Barbala By Vaishali Haldankar

मी स्वत:ला वेश्या समजत नव्हते. माझ्या मनाच्या कोप-यात मी स्वत:ची एक प्रतिमा हळुवार जपली होती. बाहेरून मला कोणीही ओरबाडलं, रक्तबंबाळ केलं तरी त्या प्रतिमेला मी प्राणपणाने जपणार होते. ती प्रतिमा एका कलाकाराची होती. मनस्वी कलाकाराची. पण मला हे जमणार होतं का? पुरुषांना जणू माझा वास यायचा, की ही अशी बाई आहे, जिला आपण चिरडू शकतो, वापरू शकतो. माझ्याबाबत घडूनघडून काय घडणार होतं? काय घडायचं राहिलं होतं? जे काय घडायचं ते घडो; पण मला दोन वेळच्या जेवणाची भ्रांत नको होती. मुलांच्या आयुष्याची नासाडी नको होती. अपेक्षा खूप मोठ्या नव्हत्या पण जे आयुष्य होतं तसंच सुरू राहिलं असतं तर मी किती काळ जिवंत राहू शकले असते? कशा अवस्थेत जिवंत राहू शकले असते? I never thought of myself as a prostitute. There was a corner in my mind, where I had installed my own image, which was very pure, untouched. It was the image of an artist. I always wanted to cherish it, take care of it. Was it possible? Outwardly, everyone was trying to take advantage of my situation. The male members always seem to get the signal that I am an easy target and can be crushed by anybody, anyhow. What worst was yet going to happen to me now? Nothing had gone right. Everything had gone wrong. All wrong deeds have already been done. The worst had already happened in my case. But I was prepared for everything. I did not want to compromise with the hunger my children would suffer from. I wanted it nowhere in my sight. I wanted a good life for my children. No, I was not planning very big events or careers for them. My expectations were very meager, still how much would I live? And, how would I live?