In the late 1960s, long before Mumbai learned to queue for cult food, a young man named Vishindas Wadhwa, hailing from Karachi, pushed a modest thela into the neighbourhood of Sion. The cart carried little more than a few steel vessels, a pot of chole, and a belief that hard work, done consistently, could slowly shape destiny. “When my grandfather arrived, he had nothing except the will to work,” Bharat says. “The thela was his first hope.”
The chole was rich, the samosas were crisp, and the customers – mostly factory workers, students, and middle-class families kept returning. Over time, the cart became a shop, the shop became a landmark, and the landmark became something larger than a food joint. It became Guru Kripa, a place woven tightly into Mumbai’s everyday vocabulary.
Over the years, the Sion outlet developed its own culture – steel benches, buzzing fans, queues spilling onto the street, and the unmistakable aroma of frying samosas drifting all the way to the Sion Circle bus stop. Students from SIES and nearby colleges would pack the place after lectures, families came by on Sunday mornings for chole-bhature and lassi, and office-goers made it a ritual stop before catching their train. What made it special was its democratic energy: rich, middle-class, working-class – all standing shoulder-to-shoulder for the same plate of comfort.
Even today, old-timers recall how the staff knew regulars by face, how the first batch of samosas at 11 AM were always the crispiest, and how the festival season meant queues so long they curved around the block. The shop’s simple interiors – no decor, no branding, just honest food – became part of Mumbai’s emotional map.
Yet the real story did not end with Sion. It waited quietly for a new custodian.
A Legacy Meets a New Shore
More than fifty years after the thela first opened for business, the next chapter of Guru Kripa took shape at Chowpatty — not with fanfare, but with the quiet conviction of a grandson who had spent years observing the rhythms of his family’s kitchen.
When Bharat Wadhwa first saw the empty space near the Opera House, it wasn’t just a commercial opportunity. It felt like the beginning of a personal responsibility — an extension of the world his grandfather had built. “I didn’t want to open a shop,” Bharat says. “I wanted to continue something.” Chowpatty’s mix of old-world neighbourhoods, theatre-goers, jewellers, families, and late-night wanderers made it a natural home for a brand people had loved from afar but couldn’t always reach.
The decision to open here came from countless stories Bharat had heard while growing up — customers who adored Guru Kripa but could not make the long trek across the city to Sion. Opera House, with its central arteries and its timeless crowds, felt like a way of bringing the brand closer to people who had always belonged to it.
The One Year That Changed Everything
Long before the new outlet’s first samosa hit the fryer, Bharat had spent a year learning the invisible grammar of Guru Kripa’s kitchen from his grandfather himself. It was a year marked not by business plans or spreadsheets, but by observation — the kind that teaches you about discipline without anyone saying a word.
Every morning, his grandfather would step into the kitchen as if it were Day One, never carrying the weight of the brand’s fame, never behaving like someone who had nothing left to prove. There was no dramatic wisdom passed down, no formal mentoring. The lessons came quietly: the way he checked ingredients, the precision with which he tasted the chole, his unwavering eye for consistency, his instinctive understanding of what customers were feeling that day.
It was a year that shaped the way Bharat looked at work, food, and legacy — and it made the family business feel less like a duty, and more like a destiny he had quietly grown into.
A Modern Space with Old Roots
Step into the Chowpatty outlet, and it’s clear that it was designed by someone who grew up both inside and outside the original Sion universe. The space is compact but elegant, with pastel packaging, clean counters, and a sense of movement that belongs to a younger Mumbai.
This outlet is not meant for leisurely afternoons or long tables filled with families — that is Sion’s charm. Chowpatty’s is different: fast, modern, built for people on the go. You walk in, pick up your samosas or dry-fruit sweets, watch the staff work with the rhythm of muscle memory, and step right back into the chaos of the Opera House.
Yet, for all its modernity, the soul remains unmistakably Guru Kripa. The taste hasn’t shifted, the recipes haven’t softened, and the food still carries the heartbeat of the Sion kitchen. Even the bestselling sweet here — a dry-fruit date creation that surprises even the most sceptical “I don’t have a sweet tooth” customer — is made with the same old rules: premium ingredients, clean flavours, and no shortcuts.
The Daily Ritual of Consistency
Running a legacy brand in Mumbai is often romanticised — flashes of nostalgia, loyal customers, secret recipes. But the truth is far more demanding. Consistency is a discipline more than a strategy, and it demands obedience every single day.
At Chowpatty, mornings begin with checks: raw materials, textures, temperatures, supplies. No matter how much the city changes around them — with new food trends, reels, influencers, and hyperlocal delivery apps — the kitchen refuses to bend to fickleness. The samosa must crackle the way it did fifty years ago. The chole must sit heavy with spices but never oily. The sev must satisfy a very specific nostalgia for those who grew up in Sindhi homes.
There are regular customers already – an impressive feat for such a young outlet. People from all communities walk in, often with stories: “We’re so glad you opened here,” “My mother doesn’t let us buy chole from anywhere else,” “Now we don’t need to travel to Sion.” It’s in these moments, between ringing POS machines and clangs from the kitchen, that Bharat sees the Chowpatty outlet not just as a business expansion, but as a continuation of something his grandfather began with far less, but perhaps even more courage.
Changing Without Changing
Guru Kripa’s Sion outlet lives in the past in the most beautiful way – with its sit-down dining, its old-school hygiene display, and its constant bustle. Chowpatty is not a replica; it is an evolution.
Here, modern packaging replaces brown paper packets. Fusion sweets – chocolate barfis, rose barfis, and playful experiments — sit comfortably beside kaju katli and boondi laddoos. Social media creators drop by with ring lights, turning decades-old dishes into viral content. Younger customers walked in because they saw a reel. Older customers walk in because their parents once made the journey to Sion.
This is the balance Bharat holds carefully — adaptation without dilution. A modern surface with a timeless foundation.
Looking Ahead: A Future Rooted in the Past
The plans for the next few years are fluid — maybe more outlets, maybe cloud kitchens, maybe a deeper exploration into fusion mithai. But expansion is not the goal; preservation is.
The biggest dream, perhaps, is invisible: to ensure that no matter where Guru Kripa grows, its taste refuses to change. Because of that, more than anything, is the brand’s real identity.
“If we lose the taste, we lose the story,” Bharat says.
And somewhere in this new Chowpatty outlet — in the quiet shelf displays, the repetitive rhythms of frying, the proud wall of newspaper clippings and celebrity photos — you can feel the presence of the man who once pushed a handcart into Sion.
If he walked in today, the pride would be unmistakable.
Not because the brand expanded, or because celebrities posed with samosas, or because the New York Times carried its name.
But because the food still tastes exactly the way he made it.
