A story

I graduated in 2019 and did what made no sense to anyone — I left. Backpacking, volunteering, living on farms and in hostels across Himachal, Uttarakhand, Karnataka, Goa. No plan. Just movement. Learning new skills, absorbing the world in its rawest form.
One place stayed with me. Varanashi Organic Farms, near Mangalore. It was the first time I saw what clean eating, physical labour, and community living could do. The rhythm of farm life — the way nature and effort moved together — left something behind. By the time I left, my body felt different. Lighter. More in tune. I didn't know it then, but that feeling would shape everything.
Then the pandemic closed everything. I came home, joined the family business, attempted the CFA. Failed. Found myself in a deep period of uncertainty — the kind of stillness that forces you to look at what's actually in front of you.
I turned to wellness — not as a business, but as a personal necessity. I became obsessed with sourcing the finest herbs, the purest oils, the most authentic ingredients I could find. My bathroom became a small lab. And slowly, I traced everything back to the source — to farmers, to land, to the memory of that farm near Mangalore. I wasn't just interested in wellness. I wanted to work with raw, untouched nature.

I tried making it into something tangible. Amla and Moringa powders first — sourced organically, processed carefully, branded with intention. The quality was there, but the market was flooded with similar products. No real differentiator.

Then natural cosmetics and Ayurvedic oils — face masks, herbal cleansers, hair oils. The products were excellent. But the regulations weren't kind. Processing in an industrial area. A licensed Ayurvedic doctor and analytical chemist on board. A shift from small-batch craft to factory-scale production. It would have consumed everything, turning me into a factory operator instead of a creator. I didn't want that.
But almond oil was already there, quietly waiting. I'd been pressing it for my own formulations. I had a trusted sourcing network in Kashmir. My own small setup. A deep understanding of what purity should feel like.
Instead of dividing energy across many things, I chose one. The purest cold-pressed almond oil I could make. Singular and timeless.
In early 2025, I set up my first press at home. As things grew, the workspace moved — still small, still personal, still not a factory. That was the point. Every bottle is cold-pressed once, filtered through muslin cloth, and filled by hand.

Kasar Devi is named after a village in the Himalayas. A quiet place where things feel closer to their source. The name came because it felt true.

This journey was never planned. But every failure, every detour, every experiment led here. To one ingredient. One intention. This is not just a business. It's a devotion.