What watching Made in India: A Titan Story made me feel about my Omega and RADO
Watching Made in India: A Titan Story prompted me to go back to my forgotten Titan. The series changed my view about my old watch collection.
Let's start with an honest review of Made in India: A Titan Story.
For the uninitiated, the six-part series traces the birth of Titan Watches — the vision, the setbacks, the scepticism and the relentless pursuit of building a world-class Indian watch brand. What may seem like a straightforward business success story quickly reveals itself to be something much bigger: a story about ambition, resilience, national pride and the stubborn belief that India could build products that could stand shoulder to shoulder with the best in the world.
At the centre of it all is Jim Sarbh as Xerxes Desai, the visionary widely regarded as the architect of Titan, and the larger-than-life presence Naseeruddin Shah as JRD Tata, who refused to accept that India was destined to merely consume what the world produced. The series captures the triumphs, frustrations, failures and sacrifices that went into building Titan. By the time the credits roll, it becomes difficult not to feel emotionally invested in the journey.
And it is not every day that a show makes you sit down and question your own aspirations.
It took six episodes for me to revisit a bias I didn't even realise I carried.
One particular scene stayed with me long after I finished watching. JRD Tata meets renowned Swiss watchmaker Andre Juba’s son in the hope of building world-class watches in India, in other words, collaborate with them. His response was dismissive. Indians, he suggests, are labourers, not watchmakers. They lack the expertise and craftsmanship needed to build something that could rival Swiss horology.
Perhaps it was the writing. Perhaps it was the performances. But that rejection felt personal. Not because I have ever made a watch, but because I recognised a version of myself in that prejudice.
For years, I have admired watches. Like many Indians who grew up in the 1990s and early 2000s, Seiko, Citizen, Rado, Omega, these were not just watches. They were milestones. Symbols that you had worked hard enough, earned enough and finally arrived. These were aspiration strapped to your wrist. And somewhere along the way, many (including me) started believing that aspiration had to come with a foreign label.
Watching A Titan Story burst that bubble.
Because there was a time when Titan itself represented aspiration.
Before smartwatches, before luxury watch influencers and before social media turned Swiss watches into status symbols, Titan was often the most prized possession in an Indian household. It was gifted at graduations, promotions, retirements and weddings. A Titan watch marked occasions. It celebrated milestones.
Even before Titan came along, there was HMT — a watch brand that quietly sat on the wrists of teachers, government employees, fathers and grandfathers across India. HMT wasn't glamorous, more of a utility watch. Most importantly, it used manual mechanical mechanism. Titan gave way to a more advanced quartz movement.
It made watches fashionable. It made them aspirational. It made Indians believe that something designed and manufactured here could be desirable.
That is what the series reminded me of.
Not the watch itself, but the belief behind it.
As I watched Xerxes Desai and his team spend years fighting scepticism, navigating bureaucracy and working towards a goal that many believed was impossible, I found myself thinking less about Titan and more about the watches sitting in my collection.
An Omega. A Rado. A couple of other pieces acquired over the years. Watches I had researched, saved for, and proudly worn. Watches that represented milestones in my life and career.
And then I thought about the old Titan lying somewhere in a drawer. No battery. No box. No careful storage. Just sitting there, forgotten. The irony wasn't lost on me.
For years, I had treated my foreign watches with a certain reverence. They were the ones I spoke about, photographed, serviced and carefully rotated. Titan had quietly slipped into the background, almost as though it belonged to a different version of my life.
But that different version of my life mattered.
I wore Titan Fastrack watches through school and college and believe it or not, it was a flex. Like millions of Indians, my first understanding of owning a "good watch" came through Titan. Titan wasn't competing with Omega or Rado back then. It was competing with the idea that Indians could not build something aspirational. That is perhaps what struck me most while watching the series.
Today, when we talk about watches, the conversation is dominated by Swiss heritage, Japanese precision, in-house movements and luxury branding. Somewhere along the way, we began measuring value through geography. Swiss became superior. Foreign became desirable. Indian became familiar. And familiar, unfortunately, often becomes invisible.
The series reminded me that Titan was never just a watch company.
In the 1980s, when India was still finding its feet as a manufacturing economy, Titan was attempting something audacious. It wasn't trying to make a cheap Indian alternative. It wanted to make a genuinely world-class product. There is a scene in the series where the team faces setback after setback. Timelines slip. Problems emerge. Doubts grow louder. Yet they continue because they are chasing something larger than a watch. They are chasing legitimacy.
Watching those moments, I realised that the story wasn't really about horology. It was about belief. Belief that Indian talent could match global standards. Belief that Indian design could be desirable. Belief that "Made in India" did not have to be an apology.
Perhaps that is why the show stayed with me. Not because it convinced me to stop admiring Omega or Rado. I still do. They are remarkable brands with extraordinary histories.
When the credits rolled, I wasn't thinking about Swiss craftsmanship or luxury branding. I was thinking about that forgotten Titan lying somewhere in my drawer. Perhaps for the first time as an adult, I felt proud of it again.
Because somewhere in a small drawer, gathering dust and waiting for a new battery, lies proof that an entire generation once learnt to aspire through something made in India.
Let's start with an honest review of Made in India: A Titan Story.
For the uninitiated, the six-part series traces the birth of Titan Watches — the vision, the setbacks, the scepticism and the relentless pursuit of building a world-class Indian watch brand. What may seem like a straightforward business success story quickly reveals itself to be something much bigger: a story about ambition, resilience, national pride and the stubborn belief that India could build products that could stand shoulder to shoulder with the best in the world.
At the centre of it all is Jim Sarbh as Xerxes Desai, the visionary widely regarded as the architect of Titan, and the larger-than-life presence Naseeruddin Shah as JRD Tata, who refused to accept that India was destined to merely consume what the world produced. The series captures the triumphs, frustrations, failures and sacrifices that went into building Titan. By the time the credits roll, it becomes difficult not to feel emotionally invested in the journey.
And it is not every day that a show makes you sit down and question your own aspirations.
It took six episodes for me to revisit a bias I didn't even realise I carried.
One particular scene stayed with me long after I finished watching. JRD Tata meets renowned Swiss watchmaker Andre Juba’s son in the hope of building world-class watches in India, in other words, collaborate with them. His response was dismissive. Indians, he suggests, are labourers, not watchmakers. They lack the expertise and craftsmanship needed to build something that could rival Swiss horology.
Perhaps it was the writing. Perhaps it was the performances. But that rejection felt personal. Not because I have ever made a watch, but because I recognised a version of myself in that prejudice.
For years, I have admired watches. Like many Indians who grew up in the 1990s and early 2000s, Seiko, Citizen, Rado, Omega, these were not just watches. They were milestones. Symbols that you had worked hard enough, earned enough and finally arrived. These were aspiration strapped to your wrist. And somewhere along the way, many (including me) started believing that aspiration had to come with a foreign label.
Watching A Titan Story burst that bubble.
Because there was a time when Titan itself represented aspiration.
Before smartwatches, before luxury watch influencers and before social media turned Swiss watches into status symbols, Titan was often the most prized possession in an Indian household. It was gifted at graduations, promotions, retirements and weddings. A Titan watch marked occasions. It celebrated milestones.
Even before Titan came along, there was HMT — a watch brand that quietly sat on the wrists of teachers, government employees, fathers and grandfathers across India. HMT wasn't glamorous, more of a utility watch. Most importantly, it used manual mechanical mechanism. Titan gave way to a more advanced quartz movement.
It made watches fashionable. It made them aspirational. It made Indians believe that something designed and manufactured here could be desirable.
That is what the series reminded me of.
Not the watch itself, but the belief behind it.
As I watched Xerxes Desai and his team spend years fighting scepticism, navigating bureaucracy and working towards a goal that many believed was impossible, I found myself thinking less about Titan and more about the watches sitting in my collection.
An Omega. A Rado. A couple of other pieces acquired over the years. Watches I had researched, saved for, and proudly worn. Watches that represented milestones in my life and career.
And then I thought about the old Titan lying somewhere in a drawer. No battery. No box. No careful storage. Just sitting there, forgotten. The irony wasn't lost on me.
For years, I had treated my foreign watches with a certain reverence. They were the ones I spoke about, photographed, serviced and carefully rotated. Titan had quietly slipped into the background, almost as though it belonged to a different version of my life.
But that different version of my life mattered.
I wore Titan Fastrack watches through school and college and believe it or not, it was a flex. Like millions of Indians, my first understanding of owning a "good watch" came through Titan. Titan wasn't competing with Omega or Rado back then. It was competing with the idea that Indians could not build something aspirational. That is perhaps what struck me most while watching the series.
Today, when we talk about watches, the conversation is dominated by Swiss heritage, Japanese precision, in-house movements and luxury branding. Somewhere along the way, we began measuring value through geography. Swiss became superior. Foreign became desirable. Indian became familiar. And familiar, unfortunately, often becomes invisible.
The series reminded me that Titan was never just a watch company.
In the 1980s, when India was still finding its feet as a manufacturing economy, Titan was attempting something audacious. It wasn't trying to make a cheap Indian alternative. It wanted to make a genuinely world-class product. There is a scene in the series where the team faces setback after setback. Timelines slip. Problems emerge. Doubts grow louder. Yet they continue because they are chasing something larger than a watch. They are chasing legitimacy.
Watching those moments, I realised that the story wasn't really about horology. It was about belief. Belief that Indian talent could match global standards. Belief that Indian design could be desirable. Belief that "Made in India" did not have to be an apology.
Perhaps that is why the show stayed with me. Not because it convinced me to stop admiring Omega or Rado. I still do. They are remarkable brands with extraordinary histories.
When the credits rolled, I wasn't thinking about Swiss craftsmanship or luxury branding. I was thinking about that forgotten Titan lying somewhere in my drawer. Perhaps for the first time as an adult, I felt proud of it again.
Because somewhere in a small drawer, gathering dust and waiting for a new battery, lies proof that an entire generation once learnt to aspire through something made in India.
