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’d discover a delicious desi dichotomy: the Delhi businessman and the Mumbai businessman. Like butter chicken and bhel puri — both 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 cut circulation, his perfume arrives ten seconds before he does, and his aviators 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 Hussain,” 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 rolled into one. He’ll drive a Bentley to negotiate a 0.02% stake with the intensity of a Wall Street shark on Red Bull. His start-up 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 your iPhone, and lists more titles than a Netflix homepage: Chairman, Director, Visionary, Polo Enthusiast, Philanthropist. He eats only classics — kebabs, butter naan, black dal, and an unsolicited opinion on the Indian economy. His drink? A Patiala peg of single malt. “Neat, like my business,” he says, adjusting his Rolex twice — just to make sure you notice.
Now swing west to the Mumbai businessman. He’s at his table in his office at Nariman Point, hunched over a laptop with Excel open, calculator app in split-screen mode, CNBC screaming Nifty resistance levels louder than an uncle at an AGM. No drama, no brands, no entourage. His office has a leaking AC, the ghost of a dot-matrix printer, and a sacred temple corner. He lives in a compact 3BHK in Breach Candy with six people, two cats, and one Godrej cupboard older than his grandparents. His car? A black Mercedes, parked in a building where the lift needs “a little push.”
He doesn’t talk much, but drop the word “market,” and he’ll light up faster than a Diwali cracker. 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 as 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 Warren Buffett interview, ever. His expansion plans are always preceded with conference calls with his 3 CAs, an astrologer, and his legal firm Vakil, Mulla and Katgara.
Health is a religion. He takes protein powder more seriously than profits, swaps stock tips during burpees at the gym, and relies on Miss Divekar — his trainer-dietitian-therapist — to suggest yoga poses for stress caused by Fed rate hikes. He won’t buy a new suit until the hole is visible to all, times holidays for the best hotel deals, and guards his Rs 42,000 Herman Miller chair like it’s family silver. And the Parsis in Mumbai? They’re the secret sauce in Mumbai’s business biryani- quietly dominating industries while claiming they’re “just managing a small enterprise.” Dressed in white cotton suits and socks with sandals, sipping raspberry soda, they are the most lovable grumbling people you will ever meet.
Bollywood? Of course. But with conditions. They don’t meet actors – they invest in production houses, secretly hoping that gets them to meet a Kapoor or Khan. And if they do me a star, they’ll pretend to be unimpressed. He doesn’t drink like the Delhiwalla. No Patiala pegs, thank you. Just coconut water 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 never, ever Hindi- not even in dreams.
And 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 class. And yes, we have the money too.”
Reading habits? Delhi reads term sheets, Instagram captions, and the gossip column to check if they’re in it. Mumbai reads P&L statements, R.K. Laxman cartoons, and the Economic Times, folded just right.
Weddings? Oh, the contrast. A Delhi wedding is a full-blown Bollywood production — elephants, drones, choreograph, dances, celebrities, and at least one cabinet minister doing the Bhangra in Louis Vuitton shoes. A Mumbai wedding is an evening at Willingdon Club, a restrained buffet of South Indian, and Gujarati, fare by Tapan bhai, and the odd Bollywood star, who steps in for a second, unnoticed, wearing sunglasses to avoid being noticed – which, of course makes them more noticed.
WhatsApp statuses? Delhi: “Feeling blessed to have closed a multi-million-dollar deal. Jai Mata Di!” Mumbai: “Available after 4pm for essential calls only.” (Followed by a Ratan Tata quote, obviously.)
Where Delhi charms, Mumbai calculates. Where Delhi says, “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.
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’re too busy writing articles like this.
