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All the watch news, reviews, videos you want, brought to you from fellow collectors
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If you have a friend who is into watches. Like really into watches. Tread carefully. I am talking about the kind of person who mutters lug-width the way other people hum pop songs. Someone who brings up movement specifications at dinner. And God help you if they have ever delivered a monologue about micro-adjusting clasps with the fervour of a man defending his PhD.
If that sounds like your friend, you have to be exceedingly brave to buy them a watch. This is dangerous territory. We, the watch-obsessed, are specialists in disappointment. We hunt for tiny, invisible flaws as a hobby.
A misaligned bezel? Catastrophe.
A seconds-hand that misses the markers? A crisis of faith.
A spec sheet with heroic claims and budget finishing? Enough to trigger a minor Greek tragedy.
But then, we all have one of those brave, loving friends. A few months ago, I received a box from one such friend. Inside was a watch from a brand I had heard murmurs about but never actually worn. The Samudhra, from Coromandel Watch Company.
When I opened that box, half expecting to have to force on a polite half-smile, and say thank you while the mind drafts a list of deficiencies, I found myself staring at the dial, falling briefly silent, and fastening it onto my wrist before I could talk myself out of it. It surprised me, which is rare. It delighted me, which is rarer still. But even in that quiet pleasure, a small part of me stayed alert, the way a watch person always does.
That is why I am writing this open letter.
To that friend.
To Coromandel Watch Company.
To the entire, bustling, chaotic, endlessly hopeful microbrand scene of India.
Because we need to talk.
The Conch Shell
Let us begin with what is right with the world. The Samudhra makes very little sense on paper and on the wrist. Here is a watch that costs roughly the same as a fancy dinner for two in a big city. In the global watch market - except for China - it buys you a battery-powered fashion accessory.
The Samudhra feels like something that might stay on the wrist long enough to witness the arbitrary thinning of my hair. It offers a competent spec sheet. You get a domed sapphire crystal. You get a solid stainless steel case that, while top-heavy, is finished with competence. You get a tropical rubber strap that feels supple, complete with a signed, engraved buckle.
It even has quirks that charm the nerd in me, like the strangely engineered screw-down crown. It threads over the stem tube rather than inside it, reminiscent of the rugged Russian Vostok divers of the past. It feels industrial and tough, even if the crown itself is gritty to turn.
As a product, the Samudhra is a study in sourcing. It proves that Indian brands can navigate the global supply chain and deliver good value to the Indian buyer. If this were simply a review, I would award it a high pass.
But this is The Homegrown Hour, a column on Chronoholic. The question here is not whether something is good for the money. The question is whether it adds to the hour.
The Wattpad Syndrome
The trouble begins when you step back and look at the field. If you browse the websites of our burgeoning microbrands, you’ll find shiny historical romances packed in boxes. Invocations of lost empires, Himalayan dawns, naval victories, space missions, railway platforms at twilight, and the promise that their watches are historical artefacts.
But look closer, and the poetry thins out. The ‘dial inspired by ancient warriors’ usually houses a workhorse Japanese movement. The ‘homage to mountain air’ sits inside a case ordered in batches of five hundred from Shenzhen. The ‘piece of India’ on the caseback is often just a metaphor, wearing a very confident smile.
We pay a Storytelling Tax, building brands on Wattpad and hoping the lugs hold.
The favourite excuse is that India is too price-sensitive for real innovation: “We cannot machine cases here; nobody will pay for it.” “We cannot customise movements; the market is not ready.”
But this is the same market that queues for artisanal coffees and sneakers that resemble limited-edition prosthetics. Indians will pay for quality. They will not pay for sentiment disguised as uniqueness — especially not when the story is louder than the substance.
A Sweep of the Scene
The microbrand scene in the country is getting crowded, to say the least. At the last count, there were more than a dozen vying for the buyer’s attention.
Bangalore Watch Company. Among the Indian microbrands, there is one that often feels like the benchmark. Their narratives come paired with tangible materials: meteorite fragments, aluminium once strapped to the belly of an aircraft, even tributes to that great national fever called cricket. But ambition is not the same as cohesion. At the premium they demand, one hopes for a unified design language, a sense that the watches belong to the same philosophical family. Instead, each model feels as if it began life as a separate thesis project. They operate in a price tier where international competition is unforgiving, and Indian indulgence is never a given. Fancy stories and upscaled marketing can only get so much mileage.
Jaipur Watch Company. A brand playing that strange old game of exoticism for export. Their watches, often built around coins, gold and heavy filigree, feel less like contemporary objects and more like props from a period drama. They carry an aesthetic that seems designed for a Westerner’s idea of India, not the India that actually exists. It is pageantry as a product. A sort of horological tourism. There is nothing wrong with reaching into history for inspiration. The trouble is that the history on these watches feels embalmed. Frozen. Airbrushed into a version of India that is easy to market but hard to recognise. At the prices they charge, one hopes for more than cultural décor. One hopes for innovation in metallurgy or craftsmanship, a point of view that moves Indian design forward, or even just a movement that doesn’t stutter while speaking the language of luxury.
Ajwain. The rare microbrand that feels curious. The designs are uneven, but there is intent, a willingness to look inward. Their watches often feel like first drafts, yet the attempt is honest. They are trying to build something Indian, not merely Indian-themed. Imperfect, yes, but moving in the right direction, which is more than most can claim. The real hurdle, to me, is the name. I know it is an acronym, but no one can say ‘Ajwain on my wrist’ without sounding like they are seasoning themselves.
Argos. Delhi Watch Company. Other Fill-In-the-Blanks City Name Brands. A whole constellation of brands is orbiting this space, white labelling without a thought or even the courtesy of guilt. Browse their catalogues, and you will see watches that look promising from a distance, like a city skyline glimpsed through smog. Step closer, and the outline begins to wobble. Complaints about unreliable movements and uneven quality control arrive in truckloads. Some of these watches look like prototypes that escaped into the wild before anyone could stop them. A few resemble homages that accidentally turned into hostages. Yet, these brands continue to sell out partly because the entry price is kind, and partly because the marketing copy is confident.
About Time
That brings us back to the hour itself.
Our microbrands have learned how to source parts. They have learned how to tell stories. They have learned how to sell out limited editions.
But the hour is waiting for an adult.
I am waiting for the brand that does not just print a logo but embeds a shard of Mahabalipuram granite in its caseback. I am waiting for the brand that not only sings of the Indian spirit, but reshapes a rotor to resemble the Ashoka Chakra.
I am waiting for the brand that understands the Indian consumer is no longer buying watches to check the time. We are buying them to check ourselves.
But I want more than symbolism. I want brands that build locally, that support Indian craftsmanship, that offer transparent sourcing and robust after-sales service. I want innovation in materials and manufacturing, not just in marketing.
Until then, I will wear my Coromandel Samudhra.
It is a good watch and a great value.
Its sunburst blue dial is the oceanic love of a friend made visible. But let’s not call it the blue of the Bay of Bengal.
If you have a friend who is into watches. Like really into watches. Tread carefully. I am talking about the kind of person who mutters lug-width the way other people hum pop songs. Someone who brings up movement specifications at dinner. And God help you if they have ever delivered a monologue about micro-adjusting clasps with the fervour of a man defending his PhD.
If that sounds like your friend, you have to be exceedingly brave to buy them a watch. This is dangerous territory. We, the watch-obsessed, are specialists in disappointment. We hunt for tiny, invisible flaws as a hobby.
A misaligned bezel? Catastrophe.
A seconds-hand that misses the markers? A crisis of faith.
A spec sheet with heroic claims and budget finishing? Enough to trigger a minor Greek tragedy.
But then, we all have one of those brave, loving friends. A few months ago, I received a box from one such friend. Inside was a watch from a brand I had heard murmurs about but never actually worn. The Samudhra, from Coromandel Watch Company.
When I opened that box, half expecting to have to force on a polite half-smile, and say thank you while the mind drafts a list of deficiencies, I found myself staring at the dial, falling briefly silent, and fastening it onto my wrist before I could talk myself out of it. It surprised me, which is rare. It delighted me, which is rarer still. But even in that quiet pleasure, a small part of me stayed alert, the way a watch person always does.
That is why I am writing this open letter.
To that friend.
To Coromandel Watch Company.
To the entire, bustling, chaotic, endlessly hopeful microbrand scene of India.
Because we need to talk.
The Conch Shell
Let us begin with what is right with the world. The Samudhra makes very little sense on paper and on the wrist. Here is a watch that costs roughly the same as a fancy dinner for two in a big city. In the global watch market - except for China - it buys you a battery-powered fashion accessory.
The Samudhra feels like something that might stay on the wrist long enough to witness the arbitrary thinning of my hair. It offers a competent spec sheet. You get a domed sapphire crystal. You get a solid stainless steel case that, while top-heavy, is finished with competence. You get a tropical rubber strap that feels supple, complete with a signed, engraved buckle.
It even has quirks that charm the nerd in me, like the strangely engineered screw-down crown. It threads over the stem tube rather than inside it, reminiscent of the rugged Russian Vostok divers of the past. It feels industrial and tough, even if the crown itself is gritty to turn.
As a product, the Samudhra is a study in sourcing. It proves that Indian brands can navigate the global supply chain and deliver good value to the Indian buyer. If this were simply a review, I would award it a high pass.
But this is The Homegrown Hour, a column on Chronoholic. The question here is not whether something is good for the money. The question is whether it adds to the hour.
The Wattpad Syndrome
The trouble begins when you step back and look at the field. If you browse the websites of our burgeoning microbrands, you’ll find shiny historical romances packed in boxes. Invocations of lost empires, Himalayan dawns, naval victories, space missions, railway platforms at twilight, and the promise that their watches are historical artefacts.
But look closer, and the poetry thins out. The ‘dial inspired by ancient warriors’ usually houses a workhorse Japanese movement. The ‘homage to mountain air’ sits inside a case ordered in batches of five hundred from Shenzhen. The ‘piece of India’ on the caseback is often just a metaphor, wearing a very confident smile.
We pay a Storytelling Tax, building brands on Wattpad and hoping the lugs hold.
The favourite excuse is that India is too price-sensitive for real innovation: “We cannot machine cases here; nobody will pay for it.” “We cannot customise movements; the market is not ready.”
But this is the same market that queues for artisanal coffees and sneakers that resemble limited-edition prosthetics. Indians will pay for quality. They will not pay for sentiment disguised as uniqueness — especially not when the story is louder than the substance.
A Sweep of the Scene
The microbrand scene in the country is getting crowded, to say the least. At the last count, there were more than a dozen vying for the buyer’s attention.
Bangalore Watch Company. Among the Indian microbrands, there is one that often feels like the benchmark. Their narratives come paired with tangible materials: meteorite fragments, aluminium once strapped to the belly of an aircraft, even tributes to that great national fever called cricket. But ambition is not the same as cohesion. At the premium they demand, one hopes for a unified design language, a sense that the watches belong to the same philosophical family. Instead, each model feels as if it began life as a separate thesis project. They operate in a price tier where international competition is unforgiving, and Indian indulgence is never a given. Fancy stories and upscaled marketing can only get so much mileage.
Jaipur Watch Company. A brand playing that strange old game of exoticism for export. Their watches, often built around coins, gold and heavy filigree, feel less like contemporary objects and more like props from a period drama. They carry an aesthetic that seems designed for a Westerner’s idea of India, not the India that actually exists. It is pageantry as a product. A sort of horological tourism. There is nothing wrong with reaching into history for inspiration. The trouble is that the history on these watches feels embalmed. Frozen. Airbrushed into a version of India that is easy to market but hard to recognise. At the prices they charge, one hopes for more than cultural décor. One hopes for innovation in metallurgy or craftsmanship, a point of view that moves Indian design forward, or even just a movement that doesn’t stutter while speaking the language of luxury.
Ajwain. The rare microbrand that feels curious. The designs are uneven, but there is intent, a willingness to look inward. Their watches often feel like first drafts, yet the attempt is honest. They are trying to build something Indian, not merely Indian-themed. Imperfect, yes, but moving in the right direction, which is more than most can claim. The real hurdle, to me, is the name. I know it is an acronym, but no one can say ‘Ajwain on my wrist’ without sounding like they are seasoning themselves.
Argos. Delhi Watch Company. Other Fill-In-the-Blanks City Name Brands. A whole constellation of brands is orbiting this space, white labelling without a thought or even the courtesy of guilt. Browse their catalogues, and you will see watches that look promising from a distance, like a city skyline glimpsed through smog. Step closer, and the outline begins to wobble. Complaints about unreliable movements and uneven quality control arrive in truckloads. Some of these watches look like prototypes that escaped into the wild before anyone could stop them. A few resemble homages that accidentally turned into hostages. Yet, these brands continue to sell out partly because the entry price is kind, and partly because the marketing copy is confident.
About Time
That brings us back to the hour itself.
Our microbrands have learned how to source parts. They have learned how to tell stories. They have learned how to sell out limited editions.
But the hour is waiting for an adult.
I am waiting for the brand that does not just print a logo but embeds a shard of Mahabalipuram granite in its caseback. I am waiting for the brand that not only sings of the Indian spirit, but reshapes a rotor to resemble the Ashoka Chakra.
I am waiting for the brand that understands the Indian consumer is no longer buying watches to check the time. We are buying them to check ourselves.
But I want more than symbolism. I want brands that build locally, that support Indian craftsmanship, that offer transparent sourcing and robust after-sales service. I want innovation in materials and manufacturing, not just in marketing.
Until then, I will wear my Coromandel Samudhra.
It is a good watch and a great value.
Its sunburst blue dial is the oceanic love of a friend made visible. But let’s not call it the blue of the Bay of Bengal.
