The amber glow of a Lahore sunset is a thing of alchemy. It doesn’t just fall on the city; it transforms it. The red sandstone of the Mughal monuments bleeds into a deeper crimson, the chaotic buzz of Mall Road softens to a hum, and the air, thick with heat and fumes just moments before, suddenly carries the scent of jasmine and roasting cumin.
In this gilded hour, the city reveals its dual nature. It is both ancient shrine and modern marketplace, a place of whispered prayers and loud, unapologetic commerce. And in the interstice between these two worlds, I perform my own kind of alchemy.
My name is not important. In my world, names are like the costumes in my closet—changed to suit the role, the client, the evening. Tonight, as the sun dips behind the minarets of the Badshahi Mosque, I am Anya. Anya, with the hint of a foreign education and a laugh that suggests expensive champagne.
My chariot is not a white horse but a sleek, black sedan, its windows tinted against the inquisitive stares of the world. Inside, the air is cool and smells of polished leather and my own subtle perfume—Joy, by Jean Patou. A classic. It suggests a history I may or may not actually have.
“The Serena Hotel, please, Rafiq,” I say, my Urdu laced with the deliberate, polished accent of someone who code-switches with ease.
Rafiq, my driver and my keeper, nods silently. He is a mountain of a man with eyes that have seen everything and a discretion worth more than his weight in gold. He is the boundary between my curated world and the raw, unpredictable one outside.
The man waiting for me is not a Lahori. He is a foreign executive, here for a week of negotiations. His suit is expensive but carries the faint crease of a long flight. His smile is polite, but his eyes hold a profound loneliness that five-star hotels and room service cannot cure. I have seen it a thousand times.
My job, you see, is not what the crass and the judgmental assume. It is not about the transaction that discreetly changes hands at the evening’s end. That is merely the mechanics.
My true vocation is curation. I am a curator of experiences.
For the next few hours, I am not Anya, the escort. I am the perfect, fascinating, undemanding companion. Over dinner at a rooftop restaurant with a view of the illuminated Fort, I steer the conversation. I laugh at his jokes about the traffic on The Mall. I listen, truly listen, as he talks about the pressure from headquarters, the emptiness of his apartment back in Frankfurt. I offer no solutions, only understanding. I am a mirror, reflecting back a version of himself that is witty, interesting, and desired.
I speak knowledgeably about the history of the Food Street in Gawalmandi, the poetry of Faiz Ahmed Faiz, the subtle differences between a Peshawari chappal and a Multani khussa. I am a living, breathing embodiment of the exotic, sophisticated Lahore he hoped to find—not the frantic, overwhelming city his taxi from the airport presented.
We take a brief, forbidden walk through the dimly lit gates of the Old City, the scent of kebabs and diesel fuel hanging in the air. I point out a hidden haveli, its wooden balconies crumbling but still beautiful. For a moment, he is not a tourist or a CEO; he is an explorer, and I am his enigmatic guide.
This is the alchemy. I take his loneliness, his exhaustion, his transactional expectation, and I transform it, for a few precious hours, into connection, adventure, and respite. I sell the most elusive commodity in a frantic world: a moment of uncomplicated, beautiful human interaction.
Later, back at the hotel, the transaction concludes with the quiet efficiency of a business deal. The persona of Anya begins to recede. As the elevator doors close, I see the man already pulling out his phone, the spell broken, the weight of his real world settling back onto his shoulders.
But for a few hours, he was not lonely.
Rafiq is waiting. I slide into the cool leather of the back seat, the adrenaline of the performance fading, leaving a familiar, hollow quiet.
“Home, Madam?” he asks, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
“Yes, Rafiq. Home.”
The car pulls away, merging into the river of light on the canal road. Outside, the magical amber hour is long gone, replaced by the stark honesty of the Escort in Lahore. I lean my head against the window, watching the city flow by—a tapestry of a million lives, each with its own hunger, its own performance, its own secret alchemy of survival and desire.
And I, the woman with a dozen names and a heart she keeps under lock and key, am just one more thread in its magnificent, complicated weave.
