We're all so desperate to be understood, we forget to be understanding – Beau Taplin

"Three shows I promised you. Three. She's danced in three and I have protected her Sarah. No more. She needs to earn her keep now. Prepare her. Her virginity will be sold tonight, to the highest bidder". Asma waved her hand in the air.

Her sharp eyes, staring at her sister's movements. The lethargic gasp, the silent screams, the clenching of the fist. Nothing went unseen. Her hair was grey, she had seen the world. She had more experiences than her brothel had had prostitutes. She would not show leniency. She hadn't when it came to that woman twenty six years ago, and she won't now.

"Asma this is my brothel as much as yours. I've lived all my life according to your conditions. My daughter won't be subjected to the same torture!" Sarah stood her ground.

Asma scoffed, fixing her hair, smacking her lips as she eyed her sister.

"Amma knew better. That's why she left me this place. Not you! Jitna kar diya hai uss mein khush raho. Warna karz utaro aur chalti bano!" [Be happy in that which I have done. Or else pay the debt and leave!] Asma poked her.

"And why do you worry? That girl wants it. I've seen the fire in her eyes as she challenges the raees zaday". [Son of cheifs] Asma announced.

"Now go and get her ready. Everything must go perfectly well". She rolled her eyes.

"What about your own daughters?" Sarah pointed.

"My daughters are educated women. They'll marry into respectable families". Asma retorted.

"That sounds very selfish. Why can't my daughters have the same?" Sarah tried to protest.

"May I remind you, your family of three still owes me—"

"My mother was the owner. You and I both know who's debt my children are being forced to pay off!" Sarah tsked.

"I'm glad you know. In this world, the only thing you're climbing is into a man's bed. Nothing more. Now run along, the wax ladies will be here to prep our budding rose for her night of bloom". Asma stood up from the straw bed.

Fixing her dress, brushing her fingers through her lustrous hair, she was out of the room. Leaving behind a tense Sarah. Worry creeping up her neck, the goosebumps scattering all over her skin. With heavy feet she stepped inside Ayna's bedroom. Her daughter's nimble form covered under a thick maroon duvet. With half a heart, Sarah lifted the covers, her heart aching as she imagined the forlorn expression on Ayna's face when she would find out her mother had failed.

Sarah let her hand glide across Ayna's tired face. Even in sleep, her eldest child was plagued with nightmares. She had lost one daughter to the horrors of prostitution, she could not loose another. Years ago she had sacrificed a sister. Then a daughter. To ask for her most tender piece of heart — it was a crime. Kissing Ayna's browbone, Sarah sat in complete silence. Just the sound of their intermingled breathing. And the soft hushed movements of the rustling blankets.

The braid in Ayna's hair was coming loose. The stray hair strands sticking to the drool on her cheek. Life had robbed her eldest daughter of her life, and now it seemed history was about to repeat itself. Taking a deep breath, she stroked Ayna's closed eyelids. Her cheeks swollen and the apples of them red like ripened cherries. She hesitated for a few seconds — was it worth it or not? There was not much she could do, Laila's fate was set in stone.

"Mama?" Ayana questioned.

Her voice heavy with sleep as she turned under the sheets. Sleepy eyes looking up at her with a frown marring her features. Ayna yawned, scratching the back of her shoulders, wiping the drool with the back of her hand as she stared at her mother. The worry on her face, the tears in her eyes, the drooping of her shoulders. Something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

"Ay — Ayna! Asma Bi she —" Sarah sniffed.

The heels of her palms rubbed at her eyes, furiously. Rubbing the frustration in them away, her throat burning from a backlog of tears. Sarah was cloaked in misery, from top to bottom.

"Kia huwa hai?" [What has happened?] Ayna touched her hand softly.

Her voice, like a zephyr. Eyes observing her with worry. Searching for the usual giddiness inside them.

"Asma Bi did not agree. Laila will start entertaining customers after tonight!" She choked.

Ayna stared at her mother for a few seconds. Shell shocked. Frozen. Her mind reeling back to the night of her own first time. The night of destruction. The icy cold night, filled with pain and torture on her body. The dread filling her up, her fingernails dripping with blood — a gory sight. With a shaky breath, and eyes rimmed red, Ayna hugged her mother tight. Sobbing into her bosom. Her shoulders shivering with the many possible ways the night could end in.

"Mama ap bas phir yahi dua karein keh Laila ka saamna kisi darenday sai na ho. Woh seh nahi sakay gi!" [Mama then you just pray that Laila does not encounter a savage. She won't be able to handle it!] Ayna wiped her own tears with the back of her hand.

Sarah nodded, kissing the crown of Ayna's head. It seemed as if she was stuck in time, everyone around her, sipping on fine wine out of the fancy goblets. And she alone braved through the trickling of time, each drip, a drop of her own blood. Sufferings had been a  part of her mere existence. She knew pain before she ever knew her own name. As fate would deem fit, Sarah believed it would be a part of her till the day she died.

"Yeh kia baat huwi bhala? Meray beghair hi eik dusray kai galay lagay huway hain?" [What is this behaviour? You guys are hugging without me?] Laila barged into the bedroom.

The two women, hurriedly wiped their tears and Ayna rushed inside ths bathroom, lest her younger sister see through her. Laila, who was much too engrossed in the celebrations of the night, jumped onto the worn out bed. Her head resting on her mother's lap. The tiny, silver koka [nose ring] radiant under the minimal light that streamed in from the open doors. The thick curtains, still drawn over the boarded windows.

A nose ring on the left side, was a depiction of your status. Of the title that these women held. It had been an old tradition, carried on hundreds of years later, the cruelty of it still the same. It was a collar for women, a piercing on the left side. A ritual began at a time in history no one remembered. It gave aid in distinguishing between the tawaif [dancers] or kanjri [prostitutes] from the women and wives of respectable homes, who pierced on the right side. To Laila however, it was a symbol of pride. A sign of power that she now held in herself.

—

Black. Ebony. The colour of the midnight sky. Bleak. Dark. Desolate. Empty. Void. All synonymous with the darkest shade to exist. And it contrasted with Laila's skin tone almost a bit too perfectly. The dark chiffon peshwas with its elaborate fall, and body hugging designing. The sleeves, fitted, her thin arms peaking from the see through fabric. The translucency gave a peak at the many beauty marks present on the inside of her golden arm. Her long fingers, pink palms, covered in thick henna. The gol tika a dark maroon. Her hair, curled loosely and thrown over her shoulders. A deep red lipstick, the shade of a scarlet wine.

"Ghungru pehan lo. Baad mein mat kehna keh bhul gai," [Wear the anklets. Don't say it later that you forgot,] Asma Bi patted Laila on the shoulder.

Nodding her head, Laila took a seat on the floor cushion, tying the thick anklets around both her ankles. The tiny bells ringing with the movements of her hands. Wrapping the gauze veil around her body, Laila waved at her mother.

"Allah Hafiz ammi". [God be your caretaker ammi.] She hugged her lightly.

"Laila —" Sarah turned silent.

"Don't say a word. I feel so free when I'm the centre of attention. I belong here. Please don't take this feeling of away. It's just a fleeting moment of dominance". Laila informed.

Taking her mother into her arms, she calmed her down. Kissing her hair one final time, Laila waved at her. Walking out of the large doors and into the coaster. Ayna holding her hand, squeezing it tight in reassurance. It was all going to work out for the best.

As the night continued to progress, Laila took to the centre. Her usually calm and friendly aura transformed. Waves of superiority radiating off of her. The joints of her body, turning soft. Laila counted the rhythm inside her head, tapping herself mentally, making eye contact. And she held it, she held the eyes of the men, entranced. Their mouths visibly watering as they saw the performance begin.

She moved like water. Soundless, creeping closer and spreading out everywhere. The curves of her body, came to life under the bright lights. A charming smile on her face, but her eyes, filled with an arrogance. Shoulders widened with pride. Her dress brushed against the bodies of men. The tassels hanging from the ends, hitting them. Seducing their souls, her feet tapped infront of them, the loud jingle dimmed by the drums.

Laila soared high like a hawk. Her eyes, like a sharp eagle, eyes everyone. Swaying her hips, moving her legs with purpose. Her hands danced tunes with the still air. Kneeling on the floor, her hair spreading out, giving a view of the deep back of her dress, a strip of perfectly tanned skin visible. It added up. Built the sexual frustration as bidders ran to Asma Bi.

Asma Bi, held a proud smile as she counted the men. Her eyes still looking at the youngest dancer. She had to give Sarah credit, she had raised two daughters who had exceptional skill on the dance floor. A man, with a scruffy beard and black eyes, walked to her. His hands held a glass of cheap whiskey. That was one thing she had noticed — men with richness covering every inch of their lives, spent money like free flowing water on cheap whiskey. All thanks to the high alcohol content.

"Javed". Asma Bi nodded.

He was her most regular client. His pockets were thin compared to those around him, but it's always the poor ones that spend most to keep the facades.

"Kalay libas mein jo larki hai". [The girl in the black dress.] He pointed behind himself.

"Dagh sai paak," [Free of any stain] Asam referred to Laila's virginity.

"Kitna?" [How much?] His fingers dipped into his drink.

His leering gaze, trained on Laila's back. Her movements made it painful, to see and not touch? Was a crime.

"Pachees lakh ki boli lagi hai," [A bid of twenty five hundred thousand has been placed,] Asma informed.

"Meri taraf sai tees". [Thirty from my side.] He raised a brow.

Asma Bi nodded, shaking his hand. And the two waited for the performance to end. It ended as Laila fell on the floor in a dramatic sequence. Strategically showing her forlorn expressions and hunched back. Her breasts dragging along the floors. Everyone's breath bated.

"What a show!" Sadiq Ilyas raised his glass.

Everyone else in the room followed, Asma gripping Laila by the arm and bringing her over to Javed, one of many men that she would entertain in her life. Laila smiled awkwardly, a bit taken aback at the suddenness of the motions.

"Rani this is Javed. Your costumer for the night. Javed she's all yours". Asma Bi forwarded her hand into his.

Rani or Queen, was the title Laila had chosen for herself. Her stage name. She would never let any customer have more power over her. She was the one always in control.

BONUS CHAPTER CAUSE WHY NOT??

AAAAA I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKED THIS

I'LL MAKE U GUYS WAIT FOR THE NEXT ONE TO SEE WHAT GOES DOWN

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