"I still remember those days when the 'kotha' was filled with people. Today, there are hardly a handful," says 45-year-old Shenaaz, as she dabs rouge on her cheeks, preparing for the routine mujra dance session that takes place on GB Road every night after nine.
"There were times we were called to dance at parties and weddings, now few call us. Everyone wants foreign women to dance at their parties; it's a matter of status. We'll probably embarrass them with our cheap saris," says Shenaaz who hails from Rajasthan.
Of the estimated 1000 odd sex workers on GB Road, only a few know and practice mujra now. While some train under artistes, for others the art has been passed down through generations.
"My mother was a mujra dancer and so was my grandmother. Under them I learnt the classical form of the dance, but now people want to see us dancing to Bollywood numbers. It kills the purity of the art, but do we have a choice!
"Previously dancers did it because they enjoyed it, today it has become a matter of survival as those who dance are paid more" smiles 26-year-old Shanti from Lucknow, revealing her paan-stained teeth.
Mujra, which incorporates elements of Kathak dance, was patronised during the Mughal era. But over the centuries the term 'tawaif' (courtesans) became synonymous with sex workers and 'kothas' came to be associated with brothels.
"We saw a demure Rekha in the movie 'Umrao Jaan' and Meena Kumari in 'Pakeezah.' They won acclaim for these roles, but reel life doesn't come close to reality," says historian Nazaf Haider, Associate Professor in Jawaharlal Nehru University.
People's perception of the art form has changed over the years, says Haider, adding that today these dancers are associated to prostitution more than the hundreds of years of culture that they represent.
"When once Mujra was performed to 'thumris', ghazals or popular poems of Ghalib, today it is performed to Bollywood numbers. In the original dance the emphasis was more on footwork. The art has lost its patronage. It is dead now," he says.
"No, the art is not dead," counters Vineet Hans who runs an events management company in Delhi.
"A lot of parties these days want Mujra dancers. The only difference is that the demand for blonde European women has gone up; white women up the glamour quotient," says Hans.
When asked why women like Shenaaz and Shanti aren't called for parties anymore, Hans shrugs. "I do feel bad for them, but what can we do? We need to cater to clients and few want Indian women these days. They feel European women are more beautiful."
Losing their livelihood along with the art is not the only problem faced by these dancers, they have to deal with abusive customers too. While most of the "unruly clients" are dealt with by the 'maliks' or the older women in these 'kothas,' few cases are reported to the police.
"I have given my mobile number to many of the sex workers on GB Road to contact me in case they have a problem, but few approach me," says SHO of Kamala Market police station Surinder Jeet Kaur.
Kaur brushes aside claims by some of the dancers that police frequently disrupt their mujra dance sessions in the evenings by conducting raids and scare away customers.
"I'm not aware of any raids during the dance sessions. But when we do conduct raids it is to search for minors who have been smuggled into these 'kothas'," says the officer.
Adversities are many, but that hasn't stopped these dancers from practising the art, although they wouldn't encourage their daughters to choose their path.
"We take our art seriously and want to keep it alive as long as we live. But we wouldn't want our daughters to do what we are doing. We want them to lead normal lives. We don't want people to look away and make faces like they do to us," says 37-year-old Rangeela, who works in a building in the area which houses the maximum number of Mujra dancers.
"I watched Madhuri Dikshit dancing to 'Maar Daala' in 'Devdas.' We feel proud when we find that we inspire people to write about us... that we are part of history. So many people come to us to ask questions about our work and our problems. We don't see them ever again, nor does help come our way," says 26-year-old Bhavna from Rajasthan, attending to a tear in her faded anarkali dress.