AUTHOR SHABNAM SAMUEL SHOWS IT'S NEVER TOO LATE TO FOLLOW A PASSION
by PRIYA MULJI
AT THE age of 57 and after decades of silence, Shabnam Samuel wrote her deeply emotional memoir A Fractured Life.
The author, motivational speaker and philanthropist has documented her journey from being abandoned by her parents in India and a troubled childhood, to a broken marriage to an older man, moving to the US and finding her voice after years of abuse. Now based in Washington DC, she is helping give others a voice and showing it’s never too late to follow a creative passion.
Eastern Eye caught up with Shabnam Samuel to discuss her book, literature and journey.
What first connected you to writing?
I write to make sense of things happening around me. I think the first time I wrote, to understand who I was or where I was, were my letters from a boarding school In India, which I sent home to my grandparents. I was seven and couldn’t understand why I went to boarding school, so I would write these postcards home full of atrocious spelling mistakes, but always an essay! That’s where my storytelling in the form of words began.
What is it that led towards writing your memoir?
I always say that I am an accidental memoir writer. I had no intentions of ever publishing one. I wrote, but never thought about getting the world to read what I had written. Social media had a lot to do with my becoming a memoir writer. After I joined in 2008, I became a part of many writer groups and started making friends online, outside my regular close-knit Indian community, where we were all, oh so perfect. My online friends were imperfect, strong, brave, spoke their minds and were not riddled with shame, guilt or taboos.
Tell us more…
This difference of how I had led my life for the last five decades under veils and carpets was an eye opener. These interactions with people that I had never met, whose stories and life learnings were so amazing, fuelled my writing and the need to speak my mind.
Tell us a little about the drive to write this story?
I published very late in life. The rocket fuel for that was my need to prove I exist. Growing up, under this cultural silence that so many of us, especially south Asians, live through had taken a toll on me. I never showed it but felt it in every emotion and interaction. When you grow up always being aware of the fact that people should not know who you are, to protect and safeguard others, is a very difficult situation to be in. But that’s what I did, and who I became. An island to myself. An isolation of my mind and soul, and always living like a spectator to my own life. I was always a guest.
What was the biggest challenge of writing this story?
The biggest challenge was always about how much should I ‘tell’. I had people to protect and relationships that could be destroyed, so I had to figure out how to keep that balance.
Who are you hoping connects to the book?
I know there are scores of people like me out there. I know those people and their stories. I have been those people. I want my book and words to carry to them. I want them to feel these taboos and stigmas are all man-made. And I don’t mean ‘man’, I mean our human race. If you are in an abusive relationship, there is no shame in letting the world know. This façade of ‘honour’, ‘family name’, ‘children’ are just excuses for how the world chooses to box us in. I want a young girl to know that it wasn’t her fault if someone chooses to assault her, even if that someone belongs in the family. I want anyone out there, and not just women, to find strength in my journey.
Did you learn anything about yourself while writing this book?
Yes, I did learn that my levels for pain and abuse are pretty high. It was like they had become a strong part of me.
Has writing A Fractured Life helped you heal in any way?
Yes, it helped me recognise how I had failed myself and how in turn, I had failed my son. One cannot be a mother or a wife in the true sense of the word when you are missing parts of you.
The memoir documents your incredibly challenging life. How did you remain strong during the difficult times?
I escaped in my head to far-off places. I dream a lot, mostly unfulfilled, but it helps me cope in those moments when I am lost at sea. Music has been another life saver.
What have the positive reactions to the book meant to you?
My book being accepted so widely, in a positive way, just tells me that we are ready for a story like mine. We are ready to accept the fact that being brown doesn’t mean you are perfect. It tells me that people are identifying at some level to my story. Be it a broken engagement, physical abuse or whatever the layers, someone or the other connects.
What can we expect next from you?
I am working on three books. Yes, call me crazy! One I can’t talk about right now, because it is not a direct project of mine, but the second one is a continuation of A Fractured Life, and the third is a collective book of essays about the Assyrian part of me.
What inspires you as a writer?
I love reading stories of courage, non-fiction disguised as fiction, and human-interest stories. I always find strength and inspiration there.
Do you have a favourite author?
Mary Karr is an author whose books inspire me.
You went through a heroic journey, but who is your own hero?
I never had a hero growing up, because I led an isolated life. There were very few people that I was allowed to meet. But now I do. I read stories mostly memoirs of these brave women who have the courage to talk about everything under the sun. I learn grit and courage from them every day.
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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