The first math lessons for many kids don’t happen in kindergarten but at the corner petty shops, fondly called annachi kadai in Tamil Nadu. With a koodai in hand, they march down the street or wobble on their tricycles, memorising grocery lists like mantras. Forgetting a line means an hour of amma’s scolding. This experience resonates closely with Shrivarshini M, a 21-year-old UPSC aspirant, who recollects one of her fondest childhood memories, “If my parents gave me fifty rupees for groceries and I spent only forty-five, the remaining five would be my service charge. I’d use it to buy umbrella chocolates, thaenmittai, two-rupee Rasna, paal ice, or a five-rupee chips packet. And even if we didn’t have enough money, the shopkeepers never turned us away. They would hand us the product and simply say, ‘Give the money next time you come.’ That’s something you’ll never find with online shopping.” She also remembers the time when children often collected gel pen-cap rubbers or ink cartridge balls and exchanged them with shopkeepers, who paid a rupee for every five, which again went into buying snacks.
A decade ago, a popular music show picked up the chant in a promo — “kaal kilo karuppu puli, manjal thool…” — and it went viral, turning what was once a childhood errand into a cultural echo. For those who grew up in this era, it isn’t just a lyric; it is muscle memory, tied to a time when families relied on corner-shop annachis. This rhythm, once woven into everyday life, has now been replaced by the ping of app notifications and a flood of discount alerts on screens. For Mitraa Anand, a regular user of quick-commerce platforms, the shift was almost inevitable — when she first moved to Chennai, she couldn’t find any annachi shops or supermarkets nearby and turned to apps out of necessity. But her experience is only a glimpse of a much larger trend. A 2024 report by the All India Consumer Products Distributors Federation (AICPDF), which represents FMCG distributors across the country, reveals that nearly 20-30 per cent of kirana shops (locally known as annachi shops) in Tier-1 cities have already shut down, unable to withstand the pace of urban convenience where speed is fast eclipsing community.
PM Ganeshraam, founder, state and national president of Tamil Nadu Consumer Products Distributors Welfare Association, claims, “Nationally, nearly 10 lakh shops have been shut down due to the rise of quick commerce delivery platforms, and in Chennai, approximately 2,000 shops were closed in the past couple of years.” He adds that if the government had conducted a pilot programme before introducing these platforms, the situation could’ve been tackled better, and small-scale shops and supermarkets could’ve managed to complement each other and survive in the market.
On the ground, the fallout is visible on every street. Once-busy annachi shops stand shuttered, replaced by delivery bikes weaving through traffic with oversized bags. For vendors like Velmurugan, who has been running a store for ten years, survival is tied to rising costs and shrinking margins. “Rents, electricity, maintenance — everything keeps going up, but profits don’t,” he says. “Some shops try to run on tiny margins, but it isn’t sustainable. The ecosystem that supported us is breaking.” He adds that delivery work, though appealing to youngsters, doesn’t build long-term stability. “They earn small amounts and live only for today. That instability affects them and us.”
However, Muthuraj, who has taken over his father’s shop and has been running it for the past 35 years, sees the situation differently. He argues that service keeps him afloat. “Shops don’t close only because of apps. They close when they fail to serve customers well,” he says. “You don’t have to match what apps give, but you need to give something meaningful. I’m not competing with apps — they are competing with me.” He smiles as he makes a point about the simple act of stepping out. “Ordering online gives speed and discounts, yes, but walking to a shop gives you fresh air and a human touch. People need to think about those around them, not just the ones behind screens.”
On the other side are the students and young professionals who grew up with apps as a convenience. For them, instant delivery is part of daily life. Mitraa remembers when online orders first became routine. “It started with snacks and toiletries when I moved out for college,” she says. “Everything was in one place, with discounts, and I didn’t have to walk. Honestly, the shutdown of annachi shops wouldn’t affect me much. But when I see a shop nearby, I try to reduce online orders — it feels better, more connected.” She pauses, reflective. “We are all a little lazy. At the end of the day, annachi shops are cheaper, more personal, and part of how things always were. But apps are so convenient that it’s hard to let go.”
The appeal, many say, lies in the pricing. “Quick-commerce platforms draw customers in with below-MRP rates and flashy discounts that put local shopkeepers at risk, because buyers either expect the same cuts in-store or avoid them altogether after comparing cheaper app prices,” explains Ganeshraam. He adds that relief may come from an unexpected source. The new GST reforms, set to be implemented on September 22, are seen as a step toward fairness. “These reforms are the answers to our long-held protests,” he says. “By simplifying slabs and cutting rates on essentials, they ease the burden on vendors like us. And by applying GST equally to quick-commerce apps, they finally create a level playing field. For once, neighbourhood shops and online platforms are held to the same standards.” He concludes that the reforms give small vendors hope that policy is finally working in their favour.
As Chennai adapts to new shopping habits, annachi shops continue to hold emotional weight. They are not just places of transaction but sites of trust, familiarity, and identity. Some experiment with WhatsApp orders or delivery tie-ups, but for many, survival means clinging to the rhythm of everyday relationships.
Walking down a Chennai lane today, the clink of a weighing scale, the rustle of paper packets, and the chatter of shopkeepers may be quieter — but for many, it is a gentle reminder of a rhythm that might be fading, but is far from forgotten.