The grocery list is dead. Long live the grocery app

Time of India

2 days ago

A few years ago, when my mother first learned that tomatoes could arrive at our door in under ten minutes, she did not believe me. 'Ten minutes? From where?' she asked, as if I had claimed to conjure them out of thin air. I handed her the phone and showed her apps like Blinkit, Zepto, and Swiggy Instamart. She watched the screen with suspicion and in bemused horror. There were theories that the tomatoes would never arrive. But arrive they did. Fresh, plump, perfectly ripe, and almost too red. And just like that, the quiet, poised theatre of kitchen life in our home began to change. Not in a dramatic, overnight sense, but more like the app update that installs in the background while you sleep.
Before the apps, our kitchen moved to a weekly rhythm. Grocery lists were written on the backs of old envelopes and disused bills, and then tucked into my father's shirt pocket. My mother maintained a parallel, exhaustive mental inventory. She was like the internal supply chain manager, aided by decades of intuition and practice. We bought only what was needed and in season. And this shaped what we cooked and how we ate. Then came these apps. All of a sudden, like the (un)invited relative. At first, they were convenience tools, used sparingly – bulk rice order, maybe some bhujiya. But over time, something shifted.
One of the first casualties of this era was the old, crumpled grocery list in my father's shirt pocket. In the past, shopping lists were domestic epics, many days in the making. They were a manifestation of meticulous planning and financial prudence. However, what used to be mindful provisioning morphed into fickle, mood-based ordering. Today, the act of 'doing the grocery' no longer feels like an important part of life, but rather an algorithm-dictated chore. We shop only in reaction, not in response.
Instant cravings are now logistical possibilities. And I must admit – the very idea that you are never more than ten minutes away from abundance is indeed seductive. But food, at least in Indian homes, was never just about hunger or scarcity. It was about anticipation, particularly the slow build-up to a meal and smelling it being cooked hours before it is served. That entire sensory arc is lost when the paneer arrives, as an afterthought, after you have already begun to prepare the tadka.
The fridge has become the new warehouse. Packed not with fresh vegetables or pickles of different varieties, but with plastic bags from quick-commerce orders, often duplicated items. There's less frugality and more waste. My mother sometimes forgets she ordered dhania the day before. It lies wilting in the corner, only to be superseded by a fresher bunch.
All this might reek of Doordarshan-era nostalgia. Rest assured, it is not. Nor is this a call to delete the apps. Let us be honest: urban lives are, as it is, squeezed for time, and nuclear families are optimising every errand. And in many ways, these apps are liberating, especially for working mothers, bachelors, the elderly, and those without transport. Lest I sound ungrateful: the grocery app saved me at 02:52 am when I needed heartbreak snacks (while listening to KK and Lucky Ali songs).
Despite the conveniences offered, my mother is not entirely thrilled. The app has empowered her, yes, but it has also diluted her authority. In most Indian homes, the kitchen is the command centre. And mothers are its benevolent dictators. It is not just about food but also about control. Earlier, she controlled the kitchen through curation. Now, anyone with the app can become a gatekeeper. My father orders dal without telling her. My cousin buys exotic cheeses 'just to try'. The grocery app has flattened the hierarchy and digitised monetary transactions. For mothers used to operating in the analog era of mental maths and command-and-control planning, this is annoying and has become one more battlefield for domestic micro-management.
Also, the kitchen has long been the site for community bonding. Neighbours borrowed salt and sugar freely. The aunty next door would send over gajar for the halwa and you returned the favour by sending her an extra helping, once it was cooked and sweetened. This ecosystem has crumbled. Who will borrow when the app exists? Community exchange, already on the decline, has taken another hit. Perhaps, in the future, an app could have a feature that connects neighbours for sugar swaps. Wistful thinking, ultimately.
However, what I miss most is the neighbourhood grocer. It was the parchoon ki dukaan where the proprietor knew our tastes. He would suggest the better brand or throw in some samples for free. There was always a little gossip about the mohalla, and he forwarded credit without asking. In place of friendly nods and familiar faces, we are now in the business of handing out indifferent stars to the delivery boys. Cajoling the sabzi wala to give free coriander was a performance in itself, replete with sighs, a bit of emotional blackmail, head-tilts, and the classic mock walk-away. Today, what is left is quick and convenient. It works just fine, but it does not linger.
Yet, even amidst all this, just as Jeff Goldblum declared, 'life, uh, finds a way', old habits and instincts too have an uncanny tendency to come back in unexpected moments.
Just last week, I saw my mother scrolling an app for one tomato. One. I watched in horror as she added it to the cart and then paused. 'Rs. 31 is the delivery charge? Arey nahin, leave it. I will go get it myself. And you, come with me.' There it was, that tiny rebellion. She tied her dupatta, grabbed her sturdy old jute bag, and headed out like the old times. Because some tomatoes, she decided, must still be bought the hard way. And perhaps, some things, like the way a kitchen breathes, are still worth taking the long route for.
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Views expressed above are the author's own.