NEW DELHI: At break of dawn, as the capital lazily sheds its slumber, the Okhla Mandi situated at the heart of South Delhi begins to stir. Large trucks loaded with fresh produce rumble into the scene, gently rolling over the detritus of the previous day, as it adds to the growing congestion on the narrow lanes leading into the market. Within minutes, the sprawling wholesale market would come to lide, with shouting vendors, haggling customers, the smell of fruits and vegetables at various stages of freshness – the lifeblood of commerce in full swing.
This bustling mandi, one of the largest fruit and vegetable markets in the national capital, is a vital node in the city’s food supply chain. But as essential as it is, the market presents a trade-off to the thousands who rely on it for their daily bread – vendors and buyers alike.
“You either come early and jostle with the crowds, or come later and fend off the leftovers,” said Mehboob Alam, a restaurant supplier from Lajpat Nagar, as he carefully selected crates of onions.
“By 9 am, the best produce is already gone.”
The outer ring of the mandi is dominated by wholesalers, many of whom receive produce from across the country. Tomatoes arrive from Bangalore, potatoes from Uttar Pradesh, and carrots from Haryana.
“Our supply comes from at least five states,” said Naresh Yadav, a wholesaler who has moved in and out of the market for over 20 years now. “We get fresh consignments daily, and by 10 am, it’s mostly sold out.”
Inside the sprawling, maze-like lanes of the mandi, there are the smaller vendors, cart sellers and stall-owners, who either buy directly from large mandis like Azadpur or source from Okhla wholesalers. Many do not have formal licenses, instead paying a daily rent of Rs 500–600 to intermediaries.
“These so-called ‘owners’ have leased space from the government and sublet it to us. There’s no paperwork, just a cash payment every morning,” said Afsar Ali, a pushcart vendor who has sold vegetables here for over a decade.
Despite its economic importance, the mandi operations continue to proliferate in rather grim settings. Garbage piles up throughout the day, especially plastic waste and rotting produce. The Municipal Corporation of Delhi (MCD), tasked with sanitation of the surroundings, only sweeps the roads outside, vendors complain.
“Inside, we are on our own,” said 80-year-old Sulekha Devi, bent over with age, as she slowly, painfully bent down even further to pick up discarded plastic wrappers near her son’s fruit stall. “No one from the MCD comes in here. We clean up only at the end of the day.”
During the rainy season, the already poor conditions deteriorate rapidly. Most smaller sellers operate under flimsy tarpaulin tents, which offer little protection from the downpour.
“Our goods get soaked. Water floods in and the drains are choked,” says Abdul Rehman, as he weighs out cucumbers and gourds. “We lose business every time it rains.”
Customers, meanwhile, must navigate narrow, slippery lanes covered in muck and decomposing waste. “It stinks. But where else can we get fresh fruits this cheap?” said Reshma, a homemaker from Jamia Nagar.
Amid the chaos, Okhla Mandi has developed a micro-economy of its own. There are food stalls selling puri-sabzi, lassi, and tea; small kiosks peddling socks, T-shirts and mobile covers; and even makeshift barber shops under tin sheets.
“This place never sleeps,” said Amit Pal, who runs a tea stall at Gate 3. “We open at 4 am and shut by midnight. Our customers are mostly vendors, porters and drivers.”
However, running even such modest businesses comes with challenges. “We are regularly harassed by civic and police officials. They threaten to evict us unless we pay up,” alleged Pal. “No one gives us any receipt. But if we refuse, they dismantle our shacks, our livelihood.”
This informal ecosystem supports thousands of livelihoods. From loaders and drivers to sorters and cleaners, the mandi is an employment hub, albeit one with little government oversight or security. “People here work 14-16 hours a day, but most have no permanent income or benefits,” said Kamla Bhandari, who operates a small stall selling spices. “If someone falls ill, they just disappear,” she says, her voice grim.
For now, those who work in the mandi have little choice but to adapt. “This place feeds the city, but we are treated like we don’t exist,” said Yadav, the wholesaler. “We just do our job. The rest is up to fate.”
As another day ends at the Okhla Mandi, vendors begin packing up unsold produce. The stench lingers, the garbage piles remain, but so does the relentless rhythm of the capital’s most vital, yet overlooked wholesale marketplace.
