The air over Lahore’s historic streets carries the faint perfume of jasmine and steam from roadside chai stalls, a scent that drifts past the bustling bazaars and the echo of call to prayer. It’s a city that lives in layers—each one a story, each one a whispered secret that the stone walls have learned to keep.

On the edge of Anarkali, tucked behind a weather‑worn wooden door, there is a small courtyard that most pedestrians never notice. The paint on the walls is peeling, and the only sign of life is the soft glow of a single lantern that swings gently as the night deepens. Inside, a quiet hum of conversations flows, punctuated by the occasional sigh of a tired sigh.

Here, a group of women gathers after the day's market has closed. They are known, among those who know, as the “call girls of Lahore.” The term itself is a euphemism that carries the weight of centuries—an echo of a profession that has existed in the subcontinent long before the modern city rose from the banks of the Ravi. Yet for all the whispers, the truth of their lives remains as tangled as the alleyways that lead to this hidden courtyard.

Ayesha, twenty‑seven, arrived in Lahore from a small village near Multan after her father’s death left the family with an empty field and a mounting debt. She recalls the first time she stepped onto the bustling streets of the city: the roar of traffic, the kaleidoscope of saris, and the unfamiliar scent of incense mixing with diesel. There was no romantic notion of the city—just a fierce need to survive.

She tells me, in a voice that trembles only when the wind catches the lantern’s flame, “I never imagined this would be my path. It’s not a choice; it’s a necessity. Every night I answer a call, not just for money, but for a promise that my younger brother can stay in school, that my mother can finally eat more than one meal a day.”

Zara, a bit older, laughs gently when she speaks about the irony of her name—Zara, meaning "princess" in Persian. She works in a modestly furnished apartment above a tea shop, where the scent of cardamom mingles with the faint hum of a television playing dramas in Urdu. “People think we are glamorous,” she says, “but the glamour ends at the door. Inside, there’s fear, loneliness, and the constant calculation of risk.”

Lahore, with its colonial architecture and vibrant cultural festivals, is a city that wears its contradictions like a well‑tailored suit. The same streets where poets recite verses about love also house the shadows where women like Ayesha and Zara navigate a world of hidden transactions, guarded by unspoken agreements. The legal system in Pakistan, while prohibiting prostitution, often turns a blind eye to its existence, leaving those involved vulnerable to exploitation, blackmail, and violence.

The police, bound by a code of discretion, rarely intervene unless a complaint is lodged. Yet, for many, the fear of being stigmatized outweighs any hope of seeking help. The women’s stories are rarely recorded in official statistics; they live in the margins of data and discourse, their voices muffled by cultural taboos.

When I sat down with these women, I saw not only the scars of hardship but also the resilience that courses through their veins. In a corner of the courtyard, a faded poster of the famous poet Allama Iqbal hangs, reminding everyone that “Khudi”—self‑esteem—remains a vital force even in the darkest corners.

Ayesha speaks of her aspirations beyond the night’s work. “I want to open a small tailoring shop. I’ve learned stitching from my mother; I can make a decent dress. If I can save enough, perhaps I can give my brother a scholarship and bring my mother out of the cramped house we live in now.”

Zara shares a similar dream: “I want to teach. I used to help children with their homework when the market was quiet. If I can find a way to study again, maybe I can become a teacher and give back to other girls who think there’s no way out.”

Their hope is a quiet rebellion—a refusal to let the city’s shadows define their entire identity. They are not merely “call girls”; they are daughters, sisters, caretakers, and, most importantly, individuals fighting for a future where their past will not be the only narrative attached to their names.

Lahore’s story is still being written, brick by brick, calligraphy by calligraphy. In the spaces where the city’s grandeur meets its underbelly, there are lives that deserve acknowledgment, compassion, and, perhaps most urgently, a pathway to choice. The courtyard’s lantern continues to sway, casting a gentle light on the faces of those who have been forced to navigate a world that is neither fully legal nor entirely condemned. Call Girls In Lahore 

In the end, the true measure of a city is not only in its monuments and festivals, but in how it treats those who live unseen. The call girls of Lahore, with their quiet dignity and unspoken dreams, ask us to look beyond the veil, to recognize the humanity that persists even when the night is thickest, and to imagine a Lahore where every alley can be illuminated—not just by lanterns, but by opportunity.