The opening day of A&M Store was not the grand, celebratory launch Arun had once sketched out in his notebook. It was humble—painfully humble. Instead of ribbon-cuttings or influencers or the kind of footfall that makes shop shutters rattle, they got a slow, hesitant trickle of visitors.
They had spent nearly every last rupee on the fit-out—the cedar shelves, the natural lime-plastered walls, the hand-thrown jars—leaving nothing for marketing. Their "grand opening" was a chalk-written blackboard that Mira placed at the lane entrance, declaring simply:
Honest Produce from the Himalayas.
For the first week, customers came mostly out of loyalty or confusion. Old pop-up patrons found them. Friends dropped by to show support. Curious passersby peeked in, mistook the rustic interior for an antique shop, and slipped out within minutes.
Arun could feel the rent clock ticking—a low, steady, ominous thud in his mind.
They needed dozens of customers a day to survive. They were getting five.
Mira, though, was in her element. Every person who stepped inside became an honoured guest. She served them ginger-infused honey on dry toast, poured warm herbal tea infused with tulsi and mountain flowers, and told them stories—real stories—about the soil, the valleys, and the farmers.
She wasn't selling products. She was selling truth. The shift came in the second week, entirely by chance. A renowned food blogger and cultural critic—Sunaina Sen—was roaming through Shahpur Jat, hunting for a story. Past the polished boutiques and curated designer studios, she paused at the unfamiliar cedar-scented aroma drifting out of A&M Store and stepped inside.
Mira didn't know who she was. She simply smiled, served her tea, and spoke with the same quiet passion she offered everyone. Sunaina spent nearly an hour taking pictures of jars glowing in the afternoon light, the grain tins lined like small sculptures, the small handwritten notes about each farmer. She left without buying anything. Three days later, the post exploded across social media and food publications: "A&M Store: The Most Authentic Store in Delhi is Hidden in Shahpur Jat."
Sunaina didn't just praise the products—she praised the soul. "In an era of corporate greenwashing, Arun and Mira have built a sacred space. They are selling honesty, and it tastes better than any premium label. The store itself is a poem."
The next morning, the trickle became a flood. People lined up before the shutters were even up. Not just the Defence Colony elite, but students, chefs, eco-conscious couples, health enthusiasts—people who cared about where their food came from. Within four days, they hit their break-even point.
By the next day, they had sold out of every jar of wildflower honey and half of their Pahadi spice stock.
Arun, who had been focused on keeping the store alive, now had a new problem: keeping up with success. The issue wasn't money anymore—it was integrity. Their supply chain was built on trust, not contracts. Handshakes, not targets. Care, not scale. Calls began pouring in from farmers—excited, overwhelmed, apologetic. One call stood out. Gopal Singh, their honey supplier, spoke in a crackling voice from his mountain village.
"Arun bhai… five hundred litres next month? I can barely make two hundred. To double production, I would have to feed the bees processed sugar. You know I won't do that. It will ruin the purity. Ruin my honour."
And this was the truth Arun had refused to face: ethical sourcing is slow sourcing.
You cannot hurry nature. You cannot pressure a farmer who works with honour.
Late nights became routine. They sat in the tiny store long after closing, papers scattered, Prem—their newly hired, already-overwhelmed assistant—dozing at the counter.
"We can't stop the momentum," Arun said, staring at the queue still visible through the window. "But we can't push Gopal," he added, rubbing his temples. Mira, exhausted but steady, found the path.
"We embrace the constraint," she said softly. "We don't try to stretch one farmer beyond his land. We spread the roots. Use our capital to find more valleys, more honest producers, more small cooperatives. Not speed—diversification." It made perfect sense.
The next morning, Arun set out on a new mission: building a broader ethical supply network. He began calling small cooperatives he had once only heard about—producers of heirloom grains, rare flours, fermented herbs, and smoked lentils. Products too niche for supermarkets, but perfect for A&M Store's growing identity. A&M was no longer just a shop. It had become a brand—one whispered about, sought after, trusted. But Arun knew the truth behind every strong brand:
A brand survives only if its roots stay pure. And now, he had to grow those roots without damaging the soil that nurtured them.