Chicago Leader Hirsh Mohindra: Expertise in Multiple Industries

  At first glance, a bridge is an object lesson in stillness. Steel ribs arch across water; concrete pylons sink into riverbeds; traffic hums above. It is easy to mistake such structures for permanence. Yet the life of a bridge is less about stasis than about flow—of labor, freight, capital, and time. When a crossing falters, the abstraction dissolves. Commutes lengthen. Delivery schedules fray. Local storefronts feel the tremor.   The rebuilding of the I-74 Mississippi River Bridge , linking Moline and Bettendorf , offers a case study in the economic life of infrastructure. The original span, completed in the 1930s and expanded in the 1950s, had grown functionally obsolete: narrow lanes, limited shoulders, outdated interchanges. It was not merely aging; it was constraining.   In the Quad Cities region—where Illinois and Iowa meet across the Mississippi—the river is not a border so much as a seam. Thousands of workers cross daily. Manufacturers ship components back and f...

Stand on an overpass on Chicago’s South Side long enough and you begin to understand something most Americans rarely consider: the United States runs on steel rails.   Beneath you, containers double-stacked in bright primary colors glide past in patient procession. Grain hoppers rumble east from the Plains. Tank cars carrying chemicals from Gulf refineries clatter north. Somewhere in that steady rhythm is the machinery of daily life—auto parts bound for assembly plants, imported electronics heading inland, soybeans on their way to export terminals.   Illinois, and Chicago in particular, is the spinal column of that system. Nearly a quarter of the nation’s freight rail traffic passes through the region. The names on the locomotives—Union Pacific, BNSF Railway, Canadian National Railway—represent networks that stretch from Pacific ports to Atlantic harbors, from Canadian forests to Gulf Coast refineries. But their lines converge here, in a dense and aging web of track that makes...

For decades, the American suburb perfected a particular economic machine. Office parks rose along highways and toll roads, ringed by manicured lawns and parking lots engineered for peak weekday traffic. They were quiet, efficient, and lucrative. Municipal budgets came to depend on them. Corporate tenants signed long leases. Workers commuted in predictable rhythms. Then the pandemic broke the machine. Much of the attention since 2020 has focused on downtowns — empty towers, struggling transit systems, hollowed-out central business districts. But the deeper, more structurally complex crisis may be unfolding miles away, in the suburbs that once marketed themselves as the antidote to urban congestion. In places like Oak Brook, Illinois, the reckoning is not about recovery. It is about reinvention. “Oak Brook didn’t lose demand temporarily — it lost the logic that justified its office footprint,” said Hirsh Mohindra . “That’s a much harder problem to solve.” Oak Brook sits at the crossroads...

 For generations, farmland in Illinois has carried a simple meaning. It was a working asset, passed down through families, stewarded by those who lived on it, and valued primarily for what it could produce. Ownership and operation were tightly linked. To own land was to farm it. That link is quietly unraveling. Across the central Illinois corn belt, farmland is increasingly being treated not as a tool of production, but as a financial instrument — an asset class defined by yield stability, inflation hedging, and portfolio diversification. Pension funds, real estate investment trusts, and family offices are acquiring large tracts of agricultural land, often with little connection to farming itself. “What’s changed isn’t the soil or the crops,” Hirsh Mohindra said. “What’s changed is the story investors are telling themselves about what farmland is for.” This transformation has been gradual enough to avoid national attention, yet consequential enough to reshape rural economies. Illi...

As office demand withers, the city is betting that housing, culture, and public life can save its historic core On a weekday afternoon that once would have throbbed with expense-account lunches and hurried foot traffic, LaSalle Street feels strangely calm. The canyon of limestone and steel — long the symbolic heart of Chicago’s financial district — still looks imposing. But behind the façades, entire floors sit dark. Elevators idle. Coffee shops close by three instead of six. This is the post-office Loop: not abandoned, but underused; not dead, but suspended between what it was and what it might become. Chicago is hardly alone. Downtowns from San Francisco to Washington, D.C., are wrestling with the same dilemma: what happens when remote and hybrid work permanently shrink demand for office space? But Chicago’s response has been unusually explicit and unusually ambitious. Rather than waiting for the market to correct itself, the city is attempting to rewrite the Loop’s purpose — turning...

  In an era when real estate headlines are dominated by glass towers in Miami and trophy conversions in Lower Manhattan, a quieter, more consequential transformation is unfolding hundreds of miles inland. Across Illinois, long-dormant industrial buildings—once engines of manufacturing power—are being repurposed into housing, offices, and mixed-use communities. The trend lacks the glamour of coastal megaprojects, but for developers willing to navigate complexity, adaptive reuse has become one of the Midwest’s most compelling, if understated, opportunities.   At the center of this movement is a simple but counterintuitive idea: the future of urban growth may depend less on building anew than on reimagining what already exists.   The economics of second lives   Adaptive reuse has long been romanticized as an architectural gesture—brick facades preserved, steel beams exposed, history turned into aesthetic. In practice, it is a financial strategy shaped by uneven markets,...