Hobbies once ranged from amateur radio and kite-flying, to bonsai-pruning, chess-playing, and stamp-collecting—delights rooted in routine and self-connection. They were pleasures we now understand as essential for emotional wellbeing. The word "hobby" comes from the term "hobby-horse," a child’s toy that sparked delight without any purpose. In India of the 1950s and ’60s, hobbies often meant listening to vinyl records of one’s favourite ragas, stitching kanthas that would be passed down through generations, or garden clubs where women traded seeds and gossip alike over backgammon. “I still sit with my stamp album once a week,” says 72-year-old Neelam Kukreja from Pune. “It reminds me of my childhood, a time when doing nothing was enough.”
Over time that space shrank. Industrialisation, urbanisation, and dual-income households left little room for leisure. A 2017 study by the Indian Journal of Psychiatry found that fewer than 20 per cent of urban Indian adults engaged in a hobby, citing a lack of time, mental bandwidth, or even physical space. The same report noted that nearly one in five elderly Indians reported symptoms of depression, indicating that the absence of leisure may be more closely tied to their emotional health.
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Then came the pandemic. Slow pleasures like baking bread, sketching, and gardening, briefly returned as balm. But soon enough, the attention economy noticed—algorithms rewarded engagement, journalling became a method to manifest, and painting became Reel content.
“I started gardening during the lockdown,” says musician Ayan Chatterjee. “At first, it felt good to be sharing on the ’gram. Then I started worrying about losing followers on the days I didn’t post, and that’s when I stopped enjoying it.”
What began as a means of personal restoration for Chatterjee quickly slipped into performance. This raises the question: Has productivity culture quietly killed the hobby?
When hobbies become side hustles
Every therapist and self-help guru prescribes the same cure for burnout: slow down, play, create. But what happens when these very activities become part of the hustle culture?
Recently Mumbai-based entrepreneur Vedika Bhaia, founder of Growth Square and Social Capital, made it to the news for encouraging her employees to pursue side hustles. It sounded progressive and purposeful, until you ask who has the time, energy, or mental space for it. While such projects promise autonomy, they’re emerging at a time when the burnout rate of India’s workforce is the highest in the world: 62 per cent, which is almost 40 per cent above the global average. In an attempt to tackle increasing burnout, some companies borrow Silicon Valley’s playbook: nap pods, PlayStations, gourmet cafeterias.
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But these perks, packaged as “care,” often serve to keep the employees tethered, rather than nurtured. The modern hustle doesn’t always show up as 14-hour workdays and bloodshot eyes. Sometimes it’s disguised as the cheerful option to monetise your hobby. Your baking becomes a home-order business. Doodles turn into an Instagram shop. Embroidered jackets go on Etsy. Raga practice calls for subscribers.
This isn’t fringe. Deloitte’s 2023 report reveals 66 per cent of Gen Zs in India have a second job, most commonly as content creators, bloggers, or podcasters, signalling just how deeply hustle culture has infiltrated modern work life.
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“I started sketching for fun,” says Riya Kathu who runs an Instagram page, @riya_s_world, dedicated to sketching.“But I worry if my doodles get enough traction,” she says. The message is clear: produce, optimise, monetise. Many of today’s side hustles were once simple hobbies to be enjoyed. As this shift accelerates, it’s giving rise to a new kind of informal hobby economy.
“There’s a reason the adage ‘don’t mix business with pleasure’ has endured, and I am not saying that hobbies shouldn’t become businesses. But when the only value we assign to them is economic, we lose access to their function of regulating the nervous system” - Dr. Anjali Mehta
In today’s economy, every hobby in India risks being pulled into the monetisation trap. Whether it’s a necessary side hustle or a curated brand, the shift reflects deeper economic pressures.
Inside India’s booming hobby economy—and who it leaves behind
India’s booming micro-economy of solo entrepreneurs and craft ventures reveals a paradox. Projected to triple to 23.5 million by 2030, this surge reflects autonomy, but also the economic pressure to monetise one’s passion.
“There’s a reason the adage ‘don’t mix business with pleasure’ has endured, and I am not saying that hobbies shouldn’t become businesses,” says Dr. Anjali Mehta, a Mumbai-based psychologist. “But when the only value we assign to them is economic, we lose access to their function of regulating the nervous system.”
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She explains further: “Hobbies sit between work and rest. They let us explore without judgement and help regulate the nervous system. Most importantly, they allow us to tap into the ‘flow’—an internal state of self-energy that improves relationships and work performance.” In a society where burnout is rampant, perhaps the most radical function of a hobby isn’t creativity—but the permission to slow down, fail, or simply stop producing altogether.
Mumbai-based creative consultant Farah Ladhabhoy agrees. Her ice cream brand, The Burrow, emerged during the pandemic from a desire to connect with new people but she remains cautious. “I get a lot of joy out of creating new flavours and combinations. I’ve baked often to destress and when I can’t crack a client’s brief, the method cuts through the madness. By the time the brownie or shortbread goes into the oven, more often than not, I have an answer.”
India’s workforce is the highest in the world: 62 per cent, which is almost 40 per cent above the global average
Yet, for many, the idea of doing something just for joy is out of reach. In India, where over 90 per cent of the workforce is informal and rents in metro cities eat up nearly a third of income, hobbies without any monetary returns often feel like a luxury.
“I love painting and try to make time for it,” says 28-year-old Anil Rehman, a digital advertiser in Mumbai. “But after paying rent, I can’t always afford canvases. There’s no space to store my work and no time to sell it.”
Among working-class Indians, spending time on something unprofitable often clashes with survival. Not every hobby-turned-hustle is about aesthetics or Instagram appeal. For many women juggling care work or freelance gigs, monetising a hobby isn’t a choice–it’s a necessity.
But in India’s growing aesthetic economy—fueled by platforms like Etsy and Instagram—monetising a hobby can also be about visibility, social currency, and the allure of turning personal passions into brands. Platforms like Etsy and curated flea markets blur the line between pastime and profession, where “handmade” sells at a premium.
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This economy often benefits those with digital access and branding know-how, sidelining traditional artisans without the same tools or reach. “There’s room for both,” says cultural researcher and craft archivist Radhika Singh, “but only if we’re honest about power and privilege and resist the urge to romanticise struggle or flatten difference.”
Why some Indians are reclaiming hobbies without profit
Amid this pressure, some are quietly reclaiming hobbies for the sake of joy alone. Retailers like Cheap Jack, Mumbai’s long-standing craft supply store, report record sales of yarn, carving blocks, and embroidery kits. According to Mr Kachwala, a second-generation owner of the business, there has been a rise in yarn sales by more than 30 per cent as well as other materials involving woodwork and embroidery during and after the pandemic. Elsewhere, pottery workshops are consistently full. Cafés now host weekend classes in hand-poke tattooing, mixology, andperfume-making—mostly attracting corporate professionals looking for some respite from their screens.
“There’s been a significant increase in young people buying turntables and building vinyl collections,” says Manu Trivedi, co-founder of The Revolver Club in Mumbai.. “But it’s not just about listening alone. People are organising group sessions at home. After the pandemic, we’ve seen people become more interested in shared offline experiences, not just streaming or scrolling by themselves.”
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Meanwhile, those with more financial stability or steady incomes—urban professionals, creative workers, or those intentionally stepping away from hustle culture—are beginning to reclaim hobbies without turning them into side hustles. For this demographic, the decision to keep a hobby unpaid has become a form of resistance: against burnout, against social pressure, and against a constant demand to be visible.
Others are learning to draw boundaries. Ladhabhoy, wary of the pressures of scaling her ice cream brand, makes only small-batches on her own terms. “I’ve slowed down and now only make batches when I’m in the mood,” she says. “I always felt that if I made it my business, I wouldn’t enjoy it anymore.”
Ladhabhoy’s other hobby, stamp-making, remains completely untouched by monetisation. “It makes me happy. Monetisation isn’t the goal, and I don’t think it ever will be.” That refusal matters. For some, monetising hobbies is a financial necessity. But for many, it’s social and deeply conditioned. A 2023 Mintel study found that 70 per cent of urban Indians feel guilty when their leisure time isn’t “productive.”
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The generation that once championed “do what you love” is now reckoning with its costs: how joy was once free, before followers, feedback, and profits slowly crept in. As Delhi-based sculptor Rahat Kaur, who recently quit social media puts it, “It’s not about being unproductive. It’s about producing something no one else needs to see.”
But the hobby hasn’t died. It has simply been absorbed by a system that demands everything—every passion, every pastime—must prove its worth. The lines between hobby, labour, and survival aren’t just blurred—they’ve been erased. In this economy, every activity is loaded with expectation: to earn, to optimise, to attract attention. The question is no longer whether a hobby can remain untouched, but whether we can live with what it’s become—a mirror of the systems we exist within, where even joy isn’t free from purpose.