The twilight often brought a peculiar kind of hush to Sagar Vihar, a canal housing society nestled on the city’s quieter edge. The gurgle of the water, flowing languidly past manicured lawns and pastel-coloured villas, usually drowned out the distant hum of traffic. Here, life moved at a measured pace, governed by the rhythm of domesticity: children’s laughter echoing from the park, the faint aroma of dinner wafting from open kitchens, the polite nods exchanged during evening walks.Escorts In Canal Housing Societies
Aisha, a retired professor of English literature, often sat on her balcony, a cup of jasmine tea cooling in her hands, observing this tranquil tableau. She knew every car, every dog, most of the regular faces. Sagar Vihar was a bubble, a haven of predictable respectability.
Then, subtly, almost imperceptibly, the new faces began to appear.
They weren’t residents. Their cars, sleek and expensive, were unfamiliar. The women who stepped out of them were different from the usual Sagar Vihar wives or daughters. They possessed a certain composure, an almost ethereal detachment. Their clothes were impeccably chosen, often leaning towards understated elegance rather than the casual comfort of the residents. They carried designer bags, their heels clicked softly on the paved driveways, a fleeting scent of expensive perfume lingering in their wake.
They would arrive in the late afternoon, just as the sun began its descent, painting the canal waters in hues of orange and purple. They’d exchange a brief, polite nod with the guards, who, after an initial awkwardness, had adopted a practiced nonchalance. They would disappear into one of the larger, grander villas – often the ones owned by businessmen who travelled frequently, or by single, older men who lived alone.
The whispers started, hushed and furtive, over morning walks and coffee meet-ups. “Did you see who came to Mr. Sharma’s house yesterday?” “That’s the third different woman at the Singhania villa this week.” The word “escort” hung unspoken in the air, a delicate, almost vulgar bloom in the pristine garden of Sagar Vihar.
Aisha, initially, felt the collective discomfort. It was an intrusion, a crack in the carefully maintained facade of their peaceful haven. A part of her bristled at the perceived impropriety, the clash of worlds. But then, she observed more closely.
She noticed the quiet dignity with which these women carried themselves. There was no overt flirtation, no loud chatter. They were always punctual, always discreet. Sometimes, as they waited for their ride, she would catch a glimpse of their faces in the fading light – not hard, cynical, or overtly sensual, but often tired. A weariness in the eyes, a subtle tension around the mouth that even a practiced smile couldn’t entirely erase. They looked like women who understood the complexities of the world, women who had seen things, felt things, beyond the sheltered lives of Sagar Vihar.
One evening, a young woman, perhaps no older than Aisha’s granddaughter, fumbled with her phone by the canal bank, waiting for her cab. The streetlights flickered, casting her profile in stark relief. She looked utterly exhausted, her shoulders slumped, her gaze fixed on the quiet, flowing water. For a moment, the polished exterior cracked, revealing a vulnerability that transcended her profession. She wasn’t an “escort” in that moment; she was just a woman, tired, alone, waiting.
Aisha felt a shift within her. The canal, she realized, was a silent witness to all kinds of lives. It flowed past the grand villas and the modest bungalows, past the laughter and the quiet struggles, past the visible and the hidden. And just as the canal carried waters from different sources, bringing them together, Sagar Vihar, too, was becoming a conduit for lives from different realms.
The escorts in Canal Housing Societies were not just a disruption; they were a mirror. They reflected the unspoken desires, the loneliness, the transactional nature of certain human connections that existed even within the most seemingly perfect communities. They were a reminder that beneath the manicured lawns and the placid waters, life was always more intricate, more nuanced, and infinitely more human than it appeared on the surface.
Aisha still watched them arrive and depart, a quiet observer. But now, her gaze held less judgment and more a profound, melancholic understanding. The societal bubble of Sagar Vihar hadn’t burst; it had merely expanded, subtly, to encompass the quiet, dignified presence of women who navigated a different kind of life, right there, by the endlessly flowing canal.
