Manjhi Akshayavat, an immortal Banyan tree

Ranked third by Geo magazine among India’s ten celebrated great banyans, this sprawling, sheltering tree is all that survives of the vast forest that once protected it. Meet the gigantic, awe-inspiring Manjhi Akshayavat.

The core is encircled by new columns

(A portion of a conversation between a boy named Svetaketu and his father, the sage Uddalaka Aruni)

Uddalaka Aruni: “Bring me a fruit of the banyan tree.”
Svetaketu: “Here it is father.”
“Break it.”
“It is broken, Sir.”
“What do you see in it?”
“Very small seeds, Sir.”
“Break one of them, my son.”
“It is broken, Sir.”
“What do you see in it?”
“Nothing at all, Sir.”

Then his father spoke to him: “My son, from the very essence in the seed which you cannot see comes in truth this vast banyan tree. “Believe me, my son, an invisible and subtle essence is the Spirit of the whole universe. That is reality. That is Atman. Thou Art That.”

Chhandogya Upanishad

Guarding the mangoes and listening to songs

 

Looking up from the passage

On one edge, supine on a sagging cot beneath a small mango tree, is a thin wiry man listening to Mohammad Rafi songs languid as the Gomti’s flow. An apt choice for early morning in late June. He is guarding the mangoes, and the season’s bumper crop allows him this dalliance. Diametrically opposite, along the other edge (though I cannot see her), is a portly woman clad in a saffron sari. Her radio is blurting out the English news – a brief break in an almost continuous procession of Bollywood songs – the Vividh Bharti service from All India Radio.

A self-appointed lady-priest looks after the shrine

 

Red against the green — flags punctuate the expanse of the canopy

Between the two a green canopy supported on thick trunks resembling elephants’ legs radiates from a dense epicentre. As I look up I see the branches gently sloping down from the core towards the periphery where I stand (and the man listens to music). The effect is that of successive pillars carrying the branches outwards, a slow and steady spread of a silent brooding organism that exudes sentience from every branch, trunk pillar, entwined aerial root, leaf, skin knot and wart. Even the honey-coloured beehives clinging to the thick branches seem sentient and, for once, I can endure the cawing of crows from the top.

I am in the presence of the gigantic Akshayavat (Immortal Banyan) of Manjhi.

A knotted taproot
An eye?

The centre of the tree is a dense cluster of thick trunks and the boughs part to reveal a lovely passage. The impression is of a close-knit grove or a gigantic trunk that has splintered into scores of individual trees. The trunks are closely stacked and, except for the passage, it is impossible to squeeze between them. The radiation of taproots starts from this epicentre and towards the periphery numerous, much thinner tap roots have taken hold of the earth and are thick as a curtain. The area of the tree is roughly circular with the furthest taproots intruding into the mango orchards that surround the tree in all directions. The canopy is continuous with no clearings and resembles a circus marquee with a central bulge and tapering drop-off. It is alive with the cries of birds. There is a lot of cawing but I can hear the permanent residents: Magpie-robin, bulbuls and Asian Koel. Once in a while a villager rides along the dirt road through the orchards hidden behind the dense drape of roots. Sometimes a party stops by for water from the hand-pump. Otherwise, there is no one else — the lady is sitting on her porch lost in thought and I have the place to myself.

The tap roots create a lovely passage through the core of Akshayavat

 

The older roots form dense clusters near the core

 

The core of the banyan is a close cluster of thick columns

The origin of the tree is lost in time and a legend has filled in the vacuum. Harvansh Baba, a locally revered figure, lived here during the era of the Nawabs. There is also a reference to his brutal death at the hands of local strongmen. No one really knows the details. The tree does not seem too old since the centre is intact. The Banyan (Ficus benghalensis) twig was planted after the saint passed away and his samadhi is now at its core (with a statue in his imagined likeness placed in the temple). There is a small lingam with a petite Nandi, a Devi temple at the periphery, a dwelling (where the lady lives), a half-finished room – possibly an incipient temple, a collection of what look like sacrificial altars, a dump of baked clay bricks, a handpump buzzing with bees, red prayer flags, bells hung from the branches above and a few notice-boards entreating visitors to protect and not litter.

Mataji, the self-appointed priest, has taken over the upkeep of the shrine and its precincts. The warning against littering, cutting, swinging on, or disfiguring the tree is written on the shrine wall at her behest. Her presence has helped – the banyan seems well protected (there is no fencing or boundary and no broken branches or slashed roots) and the area is surprisingly clean.

Harvansh Baba’s shrine is at the core of the Banyan

 

Shiva and Nandi

The Manjhi Akshayavat is all that survives of the forest that once protected it. Not too long ago the dense forests of the Indo-Gangetic floodplains would have been contiguous with those of the Terai, all the way into Nepal. It must be that forest which nurtured the small twig which is now the Akshayavat. Dudhwa National Park – home to the relocated rhinos from Assam – is not too far from Lucknow as the crow flies. Last winter, a young tiger strayed from Dudhwa and, travelling through the unbroken patchwork of orchards, groves and sugarcane fields, reached Rehmankheda, a stone’s throw from Lucknow. It was later darted (within the premises of Central Institute of Subtropical Horticulture) and taken back after a tense 4-month operation. Every now and then there are reports of wolves and hyenas (locally called lakadbaggha) from the countryside. Cold winter evenings are occasionally punctuated by the howls of jackals. I remember reading once that a clutch of rock pythons was discovered by villagers in a tree hollow (and later sent to the zoo) and the endangered Sarus Crane is still around. In bits and pieces, the original wildlife clings on and this is in part due to numerous orchards, wetlands and groves that provide a poor imitation of the original forest.

The chosen one among the hundreds

 

Akshayavat is hemmed in by mango orchards

 

Pitiable attempts at immortality

In an early morning reverie I imagine a twig turning to a tree and the first roots touch the earth, and realize that my experience of the Akshayavat is a slice of frozen time. A few score years later the procession of trunks would have travelled further and then further again, filling up space within the brooding presence. Like a fractal unfolding in time, the roughly circular shape will spread forever and finally, by the time the centre dies out, several centres would have formed, each a faithful representation of the original. If I could keep visiting it for the next thousand years I might see the same form gradually expand, indistinguishable from the earlier one, except for its size, and then breaking into multiples with the radiating cycle starting all over again. Ficus benghalensis would take over the earth with its presence. I know my dream would remain one, but I drive back seeming to carry away a little of its mysterious essence. I realize that I am already connected to the Akshayavat, and always will be.

The forest of tap roots radiates in all directions from the core

 

Villagers and their children stop by for a drink from the handpump

 

An entangled mass of taproots and branches radiating outward

Note:

In March 2012 Geo magazine (Indian Edition) published a story titled Giant Banyans by Y D Bar-Ness. He chronicled eight of the largest known Banyans in India and rated them by crown area. The Manjhi Banyan, probably the least known among them, has a canopy 209 metres across and covers approximately 16,769 square metres. It is the third largest tree.

A closer view of the jade canopy
A honeycomb. Nearby Mango orchards support a bee colony on the Banyan

Reaching the Akshayavat at Manjhi is easy enough. From Lucknow take NH 24 towards Sitapur. Approximately 20 km from the city centre (Hazratganj) you will reach the well-known town of Bakshi ka Talab. From here go left on the road to Chandrika Devi Temple (the archway at the turn announces the name). Approximately 10 km further on this road you will come upon a fork: left to the temple (according to the signboard). Go toward the right and you will soon see a signboard for “Harvansh Ashram Akashayavat” on your left. Go left; after a hundred metres, take a right. Step out and walk about a hundred metres to behold this great tree. The total distance from Bakshi ka Talab is 11.5 km.

The Akshayavat is very close to the slow meandering Gomti river

 

Go left on NH 24 towards the Chandrika Devi temple

 

Providing shade and water among other things

Text and photographs by Sahastrarashmi

SR
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4 thoughts on “Manjhi Akshayavat, an immortal Banyan tree

  1. Dear sir,
    This is a wonderful account of a truly fascinating tree. You have done a fabulous job of capturing great scale and observing subtle detail. Please tell Mataji that her work is much appreciated. YD Bar-Ness

    1. Dear YD Bar-Ness,
      It’s a great privilege to hear from you. Thank you for visiting and leaving a comment.

    2. Dear
      YD Bar-Ness,

      you GEO article was inspirational and we decided to write detailed accounts of all the 8 Banyans. This was the first. Reports on the Bangalore, Chennai and Mahboobnagar (AP) and Kolkata Banyans will follow soon.
      I will definitely convey your words to Mataji when I meet her this winter.

      thanks,
      Sahastra

  2. Vivid and detailed account Sahastra, I have been planning to visit Lucknow for a while, one more To-Do in my list when I get there. Though given the description and pictures you have provided, I am sure to experience a feeling of Deja Vu when I get there.

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