Gunnah e Shab

تعارف • Prologue

My imagination tells lies too - Virginia Woolf

Her calves ached as she let her skirts move with a freedom she no longer possessed. Her feet taped against the yellow marble floors, a large glass chandelier lit right above her. The maroon shade of her lipstick, combined with her golden skin, enticed the crowd. Her slender hips swayed as she twirled once more. Thin hands moved with a delicate touch. Slicing through the thick air. Each of her movements were muted, lost between the elaborate floor length gowns of the lead dancers brushed against her. The group of five moved in great synchronisation, hiding as she stumbled over a few steps.

She was not used to this life. The life of showing ones body to the crowds. Of dancing and warming the beds of strange men night after night. She had been born in a respectable household, her mistake — loving the wrong man. And now as her chocolate eyes looked at the aged men, sipping local whiskey, throwing wads of cash at them, she spotted the man who was the cause behind her misery. Letting out a breathy shriek, the young woman turned around rapidly, her maroon, organza veil brushing against a man's hand.

The man tugged at it, making the veil fall from her head. Tumbled at her feet as she continued to move. You could not stop. You stopped and game over. And so she twirled with the rest. Her thick ebony hair, calling out to the many ravenous men seated at the sides. Her arched brows and sharp nose, had the men tremble. She was ethereal, there were no two ways about it. And that was what made her scared. The women at the brothel, cornered her. Her benefits were all taken away as she continued to sleep with man after man. Dance in party after party. There were moments when she was consumed with self loathing. Her heart trembled each night she had to leave her small room to enter a large posh farmhouse on the outskirts of the city.

As the beating drum silenced, she bent forward and gripped her veil, holding back tears as she noticed a man with red eyes and almost white hair, leer at her cleavage. She felt sick. This man was the age of her father. Before she could follow the rest of the girls to their mistress, her hand was gripped. Pulling her backwards, the satisfaction inside Asma Bi — the woman incharge of their brothel, told her. She had been sold for the night. And the hour had only just begun.

Gulping her fear, she turned around slowly. Coming face to face with the brute. The man who had divorced her three nights after their marriage. She had been his collateral. His way of seeking revenge from her father. Her mouth dried in an instant, her hands shaking, legs giving way. Where had life brought her? Lifeless, like a statue, she let him drag her to the guestroom. Her eyes hovered the vastness. It was largely bare, just a large bed with a full wall covering satin headboard. A beige wallpaper covered the room, plaster of paris used to make intricate detailing into the high ceilings.

Her body was thrown on the bed with a savageness. The door locked, the lights turned low as the man stalked towards her. His brown hair, with natural caramel highlights, rested on his shoulders. His black eyes were darker than the depths of the ocean. Fiddling with his gemstone green waistcoat, he dropped it onto the floor. Whilst the young twenty one year old withered like a leaf in winter. Short sobs escaped her mouth, heart beat racing, palms sweaty as she raised them up in defeat.

"Insniyat baaki hai tou Nasir chor do mujhe! Jaane do!" [If humanity still remains Nasir then leave me! Let me go!] Her soprano voice, strained with emotion, sound soothing to him.

To see her lie weak and begging. It was a delight. He marveled at her smooth skin. She flinched as the cold ruby ring he wore touched her hot cheeks. A few years ago, when she was seventeen, this touch would have given her butterflies. Now it was only a source of discomfort.