1. Life • زندگی

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Happiness is in the quiet, ordinary things - Virginia Woolf

"Silver isn't the way to go". A soft breathy voice shouted from the rooftop.

The elderly woman in the small street, turned around. Her caramel hair in a loose bun. One hand over her eyes, shielding them from the direct sunlight.

"Then which one?" She shouted back.
"Eik second. Mein aati hun!" [Just a second. I'm coming!] The young woman shouted in reply.

Rushing down from the small rooftop, she took two steps at a time. The pink soles of her small feet smacking against the exposed brick floor. Bumping into a woman or two, shouting back apologies, she hastened her pace. Her think chiffon veil flailed in the air. The jhanjar [anklet] in her feet, sang soft melodies. Laila's cheeks turned a shade of peach as she finally made it to the large courtyard — out of breath.

At twenty two, Laila was grace personified. From the thick, bouncy raven hair that she had to the soft angled jaw. Lips shaped like a heart and warm brown eyes that were full of light. Years of dance practices had turned her body into water. Fluid and elegant. Her steps were light and soundless, her giggles the sound of wind chimes.

"Han- amma hara wala lo!" [Yes - mother get the green one!] She huffed.

Her hands on her waist as she bent over. Laila's skin shone under the sunlight, its warmth welcome against the cold of the winters.

"Acha bhai hara de do," [Okay brother give the green one,] her mother, Sarah told the salesperson.

The man nodded, handing over the bright green lehnga [skirt] along with the blouse. Taking seat at her mother's feet, Laila pulled it off of her lap. Resting the cloth against her own soft skin.

Laila was born into a brothel. She had lived her entire life behind the four walls. She had never known a life other than this. To her life was all about getting dressed for the eyes of men. It was about giving the pleasure they found nowhere else, for exchange of money. Unlike what most people thought, Laila and her age fellows weren't illiterate. Their brothel, employed private tutors to teach them. Their classes included lesson in speaking English and learning the most basic of maths and urdu.

Their mornings started at six am. When the world was only just beginning to bask in the warmth of the morning star, Laila and her companions would be sat in the courtyard. Copying what they were taught. At nine, breakfast was served. It was prepared by their mother's, and was almost always eaten in the privacy of their bedrooms. After that their day was spent in the company of the resident musicians and dancers. Learning and perfecting their skills. The evenings reserved for Asma Bi's crude lectures on how to keep men warm.

Other than Laila, there were only three girls her age. Saliha, Rabail and Anisa. The three were already working unlike her. She would give the credit to her mother for that. But Laila knew, she could not hide under the shawl of her mother. The world was full of opportunities and she had to grip them by the throat — by that ofcourse, she meant men. Men were the only opportunities around this part of the city.

"Where are the three musketeers?" Laila played with the cotton edge of Sarah's saree.

The three musketeers was ofcourse the name by which Laila called the triplets. They were daughter's of the she devil, Asma Bi, herself. Whoever their father was, would sure have been a fine looking guy for the girls looked nothing like their mother. Saliha, Rabail and Anisa were born with natural curves and fast metabolism. Green feline eyes and light brown hair. Skin fair like snow and lips the shade of peach roses.

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