The Business of Being Polite: The Economic Value of Lucknow’s Tehzeeb

There is a particular way in which Lucknow says things. A refusal can sound like an apology, a disagreement can arrive wrapped in courtesy, and even a stranger asking for directions may be addressed with a warmth that makes the city feel less strange. Here, “pehle aap” is more than a phrase; it is almost a philosophy. But in a world obsessed with profit margins, sales targets and quarterly growth, an interesting question arises: can this culture of politeness actually make money?

Lucknow’s tehzeeb is not simply the habit of adding “janab” to a sentence or saying “pehle aap” while entering a room. It is a wider social instinct: making another person feel acknowledged, avoiding unnecessary humiliation, offering help without making a performance of it, and disagreeing without turning every exchange into a contest.

Does being polite help someone earn a living? Can a shopkeeper’s behaviour affect sales? Can an old tradition help a family survive in a modern economy? I think the answer becomes clearer when we stop looking only at famous places and start noticing the smaller ones.

The Lanes of Chowk

Chowk is one of the oldest markets in Lucknow. Its narrow lanes are crowded, the shops stand close together, and almost every turn seems to lead to something different. There are places selling chikankari, jewellery, perfumes, traditional food and things that many of us might walk past without even knowing their names.

One interesting thing about Old Lucknow is that some lanes are known for particular trades. There is Bartan Wali Gali, associated with utensils, and Chowk Wali Gali, where traditional breads such as sheermal and taftan are part of the local food culture. These are not the grand monuments that appear in every tourist photograph. They are working parts of the city’s economy.

Imagine entering a small shop in one of these lanes. You ask about a product, compare two prices and perhaps decide not to buy anything. A shopkeeper can react impatiently or explain things properly and let you make your decision. That small difference may decide whether you return.

In a crowded market, customers have choices. A person who feels respected may return with family members or recommend the shop to someone else. The shopkeeper has gained something without spending money on an advertisement. Of course, politeness alone cannot save a business that sells poor-quality products at unfair prices. But when quality and price are similar, the way a customer is treated can matter a lot.

I find this especially interesting because tehzeeb is often presented as something elegant and royal, but it can be as ordinary as a person answering a question patiently when they are already busy with ten other customers.

A customer may not remember every detail of a shopping trip, but they often remember how they were treated. If a shopkeeper listens, answers questions honestly and does not make someone feel foolish for asking about the price, the customer is more likely to feel comfortable. That comfort can bring people back. It is a small thing, but small things matter in a business where customers have many choices.

The Story Behind Chikankari Kurtas

One of the best examples of tehzeeb having economic value is chikankari. We often see chikankari kurtas in shops around Aminabad, Chowk and Hazratganj. Many of us admire the embroidery, bargain over the price and carry the garment home without thinking much about what happened before it reached the shop.

Behind one kurta may be a long chain of work involving fabric sellers, designers, printers, embroiderers, traders and shopkeepers. A 2025 report in the Hindustan Times highlighted the women artisans who preserve Lucknow’s chikankari tradition, including those working from their homes in the old city and surrounding areas such as Kakori.

The report also raised a difficult question: even when a garment sells for thousands of rupees, does the person who embroidered it receive a fair share? Suppose a shopkeeper explains that a particular garment has detailed hand embroidery and that its price reflects the time spent making it. The customer may understand why it costs more than a machine-made imitation. That explanation can help a genuine craft business compete on quality rather than simply on price.

For me, this is where the economic value of tehzeeb becomes more meaningful. It is not just about speaking sweetly. It is about recognising another person’s effort and treating their work as valuable. Perhaps the real business of being polite is not about making every interaction profitable. It is about creating a city where people feel respected enough to return, work together and keep its traditions alive.

When we buy a chikankari kurta, we usually see the finished product. We may not think about the time taken to make each small stitch or the patience needed to complete the design. If the seller explains this respectfully, the customer can better understand the work behind the price. It can also help people appreciate the difference between handmade embroidery and a printed design that only looks similar from a distance.

At the same time, appreciation should not stop at words. The artisans who do this work deserve fair payment and respect. A beautiful craft cannot survive if the people who create it are not able to earn a reasonable living. In this sense, tehzeeb should be seen in the way the whole chain of people is treated, not only in the way a seller speaks to a customer.

Courtesy in Everyday Business

The same idea can be seen in restaurants, small shops and services across the city. A place may have good food, but a welcoming staff member can make the visit more pleasant. A guide who answers questions patiently can make a historical visit more interesting. Even a driver who gives clear directions and treats passengers respectfully can affect how a visitor remembers Lucknow.

These experiences are often shared with other people. Someone may tell a friend about a shop where the owner was helpful, or recommend a restaurant where the staff were polite. Today, people also write online reviews. A good experience can therefore reach people who have never visited the place. This does not mean that good manners automatically bring success, but they can help build trust and encourage customers to return.

There is also a difference between genuine courtesy and being polite only to make a sale. People can often sense when someone is pretending. Tehzeeb has real value when it comes naturally and is supported by honest information, fair prices and good-quality products. Politeness should not be used to hide poor service or take advantage of a customer.

In my view, the most important part is that courtesy makes an interaction easier for both people. The customer feels comfortable asking a question, and the shopkeeper has a chance to explain the product. Neither person needs to feel that the conversation is a fight. This is a simple idea, but it can make a busy market feel more welcoming.

Keeping the Tradition Alive

Some people may think that tehzeeb belongs to the past and has little place in a modern economy. I do not think that is true. Businesses today use technology, social media and online payments, but they still depend on trust. A shop can display its products online and reach more customers, while the people running it can continue to treat customers with warmth and respect.

Lucknow can also make it easier for visitors to discover its smaller markets, crafts and food traditions. Clear signboards, clean streets, reliable information and responsible tourism can encourage people to explore beyond the famous monuments. If visitors only see a monument and leave, many local businesses may not benefit. If they also visit the markets, meet artisans and try local food, more people can earn from their visit.

The responsibility does not belong only to shopkeepers. Visitors also need to respect local people, their work and their neighbourhoods. Bargaining should not become an excuse to insult an artisan, and taking photographs should not mean ignoring someone’s privacy. Tehzeeb works best when courtesy is shared by everyone. It is not only a service a seller gives to a buyer; it is a way of treating one another.

It is also important not to turn every act of kindness into a business calculation. People should be polite because others deserve respect, not only because they might spend money. The economic benefit is a possible result of good behaviour, not the only reason to behave well. If Lucknow protects this spirit while improving the practical side of tourism, its culture can remain meaningful for the next generation.

Lucknow’s tehzeeb may not appear as a separate figure in a business account, but its value can be seen in returning customers, trusted relationships and visitors who recommend the city to others. It can help a shopkeeper build loyalty, give an artisan’s work the respect it deserves and turn a simple visit into a warm memory.

For me, the real value of tehzeeb lies in the way it connects people. It reminds us that business is not only about selling something; it is also about how we treat the person standing in front of us. Politeness cannot replace quality, fairness or hard work, but it can strengthen all three.

Perhaps that is Lucknow’s quiet lesson to the modern world: being polite is not a weakness or an outdated habit. When it is sincere, it can build trust, support livelihoods and help keep a city’s traditions alive. The monuments may bring people to Lucknow, but its people and the warmth of their tehzeeb may be what makes visitors want to return.