Lahore doesn’t whisper its secrets; it sings them at the top of its lungs, but in a language only the lonely can understand. It’s in the call to prayer that echoes over the humming of a million air conditioners, in the scent of jasmine and diesel fumes that perfumes the night air. To be an escort in Lahore is not what the search engines suggest. It is to be a keeper of these sung secrets, a curator of the city’s hidden soul.
My name is not important. My business card, should you ever be deemed worthy of receiving one, simply reads: “An Evening’s Companion.”
I am not what you think. I am a narrative architect. I sell stories, not bodies. I sell moments of connection, however fleeting.
My clients are a tapestry woven from the city’s own contrasts. There is the industrialist, a man whose name is on half the city’s new skyscrapers, who hires me not for a penthouse suite, but to sit with him on a dusty charpai in a forgotten courtyard in the Walled City. He wants to talk about poetry, not profit. He wants me to listen as he recounts the taste of his grandmother’s karahi, a flavor he’s been chasing his entire adult life. In that moment, I am not an escort; I am a time machine, escorting him back to a boy he barely remembers.
There is the visiting academic from Oxford, armed with books and theories, who finds the city’s grand history overwhelming. I don't take her to the Lahore Fort. I escort her through the labyrinthine streets of Anarkali, not to shop, but to meet the man who has been inlaying tiny slivers of camel bone into rosewood for fifty years. I escort her to a Sufi shrine at dusk, where the hypnotic spin of the dervishes is the only sermon she needs. She leaves not with trinkets, but with the city’s rhythm etched into her heart.
And then there are the locals. The young musician, talented but terrified, who hires me to simply sit in the audience of a small, smoky cafe where he performs for the first time. He needs an anchor, a familiar face in a sea of strangers. My role is to be applause before the applause begins, a silent escort through his terror and into his triumph.
What I do is a form of translation. I translate the silence of a luxury hotel room into a shared joke. I translate the nervous energy of a first-time visitor into the confident stride of a local. The city is my script, and its inhabitants are my characters. I am the narrator who connects them.
Of course, I am aware of the other meaning of my chosen profession. The shadows in Lahore are long, and other transactions happen within them. I see them sometimes—the fleeting, desperate encounters in hotel lobbies, the coded language over late-night drinks. That world is not mine. It is a blunt instrument, a simple exchange that misses the point entirely. Loneliness is not a hunger to be sated; it is a void to be filled with recognition, with a shared glance, with the feeling, for one hour, of being truly seen. Escorts In Lahore
My work begins when the sun sets and the city’s true life begins. It’s in the sizzle of seekh kebabs on a street corner in Food Street, in the quiet reverence of the Badshahi Mosque under a moonlit sky, in the shared cup of strong, sweet chai in a 24-hour roadside stall.
In a city of fourteen million souls, the greatest luxury is not silk or spice, but a moment of authentic human connection. To be an escort is to be a temporary bridge across the chasm of anonymity. It is to hold a space for someone else’s story, to walk beside them for a few hours on their personal pilgrimage through the beautiful, chaotic, heartbreaking poem that is Lahore. In a city of a million stories, I am the quiet prologue to a few.