It blurs the line between generosity and obligation.

    Tipping can feel like a small attempt to fix a broken system—one we didn’t create, but are being asked to compensate for. Buying a handcrafted product, in contrast, allows us to feel ethical without feeling responsible.

    One tweet from the quick commerce founder added another layer to the debate. He shared a breakdown of a gig worker’s potential daily earnings, suggesting that their monthly income could match that of an entry-level employee in an Indian IT services firm. Critics of the strike jumped on this, asking why gig workers didn’t simply find other jobs if the work was so demanding.

    The comparison is revealing.

    Having been a “veteran” of the IT services industry myself (a full 12 months), the similarities stand out. Entry-level IT services roles and gig work are both labour-intensive, repetitive, and underpaid. The work is process-driven, standardised, and built for scale. Individual ownership is low. Replaceability is high.

    In both cases, repetition devalues labour faster than effort can redeem it.

    The low pay here isn’t about low skill. It’s about low pricing power. Pricing power sits with platforms and clients, not with workers. Scale benefits companies far more than individuals.

    That said, IT services employees do have one advantage that gig workers don’t: optionality. Over time, some can move up—through career ladders, skill-building, overseas roles, or better pay. Today’s low wage is often framed as the entry fee for future rewards.

    But this promise isn’t evenly distributed, and it doesn’t justify being underpaid today. Much like the “flexibility” offered to gig workers instead of stable income, future mobility acts as a psychological cushion—it keeps the system running without fixing its flaws.

    Another claim made by the founder was that gig work offers opportunities to uneducated citizens. This brings us to a deeper issue: class and access.

    Education and social capital don’t just build skills; they signal legitimacy. Many gig workers and entry-level IT employees come from backgrounds that limit access to elite credentials, strong networks, and the ability to shape narratives. Their work enters the market already discounted.

    When handcrafted work is backed by education, branding, or cultural capital, the same effort is reframed as artisanal—and therefore premium-worthy. The gap isn’t about capability. It’s about who gets to define value, and how convincingly.

    Writers like Vivek Kaul have made this point clearly, especially in his writing on the gig economy for Newslaundry, where he shows how risk and instability are pushed onto workers in the name of opportunity.

    The gig economy, like the Indian IT services industry, has brought income to millions of households. It has raised convenience to new levels and driven consumption. These sectors matter.

    But acknowledging their impact doesn’t mean ignoring their inequalities.

    Mass employment cannot be used to justify poor working conditions, low wages, or shifting moral responsibility onto consumers. These are not problems that can be solved through tipping or personal guilt. They require structural solutions.

    The real question isn’t whether gig work or IT services create value. It’s why some forms of labour are allowed dignity, narrative, and premium—while others are designed to remain routine, invisible, and cheap.

    That question is worth sitting with.

  • What Spotify Wrapped Knows About You That Your Instagram Doesn’t

    What Spotify Wrapped Knows About You That Your Instagram Doesn’t

    It’s that time of the year when my calendar nudges me to reflect on where the year went and when every service, website, and app I use serves up its annual Wrapped summary.

    My Spotify Wrapped, in particular, threw up an unexpected insight. It told me my listening age was 28 (apparently my listening personality is under pressure to get married) and that two of my top three artists belonged to the Deep & Progressive House genre.

    This came as a pleasant surprise.

    Growing up, I lived and breathed classic rock and metal and was one of those snooty people who looked down upon electronic music. For that version of me to now have electronic music dominate my listening felt like a shift I never consciously noticed.

    (P.S. Metallica has valiantly kept the metal side of my personality alive.)

    Even people who know me well associate me strongly with classic rock. An electronic music artist featuring in my top three would genuinely surprise them. And that got me thinking about the growing gap between our external and internal personalities in a hyper-connected world.

    Our external personalities shape how we are perceived – our behaviours, actions, and the motivations people ascribe to us. In 1919, Swiss psychologist Carl Jung described recurring patterns underlying human behaviour, which he called archetypes. He identified twelve such archetypes – Creator, Hero, Explorer, Jester, Everyman, and others – that transcend time and culture.

    Brands have long used archetypes to build meaning and emotional connection. Apple is often seen as the Creator, championing originality and innovation, while Nike embodies the Hero, motivating people to push their limits.

    But in today’s socially networked world, archetypes are no longer limited to brands. People, too, have begun to unconsciously adopt and project different archetypes across social contexts.

    I don’t behave the same way with friends as I do with my parents, colleagues, or on a date. Earlier, our social worlds were limited – family, school, a close circle of friends. Today, we move fluidly across many micro-contexts, each inviting a different version of ourselves.

    We might project the Explorer – non-conformist, interesting, adventurous – on a date, while being far closer to the Everyman in our everyday lives. These shifts don’t define who we are; they reveal the situational nature of human behaviour.

    Brands have captured this insight brilliantly in popular culture:

    It’s a familiar truth: what people say and what they actually do often diverge.

    The archetypes we project in social settings are largely System-2 behaviours—conscious, rationalised, and shaped by how we want to be seen. Our private consumption patterns, on the other hand, are closer to System-1 behaviour—habitual, unfiltered, and less performative.

    Reports like Spotify Wrapped are powerful precisely because they reveal this behavioural residue. They unearth patterns that feel closer to our core motivations than the identities we consciously curate.

    In a world where behaviour shifts constantly with context, brands seeking deeper relationships must look beyond projected personas. Understanding consumers today requires seeing both:

    • who they perform as (System 2)
    • and who they repeatedly behave like when no one is watching (System 1)

    Because meaningful, long-lasting relationships are built not just on who consumers say they are—but on who their behaviour quietly reveals them to be.

  • From Sensitivity to Connectivity: The Human Cost of Convenience

    From Sensitivity to Connectivity: The Human Cost of Convenience

    “Thank you. Would you like some water?”

    A simple question that brought a wide smile to the e-commerce delivery worker standing at my door. As they drank the water, I realized it wasn’t the first time I’d seen such relief from a small gesture. It made me wonder — why does a basic act of compassion evoke such a profound response today?

    It reminded me of something I’d read in How to Do Nothing by Jenny Odell, where she references Italian philosopher Franco “Bifo” Berardi. In his book After the Future, Berardi theorizes that the digital revolution has shifted human interaction from a mode of sensitivity — marked by presence, emotion, and attunement — to a mode of connectivity, where relationships are mediated by data, ratings, and algorithmic exchanges.

    You can see this shift play out in something as ordinary as customer service. When we face a problem or a query, most of us instinctively want to speak to a person — someone who can sense frustration, interpret tone, and offer understanding. Instead, we’re greeted by chatbots that respond flawlessly yet feel hollow. They may resolve issues faster, but they strip the interaction of the one thing that makes it humane: empathy.

    This is not just a matter of preference. A recent Economic Times article (“Customer Service Shouldn’t Be Left to AI Agents,” October 1, 2025) cited research by Conduent showing that over 40% of consumers still prefer human interaction when resolving issues. Beyond efficiency, human contact allows for nuance — it can turn frustration into loyalty when the experience feels seen and understood.

    Nowhere is Berardi’s theory more visible than in the rise of e-commerce and gig work, where human touch has been replaced by efficiency metrics and delivery times. The convenience these platforms offer is extraordinary, but the experience is “frictionless” only because the friction has been outsourced — to someone else.

    Friction, in this context, refers to the effort we once invested to obtain what we needed: walking to the store, waiting in line, engaging in small acts of exchange and conversation. Today, that effort — and the risks that come with it — have been transferred to the gig worker.

    Gig workers live in a paradox. The system was built on the promise of freedom and flexibility but offers little real choice. Each day presents a Hobson’s choice: accept poor working conditions to survive, or refuse and fall further behind. Many push through physical exhaustion and mental stress to meet daily quotas or earn small performance incentives, all while being denied health or social benefits — because, legally, they are “independent contractors.”

    Picture a delivery worker, soaked in rain, waiting outside an apartment gate, hoping for a 5-star rating that determines their pay bonus. Some are barred from using elevators, penalized for minor delays, or subjected to verbal abuse — all while being treated as invisible. In our pursuit of convenience, have we begun to treat humans as mere extensions of the systems that serve us — measurable, replaceable, and rated?

    What’s even more telling is that platforms now remind customers to thank their delivery partners or offer them a glass of water. The fact that such basic gestures need explicit prompting reveals how far we’ve drifted from natural empathy. When the most fundamental courtesies require corporate reminders, it says less about technology and more about us.

    What began as technological progress has slowly exposed a moral asymmetry — between those who consume and those who serve, between those whose experiences are optimized and those whose humanity is systemically ignored. And while e-commerce and quick-commerce have become inseparable from modern life, it is all the more crucial that we remember Berardi’s warning: when societies prioritize connectivity over sensitivity, they stop listening — they merely react.

    If sensitivity once defined our humanity, connectivity now defines our utility. Unless we learn to bring compassion back into our daily exchanges — to listen, not just transact — we risk building a world that can deliver anything except empathy.

  • Staying behind to stay ahead

    Staying behind to stay ahead

    “Dude, Taylor Swift just got engaged. Didn’t you read about it?”
    “Did you see the Prime Minister’s US visit coverage?”
    “I can’t believe that actor said that. It’s so wrong.”

    Conversations like these are increasingly familiar. In today’s hyper-connected world, social status isn’t just about wealth or lifestyle — it’s also about being up to date. Knowledge has become social currency.

    For years, I felt that pressure. If I wasn’t the one offering the latest update, my “social creds” in a group seemed at risk. So, I scrolled endlessly — YouTube, X, WhatsApp, breaking news alerts. What looked like “staying informed” was actually doomscrolling: watching traumatic events unfold in real time, narrated with flashing graphics, dramatic soundtracks, and shouting anchors.

    It took a toll. The overload left me anxious, distracted, and less patient in everyday life. The breaking point came during a heated WhatsApp debate, when I realized my arguments weren’t even mine. They were recycled from videos and feeds. Somewhere along the way, I had stopped thinking for myself.

    From Information to Narratives

    News consumption has changed profoundly. A 2025 Reuters Institute report found that 55% of Indians now get their news from YouTube and 46% from WhatsApp. That means most people don’t encounter information first-hand — they absorb narratives pre-packaged with opinions.

    Contrast this with the old world of newspapers or Doordarshan bulletins. The news was slower. Headlines told you what happened, not what to think. Readers had to reflect and interpret. That act of independent analysis, small as it seemed, kept our minds sharper. Neuroscience calls this neuroplasticity — the brain’s ability to rewire and strengthen itself.

    Today’s feeds don’t give us that space. They reward reactivity, not reflection. The cost isn’t just misinformation — it’s the erosion of our cognitive independence.

    Strategic Ignorance as Self-Preservation

    My response has been what has been called strategic ignorance. I did not chase real-time updates. I read the news, but in print. That meant I’m often late to social conversations, but it also meant I reclaimed something more valuable — clarity, focus, and the freedom to form my own opinions.

    Strategic ignorance doesn’t mean being uninformed. It means being intentional about how information enters your life. It’s a way of protecting mental health in an age of information overload.

    The Larger Culture of Impatience

    This isn’t only about news. It reflects a wider cultural drift toward impatience and instant gratification.

    • Quick commerce delivers groceries in 10 minutes.
    • Social media offers instant validation in likes and views.
    • Even problem-solving has been outsourced to Google and AI before we wrestle with it ourselves.

    Anupam Mittal, founder of Shaadi.com, has warned that India risks raising “overstimulated, under-inspired digital addicts” — kids who don’t play, teens who don’t talk, adults who don’t think.

    The problem isn’t just distraction; it’s the erosion of effort. Small struggles — walking to the store, cooking a meal, puzzling through a problem — once built patience and empathy. Without them, we weaken our ability to think deeply and care broadly. And without new neural pathways, we risk becoming a society that reacts without reflection.

    Michael Easter puts it well in The Comfort Crisis:
    “As we experience fewer problems, we don’t become more satisfied. We just lower our threshold for what we consider a problem.”

    Choosing Slowness

    For me, the daily newspaper has become more than a source of information. It is an act of resistance. By slowing down, I remind myself that not everything worthwhile must arrive instantly.

    Yes, I may be late to the conversation about the latest celebrity engagement or political controversy. But in exchange, I get something much rarer: the space to think independently, protect my mental health, and preserve my brain’s long-term resilience.

    Sometimes, being a little behind is the only way to stay truly ahead.

  • Podcasts could be the new mindfulness

    Podcasts could be the new mindfulness

    “We all followed the cricket World Cup in 1983 only through radio commentary from the BBC. It didn’t matter that we couldn’t witness the moment with our own eyes—the emotions would’ve been the same.”


    That line—spoken by the host of a podcast I was listening to while crawling through Bangalore’s morning traffic—stayed with me.

    Today, I live in a world of endless streaming subscriptions and curated highlight reels. To imagine a time when people experienced something as iconic as India’s first World Cup win purely through radio feels almost… prehistoric.

    And yet, that comment made me pause.

    Did the absence of visuals make people listen more deeply? Did it help them imagine the moment in their own way?

    In many ways, radio was never just a medium—it was a companion. It spoke to you while you cooked, studied, commuted. It gave your mind space to wander, to create. You didn’t see the story. You felt it.

    Today, our brains are drowning in stimuli. Every screen, every swipe, every feed clamours for attention. We’re overloaded, constantly reacting, rarely reflecting. And the speed and scale of it all makes it harder to assess what’s true—contributing to a troubling rise in misinformation and mental fatigue.

    During the pandemic, this overload only intensified. But it also revealed something important: a desire for slower, quieter content.

    Enter: podcasts.

    They’re not new, but their resurgence feels like a collective exhale. The Indian podcast market alone is projected to reach $2.6 billion by 2030. And it’s not just growth—it’s a shift. Podcasts are being embraced not just for convenience, but for their texture—the depth, intimacy, and focus they offer by stripping away the visual.

    Podcasts echo the spirit of radio, but with on-demand flexibility and a diversity of voices and formats. They let you listen without being watched. They let your mind do some of the storytelling.

    And here’s where a beautiful phenomenon comes in—anemoia: nostalgia for a time you never lived through.


    For Gen Z or late millennials, listening to a podcast can feel like stepping into a world their parents or grandparents inhabited. A world where you absorbed news not through pop-ups or notifications, but through slow, spoken words.

    Ironically, we access podcasts through the very screens we’re trying to escape. But maybe that’s the point—they offer a mindful pause within our digital lives. They don’t shout. They don’t demand. They simply speak—and trust you to listen.

    And maybe that’s what mindfulness looks like today. Not always meditating in silence.
    But choosing to slow down.
    To listen deeply.
    To let a voice keep you company while your mind—finally—has room to breathe.

  • Swipe, Tap, Regret: How UPI Credit Kills the Pain of Paying

    Swipe, Tap, Regret: How UPI Credit Kills the Pain of Paying

    I had just paid the bill via a UPI app at my neighbourhood quick-service restaurant—or ‘Darshini’ as it’s known in Bangalore. Realizing I didn’t have cash for a tip, I asked the waiter for his phone number and transferred ₹100 directly to him via the app. It was a generous gesture, but as I walked out, it struck me: I would’ve never tipped that much if I were handing over a crisp ₹100 note in person.

    The intermediary of a payment app had made the expense feel painless.

    Reflecting on other small transactions, I realized I often spent more via UPI than I would with physical cash. What I was experiencing is a well-documented phenomenon in behavioural economics: the “Pain of Paying.” It’s the discomfort we feel when parting with money, rooted in loss aversion—our tendency to perceive losses as more significant than equivalent gains.

    Cash, with its tactile and visible nature, triggers this pain more sharply. UPI payments, though debited from our savings accounts, feel less immediate and less painful. And now, UPI-enabled credit card payments could make this pain almost vanish altogether.

    UPI has transformed India’s payments ecosystem. According to the RBI Annual Report (May 2025), India accounted for a staggering 48.5% of global real-time payment volume in FY25, driven by UPI. It now supports cross-border payments with countries like the UAE, Singapore, Bhutan, Nepal, Sri Lanka, France, and Mauritius.

    The next frontier? Integrating credit cards into UPI apps—allowing consumers to use their credit lines while retaining the instant, seamless convenience of UPI.

    A recent ad by a popular payment app showed four friends at a café. One complains about an expensive cheese board. The server informs them that the card machine is down—but they’re relieved to learn they can pay via credit card on the app. The implicit message: no more awkward money conversations, just tap and pay.

    But this seemingly harmless ad masks a deeper issue. By merging credit cards with UPI’s frictionless experience, the psychological guardrails around spending erode even further.

    Credit cards already reduce the pain of paying by deferring actual payments. Wrapped inside UPI’s ease, they can become dangerously invisible. Now, even large or impulsive purchases don’t feel like expenses at all.

    As per a 2025 survey by the Ministry of Statistics and Programme Implementation:

    • ~96% of Indians aged 15–29 own smartphones
    • 99% of these users, report being able to perform UPI transactions

    That’s near-total penetration among a population still building financial habits—and often unfamiliar with credit billing cycles, interest charges, or limits. The risk isn’t limited to youth: with the explosion of online gaming and fantasy apps, the temptation of instant wealth has created debt traps across demographics.

    Fintech apps have expanded access—but access must be accompanied by accountability. Now is the time for these platforms to:

    • Introduce in-app nudges that prompt users before high-value credit transactions
    • Set default spending limits for new users
    • Provide clear, simple education around credit terms and repayment cycles

    The journey from cash to UPI has been one of India’s greatest fintech success stories. But as we move into the next phase—where UPI meets credit—we must ask a crucial question:

    Just because it’s easier to pay, should it be easier to spend? If fintech wants to continue building for India’s future, it must now design not just for inclusion, but for intention.

  • “Not Just a Rewatch: Why Old Movies Feel Brand New”

    “Not Just a Rewatch: Why Old Movies Feel Brand New”

    “Bread ka Badshah, aur Omlette ka Raja—Bajaj! Humaara Bajaj!”

    (Note: I’ve deliberately chosen not to translate this line—it simply loses its punch in English.)

    That was one of many moments where I joined 50 others in a packed theatre, reciting the iconic dialogues of Andaz Apna Apna, the 1994 Hindi comedy that may have flopped at the box office but has since achieved cult status.

    The film was recently re-released in theatres across India in April 2025, following the resurgence of other beloved titles like Jab We Met, Rockstar, and Nolan’s Interstellar. These re-releases have injected a welcome vibrancy into Indian moviegoing, a space that has struggled to compete with the ease, affordability, and quality of modern streaming platforms.

    At first glance, it might seem puzzling—how can watching an old film be considered a new or novel experience?

    The answer lies in how we perceive time and ourselves. Re-releases aren’t just about revisiting a film—they’re about re-seeing it through a new lens. We, the viewers, have changed. The world has changed. What once made us laugh now might make us reflect. What once felt like fantasy may now feel eerily close to reality.

    This phenomenon is beautifully captured by the concept of the chronotope, introduced by Russian literary theorist Mikhail Bakhtin. The chronotope refers to the inseparable relationship between time and space in storytelling—how narrative unfolds through specific temporal and spatial settings.

    In this context, the theatre—the space—interacts with time (our memories, our life stages, who we were then vs. who we are now), creating a powerful emotional echo. A moment from the past becomes newly charged when filtered through our present selves.

    These theatrical re-releases also tap into nostalgia—a feeling that neuroscience shows is more than sentimentality. As Ziyan Yang, a professor at the Chinese Academy of Sciences, shared in a 2023 National Geographic article, nostalgia activates areas of the brain linked to emotion and social connection. It allows people to mentally time-travel, to find warmth, belonging, and comfort—especially in times of uncertainty.

    Movies and music, Yang noted, are particularly potent nostalgia triggers. In a hyper-digital world where most of our media consumption is solitary and screen-bound, rewatching a beloved film in a theatre reawakens a shared ritual—a communal, embodied experience that we’d almost forgotten.

    As I sat in the darkened theatre, mouthing every line of Andaz Apna Apna, I noticed a blind man seated near the front doing the same—reliving the entire film through sound alone, reconstructing it vividly in his mind. That, to me, was the most powerful testament to what these re-releases really are.

    They aren’t just rewatchings. They are re-contextualizations—living proof that media doesn’t just entertain us. It archives our memories, reflects our transformations, and reconnects us with who we were, and who we are becoming.

  • Tech Giants Take Note: How India’s Streetside Vendors and Traditional Businesses Win Customers Without Any App

    Tech Giants Take Note: How India’s Streetside Vendors and Traditional Businesses Win Customers Without Any App

    In a world driven by algorithms and digital tools, it’s easy to assume that the most successful businesses rely on technology. But what if the real secret to customer loyalty lies elsewhere? Consider the small, traditional vendors in India who retain loyal customers without the aid of mobile apps, AI recommendations, or sophisticated CRM systems. Their approach offers lessons even the biggest tech companies can learn from.

    “Sir, I got some fresh spinach for you today. You had asked for it last week. You should take it. Also, take some coconut. Pongal is tomorrow, so you will need it. I also got the first batch of mangoes from my farm. Try them and tell me how they are when we meet next week,” the vegetable vendor told me during his weekly visits to the courtyard in front of my apartment block.

    “Mohan sir, here’s your usual coffee – strong and no sugar. Srivatsan sir, light decoction and one spoon of sugar for you. Deshpande uncle, here’s your strong coffee, two sugars,” said the woman at the tiny coffee shop on the street corner where my father met his friends every weekend.

    “No problem, madam. Give the remaining amount next time. Take this flower for your hair before you go inside. This is free,” said the woman selling flowers at the temple where my mother went every week.

    These stories may seem simple, but they reveal a powerful truth about the value of personal connection. Each vendor demonstrated remarkable customer service—remembering preferences, anticipating needs, and building genuine relationships—all without the assistance of technology.

    More Than Just Transactions: The Power of Social Hubs

    Yuval Noah Harari, in his book Sapiens, notes that while modern technologies connect people across the globe, digital communication often lacks the depth of face-to-face interactions. Despite being more connected than ever, many people experience social isolation and loneliness.

    Streetside vendors and traditional businesses offer an antidote to this. They serve as social hubs where conversations often go beyond simple business transactions. It’s not uncommon to see customers and shopkeepers chatting about family updates, festivals, or local events. These interactions foster a sense of belonging, making customers feel valued and understood.

    This social connection also gives vendors a competitive edge, particularly in business clusters where similar businesses offer nearly identical products at comparable prices. Hotelling’s Law of Spatial Competition states that in such markets, differentiation becomes difficult. Yet, these vendors set themselves apart not through discounts or faster delivery, but through familiarity, trust, and relationships.

    A Personal Experience: When Relationships Matter Most

    Growing up, I experienced firsthand the value of this connection. One evening, when my grandfather became dizzy and fell during his walk, the owner of a nearby grocery store noticed him, quickly called for help, and brought him safely home. My grandfather didn’t have a smartphone or any emergency contact information on him. In that moment, the relationship we had built through regular visits to the store proved invaluable in a deeply meaningful way.

    This emotional aspect of human connection is often overlooked in today’s digital landscape. Yet it remains a powerful force that influences customer loyalty and well-being.

    Consistency, Reliability, and the Path of Least Effort

    In 1949, Harvard linguistics professor George Kingsley Zipf introduced the Principle of Least Effort, which suggests that human behaviour is driven by the desire to minimize effort while maximizing benefit. Psychologist Barry Schwartz expanded on this with his concept of the Paradox of Choice, explaining how too many options can lead to decision fatigue and regret.

    Traditional vendors excel at reducing this cognitive burden. By consistently delivering reliable services, they build credibility as a trustworthy brand and simplify decision-making. Customers can rely on past experiences and familiar patterns to make choices without the mental strain that often comes with endless online options.

    Additionally, the predictability of their services allows vendors to efficiently anticipate demand and manage supply. This operational stability enables them to run profitable businesses, in stark contrast to many e-commerce platforms that often incur significant losses.

    Ola Electric’s dramatic plunge in EV market share—from 52% in April 2024 to just 19% by year-end—tells a cautionary tale. As established players like Tata and Bajaj gained ground with reliable products and robust after-sales support, Ola grappled with malfunctioning vehicles and subpar customer service, leaving consumers with little reason to stay loyal (Source: The Morning Context – Ola Electric shareholders and Bhavish Aggarwal need a miracle)

    True Entrepreneurship, No Degrees Required

    The core objective of any business is to offer sustainable, profitable services for long-term growth. Traditional business owners exemplify entrepreneurship in its purest form. They may not headline conferences or hold MBAs from prestigious institutions, but they consistently demonstrate resilience, adaptability, and deep customer understanding. Tech giants might have the tools, but these local entrepreneurs have something far more valuable—the human touch. Perhaps it’s time the digital world took a lesson from the streets.