July 31, 2025
ISLAMABAD – Every weekend, Sheharyar, 26, sets up shop at the Weekend Bachat Bazaar in Karachi’s Clifton, a seaside market in an empty plot that functions as a car park on weekdays but turns into a teeming market on Saturday and Sunday. He sells fashionable, warm sweaters in the winter and trendy Y2K tops with bold, nostalgic designs in the summer. Rows of pre-loved clothes surround him, including argyle patterned sweater vests, ribbed crop tops, and baby tees with graphic prints.
“Four hundred. They are all Rs400. Take it or leave it,” he tells a customer, his mouth curved into a thin line. I pick up a strawberry-printed cropped green sweater vest labelled Shein. When I ask if he will answer a few questions for me, he looks at me hesitantly. “What are the questions?” he mutters.
Sheharyar is right to be sceptical — I’m not just curious about how he picks his items, how sellers and buyers interact, and how pricing works, but also about the online thrift scene that may or may not impact his business. I want the full picture, from the nitty-gritty of sourcing to how market vendors are adapting to the rising popularity of online thrift stores in Pakistan.
After all, the recent proliferation of Instagram thrift stores has been nothing short of explosive. What was once dismissed as ‘landa’, a term weighed down by class associations, has been embraced as ‘thrifting’, a term that carries a distinctly cooler, more curated connotation.
In the West, thrift culture exploded in the 2010s and early 2020s, especially among Gen Z and millennials. Platforms like Depop, Poshmark, and TikTok helped turn thrift hauls, #thriftflip, and vintage finds into cultural mainstays.
This trend made its way to South Asia, where Instagram-based thrift stores began doing weekly curated drops to reposition landay ka maal or second-hand clothes as affordable, stylish, sustainable, and status-agnostic. Social media transformed thrifted purchases into ‘finds’, helping shed the stigma once attached to wearing someone else’s castoffs.
Today, thrifting is no longer about necessity — it’s become aspirational. And ultimately, it all ties back to the open markets where the ‘landa bazaar’ culture first began.
‘Landa’ — the new ‘it’ thing
Sheharyar tells me he’s been selling at such bazaars for the past three years, and his connection to the trade dates back generations. He’s well aware of the online thrifting scene and says it hasn’t hurt his own business. If anything, it has encouraged more customers to buy secondhand goods from him. And although Sheharyar agrees that selling his items online might be more profitable, “this works for me”. “Online sellers themselves come to me,” he says.
Among the many different buyers at the market, there’s a certain demographic, according to Sheharyar, that comes solely for flea market flipping, which involves purchasing on-trend clothing pieces and reselling them for marked-up prices online. “They buy from us — ladies, etcetera — and they sell for really high prices.” He makes it a point to note that it’s mostly women. “Yes, they come here a lot. But it’s fine, they’re just doing their job.” It’s all part of business, he assures me.
Just a few days before, I had contacted Fatima, the owner of a popular thrift page on Instagram who advertises “preloved” items. When I asked where she sourced her products from, she ghosted me. Sheharyar, however, has no such advantage. He tells me outright, “USA. I get them in bulk from Shershah in Lyari.”
That’s one of the differences, I suppose, between operating a business online and offline. Online, there’s less accountability; you do not owe anyone anything. You can even get away with charging double and triple the rates of offline sellers.
My fascination with this subject began with a pair of shoes. I found them while scrolling through an Instagram thrift store late one night, and couldn’t believe my luck in stumbling upon the hard-to-come-by Vans Old Skool Rainbow Checkerboard Skates. And in my size too! When my eyes landed on the price, my face fell. Rs4,000. There was no way I could cough up that amount for a pair of secondhand sneakers.
Two months later, I discovered the same pair and many more at the Bachat Bazaar for a fraction of that previous price — Rs1,200 before bargaining, but sadly not in my size. It makes me wonder why anyone would choose to thrift online when more economical options exist.
Danyal Shaikh, 29, has had a similar experience. He’s the chief operating officer of Sunday Bazar, a popular thrift page on Instagram that boasts a follower count of 348,000. But he didn’t get here easily. His journey began when he, too, had the Bachat Bazaar revelation.
Fed up with constantly requesting relatives abroad to bring back sneakers and jackets for him, he finally ventured out to the open-air thrift markets in the suburbs of Karachi. There, he discovered the same products for a price that barely scratched the surface of what they cost abroad. “To wear Jordans, I’d have to ask my father to smuggle money,” Shaikh joked. “But anyone can afford a pair from a thrift store.”
Sourcing from ‘bulk-buying areas’
Shaikh began his operations selling pre-loved goods on a humble little page on Instagram during the Covid-19 lockdown in 2020. His first sale was a pair of Zara heels.
His page has steadily grown since and reached a wider audience. He now has 29 employees stationed across Pakistan, and he offers a range of clothing items, from shoes and blouses to handbags. He even has a website to streamline operations and improve customer access. But what I’m really curious about is where all these products come from.
To that, Shaikh gives me the same answer as Sheharyar. He names a few “bulk-buying areas,” as he calls them — Shershah, Bin Qasim Zone, Pushtoon Market in Orangi Town, and others — where goods are bought in large heaps.
The piles, he tells me, are split based on quality. “An A-grade pile, for instance, would have the good stock, with branded tags. They’re usually leftover pieces that might have slight defects or just didn’t get sold.”
Meanwhile, quality reduces when you get to the B, C and D scales, but naturally, so does the price. A single A-grade pile consisting of 1,000 articles of clothing costs Rs3,500 on average.
This is the same price you might pay for a single piece in a regular, branded store at the mall. According to him, 90 per cent of these items are in amazing condition. This differs from what Sheharyar told me about his bulk purchases; half of the articles end up being unusable. But perhaps he’s getting a low-grade pile.
Sheharyar also had a lot to say about the types of customers that visit his store. He looked me up and down, a hint of a smile on his face, before calling them “cheapskates”. I accepted the personal attack and couldn’t help but laugh. Before I agreed to settle on his resolute price of Rs400 for the sweater, Sheharyar and I spent a couple of minutes going back and forth on the cost. Unsurprisingly, people are always bargaining in thrift markets too.
Alina Stephen, or Mrs Bhatti, as she likes to be called, is one of the only female vendors I see at the bazaar. Her speciality is hair accessories. She tells me that for a hair clip priced at just Rs100, customers argue, “This is too much!” She switches to a mock English accent and with it adopts all the airs and graces of a DHA auntie as she imitates them. I burst into laughter and she’s visibly pleased by her joke.
“What’s too much in this?” she asks. “You’re getting out of such a big car and can’t even spare Rs100 for a clip!”
Thrift selling as a woman
Mrs Bhatti goes on to tell me about how these customers purchase the same products for double and triple the price from male vendors or other markets outside of the bazaar. “We’ve facilitated this inflation, you and I. We’re the ones who consume these items at unreasonably high rates,” she reflects.
It’s not easy operating a stall within the Bachat Bazaar as a woman and Mrs Bhatti has had to face discrimination because she is a woman. There have been numerous occasions where her agreement for a stall space was unexpectedly revoked and handed over to someone else. She points to a female friend at a nearby stall who has faced similar issues.
“They should be encouraging us; at least we aren’t using illegitimate means to make our earnings. But no, they just want to make our lives a living hell,” she tells me, adding that she has a store in Gulf market and will solely focus on that now.
I scan the rows for more women vendors, but they’re few and far between. When I approach one of the other rare women vendors, she hesitates to go on record but nods in agreement with Mrs Bhatti’s account. “It’s not easy,” she whispers, glancing at nearby vendors. “We have to fight twice as hard to hold our place here.” It becomes evident that while thrift spaces are expanding, the gender gap — both in selling and buying — remains deeply entrenched.
Women and bazaars — a never-ending struggle
A pair of Jordans wasn’t the only thing that inspired Shaikh to take his thrift finds online. He noticed that accessing thrift stores wasn’t as easy for women as it was for him. Seeing the gap, he took the leap of faith, and today, his customer base includes mostly women. “It’s hard for women to access these markets — they’re either too crowded and male-dominated, the commute is too far, or bargaining is a hassle. E-commerce just makes it easier.”
Arsh Khan, 20, an avid thrifter in Islamabad, echoed Shaikh’s sentiment. “I love going to the bazaar with my friends,” she says, “but we always go when it’s daytime and we’re very cautious. If I’m alone, I usually just stick to online pages.” She shares how navigating crowded markets often means enduring stares or discomfort when bargaining with male vendors. “Online thrift stores just make things easier.”
Sofia Saeed, 18, feels the same way. She tells me she cannot fathom going to a bazaar on her own because it’s a safety hazard. “There are a bunch of weird people, and they stare at you all weird; it dampens the vibe.” She shares that the experience can be very disorienting. “Sometimes you get shoved by random women shopping, and they just briskly pass you without saying sorry!”
‘Glorified Sunday Bazaar for the rich’
Located at Teen Talwar in Clifton, Karachi Playhouse is a bustling spot for thrifters. Unlike the weekend Bachat Bazaar, it’s open every day and attracts many customers. But if you look closely, they all look very similar. A young vendor tells me that it’s mostly just residents of Clifton and Defence, more affluent neighbourhoods.
I notice the very clear difference between the Bachat Bazaar and Playhouse — the latter seems to be the more accessible option. It’s a closed space where otherwise uncomfortable buyers can engage in thrift shopping without having to visit an open-air market with hordes of people.
No beggars are trailing behind you, no sun beating down on your face, no mosquitoes whining in your ear. Even the sellers seem attuned to their buyers’ social standing and psyche — they know exactly what to say and do to land a hefty sale.
In my notes, I write, “glorified Sunday Bazaar for the rich,” which is ironic, because Sunday Bazaar itself is a glorified version of preexisting landa bazaars like the one at Lighthouse. In many ways, Playhouse functions as the polished twin of Bachat Bazaar, sanitised, enclosed, and priced for a more affluent, sheltered demographic. A shopkeeper tries to sell me a plain white crop top for Rs700. I tell him I will only purchase it for Rs200. He laughs in my face.
A young vendor informs me that crop tops are a hot seller among the ladies. He’s unfamiliar with the term “thrifting” but agrees that the items he’s selling are landay ka maal or secondhand goods. I ask him what the most expensive thing he’s sold is. He pauses for a moment, his face splitting into a leering smile, before he says, “A pair of shoes?” Then, he points to a lacy lingerie piece on a hanger above his head. “Or a bra, maybe.”
I’m with my friend when this happens, and sensing an uncomfortable energy, we both slowly walk out. He stops in front of us, a wide grin on his face as he leans against the doorframe. “Do you want to buy something? I’ll give you a special discount.”
It hits me how even the accessible and “safer” markets can become an uncomfortable space if you’re a woman. I’m reminded of Mrs Bhatti’s story and think back to what Sheharyar had said about women purchasing products from him and going on to sell them online, and what Shaikh had said about physical markets being an accessibility and safety concern for women.
He gets his stock from Shershah after crossing the difficult Lyari streets to get to his A-grade piles. Meanwhile, it’s not as easy for women. Perhaps selecting items from Sunday Bazaar vendors and then selling them online is the most natural step for them. It also explains the pricing difference.
One woman’s trash, another woman’s treasure
But what about the buyers? Why is thrifting a natural step for them? If you ask Shaikh, he’ll tell you to think of a Jafferjees wallet. “That’s like Rs10,000 right there. Now compare it to Sunday Bazaar, you can get the same material for less than a fifth of the price.” According to him, this is the attraction of thrift markets in Pakistan — the fact that they’re cost-effective, trendy, an easy way to own otherwise fast-fashion products, and all in all, a sustainable choice. Additionally, there is no compromise on quality. It’s a win-win!
For Khan, thrifting is a hobby, and it’s one that she doesn’t take lightly. Every other week, she makes a plan with her friends to scour the I-8 Sunday Bazaar in Islamabad, determined to find the most unique pieces to fit in her fashionable wardrobe. She also spends a good chunk of time scrolling through her Instagram, going through all of the thrift store pages she follows — she follows hundreds! — in search of the best finds.
“On average, I probably spend like Rs5,000 in a row, so whenever I do shopping, it’s at least Rs5,000 — that’s a rough scale,” she tells me. Khan describes thrifting as a treasure hunt. “You really have to dig through piles and search for gems. I usually go with my friends, and it’s like a whole activity.”
She prefers thrifting over going to regular stores. “The [regular store] clothes just feel so mass-produced, like they’re made in a factory and everyone has the same ones. It doesn’t stand out to me.”
Nobody’s gonna know.
The only time Khan ventures into a store to shop is with her mother, whom she explains doesn’t appreciate her second-hand clothes. “It’s a really weird concept to her that I get my clothes second-hand or pre-loved,” she laughs.
I understand where she’s coming from. Whenever I show my grandmother my thrifted finds, she is horrified, a look of disgust on her face. “You can’t wear those!” she shrieks. “Someone already wore it!” It seems unacceptable to older desi women to rewear an item of clothing that previously belonged to a stranger. Of course, there’s also the status aspect of it: what will people think if they find out you’re wearing cheap “landa ka maal”?
Well, the fantastic thing about landa is — how would anyone know? Khan’s favourite item she’s ever thrifted is a long leather jacket with a fur collar. “The quality seemed so good, and I was so amazed because I got it from the Sunday Bazaar that I looked up the company. It’s called Rothschild — it’s a designer brand. The original price of the jacket was $700, and I got it for Rs2,000!” She is buzzing with excitement as she tells me this. It’s clear Khan takes pride in her thrifted purchases. She tells me that she triumphantly tells anyone who compliments her clothes that they are thrifted.
But it hasn’t always been this way. There was a time when a greater stigma was attached to second-hand clothes. Shaikh does not recall these days fondly; however, he now has a retort ready. “It doesn’t say on anyone’s shoes that they’re wearing second-hand, but what you can see is that they are wearing Jordans.”