The scent of jasmine and stale perfume clung to the heavy velvet curtains, a permanent resident in the air of Suraiya Mahal. Not a palace, not anymore, but an old haveli in the labyrinthine heart of Lahore, its grandeur faded like a forgotten dream. Here, amidst the distant honk of rickshaws and the melodic call to prayer, was the domain of Madam Zarina, and “The Agency.”
It wasn’t a signboarded office on a bustling street. It was a network, a whisper, a discreet knock on a heavy wooden door only opened after careful scrutiny through a judas hole. Madam Zarina, a woman whose eyes held the wisdom of too many nights and whose silk saris rustled with quiet authority, called it an “arrangement.” Her girls – and sometimes, young men – were not merely bodies for sale. They were carefully curated experiences, companions for lonely businessmen, distractions for bored politicians, confidantes for those who sought solace, or simply, beauty in their lives.
Lahore Prostitute Agencye. The city was a paradox: deeply religious yet teeming with hidden desires, steeped in tradition yet yearning for the modern. Her “agency” thrived in this liminal space, offering a discreet bridge between the two. Her girls were chosen for their beauty, yes, but also their wit, their command of Urdu poetry, their ability to hold a conversation about current affairs or the nuances of classical music. They were performers, in a way, their lives a constant improvisation.
Tonight, it was Zoya’s turn. She sat before a chipped mirror, applying kohl to her already expressive eyes. Her sari, a deep emerald green, shimmered under the dim bulb. Zoya wasn’t from Lahore; she was from a village far north, brought here by circumstance and the crushing weight of a family debt. She had hoped for a typing job, a seamstress’s needle, anything but this. Yet, here she was, her hands steady as she pinned a jasmine garland into her dark hair.
She thought of her sister, still in the village, whose school fees she diligently sent back each month. That was her fuel, her silent prayer. Each night she stepped into the parlor, each time she offered a practiced smile and a soft laugh, she envisioned her sister’s textbooks, her neat uniform, her bright, unburdened future.
The client tonight was a textile magnate, a man with kind eyes and a weary smile. He didn’t want passion; he wanted conversation. He spoke of his deceased wife, of his children who were too busy to listen, of the loneliness that even immense wealth couldn’t fill. Zoya listened, truly listened, offering a quiet empathy that was as much a part of her service as her beauty. She recited a ghazal by Faiz Ahmad Faiz, her voice low and melodic, and watched as his eyes, for a moment, lost their sadness.
Later, as the first hints of dawn painted the sky in shades of rose and pearl, Zoya lay awake in her small room. The scent of jasmine was fading, replaced by the faint aroma of cooked lentils from the kitchen below. She traced the intricate patterns on the faded wallpaper, a silent witness to countless such nights.
The Agency was a gilded cage, a necessary evil, a place where dreams were both shattered and, paradoxically, kept alive. For Zoya, it was a bridge to a better life, not for herself, but for the one she loved most. And as Lahore slowly awoke, stretching its ancient limbs under the rising sun, Zoya closed her eyes, ready to face another day, another night, another performance in the quiet, hidden heart of the city.
