The Descent: Returning to the Source — Nothing Is Wasted

Have you ever watched a leaf fall? Not drop — fall is too fast a word. Have you watched it descend? It doesn’t fall straight. It swirls. It catches air. It goes left, then right, then left again, as if it is trying to remember every inch of the tree on its way down. And then, softly, without sound, it lands on the dark, rich soil at the base of the mighty trunk it once fed.

My grandmother in Kollam used to sweep leaves every morning. I used to ask her, “Amma, why you don’t burn them? They make mess.” She would say, “Monay, this mess is next year’s mango.” I was 10. I didn’t understand. I thought soil comes from shop. Now I know — soil comes from fallen leaves.

Botanically, the descent has three stages, and all three are beautiful engineering.

Stage one: abscission completes. During autumn, a specialised separation zone forms at the leaf stalk. As the cells separate, the leaf’s connection to the tree is broken and the tree protects the attachment point. The leaf is now officially unemployed. No more job. No more salary from the tree.

Stage two: release and descent. Wind, gravity, the leaf’s shape and the surrounding branches all influence where it lands. Some leaves flutter or spiral; others drop almost straight down. A breeze may carry a leaf farther from the parent tree, but there is no single descent pattern and no guarantee of wider dispersal. Nature works through variation, not one perfect design.

Stage three: decomposition. This is where the quiet work begins. Fungi, bacteria and soil animals help break leaf litter down, although the timing depends on the leaf species, moisture, temperature and soil community. In warm, humid southern Kerala, a study of mango, jackfruit and cashew leaves found that decay rates differed by species; the tested litter was largely decomposed within about nine months under the study conditions. The resulting organic matter contributes to soil structure, nutrient cycling and water retention. It becomes part of the living system that supports future growth — not overnight, and not at one fixed speed.

Nothing is wasted. Nothing. The forest has no dustbin.

In human terms, this is the final chapter. Old age. Retirement. Or sometimes, it’s not age — it’s the end of a role. You leave Gulf. You close a business. You stop being “the safety officer” and become “that uncle who knows about buildings.”

We fear this phase because we think falling means failing. But leaf shows falling is feeding.

I saw this with a senior foreman in Abu Dhabi — Joseph chettan from Kottayam. 32 years in same company. On his last day, he didn’t give a speech. He took his toolbox, opened it, and gave each tool to a junior with a story. “This spanner, 2009, we fixed chiller 3 at 2 AM, remember? Now it’s yours.” He was not leaving. He was becoming humus. His tools, his stories, are now holding water for the next generation.

Even when people dismiss your work today, someone years from now may find an idea in your blood-and-water blog or this leaf series that helps them start a consultancy, solve a problem or teach someone else. They may draw strength from what you chose to share.

We don’t like decomposition. We like preservation. We want to be laminated. But nature says — if you don’t decompose, you block.

If fallen leaves did not decompose, leaf litter and other organic material could accumulate and alter the forest floor. In many ecosystems, decomposition helps recycle nutrients and makes room for new growth. Your past, if never processed, can do something similar. Your old ego, old titles, old hurts — if you keep them laminated, they block your new sprout.

Decomposition is not destruction. It is translation. The leaf’s shape is destroyed, but its nitrogen is translated into root language. Your Gulf experience — if you keep it as “I was senior in Dubai,” it blocks. If you translate it as “I learned how to keep 300 people cool when chiller fails,” it feeds.

That’s why I tell all Gulf returnees — don’t come back and say “I am ex-UAE.” Come back and become soil. Teach one boy how to read a pathway. That boy is your humus certificate, more valuable than IOSH.