The Indian businessman isn’t just a creature of commerce —he’s a fascinating, evolving species. He adapts, hustles, reinvents and competes. But if you had to divide them into two broad tribes, you would discover a delicious desi dichotomy: the Delhi businessman and the Mumbai businessman.
Like butter chicken and bhel puri—both are proudly Indian, yet galaxies apart in taste, texture, style and aftertaste. Let’s begin with the Delhi businessman. He doesn’t walk into a room —he arrives, with the flair of a Bollywood hero, minus the background dancers (although you wouldn’t put it past him to arrange some). Phone in one hand, entitlement in the other. His shirt is tight enough to show off the ripples beneath, his perfume arrives 10 seconds before he does. And his aviators —they never leave his face—even indoors, at night, during a power cut. His voice has two settings: loud and louder. His walk says, “I just bought a Husain”, his talk says, “I’m acquiring a unicorn”, and his smirk says, “Do you know who my father is?”—which, by the way, isn’t a question.
It’s a declaration, a flex and a mild threat all rolled in one. He’ll drive a Bentley to negotiate a 0.02% stake with the intensity of a Wall Street shark on Red Bull. His startup hasn’t launched a product yet, but he’s already closed Series A, B, and a “strategic” round with an uncle from Dubai.
Networking is his native language. Ministers, bureaucrats, celebrities, cricket selectors—he either knows them, is related to them, or has them on speed dial. He is the Maharaja of Lutyens, the Nawab of Noida, the Governor of Gurgaon. His business card is glossier than his pitch deck, heavier than the iPhone, and lists more titles than a Netflix homepage: Chairman, Director, Visionary, Polo Enthusiast, Philanthropist. He eats only classics—kebabs, butter naan, paneer and black dal, His drink? A Patiala peg of single malt. “Neat, like my business,” he says, adjusting his Rolex twice—just to make sure you notice.
A SIXTH SENSE FOR SENSEX
Now swing west to the Mumbai businessman and you will land quite a googly. No drama. No brands. No entourage announcing his arrival. He doesn’t strut in like a peacock—he walks in like he’s checking crude oil prices. His office AC may wheeze like a retired harmonium, but his phone buzzes nonstop with deals worth more than a Bandra apartment while he is listening to his favourite music, CNBC. He prefers IPOs to IPL—unless the team is listing.
Emotionally, he’s closer to his portfolio than to his siblings. Don’t mistake his modest clothing— beneath that simple surface is a market hawk with nerves of steel and a sixth sense for the Sensex. Just drop the word “market”—and watch his eyes light up faster than a Diwali cracker. He may not know the difference between Impressionist art and Instagram filters, but that won’t stop him from sipping a glass of wine, putting his nose in the air, spouting prerehearsed lines about “texture” and “provenance’.
Once he called a Subodh Gupta installation “bartan art” and asked if it could be exchanged for copper futures. His most romantic phrase?
“Bazaar su lage che?” and he doesn’t ask it casually—it’s a spiritual question, a state of the soul. He relishes devouring company balance sheets with the same passion he has for his undhiyu. His idea of small talk is discussing EBITDA margins and promoter pledges. He’s never missed a Rakesh Jhunjhunwala or a Warren Buffett interview, ever. While his expansion plans are always preceded by conference calls with his three CAs, an astrologer and his legal firm Vakil, Mulla and Katgara.
Health is wealth, you will often hear him say. So early morning walks with neighbourhood business buddies or an hour of Pilates in the gym are a must while he swaps stock tips and relies on Miss Divekar—his trainer-dietitiantherapist—to suggest breathing exercises for the stress caused by Trump’s tariffs.
Frugal? It’s plain good ole baniya genes so he’s unlikely to buy a new suit until some threads tear. He will time his holidays with the best hotel deals and guard his Rs 42,000 Herman Miller chair like it is family silver.
Bollywood? Of course, but with a twist. He doesn’t meet actors—but invests in production houses, while secretly hoping that it will be a doorway to meet a Kapoor or a Khan. And if he does meet a star, he’ll pretend to be casual, hiding his excitement! He doesn’t drink like the Delhiwalla. No Patiala pegs, thank you. Just coconut water, cutting chai, or black coffee, and that too from his personal Nespresso machine, served strong, bitter and brutally honest—like his appraisal feedback.
Fluent in Gujarati, English and some Marathi, but his Hindi is… arre baba, full bhelpuri!
Only a Mumbaikar can decode that masala mix. And the Parsis in Mumbai? They are the secret sauce in Mumbai’s business biryani— quietly dominating industries while claiming they are “just managing a small enterprise”. Dressed in white cotton shirts and matching chinos, sipping raspberry soda or Duke’s Mangola, they are the most lovable, quirky people you will ever meet.
WHAT THEY READ, HOW THEY WED
Stark difference: While Delhi shows off, Mumbai believes it’s better—and makes sure you know it. The Mumbai businessman has a clear superiority complex over his Delhi counterpart. He won’t say it outright, but his eyes say it all: “They may have flash, but we have the class. And, yes, we have the money too.”
Reading habits? Delhi reads term sheets, Instagram captions and the gossip column to check if he is in it. Mumbai reads PCL statements, The Times of India obit columns and, of course, his favourite Economic Times. Weddings? Oh, the contrast is even more stark.
A Delhi wedding is a fullblown Bollywood production—elephants, drones, choreographed dances, celebrities and at least one cabinet minister doing the bhangra in Louis Vuitton shoes. The Mumbai wedding is an evening at the Willingdon Club, a restrained buffet of South Indian cuisine and Gujarati fare by Swati, with the odd Bollywood star stepping in for a few seconds—wearing sunglasses to remain unnoticed or perhaps more noticed!
WhatsApp statuses? Delhi: “Feeling blessed to have closed a multi-milliondollar deal. Jai Mata Di!” Mumbai: “Available after 4 pm for essential calls only. Market closed but open mind”.
Where Delhi charms, Mumbai calculates. Where Delhi shouts, “I know people”, Mumbai says, “I know numbers.”
Delhi builds hype, Mumbai builds with purpose. Delhi lives in the now, Mumbai plans for the long haul. Delhi plays bold, Mumbai plays safe. Delhi dazzles, Mumbai delivers. Delhi is the firework, Mumbai is the flame.
So, who wins? Here’s the twist: both succeed.
Because for all the bling, bravado and business-class bravura, the Delhi businessman dreams big—flair, guts, swagger and a Rolodex that could run a nation. And for all his spreadsheets, simplicity and salt-in-the-hair, the Mumbai businessman delivers— disciplined, risk-averse, rooted and financially bulletproof. Butter chicken meets pav bhaji—both spicy, both desi, both doing just fine.
And me? I’m from Kolkata. I’ll be sipping my cha, quoting Tagore, solving a crossword and wondering why no one talks about the Bengali businessman anymore. Maybe because we are too busy writing articles like this.
(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this column are that of the writer. The facts and opinions expressed here do not reflect the views of www.economictimes.com)
Like butter chicken and bhel puri—both are proudly Indian, yet galaxies apart in taste, texture, style and aftertaste. Let’s begin with the Delhi businessman. He doesn’t walk into a room —he arrives, with the flair of a Bollywood hero, minus the background dancers (although you wouldn’t put it past him to arrange some). Phone in one hand, entitlement in the other. His shirt is tight enough to show off the ripples beneath, his perfume arrives 10 seconds before he does. And his aviators —they never leave his face—even indoors, at night, during a power cut. His voice has two settings: loud and louder. His walk says, “I just bought a Husain”, his talk says, “I’m acquiring a unicorn”, and his smirk says, “Do you know who my father is?”—which, by the way, isn’t a question.
It’s a declaration, a flex and a mild threat all rolled in one. He’ll drive a Bentley to negotiate a 0.02% stake with the intensity of a Wall Street shark on Red Bull. His startup hasn’t launched a product yet, but he’s already closed Series A, B, and a “strategic” round with an uncle from Dubai.
Networking is his native language. Ministers, bureaucrats, celebrities, cricket selectors—he either knows them, is related to them, or has them on speed dial. He is the Maharaja of Lutyens, the Nawab of Noida, the Governor of Gurgaon. His business card is glossier than his pitch deck, heavier than the iPhone, and lists more titles than a Netflix homepage: Chairman, Director, Visionary, Polo Enthusiast, Philanthropist. He eats only classics—kebabs, butter naan, paneer and black dal, His drink? A Patiala peg of single malt. “Neat, like my business,” he says, adjusting his Rolex twice—just to make sure you notice.
A SIXTH SENSE FOR SENSEX
Now swing west to the Mumbai businessman and you will land quite a googly. No drama. No brands. No entourage announcing his arrival. He doesn’t strut in like a peacock—he walks in like he’s checking crude oil prices. His office AC may wheeze like a retired harmonium, but his phone buzzes nonstop with deals worth more than a Bandra apartment while he is listening to his favourite music, CNBC. He prefers IPOs to IPL—unless the team is listing.
Emotionally, he’s closer to his portfolio than to his siblings. Don’t mistake his modest clothing— beneath that simple surface is a market hawk with nerves of steel and a sixth sense for the Sensex. Just drop the word “market”—and watch his eyes light up faster than a Diwali cracker. He may not know the difference between Impressionist art and Instagram filters, but that won’t stop him from sipping a glass of wine, putting his nose in the air, spouting prerehearsed lines about “texture” and “provenance’.
Once he called a Subodh Gupta installation “bartan art” and asked if it could be exchanged for copper futures. His most romantic phrase?
“Bazaar su lage che?” and he doesn’t ask it casually—it’s a spiritual question, a state of the soul. He relishes devouring company balance sheets with the same passion he has for his undhiyu. His idea of small talk is discussing EBITDA margins and promoter pledges. He’s never missed a Rakesh Jhunjhunwala or a Warren Buffett interview, ever. While his expansion plans are always preceded by conference calls with his three CAs, an astrologer and his legal firm Vakil, Mulla and Katgara.
Health is wealth, you will often hear him say. So early morning walks with neighbourhood business buddies or an hour of Pilates in the gym are a must while he swaps stock tips and relies on Miss Divekar—his trainer-dietitiantherapist—to suggest breathing exercises for the stress caused by Trump’s tariffs.
Frugal? It’s plain good ole baniya genes so he’s unlikely to buy a new suit until some threads tear. He will time his holidays with the best hotel deals and guard his Rs 42,000 Herman Miller chair like it is family silver.
Bollywood? Of course, but with a twist. He doesn’t meet actors—but invests in production houses, while secretly hoping that it will be a doorway to meet a Kapoor or a Khan. And if he does meet a star, he’ll pretend to be casual, hiding his excitement! He doesn’t drink like the Delhiwalla. No Patiala pegs, thank you. Just coconut water, cutting chai, or black coffee, and that too from his personal Nespresso machine, served strong, bitter and brutally honest—like his appraisal feedback.
Fluent in Gujarati, English and some Marathi, but his Hindi is… arre baba, full bhelpuri!
Only a Mumbaikar can decode that masala mix. And the Parsis in Mumbai? They are the secret sauce in Mumbai’s business biryani— quietly dominating industries while claiming they are “just managing a small enterprise”. Dressed in white cotton shirts and matching chinos, sipping raspberry soda or Duke’s Mangola, they are the most lovable, quirky people you will ever meet.
WHAT THEY READ, HOW THEY WED
Stark difference: While Delhi shows off, Mumbai believes it’s better—and makes sure you know it. The Mumbai businessman has a clear superiority complex over his Delhi counterpart. He won’t say it outright, but his eyes say it all: “They may have flash, but we have the class. And, yes, we have the money too.”
Reading habits? Delhi reads term sheets, Instagram captions and the gossip column to check if he is in it. Mumbai reads PCL statements, The Times of India obit columns and, of course, his favourite Economic Times. Weddings? Oh, the contrast is even more stark.
A Delhi wedding is a fullblown Bollywood production—elephants, drones, choreographed dances, celebrities and at least one cabinet minister doing the bhangra in Louis Vuitton shoes. The Mumbai wedding is an evening at the Willingdon Club, a restrained buffet of South Indian cuisine and Gujarati fare by Swati, with the odd Bollywood star stepping in for a few seconds—wearing sunglasses to remain unnoticed or perhaps more noticed!
WhatsApp statuses? Delhi: “Feeling blessed to have closed a multi-milliondollar deal. Jai Mata Di!” Mumbai: “Available after 4 pm for essential calls only. Market closed but open mind”.
Where Delhi charms, Mumbai calculates. Where Delhi shouts, “I know people”, Mumbai says, “I know numbers.”
Delhi builds hype, Mumbai builds with purpose. Delhi lives in the now, Mumbai plans for the long haul. Delhi plays bold, Mumbai plays safe. Delhi dazzles, Mumbai delivers. Delhi is the firework, Mumbai is the flame.
So, who wins? Here’s the twist: both succeed.
Because for all the bling, bravado and business-class bravura, the Delhi businessman dreams big—flair, guts, swagger and a Rolodex that could run a nation. And for all his spreadsheets, simplicity and salt-in-the-hair, the Mumbai businessman delivers— disciplined, risk-averse, rooted and financially bulletproof. Butter chicken meets pav bhaji—both spicy, both desi, both doing just fine.
And me? I’m from Kolkata. I’ll be sipping my cha, quoting Tagore, solving a crossword and wondering why no one talks about the Bengali businessman anymore. Maybe because we are too busy writing articles like this.
(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this column are that of the writer. The facts and opinions expressed here do not reflect the views of www.economictimes.com)
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