Arun's temporary logistics job became his accidental market research firm. While shuttling small packages for other start-ups across the city, he absorbed the contours of Delhi's consumption patterns. He saw where the money flowed, where the trendy crowds gathered, and what they spent their money on. He realized that the sheer quantity of goods wasn't the issue; it was the story behind them.
They spent Sunday—their one shared day—poring over his hastily scribbled notes, which often smelled faintly of petrol and stale paper.
"Look here, Mira," Arun said, tapping a frantic cluster of circles on a napkin. "Khan Market. Defence Colony. Hauz Khas. Everywhere, the organic movement is huge. But it's mostly big farms, industrialized produce, or expensive imports."
He pointed to a listing for a boutique coffee shop selling 'Artisan Himalayan Honey' for three times what they sold it for back home. "They sell the idea of the mountains, but their honey comes from a massive factory unit in Uttarakhand. There's no name, no face, no real Pahari integrity."
Mira nodded, tracing the Deodar root logo she had drawn. "We have the story, Arun. We have the roots."
"Exactly," he leaned in, his eyes bright with that familiar, intense ambition. "Our niche isn't just 'organic.' It's Authentic Himachali Origin. Small batches. High-altitude produce. Fair-trade with the actual families we know. It's luxury, but it's real. We are selling a piece of our mountains, Mira. A connection to simplicity that the wealthy Delhi consumer desperately craves."
They decided to target areas that valued this authenticity: neighbourhoods with a mix of affluent, educated residents and a youthful, artisanal vibe. Their budget, however, dictated a harsh reality.
The search for commercial space was brutal. Brokers laughed when they heard their budget. A tiny kiosk in a secondary market cost more than Arun's annual salary back home. The asking price for a visible spot was astronomical.
"Arun, maybe we should just do online sales from the flat for six months," Mira suggested, disheartened, watching him scrub the latest property listing—a dilapidated storage unit near Okhla—off their whiteboard. "The rent here is crippling just for sleeping, let alone running a business."
"No, Mira. We need a physical anchor," Arun insisted. "A place people can walk into and smell the pine, see the crafts. We need the feeling of authenticity. We need a space that mirrors the brand, but we can't afford the rent in a mirrored tower."
One evening, Arun returned with a different kind of glow on his face. He pulled out a worn photograph of a narrow street lined with quirky, brightly painted shops.
"Shahpur Jat," he announced. "It's an urban village near Hauz Khas. It's a mess of old and new—tailors, art galleries, high-end design studios, all mixed in tiny lanes. It's the opposite of a mall. It's affordable, and it attracts exactly the kind of buyer who appreciates a story."
The next day, they took the metro and then a confusing maze of rickshaws to the area. Shahpur Jat was a revelation. It was noisy, but the noise was different—less aggressive, more creative. They saw young designers haggling over fabric, foreign tourists searching for vintage items, and small cafes tucked into residential ground floors.
They found a space deep within a narrow lane: a barsati—a tiny rooftop room—connected to a steep, winding outdoor staircase. It was 150 square feet of peeling paint and concrete dust, but it had one undeniable feature: a small, west-facing window that, if you leaned out far enough, gave you a sliver of open sky.
The landlord, a kindly, retired woman named Mrs. Bedi, smiled at them. "You are from Himachal; my son went trekking there once. He loved the clean air. You want to sell mountain products here?"
Arun, his suit jacket wrinkled from the metro ride, laid out their entire plan in ten minutes, speaking with a rare, desperate conviction. He didn't just talk about jams and honey; the spoke of integrity and roots.
Mrs. Bedi tapped her chin. "The rent is fixed. It is small, but it is a good location. But I like your enthusiasm. I will take one month's rent, no security deposit. We'll call it a mountain discount."
Arun and Mira exchanged a look that held both disbelief and intense joy. It was a minuscule, dusty room, but it was theirs. They had secured their affordable commercial space. They signed the paper right there, on the hood of Arun's logistics car, feeling the adrenaline rush of true entrepreneurs.
They were still poor, still living in a cramped flat, but now, they had a physical, tangible place in Delhi to build their dream. The roots were finally starting to dig in.