On the Wheelchair

The old man gazed at the sun about to set And its molten core soon to dissolve in the sea Scratching his head with tremulous hands And running his fingers on the stubble of his unshaven face He held once more tight to his wheel chair Casually he had a glance at his hands Those dry, weak and shriveled hands Gone wrinkled with passing years! His hands once so busy are now limp His days once brisk are now long and dull He noticed the discolored patches on his skin Under them the lattice of tortuous veins on the dorsum They run down to join with the bigger ones Like small rivulets flowing towards larger rivers He remembered how the streams from summits So vigorously come down with a gush Also the noisy cataracts somersaulting down, Leaving reverberating echoes all around But they produce only a soft musical sound As they join with the rivers and pass through plains And finally end in a kind of hushed stillness Just before merging with the sea! The old man philosophized; Life too is like a river: Fierce and ferocious when one is young Gentler and sedate after middle age And slow and sloppy in old age With this calm acceptance of the need to de-accelerate Wrapping himself in the shawl against the growing cold He turned away from the window. Pushing his wheel chair, He moved forward, Knowing no haste….. Towards his bed for another night’s tired sleep!