It’s been four years since I started using apps like Blinkit, Swiggy, and Zepto. For the first two, I barely thought about it. They were fast, convenient, and fit perfectly into the chaos of my college, living-in-Mumbai life. Surrounded by people all the time, in classes, the canteen, or even down the road, I’d do anything to avoid another social interaction. And the option of ordering something on a quick-commerce app offered just that comfort, a quiet pocket amid all the noise. But something shifted when I moved cities for work. I was living alone now. Friends were far away, family even farther. Most of my time went into figuring out money, rent, food, and the million other things no one warns you about. Now, I missed the tiniest interactions, the ones you don’t even register when you’re busy being social by default. Now, socialising took effort. And I started to realise what the convenience of delivery apps was quietly replacing: the walks I skipped, the conversations that never happened, the local prices I no longer understood. No one is as disappointed in me as my dad for not knowing how much a kilo of mangoes costs. In a world constantly on the move, where workdays spill into late nights, where we live far from home and physical stores often feel out of reach, Q-commerce platforms have become an everyday essential. Need coffee? Bread? A razor? Tap a few buttons and it’s at your door in ten minutes. These apps have nailed speed, range, and efficiency. It works — until it doesn’t. What began as a fix for urgency became something else: a reflex. I wasn’t ordering because I needed something. I was ordering because it was easy. Almost too easy. I often think back to childhood. Growing up in a small town, buying chocolates or chips meant walking with my brother and friends to the neighbourhood shop. When my mother asked me to go get milk or biscuits for unexpected guests, I would throw a tantrum, wishing for the fix I despise today. But those errands taught us things without trying to — how to spend, how to choose, how to talk to strangers, and sometimes, how to walk away without buying anything. It was all built into the experience, without ever seeming like a lesson. That walk to the store was once forgettable, even annoying. Now, for many like me, it has become “the thing”. We force ourselves to go outside, to not order in, because the room can feel imprisoning. In the age of instant gratification, everything’s designed to be faster, smoother, and frictionless. But in removing the friction, we also remove the feeling. Grocery stores used to be a little boring, a little messy, and sometimes unexpectedly lovely. You might chat with someone on the street, discover something new in the market, or just stretch your legs after a long day. Now? Sadness has a shortcut — a ten-minute delivery offering a dopamine hit that fades just as fast. We also move less. Those mini walks to the store, the quick sprints before closing time, rushing to the stationery store to buy political maps for tomorrow’s geography lesson, have been replaced by a single tap. We are always on the go, but weirdly still. There’s no release, no break, no in-between space. It’s work, screen, delivery, repeat. Socially, the gap widens too. The shopkeeper who remembers your favourite biscuit brand, the old aunty who asks where you have been — these tiny connections are vanishing. There’s no credit system anymore, no end-of-month snack debt to settle. The trust your neighbourhood shopkeeper had in you, the nod that said “pay later”, is gone. And then there’s awareness. When you stop visiting markets or shops, you lose a sense of what things cost, what’s fresh, and what’s worth your money. You stop comparing. You start buying what the algorithm suggests — another pen, a fancy drink, a lip balm you saw in a reel. It’s easy to fall into “I see it, I want it” because the system makes you feel like you deserve it. And maybe you do. But maybe you just need to feel something. These apps aren’t villains. They are incredibly useful, especially when you’re tired, sick, working late, just having one of those days, or even want a last-minute gift delivered to your doorstep. They do what they promise, and they do it well. But when we stop using them mindfully, when they become our first option instead of a last resort, we end up giving away more than just our money. We give away our movement, patience, curiosity, and our sense of place. In a world already leaning toward loneliness, where most of us are glued to screens and disconnected from community, even small things like going to buy milk or fruit can offer something grounding. You step out, you see people, you breathe. You feel like you are part of a world again. So no, I am not quitting Blinkit. I will probably order from it this weekend. But I am also trying to walk to the store, one that is literally 200m away, more often. Not because it’s cheaper (though it usually is), not because I need the steps (though I do), but because I want to stay in touch with the world outside my door. Sometimes, what you really need isn’t a ten-minute delivery. It’s a ten-minute walk.
