Escorts In Jubilee Town Lahore It merely pretends to, exhaling the day’s heat in a long, dusty sigh that settles over the rooftops. The main boulevard, a river of honking rickshaws and motorbikes, eventually slows to a trickle. The shops pull down their shutters with a familiar, metallic clatter. But in the spaces between—the narrow lanes where the scent of sizzling kebabs mingles with the ghost of yesterday’s rain—a different kind of life stirs.
This is where Farid Alam holds his court. Not in a palace, but in a third-floor apartment above a fabric dyeing workshop, the air perpetually tinged with the faint, chemical sweetness of indigo. He is a man in his late fifties, with the careful composure of a retired banker and the weary eyes of a confessor. To the outside world, he is a modest property dealer. But in the hushed tones of a certain clientele, he is something else entirely: a curator, a gatekeeper, a purveyor of discretion.
His phone, an old model with a scratched screen, is his altar. It chirps not with the cacophony of the city, but with a specific, coded language.
“Sir, I need a plus-one for the dinner at Faletti’s. Someone who can discuss Mughal art.”
“Uncle, a companion for the evening. Quiet. Well-read.”
“A business associate is in town for one night. Ensure he experiences the famed Lahwali mehmaan nawazi .”
Farid’s work is not about the transaction of bodies. In his world, it is the transaction of presence. He deals in illusions, carefully crafted to soothe a specific loneliness. The wealthy industrialist from Dubai, tired of sycophants, who yearns for an hour of intelligent, undemanding conversation with a sharp-witted postgraduate student of history. The lonely widow in her large, empty house in Defence, who pays a charming young man to escort her to a gallery opening, to feel the arm of a companion under her hand and silence the pitying whispers of her circle.
His “escorts” are not a nameless, faceless commodity. To him, they are a portfolio of human specialties. There is Ayesha, the psychology major with a voice like honey, who excels at drawing out the anxieties of powerful men who can show weakness to no one else. There is Kamran, a former cricketer with a fractured dream and impeccable manners, who specializes in making middle-aged women feel seen and beautiful again. And then there is Zara, the most requested, an enigma who can code-switch from a demure, shawl-clad intellectual to the life of a high-society party in the time it takes to ride from Jubilee Town to Gulberg.
Farid’s genius lies in his matchmaking. He is a connoisseur of solitude. A client does not simply request “a woman” or “a man.” They request an experience, a feeling. And Farid, from his indigo-scented office, cross-references their desires with the skills and boundaries of his associates. He is fiercely protective of them, vetting clients with the precision of a spy, his network of drivers and hotel valets acting as his eyes and ears. The first sign of disrespect, and the number is blocked forever. In a shadow economy, he has built a fragile ecosystem based on an unexpected currency: respect.
One humid night, a request comes in that is different. It is not from a stored number, but a nervous, young voice from a public phone near the mosque.
“Salaam… a friend said you… provide company. For my mother. It is her birthday. My father… he passed last year. We have no family here. She just… she needs to remember how to laugh.”
Farid listens, the city’s noise fading into the background. This is not a request from wealth or lust, but from a son’s love and a mother’s profound grief. He does not quote a price. Instead, he asks about her—what she used to love, what music she listened to, what made her smile.
The next evening, an old man, a retired professor of literature with kind eyes and a pocket watch, arrives at a modest home in Jubilee Town itself. He brings a single rose and a book of poetry. He does not stay long. But those who live in the house next door would later swear that for the first time in a year, they heard the unmistakable, joyful sound of a woman’s laughter ringing out into the night.
The phone chirps again. Another request. Another silence waiting to be filled. Farid Alam picks up, the gatekeeper of a thousand secret lives, orchestrating moments of connection in a disconnected world, all from a small room that smells faintly of indigo, high above the sleeping, watchful streets of Jubilee Town.
