Going into 70. A pleasant feeling being surely slotted old. A senior citizen, no doubt. Good wishes on FB. A small matter is the uncertainty over the birthday. A cousin gave a date which popped his mind, by a logic one does not know, on me being admitted to Class 1 at the National High School on Lansdowne Road in Calcutta; got the year also wrong, 1947 instead of 1946; the school and me are still there. Perhaps, the only sure fact in my birth certificate is the birth place, Kottarakara, Kollam district, Kerala. In those times, time had no dates or watch hands; born when the coconut was planted in  the courtyard; time, the Madras Passenger whistled the station; and then the astrologer came in to the guessing game. Father and mother had no certificates. Today it matters with certificates and Aadhars for identification; for retirement benefits. Perhaps the best thing about 70 is the near absence of routine; an existential or a moment to moment living; crows, cuckoos, parakeets and sparrows in the mornings; a flip back into times lived without TV, radios, phones, mobiles, more bullock carts than cars; walk when the mood is on; lie in bed mostly; a refreshing bath at 2 in the afternoon, an occasional beer, a nap; evenings on youtube for a Ray or Sen or songing of TM Krishna (me current fad); he takes me on tonal trips, drops me somewhere in the air, pauses ...both silent, lost in the quiet of music; reminds me of T.R. Mahalingam; some days, the reverse, like waking up to Mini Bus of Ruskin Bond, bought by son Ganesh on September 5, 2009 at the New Delhi airport. Ruskin Bond: This land is mine: This land is mine/Although I do not own it,/This land is mine/Because I grew upon it./This dust, this grass,/This tender leaf/And weathered bark/All in my heart are finely blended/Until my time on earth is ended.