Detritus on the beach

The first time I came across the word, I was so impressed by it I confess I not only rushed to look it up in the dictionary, but also kept repeating it to myself. I figured it was the sound of the word that I really liked—it not only had a certain superior mouthfeel to it, but also a definite Greek-tragedy finality about it when uttered: duh-tree-tus! One could almost visualize a cowering, bewildered chap surrounded by an ominous Chorus of men in white robes throwing the word at him repeatedly: Detritus! Detritus!

You may say what the hell, it’s just a fancy word for debris, so why all the drama? And I will have to counter by admitting that it comes closest to describing my current state of affairs. Not just the word, of course, but also the complete vision, Greek Chorus included.

And by implication, this state of affairs naturally reflects on my state of mind in these bleak how-dare-you-feel-happy times. Which by the way is a trifle safer than it reflecting on my state of heart, for it means that there are still some days to go before the end of life as we know it, and more rubbish to be seen yet.

So why am I feeling like this? After all, I exercise regularly: my BP is under control, my waist is a healthy 33 inches, I can climb the 2 flights of stairs up to my bedroom with comparative ease, and I haven’t been divorced yet. Not just that, if one were to total the number of milliseconds stolen to glance in the mirror at the gym, which must easily approximate to significant narcissism by any slide rule, it would seem that there’s nothing lacking in the physical department, really.

Could it have anything to do with work, or as is the global case these days, lack of it? Has recession finally washed up on Indian shores? Partly yes, I would have to admit, considering the number of manhours one now spends on Facebook and online games, but mostly as we all know this has become more of a fashionable scapegoat, so there must be more to it than the professional slump theory.

Which of course, brings me to the, er, emotional candidates for this wallowing-in-filth feeling. You might hypothesize it’s to do with the sons being far away. Or, with the wife being too close, now that we share not only the same bed, but also the same cabin at office. Or, both. Nah! Seriously, the boys have been away for more than a year and a half now, and every passing day is actually a countdown for the empty nest to flower yet again even though temporarily. As for the wife, what can one say, if you’ve lived with her for 24 years, it surely couldn’t be a recent cause for discomfort. And what the hell once you’ve gotten used to her snoring, or her habit of not replacing caps on bottles or leaving strands of combed-off hair regularly in my clean car, what could be worse?

No, it’s certainly not all of these. At one level, it seems to me it’s to do with the weather: an impending sense of gloom as the horrible summer nears—a metaphor, perhaps for the approaching 50-year age mark and everything that one fears about old-age. At another, and deeper level however, I think it’s to do with realizing the existentialist truth that one is really no more precious than the coconut and flowers that are immersed in the sea with one’s ashes—at least they get washed ashore time and again, whereas we humans get lost to humanity forever, once we’re gone. Whatever you may have believed in, stood for, or fought for, is all going to be forgotten. Whatever wealth you may have achieved, collected, or amassed is all going to count for nothing. Day after day, it’s just the tide of time that will come and go, come and go. What will remain of most mortals is just the detritus of their memories.

What’s that you said? Good deeds, noble things don’t die and will be washed ashore? Surely, you must be joking. Remember one Mahatma Gandhi? What do we remember of even him? His spectacles and other memorabilia that’s been the flavour of the month? Or the fashionable ‘Gandhigiri’ that Munnabhai needed to remind us of? Come on, don’t delude yourself – lesser mortals like us will just go and be forgotten except by those closest to us – and that too because of a sense of loss, not greatness.

So, what the f, if one has to go, let’s at least go dramatically, in the best Greek tragedy tradition. Detritus! Detritus! And if that’s not enough, let’s borrow from another master, Detritus we all are and to Detritus we must all go—Detritus to Detritus! Amen!!

P.S. This was a glorious last-minute, floor-level picture taken by Gautmik just before sunset at Versova beach, Bombay. And just before his project submission next day, on ‘Profane Bombay’.