Dancing girl

I've never seen the red light area, nor have heard any accounts of it. What I wrote below is purely from my imagination.  A short story written on a deadline for a competition. Didn't win anything though.

 

 

I scan the crowd. There is not a single young man in sight.  The youngest you would find here would be a 35 year old.
They are all rich men, corporate bastards, my stage manager likes to call them, with bratty wives who control their lives, women whose social obligations donot allow them to give their husbands any time.
As a result most of them turn up here, in the slums of Lahore, to sate their hunger.

I stand on the stage, waiting for the lights to dim. I wear a fitted red bodice which flares at the waist and stops just above my knees. Bright orange stockings make my legs stand out. My hair are put in elaborate curls and silver bangles dangle from my arms. From the kajol in my eyes to the Ghungrus,which jingle at the slightest movement, on  my anklet, my manager makes sure I look as provocative as possible.

The song starts. It's a slow melody by Reshma Ji. I raise my toes and begin. My arms lift and my waist bends in well practised moves. Now and then, someone steps forward and showers money at my feet. Tens and Twenties. Sometimes someone more generous, or more intoxicated, throw hundreds.

My six minutes are over. I climb off stage and head towards the left side of the room where we are required to sit until the show is over. I make my way through the nearly packed room when a man, well above 50 with a paunchy belly and a balding forehead, stops me.
"Care for a muffin,Chanda?" he asks coyly.
"Too much sugar Sahib,"I joke.
We've been instructed not to accept any eatable from customers after an incident two years ago when a man fell madly in love with a girl on stage, after he realised he couldn't marry her, he poisoned her through a glass of milk.

I sit down against a wall and watch the others perform. Occasionally someone from the crowd would offer me an inviting smile. I seldom smile back.
Through my peripheral vision, I spot the man who approached me earlier, talking to my manager.He keeps gesturing towards me.
I have successfully sold myself for the night.