In Delhi’s bustling Sarojini Nagar market, what you buy and how much you pay rarely affects the person selling it to you.
“Maalik kabhi baitha hi nahi hai” (“the owner never sits”), said Bilal, a daily wage worker who has spent years behind one of the hundreds of stalls that line the market’s narrow lanes.
Famous for its bargains, thrift finds, and fashionable exports, Sarojini Nagar is celebrated by Instagram influencers and lifestyle media alike. The market thrives in winter, when crowds swell in December and January. Yet behind this vibrant façade runs an exploitative, undocumented economy — one that sustains the market’s glamour while quietly draining those who power it.
Most of the workers here are migrants from Uttar Pradesh and Bihar, driven out of their homes by unemployment and poverty. Many survive on meagre daily wages of ₹300 or less — sometimes earning as little as ₹5 per piece of clothing sold. “Yahan saara Jaunpur aaya hua hai” (“the whole of Jaunpur is here”), another worker joked, hinting at the deep familiarity that binds these men in a city that rarely acknowledges them. Census 2011 data and a study by D. P. Singh of the Tata Institute of Social Sciences confirm this trend — Uttar Pradesh remains one of India’s largest out-migration states, sending thousands in search of work to cities like Delhi.
Prakash, a migrant from Jaunpur, came to Delhi in 2017 after completing his BA. Unable to find a job, he began working in Sarojini Nagar for ₹200 a day. Eight years later, he still manages his employer’s stall single-handedly, now earning ₹300 a day. He handles the transport of goods, endures long hours in the heat and cold, and faces the constant threat of eviction by NDMC patrols. “Ghar chalaane ke liye idhar-udhar karna padta hai” (“to run the household, I have to manage by hook or crook”), he admitted.
To make ends meet, he occasionally hides a few of his own items among his employer’s stock and sells them discreetly, earning an extra hundred rupees on lucky days. Some employers offer small commissions — ₹5 extra for each corset top sold — but even that barely helps. Often, workers are forced to borrow from their villages to survive, as local moneylenders in the city charge steep interest rates.
Disputes over withheld wages are common. The “maalik” usually arrives in the evening to collect the day’s profits, sometimes leaving without paying the workers. “Mehengai badh gayi lekin salary wahi hai” (“prices have gone up, but our salary is the same”), said a worker from Bharatpur, Rajasthan, who hasn’t had a raise in seven years. Most accept this with quiet resignation. “Sabka apna apna hai” (“everyone to their own”), one worker shrugged, describing a workplace without unity or support. “If someone kills someone here, nobody would even flinch,” he added grimly. The market has no trade union, no network of solidarity — only individual survival.
Shami, another worker from Udpur village in Jaunpur, once ran his own small stall but now works under a maalik. He says he has lost his freedom. “If the day’s sales are poor, the owner blames us for not shouting enough to attract customers,” he said. “Sometimes they even cut our pay for it.”
Most workers put in 10–12 hours a day, seven days a week, without any security or benefits. “Har roz baithte hain. Chhutti le lenge toh hame naukri kahan milegi, koi aur baith jaayega” (“We sit here every day. If we take leave, we’ll lose our place and someone else will take over”), Bilal explained. He gets only three holidays a year — January 26, August 15, and Holi.
For new workers, there is often an unpaid “training” period — days or even weeks of labour for free. Their daily routine begins before dawn: collecting clothes, ironing them with coal, arranging displays, calling out to customers all day, and packing up long after dark. Many borrow ₹10,000–₹20,000 just to keep their families afloat. Some quietly admit that they cannot endure such long hours without taking a few pills of bhaang to stay alert.
Beyond their employers, workers must also contend with municipal crackdowns. “We had a big shop, but NDMC destroyed it a few days ago,” said Abbas, whose stall was among the many demolished in May, when NDMC razed over 150 so-called “unauthorised” shops. Several vendors insist that even licensed stalls were cleared in the “anti-encroachment” drive. Abbas now runs a small temporary shed, constantly on alert. “When the NDMC patrol comes, we have to pack up everything and run, carrying the goods and tables on our heads,” he said.
Prakash described the same exhausting cycle — setting up, hiding, and rebuilding the stall over and over. “NDMC ke log maal le jaate hain, hamara bhi le gaye” (“The NDMC officers take away the stock; they took ours too”), he said. When things get unbearable, many return to their villages until the raids stop.
The market’s informal economy survives through fragile, unofficial arrangements. Vendors on the roadside reportedly pool money to pay NDMC staff for “non-interference” — a system that persists despite its illegality. But whenever a new officer takes charge, unaware of this arrangement, raids resume, and goods are confiscated again.
The cycle of exploitation — between maal, mazdoor, and maalik — continues, buried beneath the noise of bargaining, the clatter of hangers, and the chatter of shoppers chasing the next cheap find.
(All names have been changed.)
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*Young India Fellow at Ashoka University
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