Jhalak was a saree connoisseur. With a mere touch, she could instantly detect what material a saree was made of. She knew how to drape them in various ways and her pleats were always crisp and neat, much to the envy of her childhood friends. Jhalak became an expert by the time she was ten.

This was all thanks to her aunt, who owned a small textile shop near her school. Instead of going straight home, Jhalak would spend a few hours with her estranged aunt, and quietly observe how she explained the quality of each saree to customers. Jhalak loved the way the cloth caressed her skin. For her own sake, she would only wear modest blouses that went down to her hips, and she sewed them herself to make sure her back would be covered as well.

Her father, though, had not approved.

They were an orthodox, joint family that embodied certain stereotypical ideologies, such as "boys will be boys". This led to a debate on the kind of clothing Jhalak should wear. She had constantly insisted that she dresses modestly, whether she donned a saree or shalwar kameez.

That does not matter, they said. What if the saree loosens around your hip, and your flesh at the waist is exposed? Then it'll be your fault if a boy grabs you!

With no mother or sisters, she had nobody to see her point of view. Her father, brothers, and uncles simply did not know what to do with her.

When she had her first period at twelve years of age, she had no clue what was going on. Fearful at the sudden sight of blood, she ran to her oldest brother.

But I did not cut myself down there! How did this happen?

She vividly remembered the look of pure disgust on her nineteen year-old brother's face, who had ignored her question. Instead, he raced into the house. The blood had oozed down more heavily, and she struggled down the dirt road as she ran to her aunt. Her aunt had frozen as she narrated the tale.

Did you tell anyone else about this? She had hissed at Jhalak.

I only told Omar. But he didn't help me.

Her aunt had suddenly remembered why Jhalak had come to her. She had quickly grabbed an old cloth and instructed her to wrap it in a particular way.

Without another word, her aunt had gripped Jhalak tightly and kissed the crown of her head. Jhalak had felt her aunt's tears through her dupatta and onto her scalp. She had not understood why her aunt was crying.

But that was over a decade ago.

Jhalak was now in a new city and had a steady job. She learned to do things on her own without any aid. Despite this, she still was not happy.

She did not like her working conditions, especially the night shift, but she had no other way to provide for herself. She worked tirelessly twelve hours each night, her back became stiffer with each shift. At any rate, she believed she was fortunate enough to still be employed. Many people aimlessly roamed the city with not a penny to their name.

Jhalak scoffed to herself as memories of her first day came to her. She had worn a handloom cotton saree, neatly draped over her left shoulder with perfect pleats. She had taken her time combing her hair, and had wrapped it into a sleek bun at the base of her neck. She remembered that she had inspected herself in the mirror and was actually satisfied with how she looked. She presented herself to her employer.

He had laughed in her face. Did you think I was looking for an air hostess?

He had strode over to her and, to her horror, ripped off her saree. Before her mind could process what he had done, he rummaged through his drawer, pulling out a very sheer, black chiffon saree, and loosely draped that over her shoulder instead.

He undid her bun, grabbed her hair and shifted the locks over to her right shoulder.

Much better, he had told her, with a menacing smile.

***

Lahar was studious, courteous, responsible, punctual, respectful, and everything else a parent would want in a child. He was a good boy and a rule-follower for the most part, at least, in the eyes of his family and professors.

Of course, his friends were aware that he had a wild side, too.

He knew his limits, but he occasionally found time to let loose. If it wasn't exam season, one could find him up in the terrace, chugging a bottle of Jack Daniels - without adding water. He also loved mixing hookah flavors, his favorite being mango with peach and a dash of pan rasna. As a matter of fact, he could not wait for these damn exams and presentations to be over so he can finally take a swish of new flavors.

Apart from all of that, Lahar was a good boy who knew his limits, and put his education above most things.

He was swimming in stress. Apart from having to write up an agenda for the next NGO meeting, he also was in the middle of writing note cards for his thesis presentation on human trafficking when Roshan's monster hands plopped down on his shoulders, causing him to etch a thunderbolt on the page.

"What the hell!"

"You ready for tonight?" Roshan initially ignored the fiasco he had caused on Lahar's paper, and then the tubelight flickered. "Hey, why'd you scribble all over your sheet? You want to fail?"

Lahar opened his mouth to retort, but then thought that there was no point. He rolled his eyes and addressed his roommate's first question. "What's going on tonight?"

"Maybe my bachelor party? Just maybe?"

"Oh! I totally forgot." His hand flew to his forehead. "Wait, we have presentations next week. Why are you having your bachelor party tonight?"

"Eh, I have a series of things planned in the coming weeks," Roshan told him casually, with a wave of his hand. "But I got a special discount to a place and it expires within three days."

"Which bar are we going to this time?" Lahar asked with slight annoyance. "If you're planning on getting ridiculously drunk like last time, I'm leaving you behind. I'm not cleaning up your vomit anymore."

"Have no fear, we're not going to the bar!" Roshan made himself comfortable at his companion's desk, knocking over a few textbooks.

"Okay, then a hookah lounge?"

"Nope!"

"A resort?"

"Do I look like Trump's offspring?"

"Fine, I give up. Tell me." He began flipping through a book about urban sex trafficking in an attempt to finish his notes. Roshan leaned forward and winked.

"Halkat Jawaani."

"Halkat Jawaani?" Lahar paused and pushed back his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He remembered the name from some magazine he had read. "Isn't that a brothel?"

Sure, there were times Lahar got drunk and high. If there were any consequences, at least he was only responsible for himself. But a brothel? Those girls might have been forced into prostitution and there was no way he would stoop so low to contribute to that.

Roshan bowed down at his friend's feet. "Indeed, so intelligent you are."

"You're getting married in two months and you want to go to a brothel?" No wonder it was called Halkat Jawaani, or Careless Youth.

"I believe that's what I just said." He waved a Halkat Jawaani flyer in Lahar's face.

"Dude, why? What if Manvi finds out?"

Roshan raised an eyebrow threateningly. "Well, she won't find out, right?"

"I'm not dealing with this."

"Right. So I guess you'll be paying me one lakh for your absence."

"One lakh!" Lahar jumped from his seat. "Is that the discounted price you boasted about?"

"It's one lakh for a group of ten!" Roshan reasoned unsuccessfully. "If my memory is correct, you told me that you were still overdue on your bills - let alone paying me one hundred thousand rupees. So, I guess you have no choice but to tag along."

"But-"

"Don't look so sour. You'll have fun, I promise."

Two hours later, Lahar did not find himself to be having any sort of fun, nor did he have a chance to grab some booze from the bar.

The room was relatively dark, with the exception of a few colored spotlights that were positioned in the ceiling. Scantily dressed women scattered themselves across the sofas with men on top of them. Roshan made sure Lahar did not escape from his sight, as he dragged the latter to a dark corridor.

"Be very grateful. I've booked you with the most popular woman in this building."

"Wow, I'm so lucky to have such a wonderful friend." Lahar made sure the lack of enthusiasm was evident in his tone.

"Always looking out for you!" He grinned, clearly missing the sarcasm. The duo reached a door. "You've got four hours with her, so use your time wisely."

"I'll kill you in four seconds."

Roshan shoved Lahar through the doorway, before the latter could do anything. The click of a lock could be heard from the other side. Lahar pounded his fist on the door and muttered a stream of colorful words.

Defeated, he turned around and found a young woman, sitting on the bed and staring at him with an innocent, inquisitive expression.

Her almond-shaped eyes were heavily lined with kajal, and her lips were smeared with red lipstick. She wore a plunging red blouse with a hot pink saree loosely over her shoulder. The saree was so transparent that if she had gone without it, it would have made no difference.

At the sight of her, his heart rammed against his rib cage, and he wasn't sure why. Was he allowed to talk? Or were they supposed to do...other things?

He gulped and finally decided to speak to her as he would to anybody else. "Hi, I'm Lahar. What's your name?" He managed to say in one breath.

The woman blinked in surprise, as though she had expected him to say anything but that. She narrowed her eyes slightly in suspicion, but she decided to respond.

"Jhalak."

- - -

A/N: Hi everyone! :D Nice to see you here after a while!

In case you didn't look at the genre, this is a short story, so it'll only be a few parts long. You might have guessed what this may be about, but there's more to come and I hope you'll like it! :) As always, writers really cherish feedback, so please don't forget to leave your thoughts below! :)) Take care! :)