Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Ranajit Das

THE TUNNEL

I could not get very close to myself yet, because police are on guard.
 
For many years, I have been secretly drawing the map of the hidden tunnel. But this forbidden map is fraught with so many booby traps, mines, skeletons, trenches, quicksands, tanks, blind-wells and mad houses that my blood chills in fear. Things are made even more scary by a strange mist covering the mouth of each tunnel. A neon-coloured mist. Whatever one seeks from this mist, one gets it: a personal jet, or a bank, a harem, a private sea-beach. One gets a whole colourful world of unfettered and unlimited self-gratification. No restrictions are there in this world of the magical mist; rather, there are invisible provocations and covert support for such indulgences. Like a timid friend merely sending cigarettes and letters to a dangerous solitary convict from a safe distance. Getting really close to one’s own self is an incredible act of subversion. I keep digging the tunnels, but the police are on guard.

সুড়ঙ্গ

সুড়ঙ্গ

নিজের খুব কাছে যেতে পারিনি এখনও, পুলিশ রয়েছে।

অনেক বছর ধরে গোপনে চোরাপথগুলির ম্যাপ এঁকে চলেছি।কিন্তু সেই নীষদ্ধ মান।৮এ জুড়ে এত অজানা ফীদ, মাইন, কক্কাল, পরিখা, চোরাবালি, ট্যাংক, অন্ধকুপ এবং উন্মাদ- আশ্রম যে ভয়ে বুক শুকিয়ে যায়। আরও সমস্যা এই যে সমস্ত পথের মুখ এক অদ্ভুত কুয়াশায় ঢাকা । নিওন আলোর কুয়াশী। যার ভিতর চাইলেই পাওয়া যায় ব্যক্তিগত বিমান, ব্যাংক, হারেম, পিয়ানো, সমুদ্রসৈকত। এক অবাধ, অনস্ত আত্মসস্তৃষ্টির রঙিন জগত। সেখানে কোনও বাধানিষেধ নেই, বরং অদৃশ্য প্ররোচনা এবং মদত রয়েছে। কারণ এগুলি আর কিছুই নয়, নিরীহ বন্ধুর মতো দূর থেকে, এক বিপজ্জনক, নিঃসঙ্গ বন্দির কাছে সিগারেট ও চিঠি পাঠানো মাত্র।

প্রকৃত নিজের কাছে যাওয়া এক অকল্পনীয় অন্তর্থাত। সুড়ঙ্গ খুঁড়ে চলেছি, কিন্তু চতুর্দিকে পুলিশ রয়েছে।
Close

THE TUNNEL

I could not get very close to myself yet, because police are on guard.
 
For many years, I have been secretly drawing the map of the hidden tunnel. But this forbidden map is fraught with so many booby traps, mines, skeletons, trenches, quicksands, tanks, blind-wells and mad houses that my blood chills in fear. Things are made even more scary by a strange mist covering the mouth of each tunnel. A neon-coloured mist. Whatever one seeks from this mist, one gets it: a personal jet, or a bank, a harem, a private sea-beach. One gets a whole colourful world of unfettered and unlimited self-gratification. No restrictions are there in this world of the magical mist; rather, there are invisible provocations and covert support for such indulgences. Like a timid friend merely sending cigarettes and letters to a dangerous solitary convict from a safe distance. Getting really close to one’s own self is an incredible act of subversion. I keep digging the tunnels, but the police are on guard.

THE TUNNEL

I could not get very close to myself yet, because police are on guard.
 
For many years, I have been secretly drawing the map of the hidden tunnel. But this forbidden map is fraught with so many booby traps, mines, skeletons, trenches, quicksands, tanks, blind-wells and mad houses that my blood chills in fear. Things are made even more scary by a strange mist covering the mouth of each tunnel. A neon-coloured mist. Whatever one seeks from this mist, one gets it: a personal jet, or a bank, a harem, a private sea-beach. One gets a whole colourful world of unfettered and unlimited self-gratification. No restrictions are there in this world of the magical mist; rather, there are invisible provocations and covert support for such indulgences. Like a timid friend merely sending cigarettes and letters to a dangerous solitary convict from a safe distance. Getting really close to one’s own self is an incredible act of subversion. I keep digging the tunnels, but the police are on guard.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère