As a child, Jhalak had no friends because she was incredibly shy, particularly with boys. She remembered how she shooed away a boy when he had asked her if she had wanted to go on the swings with him during lunchtime - in the first grade. Then in the second grade, the same boy had plucked a hibiscus flower from the school garden and offered it to her.

"Here, I got this for you." Both of his chubby hands clutched the stem of the flower. "It's dark pink. Do you like it?"

"No." She had hardly given him a glance.

"Oh." He had seemed visibly upset as he analyzed the bud. "Actually, I think it looks more like red, no? You like red?"

"No."

"What is your favorite color then?"

"Black."

The boy had sprinted off and returned in a few minutes, displaying a torn hibiscus bud that had been scrawled on with a black crayon. He had beamed after examining his handiwork.

"Do you like it now?"

Jhalak did not have a chance to respond because their teacher had dragged the boy away by his ear, and scolded him for tampering with the school garden. She had felt partially responsible and she knew she had been rude to him, but she simply did not know how to interact with others. Her father, uncles and brothers had ensured that Jhalak lived a very sheltered life. They seldom pursued social interactions with people, and they made sure she did the same, for fear that she may go astray.

Indeed, it was strange to recall certain instances of her life. Some years after the incident with the schoolboy, Jhalak found herself scantily dressed in a bed with a stranger, who had to have been many decades older than she was.

Nobody would ever believe that she was actually a reserved and shy young woman. Nobody looked beyond appearances, anyway.

And now, here she was, in front of Lahar, this new stranger who...

Can he be trusted?

Who did not throw her onto the mattress.

Who did not lock his lips with her own.

Who did not rip off her clothes the moment he laid his eyes on her.

Who did not force himself into her.

Who did not treat her like a disposable item.

Maybe...yes.

Nevertheless, feelings of timidity surged through her and without thinking, she hastily tried to cover herself with the sheer material she had.

"May I?" He asked, motioning to sit down. Jhalak moved towards the foot of the bed. He scanned the room and his eyes fell on the large bottle of alcohol on the bedside table.

Jhalak noticed and rose to retrieve it. She had almost forgotten that she was on duty and that serving alcohol was the first step.

"No, no." Lahar lied and stopped her. "I don't want to drink. I was just looking around."

She sat back down.

"How old are you?" He asked abruptly.

She kept her head down, deep in thought.

"Um, I know it's practically illegal to ask that question to any female," Lahar said, shifting in his seat uncomfortably, "But, I was just curious, considering we seem to be similar in age."

She continued to stare at the floor and made no move to speak.

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to." Lahar cleared his throat. "I was just trying to make conver-"

"I don't know."

He turned to fully face her. "You don't know what?"

Jhalak mustered the courage to make eye contact with him. "I don't know how old I am."

***

Lahar considered himself to be slightly spoiled. His parents had fairly busy schedules; his father was the police commissioner and his mother was a gynecologist. Thus, he had the luxury of having a driver and being driven in a white Mercedes Benz to school every day. On the other hand, his fellow school mates traveled by auto rickshaw, by buses, or even by walking. On his morning drives to school, Lahar vividly remembered seeing young women carrying babies at their hips, limping between lanes and knocking on car windows.

"Why are they here?" Thirteen year-old Lahar had asked his driver after a girl peered at him through his window. She had been holding a baby boy.

"They're just prostitutes, looking for more money."

"What are prostitutes?"

"People who sell their body for money. These girls are probably the same, and are now begging on the streets."

Lahar's eyebrows furrowed. "Do they have other jobs?"

"Why would they need other jobs? They make more money in one night than the rest of us do in a month!"

"Why don't you become a prostitute then?" Lahar asked quite innocently.

The driver glared at Lahar through the rearview mirror, and the latter knew that the conversation was over.

Lahar continued to observe the girls. It did not seem as though they were swimming in cash. On the contrary, their clothes and faces were dirty, their hair had been matted and unkempt, and the children they were holding did not seem to be well nourished. Were those babies their siblings...or their own children? He was not sure.

His mother eagerly asked him what he had learned in school later that day. Lahar told her about prostitutes.

"From which class did you learn this?" His mother had asked him slowly.

"Manav told me."

"I see..."

Lahar never saw Manav the Driver since then.

Even though Manav became the equivalent to 'out of sight, out of mind' to Lahar, the former's words still haunted him. As Lahar grew older, he did not believe for a second that all of those girls, boys, transgenders, and others were there out of their own choice.

Sure, different people had different fantasies, but surely not everyone wanted their status as a human being ripped to shreds. Surely not everyone wanted to be objectified, used, and humiliated in such a manner.

There must have been a driving factor, an underlying reason why each person was where they were. After taking a few classes in psychology and sociology, he was able to pinpoint one of the main viruses responsible for the epidemic that is human and sex trafficking.

Money.

And so, Lahar's parents' dreams of him becoming a doctor were flushed down the toilet. But they understood why he wanted to be a social worker, so it worked out well for him.

He was finally nearing the end of his post-graduate studies, and over time, he had gotten quite a bit of field work done, which helped him meet people in need face-to-face.

But, nothing prepared him for Jhalak genuinely not knowing how old she was.

"You don't know how old you are?" He was unable to hide his shock. "Do you know how long you've been here?"

She shook her head sadly. "I think I was here since I was sixteen, but I don't know how long it has been since then."

"You've never walked through a marketplace? Some shops have calendars. You could check the date and..." He stopped, realizing how stupid his words must have sounded to her. What difference would it make to her if she learned of the date?

"We're not allowed to venture far away. The farthest I've been is the front step."

"Of this building?"

"Yes."

Lahar furiously ran a hand through his hair. He had heard of bizarre stories revolving around sex rackets and trafficking, but his heart sunk after hearing her words.

Think about it.

To be at a brothel since age sixteen.

She had lost so many years of schooling, so many years of her youth, and so many years of being herself.

And she could not have been older than her mid to late twenties, like him.

"Have the police ever come? I mean, like to evacuate people from here?" He asked, even though he had an idea of what she would say.

"They did, once, a few years ago," Jhalak replied. "That was because a girl from a wealthy family had gone missing, and her family suspected sex rackets."

"That's it?" Lahar was not in the least bit surprised, though he appreciated that she was gradually warming up to him and speaking more. "They didn't ask about the rest of you?"

"We're not from important families, sir." She shook her head. "We don't have influential parents with good connections who can afford to offer bribes. We're not worth looking for, sir."

"Firstly, my name is Lahar, you can call me that." He told her firmly, with a small smile. "None of this 'sir' thing. I'm only twenty-seven and you probably are too."

"But our statuses are different, sir- I mean, Lahar." She gave him a ghost of a smile.

"Not really." He crossed his legs on the bed and faced her, and she mirrored his movements. "You and I are both human. So...same status."

"It's much more complicated than that."

"We'll get to that in a bit. Secondly, you are worth looking for. It's just that nobody worthy is looking for you."

Jhalak blinked and pressed her lips together, unable to form words.

"Don't stop talking now, Jhalak." Lahar leaned forward slightly and spoke gently. "I know you've maintained silence all these years. Now is the time to set those words free. If you want to cry, please, by all means cry. Let it out."

"I haven't cried in ages." She swallowed and stared at him blankly. "I cried in the beginning, but now tears are foreign to me."

"Then talk. Say whatever you want to say. Start wherever you want. Tell me why this is complicated to you." It was obvious to Lahar that Jhalak simply was not used to telling her story, considering her lips quivered and she became slightly fidgety with her hands.

So he waited. They sat in silence for well over twenty minutes until she was ready.

"I grew up in a house with men in a traditional village. My mother died while giving birth to me, so I had my father, brothers and uncles in one house. I was raised differently than my brothers. They were not given restrictions. I was not allowed to have friends. My life was just home and school - and sometimes my aunt's textile shop. She had lived near my school so I stopped by her place often. She was my favorite.

"When I was twelve, I got my first period." It was here Jhalak lowered her gaze slightly as her face felt warm, but then she thought better of it. She had nothing to lose by mentioning her period anyway. "I didn't know what was going on, so I told my brother. He ran away from me then, so I told my aunt. I remember she was upset that I had told my brother to begin with. I didn't understand why, but later I found out."

"What did you find out?"

"In our village, girls get married off once they get periods."

Lahar had only read about such places.

"My father married me off to a sixty-three year old."

He could feel bile creeping up his esophagus, but he somehow forced it back down.

"He did not ask for any dowry. He did not let me visit home, nor did he let me see my aunt. I did all of the household duties obediently without being forced to. But at night, he forced me to do things in bed. He became more violent and scarier each week. He found fault with everything I did.

"Because the plates weren't clean enough. Because the food was not well prepared. Because I looked him in the eye too much. Everything I did was wrong. He beat me with hot pans, slashed my thighs with knives, and twisted my arms until they bruised..."

She was only twelve.

"I stayed as his wife for a few years. One day, he stepped out of the house to go somewhere and I used that opportunity to run. I put some of my belongings in a satchel and hopped onto a moving train. The train took me to the city. I lived on the streets for some time. I strolled through the city and saw a board that said a company was looking to hire fresh, young people. They did not require experience. They just wanted people to look presentable. I came across a pool at a temple and I bathed there at night and in the morning, I wore a saree that my aunt had given me before the marriage.

"I remember trying my best to look professional when I went for the interview. The advertisement was not specific with what kind of company it was. The office looked normal, but the man inside looked scary. He was hairy all over and very tall. He tore off my clothes and said he wanted me to work at another company he owned. A brothel. This brothel. So here I am," she said bluntly.

Lahar knew there was no point in coming up with words to try to comfort her. She did not need comfort. For over a decade, she grew so accustomed to solitude that she would not know what to do with comfort even if somebody threw it in her face.

She needed a new start at life.

"Jhalak, I can help you get out of here." He told her, though she did not look very convinced. "But first, I would like to know your name."

Her eyebrows furrowed and suspicion was etched on her soft features. "You know my name. Jhalak."

"No." Lahar made full eye contact with her. "It's not likely for women in brothels to retain their old identity. They are given new personalities, new names. I'd like to know your real name."

He did not miss her eyes widening by a fraction.

He did not miss the way she was struggling to say it, as though it was simply too foreign for her to pronounce.

He also did not miss the first tear that rolled down her cheek.

"Pariza."

- - -

A/N: Hiii everyone, hope everyone is well! As usual, thank you for taking the time to read the story! If you'd like to, please leave your thoughts on the chapter below :)

Shoutout to  alittlebitoftaani for warding off my literary nazr ("evil eye") - I was able to write today! :D