K. Prakash Shetty: The Architect of His Own Legitimacy

People often fail to realise just how diverse a country India is, and how stubbornly it resists any attempt at neat explanation. It is not merely a matter of different spices and cuisines, though that is the shorthand most readily offered, but of varied cultures, languages, and entire ways of being that do not sit comfortably within a single national narrative. And this diversity is not confined to the borders of states. A common misconception is that all within Karnataka, or all within Tamil Nadu, are one people, unified by language and therefore by culture.

Whenever I read scholars writing about India, armed with empirical study and confident frameworks, I find myself sceptical of any conclusion that seeks to generalise, because unlike countries such as Germany, France, or much of Europe, India refuses to be reduced in that manner. Even within Germany, Bavaria and Berlin may feel markedly distinct, yet they have historically still been shaped by some broader commonality of language, religion, or culture; and while that may be less true in an increasingly globalised world, it remains far easier to explain the staple of Italy than it is to explain the staple of Karnataka, let alone of India itself.

For those outside Karnataka, let me attempt to break this down, though even that feels like an insufficient exercise, because the very act of explaining it risks flattening what is, in reality, a deeply layered and almost stubbornly complex linguistic landscape. Karnataka itself holds within it an astonishing diversity of language: Kannada, Halegannada, Kodava Takk, Sankethi, Konkani, Tulu, Beary, Urdu, Malayalam toward Kasargod, Tamil along one border, Telugu along another, each not merely existing alongside the other but carrying with it its own history, rhythm, and social world. And even within these, the differences multiply further than one might expect. Mysuru Kannada is not Hubli Kannada, and Kundapur Kannada — which perhaps deserves a rebranding altogether — feels, at times, like an entirely different language in both sound and cadence.

Within Tulu itself, there is Puttur Tulu, Udupi Tulu, the Tulu spoken by Jains, the Tulu spoken by Brahmins, each subtly marked by community, geography, and history, so that what appears at first glance to be variation is, in fact, a series of distinct linguistic identities coexisting within a single region.

Just as language fractures and multiplies across the region, so too does cuisine, carrying within it the same quiet markers of caste, religion, and memory that shape how and what we eat. Even within Tulunadu, what is cooked in one household may differ entirely from another, not merely by preference but by lineage and belief, and there is an intimacy to this variation that cannot be standardised or replicated. No one, for instance, makes kuswar quite like Mangalorean Catholics do, and, at the risk of provoking mild outrage, I will say this: our fish recipes are better than whatever Goa is attempting.

Bangalore, which a Tuluva might call ghatta da mitth, above the ghats, carries with it a different culinary rhythm altogether, where mosranna and bisi bele bath are prepared with a kind of quiet perfection that feels both comforting and complete. And yet, for Tuluvas living in Bangalore, there remains an ache, subtle but persistent, for the food of home, a craving for a good maanji tava, for marwai pundi made the way it should be, for flavours that are not just tasted but remembered.

And so, Bangalorean Mangaloreans orbit certain places almost ritualistically, returning to them in search of something that feels familiar enough to quiet that longing. Another controversial opinion, and one I stand by, Mangalorean restaurants in Bangalore are better than those in Bombay, and I say that as the granddaughter of a Bombay hotelier.

I digress, though perhaps not entirely, because these places remain, in their own quiet way, markers of memory, and these were my favourites: Banjara, Anupam’s Coast to Coast, Ujwal, Pulimunchi, and I do not know if it exists anymore, but this place called Port of Pavilion.

I do have to say Ujwal is my favourite. Pritam Anna and Sathish Anna probably know my order by heart by now, the kind of familiarity that builds not through occasion but through repetition, through return. Every time I am in Bangalore, which is less often now, they are on speed dial for a good serving of chicken sukka and the chicken ghee roast, okay, I am going to stop, though it is precisely this inability to stop that perhaps explains the attachment.

A very, very close second is Sanadige, but Sanadige came later for me, just distance-wise, and yet it secured its place quickly enough. They have a Marwai Sukka that is so good that you will even forget that Marwai is a scam. Think about it. They are pretending to be seafood. But Sanadige’s Anjal Rava or Anjal Masala will take you back to Mangalore in under three seconds of tasting it, which is no small thing, to be transported so quickly, so completely, by something as simple as a bite.

Before Sanadige, we would frequent its sister restaurant, Kudla or Melting Pot, and each visit, though routine on the surface, carried with it a kind of quiet narrative. My father had a story every time we went to one of these, stories of how he would frequent Prakash Shetty’s hotels when he went to Bangalore in the 1980s, of who Prakash Shetty was, of what he represented even then. As the years went by, Prakash Shetty became less a person and more a name in our household, one associated, almost instinctively, with quality catering and a certain assurance that did not need to be explained.

If my mother had official guests being sent to Bangalore, they would be put up at the Goldfinch because, you know, Kudla could never have quality issues with food. And if we knew anyone catering a large event, we could tell, almost immediately, by the taste of the food that it had Banjara Prakash Shetty associated with it, as he was known in our house at least, a name that travelled through flavour before it travelled through biography.

He was on a dais once when I was a child, alongside my mother, and my father pointed out the man who owned the restaurant that supplied Anjal to our house when Ujwal was closed for delivery. I know, I know. I am talking about Banjara here, but I cannot lie to you. Ujwal is my favourite. I am sorry. Deal with it.

But our paths never crossed much beyond such moments, brief and observational, in social gatherings where our circles did not quite overlap. So unlike Vasudev Shetty, but like the previous people I have covered in my essays, I have never had a conversation with K Prakash Shetty and do not know him personally enough to make any judgment on his character. But this essay is about the genius that is Prakash Shetty and what one can learn from him through observation, and through rigorous research, and through a qualitative understanding that perhaps reveals more than proximity ever could.

But I have also observed Prakash Shetty closely, though not in the way one might expect. I happened, once, to sleepily and somewhat reluctantly attend a meeting about Kapu Marigudi, and I do not think I even greeted him because, look, if I am socially anxious, I appear with a natural RBF. For the adults who do not understand what that is, call your kids; it will give you a chance to bond too.

But even in that half-present, sleep-laden state, I observed him absorb what everyone was saying, not passively but with a kind of quiet efficiency, and then, almost immediately, process what he believed should be done. He is quite tall, a personality, I would say, a little more than six feet, though I could not say for sure, and he was dressed that day in what I am certain was either Versace or Gucci, based on the kind of prints they usually make, though I could be completely off, but it was one of those luxury brands.

He sat at the centre of the room and heard everyone out, allowing each voice its moment, and then, with little hesitation, told everyone what he thought and assured them that they did not need to worry about what he was responsible for, that he would do his job. But he said something else, something that you could see made people in the room immediately defensive, and yet, a year and a half later, I can tell you with conviction that he was absolutely right about that futuristic prediction.

He is no astrologer, but he understands the market, and more than that, he understands people. He reads them like a book, and he can see through you.

But Prakash Shetty is a very difficult person to decode and to write about, and perhaps that difficulty is precisely what makes him worth writing about at all. Unlike R. N. Shetty or Mulki Sunder Ram Shetty , he belongs much more to the decades I have lived through and observed, and so his story feels unfinished, still unfolding, still accumulating meaning in real time. There is, in that, a certain discomfort, because it is far easier to write about a life that has already settled into narrative than one that continues to resist closure. The Bunt community has watched him move from the Gaurav Printing Press, to the Layout, to Banjara, to Goldfinch, to what is now the MRG empire, and yet even this sequence feels less like a completed arc and more like a progression still in motion.

With R. N. Shetty or Mulki Sunder Ram Shetty, who had both passed away, people spoke only good things as one rarely speaks ill of the dead, or at least thought twice before pointing out flaws. With Prakash Shetty, as human nature tends to dictate, because he is more tangible, they are almost unabashed with their feelings, and if you have read my work, you know that I am an unapologetically optimistic writer. I do not want to write, even when I am aware of flaws, and I am aware that is not the point, but I like learning the good and finding the good in people. It is not that I live in ignorance, but rather that I weigh how much the good outweighs the bad, and in some cases, when the balance tips otherwise, I choose to dissociate.

I had this dilemma recently: how does one separate the art from the artist, especially in a world that has grown so quick to cancel, so unforgiving, as though those doing the cancelling themselves live as saints. For me, there exists a quiet hierarchy of the graveness of the flaw or mistake in question, a scale that is neither fixed nor entirely rational, but one that I return to nonetheless.

I mean, my school would urge us to sing I Believe I Can Fly by R. Kelly, and now, knowing what I know, I cannot listen to him, and yet I cannot entirely separate the song from the memory of who I was when I first heard it. It is strange, this dissonance, because the memory is joyful, but the knowledge is not, and I find myself caught somewhere in between. I struggle with it, really. Sometimes I do not agree with people, but does that mean you completely ice them out?

These struggles surface most intensely when I am in America, where everything feels politicised, and before you think I do not have a point, I promise this is relevant to Prakash Shetty, so hear me out. I moved to what people call one of the wokest states, where people are often unforgiving of different views or even small mistakes that could happen to anyone, and it almost feels like a game of rugby; they find a folly, and they double down until the person holding the ball is buried beneath it. I do not know rugby, but you get the point. People are very assertive in wanting to know your political ideology, and there is very little nuance in how that knowledge is then held.

But there was this one day at an event, a couple of years ago, when I observed Prakash Shetty on a stage while I was in Bangalore visiting during the winter break. I watched him walk over to a politician from the Congress Party and engage in a conversation that ended in shared laughter, and then, only minutes later, he was speaking to someone associated with the BJP in much the same way, with the same ease, the same familiarity. I could not tell which way Prakash Shetty was leaning, and perhaps that was the point.

That small moment stayed with me, because it made me reconsider how it is possible to hold difference without hostility, to allow for disagreement without severing connection, to place the human first and everything else after. It also made me attempt to explain to people that India, though one of the largest democracies in the world, does not always structure its relationships around political alignment in the way one might expect. That may not be true for all of India, particularly for those deeply immersed in the political landscape, but for many of us, friendships and acquaintances are not determined solely by ideology.

And that interaction, small as it was, made me even more curious about Prakash Shetty, especially as his popularity was growing at the time, when he was celebrating a milestone birthday and the highway from Padubidri to Udupi had his face plastered across billboards, a presence that felt at once public and yet still, in many ways, elusive.

Because it provoked thought, and because it challenged my preconceived notions, I found myself returning to a broader truth about the Bunt community, which is that it is, in many ways, deeply classist, though that class is constructed along axes more complex than one might initially assume. Class, here, is not singular but layered, and it is usually formed based on a number of factors:

(1) lineage or pedigree, from which guthu or house you hail

(2) wealth

(3) education

(4) status and position

(5) reputation

(6) who you are related to or networked with

(7) meritocracy, which comes rather low in the ladder

And Bunts can be mean. They are, in many ways, the original cancel culture tribe, not in the loud, digital sense, but in a quieter, more insidious manner. When you begin to rise through meritocracy, there is often an instinct to locate where you fall short in the other six. Perhaps your lineage is not considered worthy of a top house, perhaps your wealth is seen as carrying some form of impurity, perhaps your education is dismissed, your status clouded with rumours, your reputation subtly undermined, or your networks questioned through stories that only others seem to know.

It is not just Bunts, of course; it is human nature. But within the Bunt community, success is more easily received, more comfortably accepted, when at least four of these seven points are in place. There is an easier, more privileged path if you come from a recognised pedigree. Unlike Hollywood or Bollywood, where nepotism is often criticised, within Bunts, being a nepo baby with a strong standing in wealth can be a positive, even an advantage, one that opens doors rather than closes them.

Why do I bring this up? Because when I began my research on Prakash Shetty, his story was centred so strongly around meritocracy that it invited scrutiny along the other six axes. When wealth was discussed, it was framed as something he did not inherit, and therefore as nouveau riche, respected by some, but quietly dismissed by those who placed higher value on pedigree. When education was brought up, his time at PPC Udupi was compared unfavourably to what might be considered more prestigious institutions, such as KMC or KREC.

But here is where I want you to pay attention, and why this becomes a lesson not only for youth but for anyone attempting to navigate such structures: if you own where you come from unabashedly, you will succeed regardless of who attempts to displace your merit. None of these criticisms has ever been discredited, and yet Prakash Shetty has never attempted to obscure them, never pretended to be anything other than who he inherently is.

If you listen to any of his interviews, he will state plainly that he was born in the Korangrapady grama of Udupi, that he went to Christian High School and then PPC, that he took a red bus to Bangalore in the 1980s in search of opportunity. He has not attempted to elevate his pedigree artificially, but has instead chosen to define his legacy through what he builds, naming his empire after those who gave him life, Madhav and Ratna, his parents, and the one who gave him purpose, his son Gaurav, MRG.

But Prakash Shetty has also understood the art of not just succeeding outside the community, but within it as well, and that distinction matters more than one might initially assume, because to be accepted externally is one thing, but to be legitimised internally, within a system that is constantly evaluating you across multiple axes, is something else entirely. He has managed to ground his position in what might otherwise have been considered a disadvantage, and in doing so, has quietly altered the terms by which he is assessed.

But to understand him, we must break it down further.

So, class, gather around, because this is where it begins to take the shape of something almost instructive, the art of adapting industry, and the art of profitability, in the case of K Prakash Shetty.

(1) Gaurav Printing Press

In the 1980s, Prakash Shetty began a printing press. He had newly arrived in Bangalore and, like most Bunts, his entrepreneurial instinct took over, and he began what he believed was a need at the time. When you hear him speak about it, you do not hear sentiment, not in the way one might expect. If you listen to industrialists or businessmen who have built empires within their own lifetime rather than inherited them, there is often a tendency to speak of their first endeavour with a kind of nostalgia, almost as a marker of distance, of how far they have come.

Instead, Prakash Shetty’s attitude towards his first endeavour carries something else entirely, something closer to what I would call a good delusion, the quiet but firm conviction that “I knew how far I would go.”

He states in one of his interviews how ambitious he was even as a child, and as someone who was also, perhaps unreasonably, ambitious from a young age, I can say this is something very few people truly understand. When we use the word ambition loosely, it begins to lose meaning, because everyone is ambitious, just in different ways. Some people are ambitious for life; they want more than a 9-to-5. Some are ambitious to see the world, to travel. Some are ambitious for a career, like me. But if you have ambition without clarity on what you are ambitious about, it can often slip into a less productive form of delusion.

In his words, if you lack vision, you are not going to get there. But if you have vision and do not have the executing power, you will not get there either.

In my short life, I have been privileged to witness more than a few people who have achieved what they set out to do, sometimes through family, sometimes through school, and now through the work I find myself doing. His words hold true. They all have vision. And as Gen Z, you are probably making vision boards, manifesting things, yes, that works, I make them too, but if you are not taking steps to execute those visions, and instead waiting for things to happen, they might not.

A healthy amount of delulu is the solulu, certainly. There is no real limit to what one can achieve if they set their minds to it, but it is equally important to take steps, deliberate, sometimes uncomfortable steps, towards getting there.

Prakash Shetty understands the market, and he understands people, and he understood early on that the margins he was making at the printing press were not enough, and so he pivoted.

And this is where I want you to focus again, the art of pivoting, knowing when to pivot, and the art of adapting to a new industry.

At this time, Prakash Shetty, who had grown up in Udupi within the Bunt community, and who had heard of hoteliers migrating to Bombay and other parts of the country in search of opportunity, did not merely pivot towards starting his own restaurant, but also began to explore his interest in real estate, moving, almost instinctively, towards multiple avenues of growth rather than confining himself to one.

Two things are happening here. First, he pivots into hoteliering, and when he speaks about it, again, there is very little sentimentality. Instead, there is a kind of clarity that borders on pragmatism, almost as though he is saying, " Everyone, I know, found opportunity here. The people before me, those who carried my last name, had already created legitimacy in this industry, and I chose to step into that current rather than resist it."

Second, he began Gaurav Layout, an opportunity that presented itself at that time, and which he recognised for what it was.

I want to bring something up here because this is where it becomes personal. When I was a child, a recurring trope in film and television was the rich son whose primary arc involved proving himself outside of his father’s shadow, as though struggle, in itself, was a prerequisite for legitimacy. It conditioned many of us to believe that suffering was necessary, that ease was somehow undeserved.

I am the daughter of a woman who was doing very well in her career, and at barely six or seven, I told my father that I would prove myself without her help. I do not know why the world taught us to romanticise suffering, or to believe that taking opportunities when they are presented to you is somehow a moral failing. My father shut that down almost immediately. He said to me, " We struggle so that you struggle less. Why would we want you to struggle again when we have already been through that?

This is why I do not quite understand the hate for nepo kids. You are telling me that if you were a parent in that position, you would say, no, go suffer? Please.

But here is where I differentiate, and I think this distinction matters. It is a good thing to recognise opportunity, but it is not the same as living opportunistically. Those are not identical modes of being.

Prakash Shetty recognised an opportunity, and when he realised that the margins at the printing press were not sufficient, and that his surname and community already held legitimacy within the hotel industry, he pivoted.

And this, too, is a lesson in business. Often, people believe that they are giving up when they are, in fact, failing repeatedly at something that is not working, and they refuse to pivot because they confuse persistence with stubbornness. You have to learn the difference between knowing when to pivot and knowing when not to quit.

(2) Banjara Prakash Shetty

Like all Bunt hoteliers, Prakash Shetty focused on quality service, quality food, and, perhaps most importantly, the slow and deliberate building of trust. Some accounts from people who knew him during this time period also speak of the strong support he received from his wife, Asha Shetty, who was often present in the nascent stages of what would eventually become their hotel empire, contributing in ways that are not always formally recorded but are nonetheless deeply felt in the foundation of such ventures.

At one point, Prakash Shetty recognised an opportunity not just in offering a dining experience, but in extending that experience into catering. In one of his interviews, he mentions something that might appear insignificant at first glance, but is, in fact, a detail of great importance in understanding his growth. He speaks about how much it mattered to him to create a complete dining experience, and how he sourced crystal glasses from Crawford Market, becoming one of the first hoteliers in Bangalore to serve people in crystal glasses, a decision that may seem small, but fundamentally altered the way his service was perceived.

I am the granddaughter of a hotelier, but I did not grow up around the business in any meaningful way, and so I did not understand the importance of such detailing until much later, when I lived in Europe, where one often pays a premium not only for the food itself, but for the experience of how it is served, the tableware, the glass, the quiet signals of care that surround a meal. And in the era of TikTok and Instagram, it has become even more apparent how these small details shape perception, how they contribute to the overall experience of a restaurant, and how, at times, even when the food is subpar, a well-crafted experience can make people more forgiving.

And so, this attention to detail, which may have seemed excessive or unnecessary at the time, clearly contributed to his growth. He very soon had Goldfinch, a name he credited to someone from Vijaya Bank, and alongside it, there emerged, in Bangalore, the figure of “Goldfinch Prakash Shetty,” known not just for his establishments, but as a reliable caterer, a name that carried with it a certain assurance of quality.

And this is where the importance of quality within a service industry begins to reveal itself more fully, not merely as a matter of taste, but as a matter of perception and trust. People do not always evaluate quality in a rational or technical sense; they experience it, and they remember how it made them feel. A well-set table, a certain kind of glass, the weight of a plate, the way a meal is presented, these become signals, subtle but powerful, that shape expectation before the first bite is even taken. And once that expectation is formed, it often colours the entire experience, making people more forgiving of imperfections or more critical in their absence.

In that sense, quality in a service industry is not only about the product itself, but about the construction of an experience that signals care, consistency, and credibility, so that over time, what is being built is not just a business, but a form of trust that precedes you, speaks for you, and returns customers to you long before they consciously decide to return.

(3) Goldfinch Prakash Shetty

Goldfinch Prakash Shetty began building a brand that extended far beyond the immediate orbit of other Bunt hoteliers, moving into a space where scale and recognition were no longer confined to community but began to operate on a broader stage. He built chains of restaurants after catering for the National Games at Imphal, and if you can find one of the few interviews available online in Kannada where he speaks about this experience, it is worth listening to, because within it lies another lesson for those attempting to build something of their own. It takes, sometimes, just one project, one contract of sufficient scale, to establish legitimacy, credibility, and a recognisable brand. He flew his team, did not compromise on quality, and proved his capability far away from home, which, in many ways, is where such proof matters most.

But this is also a lesson for those building businesses who often lean towards safety. In this economy, I understand the instinct to be cautious, but the ability to take risks is not optional for a good entrepreneur; it is, in many ways, fundamental to survival.

At this point, Goldfinch Prakash Shetty had also begun to diversify further. In one of his interviews, when asked how he leveraged technology, he responded simply, “Common sense is what you need.” When I showed this to a peer, they laughed, unable to extract what they believed to be a meaningful lesson from it. But I would argue that it is perhaps one of the greatest lessons for anyone attempting to build any kind of business.

More than an MBA, what one often needs is a grounding in common sense, a practical understanding of people, and a basic grasp of the human experience, none of which requires specialised jargon or institutional validation. Building businesses is not as complex as it is often made out to be. It is difficult, it is gruelling, but it need not be complex. And yet, much of the modern world seems fixated on constructing a culture of unnecessary complexity, one filled with jargon that excludes rather than includes, that creates distance rather than accessibility within the entrepreneurial space.

But these businessmen, R. N. Shetty, Prakash Shetty, Ajith Rai, and Shashi Kiran Shetty, none of them built their businesses on complexity. They solved problems by making things more convenient, by understanding what people needed in a direct and uncomplicated way, and by focusing consistently on profitability.

Because at the end of the day, Bunt businesses understand one of the most important rules of the game: without profitability, there is no business. Without a business, there are no jobs. And without jobs, the economy does not grow, it stalls, or worse, it declines.

(4) MRG Prakash Shetty

As Prakash Shetty diversified further into real estate, he began acquiring land, sometimes in smaller pockets, sometimes in larger parcels, but always with an underlying understanding of where value could be created over time. He understood the market deeply, not in an abstract sense, but in a way that allowed him to recognise patterns and position himself accordingly. When asset-light brands such as Hilton and Marriott had already built credibility and legitimacy on a global scale and required partners who could provide the physical assets necessary for them to operate within that model, he recognised the opportunity to align with them. While his own brand, Goldfinch, could have grown steadily, perhaps filling capacity over time and eventually expanding into a larger name, he saw that by partnering with such established players, he could reach capacity far more quickly, compressing what might have taken years into a much shorter span. And that is precisely what he did.

Your MBA would teach you this, too: a simple question, build or buy.

And in more formal terms, economists have long spoken about this as a question of efficiency, of whether it is more effective to build capability internally, with all the time, cost, and uncertainty that entails, or to leverage what has already been built by others and integrate into an existing system. Building gives you control, but it is slow and capital-intensive. Buying or partnering allows you to move faster, to inherit trust, to reduce uncertainty, even if it means giving up a degree of autonomy.

And remember how I spoke earlier about the difference between recognising opportunity and being opportunistic. This is recognising opportunity.

But this is only one part of the business and enterprising dimension of Prakash Shetty’s life. There is far more happening beneath the surface, far more that one can learn if one looks closely enough.

(5) The Art of Networking

Prakash Shetty has built a reputation for being a master networker, and in his own words, he attributes much of his success to his PR skills. But I have quietly observed how he networks, and there is more to it than what can be reduced to a single phrase. There are many factors that contribute to his presence; he is tall, with a stature that is naturally commanding, but beyond that, there is something more subtle at play. I would not describe him as a great orator, but he is a man in hospitality who understands, instinctively, how to make the person standing in front of him feel seen, welcomed, and at ease. And in doing so, he has understood not just the mechanics of networking, but the deeper art of connection, and what a meaningful network can become over time.

I was at dinner yesterday in New York with a mentor. The man seated beside me was an actor on Broadway whom I had recently watched on stage, and my mentor and I both complimented him, only to be met with a kind of dismissive rudeness. We did not think much of it at first, as you know, everyone has a bad day. But he was then equally rude to the waitstaff, who were also serving our table, and that moment lingered. My mentor happens to sit on the board of a high-ranking dramatic arts association, and she is someone who values kindness deeply, especially towards those around you. She has, in fact, been known to make careers for those she simply gets along with, which she did, quite honestly, for me. And in that moment, it was clear that she could have opened doors for the man sitting beside us, doors he would never even know existed, had he only been kind, not just to her, but to the staff as well. But he will never realise the opportunity lost, because often, with opportunistic people, when they do not see a label on the person in front of them, they present one version of themselves, and when they do, they present another.

Prakash Shetty, as I have observed him, is not an opportunistic man in that sense. He is, like many Bunt men, aggressively kind. He may carry an exterior that appears stern, but in his interactions, he is consistently kind to those he meets, from the staff at the DoubleTree in Goa to the staff at Kapu Marigudi. There is not a bad word to be heard about him from those who have worked around him, and in fact, if you attempt to provoke criticism, people often become defensive, choosing instead to recount the ways in which he has helped them, supported them, or shown them consideration in moments that mattered.

And this is where the importance of networking begins to reveal itself more clearly, not just as a social skill, but as an economic one. Economists often speak of something called social capital, the value that exists not in money or assets, but in relationships, in goodwill, in the ability to access opportunities that are not publicly visible.

A large part of how the world functions is not through formal systems, but through these informal networks, where trust, familiarity, and reputation determine who gets access to what. Jobs are offered before they are posted, partnerships are formed before they are announced, and opportunities are extended quietly to those who are known, trusted, and liked.

And what Prakash Shetty seems to understand, perhaps instinctively, is that networking is not about collecting contacts, but about creating an environment where people feel respected, remembered, and valued, because over time, that translates into something far more tangible than goodwill, it becomes access, and access, in many ways, is one of the most valuable currencies in any economy.

(6) The Art of Sabe Serauna

If you speak Tulu, you will know exactly what this term means, and if you do not, it is perhaps best understood not through translation, but through observation.

It is often associated with weddings, where a bride’s family and the groom’s family engage, quietly but unmistakably, in a form of competition known as Sabe Lakkauna, the art of gathering a better crowd, both in quality and in quantity. Serauna itself is associated with the act of gathering, of bringing people together, not merely in number, but in presence.

Prakash Shetty, particularly in the past nine years, has managed to host events, personal, communal, and otherwise, that have drawn crowds in the thousands. For those who are semi-introverted or socially anxious, like myself, this can feel like a nightmare, but for the larger masses, it serves a very different function, one that I will return to shortly.

But the art of gathering a crowd is no ordinary thing. To organise a crowd, to ensure that each person is well fed, that they are comfortable, that they feel welcomed, and, more importantly, that they return for subsequent gatherings, is not easy. And if you assume that people will simply show up because food is being served, you have not met Mangaloreans. We are a proud people. “Aayena vanas thinnare, namma daaye podu?” To eat his food, why must we go, is a phrase often heard when there is a lack of respect or regard for the host.

We are also, in many ways, a transactional community, not in a negative sense, but in a structured one. We do not like owing debts. We repay, and we do not go to places empty-handed if we can help it.

And so, what Prakash Shetty has mastered is not merely the ability to gather a crowd, but the ability to be liked, and more importantly, respected by the masses in such a way that they return, repeatedly, when he summons them.

(7) The Art of Mixing with Bureaucrats, Politicians, Bunts, and the Film Industry

Through his professional endeavours and simply by being positioned within the hub of a city like Bangalore, Prakash Shetty has managed to build a network that is not only vast but multifold, with very little overlap in the conventional sense. When you are a doctor, for instance, your circle consists primarily of other doctors. Your network beyond that is often shaped by family, by foundational schooling, or by neighbours, and there is usually some shared point of commonality that allows those overlaps to occur. If you are a hotelier, you tend to interact with other hoteliers, with your spouse’s social circle, with family, or with those you encounter through lived experience. But those who exist far outside your immediate professional world tend to remain few in number, perhaps one or two.

Prakash Shetty is particularly interesting in this regard. He has managed to cultivate relationships, not only within the Bunt community from which he comes, but across multiple domains, with politicians, with bureaucrats, with those in the film industry, with other hoteliers, with real estate moguls, and with individuals across nearly every industry that cities like Bangalore and Bombay are home to, and not in isolation, but in numbers. He is, in many ways, embedded across these industries as a single individual, without losing coherence in his identity.

And these are not merely acquaintances. These are relationships that have been built and strengthened over time, relationships that carry continuity, memory, and mutual recognition.

There is no one that I personally know of who is as deeply embedded across multiple industries, while also commanding the same degree of influence that Prakash Shetty appears to hold. And it remains, to some extent, a mystery how such a network has been built, because it seems to extend far beyond simple favour exchanges, beyond likeability alone, and beyond the conventional idea of being a “godfather” figure.

And if you were to look at this through the lens of network theory, what becomes even more interesting is not just the size of his network, but the structure of it. Most people operate within what are called closed networks, where relationships exist within a single domain, profession, or community, creating strong but often repetitive ties. What Prakash Shetty appears to have built instead is a network of what could be described as multi-fold ties, where a single relationship can exist across multiple contexts, professional, social, and institutional, allowing for a depth that goes beyond surface-level interaction.

He also seems to occupy what economists and sociologists might call bridging positions, connecting networks that would otherwise remain separate. And it is in these positions that a certain kind of power emerges, because information, opportunity, and influence do not remain confined within one circle, but move across them. Over time, this does not just create a large network, but a strategically placed one, where being present at the intersection of multiple worlds becomes, in itself, a form of advantage.

(8) The Art of Luxury and Signalling Wealth

One thing that Prakash Shetty has understood deeply is how to exist within circles, and more importantly, how to evolve within them. I have seen him on a dais when I was younger, dressed simply, a shirt tucked in, lighting the diya to inaugurate an event, and the person he is now, at least externally, feels markedly different. His hair is different, his style is different, and even the cars that accompany him have changed, all of which signal a shift that is not accidental, but deliberate.

I was raised in an environment where it was considered almost inappropriate to speak about money or to display it. I went to school with the children of actors, cricketers, and politicians, and yet we all wore the same uniform, recited the same “Our Father,” and were taught to maintain a certain uniformity in how we presented ourselves. I was taught not to speak about what we owned, not to show it, partly out of modesty, and partly out of the belief that visibility invited unwanted attention, that perhaps an evil eye might fall upon it, or that it might be misinterpreted. And so, to this day, aside from the two paatli bangles my father gave me, which have, over time, become almost a part of me, there is very little to indicate my socio-economic standing. It can be inferred, perhaps, but not easily deciphered.

And so, when I first observed the way Prakash Shetty signalled wealth, it felt, initially, jarring, almost excessive when viewed through the lens I had grown up with. But then I began to break it down. He was not operating within a small, insular network. He was operating at scale, and he understood that in such environments, perception often precedes understanding.

For instance, the gold and jewellery his wife wears becomes, in that context, not merely an adornment, but a signal of business health. Studies have shown that individuals who signal wealth are often more likely to be approved for business credit than those who signal struggle, not necessarily because they are more capable, but because they are perceived as lower risk. People tend to trust a hotel that appears luxurious and an owner who embodies that same sense of luxury, as indicative of higher quality. Similarly, in real estate, a developer who signals a certain lifestyle is often perceived as more credible than one who does not. And the networks he operates within are, in many ways, attuned to such signals, where labels, brands, and visible markers of status determine who is given attention, and who is not.

I come from the world of tech, where people often dress in t-shirts and jeans while holding millions of dollars in their bank accounts. The simplicity is deceptive. That plain t-shirt worn by Mark Zuckerberg is often Brunello Cucinelli, retailing at over a thousand dollars for something that, at first glance, appears indistinguishable from something far less expensive. But to reach a point where one can wear simplicity without needing it to be recognised as expensive, one must first possess a level of wealth that is beyond question. If not, one must signal, in other ways, that they are on that trajectory.

Which Prakash Shetty, in a way, has arrived at. He now often dons white kurtas with a vest, similar to what many Indian politicians wear, and yet, even in that apparent simplicity, there remains an underlying assumption about his net worth, shaped not just by what he wears but by the reputation he has built, the businesses he owns, and the fleet of cars that accompany him.

But what makes this even more interesting, and perhaps more relevant to the current moment, is how wealth signalling has evolved in the age of social media. Platforms like TikTok and Instagram have created an environment where signalling wealth has become almost a performance, one that is often detached from actual financial reality. People take on debt to curate lifestyles that appear affluent, purchasing bags, watches, and experiences not because they can afford them comfortably, but because signalling that they can has become a form of social currency. It is, in many ways, a dangerous phenomenon, because the signal is no longer anchored in substance but in perception alone.

And this is where the distinction becomes important. When Prakash Shetty signals wealth, it is backed by the very thing that makes signalling effective: actual ownership, actual capacity, actual success. The signal and the substance align. And because of that alignment, what might appear excessive in another context becomes, in his case, credible, even aspirational.

In fact, he has, in many ways, become a trendsetter for luxury within the Bunt community. His choices, whether in lifestyle, events, or visible markers of wealth, have not remained his alone. They have been observed, replicated, and, at times, amplified. His son’s four-day wedding set a new benchmark for scale, one that others then attempted to match or exceed. A watch he wears becomes a reference point. A bag his wife carries becomes an aspiration. Over time, his family has come to represent a threshold of what is possible, or at least what is desirable, within that social context.

And so, what begins as individual signalling evolves into collective imitation, where one person’s display of wealth reshapes the expectations of an entire community. In that sense, Prakash Shetty is not merely participating in systems of signalling; he is, in some ways, redefining them.

(9) Prakash Shetty, Neravu, and the Aggressive Philanthropist

But with great power and wealth comes great responsibility.

Philanthropy, in itself, is an art, and yet Prakash Shetty has approached it in a manner that could best be described as aggressive philanthropy, most visibly through his Neravu campaign. For some Tuluvas, particularly those who believe that what your left hand does, your right hand should not know, this approach may seem excessive, even vain. Many older families within the Bunt community have practised philanthropy quietly, almost invisibly, as though the act loses its virtue the moment it becomes visible.

And so I found myself playing devil’s advocate, trying to understand what the positives of doing it in such visible, large-scale ways might be. It was not difficult to find answers, because Prakash Shetty himself articulates them, but before that, one must understand something about Tulunadu and poverty.

Tulunadu does not have slums in the way many urban centres do, and perhaps even hunger is less visibly present, but what it does have is an affordability crisis, and a form of covert poverty that is far less obvious, but no less real. And this is not unique to Tulunadu. Even what we consider first-world countries, such as the United States or the United Kingdom, are grappling with similar issues.

Things are expensive, disproportionately so, and systems appear increasingly misaligned. There are jobs, and yet unemployment rises. People earn what might be considered high salaries, and yet remain burdened by debt, particularly when it comes to housing. A home that my father’s generation could afford comfortably is, in mine, often priced at multiples that feel almost unreasonable.

But poverty is not a single, uniform experience. It looks different for different people. Sometimes we are the cause of our own circumstances, but often, it is the environment that deals us a difficult hand.

A person who truly understands what poverty feels like is not the child of a wealthy man, but the man who built his wealth from nothing.

Sometimes you do all your work, you work hard, you deliver, and yet the vendor delays payment, pushing you into debt. Sometimes you work hard and still become a victim of layoffs. Sometimes you earn well, but you are supporting an entire household on your own. Sometimes you are caring for a sick child or an ailing parent, and your insurance does not cover what it needs to. Sometimes the responsibility of caring for a disabled family member prevents you from working at all. Sometimes prioritising a sick child means missing work, losing income, and struggling to find employment again.

And sometimes, in moments of quiet desperation, you may even imagine doing something extreme, something entirely out of character, but your morality holds you back.

Poverty is, quite simply, exhausting. It constrains not just your finances, but your choices, your time, and your ability to recover.

And these are not people who do not know how to fish. The common saying tells us to teach a man to fish rather than give him one, but what it often overlooks is that sometimes, you already know how to fish, and what you need is simply a fish to get through the day.

And if you were to look at this through an economic lens, what becomes clear is that poverty is not always a question of capability, but often a question of timing and liquidity. Economists speak of how individuals can be trapped not because they lack skill or effort, but because they lack access to resources at the precise moment they are needed. A small amount of money, at the right time, can have a disproportionately large impact because it prevents a temporary setback from becoming a permanent one.

In that sense, the value of that “one fish” is not just in feeding someone for a day, but in allowing them to continue fishing the next, preserving their ability to recover rather than forcing them deeper into constraint.

That is the logic that underpins Prakash Shetty’s Neravu campaign. The relief that a timely sum of money can provide is something you cannot fully understand unless you have been in a position where everything seems stacked against you.

And so, even for someone like me, who believes strongly in teaching people how to fish, there is a deep appreciation for simply giving that fish when it is needed. That one act can sustain someone long enough to regain stability, to return to work, to begin again.

But what about the droves, you might ask. Why call people together? Why not do this quietly?

The answer, perhaps, is that the droves are necessary too. One could argue that he could do this quietly, without gathering people in one place, but in doing so, something important would be lost. His team has been transparent about the processes they use to ensure that the funds are distributed fairly, and he has spoken publicly about the metrics that guide these decisions. But beyond the mechanics, there is something else happening in these gatherings.

Much like my earlier essay on the importance of congregating at temples, this too becomes a form of congregation. People come not only to receive, but to express gratitude, to seek opportunity, to find motivation, or simply to witness that help exists.

So get off your high horse. Half my readers are not even philanthropic quietly, and no, distributing Parle-G once does not count unless it is done consistently.

These gatherings function almost like a signal, a kind of bat signal, that help is available, that if you are struggling, there is a possibility, however small, that you may be seen, heard, and supported. And for many, that possibility, in itself, is a form of hope.

(10) Temples and Boards

Alongside monetary philanthropy, Prakash Shetty has also been deeply involved in temple renovations, convention hall developments, and various forms of community upliftment, embedding himself not just as a donor but as a participant. He involves himself mindfully and intentionally, and while this may appear purely philanthropic on the surface, for those observing closely, it also reflects a deeper understanding of how institutions function within a community. For businessmen, this becomes, in many ways, a win-win situation.

This is your shark tank, though not in the conventional sense. This is where you invest not capital, but time, presence, and intention, and in doing so, you build networks that are rooted in trust rather than transaction. But attaching yourself to the right causes is crucial. Not every association strengthens your position, and discernment becomes as important as participation.

I once approached Prakash Shetty’s office as an eighteen-year-old, and they very politely turned me down. Their reasoning was clear and intentional. If it is medical, educational, or related to food, we are happy to be involved, but we will not attach ourselves to something like a concert attempting to mimic Sunburn. At the time, I was upset. Now, with the benefit of time and perhaps a more developed frontal lobe, I understand. Back then, some unfortunate words did leave my mouth, but it was a lesson I learned the hard way: to assess before reacting.

To be intentionally and mindfully involved in causes that do not directly profit you is essential. Do not reduce this to a line item under CSR, and do not rely entirely on frameworks handed to you by consulting firms. The cycle is shifting. In an overstimulated, digitally saturated world, what will begin to matter again is not just scale, but presence, not just strategy, but humanity.

And being personable and present, in the way Prakash Shetty appears to be, in spaces that do not directly contribute to monetary gain or even to visible status, increases your likelihood of achieving what the masses ultimately recognise as success, a form of legitimacy that cannot be purchased, only accumulated over time.

(11) Legacy Thinking and the Art of Letting Go

But what I find most impressive about Prakash Shetty, perhaps more than any individual business decision, is the way in which he appears to be thinking about legacy, and more importantly, succession. Over time, I have studied hundreds of business families, both historical and contemporary, and one of the most consistent patterns of failure I have observed is not in the building of wealth, but in the inability to pass it on.

A successful man, having built something of significance, often struggles to relinquish control, holding on to position and authority long past the point at which transition would have been beneficial. There is, at times, a quiet sense of self-magnanimity that develops, one that resists the idea that someone else, even one’s own child, might take over. And in doing so, they inadvertently undermine the very successors they intend to empower, overshadowing them, limiting their learning, and, in some cases, fostering resentment. The result is often predictable: a lack of preparedness, reckless decision-making, and, ultimately, the weakening or collapse of what was once a strong enterprise.

And if you were to look at this through the lens of economics and family business theory, what is being described here is not uncommon. Scholars often speak of what is known as the principal–agent problem, where the founder, who has built the business, struggles to trust the successor to act in alignment with what they believe is right, leading to control being retained longer than it should be. There is also the question of human capital, not just passing on assets, but transferring knowledge, judgment, and the intangible instincts that cannot be documented or taught formally.

When this transfer is delayed or disrupted, the successor is left with responsibility but not preparedness, and the business, in turn, becomes vulnerable. And so, succession is not merely about inheritance; it is about timing, trust, and the willingness to allow the next generation to operate with autonomy, even at the cost of short-term imperfection.

Prakash Shetty, however, has publicly handed over his hospitality business to his only son, Gaurav. I will admit that I was initially sceptical of the son’s ability, because being born into such a large shadow is not an easy position to occupy. The more relatable comparison, perhaps, is that of Abhishek Bachchan and Amitabh Bachchan, not to suggest that Abhishek is a failure; he is, in fact, a capable businessman, but he did not replicate the cinematic legacy of his father, and the constant comparison did not allow him to thrive in the same space in quite the same way.

And yet, Gaurav is impressive, and that, I think, is not accidental. It appears to be a function of how he has been allowed to grow, with his father stepping back enough to let him make mistakes, to form his own instincts, to become his own person rather than an extension of someone else. Over the past decade, he has, in many ways, reinterpreted hospitality through what, once again, seems to be rooted in something as simple as common sense, an understanding of people, of what they need, and what they desire.

Interestingly, staff within his establishments often speak highly of him, some even going so far as to say that they enjoy working with him more than they did with his father, which, rather than diminishing Prakash Shetty, speaks to something else entirely: the success of having raised and mentored a successor capable of surpassing you in certain respects. And that, perhaps, is one of the most difficult things to achieve.

(12) Korangrapady Prakash Shetty, the Bunt

If I were to assess Prakash Shetty’s legacy through a futurist lens, I would say that he is on course to fulfil all seven markers of what is considered a successful Bunt man, and to do so through his own merit. His legacy, I suspect, will not be measured only in assets or institutions, but in the quieter, more enduring memory of those he helped, people who will remember him not as a distant figure, but as someone who was present at a moment when no one else seemed to be listening. There will, in time, be convention centres built in his honour, and those who consider him crass or loud today may well have grandchildren who aspire to marry into his family, because time has a way of reshaping perception, of softening critique into admiration.

If Gaurav Shetty manages to continue on his current trajectory, to disrupt where necessary, to be his own person rather than an imitation of his father, while still learning from him, then what we may be witnessing is the formation of a Bunt family enterprise that sustains itself across generations. And this is not common. Very few families manage to retain both wealth and relevance over time, and those that grow complacent often follow a different path, one that resembles the story of the Vanderbilt family, where immense wealth dissipates through poor decisions, lack of discipline, and an absence of adaptive thinking.

K Prakash Shetty, in that sense, is a masterclass not only in business but in the adaptability of industry, in the ability to move across domains without losing coherence. He has managed to gain fame while remaining rooted, and in doing so, has become one of the more multifaceted figures of his generation. I do not know him. But I can observe, and in observing, I can say that there is much to learn from the way he has moved through the world, if one is willing to look closely enough.

And if there is anything I have learned from observing Prakash Shetty, it is that success is rarely one thing, rarely one decision, and almost never one narrative. It is a series of well-timed instincts, some good delusions, a great deal of common sense, and, apparently, the ability to order the right kind of glassware at the right time.

Also, for the record, I still prefer Ujwal.

Disclaimer: To uphold the integrity of this research, I would like to clarify that I do not know K Prakash Shetty personally and have never had a direct conversation with him. While a relative of mine is married to his son, neither I, my team, nor my immediate family has derived any information through this connection. In fact, I have not been in contact with this relative for over two decades, and no discussions relating to Prakash Shetty have taken place.

The parents of his daughter-in-law are individuals I consider part of my extended family circle, both of whom I am very fond of; however, neither my immediate family nor I have engaged in any conversations with them regarding the personal or professional life of K Prakash Shetty.

This essay is based solely on qualitative research through interviews and observation. I stand to gain neither social nor financial capital through any perceived proximity.