The pre-Partition building is an architectural masterstroke — five levels in stretched oval form, cut through the middle like a celebration cake; the sky is visible from each door and a full moon bathes squalid corridors in silver.

Bulbul Hazar Dastan has dimmed into a dark alley opposite the iconic Sangeet Mahal; it bursts with waste and women, with an old tailoring shop on one end. The rock stairway is heaped with refuse, rats and cats but the heavy teak railing embedded in its rock wall speaks of good days on Napier Road.

Fabled landmarks have left the area — the boards of Bulbul Hazar Dastan, Anjuman-i-Fankaran-i-Mausiqi, Bazar-i-Husn are no more; Jamila Shakila Building and Fankar Mahal have become indiscernible. Candlelit glass cases with change for performances do not brighten entrances as business is in daylight. Dances are slowing into oblivion.

Now, vendors, encroachers and heavy vehicles jostle through smog.

As we enter the passage and skip over trash and sewage, older women bear flashes of bygone brilliance; the past flickers in the odd bindi, a slender anklet, jhumkas or graceful demeanour.

An uninhibited announcement — “Aliya’s new lover will be seen on Monday” — resounds behind us amid laughter. But a jolt awaits us on the third floor where three boys are playing in a doorway. When asked about their family, a five-year-old says, “We live with our mother and she is standing in the lane for work.”

Many relics of Noor Mahal’s salad days dot this floor — old plaques forbid strangers; a door says “there is purdah in this home. Strangers not allowed,” and old ghazals play in a few rooms.

However, primetime rages on below — the lower floors are wells of wit, banter, naughty smiles and thick skins unaffected by ugliness and tragedies. Shazia is in the midst of it all — the dusky beauty lost two children in childbirth. At sunset, she likes her pegs from the wine shop and they all love their joints. “Taza kamaatay hain, taza khaatay hain,” chuckles Shazia, who, in her early 20s, fears that she may be ageing for her trade.

“We start work a week after giving birth,” says Saima. “We don’t rejoice at the birth of a girl anymore as there is no prosperity in this field. We want sons.”

The ancient custom of celebrating the birth of a girl child has left the building. As recently as seven years ago, there were dhols, songs, lights and feasts each time a girl was born. But when Bulbul’s fortunes shifted, it turned entirely primal. “The work is sordid now,” is frail Afiya’s take. She is merry after a few and has spent 30 years here.

Afiya talks about the deaths of her four children and faithful clients. Not one to wallow, she switches to her heyday. “Now broke men come here. In my time, the hourly room system thrived. Mine would have a queue of 50 men and my dance set the standard,” she slurs with pride.

Her reminiscence is broken with Kiran’s arrival. Noor Mahal’s candid new occupant from Lahore puts on her ghungroos and breaks into a brazen dance. Afiya, unable to share the limelight, rushes back. “Now watch this old woman’s steps,” she laughs.

She begins pirouetting to Yeh duniya pittal di and, the smooth, graceful performance matches her claims; we clap up a storm. “A true artist from the past,” say the girls in unison. But Afiya leaves with condescension, “We had art. Now each of them services 35 customers a day.”

The environment has decayed but attitudes are pricier than ever before. Women have cut loose from subservience and discard brokers soon after initiation. The men are then paid to procure rations, cigarettes, and for odd jobs. At present, the tragedy is an unexpected recklessness towards disease. “Doctor bhi customer banna chahta hai. Ilaaj kya karega!” guffaws Shazia.

In the past, migrants outnumbered Punjabis; today, barring three Bangladeshis, all women are from Punjab. From 700 in 2008, the numbers have dwindled to some 300 residents. However, figures rocket to 1,000 over weekends. Their relocation, caused by turf wars, is a sour note for musicians whereas instrument shops have flourished — from a mere four, the area now has 12 of them.

Although most wounds are kissed away, there is one sore that pervades generations. “Schools do not enrol without a father’s name. Some get children in with a client’s clout or a fake certificate but it is unsustainable,” says an old dancer who hopes for help from NGOs.

Where women present picture-perfect empowerment, customers — policemen, port people, labourers and poor tourists — scurry about silently. Perhaps because Shazia and her ilk are clear that abuse is a privilege for no one. “We are here on our own terms and will crush any cruel hand.”

This quarter has no room for force. They make the most of their body and time, but not of the heart. In the end, before lighting Thursday diyas for holy figures, Shazia shares a profound mantra: avoid long eye contact and keep the body far from the soul.

Published in Dawn, May 18th, 2014