Aisha walked briskly, her heels clicking a rhythmic counterpoint to the city’s slumbering hum. She was not going home. Not yet. Her ‘home’ was a small, rented room in an older part of Gulberg, where she shed the carefully constructed persona of “Zara”—the exotic, vivacious, slightly mysterious woman of the night. In that small room, among her sister’s textbooks and a single, battered copy of Faiz Ahmed Faiz, she became Aisha again: a girl barely in her twenties, burdened by a family’s silent expectations and a secret life.
Call Girls In Lahore, a city of saints and sinners, of ancient Sufi shrines and glittering shopping malls, of devout calls to prayer and the hidden whispers of desire. Aisha knew both its faces intimately. By day, she saw the families in Data Darbar, the students poring over books in public libraries, the bustling markets where mothers haggled over spices. By night, she saw the desperation of men, the fleeting connections, the quiet despair that sometimes mirrored her own.
Her journey had begun not with a choice, but with a series of circumstances that tightened like a noose. Her father’s sudden illness, the mounting medical bills, her younger sister Fatima’s bright, untamed spirit yearning for an education their meagre savings couldn’t afford. The calculus was brutal, simple. Her beauty, her quick wit, her ability to make a stranger feel momentarily seen—these were assets she could leverage. Better her, she had reasoned, than Fatima.
The work itself was a blur of hotel rooms, hushed apartments, and the clinking of ice in glass. Each encounter was a carefully choreographed dance of pretense. She listened to their stories, their frustrations, their grand plans, offering a temporary balm to their anxieties. She learned to anticipate their needs, to project an understanding she rarely felt. Sometimes, a flicker of genuine kindness would pass between her and a client, a shared moment of humanity that felt both precious and profoundly sad. More often, it was just business – a transaction of time, a performance of intimacy, an exchange of money for a piece of herself she pretended not to own.
Tonight, as she navigated the familiar alleyways, the cool night air began to lift the mask. The heavy kohl around her eyes felt smudged, the scent of expensive perfume cloying. She yearned for the simple scent of her own skin, the quiet solitude of her room. She yearned for Fatima’s innocent chatter about school, for the rough pages of her poetry book.
She reached an old, discreet café that was just closing. The owner, an elderly man with kind eyes, usually offered her a cup of chai without question. He knew nothing of Zara, only Aisha, the quiet girl who sometimes came in late, always with a book.
“Chai, Baba?” she asked, her voice softer now, less polished. He nodded, already pouring. “Another long night, beti?” She simply smiled, a genuine, tired curve of her lips. “Some nights are longer than others.”
Sitting by the window, watching the last few rickshaws rumble past, Aisha allowed herself to feel the weariness. Not just physical exhaustion, but the soul-deep ache of living a fractured life. She thought of Fatima’s beaming face when she received her new set of textbooks, paid for by Zara’s earnings. She thought of the promise she’d made herself: this was temporary. Just until Fatima finished her degree. Just until they could open that small tailor shop she dreamed of.
The steam from the chai warmed her hands, a small comfort against the chill that seeped into her bones. She pulled out a small, silver locket from beneath her clothes—a gift from her grandmother, unworn during her ‘sessions.’ It was the real Aisha, tucked away, safe.
The moon, a sliver of white in the Lahore sky, began its slow descent. Soon, the first whispers of the Azaan would echo through the city, calling the faithful to dawn prayers. For Aisha, it would be a call to sleep, to shed the night’s skin, to prepare for another day of being just Aisha, waiting for the sun to rise on a different future, hoping the price she paid wasn’t too high.
