The floating logs move on and thus moving reach their destination, in singles or pairs, in their own time, at their own pace, to their own destiny, in their own way.
He was Meher, beneficence, to his kin, himself, to society at large, rising from his tiny idyllic world, designed by his destiny.
And ringing in the hours, the sentinel of time, is the Clock Tower, in the New Market of Calcutta (now Kolkata), the noble city. The twentieth century has dropped away. He has rung the gong of the twenty first century. The present is irrevocably being wrapped up as past, in the folds of time.