Call Girls In Kings Town Lahore after midnight is a different city. The aggressive honking of the day recedes, replaced by the low, syncopated hum of generators fighting a losing battle against the heat. The neon signs of food streets and wedding boutiques bleed their primary colours onto the empty, wide roads, creating puddles of artificial light in the vast darkness.
In this altered landscape, Maya was a fixed point, a landmark. She did not stand on the main boulevard, but in the interstitial space between two closed showrooms, a sliver of shadow that she had claimed as her own territory. She was a cartographer of this nocturnal world, mapping its desires, its vulnerabilities, its fleeting, expensive intimacies.
Men in cars would slow, their windows gliding down with a soft electric whir. Their eyes, first cautious, then appraising, would scan her. She met their gazes not with submission or invitation, but with a cool, transactional neutrality. She was not selling herself; she was offering a service. A performance. A carefully constructed fantasy of companionship, whispered secrets, and temporary escape.
Her clients were a mosaic of Kings Town’s duality. The university boy with too much family money and not enough courage to talk to the girls in his class. The weary businessman from out of town, craving a listener who wouldn’t ask about his failing export business. The middle-aged government official, his body soft with privilege, seeking a thrill that his structured life denied him.
Each was a story, and Maya was their temporary confessional. In the anonymous, perfumed silence of a five-star hotel room or the backseat of a air-conditioned car, they unspooled. They spoke of lonely wives, oppressive fathers, dreams they’d abandoned, and sins they’d committed. She listened, her responses practiced, her empathy a well-honed tool. She offered absolution not through judgment or forgiveness, but through absolute, paid-for silence.
Her real life was a small, immaculate apartment in a less glamorous part of town, paid for in crisp cash. Here, the perfume was washed away, replaced by the scent of jasmine tea. Here, she was not Maya. She was Ayesha, a woman who nurtured a small balcony garden, who saved money quietly for a future she couldn’t quite picture, and who spoke to her mother on the phone every Sunday, crafting elaborate fictions about her respectable job at a “marketing firm.”
The two worlds were airtight compartments, and she was the sole navigator between them. Yet, the walls sometimes trembled.
One humid Thursday, a client, younger than most, his eyes holding a strange mixture of arrogance and desperation, asked her a question the others were too polite, or too ashamed, to voice.
“Aren’t you afraid?” he asked, not unkindly. “Afraid of God? Of ending up… you know…”
Maya, applying her lipstick in the vanity mirror, didn’t pause. Her voice was serene, a flat calm that betrayed no emotion. “The world is full of hells, sahib,” she said, meeting his eyes in the reflection. “Some are just better decorated than others.”
He left soon after, the transaction complete, his curiosity unsatisfied. But his question lingered in the room like smoke.
Later, standing in her slice of shadow again, she watched the prowling cars. She thought of the young man’s fear. Her own fears were more practical: a police raid, a jealous rival, a client who turned violent. The metaphysical fear of damnation was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Survival was a secular religion, and its rituals were performed with cash and caution.
A large, black SUV slowed to a halt. The window descended. For a heart-stopping moment, she saw the familiar, stern face of a man who attended the same political rallies her father had once dragged her to. A man of power, of public piety. Their eyes met. A flash of mutual recognition, of horrifyingly collapsed worlds, passed between them.
His face tightened. The window slid up as smoothly as it had opened, and the car accelerated away, disappearing into the neon-streaked night.
Maya didn’t move. The generator across the street sputtered and died, plunging her corner into deeper darkness. In that sudden black silence, she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air. She was a ghost in the machine of Kings Town, visible only in the dark, erased by the light. She was the secret everyone knew and no one acknowledged, the testament to the vast, silent chasm between the day’s propriety and the night’s truth.
Taking a slow, steadying breath, she pulled out her compact, the click of it opening unnaturally loud in the quiet. By the faint light of a distant billboard, she checked her makeup. The mask was perfect. She smoothed her dress, a soldier adjusting her armour before returning to the front line of a war no one would ever declare.
Another car was approaching, its headlights cutting twin beams through the gloom. Maya lifted her chin, ready to once again become the listener, the fantasy, the cartographer charting a course through another lonely man’s night.
