Ismat Faroshi

Prostitution is neither illogical nor unnatural. It is a profession, and the women who adopt it fulfill certain social needs. When there are buyers for a commodity, we should not be surprised to find it in the market. If, in every city, we see women who earn their daily bread through this trade of the flesh, we should have no objection to their means of livelihood. After all, their customers exist in every city.

Prostitution is considered a cardinal sin. It may well be a grave sin, but we do not wish to examine it from a religious perspective. Caught in the labyrinth of sin and virtue, reward and punishment, one cannot analyze any issue dispassionately. Religion itself is a massive complication; if we entangle another issue within it, it will only cause us a severe headache. Therefore, we have separated religion from prostitution and set it aside.

What is prostitution...? It is the selling of chastity. That is, selling the very pearl considered to be the most precious jewel of a woman's life. The value of this jewel has inflated immensely because experience has taught us that once a woman loses it, she loses all respect in the eyes of society. This pearl is lost in several ways. When a woman marries, this pearl slips into her husband's pocket. Sometimes, men take it by force; at other times, unmarried women willingly surrender it to the men they love. Some women, compelled by circumstances, sell it, while others turn it into a full-fledged trade.

We wish to speak about those women who sell their chastity as a profession. It is, of course, an obvious fact that chastity can only be lost or sold once; it cannot be repeatedly lost or sold. However, since this profession is known in common parlance as prostitution, we too shall refer to it as such. For ages, the prostitute has been considered the most wretched creature on earth. But have we ever paused to consider that most of us grovel at the thresholds of these very wretched and degraded beings...? Does the thought never cross our minds that we, too, are wretched?

It is a pity that men have never reflected upon this. A man will always attribute every stain of disgrace on his own character to the darkness of a prostitute’s heart. The reality is quite the opposite. Among women, whether they are sex workers or not, ninety-nine percent possess hearts that—despite the dark trade of prostitution—are far more luminous than the hearts of wicked men. Under the current system, the reins of which are held exclusively by men, women have always been suppressed, whether they are prostitutes or chaste. A man has the absolute authority to form whatever opinion he pleases about a woman. We have heard with our own ears, on numerous occasions, hedonistic rich men—having incinerated their wealth and property as fuel in the furnace of their own lust—claim that such-and-such courtesan or prostitute has ruined them... This is a riddle we have yet to comprehend.

Operating strictly on commercial principles, a prostitute or courtesan will try to extract the maximum possible profit from every man who comes to her as a customer. Whether she sells her wares at a reasonable rate or an exorbitant price, it is simply her profession; even a grocer tips the scales when weighing out goods. Some shops sell their merchandise at higher prices, others at lower ones. The astonishing thing is that when we have heard for centuries that one bitten by a prostitute doesn't even live long enough to ask for water, why do we willingly offer ourselves up to be bitten, only to then sit and bewail our fate? A prostitute does not lay her hands on a man's wealth out of malice or some desire for revenge. She conducts a transaction and earns her keep. Men simply pay the price for the fulfillment of their physical desires, and that is all!

It is entirely possible for a prostitute to fall in love with a man. However, if every customer who enters her shop driven by a specific urge also harbors the desire that she should genuinely love him in return, how could that possibly work...? If we go to a shop to buy a rupee's worth of flour, it would be utterly absurd to expect the shopkeeper to invite us into his home and share a miraculous cure for baldness. Faced with a customer demanding love, a prostitute will conjure up artificial emotions of affection on her face. This might please the customer, but from the depths of her heart, this woman cannot summon a pure and genuine voice of love for every drunken man who stumbles into her brothel hoping to build a new world of romance.

A prostitute is only ever viewed from the outside. Looking at her physical beauty, her flashy attire, and the lavish decor of her house, people conclude that she is prosperous. This is simply not true. One can easily imagine the reality of a woman whose doors are open to any man in the city with a few silver coins in his pocket—be he a cobbler or a sweeper, lame or crippled, handsome or utterly hideous. An ugly man, exhaling the foul stench of pyorrhea-infected teeth, visits a refined and fastidious prostitute. Because he has the money in his pocket to purchase her body for a specific amount of time, she cannot turn him away, no matter how repulsed she might be. With a heavy heart, she has no choice but to endure this customer's hideousness and the sickening odor of his breath. She knows all too well that not every customer of hers can be an Apollo.

Female typists are not looked upon with astonishment. Women who work as midwives are not viewed with shock or hatred. Women who carry human waste on their heads are not treated with contempt. Yet, surprisingly, women who sell their bodies—however crudely or clumsily—are looked upon with astonishment, hatred, and sheer contempt. Gentlemen, this trade of the flesh is necessary. You see beautiful, elegant cars in the city... these beautiful, elegant cars cannot be used to haul away garbage. There are other carts meant for collecting filth and dumping it outside the city—carts you rarely see, and if you do, you immediately press a handkerchief to your nose... The existence of those garbage carts is necessary, just as the existence of these women who carry away your filth is necessary. If these women did not exist, all our streets and alleys would be overflowing with the filthy deeds of men. These women are ruined gardens; they are dunghills upon which gutters of foul water empty themselves, and they survive on these very gutters... After all, how can every human being live life in the exact same magnificent manner?

Such prostitutes do fall in love, but their love is of an entirely different nature. They cannot afford the kind of romance shared by Laila and Majnun or Heer and Ranjha, as it would severely damage their business. If a prostitute spares a few moments from her working hours for a man from whom she expects no financial gain, we can call it love. As a rule, a prostitute is only interested in a man's wealth. If she meets a man not for his money but simply for who he is, this rule is broken. It becomes evident that it is not her pocket, but her heart that is driving her actions. And when the heart takes control, the emergence of love is inevitable.

Since the primary objective of romancing a woman is often physical pleasure, we will consider physical gratification as the catalyst for this emotion here as well, even though many other factors contribute to its genesis. For instance, a prostitute, accustomed to commanding every man who visits her kotha (brothel), grows utterly weary of endless pampering. She enjoys being the master, but occasionally, she yearns to be the slave. Having her every whim catered to is highly profitable, but there is a distinct thrill in being denied. She amasses wealth from all directions; it becomes her daily routine. Consequently, a desire sometimes awakens within her to spend her own money on someone else. If everyone flatters her, she wants to flatter someone in return. If she acts stubbornly, she wants someone to be stubborn with her. She spurns everyone, so she longs for someone to spurn her, torment her, or even beat her. All these desires culminate in compelling her to choose a specific man as her companion, and so, she makes her selection.

This moment of selection is highly delicate. It is entirely possible that she might open the private doors of her heart to a wealthy aristocrat. Yet, it is equally possible that she might lay her head at the filthy feet of a hashish-smoking mirasi (musician) who prepares chillums at her brothel—the very head whose tresses great rajas and maharajas had squandered thousands of gold coins just to kiss. And it should come as no surprise if that wretched man were to kick her head away. Such incidents have been both witnessed and recounted. We still have a famous courtesan among us today; a Nawab was madly in love with her for years, yet she was captivated by a remarkably ordinary man. The courtesan would mock the Nawab’s devotion, while her own devotion was mocked by the man she loved. The Nawab was humiliated in his love for the courtesan, and the courtesan was disgraced in her love for that ordinary man.

The intensity of a prostitute's love is far greater than that of an ordinary woman. Because they constantly interact with men, they are continually exposed to a variety of romantic emotions. When they finally fall in love themselves, they feel its sting much more acutely. In the bazaars where these women reside, you will hear countless stories of the kind mentioned above. These tales are especially memorized by those hedonistic wealthy men who loosen their purse strings at the kothas of these women who sell their bodies; they often recount these stories to others with great relish. Sarangi players, mirasis, tabla players, and the regulars who frequent these brothels can regale you with fascinating anecdotes.

From the tales heard from such people, we can offer the example of a prostitute who played in millions, yet her heart was trampled daily beneath the calloused feet of a laborer clad in rags. Every night, she amassed heaps of silver and gold from her wealthy admirers, but her reach fell short of the heart beating within the grimy chest of that laborer. It is said that this delicate woman slept on the hard stones of the street on multiple occasions just to win his favor.

This kind of contradiction and contrast—which is the true essence of love—appears incredibly vivid and mysteriously romantic when observed within the confines of a brothel. The reason for this lies entirely in the background, which sharply accentuates every detail of the foreground. Since a prostitute is generally perceived as a gold-digging pickaxe, utterly devoid of romantic feelings, any tale of a prostitute falling in love seems bizarre and deeply mysterious. This is precisely why we listen to such stories with far more intrigue than we do the romances of ordinary men and women—as if we were hearing the details of some supernatural phenomenon. In reality, the heart and its beats have nothing to do with prostitution or chastity. A chaste woman might harbor a heart completely devoid of love, while conversely, the lowliest prostitute in a brothel might possess a heart overflowing with it. Not every woman is a prostitute, but every prostitute is a woman. This fact must always be remembered.

There is one particular aspect of a prostitute's love worth noting: it has very little impact on her daily routine. You will find very few courtesans who have entirely shut down their business for the sake of this emotion (after all, even a respectable shopkeeper in the city wouldn't close his shop just because he fell in love with a respectable girl). Generally, it is observed that they continue their trade alongside their romance. In truth, a commercial drive to acquire wealth takes root within them. Attracting new clients and selling their wares daily becomes a habit, and this habit eventually becomes second nature. It becomes so ingrained that it remains entirely separate from the other facets of her life. Just as domestic servants quickly make their masters' beds so they can finally attend to their own rest, these women, too, dispatch their clients and then return to their own joy and comfort.

The heart is not something that can be divided, and compared to men, women are far less fickle. Since a prostitute is, after all, a woman, she cannot distribute her heart among all her clients. It is a well-known saying that a woman truly loves only one man in her lifetime. We believe this to be largely true. A prostitute will open all the doors of her heart only to the man she loves; she cannot do so for every man who comes and goes. A common complaint against prostitutes is that they are incredibly ruthless and callous. It is possible that five or six out of a hundred might fit this description, but they are not all like this—or rather, they simply cannot be. One should never, ever compare a prostitute to a chaste woman. There is simply no comparison between the two. A prostitute earns her own living, whereas a chaste woman has several people providing for her. The words of one particular prostitute still echo in our ears, revealing the profound depths of her heart. Listen for yourself!

A prostitute is a helpless, friendless, and unsupported woman. Hundreds of men come to her every day, harboring a single desire... Yet, even amidst a throng of admirers, she remains alone... utterly alone... She is like a train traveling through the dark of night, which, after delivering its passengers to their respective destinations, stands empty beneath an iron roof. Completely empty, coated in smoke and dust... People speak ill of us. I do not know why...? The very men who purchase comfort from us in the darkness of night look upon us with hatred and contempt in the light of day... We sell our bodies openly and make no secret of it. They come to us to buy this commodity, yet they keep the transaction a secret... I simply do not understand why.

Just imagine a prostitute who has absolutely no one in this world—no brother, no sister, no mother, no father, and no friend. When she is finally free from her clients and left alone in her room—utterly alone—what must be the state of her heart and mind...? How much darker must the gloom become in that isolation? If, after carrying heavy loads all day, a laborer finds no way to relieve his exhaustion, has no wife to comfort him with her conversation, and has no mother to place a soothing hand on his tired shoulder and wash away his pain, tell me, what would become of that laborer? The plight of that laborer and the plight of this prostitute are exactly the same.

A prostitute appears to be a glamorous, colorful entity... but why? To answer this question, we must search our own hearts. This flaw lies in the gaze of us men, and to uncover the root causes of this weakness, we must interrogate ourselves. After deep reflection on the matter, this is what we have concluded.

The very mention of the word prostitute conjures up the image of a woman capable of fulfilling a man's carnal desires exactly according to his whims and needs. Although womanhood and prostitution are two entirely distinct things, whenever we think of a prostitute, the woman and her profession appear before us as one intertwined entity. There is no doubt that a person is profoundly shaped by their environment and profession, yet there are moments when, stripped of all these external factors, they are simply human. Similarly, there must surely come a time when a prostitute sheds the garments of her trade and remains nothing but a woman. Tragically, however, we are conditioned to always view the woman and the prostitute as inseparable. When we look at a prostitute through this lens, we simultaneously see what we men define as luxury and indulgence—and luxury, more often than not, equates to physical pleasure.

What is physical pleasure? It is a fleeting gratification that we attain through our wives or another woman. The question then arises: why do married men abandon their wives and seek out women of the bazaar for this momentary pleasure? When their physical desires can easily be fulfilled at home, why do they wander the streets in search of it? The answer is not difficult to grasp. You will find many men who forsake rich, delicious home-cooked meals to dine at restaurants. The sole reason is that they have developed a craving for restaurant food. Restaurant meals may lack nutritional value, but they possess a certain something else that draws these men in. We might call this quality restaurant-ness—a vice that masquerades as a virtue, or rather, transforms into an irresistible allure. The artful presentation by the restaurant owners also plays a significant role in this.

Furthermore, the ambiance available at a restaurant simply cannot be replicated at home. Human beings are naturally drawn to variety; therefore, it should come as no surprise when a man desires a change in his daily routine. There is no doubt that these men do not get better food at these establishments, nor is there any doubt that it costs them significantly more than eating at home. Yet, this is precisely what they want. It is this very contrast that drags them away from their homes and into the restaurants. It is sheer foolishness, but the irony is that they find their pleasure in this very foolishness.

The same holds true for those married men who leave their wives to seek pleasure in the embrace of women of the bazaar. Now, you might ask whether these men actually succeed in their quest...? We would say, absolutely. The women they visit are masters of this art. After all, this is precisely what they sell. Their very profession dictates that they offer a flavor of pleasure entirely distinct from that of a domestic housewife. If they failed to do so, how would their business survive?

As we stated at the very beginning of this essay: prostitution is not something contrary to reason.

Prostitution is neither illogical nor unnatural. It is a profession, and the women who adopt it fulfill certain social needs. When there are buyers for a commodity, we should not be surprised to find it in the market. If, in every city, we see women who earn their daily bread through this trade of the flesh, we should have no objection to their means of livelihood. After all, their customers exist in every city.

Prostitution is considered a cardinal sin. It may well be a grave sin, but we do not wish to examine it from a religious perspective. Caught in the labyrinth of sin and virtue, reward and punishment, one cannot analyze any issue dispassionately. Religion itself is a massive complication; if we entangle another issue within it, it will only cause us a severe headache. Therefore, we have separated religion from prostitution and set it aside.

What is prostitution...? It is the selling of chastity. That is, selling the very pearl considered to be the most precious jewel of a woman's life. The value of this jewel has inflated immensely because experience has taught us that once a woman loses it, she loses all respect in the eyes of society. This pearl is lost in several ways. When a woman marries, this pearl slips into her husband's pocket. Sometimes, men take it by force; at other times, unmarried women willingly surrender it to the men they love. Some women, compelled by circumstances, sell it, while others turn it into a full-fledged trade.

We wish to speak about those women who sell their chastity as a profession. It is, of course, an obvious fact that chastity can only be lost or sold once; it cannot be repeatedly lost or sold. However, since this profession is known in common parlance as prostitution, we too shall refer to it as such. For ages, the prostitute has been considered the most wretched creature on earth. But have we ever paused to consider that most of us grovel at the thresholds of these very wretched and degraded beings...? Does the thought never cross our minds that we, too, are wretched?

It is a pity that men have never reflected upon this. A man will always attribute every stain of disgrace on his own character to the darkness of a prostitute’s heart. The reality is quite the opposite. Among women, whether they are sex workers or not, ninety-nine percent possess hearts that—despite the dark trade of prostitution—are far more luminous than the hearts of wicked men. Under the current system, the reins of which are held exclusively by men, women have always been suppressed, whether they are prostitutes or chaste. A man has the absolute authority to form whatever opinion he pleases about a woman. We have heard with our own ears, on numerous occasions, hedonistic rich men—having incinerated their wealth and property as fuel in the furnace of their own lust—claim that such-and-such courtesan or prostitute has ruined them... This is a riddle we have yet to comprehend.

Operating strictly on commercial principles, a prostitute or courtesan will try to extract the maximum possible profit from every man who comes to her as a customer. Whether she sells her wares at a reasonable rate or an exorbitant price, it is simply her profession; even a grocer tips the scales when weighing out goods. Some shops sell their merchandise at higher prices, others at lower ones. The astonishing thing is that when we have heard for centuries that one bitten by a prostitute doesn't even live long enough to ask for water, why do we willingly offer ourselves up to be bitten, only to then sit and bewail our fate? A prostitute does not lay her hands on a man's wealth out of malice or some desire for revenge. She conducts a transaction and earns her keep. Men simply pay the price for the fulfillment of their physical desires, and that is all!

It is entirely possible for a prostitute to fall in love with a man. However, if every customer who enters her shop driven by a specific urge also harbors the desire that she should genuinely love him in return, how could that possibly work...? If we go to a shop to buy a rupee's worth of flour, it would be utterly absurd to expect the shopkeeper to invite us into his home and share a miraculous cure for baldness. Faced with a customer demanding love, a prostitute will conjure up artificial emotions of affection on her face. This might please the customer, but from the depths of her heart, this woman cannot summon a pure and genuine voice of love for every drunken man who stumbles into her brothel hoping to build a new world of romance.

A prostitute is only ever viewed from the outside. Looking at her physical beauty, her flashy attire, and the lavish decor of her house, people conclude that she is prosperous. This is simply not true. One can easily imagine the reality of a woman whose doors are open to any man in the city with a few silver coins in his pocket—be he a cobbler or a sweeper, lame or crippled, handsome or utterly hideous. An ugly man, exhaling the foul stench of pyorrhea-infected teeth, visits a refined and fastidious prostitute. Because he has the money in his pocket to purchase her body for a specific amount of time, she cannot turn him away, no matter how repulsed she might be. With a heavy heart, she has no choice but to endure this customer's hideousness and the sickening odor of his breath. She knows all too well that not every customer of hers can be an Apollo.

Female typists are not looked upon with astonishment. Women who work as midwives are not viewed with shock or hatred. Women who carry human waste on their heads are not treated with contempt. Yet, surprisingly, women who sell their bodies—however crudely or clumsily—are looked upon with astonishment, hatred, and sheer contempt. Gentlemen, this trade of the flesh is necessary. You see beautiful, elegant cars in the city... these beautiful, elegant cars cannot be used to haul away garbage. There are other carts meant for collecting filth and dumping it outside the city—carts you rarely see, and if you do, you immediately press a handkerchief to your nose... The existence of those garbage carts is necessary, just as the existence of these women who carry away your filth is necessary. If these women did not exist, all our streets and alleys would be overflowing with the filthy deeds of men. These women are ruined gardens; they are dunghills upon which gutters of foul water empty themselves, and they survive on these very gutters... After all, how can every human being live life in the exact same magnificent manner?

Such prostitutes do fall in love, but their love is of an entirely different nature. They cannot afford the kind of romance shared by Laila and Majnun or Heer and Ranjha, as it would severely damage their business. If a prostitute spares a few moments from her working hours for a man from whom she expects no financial gain, we can call it love. As a rule, a prostitute is only interested in a man's wealth. If she meets a man not for his money but simply for who he is, this rule is broken. It becomes evident that it is not her pocket, but her heart that is driving her actions. And when the heart takes control, the emergence of love is inevitable.

Since the primary objective of romancing a woman is often physical pleasure, we will consider physical gratification as the catalyst for this emotion here as well, even though many other factors contribute to its genesis. For instance, a prostitute, accustomed to commanding every man who visits her kotha (brothel), grows utterly weary of endless pampering. She enjoys being the master, but occasionally, she yearns to be the slave. Having her every whim catered to is highly profitable, but there is a distinct thrill in being denied. She amasses wealth from all directions; it becomes her daily routine. Consequently, a desire sometimes awakens within her to spend her own money on someone else. If everyone flatters her, she wants to flatter someone in return. If she acts stubbornly, she wants someone to be stubborn with her. She spurns everyone, so she longs for someone to spurn her, torment her, or even beat her. All these desires culminate in compelling her to choose a specific man as her companion, and so, she makes her selection.

This moment of selection is highly delicate. It is entirely possible that she might open the private doors of her heart to a wealthy aristocrat. Yet, it is equally possible that she might lay her head at the filthy feet of a hashish-smoking mirasi (musician) who prepares chillums at her brothel—the very head whose tresses great rajas and maharajas had squandered thousands of gold coins just to kiss. And it should come as no surprise if that wretched man were to kick her head away. Such incidents have been both witnessed and recounted. We still have a famous courtesan among us today; a Nawab was madly in love with her for years, yet she was captivated by a remarkably ordinary man. The courtesan would mock the Nawab’s devotion, while her own devotion was mocked by the man she loved. The Nawab was humiliated in his love for the courtesan, and the courtesan was disgraced in her love for that ordinary man.

The intensity of a prostitute's love is far greater than that of an ordinary woman. Because they constantly interact with men, they are continually exposed to a variety of romantic emotions. When they finally fall in love themselves, they feel its sting much more acutely. In the bazaars where these women reside, you will hear countless stories of the kind mentioned above. These tales are especially memorized by those hedonistic wealthy men who loosen their purse strings at the kothas of these women who sell their bodies; they often recount these stories to others with great relish. Sarangi players, mirasis, tabla players, and the regulars who frequent these brothels can regale you with fascinating anecdotes.

From the tales heard from such people, we can offer the example of a prostitute who played in millions, yet her heart was trampled daily beneath the calloused feet of a laborer clad in rags. Every night, she amassed heaps of silver and gold from her wealthy admirers, but her reach fell short of the heart beating within the grimy chest of that laborer. It is said that this delicate woman slept on the hard stones of the street on multiple occasions just to win his favor.

This kind of contradiction and contrast—which is the true essence of love—appears incredibly vivid and mysteriously romantic when observed within the confines of a brothel. The reason for this lies entirely in the background, which sharply accentuates every detail of the foreground. Since a prostitute is generally perceived as a gold-digging pickaxe, utterly devoid of romantic feelings, any tale of a prostitute falling in love seems bizarre and deeply mysterious. This is precisely why we listen to such stories with far more intrigue than we do the romances of ordinary men and women—as if we were hearing the details of some supernatural phenomenon. In reality, the heart and its beats have nothing to do with prostitution or chastity. A chaste woman might harbor a heart completely devoid of love, while conversely, the lowliest prostitute in a brothel might possess a heart overflowing with it. Not every woman is a prostitute, but every prostitute is a woman. This fact must always be remembered.

There is one particular aspect of a prostitute's love worth noting: it has very little impact on her daily routine. You will find very few courtesans who have entirely shut down their business for the sake of this emotion (after all, even a respectable shopkeeper in the city wouldn't close his shop just because he fell in love with a respectable girl). Generally, it is observed that they continue their trade alongside their romance. In truth, a commercial drive to acquire wealth takes root within them. Attracting new clients and selling their wares daily becomes a habit, and this habit eventually becomes second nature. It becomes so ingrained that it remains entirely separate from the other facets of her life. Just as domestic servants quickly make their masters' beds so they can finally attend to their own rest, these women, too, dispatch their clients and then return to their own joy and comfort.

The heart is not something that can be divided, and compared to men, women are far less fickle. Since a prostitute is, after all, a woman, she cannot distribute her heart among all her clients. It is a well-known saying that a woman truly loves only one man in her lifetime. We believe this to be largely true. A prostitute will open all the doors of her heart only to the man she loves; she cannot do so for every man who comes and goes. A common complaint against prostitutes is that they are incredibly ruthless and callous. It is possible that five or six out of a hundred might fit this description, but they are not all like this—or rather, they simply cannot be. One should never, ever compare a prostitute to a chaste woman. There is simply no comparison between the two. A prostitute earns her own living, whereas a chaste woman has several people providing for her. The words of one particular prostitute still echo in our ears, revealing the profound depths of her heart. Listen for yourself!

A prostitute is a helpless, friendless, and unsupported woman. Hundreds of men come to her every day, harboring a single desire... Yet, even amidst a throng of admirers, she remains alone... utterly alone... She is like a train traveling through the dark of night, which, after delivering its passengers to their respective destinations, stands empty beneath an iron roof. Completely empty, coated in smoke and dust... People speak ill of us. I do not know why...? The very men who purchase comfort from us in the darkness of night look upon us with hatred and contempt in the light of day... We sell our bodies openly and make no secret of it. They come to us to buy this commodity, yet they keep the transaction a secret... I simply do not understand why.

Just imagine a prostitute who has absolutely no one in this world—no brother, no sister, no mother, no father, and no friend. When she is finally free from her clients and left alone in her room—utterly alone—what must be the state of her heart and mind...? How much darker must the gloom become in that isolation? If, after carrying heavy loads all day, a laborer finds no way to relieve his exhaustion, has no wife to comfort him with her conversation, and has no mother to place a soothing hand on his tired shoulder and wash away his pain, tell me, what would become of that laborer? The plight of that laborer and the plight of this prostitute are exactly the same.

A prostitute appears to be a glamorous, colorful entity... but why? To answer this question, we must search our own hearts. This flaw lies in the gaze of us men, and to uncover the root causes of this weakness, we must interrogate ourselves. After deep reflection on the matter, this is what we have concluded.

The very mention of the word prostitute conjures up the image of a woman capable of fulfilling a man's carnal desires exactly according to his whims and needs. Although womanhood and prostitution are two entirely distinct things, whenever we think of a prostitute, the woman and her profession appear before us as one intertwined entity. There is no doubt that a person is profoundly shaped by their environment and profession, yet there are moments when, stripped of all these external factors, they are simply human. Similarly, there must surely come a time when a prostitute sheds the garments of her trade and remains nothing but a woman. Tragically, however, we are conditioned to always view the woman and the prostitute as inseparable. When we look at a prostitute through this lens, we simultaneously see what we men define as luxury and indulgence—and luxury, more often than not, equates to physical pleasure.

What is physical pleasure? It is a fleeting gratification that we attain through our wives or another woman. The question then arises: why do married men abandon their wives and seek out women of the bazaar for this momentary pleasure? When their physical desires can easily be fulfilled at home, why do they wander the streets in search of it? The answer is not difficult to grasp. You will find many men who forsake rich, delicious home-cooked meals to dine at restaurants. The sole reason is that they have developed a craving for restaurant food. Restaurant meals may lack nutritional value, but they possess a certain something else that draws these men in. We might call this quality restaurant-ness—a vice that masquerades as a virtue, or rather, transforms into an irresistible allure. The artful presentation by the restaurant owners also plays a significant role in this.

Furthermore, the ambiance available at a restaurant simply cannot be replicated at home. Human beings are naturally drawn to variety; therefore, it should come as no surprise when a man desires a change in his daily routine. There is no doubt that these men do not get better food at these establishments, nor is there any doubt that it costs them significantly more than eating at home. Yet, this is precisely what they want. It is this very contrast that drags them away from their homes and into the restaurants. It is sheer foolishness, but the irony is that they find their pleasure in this very foolishness.

The same holds true for those married men who leave their wives to seek pleasure in the embrace of women of the bazaar. Now, you might ask whether these men actually succeed in their quest...? We would say, absolutely. The women they visit are masters of this art. After all, this is precisely what they sell. Their very profession dictates that they offer a flavor of pleasure entirely distinct from that of a domestic housewife. If they failed to do so, how would their business survive?

As we stated at the very beginning of this essay: prostitution is not something contrary to reason.