WHEN Eastern Eye met fitness model and entrepreneur Ninu Galot at a restaurant in west London last month, it seemed strange to think she once hid herself away from the world.
Galot is bubbly, has an infectiously positive attitude and radiates with confidence – but at one point, her self-esteem was so low that she avoided seeing her friends.
This was due to her battle with vitiligo. Vitiligo, a skin condition caused by a lack of melanin, a pigment in the skin, which means white patches can develop across the body, is something Galot has had since she was 11-years-old.
It started out as a small patch on the back of her neck, something her mother initially noticed. She was referred to a dermatologist who recommended she use dermovate, a steroid cream used to treat skin disorders.
The vitiligo didn’t bother Galot. The patch remained there until after university and didn’t appear to have changed shape or size.
“The only thing was at university, I never put my hair up so none of my friends would have known,” she recalled.
“To everyone else, they didn’t know anything about it.”
It was only after Galot graduated and started up her property developing business that the vitiligo started to spread, and she suddenly had patches all over her body. By her early 20s, Galot was “distraught” by the rapid development of vitiligo across her skin.
“I ended up spending all my time crying about it as I didn’t know what else to do,” she recalled. “I had always strived for perfection, and then for this to happen, it throws you off-guard.”
As someone who was known as a happy, sociable young woman, the condition was devastating for Galot. She began to avoid seeing friends and hid herself away in clothes that disguised the patches.
The idea of normal everyday activities, such as attending a family wedding or sunbathing, suddenly became horrifying prospects for her.
“I didn’t want to show [my skin] on the beach when I was sunbathing, so I would
get there at 8am in the morning when no one was around,” she said. “I would cover
my face, it was like blocking myself away from people, like a kid hiding under a duvet when they’re scared.
“When people were walking past me, I’d be thinking: ‘They’re looking at my vitiligo’ but it was okay, I couldn’t see them, I was safe.”
Eventually, after months of emotional turmoil, Galot heard about a type of UV light treatment that could potentially help her – but she would have to fly to Milan to receive it.
She started treatment in October 2004 – and continued to have it on an almost fortnight basis for twelve years.
Although the treatment began to work, it became an “addiction” for Galot. It also could be an extremely painful procedure, that would leave her skin sore and in some cases, blistered.
“I used to come back to the UK and spend three or four days in bed because the skin was so tender and so sore, and I had blisters if they treated it too much,” she admitted.
“I could only take paracetamol afterwards, so I was recovering from the treatment but then going back to Milan again.”
The turning point for the entrepreneur came in 2016, when the vitiligo began to appear on her hands and she realised she couldn’t hide it any longer.
“All the other times, it’s been on places on my body that I could hide,” she said. “It was a wakeup call. I realised I had to face reality – I’ve got vitiligo and I can’t hide it.
“That was hard for me because I thought: ‘I’ve been doing this treatment for so long, it’s been a rollercoaster, it’s got better, and it’s got worse’. But I realised I either had to take control of the situation or let it take control of me.”
She began to attend personal development seminars and read self-help books by author Louise Hay. Moving from Reading to London last January spurred the businesswoman to explore her creative side and she eventually decided to set herself a goal and train for a fitness competition.
Within 16 weeks of hard training with her trainer Savvas and keeping to a strict low-calorie diet, Galot took to the stage at the competition and came in fourth place.
“When I got on stage, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. I thought to myself: ‘If I can do this, I can do anything’,” she smiled. “The day I stepped on stage is the day I set myself free from vitiligo.”
She added: “One night, I stood in front of my mirror and all I saw was my fit body that I’d worked for. Not the vitiligo. I see someone who has trained hard to get the body I always wanted and that is what stands out for me.”
Today, the model has fully embraced the skin she lives in and has realised that after all the years she spent hiding away, she had been her own worst enemy.
“People notice the person I am,” she said. “People have said it makes me unique, but I never saw it like that. We’re our own worst enemies – we overthink and over-analyse but the best thing to do is accept it and let go.”
Now, she hopes to offer a voice for other sufferers of the condition. Last month, she travelled to India to raise awareness.
In India, vitiligo can hinder a girl’s chances of marriage and is seen as a contagious disease by some communities. Of Indian-heritage herself, Galot remarked the more she heard about the stigma, the more it drove her to go and help to change society’s viewpoint on it.
“I wanted to talk about it in the UK, but it didn’t feel right to just walk away from the issues in India regarding vitiligo,” she said. “I wanted to share my experiences and that was a motivator.”
The spokeswoman receives messages regularly from vitiligo sufferers who thank her for coming out and speaking so openly about her condition. The positivity and support is welcome to Galot, who said she would have never imagined herself in this position ten years ago.
“I would say, be real and love yourself. That is the only skin you have, and you only have one life,” she said.
Galot’s next goal is to continue spreading the word and helping to alter the stigma associated with vitiligo. June 25 is a special date for Galot – not only is it World Vitiligo Day but it is also the day she hopes for change in India.
“I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I have faith in god that it will happen,” she said.
“I used to ask God why he had done this to me, but I realised some things are meant to be. Maybe I’ve got this because I can speak about it and raise awareness. At least if I die tomorrow, people can remember me for trying to make a change.”
Jay's grandma’s popcorn from Gujarat is now selling out everywhere.
Ditched the influencer route and began posting hilarious videos online.
Available in Sweet Chai and Spicy Masala, all vegan and gluten-free
Jayspent 18 months on a list. Thousands of names. Influencers with follower counts that looked like phone numbers. He was going to launch his grandmother's popcorn the right way: send free bags, wait for posts, pray for traction. That's the playbook, right? That's what you do when you're a nobody selling something nobody asked for.
Then one interaction made him snap. The entitlement. The self-importance. The way some food blogger treated his family's recipe like a favour they were doing him. He looked at his spreadsheet. Closed it. Picked up his phone and decided to burn it all down.
Now he makes videos mocking the same people he was going to beg for help. Influencers weeping over the wrong luxury car. Creators demanding payment for chewing food on camera. Someone having a breakdown about ice cubes. And guess what? The internet ate it up. His popcorn keeps selling out. And from Gujarat, his grandmother's 60-year-old recipe is now moving units because her grandson got mad enough to be funny about it.
Jay’s grandma’s popcorn from Gujarat is now selling out everywhere Instagram/daadisnacks
The kitchen story
Daadi means grandmother in Hindi. Jay's daadi came to America from Gujarat decades ago. Every weekend, she made popcorn with the spices she grew up with, including cardamom, cinnamon, and chilli mixes. It was her way of keeping home close while living somewhere that didn't taste like it.
Jay wanted that in stores. Wanted brown faces in the snack aisle. It didn’t happen overnight. It took a couple of years to get from a family recipe to something they could actually sell. Everyone pitched in, including his grandmom, uncle, mum. The spices come from small local farmers. There are just two flavours for now, Sweet Chai and Spicy Masala. It’s all vegan and gluten-free, packed in bright bags that instantly feel South Asian.
The videos don't look like marketing. They look like someone venting at 11 PM after scrolling too long. He nails the nasal influencer voice. The fake sympathy. “I can’t believe this,” he says in that exaggerated influencer tone, “they gave me the cheaper car, only eighty grand instead of one-twenty.” That clip alone blew up, pulling in close to nine million views.
Most people don't know they're watching a snack brand. They think it's social commentary. Jay never calls himself an influencer. He says he’s a creator, period. There’s a difference, and he makes sure people know it. His TikTok has around three hundred thousand followers, Instagram about half that. The comments read like a sigh of relief, people fed up with fake polish, finally hearing someone say what everyone else was thinking.
This fits into something called deinfluencing; people pushing back against the buy-everything-trust-nobody cycle. But Jay's version has teeth. He's naming names, calling out the economics. Big venture money flows to chains with good lighting. Family businesses with actual stories get ignored because their content isn't slick enough.
Jay watched his New York neighbourhood change. Chains moved in. Influencers posted about places that had funding and were aesthetic. The old spots, the family ones, got left behind. His videos are about that gap. The erosion of local culture by money and aesthetics.
"Big chains and VC-funded businesses are promoted at the expense of local ones," he said. His content doesn't just roast influencers. It promotes other small food makers who can't afford to play the game. He positions Daadi as a defender of something real against something plastic.
And it's working. Not just philosophically. Financially. The videos drive traffic. People click through, try the popcorn, come back. The company can't keep stock. That's the proof.
Daadi popcorn features authentic Gujarat flavours like Sweet Chai and Spicy Masala, all vegan and gluten-free Daadi Snacks
The blowback
People unfollow because they think he's too harsh. Jay's take: "I would argue I need to be meaner."
In May, he posted that he's not chasing content creation money like most people at his follower count. "I post to speak my mind and help my family's snack biz." That's a different model. Most brands pay influencers to make everything look perfect. They chase viral polish, and Jay does the opposite. In fact, he weaponises rawness and treats criticism like a product feature.
The internet mostly backs him. Reddit threads light up with support. One commenter was "toxic influencers choking on their matcha lattes searching their Balenciaga bags." Another: "Influencers are boring and unoriginal and can get bent." The anger is shared. Jay simply gave it a microphone and a snack to buy.
Jay's success says something about where things are going. People are done with curated perfection. They can smell the artificiality now. They respond to brands that feel like humans rather than committees. Daadi doesn't sell aspiration. Doesn't sell a lifestyle. Sells popcorn and a point of view.
The quality matters, including the spices, the sourcing, and the family behind it. But the edge matters too. He’s not afraid to say what most brands tiptoe around. “We just show who we are,” Jay says. “No pretending, no gloss. People can feel that and that’s when they reach for the popcorn.”
Most small businesses can't afford to play the traditional game. Can't pay influencers. Can't hire agencies. Can't fake their way into feeds. Maybe they don't need to. Maybe honesty and humour can cut through if they're sharp enough. If the product backs it up. If the story is real and the person telling it isn't trying to sound like a PR script.
This started with a list Jay didn't use. The business took off the moment he stopped trying to play by the usual rules and started speaking his mind. Turns out, honesty sells. And yes, the popcorn really does taste good.
Daadi Snacks merch dropInstagram/daadisnacks
The question is whether this scales. Whether other small businesses watch this and realise they don't need to beg for attention from people who don't care. Right now, Daadi keeps selling out. People keep watching. The grandmother's recipe that was supposed to need influencer approval is doing fine without it. Better than fine. Turns out the most effective marketing strategy might just be giving a damn and not being afraid to show it.
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