Gunnah e Shab

8. Interpretation • تعابیر

I once had a thousand desires, but in my one desire to know you, all else melted away - Rumi

* feel free to play the soundtrack *

Steps uncounted, perspiration unchecked, eyes trained. Azmaray was like a dead man walking, his body losing all feeling. A ringing noise in his ears, a soft buzz, his hands tightly gripping the small glass. With a heart beating unnecessarily fast. He had seen many women dance in clubs and present themselves to him. Yet nothing matched the grace of the tawaif in green. Her arrogance dripped from each tassle on her dress. The deep back of her dress, held together by a thin dori, teased his mere existence.

He walked behind the pillars, rounding towards the woman he presumed played the role of the PIMP. He trudged in her direction, a languid seduction in his pace, heads turning his way, his jaw taut. His free hand brushed against the cemented pillars, gaze refusing to break sight. While the women all danced well enough, the one in green, the dark jewel tone doing well against her warm skin, carried a charm of her own. He could not ignore the way her slender waist swayed. Her eyes flirtatious. Her mouth pulled into a demure smile, but her eyes, told the tale of a siren.

It was hard to ignore how she withered like a dead flower, its buds touching the dirt. Like thats she slithered onto the floors, her hands taping away, a rhythm of their own. The anklet with hundreds of bells, shook as the soles of her feet slipped against the marble. Her hands and eyes, softly moving along to the sensual beat, the panjangla [piece of jewellery] under the golden lighting, glinted. Her thin fingers, hiding behind it. A maroon nail varnish painted on the long coffin shaped nails. Pointing towards men one at a time, dragging across her long neck. The action had Azmaray writhing with want deep down.

He gave a slight nod to the woman who sat like a regal, retired queen. Wordlessly, he signed the fate of the woman in green to himself. Just the movement of his fluctuating eyes enough for Asma Bi to get a hint. Going by the lavish way he dressed, Asma knew Laila had once again roped in a rich man. Getting up from her place, the edges of her crisp banarsi saree sweeping the floor, her hands holding onto the stem of the champagne glass as she made her way to Azmaray.

"Nazar jis nazaray sai hatne ka naam nahi leti, us nazaray par aur bhi kai nazrein hain". [The sight your sight is stuck on, has many others viewing it aswell.] Asma Bi smirked.

Azmaray shrugged his shoulders, one of his hands tucked inside the pockets of his trousers. Taking a deep sip of his drink, he smiled at her. The cheshire cat grin, hinted at his grim intentions.

"None of them is nawab Azmaray Khan. The one in green is mine for the night. Name your price!" He gently announced.

His hands raising to flick away a thread from Asma Bi's hunched shoulders. Leaning in, his warm alcohol drenched breath, slapped her face.

"And it'd do you and your group of prostitutes good to hand her over. Otherwise, I've heard the authorities are keen to shut down brothels in the city". Azmaray glowered, stepping back as if he had just not threatened the elderly woman.

Asma Bi nodded, counting down the seconds until the show ended before she lurched at Laila. Startled, Laila stared at the woman in shock as she dragged her away from the crowd and her sister. She led her over to a man, one who had constantly been staring at her. Pulling her lips into a small smirk, the timid and shocked look in her eyes, wrapped under the facade of strength and attitude.

Like a dandelion flying through the gentle air, Laila followed Asma Bi without much resistance. Passing the man a wide smile, her hands reaching out to shake his. The man, raised her hands to his lips, caressing her knuckles with his thumb ever so softly. His eyes burning holes on her body, taking in the soft curves that were emphasised by the well fitted dress.