May 25, 2003

Karachi has been called the ‘city of lights.’ Perhaps it flaunts this title for its well-lit boulevards, streets and alleys. At another level, despite its statistics for robberies, homicides, suicides, guns, poverty, illiteracy and myriad of other problems, the title is for the phantom of a grand, spirited, wholesome experience of living that it offers to many.

Like other cities in the world, this ‘city of lights’ has its own special zone that houses the ‘red light area.’ It has thrived on Napier Road from before the time this country was born. Unlike the Heera Mandi, which was the residence of the courtesans and prostitutes of Mughal Lahore, Karachi’s Napier Road has never had the airs of a seat of culture. Heera Mandi continues to exist as the country’s most well known prostitutes’ quarter. Napier Road is just one of its many counterparts. But perhaps what distinguishes these mohallas – from Lucknow to Lahore – from the rest of the world are their singing and dancing girls. They not only provide enticement, but also entertainment and diversion to their male clients.

The grandeur of the Lucknow quarters of Hadi Ruswa’s Umrao Jan Ada and the art and craft of the courtesans — gentle manners, etiquette and appreciation of the fine arts of poetry, music and dance — are long gone. Nevertheless, it is important to remember that both Heera Mandi and Napier Road have provided the Pakistani film industry with several luminaries.

 

Every evening, from 10:00pm until midnight, the doors of the flats remain open. Those who tread up the stairs can decide which smile is more bewitching, which movement more alluring. The girls are in their finery, the ‘mothers’ are watchful. Pakistani and Indian film songs sung to the tune of the harmonium and the beat of the tabla, echo in the buildings
 

For this story, an extensive rigmarole of connections was tried out; denials, temper outbursts, dead-ends as well as cautious meetings were experienced. A ‘link’ to Napier Road had to be found as one could not end up at some tawaif’s doorstep and expect her to narrate her story. True, one was filled with trepidation by this visit to the mohalla, but nevertheless, there was a lot of curiosity as well as concern.

The rendezvous with an ‘insider’ is set for 4:00pm. “This is the stretch between the Nigar and Kumar cinema houses, and I will be waiting for you in front of a medical store,” he confirms on the phone. It is hoped that this man will be true to his word and this is no chicanery. For moral support, I take a friend along.

On arrival, our own apprehensions and the reactions of the inhabitants interlock like the teeth of a good zip-fastener. Despite a hot afternoon, the street is not as deserted as one would have expected. Shops located in shabby buildings along the street are selling food, medicines, cloth, hardware, and much more.

Two men are waiting for us. On seeing the car slow down, a few children tag behind. Our ‘link,’ Adam (not his real name), speaks into his mobile phone. Moments later, a middle-aged woman emerges from the shadows of a building. We exchange pleasantries and follow the two men into a building with overflowing gutters at the entrance. The children are gruffly shooed away by the woman who follows us.

Ascending the stairs, zigzagging over piles of garbage, with four-pawed felines rummaging around, we enter a flat on the third floor.

We are greeted by two women: Seher, in her thirties, with olive skin and a pleasant demeanour, and the mother, Maroofa, an elderly, thick-skinned lady with silver hair.

No statues, pictures, divans, rugs, easy chairs, books, or bric-a-brac appear where one could dream one’s life away. Instead, the outer room has an old linoleum floor with gao takiyas lined up against the wall. In one corner lies a harmonium, a pair of tablas and ghungroos. The inner room, where we are led, is a tiny, stuffy room with a sofa and a bed. This is surely a poor woman’s burrow.

The men sit on the bed, while the hostesses sit on the floor. The woman who had appeared in the street walks in just then. All stand up to greet her. “This is Sajida Apa.” Adam bows his head in deference while the burly, breathless woman makes herself comfortable on the bed.

We are informed that this district was closed for over four years, and it was due to Sajida’s “personal and endless efforts and expenditure that the place reopened two months ago.” This is acknowledged by each person we meet. All seem to revere her.

Apparently, the local police clamped down on the activities of the 200 or so flats of this mohalla in 1998. It was after persistent efforts, ultimately going up to the High Court, that the Mohtisib-i-Aala or Ombudsmen, has now legally notified that the area may function as before.

Adam says the reason for the clampdown is not clear.

“These women are simply artists who sing and dance to entertain. They do it in their own homes, or are taken to people’s homes for mujras or for variety shows. The bazaar is shut during the month of Ramazan, the ten days of Muharram and on Eid-i-Milad,” he clarifies and goes on to explain the contribution of “this university of stars, where talent gets nurtured.” He asks if we know of any state-run institution for music and dance from which the radio, film and television industries have benefited. He is proud that this place has one registered “Anjuman-i-Musiqaraan” and one unregistered “Anjuman-i-Fankaraan-i-Mausiqi” – associations for musicians – overseeing umbrella organizations. Adam is acting as spokesperson for the registered body.

I turn to ask Maroofa if Seher is her only daughter. Maroofa says she has sons who are married and live on their own. The mother and daughter are left to fend for themselves. Maroofa is quite clearly a Pathan, whereas it is difficult to tell Seher’s origins.

“Don’t you want to get married?” My friend turns to Seher. She replies that she has a teenage son. She did get ‘married,’ but she was very young then, and returned to her mother as her ‘husband’ refused to take care of her mother.

I ask if the marriages here work out, if at all. Seher says there are very few girls who have gone away leading happily married lives. Most of them come back. On inquiring what her son does, she says he has just completed class ten.

“Do his friends at school know where he lives?”

“No, it’s a secret,” Seher says. She has a secret of her own. She sings at a prestigious restaurant in the evening but the management has no clue that she belongs to the infamous district. When we say we might drop by there to hear her sing, Seher pleads, “Please don’t tell them where I live.”

Adam and Nawaz are musicians. Many girls in the area practice singing and dancing with them every day between 3:00 to 5:00pm, except on Fridays, as they are busy with their ‘tuitions.’

According to Sajida, there are now just about 25 flats in the area carrying on with this business. Sajida does not live here. Her daughter is a student at a local medical college. This is the only information she gives about herself. She goes on to comment that by shutting down these quarters for such a long period, the police have only forced the girls to spread out into ‘respectable’ areas of the city. It seems the heydays of Napier Road are over.

Another woman enters the room to pay a visit. Sans dupatta, showing plenty of skin and jewellery, she is introduced as a neighbour. She has only just moved from Lahore. “Isn’t Lahore a better place for business?” She is asked. Her reply comes in riddles. She soon makes an excuse and exits. The others just shrug their shoulders as if to say it is her personal matter.

The first blow to this business came when the Karachi film industry went bust several years ago. Some of the sought-after girls from these quarters who got modelling assignments from the print and electronic media moved on to become film actors. Baggage in tow, these girls shifted to Lahore. The exodus of the girls, their relatives and hangers-on left a big, howling lacuna which envelops these quarters in webs of glorious nostalgia. As times changed, social taboos against modelling, singing, acting and dancing also dwindled. Educated young men and women from respectable families now choose performing arts as careers.

We are inside the “Husn-i-Noor” building. Opposite it stands a ramshackle “Shamshad Manzil,” where one of the most dazzling stars of the film industry used to live. The smile that launched a washing powder commercial, before it launched a thousand ships ruled the film industry for almost two decades. The dilapidated look of the balcony where she once stood – broken windows, a rag for a curtain and junk furniture lying in it – is ample evidence of how those who have made it big never return to Napier Road.

Plastic, glass and leather-ware small industries have now been set up in many a building that once belonged to the ‘courtesans.’ The most famous building of its time called “Bulbul Hazaar Dastaan” has now been abandoned. “Sangeet Mahal,” “Fankar Mahal,” “Jamila-Shakila Building” are some of the other well-known blocks of flats where business is not as usual.

Back in the street, we run into two girls wearing black outer gowns and headscarves. Their good looks, compounded by their coquetry, are obvious indications that they belong to these quarters. Made up to the hilt, the girls are carrying shiny mobile phones and huge shopping bags. They are introduced as Zahida and Nadira. We trudge up again to speak to them in their own flat. The place appears even poorer than the previous one. This ‘mother’ also does not resemble the ‘daughters.’

There is something vulnerable and pathetic about the girls. They spin the tale they have memorized. There are several younger siblings to take care of who don’t want to go to school. This is the good life; singing and dancing until midnight, watching video films or television all night, sleeping during the day and then the tuitions in the afternoons. Life goes on. Who needs to have skills of any other kind?

“Can we come back in the evening to watch the girls sing and dance?” I ask Adam. We are assured that we can do that, perhaps in the company of our husbands.

“People come of their own will and pay anything between Rs200 to Rs20,000 for a performance. We neither fix any rates nor do we turn anyone out,” Sajida says authoritatively. “Men of the upper classes don’t come here any more.”

“And this is not to speak of the drunks, neurotics and creeps who sometimes might appear to preponderate among the other, more easygoing clients?” I ask. Adam points out at a sticker on the wall that warns in Urdu that consumption of liquor is not allowed in the premises. Wonder if a sticker can take care of such tricky issues.

Every evening, from 10:00pm until midnight, the doors of the flats remain open. Those who tread up the stairs can decide which smile is more bewitching, which movement more alluring. The girls are in their finery, the ‘mothers’ are watchful. Pakistani and Indian film songs sung to the tune of the harmonium and the beat of the tabla, echo in the buildings. Ankle bells jingle.

Although there are no flower shops on the street, the traditional gajras are bought before entering the quarters from young boys, who show up in the street each evening. All the eating places here remain open until dawn.

“Yahan dhoka faraib koee nahi,” (there is no deceit, no treachery here) says one of the girls, categorically.

Please Visit our Sponsor (Ads open in separate window)