Ab yahan pehlay wala koi nizam nahin [the old brothel system doesn’t exist anymore],” says a pimp in Hyderabad’s Bazaar-i-Husn [literally, the Beauty Bazaar], the historic

red-light district of the city. He looks down at the simmering hot cup of tea just served to him, before quickly searching for the contact number of a senior sex worker on his costly Note 5 mobile phone.

“Mobile phones have made things easier for everyone. People are no longer dependent on one madam or man,” says the pimp. “The time has long gone when a man or woman would provide sex workers to a certain party. You can now get pictures of prostitutes on WhatsApp before striking a deal.”

Nostalgia is what remains of the city’s historic brothels

The pimp’s description of activities in today’s Bazaar-i-Husn is beautifully apt. The bazaar today can be described as a slum with a labyrinth of tiny lanes. Children of prostitutes play in the lanes and men gather at a square near Khaki Shah’s shrine in the locality’s midst. Brand new cars of sex workers are parked wherever space is available.

But it is no longer a bazaar that was frequented by nawabs and other patrons of the arts. A few blocks of multi-storeyed buildings and duplexes still exist to remind people of the heydays of the bazaar. But dance and melody have left, as have many whose artistic talent could not be restricted to the bazaar alone.

The brothel survives in some forms, however, as sex workers, young and old, maintain pace with the times to keep business going. Many have turned to social media to broaden their customer base. And clientele, according to the pimp, is expanding.

“Look at these pictures,” the pimp gestures to his phone. “This is Sohail Manzil (1973). This is the old residence of another movie star, Khawar alias Chakori.”

Such structures would otherwise be indiscernible. But many of them are birthplaces of Sindhi and Pakistani film stars. While some celebrities lived here before they emerged on the horizon of the big screen in the 1970s-1980s, nostalgia occasionally brings a few former residents back to the area, particularly during the month of Muharram.

Tabassum*, erstwhile stage artist and contemporary of Chakori (of the Maula Jatt fame) and Mahpara, laments the area’s lost charm and glamour. “Ab yahan kuch nahi hota [Nothing happens here anymore],” she cribs as she relates how sex workers have scattered to different areas and cities.

The bazaar lost its splendour sometime in the late 1970s. In that bygone era, young women would loiter in the balconies and comb their hair while striking poses for onlookers. They would gesture and entice potential clients to venture inside. Such mannerisms had a certain attraction for the client.

While there were always those men who’d turn up to fulfil their lust, many others with a taste for aesthetics would gather at the bazaar for mujra (dance). Dancing women would lay out clean, white sheets on their abodes’ upper storey rooms. Musical instruments such as the tabla, dhol and harmonium would be arranged by musicians as would pillows of various shapes and sizes. These were gatherings for cultured men.

Then came a famous police raid in November, 1974 that put an end to raqs-o-suroor (dance and music) in the area. It was carried out during the Zulfikar Ali Bhutto regime, after religious leaders objected to the red light district being in proximity with the popular Medina Mosque in Hyderabad’s oldest Seroghat area. Hundreds of prostitutes and dancing girls were huddled into police trucks during the raid — this marked the beginning of the bazaar’s fateful demise.

Although dance and music had ended, prostitution continued. But another raid in the mid-1990s ended that practice too. Since then, the sex business of the bazaar has survived only in a clandestine manner.

The locality’s present inhabitants come from sub-class of the Punjabi community, the Nutt. They used to either be associated with circus shows or were nomads, say neighbours who live in the brothel’s surroundings and know much about the area’s past and present.

“What makes Nutts different from the earlier residents is culture and mannerism, which was the former’s hallmark,” says Salamat Feroz, a resident of Wadhho Ka Pir. Salamat’s father is Sindh’s top musician, late Feroz Gul, who also mentored the iconic Abida Parveen. Girls and women passionate about singing used to approach Gul to learn singing.

Meanwhile, among the top dance teachers of the locality was Mairaj Hussain alias Raju Samrat. He is 60 years old now.

“Kabhi ujrat nahi mangi in logon sey [I never charged them a penny],” says Raju as his youngest son helps him sip tea while he speaks.

The veteran choreographer has lost his eyesight due to cataract but not his art. He still trains dancers if hired. “Ab USB ka zamana hai,” he laughs and says prostitutes learn dance on their own. “I remember one malka [brothel’s madam] protesting during the police raid, saying ‘tawaif or khan-gi ko alag karo’ [separate the dancing women from the prostitutes],” he says.

Sex workers are, indeed, keeping pace with present era and making fortunes. It is evident from their graceful demeanour and luxurious lifestyle. Affluent men in many cases bear their monthly expenses —known as kharcha in brothel jargon — and they are under obligation not to sleep with anyone else.

“Vo Nawabshah key heyn jinkey kharchey per hun main [The one who bears my expenses is from Nawabshah],” says Alishah, an adolescent prostitute, after extending a confident handshake. Her face is slathered in makeup while she wears a resplendent dark blue embroidered shalwar kameez.

Using expensive iPhone-7 and Note-5 mobiles, she says, is her hobby. “Aik maango chhay de jaatay heyn [I ask for one but they offer six],” she says while alluding to her wealthy ‘friends’. Alisha studied till seventh grade and also hinted at moving from the brothel to Autobhan Road, one of Hyderabad’s premiere real state locations. “Flat dhoondh rahay heyn Autobhan Road par [We are searching for an apartment on Autobhan Road],” she says as her mother keeps on giving tips to her on what to say during the conversation.

Back in 1993, 67-year-old Syed Sarwar Nadeem, Hyderabad’s noted stage drama writer and journalist, had written ‘Kala Bazaar’ on brothel life in Hyderabad. He explains that their prostitution is not sans principles.

“A daughter-in-law in a family will never be a prostitute but her own daughter will certainly be,” he says. He claims that the son of a Balochistan tribal chief from the Bugti clan, a politician who served as Sindh’s chief minister and a present day PPP leader during his student’s life used to frequent the red light area.

But things have changed now. With distinguished personalities no longer frequenting the district as often, the locality is now dotted with mounds of garbage, broken civic infrastructure and overflowing gutters.

“This situation is in sharp contrast to the cleanliness we experienced in the 1970s-1980s,” says Tabassum.

Today, even the various approaches to the brothel have been shut down and the brothel’s territory has been greatly squeezed. Bazaar-i-Husn now resembles a compound since walls were raised to segregate it from other nearby localities.

But while the walls have gone up, the sex trade has left the bazaar and made its way to other locales. Many sex workers have now bought properties elsewhere while older properties in the bazaar have been sold.

Husn might have left the bazaar but it still resides in Hyderabad.

The writer is a member of staff

Published in Dawn, EOS, April 30th, 2017