The Banyan Tree

Just outside my native home in Ambajogai, there is an old banyan tree. It is as old as time, it feels, because everyone simply refers to it as “vadacha zhaad”, or “the banyan tree”. There is no need to describe it any further; everyone knows who you’re talking about when you refer to the banyan tree.

In our family timeline, I’m pretty sure it was there when my grandparents first moved into the neighbourhood, as young as they were, hopeful for the future. It stood stoically as the patriarch of our family, my grandfather, passed on, and then my grandmother. My father played under it as a child, and now, in his 70s, he has sat under it, enjoying its shade. It is still steady, standing patiently and spreading its full branches for the folk taking cover from the beating sun. On my visits back, I walked by it hundreds of times. I, too, found cool respite under its canopy.

The banyan tree has witnessed all kinds of things and remained steadfast. It has heard the wails of babies, soothing them with lullabies created as the wind moves through its foliage. It has absorbed the weeps of families as loved ones pass on, holding still in tribute. It has welcomed brides as they enter their new homes, shimmering its leaves in celebration. If there is one firm friend I can point to, it is the banyan tree.

So it was with utter distress that I saw a post from my family back in Ambajogai, narrating how the banyan tree was being cut up. Its branches, so old and wise, were blindly pulled down. The reason, I was told, was because it was interfering with some recently installed wires and being a danger to people walking beneath it.

I was distraught. Who was being a danger to whom? Was there no alternative? Does one hurt the very companion that has witnessed our trials and tribulations, seen us fumble through life, always supportive, never judging?

I cried that day. I cried for the banyan tree, who must have experienced tremendous pain. I am sure it felt it, the convulsions of physical dismemberment and also the anguish of betrayal by the very people it had nurtured and loved.

And I cried for us humans, who simply can’t seem to rise out of our arrogance that Nature is there to be bent as per our whims. I am ashamed at our current generations. Maybe, a few generations down, our kids’ kids will read about our times and wonder at how narrow-sighted we were about our relationship with Nature. Maybe they will read this story and be amazed at our ingratitude.

And, just maybe, they will reach out and stroke the trunk of a banyan tree under which they are sitting, letting it know that times have changed.