Seventy, and fortunately, still counting!

Raju Korti
As the clock strikes midnight on August 30, I cross into my seventies. In India, this age is viewed with a certain awe, almost as though life has turned a ceremonial corner. I often wonder why. People do go on to live into their eighties and even their nineties, although such longevity is rare. What makes the seventies so special, I cannot say. Yet I find myself standing at its threshold, proud to be its chosen recipient.

Coffee as the judge at Times function 

There is an inevitability to the march of time, but it also invites introspection. My good old well-wisher, the dashing and eternally youthful Dev Anand, once told me with a twinkle in his eye: growing old is compulsory, but ageing is optional. His words return to me now with a quiet resonance. What keeps me afloat is not the ticking of years but the loyalty of my memory. It has never betrayed me. Childhood episodes, distant yet vivid, come alive with the freshness of yesterday. That vividity has been my compass. Nostalgia, often dismissed by others as the indulgence of the past, has been my lifeline.

In my late sixties I discovered a truth that seems sharper with age: life goes on, utterly indifferent to anyone or anything. It does not pause for triumphs or tragedies. What unsettles us are not events themselves but the emotions they unleash. I prefer to see them as catalysts. The seventies whisper another truth. You are on your own. Your only true companions are conviction and memory. At times I feel my mother delivered me into this world only yesterday. That is how young, or perhaps how ancient, I truly am.

Looking back, the journey has been a mosaic of light and shade, like anyone else’s. Moments of exultation, moments of despair. There were strangers who opened their arms to me and kin who shut their doors. Not all blood is thick; not all strangers are suspect. But time, that great equaliser, teaches you to outgrow betrayal and blesses you with the wisdom that you come alone and you go alone.

In these seven decades, I have been privileged to encounter people of every hue. Celebrities whose names fill headlines, politicians who strutted on national and international stages, ordinary men and women, and even those who might appear utterly inconsequential. Yet my heart has leaned always towards those who live by the simple creed that has guided me: love and be loved. Life, distilled to its essence, is nothing more than that.

The rigours of 70s!

Crossing into the seventies feels less like surrender and more like a renewal. It is an opportunity to simplify life, to release grudges and regrets, to nurture health, and to treasure friendships that have endured. Ten years ago, when I survived a near-fatal coronary bypass, every dawn became a new lease of life. Today I stand at seventy, grateful, curious, and ready to embrace each day with intention.

Ageing, of course, is not without its toll. The body carries the quiet signs of pure aging, those universal shifts of time. But with every wrinkle and scar comes another layer of perspective. What once felt like middle age now yields to the honest recognition of old age. And yet, I refuse to surrender to it.

I have lost my parents, two brothers, and a sister. Their absence is a shadow, but around me remain friends who love me fiercely, colleagues who stood by me, and students who once hero-worshipped me. Some admired me, others reviled me, but together they shaped my life. I hold no regrets. If I ever sit down to write my memoirs, I dare say it will be a bestseller, not merely for its truths but for the cadence and flourish of my words.

At seventy, the road behind me stretches with stories untold and the road ahead, though shorter, glimmers with promise. I do not see this as an ending but as another beginning. The leaf may be dry, but it still rustles with life.

NB: 70th birthday hai to do photos ka indulgence to banta hai. I am no narcissist, you know.