Sir, At 84

(In his letter the editor wrote to me: “I am 84. waiting for the whistle of Destiny.” The poem is my response to the remark.)

Age whispers no doubt on the brink,
nags too, but eighty-four is no fatal number
for him who floats ever in books pool.

Orwell loves the figure,
so do our sages of varied cults
for its sweep and celestial wealth.

As the long-armed Destiny
moves closer to the house,
she beholds three streams glittering white,
argues with herself, bends a bit
when hears a prayer for Living Light.

Her Whistle does not heed,
spurns the deed;
the air fights to open its mouth:
not one a fluke. Amuse.
The Queen, hopeless, lies to rouse it:
they tangle, finally mute.

Rising, she views candles of many hues
singing in ten rows of ten each,
pauses to bless aloud:
steer Triveni, shape her,
there is enough bounce in your bones,
and right swing in your pen.

Editor’s Correction: This poem was published in the name of Shri Srinivasa Rangaswami by mistake in the previous issue. The mistake is regretted. We are very sorry.