Jhalak hated sweat. She felt nauseous at the stench of overworked flesh. She abhorred the stickiness between two bodies and the inescapable heat that came with it. She hated it, she hated it, she hated it.

But she could not escape from it.

It might be silly to imagine that someone could actually despise sweat to that extent. To any other person, there was nothing to like or dislike. Sweat is simply sweat - nothing that a cool shower could not fix.

But for Jhalak, sweat reminded her that she was a puppet, to be used and fondled. Each night, men would hungrily ogle at the sweat droplets that trailed between her heaving breasts. Their tongues would swoop down, capturing each bead of sweat before they escaped any further.

And she would lay in bed, helpless and trapped.

She remembered her first time, the very first night of all her miserable nights. Twelve year-old Jhalak had sat on the center of the bed, with a red and gold pleated shawl covering her view. She had brought her knees to her chest, as if that would protect her.

He had stumbled inside, inebriated and clumsy, and made his way to the bed.

He tore off her embellished shawl, the one her aunt was forced to make for the wedding.

You feel cold, Pariza? Don't worry, I'll help you get warmed up...

He grabbed her by the ankles, dragging her to where he was and ripped off her sequined skirt.

Don't worry, Pariza. I'll buy you a skirt more beautiful than this...

He unhooked her blouse, revealing small buds that could not be classified as breasts.

Don't be shy, Pariza. You have a beautiful body. Why do you want to hide it?

Then, he took off his own clothes.

I would never hurt you, Pariza.

But, he had.

***

"Pari?"

Jhalak had not heard her birth name in over a decade, so it took her a minute to realize that Lahar was speaking to her.

He even called her Pari.

When he saw that he had her full attention, Lahar said, "Tell me about your aunt."

"Why?" Jhalak watched him with a hint of suspicion.

"Just because." He shrugged. "She seems to be the only person who cared for you." Jhalak nodded solemnly.

"She was...I mean, she is my favorite." Jhalak's eyes glistened with nostalgia, and the memories flowed out of her like honey. "Her name is Aaira. She's my father's only sister, but she's very unlike him. She had been married when she was sixteen, but her husband abandoned her after she had three miscarriages. Aunty had suffered a lot while they were together. He hurt her many times, I'm sure that was why she had so many miscarriages."

"My God..." Lahar could not imagine how much that must have hurt, physically and emotionally. While doing field work, he had come across many women who went through hell while living with abusive husbands, who tortured them constantly. The women had felt as though they were bound to their "husbands" for life, which served as a struggle when trying to set them free.

He remembered meeting a woman, whose husband has stomped on her pregnant belly, and left her alone to die. It took all his willpower to stop himself from vomiting.

Such stories are real, and his heart ached every time he had to see or hear these horrors.

His thoughts floated to his parents. They had been married when they were in their early twenties, and there was not a single day where he had seen his parents brutally fight, let alone abuse each other.

He wondered why some people could not experience that. Why are some people permitted to have happiness and a peace of mind, and others just....don't?

Jhalak noticed that Lahar's mind was elsewhere and she waited patiently for him.

He saw her watching him from the corner of his eye, and he promptly came to reality. "I'm so sorry, I drifted away for a bit. Please, continue."

"She was a divorcee when she was twenty-two, and has lived alone since then. She needed to make a living for herself, so she worked in a textile shop. Later, aunty inherited the shop when the childless owner had died. I used to go to that shop every day after school. She would buy me ice creams and stitch new clothes for me. I always ran to her when I was upset, but I hadn't seen her since I had gotten married."

"Have you ever tried to search for her?"

"I tried, once."

"What happened?"

"This happened." Jhalak grabbed up the ends of her saree, and pulled it up to her mid-thigh, revealing a grotesque trail of pink, triangular scars against her olive skin.

"Is that from...?"

"An iron."

There was silence for a few minutes as neither knew what to say next. Jhalak kept her gaze to the floor, and Lahar grabbed a nearby pillow, observing her as she sat still.

"Do they pay you?" He asked.

"If we make a lot in a week, we're able to use ten percent of what we earned to buy the clothes and food that we like."

"So, you do step out of here?"

"No." Jhalak shook her head, still staring at the wooden floorboards. "They bring vendors inside and we choose from what they bring."

"Don't you want to leave, Pari? Aren't you sick of being treated like trash?"

She lifted her head, her eyes filling with bleak sorrow. "There's no point. They will always find me. And even if they don't, nobody wants to associate with a prostitute anyway."

Lahar opened his mouth to speak when someone pounded on the door, but did not open it.

"Lahar, your four hours are up! Let's go before they charge me extra!"

His face reddened at Roshan's outburst and avoided Jhalak's scrutinizing gaze, not realizing how much time had flown by.

"I'm coming, just give me a few minutes!"

Roshan responded by whistling, causing Lahar to roll his eyes. He shifted his focus back to Jhalak.

"Pari, I can help you. I know many women with stories like yours and we help them start their lives anew. There are shelters out there that provide aid for such women. You can get a job, an education, and retain your dignity. All I need is your cooperation and trust, and you will be set free."

Jhalak narrowed her eyes at him. "Why do you want to help me?"

"I just do. That's all. You don't deserve to spend the rest of your life here, rotting away in this dump."

"What about the rest of us here? What about the rest of us in this city, this state, this country? Will you save them all too?"

Lahar's ego slumped in defeat as Jhalak hurled question after question at him. "I may not be able to save everyone, but I can try by saving one at a time. That's why I want to start with you."

Having nothing to lose, Jhalak pried further. "What is your plan?"

"I have to go now," he said, rising from his seat. "But I promise I will come back tomorrow night."

"You'll have to pay to enter the building."

"I know, I'll arrange for that." Lahar knelt down and lifted Jhalak's hands, which were resting on her lap, and squeezed them. "I'm getting you out of here tomorrow. I promise."

She nodded.

"Bye. I'll see you tomorrow." Lahar smiled at her reassuringly and closed the door behind him.

"Bye," Jhalak whispered to herself, with a small smile on her face.

***

Lahar was very sly.

He knew exactly how to push the right buttons on certain people.

Like Pariza.

He wanted her to talk, and talk she did. Voila.

That was actually the hardest part of his plan. If she had chosen to keep quiet, he would not have gotten the information he needed.

Lahar quickly fumbled through the contacts on his phone, and called an influential person who would be very interested in Pari. The mischievous glint in his eyes did not fade as he strode past a pair who were sprawled in a rather compromising position on the sofa.

He only promised Pari that he'd be here tomorrow just so she would trust him, even if that trust were to be short-lived.

Anyways, who said promises are meant to be kept?

***

For once in her life, Jhalak trusted a man and she instantly regretted it.

Many tomorrows had come and gone, and it had been nearly over a week since Lahar was on her bed. She only knew that because she kept a tally of the number of times she witnessed the golden sun rise.

And now, it was the ninth night since she had last seen Lahar.

When the moon was at its highest point of the night, she had heard the creak coming from the battered door and her heart stood still.

It was not him.

It never was.

It was one of her customers and she hated him more than all of the others combined. He was the epitome of a small-town politician, with a receding hairline and sparse grey hair at the back of his head, a round belly, a thickly-haired chest and a mouth that tore off her skin.

Literally.

It was only recently that she had healed from those scars on her jawline and here he was, again.

The others would just force themselves into her, maybe nibble some skin here and there. Then, they would leave.

She had a tiny shred of hope that he may be different and would try to help her, to save her from all of this.

But this man did all that and more. She still had those faint teeth marks on her breasts from when he had gnawed on them months ago. She remembered the pain from those bruises he had gifted her on her neck and thighs. She had limped throughout that whole week.

She believed him when he had promised to come tomorrow to help her.

He inched closer to her and she did not bother to step away. He latched his hands onto the fat on her hips, and shoved her onto the bed. His sharp stubble sliced her left cheek as he buried his face into the crook of her neck.

His hand travels down, and he lifts his head slightly, watching her body writhe beneath him. His face brightened as he witnessed the control he had over her.

But, he never came.

- - -

A/N: Hope everyone is doing well! Please leave your thoughts below; I love to read them! :)