Belief, Bounty, and Beauty

Belief, Bounty, and Beauty
Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

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Studies in the History of Religions
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VOLUME 108

Belief, Bounty, and Beauty
Rituals around Sacred Trees
in India
by
Albertina Nugteren
BRILL
LEIDEN • BOSTON
2005

This book is printed on acid-free paper.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Nugteren, Albertina, 1955–

Belief, bounty, and beauty : rituals around sacred trees in India / by Albertina
Nugteren.
p. cm. — (Studies in the history of religions, ISSN 0169–8834 : Numen
book series ; v. 108)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 90–04–14601–6 (hardback : alk. paper)
1. Trees—Religious aspects—Hinduism. 2. Hinduism—Rituals. I. Title: Rituals
around sacred trees in India. II. Title. III. Studies in the history of religions ; 108.
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ISSN 0169–8834
ISBN 90 04 14601 6
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CONTENTS
Preface ........................................................................................ ix
I. Symbol and sacredness: Trees in ancient religious literature

Introduction .......................................................................... 1
1.1 The experience of nature, the landscape,
the forest .................................................................... 5
1.2 Cosmogonies in relation to trees .............................. 24
1.3 Symbolism, a five-fold classification .......................... 45
1.4 The ritual use of wood .............................................. 61
II. Forests, woods, groves, parks and trees: The king’s duty,
the poet’s beauty
2.1 Framing the forest: A place of plenty, a state
of stillness .................................................................... 72
2.1.1 Forests and forest-produce:
The domain of the king ................................ 72
2.1.2 Arboriculture and religious merit .................. 79
2.1.3 Dharma, artha, and kàma .................................. 83
2.2 The thrill of the aesthetic: Seasons and
their hold on the human heart ................................ 94
2.2.1 Seasons as a setting ...................................... 94
2.2.2 The woman-and-tree motif ............................ 98
2.2.3 Rituals around trees in springtime .............. 103
2.2.4 Lovers on a swing .......................................... 107
2.3 Senses and the sacred: The tension between
bhoga and yoga ............................................................ 117
2.3.1 Kàma and tapas in the sylvan setting ............ 117
2.3.2 The tree, the li«gam, the vine, the snake .... 131
2.3.3 Sacred sexuality: ku»∂alinì, brahmada»∂a ........ 136
III. Buddha, Buddhism, and the bodhi tree

Introduction .......................................................................... 143
3.1 Trees in Buddha’s biography .................................... 145
3.1.1 Four hypotheses .............................................. 163
3.2 The bodhi tree as a motif in literature, art,
and architecture .......................................................... 166

vi contents
3.2.1 The continuation of pre-existing tree

cults .................................................................. 166
3.2.2 The bodhi tree: Its naturalistic and
symbolic position ............................................ 176
3.2.3 King A≤oka and the cults of the bodhi
tree and of pilgrimage .................................. 183
3.2.4 The bodhi tree in iconography and
architecture ...................................................... 189
3.3 Rituals around the bodhi tree in Bodhgayà ............ 197
3.4 From Bodhgayà to Anuràdhapura ............................ 219
3.4.1 Legends and history ...................................... 219
3.4.2 Sacredness, service and care ........................ 229
3.5 General conclusions .................................................... 235
3.6 Appendix: A selection of texts in praise of
the bodhi tree .............................................................. 239
IV. Gods of wood, gods of stone: The ritual renewal of the

wooden statues at Purì
Introduction .......................................................................... 242
4.1 Description of the Navakalevara procedure ............ 248
4.2 Pluralism, plurality, and identity .............................. 257
4.3 The allocation of tasks .............................................. 265
4.4 Analysis: A ritual re-enactment ................................ 270
4.5 Conclusion .................................................................. 278
V. Contemporary tree worship

Introduction .......................................................................... 280
5.1 Sthalav‰kßas, mythic landscapes, and sacred
geographies .................................................................. 283
5.2 Popular rites, rituals, and ritualising around
trees .............................................................................. 306
5.3 Categories, states, stages, and symbol systems .......... 344
5.3.1 States and stages ............................................ 344
5.3.2 Ritual categories ............................................ 354
5.3.3 The Va†a Sàvitrì Vrata as a symbol
system .............................................................. 359

contents vii
VI. Planting and prasàd versus plunder and pollution:

Sacred trees in Indian environmental movements
Introduction ........................................................................ 363
6.1 The concept of Kaliyuga as the link between
moral degradation and environmental
pollution .................................................................... 374
6.2 Religious imagery as an incentive for
contemporary environmental awareness .................. 381
6.3 Hugging the trees: The Chipko Movement .......... 400
6.4 Religiously inspired planting of trees:
“Trees, when protected, protect us” ...................... 411
6.5 Sacred groves and biodiversity ................................ 417
VII. Belief, bounty, and beauty: The interrelatedness of

symbolic and material values
7.1 Belief, bounty, and beauty ...................................... 429
7.2 The interrelatedness of symbolic and
material values .......................................................... 437
7.3 Appendix: Ambivalence of religious
inspiration in the ‘greening’ of tradition ................ 442
Bibliography ................................................................................ 445
Index ............................................................................................ 507

PREFACE
When I started my research on sacred trees, my initial interest had

not been kindled by an ancient textual passage, nor by seeing ritu-
als performed beneath sacred trees in contemporary India, but by a
non-academic report on Indian environmental movements I hap-
pened to read. As an Indologist and historian of religion, I was
intrigued to see how easily and self-evidently today’s movements
colonised a glorified past in order to produce a ‘renewal’ in envi-
ronmental awareness of today’s problems. This fashionable ‘green-
ing’ of the religious tradition was what made me interested in the
phenomenon of sacred trees throughout Indian history.
Now that the collected data, their systematisation, and their embed-
dedness in India’s religious history have found their way into a
full-fledged book, I realise that, from the beginning, my focus was
on the ritual domain and on the interrelatedness of symbolic and
material values. In no way have I attempted comprehensiveness.
Although I perused some related studies, such as those of sacred
trees in the Ancient Near East, Greece, and Germany, and made
myself familiar with what comparative mythology has produced on
the ‘universality’ of the tree cult, I consciously left that out here. I
have chosen to focus on six separate domains rather than on time
periods or text genres. This thematic approach presents the mate-
rial in the following sequence:
(1) trees in ancient religious literature,

(2) trees from the perspective of kings and poets,
(3) trees in the Buddhist milieu,
(4) a living cult around the wooden statues of Purì,
(5) rituals around sacred trees in contemporary India, and
(6) the symbolic values of trees in Indian environmentalism.
A work like this relies heavily on studies by others. I recognise my

indebtedness to ‘classics’ like Odette Viennot, Le culte de l’arbre dans
l’Inde ancienne (1954), Jan Jacob Meyer, Trilogie altindischer Mächte und
Feste der Vegetation (1937), and James Fergusson, Tree- and serpent wor-
ship (1868). My own approach was different from theirs, however.

x preface
Since I took a contemporary phenomenon as my point of depar-

ture, I travelled a reverse route, and by doing so touched upon the
whole tree, so to speak, not merely upon its roots.

CHAPTER ONE
SYMBOL AND SACREDNESS:

TREES IN ANCIENT RELIGIOUS LITERATURE
Introduction
What their feelings were when the Indo-Aryans left the wastelands
and entered the plains of the Indus valley, and saw those forests,
those rivers, all that growth and fertility, we will never know.1 At
the very least it must have been a land of promise, even if later
tales of wishing-trees, valleys full of precious stones, and courts aglit-
ter with brocades and fabulously adorned animals were not yet in
existence at that time. It was a land of promise where all one needed
for oneself and one’s cattle was abundantly available. There was
good soil, sun, and seasonal rain: enough reason to settle down there.
Originally nomads, they gradually became agriculturalists.
The whole Indus region was well forested, and the incoming peo-
ple had to develop an aggressive, or at least exploitative, attitude to
their environment.2 We know little about with what eyes the peas-
ant, the housewife, the child, the honeyhunter, or the artisan looked
at those forests, as we have to rely on the writings left by a very
small segment of the society, the priests.3 Awe, reverence, grateful-
ness, aesthetic thrill, creative inspiration, fear, dislike, indifference, it
may all have been there.
1
Or, as John Keay phrases it, “(. . .) the Vedas say nothing of life in central
Asia, nor of an epic journey thence through the mountains, nor of arriving in the
deliciously different environment of the subcontinent.” India. A History (2000), p. 27.
2
See, for instance, C.P. Masica, ‘Aryan and Non-Aryan Elements in North Indian
Agriculture’, Aryan and Non-Aryan in India, ed. by M.M. Deshpande and P.E. Hook
(1979), pp. 55 ff.
3
This may be compared to what J.J. Meyer, in his Trilogie altindischer Mächte und
Feste der Vegetation (1937) remarked about the absence of festivities (‘Festgebräuche’)
in the oldest Vedic texts, p. 205: “Wenn wir sie nicht in °igveda finden, dann
liegt das wie so manches andere gewiß an dessen aristokratisch- und hieratisch-
theologisch exclusivem Charakter”?

2 chapter one
When did the notion of sacredness regarding trees arise in Vedic

people? Was it there all along,4 or did it start when wood began to
play an important part in the priestly sacrifice? What about the Indus
civilisation before them? Certainly, trees were depicted on the seals,
but are they sacred trees? Are those figures gods and goddesses?5
And the indigenous people, with whom the Indo-Aryans partly mixed,
and who partly disappeared into the vast hinterland of the Indian
subcontinent, what attitude did they, at that time, have towards trees,
forests, and groves? They, who were so intimately familiar with India’s
natural life, must have taught the newcomers something of the skill
and craft needed for clearing a patch of forest for agriculture, and
fencing it off against wild animals. The new population must have
gradually found out what wood to use for fuel, and what wood for
implements, for construction, for furniture. And what tree leaves,
bark, or berries had medicinal value, or what trees yielded resin,
fibre, juice, dye, in addition to all the self-evident products like
firewood, flowers, and fruits. The utility of trees must have been
obvious to all, so obvious perhaps that no one had second thoughts
about them. They were there, and they were utilised by the expand-
ing population.6 It is clear that they were useful in many ways, but
that doesn’t make them sacred. What made a specific tree or grove
or forest stand out as sacred at some unspecified time in that process?
The Vedic religion began to take shape in the hymns and in the
sacrificial rites and imitative magic of the bràhma»a priests, who, by
ecstatic vision, or by categorical ritualistic acumen, with the help of
poetic antennae, or of sharp and astute observation, or perhaps a
combination of those four, knew what wood would be right for the
sacrificial post, the ladles, the fire, the vats, the knife. How did the
ritual of going into the forest to select the right tree develop; what
urged the participants to apologise to the chosen tree with words
and actions, such as using an axe besprinkled with ghì and honey?
4
For trees already known to the Àryans before they entered the Indian sub-
continent, see Paul Friedrich, Proto-Indo-European trees. The arboreal system of a prehis-
toric people (1970). See also Marija Gimbutas’ review of this book in Slavic Review
(1971).
5
For a good thematic survey of trees or tree leaves depicted on Indus finds like
pottery, seals and ‘amulets’, see the Préambule (titled ‘L’arbre dans la civilisation
de l’Indus’) in Odette Viennot, Le culte de l’arbre dans l’Inde ancienne (1954), pp. 7–19.
6
See George Erdoy (ed.), The Indo-Aryans of ancient South Asia: Language, material
culture and ethnicity (1995).

symbol and sacredness 3
Was it because the tree was seen as a living entity, a personality

whose life was going to be taken; or was it because a tree spirit
could live in it, and making it angry would have dire consequences
for all involved in the cutting down of the tree? Was it fear, was it
respect, was it a clever bargain by self-justifying men who not only
used honey to smooth their axes but also spoke sweet words and
promises to an otherwise optionless tree?7
When, in the emergence of Upanißadic ideas, every now and then
a householder left his family life behind and withdrew into the for-
est, in how far did the trees speak to him? As symbols of saásàra,
as good resting places for the night, as pillars of stability and strength
during his meditation, as the generous providers of shade, beauty,
food and medicine, as the menacing homes of snakes, or as kindred
beings, perhaps, with whom communication (or at least an intimate
connection) became possible after long and intense periods of yoga?8
And what was the special connection that the well-known hermit,
later known as the Buddha, had with trees: how did it happen that
the important moments of his life are reported to have taken place
beneath specific trees?
Epic figures, like the Pà»∂avas and the couple Ràma and Sìtà,
were exiled to the forests: did they resent their rustic environments,
as Draupadì did occasionally, or did they enjoy the idyllic setting,
as the brave Sità said she did? Who speaks through those texts: what
kind of ‘Zeitgeist’ becomes visible through those lines? We thus
encounter the forest as a place of exile, of transgression, of tests and
quests, but also as a place free from the restrictions and conspira-
cies of life at court. And its beauty, who discerned its beauty? The
poet mainly, or anyone else who had a moment to spare from the
daily chores to be thrilled by its loveliness?
7
Recent Vedic scholarship has also stressed elements of Vedic religion that are
not so closely alligned with the relationship between divinity and nature, such as
in the words of Joel B. Brereton: “The Vedic poets do express wonder and awe
before the processes of nature, but this is far from all that they express.” The °gvedic
Àdityas (1981), p. 328.
8
It is especially in yoga that we are struck by the multidirectionality of the tree
as a symbol. In fact, it is so multi-interpretable that in the ‘eye of the beholder’ it
could be used as a symbol for almost anything. Compare also what Frits Staal
wrote on perforated pebbles: “I am not for symbols, which can generally be used
to prove anything; (. . .) until I noted how well they fit the present context.” J.F.
Staal, The science of ritual (1982), p. 51.

4 chapter one
When officials at the court started to compose guidelines and man-

uals about forestry, what made this necessary? Misuse? Was it because
kings needed to have the utmost benefit from their lands that rules
and regulations were introduced concerning royal rights and duties
to trees, groves, and forests? Both the king and his subjects appear
to have needed to know what was right in their claims on the woods
and their produce: boundaries were set, privileges established, habits
formalised, and misuse was punished.
For the sculptors who depicted many trees in their reliefs, stylised
trees with rich foliage, as the natural background for various scenes,
what meaning did trees have in their scenes: indicating a garden, a
park, a village setting, or perhaps a specific tree as part of the story
that was being depicted? As to the women connected with such trees,
was it just a happy coincidence that the woman-and-tree motif, form-
ing a triangle, happened to serve perfectly as a support bracket in
temple construction?
Many trees appear in Indian literature and art, in wood, stone,
bronze: did they serve as a self-evident element of the natural sur-
roundings, as the background of or backdrop for daily life, and as
the natural setting for most of the scenes depicted, or as a kind of
homage to all the good things trees stood for? They evoked a sense
of the season, the longings and regrets in the rhythm of the calen-
dar: they were connected with annual festivals and ceremonies; they
yielded the fruits, flowers, and shade people craved. As more forests
started to disappear, to make place for habitation and agriculture,
single trees started to stand out, in the walled-in courtyards of pri-
vate houses, at crossroads, in the centre of the village. But what
made a specific tree sacred, and what made a particular grove or
forest sacred, so much so that people came with small gifts, obei-
sance, prayers, and statues? From where did those rituals around
the sacred trees emerge, often spontaneous, without the help of rit-
ual experts, and what was the object of their devotion: the tree itself,
or a spirit or deity residing in it? And when, later on, Hindu tem-
ples started to be erected, what kind of people continued to go to
trees with their prayers and pledges: those who were in some way
not welcome in the official Hindu temples, or those who sought the
direct action and personal connection, without the interference or
intervention of meddling, restricting, or demanding officials? If the

latter, is a comparison with the persisting cult of sacred rivers in

India feasible and fitting?9
Now that India has lost much of her natural bounty to colonial
plunder, overpopulation, shortsighted development projects, and indus-
trial alienation, how honest and truthful are those ecologists who
remind India of her supposed ecology-conscious past in the golden
eras of the Vedas and epics? How relevant is the rich heritage, the
ecological paradise they claim existed in the past, for the present
ecological crisis in India? In how far can religious sentiments about
trees, all those stories about kings, heroes and heroines, saints and
seekers, against a setting of trees, help in reminding people of the
need to plant and nurse trees today? Can the line of thinking and
acting that made a tree or grove sacred in the past, make a tree-plant-
ing programme attractive for those living today? Can those things
be revived? Do people understand their present situation as alien-
ation, in a deeper spiritual way, or is all this reasoning still exploita-
tive, also in India, in spite of its unbroken tradition of attributing
sacredness to whatever stands out as special and meaningful?
Sacredness, utility, and necessity: the interrelatedness of material
and symbolic values is the underlying theme of this book.
1.1 The experience of nature, the landscape, the forest
When we reflect on the experience of nature the ancient Indians

might have had, all the hazards of a subject that is distanced both
historically and geographically apply. Even when we stay as close to
the sources as possible, the fact that those sources were written by
an extremely limited segment of society should be acknowledged.
However rich the expressions that have come down to us over the
millennia, most of the written testimonies were produced and edited
by a tiny group of leading male literati, mainly priests. It would take
9
At least two major authors on sacred trees made a direct connection: Odette
Viennot, who published her book on the tree cult in ancient India in 1954, fol-
lowed by Les divinités fluviales Ga«gà et Yamunà, in 1964; and E.W. Hopkins, who will
be referred to later because of his study ‘Mythological Aspects of Trees and Mountains
in the Great Epic’ (1910), and who published ‘The sacred waters of India’ in 1912.
On contemporary India, authors like Ann G. Gold and Anne Feldhaus explicitly
point out the interrelatedness, see Chapter Five.

6 chapter one
a novelist to fill in the blanks where the women, the children, the
peasants, and the artisans could begin to take a shape of their own.
The history of sacred trees is full of such blank spaces, even when
the material available both in writing and in art is abundant. In a
way the archeological and art-historical material could serve as a
welcome corrective to the textual material. Nevertheless, when we
started here with the subject of the landscape experience, we merely
had fragments and plausibilities. It is necessary to fill in some of this
background in broad strokes in order to prepare the canvas for the
finer details.
In some of the written myths it is said that gods created the green
world, for instance, from their own hairs, whereas in other myths it
is stated that plants and trees were there before the gods.10 Many
myths look back and try to explain, aitiologically, why things in the
world are as they are. In that way, a sequence, a logic, a causal
nexus is constructed afterwards. Many such myths exist simultane-
ously, sometimes overlapping, sometimes giving only variations on a
theme, and at other times giving fully contradictory accounts of how
the natural world order came to be.11 But all those myths share one
characteristic: they all look back, from the present and the known,
to the past, the mysterious, the hidden.12 This unknown was explored
by creative minds, minds full of visions, associations, remnants of
other stories, allusions, wishful thinking, and poetic visualisations.
10
See also Stephanie W. Jamison, The ravenous hyenas and the wounded sun: Myth
and ritual in ancient India (1991), p. 148, who makes an associative connection between
the Vedic gods who wished to make the bald and hairless (‰k≤àsìd alomikà) full of
plants and trees, and Tracy Kidder’s novel House (1985), p. 5, where a bulldozer
is described as “ripping the hair off the earth, (. . .) an act of great violence.” There
even is a passage (°gveda 8.91.5–6, or 8.80) in which a girl makes an implicit con-
nection between the hair on her father’s head, her own wish for her pubic hair to
grow, and a good harvest on her father’s field. See also H.W. Bodewitz, The daily
evening and morning offering (Agnihotra) according to the Bràhma»as (1976), pp. 18 and 22,
where Prajàpati is said to ward off Agni after having created him, by means of his
drops of sweat, with the hair on his sweaty brow (which then turned into ulape
grass), and with his body hair (which turned into trees). That certain medicinal
plants were associatively used in magic to achieve the growth of hair, such as in
°gveda 6.30.30; 136.2; 136.3; and 137.3, is shown in Girija Prasanna Majumdar,
Vanaspati. Plants and plant-life as in Indian treatises and traditions (1927), pp. 176–177.
11
That Indian mythology literally brims with interacting and even counteracting
stories of beginnings is entertainingly visible in Roberto Calasso’s Ka (‘Who?’) (1996).
12
Or, as M. Witzel, in his On magical thought in the Veda (1979), translates the
phrase “parokßapriyà hi devà˙”: “the gods love the hidden, the non-apparent.”

What do we have, then? Honeyed verses from the Vedic priests,

sung before the tree was cut down to serve man’s needs. There is
more between the lines. There is also reverence in the Vedic verses,
and awe. There are expressions of beauty, dependence, bounty, and
vigour. Although most such statements are connected with utility,
with the use man can make of the natural world and the way it
guarantees his survival and perpetuation, a feeling of veneration is
expressed too. As J. Gonda notes,
Vedic man had an extensive knowledge of nature because he lived in
it, with it, by it. In his hymns the forest or jungle outside the village,
rivers named and unnamed, sun, moon, and atmospheric phenomena
are no rare occurrences. (. . .) He is strongly inclined to value the
profitable aspects of nature—large and grassy pastures, broad lands to
cultivate and live in, the light of heaven—to fear and appease its adverse
sides—drought, dangerous animals. When a rare epithet occurs it is
one of utility or of aversion, rarely one of beauty, a concept which,
moreover, is, as a rule, a connotation of the good, auspicious and use-
ful. (. . .) One should not expect the Vedic poets to have composed
hymns simply from delight in nature for its own sake—still they are
deeply rooted in their natural setting and have almost always some
religious purpose in mind so that their senses work at full stretch and
they choose their words carefully.13
Also,
Comparisons borrowed from nature—intensifying and humanifying
nature’s life and creating a feeling of being in touch with it—should
be viewed in the light of archaic man’s conviction that he is part of
nature, that he is deeply rooted in his natural setting with which his
own existence is inextric ably woven. (. . .) the effective power of the
objective fact or event in nature is expected to produce, in the inter-
est of those pronouncing the formula, a similar result in an analogous
case within the human sphere.14
13
Gonda illustrates this nicely by quoting five verses invoking Night (Ràtrì) in
poetic terms, followed by a sixth verse in which considerations of safety emerge as
the underlying motive, which turns an apparent nature song into a charm. Jan
Gonda, Vedic Literature, vol. I (1975), pp. 161–163.
14
Gonda, Vedic Literature, p. 257. About this ritually applied analogy, Bodewitz,
again on the function of the Agnihotra offering, notes: “The do ut des (or do ut dare
possis) concept, which is always present in the ritualistic thought, there shows a
reversal of the roles in the myth, where the gods are the starting-point and where
they give in order that the human beings will be able to return the gift by way of
sacrifice.” H.W. Bodewitz, Agnihotra (1976), pp. 26–27.

8 chapter one
Some such hymns are directed to powers that were conceived as

feminine: these have general names such as Devì, Bhùmì, P‰thivì,
and more specific names, connecting them to forest life, such as
Ara»yànì and Pàrvatì. When such qualities as bounty, nourishment,
generosity, and abundance,—qualities equally ascribed to trees, cows,
and the earth—are praised, they tend to be called by feminine names.
For instance, it was Prajàpati who created the world; it was Vi≤vakar-
man who ordered it; it is Indra who reigns over it; it is Agni who
creates, destroys, and, by his ashes, fertilises the world; it is the
Maruts who rage through the forests, bending and breaking them;
but it is the patient earth which goes on nourishing the tiny seeds
that become giant trees; and it is the rhythm of the seasons which
balances all the havoc caused by storms, drought, fire, and even
axes. In addition to the mechanisms of language using masculine or
feminine nouns, there is another mechanism at work here; the mech-
anism that a small group of literate men described nature in their
terms, and from their perspective.15
People living close to nature could easily observe the continuous
struggle in the forest between all forms of life. Not only did they
know what ravage could be done to the land by drought, storm,
fire, etc., but they also observed how tiny insects could bring down
a tall tree, or how a tiny seed could eventually strangle a healthy
tree with its basket of roots.16 They observed how some trees, like
the banyan, could drive out all other forms of green vegetation with
their ever-expanding growth, and how giant forest trees made life
for many trees in their shade impossible. Not all that lush growth
was regarded as auspicious and beneficial, however. When trees
within human settlements were too expansive they had to be restrained
and trimmed. Trees could be the homes of wild animals and deadly
snakes. Berries could be poisonous. Trees could be the homes of
dead ancestors, who were sometimes thought to hover in trees as
15
That the general ‘feminine’ traits, ascribed to goddesses by male literati, were
never completely unchallenged is nicely shown in Wendell C. Beane’s study of Myth,
Cult and Symbols in •àkta Hinduism. A Study of the Indian Mother Goddess (1977).
16
In the Sanskrit literature, a clear distinction is made between v‰kßàdanì (‘that
which eats another tree’, i.e., a parasite) and v‰kßarùhà (‘that which lives on another
tree’, i.e. an epiphyte). For illustrations, see, for instance, M.B. Emeneau, The stran-
gling figs in Sanskrit literature (1949), who offers an alternative etymology of a≤vattha:
a-svastha = not self-dependent, epiphytic, in contrast to Lassen’s Indische Alterthumskunde,
where a-svastha is seen to refer to its constantly fluttering (caladala) leaves, pp. 369–370.

hungry ghosts. Trees were used for the execution of criminals. They
were home to the inauspicious crows and vultures. Vengeful spirits
could dwell in the trees, spirits like ràkßasas and ràkßasìs, whose names
literally mean guardians, but who were often conceived of as being
evil and demonic. Snakes, which were both feared and venerated,
were closely connected with trees. Trees were thought to go deep
into the mysterious earth with their roots and were seen to reach
high into the unfathomed sky with their branches. At a time when
only a small part of the surface of the earth had been explored using
relatively simple tools, the extremes of trees, the ends of their deep-
est roots and the tips of their highest branches, were perceived as
being in touch with mysterious realms outside human reach. Trees
were thus easily and naturally seen as numinous.
In the course of time, the Indo-Àryans must have learned much
from the indigenous peoples about trees: their names, their charac-
teristics, and their utility, as well as how to use trees and their pro-
duce: blossoms, fruits, bark, leaves for food, fodder, firewood. They
would have learned how to use trees for medicine, construction, fur-
niture, and fencing, and how to use wood for wagons and tools, as
well as all the little ingeniosities of using trees and their produce for
the fabrication of rope, resin, glue, dye, liquor, wax, honey, per-
fume, clothes, condiments, etcetera.17 Even when trees were devas-
tated by fire, ash-covered surfaces proved fertile fields for a new
forest, or for agricultural cultivation.18 Wild animals had to be kept
away from the fields by wooden fences, or by erecting simple wooden
watch-houses on stilts in which the villagers took turns in night vig-
ils. Blossoms and fruits indicated the advent of the seasons. Trees
were home to the birds that pleased with their song but also preyed
on insects that could devastate the crops, plague the domestic animals,
17
Most such practical application is found in J.F. Dastur, Useful plants of India
and Pakistan (1964), in which a staggering number of uses is listed. As main cate-
gories, he distinguishes food and fodder; timber for construction work; household
articles/musical instruments; fuel/charcoal; medicine/cosmetics/poisons; oils/resins/wax;
spice/condiments; and dye/paint. See also J.S. Gamble, A manual of Indian timbers
(1972).
18
A famous instance of a forest conflagration presented as a positive factor in
the epics is the burning of the Khà»∂ava forest. Its effects consisted not only in
Agni’s exchange gifts to the princes Arjuna and K‰ß»a, but also in clearing the
wilderness for a new settlement, especially for the foundation of the royal city of
Indraprastha. For contemporary embarrassment about the princes’ wanton cruelty,
see Chapter Six.

10 chapter one
or ruin the houses and stables. Trees provided shade in the hot
months, and were natural air-conditioners in and around the human
settlements.
Trees were seen to give freely, yet were never exhausted: like the
Indian cow, they were considered to bring only good things. Trees
needed hardly any care, yet gave generously. Nevertheless, whereas
single trees were praised for their beauty and bounty, in early Indian
history the existence of forests was not altogether auspicious, as they
were associated with aboriginals, vagabonds, and brigands, and, in
general, with adharma. Later on, in many travel accounts, written by
Persian ambassadors, Greek and Latin historians, or Arabic scholars
and merchants, the overland arrival at the Indian subcontinent was
often described in terms of wonder at all the fertility and fruitful-
ness: a green land abounding in rivers and forests.19 In how far their
beauty was acknowledged for itself is unknown. Beauty was praised,
but in the priestly texts this praise implied the prayer that this gen-
erosity would continue, for the benefit of man. It is only natural that
profit is emphasised in mercantile reports, and physical benefit in
medical texts. Also, there must have been folk-songs about nature,
sung for sheer joy, but those have not come down to us in any writ-
ten form.20
19
A recent study is the fascinating cross-cultural survey by John Perlin, A forest
journey: The role of wood in the development of civilization (1991), in which wood (espe-
cially black ebony and ceder) imported from Western India is connected with
Mesopotamia (Gilgamesh Epos), Mari, and Babylon. The same is elaborated upon in
Klaus Karttunen, India in Early Greek Literature (1989), in which not only ebony and
teak rafters are mentioned, but also sandalwood, incense and aromatic unguents.
In John W. McCrindle’s Ancient India as described in classical literature (1971), we find,
mentioned by such authors as Strabo, Pliny, Aelian and Kosmas Indikopleustes, the
much-coveted cotton referred to as growing on the cotton-wool tree. Most such
authors on Indian botany or trade contacts express their wonder about the per-
pendicular aerial roots of the nyagrodha tree, and the size of the deodar, of which
Alexander the Great is said to have built his ships. One of the standard expres-
sions is that many Indian trees are of such a vast height that it is impossible to
shoot arrows over them, and that their shade is so generous that cavelry troops
consisting of fifty horsemen can find shelter under a single fig-tree. Heinz Mode’s
Indische Frühkulturen und ihre Beziehungen zum Westen (1944), is relevant to our theme
in this respect, mainly because of its explorations of depictions of tree and leaf
motifs on Indus seals compared to Mesopotamian seals.
20
In the same way, the part of India involved in trade contacts with the Arabic,
Greek, or Roman world was situated outside the Aryan sphere of culture which
most of the written sources of the period belong to. Unfortunately, the Veda, as the
only literary source for early India, gives us merely a fragmentary picture. It reflects
socially and geographically no more than a small section of what we often think
of as ancient India.

What has come down to us, as a negative appraisal, is a certain

polarity or contradistinction between the settled world of the vil-
lage or township, and the wild, uncontrolled, a-dharmic world of
the forest.21 This division, of course, was a bràhma»ic evaluation: the
village ( gràma) represented the cosmos, the ordered life for which the
surrounding fields and forests provided the necessary ‘Umfeld’.
The centre was where the ritual connection was established between
this human settlement and the forces which kept it going, both in a
mundane sense and transcendentally. The still point of this centre was
the sacrificial post, an ‘axis mundi’ between men and gods: not a
living tree but its derivative, a post, a pillar, a wooden stake to which
the sacrificial animal was tied before being offered. That this axis
was formed by a man-made pole, not by a living tree, seems significant.
It shows the Vedic priest as a controller, as a director of forces from
earth to heaven, from men to gods, and, if he was successful, vice
versa: from gods to men, from heaven to earth. With the construc-
tion of such a temporary sacred centre, the experience of the nat-
ural setting was definitively affected. Even more significant is the
opposition of the dharmic world of the human settlement over which
the bràhma»a priest yielded control, and the a-dharmic world of the
forest. It has been pointed out by several authors that the word
vana,—often translated as ‘wood’ or ‘woods’—referred to the wider
circuit of human habitation.22 It indicated the greater circle of pen-
etrable and controllable woodland around the village, from where
the villagers brought their necessary raw material home, and from
which, occasionally, the priests were provided with the tree that was
to be carved into the sacrificial post or other ritualistic implements.
Vana was a circle of woodland surrounding the village, in a way still
21
According to Mayrhofer’s etymological dictionary (1953), ara»a (from which
àra»ya may be derived), means ‘strange’, or ‘distant’, and is related to Latin words
like alius, alter, and ille. See Charles Malamoud, Cuire le monde. Rite et pensée dans l’Inde
ancienne (1989), p. 95.
22
For studies of vana, àra»ya and the original meaning of jungle, see Charles
Malamoud, Cuire le monde. Rite et pensée dans l’Inde ancienne (1989), and his earlier arti-
cle ‘Village et forêt dans l’idéologie de l’Inde bràhmanique’ (1976); J.F. Sprockhoff,
Àra»yaka und Vànapraß†hà in der vedischen Literatur (1981); Francis Zimmermann, The
jungle and the aroma of meats. An ecological theme in Hindu medicine (1987). For epic times,
see E.W. Hopkins, ‘Mythological Aspects of Trees and Mountains in the Great Epic’ (1910),
and Epic Mythology (1915); Thomas Parkhill, The forest setting in Hindu epics (1995);
Walter Ruben, Waldabenteuer des indischen epischen Helden (1962), and Nancy Falk,
‘Wilderness and Kingship in Ancient South Asia’ (1973).

12 chapter one
belonging to the village as ‘Umfeld.’23 Àra»ya, on the other hand,

had a different meaning: àra»ya, the forest, was ‘beyond’, beyond
control, outside the dharmic rule of the village. This had to do with
the sacrificial fire, as well as with the domestic fire to be kept burn-
ing in the house: only a g‰hastha was allowed to tend a domestic fire.
Also, whereas the bràhma»a reigned supreme in the village, the for-
est belonged to other forces, the wild forces of animal and vegeta-
tive life, and to the dreaded presence of the deceased. It was the
domain of outsiders like indigenous tribes, wandering magicians or
hermits, and, of course, the gods. On certain occasions it may well
have been the kßatriyas who ventured outside the settled dharmic
world in order to establish colonies, but in less heroic or literary
terms it must often have been the work-seekers and traders, not war-
mongers, who spread Àrya culture.24
At the same time, wild forests and mountains were where the
highly revered soma plant was found, from which the sacrificial drink
was produced.25 Those were also the places the wandering vràtyas
and sàdhus came from, those men who were wild, unkempt, full of
tapas-induced tejas, and unpredictable in their anger and benediction.
Although those men could bring healing herbs with them, they could
also bring curses for any slight that might be inflicted on them by
an unattentive or withholding villager. Worse, they could disturb and
disrupt the sacrificial process by their very presence, as the god
•iva did. The associative meaning of the term àra»ya thus developed
into a veritable antithesis to life in the village, particularly when
speculative ideas about saásàra began to lure individual men away
23
It is thanks to Francis Zimmerman that the bipolar distinction between vana
and àra»ya was made tripartite. He added the concept of ‘jungle’: “That is why the
distinction between the village and the forest, the meaning of which is essentially
socioreligious, needs to be complemented by another term: the jà«gala. We must
restore to the forest its ecological content, its density of vegetation. The jà«gala
includes the village world and at the same time constitutes at its margins what
Malamoud has called a “rent”: an empty space, a wasteland, a gap in the network
of human habitation. At the same time, however, the jà»gala introduces openings
in the dense, humid forest, clearings which open up the way for human penetra-
tion.” The Jungle and the Aroma of Meats. An Ecological Theme in Hindu Medicine (1987),
p. 38. In fact, we have five circles here: home (g‰ha), village ( gràma), managed wood-
land (vana), jungle ( jà»gala), and deep forest (àra»ya).
24
See also John Keay, India. A history (2000), p. 28.
25
For a study of soma made from mushrooms, see R.G. Wasson, Soma, Divine
Mushroom of Immortality (1969). In that case, the soma’s connection with trees would
be that the particular mushroom was found between the roots or on the tree itself.
This view is highly contested.

from the well-ordered family life to yogic experiments in the forests,

be it as individuals or as hermits in a forest hermitage, an à≤rama.
Yàjñavalkya had to take his fellow seeker by the hand and walk into
the solitude of the forest with him to speak about the most secret
insights of esoteric wisdom, rahasya. The collected writings of that
genre were aptly called Àra»yakas, Books of the Forest. The young
Gautama, later to become the Buddha, spent several years with yoga
teachers in the forest and, on his own, as an ascetic, before he took
food again, from the hands of Sujàtà, the daughter of a village chief.
The forest became the backdrop for all kinds of saányàsins who had
begun to have doubts about the adequacy of the priestly sacrifices
and the way of the ancestors ( pi†‰yàna).
In course of time, however, as the impact of Upanißadic thinking
began to be felt even in the circle of bràhma»ic ritualists, the forest
was no longer perceived as opposed, or rival even, to the bràhma»ic
system, but started to function as a spiritual horizon for some indi-
viduals living within the enclosure of village and family life. Forest
life, moreover, began to represent one of the phases of the var»à≤rama
system, and was no longer totally ‘other’, but became a metaphor
for a future stage of life, the third phase, that of vanaprastha, a tran-
sitional stage between family life and total renunciation, saányàsa. In
practice, the vanaprastha ideal often served as a guideline for gradu-
ally retiring from the domestic centre of life in an extended family
to a more withdrawn existence at the outer edge of the compound,
without actually requiring the more drastic step of retiring into the
woods, with or without one’s partner.26 Just as in the cult of the
sacrifice the sacrificial animal began to be gradually replaced by
non-animal offerings, such as fruits, flowers, rice, and red powder,
the forest deities, in their terrifying ( ghora) aspects, gradually gave
way to more peaceful (≤ànta) deities in the symbolic system of the
bràhma»ic cult. From Vedic times onwards it had been in the village
that animal blood had to flow before the gods, whereas those indi-
viduals who had withdrawn into the forest had given up the sacrificial
fire, and with it the blood of the sacrificial victim. In other words,
the ≤ànta aspect of life in the forests began to counteract the ghora
associations.
26
That even today this concept may still function as an ideal, a horizon, is
beautifully illustrated by Sarah Lamb in her article ‘Love and Aging in Bengali
Families’, Everyday Life in South Asia, edited by Diane P. Mines and Sarah Lamb
(2002), pp. 56–68.

14 chapter one
Apparently, there was a shift in the evaluation of forest life that

ran parallel to that other shift in the earlier Upanißads. Whereas in
the villages and towns the Vedic priests still held hegemony of the
sacrificial cult, and the vana continued to be regarded as an exten-
sion of the human settlement, as a satellite existence at the outer
edges of the people’s life-world, the deep forest, àra»ya, began to
exert a more serious call on the spiritual seekers inside established
society, of all ages and life-stages. The forest thus began to mean
not only an antithesis but, even more, an antidote. This antidote
was consciously sought by those who had growing doubts about the
fixed system of which both family life and the sacrificial cult were
essential components. Forest life became a plausible option to those
who took their doubts and spiritual longings seriously. In this process,
some forest teachers became known by name even to townspeople,
and solitary huts developed into famous hermitages. It is evident
that, over the years, forest life, as an option or alternative, became
an establishment, a tradition, in itself.
This same à≤rama tradition is referred to in the epics.27 There, the
city, especially the royal capital, is presented as the centre where the
main action took place, whereas in many of the additional stories
the forest functioned both as a place of exile and as an idyllic back-
drop for a prolonged holiday, away from the intrigues of the court.
At the same time, the forest was the place where all the dark and
monstrous beings lived: the gods and goddesses in disguise, the tribal
peoples, the outlaws, the monsters and mythic beings, the demons,
the yakßas and yakßi»ìs, as well as the wild animals, the snakes, and
the insects. The forced retreat into exile, the other central theme in
both epics, may well be taken as a process by which the clan soci-
eties resolved their inner conflicts. At the same time, by this very
gesture of throwing out some tabooed individuals, societies encroached
ever deeper into the subcontinent. In the words of John Keay,
Exile meant withdrawing from settled society not into the desert (which
even renunciates seem to have shunned) but into the àra»ya, the for-
est. Here life was challenging though full of possibilities: numerous
venerable sages and barely-clad nymphs could even make it idyllic.
Something of the later antithesis between the safely settled, caste-based
society of the village and the dangerously peripatetic and egalitarian
27
See especially E.W. Hopkins, Epic mythology (1915), and Thomas Parkhill, The
forest setting in Hindu epics (1995).

society associated with the forest is already apparent. But for every
agreeable sylvan experience there also lurked amongst the trees a mon-
strous demon or some other species of hostile primitive. The creatures,
even if recognisable human, possessed no houses and subsisted as
hunter-gatherers. To exiles who prided themselves as being settled agri-
culturalists, the nomadic ways and uncouth habits of the forest were
anathema. The monsters had therefore to be exterminated, while harm-
less savages, like the snake-worshipping ‘nagas’, could be enlisted as
allies or tributaries, usually through marriage and through inventing
acceptable pedigrees for them. In effect the relationship between the
epic heroes and their forest foes mirrored the presumed pattern of
Aryan ‘colonisation’ and settlement.28
In both the Ràmàya»a and the Mahàbhàrata, exile to the forest is
one of the central themes. Especially Sìtà is portrayed as enjoying
the natural setting. To her, forest life meant more than deprivation
of all the comfort and luxuries she was used to in the palace. She
is described as finding an extra dimension in the natural beauty and
idyllic simplicity, and she often expressed herself in appreciative
remarks, whereas her counterpart in the Mahàbhàrata, Draupadì, is
depicted as brave and loyal in the long period of exile, but also as
impatient and grieving. In the Mahàbhàrata, the forest setting is
described less in terms of natural beauty, and more in terms of dan-
ger and deprivation. Yet, it is also a place of power where impor-
tant transformations take place. Those transformations take time, and
are described as quests, such as the attainment of invincibility that
Arjuna sought to gain during his long solitary quest, or the gradual
detachment and disintegration of the five Pà»∂avas and their wife
Draupadì when they withdrew voluntarily after K‰ß»a’s death.29
Land clearance must have posed a formidable challenge to the
exiles in the moist green wildernesses of Uttar Pradesh and Bihar.
On the other hand, these forests were rich in resources, and the
princes are described as re-arming themselves with mighty weapons,
which although ascribed to divine provenance, may well have been
fashioned from the durable timbers found there, and from the min-
erals mined in the South of Bihar. Apart from the transformations
that are supposed to have taken place in the Pà»∂avas during their
28
John Keay, India. A History (2000), p. 40.
29
For more or less parallel narrative elaborations of the same theme of royal
exile, such as in the Harivaása, Vessantarajàtaka, Da≤akumàracarita, and Kathàsàritsàgara,
see Walter Ruben, Waldabenteuer des indischen epischen Helden (1962).

16 chapter one
years of exile, preparing them both physically and psychologically

for the great contest with their cousins, they may have gained from
their forest residence a military superiority over their enemies by
making use of the new metallurgy.30
If we were to construct a map of the geographical area where the
epic stories were traditionally located, and fill it in with the à≤ramas
and solitary hermitages mentioned in the texts, we would have a
map dotted not only with forests, mountains, and rivers, but also
with a large number of ascetic settlements. Although, for most peo-
ple settled in cities, towns, and villages, forest life still held all the
terrors of demons, danger, and deprivation, this traditional associa-
tion began to be counterbalanced by tales about the pure life that
the hermits were said to live there and the way princes were trained
to be heroes there. Whereas for many bràhma»as forest life implied
adharma, the merits of a lifestyle that resembled that of the ancient
‰ßis, in which karmic influx was thought to have been reduced to a
minimum, had penetrated Indian thought more thoroughly than
before. In the earlier Upanißads, forest life was an option chosen by
a few persistent thinkers; in the epics, that option seems to have
been well-established, although, probably, rarely chosen for oneself.
From the kßatriya perspective of the epics, exiled forest life was never
a goal in itself; it mainly functioned as an important passage in the
course of their duty. Of course, from the viewpoint of kings, princes,
armies, and pioneering colonists, this acceptance of having to live at
the outposts and venturing into the unknown was also a religious
concept, directly connected with what was conceived of as a kßa-
triya’s dharma.31
Seen from this perspective, even Sìtà’s exclamations of joy at the
loveliness she saw around her in the forest was a matter of strì-dharma,
the dharma befitting her as the wife of an exiled king. Although it
was Ràma whose dharmic duty it was to spend their years in the
forest, and Sìtà was allowed to opt for a life at court at that point,
she found it her wifely duty to follow her husband, and to comfort
him and cheer him up with her positive approach. In that sense,
Draupadì was less inclined to accept everything without a murmur:
30
According to °gveda 6.75.11, earlier arrowheads were made of deer horn.
31
This can also be seen in the other aspects of forest life, such as clearing the
trees for a new settlement, hunting, and battle, which in themselves are violent and
impure occupations, but also royal privileges.

she protested and rebelled not only against the injustice done to her
when Yudhiß†hira put his wife at stake in the fatal game of dice,
but also against the princes’ ‘unmanly’ acceptance of defeat. Although
she demurely followed her husbands, covered herself in clothes made
of bark, and managed to make do with whatever food the forest
produced, she hardly gives the impression of feeling at home in the
forest. The forest, to her, as to the five brothers, was a passage, a
temporary habitat during exile, but never a home. When later, after
a long reign, the Pà»∂avas resigned their kingdom to Parikßit, to
them the forest was again merely a passage-way to a life beyond,
after death.
Although there are traces of the enjoyment of nature for its own
sake, and there is even a hint of ‘Wald-Romantik’ in the epics, the
epic figures did not blend fluidly and easily with their natural sur-
roundings; neither is there, on the basis of the scriptures, much
nature mysticism to be found in their experience of the forests. The
sacredness or sacrality that is found is connected with hermits and
sages, with a dutiful surrender to dharma, and occasionally even with
the gods encountered after a long and arduous quest, such as that
undertaken by Arjuna to meet •iva, the ultimate archer, but it is
rarely connected with trees as such. The special reverence for trees
found in the earlier sacrificial texts is less explicit here. Instead, elo-
quent descriptions of natural beauty are scattered throughout the
texts. Trees appear to speak to the senses rather than to symbolise
the sacred.
We have mentioned references to beauty, contemplation, trans-
formation, and deprivation, but have given few examples of refer-
ences to fear. Fear of the forest must have been substantial. Many
terrifying beings could be lurking in the shadows. Even such a calm
and rational being as the Buddha is known to have discouraged his
pupils from meditating and residing in the deep forest as a person’s
mind was prone to be assailed by fear and uneasiness. He even
reminisced that in his own solitary sojourn in the forest, when try-
ing to meditate, his mind was often preoccupied with the unsettling
noises he heard around him. For persons less stable and composed,
the fear of ràkßasas must have amplified the forest’s negative, or
what Thomas Parkhill calls “the Nowhere”, mode.32 Another threat,
32
Thomas Parkhill, The forest setting in Hindu epics (1995), p. 149.

18 chapter one
imaginary or not, must have come from the accumulated tejas of the
forest ascetics: their anger was to be avoided at all costs. Whereas
in most descriptions they are depicted as wise, peaceful, and com-
passionate men, their wrath, once evoked, was known to be devastating.
In the Purà»as, we come across many forests too, mostly as décor
for the stories about heroes, heroines, gods, and goddesses. Their
importance as sources of the cosmogonic myths, in which mythical
islands with mythical trees growing on them abound, will be spoken
of later. Nature, the forest, the landscape is presented as the setting
against which the stories evolve. Again, there are hermits and sages
living in forests, heroes passing through forests, and depictions of
forests, as well as of mountains and rivers, as the background of
Indian life. It is especially K‰ß»a, as a child and young man, whose
episodes have traditionally been connected closely with countrylife
and the natural scenery. Many of the scenes with the gopìs have been
expressed in temple art and court paintings as well. Single stylised
and specified trees, rather than complete forests, form the decora-
tive background of many of the stories: trees in parks, at the edges
of villages, in the courtyards of houses and palaces, and by the river.
The trees and woods in such stories hardly belong to the wild
forest anymore: they are part of the natural scenery of the village
life K‰ß»a led as a child, or of the court, where nature, in the form
of a single tree indicating the season, was the marker of the mood
of love or lovesickness. Apart from the symbolism—we will deal with
that later—, the physical aspect of trees seems to be connected not
with their sheer number, such as in forests, but with their specific
aspects, such as the form of their blossoms, leaves, and fruits, espe-
cially as far as those play a role in conveying the mood of the par-
ticular story.
In Purà»ic literature, which originated in various narrative tradi-
tions, and was partly rewritten or recast in a bràhma»ised atmos-
phere, the function of the landscape gradually turned into that of a
décor for human emotions, such as love, longing, and lust; an indi-
cator of the season; or even an easily recognisable signpost for the
phases in K‰ß»a’s life. This phenomenon of a ‘reduced landscape’
should not be taken as indicating that India’s natural setting had
drastically changed by then, such as from vast forests to single dec-
orative trees. Rather, the habit of indicating nature by sketching a
single tree (or mountain, or river) found in this kind of literature
and art might well point to the increasing centrality of the human

drama, for which nature was more an orchestrated backdrop than

an overpowering presence. Yet, as we will see in section three of
this chapter, which deals with symbolism, nature and natural phe-
nomena continued to be a source of Indian legends, myths, and sym-
bolism. But if the scriptures—the scriptures that have come down
to us—provide us with vital clues to the understanding of a culture,
those scriptures may contain signs of other aspects of civilisation as
well, such as keys to the way nature and the landscape were viewed
at a given time.
There would be a severe limitation in scope if only religious scrip-
tures were searched for indications of how the natural setting was
perceived. Such books as the Laws of Manu and the Kau†ilìya Artha≤àstra
provided us with the necessary shift of focus, and added important
data to our general view of Indian ideas about the forest.33 Both the
Dharma≤àstra and the Artha≤àstra deal with rules and regulations, and
with rights and duties: in other words, not so much with descrip-
tions as with prescriptions. They deal not with the individual but
with the overall order of things. Nature, landscape, and forests are
thus general categories seen from a completely different angle than
that from which the foregoing texts were written. We find indica-
tions of a society increasingly organised and ordered from the per-
spective of the bràhma»ic élite (as in the Dharma≤àstra) and from the
perspective of the kßatriya (as in the Artha≤àstra). Nature in such texts
is perceived as a domain of politics, of power, and of income, a
domain where, admittedly, there was acknowledgement even of the
dharmavanàni, the forests where religious teachers ( gurus, àcàryas) taught
their pupils (brahmacàrins), and where those aging men who gradu-
ally renounced family life as vanaprasthins, or even saányàsins, resided.
Bràhma»ic influence and jurisdiction had, once again, regained con-
trol over the various domains of life, at least theoretically. The sys-
tem of var»à≤ramadharma could even be regarded as a bràhma»ic
attempt to regulate—and if necessary incorporate—all kinds of dis-
ruptive tendencies in society, tendencies among which the symbolic
value of the forest had proven a persistent lure.
In the ideal-typical system of the var»à≤ramadharma, the forest was
still associated with knowledge, wisdom, and purity of lifestyle, whereas
33
Another genre, not taken into account here, but gradually gaining acknowl-
edgement as a result of some excellent studies, consists of medical and botanical
compendia.

20 chapter one
society’s order and continuity was guaranteed by the most funda-

mental stage, that of the householder. Man should establish himself
economically, marry and have children, see to suitable marriages for
them, behave properly towards parents and wife, and support the
bràhma»as as well as the kßatriyas in the performance of their respec-
tive duties; in short, he should see that the established order was
continued. If, at a later stage in his life, a householder felt inclined
towards a literally interpreted vanaprastha stage instead of a gradual
withdrawal to the household’s periphery, he was free to follow his
inclination and break the ties with his family, and with the village,
leave his properties and position to the next generation, and depart.
Again, such an option may be viewed from the spiritual as well as
the sociological perspective as a graceful way out of potential frictions.
Manu gives elaborate prescriptions for the more drastic kind of
renunciation, the literal vanaprastha, which turns the renounced house-
holder into a religious ascetic who performs simplified sacrificial
duties, and who lives a reduced and compassionate existence away
from society, but is near enough to civilisation to collect alms from
village households. He is even allowed to store food for months
ahead, if he wants to. There appear to be phases and gradations in
the scale of his renunciation, from a simplified existence in a hut at
the edge of the village, where he can live a relatively withdrawn life
but with the comfort and security of daily food more or less guar-
anteed, to the sort of renunciation in which the ascetic hardships
are consciously increased and he has limited food intake, such as
only forest produce or merely that which is produced as excess.34 In
addition to vows regarding diet, there could also be vows regarding
shelter, such as those for an aging couple with their own hut at the
edge of the forest, or for the wandering homeless who sleep on the
34
Dharma≤àstra 6.21, in the translation of Georg Bühler: “Or he may constantly
subsist on flowers, roots, and fruit alone, which have been ripened by time, and
have fallen spontaneously, following the rules of the (Institutes) of Vikhanas.” The
last phrase refers to a specific set of sùtras containing both domestic rules and rules
for hermits, probably called the Vaikhànasasùtras. Whether this is identical to the
text translated by Caland as the Vaikhànasasmàrtasùtram remains a question: “It is
possible that Manu in the above-mentioned ≤loka refers not to our Vaikhànasa but
to an older text or tradition which probably has been lost.” W. Caland, Vaikhànasas-
màrtasùtram. The domestic rules and sacred laws of the Vaikhànasa school belonging to the Black
Yajurveda (1929). On the various manuscripts, see also his articles in Mededelingen der
KNAW (1926 and 1928). See also W. Eggers, Das Dharmasùtra der Vaikhànasas (1929),
and T. Goudriaan, Kà≤yapa’s Book of Wisdom (1965).

bare ground or at the roots of trees. Such a homeless existence cor-

responds to the fourth stage, that of saányàsa.35 Although a saányàsin
is supposed to possess neither a domestic fire nor a dwelling, he may
go to a village to beg for his food. This implies that total isolation
and independence were not required; nor was the strict avoidance
of contact with other men. Although such a saányàsin was supposed
to remain silent (muni ) for most of the time, speech was not totally
forbidden if a specific vow of mauna had not been taken. But, tra-
ditionally, he was not allowed to earn his food in any way, not by
divination, astrology, or palmistry, nor by exegesis of the religious
scriptures.36 Although the above is only a limited selection of the
rules a hermit should live by, we have mentioned some of them here
as possible clues to the interpretation of the physical aspects of
‘forest’ in the literally taken stage of vanaprastha, and, insofar as rel-
evant, of saányàsa. The vana that Manu refers to here forms part of
the physical edge of Indian village life. At the same time, it func-
tions as a horizon for the gradual retirement from all kinds of
former involvement, and as an exercise in conscious and gradual
transition to death.
Though there are a few instances in Manu’s Dharma≤àstra where
the king’s right to a part of the forest produce is mentioned, such
as in 7.131, and even his duty to protect sacred groves and well-known
trees is mentioned (9.264–266), it is especially in the Artha≤àstra that
we find the king’s connection with the forests, both in rights and in
duties, specified. We will deal with that in Chapter Two. As to
the physical aspect of forests, it appears from the Artha≤àstra that the
landscape, from the angle of the king, is very much seen as being
composed of several domains, which ideally should all have their
allotted places: living space, recreation space, agricultural plots,
unarable land, fields for cattle, irrigated land, mining areas, forests
for produce, for elephants, for hunting, for timber, wildernesses for
the study of the Vedas and for soma sacrifices etc.37 Ideally, the
35
Dharma≤àstra 6.33.
36
Dharma≤àstra 6.50.
37
A general term for protected woodland was abhayavana, sanctuary. One dis-
tinction is that between ≤rìvana (wood listed as giving prosperity), tapovana (woodland
meant for contemplation), and mahàvana (woodland left more or less in its natural
state). The term brahma-soma-àra»ya applies to isolated plots of forest where hermits
lived. M‰gavana was the (open) woodland where deer grazed, meant for the enjoy-
ment of the royal family. Sacred groves were known by various names, such as
vanam divyam, upavana, vanànta, devodyàna, nandana, and àrama.

22 chapter one
borders of the kingdom should consist of forests, both as a political

and military protection zone and as the habitat of elephants, com-
prising a wide area to be guarded by foresters (2.3.6–9). Many kinds
of forest produce are summed up, ranging from such things as flowers,
leaves, and fruits to firewood, timber, medicine, poison, animal hides,
metals, and charcoal. It appears that forests, by the time of the
Artha≤àstra, had begun to be acknowledged as providing an impor-
tant contribution to the well-being and prosperity of the realm, and
that it was the state, i.e., the king, who should regulate their use
and utility.
In the literary genre of lyrics and drama, forests were praised by
the court poets for their beauty more than for their utility. In their
lyrics, aspects of specific trees were connected with human moods,
especially those of love and lovesickness, but whether this courtly
poetry mirrors what village people living close to the trees and forests,
and depending on them for their subsistence, actually experienced
remains a question. For some of them, in a way, perhaps. Parks
were known only to townspeople belonging to the privileged classes.
When, much later, the great bhakta singers started to sing ecstatic
love-songs about their Lord, some of them were far removed from
a classical education and could hardly have taken their inspiration
from this highly stylised court poetry or from court paintings depict-
ing the moods of the seasons. The bhakti singers’ mention of trees
often has an ethical or mystical overtone: trees are presented as mod-
els of generosity, wisdom, bounty, and, above all, devotion, as if all
the flowers and fruits they produced were meant especially to remind
people of the Lord and to please the gods, such as when offered in
pùjà. The Upanißadic simile of the banyan seed was employed to para-
phrase the Brahman that pervades everything; and a special place in
such devotional songs was assigned to K‰ß»a’s playful charades in
the woods and groves of V‰ndàvana, on the banks of the river
Yamunà. The hymns of the saint-singers are full of references to this
kind of imagery. Few individual expressions can be found, nor impres-
sionistic descriptions of natural scenery for its own sake. The land-
scape is described, rather, in terms of the bhakti mood: a tree is not
a specific physical tree, but mainly refers to the tree under which
K‰ß»a made love to Ràdhà. In much the same way, the green of
the pastures is mentioned mainly in order to evoke in the minds of
the readers or the audience the presence of the gopìs’ cattle herds.

All such pointers serve to put the audience in the right devotional
mood, away from the limited naturalistic present, and transported
to the moods and associations of K‰ß»a’s lìlà. Natural scenes were
described in order to cause rasa to flow freely, thus opening the heart
to the continuous presence of the Lord. Many descriptions of nat-
ural surroundings in such literature serve mainly as pointers: a tree
is not a tree in itself, but serves as a reminder, by way of a chain
of well-known associations, and is meant to transport the audience
into the mood of K‰ß»a’s joy.
In the southern Sangam literature, the situation is slightly different.
There is a more personal note here and there, an expression of indi-
vidual moods, and nature is perhaps less symbolic in content, viewed
more directly and individually. Nevertheless, the allusions to nature
seem to follow a fixed pattern there too, whether the chain of asso-
ciations leads to a mood of personally experienced love and love-
sickness on the purely human level, or to the devotional mood
which transports the reader or audience into a mythical landscape
in which the beloved god plays his enchanting game with the devotee.
Naturalistic descriptions that are not directly connected with human
moods and mythological associations, which concern enjoyment of
nature for its own sake and are mere registration or description,
appear to be relatively rare. The anthropocentric character of even
the most profuse nature lyrics does not imply, however, that natu-
ralistic descriptions are sparsely used, and that all focus is on the
human or divine drama. Descriptions of, for instance, •iva in the
Pine Forest (devadàruvana) present us with keen observations of nat-
ural phenomena without the centrality of human beings.
There is an abundance of written material on nature, landscape,
and the forest. Connected with art-historical evidence, this gives us
a rich variety of impressions of India’s natural beauty as well as of
how this beauty was expressed by priests, poets, and artisans. This
wealth of literature and art gives us a good idea of India’s natural
setting, even if most of the descriptions have an anthropocentric
character.

24 chapter one
1.2 Cosmogonies in relation to trees
What was the wood,

what the tree
out of which
heaven and earth
were fashioned?38
Many are the ways in which the Indian imagination has investigated
and portrayed how all this once started, and what it is that holds it
together.39 In contrast to what occurred in other cultures, it appears
that in popular Indian myths the ‘beginning’ didn’t necessarily mean
the absolute beginning before anything ever existed, but rather that
secondary or derived state before things were arranged as they are
now. As a result, most of the so-called cosmogonies start with some
prior arrangement already in place, such as the primeval waters, an
egg, a sleeping god, a seed, a thought, or a tree. Although creation
(sarga, s‰ß†i, vis‰ß†i ) is presented both philosophically and mythologi-
cally as more than a re-creation, or re-arrangement, of some pre-
existing things, most myths describe a phase in the further evolution
of things, not the absolute beginning.
Some of the most delightful passages in the °gveda are those hymns
in which the poets simply ponder such questions without supplying
definitive answers. There may well have been an element of riddle
or enigma in them,40 they may even have been composed on the
occasion of a contest, yet some of the Vedic seers, whether mystics
38
°gveda 10.31.7.
39
On Indian cosmogony and cosmography, see Babu Ram Yadava, Vedic cos-
mogony (1987), F.B.J. Kuiper, Ancient Indian cosmogony (1983); Jean Varenne, Cosmogonies
Védiques (1982); N.N. Bhattacharyya, History of Indian cosmogonical ideas (1971); D.
Sircar, Cosmography and geography in early Indian literature (1967); Madeleine Biardeau,
part two (‘Cosmogonies puràniques’) of Etudes de mythologie hindoue (1981); Willibald
Kirfel, Das Purà»a vom Weltgebäude (Bhuvanavinyàsa). Die kosmographischen Traktate der
Purà»as (1954); Luise Hilgenberg, Die kosmographische Episode im Mahàbhàrata und
Padmapurà»a (1933); Alfred Roussel, Cosmologie hindoue d’après le Bhàgavata Purà»a (1898);
Colette Caillat, Ravi Kumar, and R. Norman Basel, The Jain cosmology (1981).
40
“Throughout those songs appear a number of riddles, enigmatic phrases, and
rhetorical questions put to verse that probably were sung in the context of the per-
formance of sacred rites. An ‘answer’ to such a riddle, enigma, or speculative ques-
tion was known as a brahman, and verses that expressed a brahman therefore gave
voices to the mysterious and hidden power that held together the universe as a
whole.” William K. Mahony, The Artful Universe. An Introduction to the Vedic Religious
Imagination (1998), p. 8.

or bards, appear to have been inclined to probe the depths of their

imaginations:
Searching within their hearts with the power of their minds, (the) poets
found the bond of being within nonbeing.41
That it didn’t come easily to them is expressed too:
Shrouded by dense fog, and with mouths stuttering, singers of songs
wander about, frustrated.42
They posed their wonder in words like the following:
What was the model? What was the image? What was the connec-
tion between the two?43
or
Where did he stand when he took his position? What supported him?
How was it made? From what did the All-Maker, beholding all things,
fashion the earth, and shape the splendour of the skies?44
and
What was the wood, what the tree out of which heaven and earth
were fashioned?45
Tentative answers were given by some:
In the earliest era of the gods existence came into nonexistence.
Then, the cardinal directions arose from within the swelling creative
power . . .46
or
Through his own power of will, he (the All-Maker) himself entered
into subsequent creations, thus cloaking the first creative moment in
mystery.47
41
°gveda 10.129.4.
42
°gveda 10.82.7.
43
°gveda 10.130.3.
44
°gveda 10.81.2.
45
°gveda 10.31.7.
46
°gveda 10.72.3.
47
°gveda 10.81.1.

26 chapter one
and
In the beginning, darkness was obscured by darkness; all was water, in-
discriminate. Then, stirring that which was hidden in the void—the
One—emerged through tapas. Desire entered into the One, in the
beginning: that was the first seed of thought.48
We thus see that carefully, probingly, words were formed and names
were given to those powers that may have started the processes of
evolution. We also find tapas, heat or exertion, presented as the power
that may have caused the first stirring in the dark primeval waters.
In the same line of thought, the primordial embryo is introduced,
“the first seed of thought”:
Earlier than this earth, earlier than the heavens, before the gods and
divine spirits had their being: what was this primordial embryo which
the waters received and on which all the gods, together, gazed?49
To which the answer is
He was the primordial embryo borne by the waters when the gods
gathered together. The One rested on the navel of the uncreated, he
in which all created beings abide.50
Parallel lines of creative imagination present Vàc (“Speech”), Àditì,
Indra’s màyà, or the brahman as the first mover. Mention is increas-
ingly made of something or someone preventing the heavens from
falling:
He made firm the sloping hills and determined that the waters flow
downhill. Through his màyà he supported the earth that gives food to
all living beings and kept the heavens from falling.51
In some of these images, this function of holding the heavens is
attributed to Skambha, the universal pillar or support:
In which of its limbs does the earth reside? In which of its limbs is
placed the atmosphere? In which of its limbs is the heaven set? In
which of its limbs is that which is beyond? (. . .)
Into that single limb of which he made a thousand forms: with how
much of itself did the pillar enter there? (. . .)
48
°gveda 10.129.3–4.
49
°gveda 10.82.5.
50
°gveda 10.82.6.
51
°gveda 10.82.6.

On whom is firmly set earth and heaven and the atmosphere between.
(. . .) tell me about that support! What, please, is it? (. . .)
It is because of that pillar that heaven and earth remain separate
and fixed in place. In him dwell everything that lives and breathes,
all that open and close the eye. (. . .)
Though manifest, it is hidden and secret. Its name is “Ancient.” It
is a great way of being. On Skambha is formed this whole universe:
on it is established all that moves and breathes.52
By criss-crossing through the Vedic texts in search of ‘origins’—be
they of the nature of a causa efficiens or a causa materialis—we may
have presented Vedic cosmogony as having evolved homogeneously
from the first probing questions to a gradual indication of causes
more than is justified on text-historical grounds. Be that as it may,
our survey enabled us to trace certain persistent images relevant
to tree symbolism back to the first °gvedic imaginations. We found
two concepts belonging to the tree/wood imagery: that of wood
as a prima materia, and that of the primeval pillar separating heaven
and earth. We will come back to this in the next section, on tree
symbolism.
We now turn to the more narrative mythological side of Indian
cosmogony. We see a world, though no longer in its primary for-
mation, in which some meaningful events are still to happen. Myths
record the creative images of transformations and reformations, often
offering aitiological explanations for the state the world is in now.
As we indicated above, the gods were, and are, intermediaries. When
linked with later imagery in which all things growing on earth are
said to have sprung from the primeval sacrifice, i.e., from the
corpse of the First Being, or, more specifically, in which plants and
trees are said to have sprung from his hair, we perceive not only
the conception of a first death, or, more meaningful in ritual terms,
a first sacrificial offering with Prajàpati as the first victim, but also
an imagery in which that first being closely resembles man. In many
tribal cosmogonies, this naturalistic image of the vegetative world
springing from the corpse of the First Man still persists.53
In our search for wood-related cosmogonic myths, we came across
the water-wood homology.54 Vana, as wood or primeval matter, is
52
Atharvaveda 10.8. All Vedic translations here are based on Mahony’s thrilling
book The Artful Universe (1998).
53
As in, for instance, Verrier Elwin, Tribal myths of Orissa (1954).
54
See also note 9 in the Introduction.

28 chapter one
often homologised with water as the original life-generating princi-

ple. In the Nigha»†us (Naigha»†uka 1.12.9), the word vana is listed as
synonymous with water. Many cosmogonic myths have water as the
first element: water, for instance, from which a small clod of earth
emerged which unfolded into the expanse of the earth or of the
primeval mountain. Or water on which a golden egg (hira»yagarbha),55
a snake (Ananta), a lotus leaf, or even an a≤vattha leaf floated. Where
such things came from is not related. They may be considered to
be some residue from a former era, or they may have emerged after
having been hidden somewhere, latent, waiting to be rescued or
woken up.
When, in such water stories, the earth is said to have come into
being, it was pilippilà:56 unsteady, like a lotus leaf tossed by the wind.57
The gods had to fasten it down with pebbles.58 It is also said that
only when the earth expanded and flattened out did its temperature
drop so that it became fit for producing plants and trees.59 When
green things began to grow on its surface, it was elevated to the sta-
tus of motherhood, and was called mother.60
The sequence of water, land, plant-life, and gods is not fixed.
More mythologically minded passages tell us that Hira»yagarbha,
who sprang from the Àpa˙, assumed the work of a creator. After
having created the elements, he reclined to rest. His hair spread over
the ground and became plants.61 In another passage, more botani-
cal details are offered: from his hair his thought flowed, and became
the millet plant. From his skin his honour flowed, and became the
a≤vattha tree. From his flesh his vitality flowed, and became the udum-
bara tree. From his bones honey flowed, and became the nyagrodha
tree. From his marrow soma juice flowed, and became the rice plant.62
It is written elsewhere that the vilva tree was produced from his mar-
row, the khadira tree from his bones, and the palà≤a tree from his
flesh.63
55
Interestingly, a so-called sun-tree is depicted on p. 18 of the Illustrations in
F.D.K. Bosch The Golden Germ. An Introduction to Indian symbolism (engl. trsl. 1960).
He refers to it as an ‘Indian miniature’ (no particulars given), and it depicts an egg
floating on the waters from which a sun-tree has sprouted.
56
Vàjasaneyì Saáhità 23.13.
57
•atapathabràhma»a 2.1.1.8.
58
•atapathabràhma»a 1.1.9.
59
°gveda 10.60.9.
60
Taittirìyabràhma»a 2.4.6.8.
61
62
•atapathabràhma»a 12.7.1.1, verses 2–4 and 9.
63
•atapathabràhma»a 13.4.4, verses 8–10.

Whatever the causal nexus in which this life came to be as it is

now, one of the fundamental concerns was with the necessity to keep
earth and heaven apart,64 so that plant-life could develop in between
them. Above, we touched upon the Atharvavedic idea of Skambha
as the cosmic pillar or universal support. At some places it could be
Indra who was assigned the Atlantean task of propping up the sky
to prevent it from falling down, such as in phrases like
You, Indra, have spread out the wide earth—a mighty marvel—and,
high yourself, propped up the high heaven.65
or
(Indra), you, who by eternal law has spread out flowering and seed-
bearing plants, and streams of water.66
In other passages, it is Varu»a:
It is he (Varu»a), who, standing in the skies, has measured the earth
with the sun, as if with a ruler.67
and
It is Varu»a who (. . .) has woven the air between the tree branches.68
The act of keeping earth and heaven apart was often thought to be
preceded by two demiurgic interventions, one concerning the primeval
hill and the other concerning the tree of life. The primeval hill (or
mound, or mountain) came into being when the first clod of earth
rose to the surface, where it floated about. The beginning of the
earth actually had the form of a mountain, floating on the waters.
Indra’s task was to slay V‰tra, the dragon of primeval resistance
residing on the mountain top. After Indra’s liberating act, four rivers
came flowing downhill from its summit, and the sun rose in the sky.
This primeval mountain is sometimes thought to have remained the
cosmic centre, functioning as the nail or peg (kila) which keeps the
earth in its place and prevents it from drifting away.
64
In Mircea Eliade’s Encyclopedia this is considered a universal concern, and it is
remarked: “In many religions the universe is portrayed as multilayered, the layers
kept distinct and in place by a world tree running through the exact center of the
cosmos.” Encyclopedia of Religion, vol. 15, Pamela R. Frese and S.J.M. Gray on trees:
p. 27.
65
°gveda 6.17.6.
66
°gveda 2.13.7.
67
°gveda 5.85.5.
68
°gveda 5.85.2.

30 chapter one
This idea of keeping things in place is found frequently in Indian

cosmogonies.69 The earth needs a support to prevent it from being
tossed about in the wind. The primeval mountain is said to nail it
down, or, in another version, four pebbles are put in the corners by
the gods. The sky needs a support too, and this is Indra’s second
role in the steady arrangement of the elements: Indra functions as
a pillar in propping up the sky, or, in other words, acts as the cos-
mic pillar or cosmic tree that separates earth and heaven. The idea
that things need to be firmly established, pratiß†hita, is found in many
of these myths.70 The cosmogonic process is as much an actual act
of creation as it is a steady arrangement and an act of setting free.
Both primeval mountain and primeval tree perform this function
of a kila: they fix things, they establish order, they form a stage upon
which all other roles can be played out. As soon as V‰tra’s opposi-
tion was broken, the sun could take its course through the sky. Much
of the early a≤vattha symbolism is thus connected with the sun and
its light, reflected in every fluttering leaf. In the sacrificial context,
which was, in a way, a ritual re-enactment of the cosmogonic drama,
the yùpa, a stake derived from a tree specially selected for the pur-
pose and ritually transformed into a sacrificial post, functioned as
the post to which the sacrificial animal was to be tied. The yùpa was
often equated with this axial function when it was either called a
living tree or named a skambha (alternatively also stambha, pratistambha),
or was equated with Indra’s vajra, the same vajra that Indra planted
at the center of the earth after having slain V‰tra.71 In both posi-
tions, it guaranteed the ordered course of things. A yùpa, thus, was
not only a living tree, lord of the forest, vanaspati; it functioned also
69
Or, as Jan Pieper remarks, “The Cosmic Tree and the Axis Mundi are the
keystones of an enormous edifice of symbolism, which is considered the archetypal
concept of all order, clarity and beauty. Any attempt to create these aesthetic val-
ues, any effort to give a sensible structure to a phenomenon, be it social, political,
ritual or of any other cultural significance, will be an attempt to mimic this arche-
typal concept.” ‘Arboreal Art and Architecture in India’, Kapila Vatsyayan, Concepts
of Space. Ancient and Modern (1991), p. 333.
70
Etymologically, through the proto-Indo-European *stà = stand, the act of
pratiß†hàna is related to the English words ‘to establish’ and ‘stabilised.’ John Irwin,
‘The Axis Mundi and the Phallus; Some Unrecognised East-West Parallels’ (1980),
also connects it with stauros, the post or tree from which Jesus was hanged, and
which was later translated as ‘cross’. The same is pointed out by Ananda K.
Coomaraswamy, ‘The Inverted Tree’ (1938). A more sober treatment of the term
pratisthà is found in Jan Gonda, Pratiß†hà (1954/1975).
71
°gveda 9.72.7.

as a pratiß†hàna, securing the firm establishment of the cosmic order.

Its top may originally have been shaped like a fruit-bearing crown,
as a prototype of the wishing tree, or like a sun with multiple rays.
Its three parts corresponded with the three worlds—the firmament,
the air, and the earth. At the same time, it was a ladder through
which the gifts were transported to the gods by Agni, and along
which the gods came down to take part in the sacrificial meal.72
The yùpa was also called a navel (nàbha p‰thivyà), the place of ori-
gin, the nurturing bond between the earth and the life that grows
on it, the central spot where one realm erupts into the next. It was
also called an umbilical cord. In the same way, the primeval moun-
tain was said to be the navel from which the earth came into being
from the surface of the waters, and the navel from which the rivers
flowed and the sun rose after V‰tra was slain. The navel symbol-
ism, found in cosmogonic myths all over the world, is particularly
present in Indian mythology. From the primeval being, floating
around on his bed of snakes, (or, in other versions, on an a≤vattha
leaf, while sucking his big toe) is said to have risen a lotus on top
of an umbilical-like stalk, rooted in his navel. On top of the opened
lotus, Brahmà, Viß»u, or K‰ß»a sits. In reaction to authors like Bosch
and Coomaraswamy, who were accused of using “an a-historical
method”, it has been stressed that “in the °gveda the lotus is almost
unknown and the Vedic Aryans certainly had no lotus myth.”73
Images like the following can be found in Vedic texts:
Earlier than this earth, earlier than the heavens, before the gods and
divine spirits had their being: what was this primordial embryo which
the waters received and on which all the gods, together, gazed?
He was the primordial embryo borne by the waters when the gods
gathered together. The One rested on the navel of the uncreated, he
in which all created beings abide.74
72
See also H. Lommel, ‘Baumsymbolik beim altindischen Opfer’ (1958).
73
F.B.J. Kuiper, reviewing the Dutch edition of Bosch’s book De gouden kiem
(1948), p. 70; also quoted in the revised English translation (1960), p. 57. I myself,
incidentally, happened to find a passage in which a lotus leaf is offered as part of
a Vedic ritual, together with pieces of sacred wood, in Àpastamba’s Dharmasùtra
5.2.4. Further study is required to determine in what phase the lotus (as flower,
stem, roots, or, as in this case, the leaf ) began to be used in ritual. In the later
vàstu rite of preparing a site for the construction of a house or a temple, a flowering
lotus was sometimes first thrown into the pit, thus ritually re-enacting the cos-
mogonic event. For this detail, see T. Goudraan, Kà≤yapa’s Book of Wisdom (1965),
p. 81.
74
°gveda 10.82.5–6.

32 chapter one
and
The Great Being, in the midst of the universe, absorbed in tapas, on
the surface of the waters, in him (viz. Skambha, to which this hymn
is devoted) rest whatever gods there are, like the branches of a tree
around the trunk.75
This motif is elaborated upon in later literature:
From his navel sprung a lotus splendid as a thousand suns (. . .)76
Whereas Bosch speculatively connects mùla, Hira»yagarbha, ≤amì tree,
and lotus, Coomaraswamy can’t resist making cross-cultural associ-
ations with, for instance, the tree of Jesse, and the “Kabbalistic Tree
of the Ten Splendors”.77 Be that as it may, within India, and all
over South-East Asia, a symbolic complex evolved in which water,
seed, root, tree, and lotus persisted as auspicious motifs in decora-
tive art. It is evident that in such an associative complex women, as
mothers, do not play any role. Such myths connect the god’s navel
not with his mother, but with his own creative power, making his
navel almost equivalent to his procreative organ.78 The mùla sym-
bolism, be it of a tree or of a lotus, its trunk or stem rising from
the navel, in a kind of womb ( garbha) turned inside-out, has pene-
trated deeply into South Asian culture, and found expression in reli-
gious ritual, art, architecture, physiology, medicine, esoteric symbolism,
and meditative practices.
The cosmogonic act of placing a pillar between earth and heaven
is re-enacted in many ritual contexts up to the present time. Apart
from the cosmic pillar and the yùpa, there is Indra’s flagpole (indra-
dhvaja) which is erected as a ritual renewal of the year.79 The sacred
pole that is traditionally erected when a temple or house is to be
75
Atharvaveda 10.7.38.
76
Bhàgavatapurà»a 3.20.14 ff. See also 1.8.2. and Mahàbhàrata 3.272.44 and
12.207.13.
77
See Bosch, The golden germ (1960), p. 119, and Coomaraswamy, ‘The Inverted
Tree’ (1938), as well as ‘The Tree of Jesse and Indian parallels or sources’ (1929).
78
In such imagery, it is either the mind or tapas-produced tejas which generates
new life. In Coomaraswamy’s tree of Jesse, however, it is the sexual organ, not the
navel, from which the tree springs. In some schematic drawings of Indian temple
architecture using the analogy of a reclining human body, the temple flag (dhvaja)
is sometimes attached to a pole that is planted at the exact spot where either the
womb or the navel is supposed to be.
79
See J.J. Meyer, Sexual Life in ancient India: A study in the comparative history of Indian
culture (1930), p. 283 f., and Stella Kramrisch, ‘The Banner of Indra’ (1947).

built according to ≤àstric prescriptions is conceived of as mirroring

that primeval cosmogonic act, or even as a full cosmogonic act itself.80
The jarjara that is placed in the centre of a theatre stage is likewise
the fixed point amidst the whirling events, keeping man grounded
in the central order.81 The Vedic student’s staff (da»∂a, also described
as yùpa-vat, like a yùpa), which is handed to him as part of the
upanayana saáskàra, in the same way symbolises the world order of
which the bràhma»a is the guardian, and which he is supposed to
create anew with every sacrificial and ritual action.82 All kinds of
stone pillars left to posterity since the time of Emperor A≤oka,—
wooden ones have disintegrated over time—must have been per-
ceived as re-establishing order and righteousness in the realm.83
One of the most relevant cosmogonic motifs in this category of
vertical wooden posts, stakes, and pillars is the myth of the churn-
ing of the ocean with the objective of gaining am‰ta (am‰tamanthana).
Wherever the motif came from, the scenario is a meaningful set-up
of characters: an ocean, a mountain, a turtle, a snake, and a hand-
ful of divinities and Asuras.84 Some accounts relate how the ocean
surrounding Jambùdvìpa turned into the Milk Ocean (kßìroda) after
soma- (or latex?) trees had released their juices. In an alternative ver-
sion, it is said that the water became charged with vitality after
potent magical herbs had been dropped in it. In other versions, the
fact that the ocean was filled with milk is linked with the Hindu
80
On vàstu, as far as this is relevant to tree symbolism and the ritual use of
wood, see Alice Boner, Sadà≤iva Rath •arma and Bettina Bäumer, Vàstusùtra Upanißad.
The Essence of Form in Sacred Art (1982); Stella Kramrisch, The Hindu Temple (1946);
A.L. Dallapiccola, Shastric traditions in Indian arts (1989). On vàstu in relation to tree
worship, see P. Ghosha, ‘The vàstu yàga and its bearing upon tree- and serpent
worship’ (1870).
81
On the jarjara, see Natalia Lidova, Drama and Ritual of early Hinduism (1994),
esp. pp. 11–30; Kapila Vatsyayan, ‘Performance: The Process, Manifestation and
Experience’, Vatsyayan (ed.), Concepts of Space (1991), pp. 381–394.
82
On the da»∂a, see Jan Gonda, ‘A Note on the Vedic student’s staff ’ (1975);
Brian K. Smith, Reflections on Resemblance, Ritual and Religion (1989), esp. pp. 98–99.
83
On pillar symbolism, see John Irwin, ‘The axial symbolism of the early stùpa:
An exegesis’ (1980); ‘The Ancient Pillar-Cult at Prayàga (Allahabad): Its Pre-A≤okan
Origins’ (1983); ‘‘A≤okan Pillars’: A reassessment of the evidence’ (article in four
instalments, 1973–1976) and the article mentioned above, ‘The axis mundi and the
phallus: Some unrecognized East-West parallels’ (1980). See also A.K. Coomaraswamy,
Symbolism of Indian Architecture (1983), and J. McKim Malville, ‘Astrophysics, Cosmology,
and the Interior Space of Indian Myths and Temples’, Kapila Vatsyayan (ed.),
Concepts of Space (1991), pp. 123–144.
84
Mahàbhàrata 1.17–19, Bhagavatapurà»a 8.6 ff.

34 chapter one
cosmology according to which the earth is ringed by several con-

centric oceans, consisting, respectively, of salt, sugarcane juice, wine,
clarified butter, milk, whey, and fresh water.
How the Milk Ocean came to contain am‰ta remains vague.85 The
churning of the ocean is the classic image of creation by means of
chaos: the serene primeval waters were to be disrupted in order that
all the oppositional pairs may emerge and meet in creative conflict.
The myth of the theft of ambrosia is an old Indo-European one:
once the demons controlled immortality, they would pose a threat
to the gods as well as to the normal course of time and fate. If the
gods managed to win the am‰ta from them, they would use it for
the only immortality which is natural, a full life-span. This consid-
eration is more or less presupposed at the beginning of the narra-
tive, when there is a conference of the gods and Gandharvas at the
plateau of Mount Meru, and they decide to obtain the elixir. It was
the god Nàràya»a who proposed that the ocean be churned in order
to find the am‰ta there. As a churning-stick they needed Mount
Mandara, and with the help of the serpent Ananta they were finally
able to uproot it, with all its forests and forest dwellers. They dragged
it to the edge of the ocean, where they asked the king of tortoises
(Kurma, i.e., Viß»u in his tortoise incarnation) to offer his back as
a resting-place and foothold for the tip of the reversed mountain,
fastening it tightly. With the assistance of the serpent king Vàsuki,
who functioned as a chord, the gods began to churn at the head
end, and the Àsuras at the tail. When the demons protested against
this arrangement (which was directed by Viß»u), the tasks were
reversed. This reversal appeared to be to the benefit of the gods,
since, as the churning progressed, the snake’s hot breath burned the
Àsuras, whereas the gods at the tail end were agreeably refreshed
by the ocean breeze. The more Vàsuki was twirled and squeezed,
the more snake poison collected in Vàsuki’s mouth and was vom-
ited out. In order to prevent the Milk Ocean from being poisoned,
•iva rushed forward to catch and swallow the poison (called Kàlakù†a
or Halàhala). This act gave •iva his blue neck, and purified the ser-
pent, which Viß»u afterwards wore as his girdle.
85
According to Mahàbhàrata 1.18, the am‰ta was derived from the trees growing
on Mount Mandara, which released their precious liquids during the churning
process. If this is so, what made the gods decide that am‰ta could be won by churn-
ing the ocean? At that point, Mount Mandara was not yet involved.

Countless creatures from the ocean and from the mountain died
violently in this process, but in due course the precious gifts (ratnas)
appeared on the surface, and were claimed by various gods and ‰ßis.
First, Soma, the white moon, arose from the ocean; then the god-
dess •rì; then the goddess of wine, the white horse, and the jewel
for Nàràya»a’s chest; then the elephant Airàvata, the wishing tree,
and the wish-granting cow; and, finally, the goddess Dhanvantarì,
holding a white bowl in which the am‰ta was contained. But only
through a cunning trick did the gods succeed in keeping the am‰ta
from falling into the hands of the Àsuras. After a fierce battle, the
gods were victorious. Indra and the immortals (those who had taken
a sip from the am‰ta) handed the treasure over to Viß»u to keep it
in safety.
One of the ratnas thus produced was the pàrijàta tree. This tree,
also called the coral tree, was claimed by Indra and taken to Amaràvatì
in his paradise Nandana. This tree figures in a later story, too, when
K‰ß»a, who was seen giving a blossom from this tree (which by then
actually belonged to Indra’s wife Indrà»ì) to one of his wives, Rukminì,
had to promise the other wife, Satyàbhama, to bring her the whole
tree. K‰ß»a managed to steal the tree from Indra’s heaven by means
of a ruse, but a year later he returned it of his own free will.86
The image of a mountain used as a churning stick placed on the
back of a tortoise at the bottom of the ocean can be seen as another
illustration of the interrelatedness of mountains, columns, and trees.
The association with a world tree is only indirectly present here, but
in the Purà»ic cosmographical accounts of the world-oceans and
world-continents trees and mountains have a central place. Mount
Mandara, the central point in the preceding story, is not really the
centre of the universe: it is merely one of the four supporting moun-
tains surrounding the central mountain, Meru. At the summit of
Mount Meru is Brahmà’s city, surrounded by the cities of the eight
Lokapàlas. The descriptions of Mount Meru in the epics are often
contradictory, but the tendency to see Meru as the very centre per-
sisted. The four surrounding mountains have giant trees, like banners,
86
Viß»upurà»a 5.30–31. It is in this text that the special quality is ascribed to the
pàrijàta tree of making everyone who approaches it recollect the events of a previ-
ous existence by causing to behold their former faces in that tree. This is how the
Yàdavas contemplated themselves in their original celestial forms.

36 chapter one
on their summits: a kadamba, a jambù, a pippala, and a va†a, respec-

tively. There are conflicting Purà»ic notions about the earth con-
sisting of four or seven island continents (dvìpa): Jambùdvìpa,
Plakßadvìpa, •àlmalìdvìpa, Ku≤advìpa, Krauñcadvìpa, Sàkadvìpa,
and Pußkaradvìpa. Apparently five of them are called after the tree
that dominates their summit. All seven ring-continents are said to
be encircled by ring-oceans (samudras, sàgaras).
How these central trees came into being on top of those moun-
tains is not related, but the image of a well-ordered world held in
place by mountains which, in turn, are crowned by trees, is cer-
tainly a sign of the highly symbolic position of trees in India. Such
mythic trees are often depicted as celestial wishing-trees: not only
were they large and shady, but their blossom and fruit had magic
qualities such as that of granting eternal youth by mere sight (dar≤ana).
Such a tree is sometimes described as full of jewels, and as fulfilling
any wish that could be presented to it. Whether the pàrijàta tree
functioned as a model for all the other celestial trees is not clear,
but the wishing-tree (kalpav‰kßa) and the wishing-cow (kàmadhenu), as
well as the bowl of plenty ( pùr»agha†a), appear to be mythologically
explained by this cosmogonic churning process. The idea of Indian
wishing-trees found its way from cosmography to sculpture, litera-
ture, popular sayings, and the persisting practice of vratas spoken
under sacred trees, and even to rumours about fabulous jewel trees
attracting men from afar such as Alexander the Great and Muhammad
of Ghazni.87
Another cosmogonic symbol system is found in the motif of the
inverted tree. In a way, the prelude to this persisting motif can be
found in the °gvedic question:
What was the wood, and what the tree, out of which heaven and
earth were fashioned?88
and in the answer:
The wood was brahman, brahman the tree out of which heaven and
earth were fashioned. (. . .) There stands brahman, world-supporting.89
87
More on kalpav‰kßas is found below.
88
°gveda 10.31.7.
89
Taittirìyabràhma»a 2.8.9.6.

The term brahmav‰kßa is first found in Mu»∂akopanißad 6.4 and •ata-

pathabràhma»a 11.2, and later elaborated upon in Mahàbhàrata, A≤vamed-
haparvan 97.14. Its shadow signifies both death and immortality.90
Devas inhere in it like the branches of a tree around its trunk.91 This
cosmic tree may be associated with Indra (who, as a stambha, has
made stable heaven and earth),92 with Skambha (the cosmic pillar
in which the atmosphere and the heavens find their fixed abode,
and which keeps fire, the moon, the sun, and the wind where they
belong, and which controls the six directions),93 and with Varu»a
(who, standing in the skies, has measured the earth with the sun, as
if with a ruler94 and who spread out the atmosphere in the trees)95
or with a particular species of tree, especially palà≤a (as in Aitareyabràh-
ma»a 2.1.5) or a≤vattha (especially as somasavana, which drips with
soma).96 The more specific the phrases became the more the tree’s
cosmic and supra-cosmic designations became mixed: as a solar tree,
three of its a«gas (corresponding to earth, air, and sky) may be seen,
while the fourth a«ga stands beyond. It is like Purußa, of whose feet
one (ekapad ) covers all beings, and whose other three feet measure
out the heavens. This links up with the epic Sùrya, who is com-
posed of two parts, a visible part that radiates light, and a dark,
invisible part which is called the leg ( pàda). It was stated that through
the latter the sun would suck up water which it would subsequently,
during the four months of the rainy season, send back to the earth.
This ‘one-legged being’, sometimes called Aja Ekapàda (Agni in the
form of a black-spotted goat), was considered the divo dharto, the sup-
porter of the sky.97
In the two latter phrases are found the first probing concepts of
the cosmic tree as an inverted tree. This becomes more explicit in
images of the tree being up above (ùrdhva˙) with three feet, while
one foot is is caught in the cycle of birth and death. In such a four-
fold distinction can be traced the usual trinitarian division of Brahman
90
°gveda 10.121.2.
91
Atharvaveda 10.7.38.
92
°gveda 10.89.4.
93
Atharvaveda 10.7.12 and 35.
94
°gveda 5.85.5.
95
°gveda 5.85.2.
96
Chàndogyopanißad 5.5.3–4
97
See °gveda 10.65.18, as well as Mahàbhàrata 8.79.78; 12.363.5 f. See also E.J.
Hopkins, Epic Mythology (1915), p. 85. For sun-pillar asceticism, see F.D.K. Bosch,
The golden germ (1960), pp. 209–210.

38 chapter one
(Agni, Indra-Vàyu, and Àditya) and the transcending oneness. It is

with the major part, his three feet (pad, pàda) or portions (a«ga, aá≤a)
that he is thought to transcend our world. The unknown and unman-
ifested (avyaktam) is always three times greater than the known and
manifested (vyaktam).
Perhaps the oldest reference is found in °gveda 1.24.7, where
Suna˙≤epa, as a young boy, is bound to the stakes to be sacrificed
to Varu»a. Varu»a’s answer to the boy’s prayer comes in the form
of an intriguing (but dense and difficult) verse in which the god
relates how he placed the orb of a tree in the bottomless realm
(abudhne) in a downward position, while the roots remained above:
those are the clues or keys (ketava˙) concealed within us, which are
to be found through interiorisation.98 That this process of turning
within to find one’s own roots placed in light is also connected with
Varu»a’s laying out the path of the sun may be seen as an isolated
anticipation of what was later to be developed as full-fledged yoga.
It appears that with such a reference to ‘roots above’ the poet endeav-
ours to express the emanation of the visible world from the invisi-
ble One ‘up there’. This image finds its way through passages like
With roots above and branches below stands this timeless a≤vattha99
and
The One stands like a tree (rooted/established) in heaven100
and
This fig tree, named Ilpa, has its roots above, and its branches down-
ward.101
A parallel phrasing of the tree as inverted is found in references to
the sun and its hundred-branched (≤ataval≤a) or even thousand-branched
(sahasraval≤a) rays. It is especially the a≤vattha which is connected with
the sun (as in °gveda 3.8.11 and Maitryupanißad 6.4), and, in general,
with light and enlightenment. A third line of imagining the univer-
98
Coomaraswamy, on this point, speaks of a ‘folklore version of the sùtràtman
doctrine’: it is the sun which connects these worlds and all things and beings with
a ray or thread (sùtra) of spiritual light. Ananta K. Coomaraswamy, Symbolism of
Indian Architecture (1983), p. 30.
99
Ka†hopanißad 2.3.1.
100
•vetà≤vataropanißad 3.7–9.
101
Kau≤ìtakyopanißad 1.3.

sal tree as inverted is connected with the peculiar habit of the nyag-
rodha tree (‘downward-growing’) of sending aerial roots from its
branches down to the ground, where they develop into new trees.
The nyagrodha tree itself is thought of as inverted since it is said to
have come into existence when the devas tilted over their bowls.102
Be that as it may, it doesn’t seem likely that this particular botani-
cal trait of the nyagrodha tree can fully explain the persistent image
of the inverted tree, of whatever species.
From the textual passages collected on the image of the inverted
tree, we get the impression that mystical shifts of perspective rather
than the habit of a particular tree are at the base of this image.
Poetic imagination and mystical visions must have gone beyond the
directly perceptible and thus have shown our limited world from the
other perspective, that of the far greater powers not perceived by us
but made plausible by well-chosen words. This ‘bird’s-eye view’ of
a shifted perspective created the ‘overview effect’ associated with
much tree symbolism from then onwards. Such passages offer an
ontology of the cosmos rather than a cosmology.
We stated above that the universal tree is both a cosmic and a
meta-cosmic symbol. Either as an inverted tree or as a normal tree,
it gradually began to take on the hues of an increasingly negative
worldview: the tree of life ( jìvav‰kßa) started to be portrayed as a tree
of saásàra, the source of life for all beings (àjìvya˙):
The great tree of Brahman is timeless, having sprung from the unmani-
fested (avyaktam), it has buddhi as its trunk, the great ego as its branches,
the senses as its sprouts, the great elements as its sub-branches, and
the sense-objects as its side-branches. It is continuously covered with
foliage, and always bearing flowers. It produces flowers both pleasant
and unpleasant (dharmàdharmau). It is the source of life for all beings.
This is the brahma-wood, and of this brahma-tree. That is real.103
The above passage, quoted from the Anugìtà, culminates in the gnos-
tic exhortation to cut the tree with the sword of insight. The same
approach is found in the Bhagavadgìtà:
They say there is an indestructable a≤vattha tree, with roots above and
branches below. Its leaves are the Vedic hymns (. . .). Its branches,
102
Aitareyabràhma»a 7.30 and •atapathabràhma»a 13.2.7.3.
103
A≤vamedhikaparvan of the Mahàbhàrata, 47.12–14, forming part of the Anugìtà.
The last phrase parallels the question of °gveda 10.31.7 and its answer in Taittirì-
yabràhma»a 2.8.9.6.

40 chapter one
spread below and above, are nourished by the gu»as. It has the objects
of perception as its twigs. Its roots are produced below, in the world
of men, bound to karma. (. . .) Here neither its origin nor its end are
perceived, but he who has cut this a≤vattha down with the sword of
non-attachment, he attains that realm from which he never has to
return (. . .).104
The mystical view of creation as a descending process, an emana-
tion from above, may well be a mystical revelation, but could also
be stimulated by naturalistic observations, such as of the way the
sun’s rays radiate in a life-giving downward movement, and perhaps
be further influenced by the simile of a nyagrodha with its hanging
aerial roots forming new trees, or of an a≤vattha seed left by a bird
in a host tree, which, after sprouting, is seen to send its roots down
to find solid earth. Creation perceived as a descending process points
more to the ever-ongoing creative process than to a mythic begin-
ning that took place only once, illo tempore.105
Although such symbolism cannot be called cosmogonic in the
strictest sense of the word, the ritual re-enactment or reiteration of
such an act makes the cycle start all over again. In a cyclical view
of time, history not only repeats itself, but has to be ritually re-enacted
in a simulation of the mythic act in order to guarantee continuity.
The annual setting up ( pratiß†hà) of Indra’s banner is such a ritual
replay, but any yogi’s esoteric experienece of ku»∂alinì, of prà»a descend-
ing into his system in the process of inhalation, and the reversal of
this process in the experience of ku»∂alinì rising, might be called a
conscious and ritual act of evolution and devolution, of reversing the
descending movement into an ascending one. The human body as
a microcosmic tree is an image found in many esoteric systems else-
where in the world. In Indian imagery, the simile of a tree is espe-
cially apt since there is not only the central stem (sußum»à) but also
the intricate network of nà∂ìs, be they called branches or roots, and
the cranium lotus, regarded as a sahasràra-padma. The image of ku»∂alinì
as a coiled snake at the root (mùla, mùlàdhàra) of the central axis
(sußum»à) of the spine is both a naturalistic depiction and a mystic
104
Bhagavadgìtà 15.1–4.
105
This is also discernable in the gradual process of presenting each human body
as a cosmos. Cosmogonically, Brahman (or any other name, if conceived theisti-
cally) thus descends as light or life-force, and ascends as fire. In yoga these pneu-
matic countercurrents passing up and down the universal tree (or ‘axis mundi ’) may
be experienced likewise inside the spine.

simile occurring in esoteric teachings as well as in creation myths

and temple decoration, both in India and elsewhere.106
Let us turn to the wishing tree now.107 The association of trees
with material riches and the fulfillment of desires appears to be
wide-spread and ancient. Historically and phenomenologically there
are several aspects to this:
(1) Particular species of trees were singled out for specific proper-
ties considered as ‘gifts’, consisting in benefits like shade and shel-
ter; charms and amulets; medicine; food, drink, and a place to
spend the night especially for tired travellers; special leaves or
fruits with magic qualities, such as eaten daily by the king of the
realm, or taken by those who wanted a son, etcetera; or to exude
a special fragrance that makes one remember a past incarnation,
or draws one into stillness, meditation and even liberation.
(2) The idea that between the roots and the branches wealth was
stored away, guarded by yakßas, nàgas or Kubera himself. There
is a naturalistic side to this since originally the emphasis was on
mineral riches like gems, coins, gold.
(3) The tree was considered the abode of a wish-fulfilling deity, male
or female, often called v‰kßaka or v‰kßakà respectively. In order to
have one’s wishes granted one had to invoke the deity by name,
offer words of praise as well as material gifts like meat and liquor,
or specific food, such as eggs and milk for snakes. Such a tree
deity was considered to have a physical existence separate from
the tree.
(4) Some unique trees in specificied locations were imagined to have
branches of gold, silver and beryl, branches that produced streams
of milk or water, branches that produced clothes and ornaments,
branches that consisted of beautiful young damsels, fruits that
gave immortality to the eater, and so on.
106
Coomaraswamy, Eliade, and Bosch make cross-cultural references on this mat-
ter. See also E.G. Kagarow, ‘Der umgekehrte Schamanenbaum’ (1929). For paral-
lels directly connected with the inverted tree in India, see Ananda K. Coomaraswamy,
‘The Inverted Tree’ (1938); Adolf Jacoby, ‘Der Baum mit den Wurzeln nach oben
und den Zweigen nach unten’ (1928). For a more sober treatment, see J.G. Arapura,
‘The upside down tree of the Bhagavadgìtà Ch. XV’ (1975).
107
In most of the studies on Indian sacred trees, tree symbolism, and the depic-
tion of trees in art and literature, some mention is made of the wishing tree. For
a specific treatment, see V.S. Agrawala, ‘Kalpav‰kßa: The Wishfulfilling Tree’ (1943).

42 chapter one
In this complex of ideas and practices the position of the tree itself
varies: its wish-granting properties may be perceived as (a) coming
directly and more or less naturalistically from the tree itself, (b) com-
ing through the agency of a tree or its derivative, such as the sacrificial
stake, and (c) coming from an anthropomorphised and personified
tree deity to whom the tree provides merely an abode, a locus, and
who has an existence independent of that tree. In some rare pas-
sages trees are spoken of as sentient beings who can feel, talk, act,
even move.108 But even when they are not personified they are praised
for their generosity, their compassion, their altruism, their chastity,109
their silence, stillness and stability. In Indian literature especially the
maiden •akuntalà is portrayed as having a direct and person-to-
person relationship with the trees in her father’s à≤rama. They gen-
erously gave her clothes and jewels when she made the decision to
follow her lover, the king, to the royal city.110 Also in some Jàtakas we
find this generosity emphasised: there are treasures buried at the feet
of trees, as in the Palàsajàtaka. Also, gifts are received from the visible
or unvisible hands of a tree deity, such as in Mahißajàtaka, Dabba-
lakathàjàtaka, and Dabbhapupphajàtaka.111 Not only were trees observed
to be, by their very nature, plentiful and generous, the mineral riches
found in the earth added to this idea of bounty. As trees were known
to stretch out their roots deeply into the earth, the roots of trees
were associated with gems and gold, as well as with life-giving water.
Much natural medicine was derived from trees. Folklore, mythology
and magic elaborated upon this experience of life-sustaining, vitalis-
ing, healing and helping properties in such a way that often the tree
108
According to °gveda 10.97.21 trees can hear. Manu (1.49) states that trees
are under influence of tamogu»a, yet, although they are fixed to their place, they
experience feelings of happiness and pain. In Mahàbhàrata 12.251.8 (compare also
12.184.10) it is said that trees are sentient but don’t sense where their leaves are.
In Yogavàsiß†ha 6.99.11.16 waking consciousness is acribed to them, whereas in some
passages quoted by Hopkins (12.184.10; SI. 7.16.14; and 12.269.24) it is even said
that trees, under certain conditions, can turn their faces to someone, bow their
heads down, wish to go after someone, and even desire to attain heaven. E.W.
Hopkins, ‘Mythological Aspects of Trees and Mountains in the Great Epic’ (1910),
p. 350. See also his Epic Mythology (1915), p. 7, where trees are said to beg boons,
enjoy marriages (with human beings), talk, grant wishes, and at certain locations
go about at will.
109
A rare characteristic ascribed to trees by Bhìma, in Mahàbhàrata 18.10.
110
•akuntalam, Act 6.5.
111
In art, this is found expressed as a human face seen in a trunk, or a hand
stretched out from between the branches offering a gift, such as in the Buddhist
art of Amaràvatì.

itself was gradually lost sight of, making place for anthropomorphic
beings thought to dwell in the tree.
In the lore about famous wishing trees, some of which said to
have survived to this day, there often is a combination of these fac-
tors. To the same tree may come pilgrims who travel to an akßayava†a
to depose of the ashes of a deceased relative and perform ≤ràddha
rites, as well as those who come with ardent prayers for offspring,
prosperity and even mokßa.
When we look at the four types of wishing trees listed above, we
are well aware that to the faithful our four distinctions are practi-
cally non-existent. In the spreading influence of bhakti ideas a gen-
eral distinction is made between rites that are performed purely out
of devotion without stating any wishes or expecting any return, and
those rites in which a specific wish is expressed, called a sa-kàmya
rite. For these reasons we would rather speak of levels than of phases
or stages in the cult of the wishing tree. It appears that certain trees
form a complex in which naturalistic, mythical, ethical, historical,
mystical and cosmological factors are mixed in such a way that they
are known as ‘wishing trees’. It is the very word kalpav‰kßa (alterna-
tively kalpadruma, kalpataru or, in the form of a creeper, kalpalatà)
which indicates such a fluidity: kalpa, here, means resolve, determi-
nation (the aspect which still persists in the vrata-systems connected
with sacred trees), hence imagination, visualisation, and thus: wish,
desire.112
At the same time some associate also one of the other meanings
of kalpa with the kalpav‰kßa: to them a kalpa-tree is one of the cos-
mic trees with which the groundplan of our era (kalpa) was fitted
out. In this associative complex a kalpa-tree is more than a symbol
of stability in a world of change, it also indicates one of those orig-
inal places,—navels or wombs or umbilical cords, as it were—from
which a never-ending stream of vitality comes forth, and which func-
tions as a hoard of all the good things of life.
The tree as an intermediary, such as frequently encountered in
the ritual of the Vedic yùpa, was thought of both as a physical agency
for the transference of gifts to the gods (both material, such as the
sacrificial animal, and non-material, such as praise), and, reversely,
112
Or, more fully: saákalpa vißaya = conception, idea, notion; will, volition, desire;
decision, wish; a solemn vow. See MMW Sanskrit-English Dictionary p. 262, and
p. 1126 under saá kl‰p-.

44 chapter one
from the gods to the yajamàna, and as a symbol, part of an emerg-

ing cosmography. In Indian iconograpy we find all three functions
of wishing trees,—the naturalistic, the intermediary and the accom-
modating function—represented. In Indian art, wishing trees are
often accompanied by vases of plenty, full bags, the ≤a«kha, the padma,
and other symbols of Kubera, or, later, of Lakßmì/•rì. In Arabian
tales of India there are rumours of the waq waq tree, a paradise tree
with girls as fruits and jewels as leaves. Such a paradise tree seems
to have been a common notion, both in India itself and in its neigh-
bouring countries. Such rumours were apparently wide-spread enough
to evoke the greed of Persian armies and Arabian merchants. Not
only was the highly coveted cotton thought to grow on trees, tales
about Indian valleys with paradisical trees abounded. One of the
notions was that from its eastern branches come streams of water
(or milk, or wine, according to context), from the southern branches
come food and drinks (both for man and cattle), from the western
branches come fair damsels, and from the northern branches comes
whatever object one desires. Another, ancient, notion is the sahasra-
vìrya-ma»i tree, a thousand-jewel tree guarded by yakßas.113 Such par-
adise trees were thought to grow abundantly in Indra’s paradise, on
top of Mount Meru, and elsewhere.
Indian cosmography offers a blueprint for trees as paradise on
earth. Schematically most of the ring continents or islands (dvìpas)
are thought to be crowned by such a paradise tree. The traditional
world description, offered mainly in the Purà»as, shows a complete,
geocentric model in which everything finds its place. All of them
begin with Mount Meru as the centre of the world, around which
Jambùdvìpa, forming the then known world (mainly India), is situ-
ated. An older model, preserved in the Mahàbhàrata, speaks of four
islands arranged around Mount Meru, bordered by oceans, of which
the Southern Ocean of Salt and the Northern Ocean of Milk are
the best known. The fully developed Purà»ic model speaks of seven
islands or ring-continents, surrounded by seven concentric oceans.
Interestingly, from the outer shell, the shell of the world egg (a»∂aka†aha),
where there is nothing but darkness, the world gradually lightens up
with gold in the next ring, and then with blue lotuses. Only then,
113
Atharvaveda 8.5.14. On yakßas see A.K. Coomaraswamy, Yakshas (1928), and
G.H. Sutherland, The Disguises of the Demon: the Development of the Yakßa in Hinduism
and Buddhism (1991).

on the land surrounded by the Milk Ocean (kßìrasàgara), do we find

the continent crowned by a teak tree (≤akadvìpa), then, after Heron
Land (krauñcadvìpa), and the Land of the ku≤a grass (ku≤advìpa), there
are, respectively, the island of the silk-cotton tree (≤àlmaladvìpa), of
the fig tree ( plakßadvìpa), and of the rose-apple tree ( jambùdvìpa). In
fact, the world, in this conception, is encompassed by the shell of
the world egg, with its seven dvìpas and samudras or sàgaras, its seven
lokas and seven netherworlds, just like the seed of the wood-apple
( jambù) is encircled by its rind. That in such a wonderful and botan-
ically bountiful universe, life in India, Bhàratavarßa, can be harsh
and arduous today, is thought to be due to the succession of the
four yugas, in a gradually declining order of living conditions. In a
world subject to deteriorisation, kalpa-trees form one of the few sur-
viving links with the original bounty.114
1.3 Symbolism, a five-fold classification
Studies of tree symbolism, especially those written from a cross-

cultural comparative perspective, are numerous. Though there may
be many parallels between Indian and non-Indian symbol systems
in regard to sacred trees, Indian tree symbolism is so consistent and
solid that it appears as a self-contained system not permitting or
requiring major foreign influences. In distinguishing various forms of
tree symbolism, we now attempt to grasp the layeredness of the sym-
bol without regard to history. A helpful introduction to analogical
or homological thinking in the Vedas can be found in M. Witzel’s
On magical thought in the Veda (1979), which is partly applicable to later
periods as well. In this, four major ways to produce (from the emic
angle) or explain (from the etic point of view) analogies or homolo-
gies are distinguished:
(1) Similarity, even on the basis of one single quality, means identity;
(2) Etymological association, especially in the form of ‘native com-
mentary’, popular etymology, or esoteric associative thinking;
(3) Metaphors explaining a basic nexus between entities experienced
by man; and
114
Stella Kramrisch, The Hindu Temple (1946), p. 13, refers to a passage in
Samarà«ga»asùtradhàra (6.5–27 and 7.7–34) by King Bhoja: wishing trees had been
the home of men in the K‰tayuga, providing them with anything necessary in life.

46 chapter one
(4) Noemetic aggregates, a conglomeration of the smallest possible

associations.
One of the main notions in this web of symbolic meanings seems

to be the tree’s verticality. Indeed, in a natural world, men lived
close to the ground, and things that had vertical movement were
easily associated with something greater than their day-to-day expe-
riences, something literally transcending the ordinary scope.
The Vedic experience of power manifested in the natural world
had much to do with forces in nature that were experienced in the
range of the directly evident: trees, mountains, birds, rainbows, day-
light, the sky, and clouds, as well as forces ‘up there’ and ‘out there’,
like the sun, the moon, stars, wind, lightning, and thunder. Landscape
components like trees could be ritually ‘appropriated’; they could be
made use of for human ends directly as food, fuel, and shelter, and
also in more indirect manipulative or imitative ways for sacrifice, rit-
ual praise, and magic. They could also be woven into the intricate
network of symbolic meanings of the emerging worldview. On the
level of associative, poetic, and mystical thinking, many vertical things
were regarded as closely connected or even fully equivalent. Not
only were all natural phenomena ‘up there’ linked in this web, but
also man-made vertical wooden derivatives like the yùpa, stambha,
li«ga, ladder, student’s staff, churning pole, flagpost, and pillar were
comprised. Even those parts of human anatomy that shared this ver-
tical characteristic, like the spine, thumb, and erect phallus, were
sometimes included.
The Vedic concept of the divine was not limited to the gods ‘up
there’ or ‘out there’: the divine included earth and rivers, grasses
and plants in an overall horizontal connection, too. Trees repre-
sented verticality in the most familiar daily life-world and at the hori-
zon, but also in the form of the sacrificial stake. Many allusions were
made to the tree from which this yùpa was fashioned; it was even
addressed as “Vanaspate!”, as if the cut tree, after having been trans-
ported, carved, consecrated, and erected, were still in essence a tree,
the Lord of the Forest. Many references were also made to the yùpa’s
vertical dimension, and its function of keeping the sacrificial animal
tied, the same animal which, in subtle form, would rise heavenwards
with the smoke to the gods. Mystically, this was Purußa, the First
Man as well as the First Sacrificial Victim.
Also in their natural form, trees were perceived as being con-

nected with the divine, as they belonged to the three worlds: the
netherworld, the human world, and the sky.115 In a direct physical
way, trees connect these three realms: (1) the mostly unexplored
regions of the dark depths in which a tree’s roots live, find their
moisture, and grow, together with the surface layer in which the
seeds lie waiting to sprout into new trees, (2) the human realm into
which its trunk emerges, strong, thick, straight, impressive in its dense
presence and circumference, being the double canal through which
the juices are transported to (3) the branches that reach into the sky,
and which spread like a cover, a crown, a cupola, forming a majes-
tic dome in which animals live, birds nest, bees gather honey, and
blossoms and fruits grow, leaves of which flutter in a breeze or sigh
in a storm.
In Indian cosmogony, trees share with mountains the character-
istic of supporting the dome of the sky. In the natural world, trees
and mountains are perceived as the points of support for the vast
expanse of sky, and in the sacrificial and ritual context, their sym-
bolic equivalences like yùpas and stambhas took over this function.
From the human perspective ‘vertical’ always meant upward, but
from the gods’ perspective, trees and ritual poles derived from trees
allowed their downward movement, from some imagined point of
space to the human world. Gods were invoked to descend, sit around
the sacrificial fire, and enjoy the meal. Other gods, or rather godlings
and spirits, were imagined to be not ‘up there’ but much closer,
residing in trees, or even living there permanently. Trees could be
the intermediary locus where men and spirits or gods could meet,
and in front of which praise and prayers were expressed, and from
which the spirits or gods were thought to speak through the leaves
or even come down in person to hand over their gifts.
Trees were thus meeting points between the spheres, between the
various classes of beings, including the divine, and between the needs
of men and the gifts of heaven. This vertical movement was some-
times expressed in a ladder, a flight of stairs carved into the sacrificial
post, to indicate the upward and the downward passage by men and
by gods. This ascending-descending movement, according to Upanißadic
references, was perceived, by some, as parallelled in a man’s central
column, his spine, and could be experienced in yoga. The crowning
115
Such as in •atapathabràhma»a 3.7.1.14.

48 chapter one
experience of such meditative prà»a exercises was described as a

downward branching out of thousand branches in the form of nà∂is
and, in the reverse current, as an upward branching out from the
crown of the head, the sahasra point, which was likened originally
to a thousand-branched tree, and, later, to a thousand-leaved lotus.
A second notion detected in the symbolic meanings of trees is con-

nected with their centrality. This idea of the centre mainly con-
cerns the trunk of the tree, but all over the world there is the
persistent idea that a tree is in perfect balance with itself: the branches
in the sky are supposed to be mirrored by the roots in the earth,
with the trunk as the central column between two perfectly match-
ing half-circles. This ideal form is attributed to trees as a physical
characteristic, but it is evident that this shape is partly based on
sense perception and partly on imagination. Wishful thinking that
the visible is meaningfully mirrored by the invisible, or vice versa,
the hope that our microcosm is the shadowed counterpart of the
macrocosm, is persistent in many religious symbol systems. The tree’s
trunk thus formed the symbolic archetype for a large number of
axial forms, expressing centrality, stability, the still point, not only
in yogic symbolism and ritual arrangements, but also in the day-to-day
perception of large trees as markers in the landscape, and as cen-
tres of social traffic.
The village tree often formed such a centre, being perceived as
the stable centre around which the community revolved, in a social
sense, and also in a cosmogonic sense. In closed communities, the
village tree was perceived as having sprouted from the navel of the
world, and was lauded as an eruption of the sacred into the pre-
sent. Many villages had either a v‰kßacaitya or a yakßacaitya, and often
they must have been the same, a combination of tree, tree shrine,
and a specific being believed to reside there. The caitya often had
an enclosure or railing (vedikà), made first of wood, and then of stone,
occasionally with supporting pillars (skambha). It appears that some
caityav‰kßas evoked fear rather than comfort and security, as a sim-
ple village tree would, since they were associated with the dead, and
functioned as ‘Grabmalbaum’, as J.J. Meyer calls them. There is no
clear border between the auspicious village tree, the foundation tree,
and a spirit tree. It has been suggested that a simple and ‘social’
tree in the centre of the village could turn into a spirit tree, which
was approached with a mixture of fear and reverence, when a spirit

chose it as a residence exactly because it was safe and would not

be cut down. In the epics, we encounter many such central village
trees. Even when the gràmadruma was not considered to be the home
of a god or spirit, it was arcanìya and supùjita, like a divinity.116 Not
even the king was allowed to hurt a leaf of such a caitya.117
A giant tree, because of its height and the wide expanse of its
leaves, easily serves as a centre. Added to the visual aspect of height
and circumference is the known or estimated age of such a tree. It
spans many generations, and while men, animals, and plants come
and go, it stands there, as a silent witness and steady presence, for
centuries. Many allegedly ancient trees in India, especially temple
trees, could not possibly be the age they are given in the tales of
priests and pilgrims; the epithet akßaya, used in combination with
va†a, does not indicate the sacred tree’s age but rather means that
it grants ‘immortality’ (i.e., a full life-span) to those supplicants who
come for the fulfillment of wishes and to the ancestors for whom
≤ràddha is performed.
In Indian mythologies and cosmologies, there are many centres.
It seems that in the same way as many gods were acknowledged
simultaneously—all being praised in turn as the highest when cir-
cumstances required this—objectively many centres were acknowl-
edged although subjectively there was only one at a time. Ideas of
a central mountain (like Sumeru or Kailàsa) alternated with ideas of
a central tree on top of such a mountain, or with a central tree that
gave one of the mythical islands (or ring continents, or realms) their
name. Here, physical geography is mixed with mythology and cos-
mology.118 The centre is not merely something that is out there, but
116
Mahàbhàrata 1.151.33.
117
Mahàbhàrata 12.69.41–42. On the village tree in the Ràmàya»a, see, for instance,
2.55.15–18; 2.70.14–15; and 2.130.2.
118
In contrast to what is written in the Introduction (by Robert Hughes) to the
book Planet Earth (2002, p. 7), a book produced by the German Aerospace Center,
and consisting of satellite photographs, “There is no one up there making choices.
What is recorded is part of a purely indifferent mosaic of information” and “The
Middle Ages and the Renaissance had ways of imagining and representing the world
in which human presence was everything. Human emotions defined and coloured
the look of every feature of the globe, real or imaginary. Here were dragons. Here
was a puffy cherub supplying the North Wind. Here were frizzy black men with
feathers or a crocodile pouring Nile water on its shining scales. Here were the four
rivers of the world, the Pison, the Gehon, the Tigris, and the Euphrates, trickling
from a central fountain somewhere in the near East, the fount of Paradise. The
images that make up this book are the furthest remove from that. They contain
no imagination.”

50 chapter one
something that needs to be reproduced in people’s own ritual expe-

rience and in their own daily environment.119 The village tree served
as a social centre and also as a reminder or replica of the cosmic
tree, the axis, the central point of the village’s microcosm. Along the
same line of thinking, a house ideally was built around a central
pole, as were tents and temples. One of the main notions behind
vàstuvidya is centrality: just as the navel, or the heart, or the chest,
is conceived as the centre of the body, so the ideal human envi-
ronment should mirror that centrality. Ma»∂alas and yantras may help
people to find that centre, as does a ra«goli painting or a simple dot,
bindu. The temple, which is a centre by itself, needs its own navel,
its own still and darkest point, the garbhag‰ha, where the cosmos
becomes a nest: yatra vi≤vam bhavaty ekanì∂am. Many temple com-
pounds, when seen from above, have such a central point around
which surrounding layers ripple out towards the periphery, and which
is to be approached by the devotee in a gradual parikrama or pradakßi»a.
As Bettina Bäumer puts it,
Today the living Indian temple is both a model of the universe carved
in stone and a participatory creation myth. (. . .) Every day the prop-
erly prepared individual can return to the primordial instant of crea-
tion and can thereby mimic the evolution of the universe as it oscillates
between chaos and cosmos. The devotee who enters the temple can
travel backward in time moving to its centre (. . .).120
This inwardly spiraling movement approaching the centre of the
complex in which the divine is tangibly manifested, not just in a
man-made mùrti but often also in a natural eruption of the divine,
like water bubbling up from the deep, or in the form of a svayaá-
bhùli«gam, and preferably a combination of all three, is as much a
reversal of creation, a return to the still and dark centre, as ku»∂alinì-
yoga is.
Many temples were built around the central spot where the sacred
tree once stood, or, for practical reasons, directly adjacent to it. All
over India there are sacred trees inside the temple compounds, but
especially South Indian temple trees, particularly those known as
119
As Wendell Charles Beane phrases it, “The continuity between Cosmic Time
and Ritual Time, the correlation between Mythic Event and Sacred Space, culmi-
nates in the practical cultic milieu.” Myth, Cult and Symbols in •àkta Hinduism (1977),
p. 209.
120
Bettina Bäumer, together with Stella Kramrisch, The Hindu Temple (1946),
p. 128.

sthalav‰kßa, are often off-centre, spreading their branches over the

sanctum, sometimes even conveniently dropping a daily pùjà fruit on
its roof. A tree, however, does not need to stand in the geometri-
cal centre to be regarded as the centre, as its very form and mean-
ing draw the believers to it, and most of them intuitively turn the
tree into a centre by circumambulating it. In what way the cen-
trality of trees was expressed before temples were built can partly
be deduced from those stone remains on which caityas are depicted,
ranging from simple shrines consisting of a tree with a railing around
it to elaborate affairs looking almost as if a royal throne, a funeral
monument and a walled-in tree were combined to make a sanctu-
ary. On ancient coins we see the same tree-in-railing, or tree on a
mound.121
A third notion associated with trees is immortality. It is evident

that immortality, or rather the gift of deathlessness in a full life-span,
given to men by the gods, must be distinguished here from what is
alleged to be the age of certain sacred trees, reaching up as far as
the 2300 years claimed for the bodhi tree in Anuràdhapura, Sri Lanka.
Both associations of ‘immortality’ are connected with a tree’s life-span,
far exceeding that of humans, and often bridging several eras and
dynasties. That trees were thus associated with the past, with ances-
tors, and with the spirits of the dead is easily understood. That
Yama, the god of the dead, was said to reside in trees is logically
connected with this. Yama was said to receive the souls of the
departed in trees, and, linked with this, it was believed that spirits,
ghosts, and goblins resided in trees.122
It seems rather odd, however, to illustrate the notion of immor-
tality with the cult of the dead, instead of the living.123 Nevertheless,
121
For illustrations, see especially Jan Pieper, ‘Arboreal Art and Architecture in
India’ in Kapila Vatsyayan (ed.), Concepts of Space. Ancient and Modern (1991), pp.
333–341, as well as the descriptions of ancient coins with ‘trees-in-railing’ on them,
in Osmund Bopearachchi and Wilfried Pieper, Ancient Indian coins (1998). Other illus-
trations are found in A. Cunningham, Coins of Ancient India (1891), esp. plates IV,
1,2,7,8,12,13 and V, 1–3.
122
For the connection between the god Yama and trees, see °gveda 10.135.1 and
Atharvaveda 5.4.3.
123
Bones or ashes were often deposited at the foot of a tree, preferably a ≤amì
(for appeasement) or a palà≤a (which represents Brahman), or hung in its branches
in a pouch made of deerskin. See, for instance, Atharvaveda 18.2.25. In Chapter Five,
on contemporary rituals around sacred trees, it is shown that some of these cus-
toms are still practised today. Especially a≤vatthas, popularly called pipal now, form
the centre of such cults.

52 chapter one
this makes sense in India. A tree is connected with the dead exactly
because of this notion of immortality. A tree often stands for the
cycle of life and death, saásàra, and thus for ongoing existence, the
nexus of being, death, and rebirth. Death is not final, it is merely
the transition to a new form.124 It appears that both a tree’s long
life-span and the fact that it yields fruits that potentially grow into
new trees contributed to the notion of saásàra-v‰kßa. Although many
trees are evergreen or semi-evergreen in India, the shedding of old
leaves and the forming of new buds, occasionally simultaneously on
the same twig, and the dropping of ripe fruits that hold in them the
potency of a whole new tree, as well as the ability to expand with
ever widening and ever renewing branches, all combined to make
the tree a symbol for ongoing existence.125
Another association with immortality is, again, found in the yùpa.
Words of praise go heavenward, too, as substantial to the gods as
the libations poured into the fire, the blood of the sacrificial animal,
and the smoke of the burning wood. Whatever the yajamàna’s motive
to have a sacrifice performed, Vedic man must have felt confident
about the negotiability of a long life, ‘immortality’ of the ancestors,
and an auspicious rebirth. The yùpa, in this context, being a tree
whose life had been taken, was dead wood, but its life had been
taken for a higher cause. During the ceremonial cutting, not only
were references to this status of immortality expressed by taking part
in the sacrifice to the gods, but at times even the stump was ritu-
ally addressed with the wish that it may sprout again into a thou-
sand branches. This process could be boosted by grafting a new
sprout onto it.
How exactly the tree-soma-am‰ta combination came into vogue is
not clear, but the connection is made repeatedly. Wherever soma, as
a beverage, came from, and whatever exactly the plant was from
which the drink was made, it was associated with lonely forested
124
J. Gonda, in Loka. World and heaven in the Veda (1966), p. 35, uses exactly such
a passage to illustrate one of the meanings of loka: “Let not the tree oppress you
(the deceased), nor the (. . .) earth; having found a ‘place’ or ‘situation’ (loka-: sthà»am,
comm.) among the Fathers, thrive (there) (. . .)”; according to Kau≤. 82.32 these
words are to accompany the deposition of the collected bones at the root of a tree.”
125
The locus classicus for this is Ka†hopanißad 6.1: a≤vattha˙ sanàtana˙. In B‰hadàra»-
yakopanißad 3.9.28 the author expresses his confusion about an all-too-easy analogy:
when one cuts down a tree, a new sprout often comes up to form a young tree,
but what happens when a human being dies?

areas, especially in the Himàlayan region. This could well be a geo-

graphical reference, but could also be of a more symbolic, associa-
tive, and allusive nature. The link between the gods and Himàlaya
and between trees and Himàlaya is obvious. In this way, the soma
beverage could be linked to trees, the Himàlaya mountains, and the
gods simultaneously, geographically, botanically, and symbolically.
In much the same way, there is an associative chain of waters,
rivers, and rain connected to trees. This notion certainly arose from
the observation of botanical cycles. In the imaginative ways of the
Vedic poets, the botanical facts became linked in a long line of asso-
ciations: water-rasa-soma-am‰ta-milk-semen-latex, and even honey and
liquor. This provides us with a long chain of vital essences, vital
fluids rural man stood in awe of. The juice flowing through a healthy
tree, from its deeply hidden, mysterious roots through the massive
trunk towards the topmost leaf on the highest branch, was easily
equated with other life-giving fluids, and as such also the am‰ta,
or immortality connection, is fitting here. Poets express their awe at
this continuous flow of life force, and they stand in wonder before
this constantly renewing life. Trees are images par excellence of this
circuit.
In India, in the context of continuing cycles of existence, immor-
tality does not necessarily mean a state of eternity. In cyclical think-
ing, the notion of immortality indicates a continued existence rather
than a static eternity. Snakes illustrate this well. They were always
directly associated with water, milk, and,—not yet mentioned in the
main line of associations—poison. The directly physical and botan-
ical connection between trees and snakes is obvious. Snakes often
live in or around trees. Just as a tree’s roots wind their way through
the mysterious netherworld, so many snakes live in underground
holes, and much resemble the roots there. Snakes emerge when mon-
soon rains start to fall. Their holes are flooded and they have to
evacuate to higher and drier places, often those very places that men
have reserved for themselves: houses, huts, barns. And just as trees
have the habit of renewing themselves continuously, or at least annu-
ally, so snakes are seen to shed their old skins and emerge fresh and
new. Most people would not maintain that snakes have immortal
life, although some may reach a high age, but there is no doubt
that a snake’s habit of regularly renewing itself by dropping its old
skin rather dramatically is a second characteristic it shares with trees,
which are known to drop their leaves in an act of renewal. In the

54 chapter one
same way that, in cyclic thinking, immortality means continued ex-

istence rather than static eternity, and that continued existence is
mediated by death, which makes rejuvenation or rebirth possible,
death (including the shedding of old leaves and the sloughing of old
skin) is not antithetical to immortality but rather a recurring and
necessary element of it. This is how even a snake’s poison was
included in the list of fluids that link trees and snakes to the notion
of immortality.
The akßaya va†a, the tree connected with the rites of the ancestors,
expresses this complex notion of immortality in a special way. The
manner in which a banyan, also called va†a or nyagrodha,126 continues
and expands its existence by dropping vertical aerial roots from its
branches that, once rooted in the earth, grow into a ring of trees
around the original one, must have spoken to man’s imagination.127
Many are the textual references to this peculiarity, and certainly the
banyan shares the fame of being the tree of life, or even the world
tree, with the a≤vattha, even to the extent that they were sometimes
confused.128 Birds function as mediator in the ongoing existence of
all fig trees by eating the tiny red figs and leaving their droppings
in other trees, on rooftops, or on the ground. Both trees thus have
multiple built-in botanical traits that carry their existence forward,
and their connection with the ancestors is partly explained by these.
126
The most common etymological explanation for nyagrodha is nyag-rodha = down-
ward growing; and for va†a is ‘covered’, ‘surrounded’. Asko Parpola, on his website
on the Harappa script (www.harappa.com/script/parpola11.htm) favours the Dravidian
vatam = rope, cord; as well as north. This would make it both a rope tree and a
tree “of the northern direction”. The two meanings could have a common ground
since a heavenly fig tree is spoken of in the Purà»as, and it is maintained there that
the stars and planets are affixed to the north star with invisible ropes.
127
A botanical commentary on this by Martha Vanucci can be found in ‘Sacred
Groves or Holy Forests’, Kapila Vatsyayan (ed.), Concepts of Space. Ancient and mod-
ern (1991), pp. 323–324: “Everybody in rural India knows that the seeds of the
banyan germinate only after passing through the guts of the birds who eat the figs.
To have new banyan saplings, the normal thing is to hang some pots filled with dirt
under a banyan tree and wait for bird droppings to fall on it. Thus the banyan is
a symbol of life and immortality, not only because of the spectacular way in which
new trees are formed from aerial roots that grow from the branches of the parent
tree until a vast forest is created from a single tree, but also because man has learnt
that the cycle of life is completed only when it goes alternately through autotrophs
(synthesizers of organic matter or plants) and heterotrophs (grazers and carnivores,
animals in general).”
128
The nyagrodha is favoured more than the a≤vattha by ascetics. In some textual
passages, there is a pun in the form of a sympathetic correspondence between the
tree’s aerial roots, an ascetic’s tresses, and the tail of a monkey. This similarity has

The fourth notion that can be distinguished is fertility. Naturally,

in the above references to the connection with immortality of trees
and snakes the notion of fertility is never far off. Nevertheless, the
ritual practices in which people seek fertility from trees form a cat-
egory of their own. All trees are, in some way, symbols of fertility,
but some trees have stood out as granting offspring in a special way.
A≤vattha has been associated with life, light, and sun since very early
on. Its continuously fluttering leaves catch the sunlight in such a way
that it looks as if the whole tree consists of endless mirrors reflecting
the sun. Moreover, the sunlight is filtered through the semi-transparant
leaf cover so as to make the space under the tree a natural shrine.
The associative nexus a≤vattha-light-life-sun is an obvious one, but its
botanical connection with fertility needs further exploration. It can
become very old, it is practically evergreen, it seems to grow wher-
ever a bird drops a seed, but its ancient connotation with fertility,
and the reason for its function as a fertility tree par excellence, more
than other species, can not be explained by its botanical qualities
alone. A well-known passage in the Chàndogya Upanißad (6.11–12),
although expressed in a philosophical-mystical vein, and relating to
another kind of fig tree, the banyan, provides a further clue to the
fig tree’s association with fertility: looking at its tiny red figs, the
notion of fertility is not the first thing that springs to mind, but as
soon as one opens a fig, and, like •vetaketu, wonders at the many
minuscule seeds it contains, all having the potential of becoming
mighty trees, one can well imagine how the fig tree became associ-
ated with fertility.129
There may be a partial explanation in the liveliness of this tree, the
fact that its light, oily, and semi-translucent leaves flutter and whis-
per in the slightest breeze, a fact which was traditionally interpreted
been expressed too in several seventeenth-century paintings of ascetics under trees.

When Ràma and Lakßma»a had to disguise themselves as ascetics, they rubbed the
sticky milk-juice of the nyagrodha into their hair.
129
Traditionally, as a part of the puásava»a rite, a pregnant woman is given two
fig seeds together with a twig of the ficus, representing the male reproductive organs
of a boy baby. Alternatively, she is given the juice of two buds and a leaf to drink,
or powder made from ficus wood to rub inside her nostril. J.J. Meyer also mentions
a tàli resembling an a≤vattha leaf as a pendant around the bride’s neck, and that
one of the marks of an ‘auspicious’ woman to be chosen as a bride is that she
chooses the clay that was taken from beneath an a≤vattha, and that her vulva resem-
bles an a≤vattha leaf.

56 chapter one
as speaking of the gods’ presence. The a≤vattha is represented in all

Indian culture, from engravings on Indus seals, on ancient pottery,
in iconography, and on traditional textiles, to auspicious drawings
on contemporary housewalls and the emblem of a political party
painted on lorries and trucks. Its connection with life, with the sun,
and with the divine is ancient. Some texts mention the tiny figs of
the a≤vattha as an aphrodisiac; some mention their medicinal quality
in healing wounds and ruptures. There are two ranges of associa-
tions that could have contributed to its reputation as a fertility tree.
The first is the Agni-fire-ashes-fertility nexus, connected with the
sacrificial fire, and the second is connected with the practice of burn-
ing forests for agriculture: the ashes of burnt trees were known to be
excellent fertilisers. This is a general observation, and not specifically
relevant to a≤vattha. There is another tree, the a≤oka, which is expressly
connected with ashes, in the myths about Kàma’s death and resur-
rection. Kàma, the god of love who had the audacity to interrupt
•iva’s meditation, was burned to death by the wrathful beam emit-
ted from •iva’s third eye. Kàma was burned to ashes, and from
these ashes grew a tree. This Kàma tree is sometimes referred to as
an a≤vattha, but in later literature this is an a≤oka, a tree which is tra-
ditionally linked to kàma, the passionate love that arises in young
couples especially in the atmosphere of wanton abandonment dur-
ing spring festivals.
Another chain of allusions is formed by the use of certain twigs
to light the sacrificial fire. In ritual prescriptions, it is said that the
upper (male) stick should be of a≤vattha wood, whereas the other stick
should be of ≤ami wood.130 These two were rubbed together to pro-
duce sparks. The sexual symbolism is obvious here: its product, its
offspring, so to speak, is fire.131 Another way of making fire in the
Vedas is with a fire drill. Again, two objects are used: one is the hor-
izontal stone or wood, the second is the vertical wooden drill. In
whatever ritual way fire was produced, it was seen as the product
of wood. Agni resided in wood, and fire was hidden in its interior,
130
Such as in A≤valàyana≤rautasùtra 2.1.17. On ≤amì wood for the making of fire,
see Madeleine Biardeau, ‘L’arbre ≤amì et le buffle sacrificiel’ (1981), and Histoires des
poteaux: variations védiques autour de la déesse hindoue (1989), esp. pp. 50 ff. (a section
called ‘La ≤amì et les allume-feux’). For general information, see H. Krick und
G. Oberhammer, Das Ritual der Feuergründung (Agnyadheya) (1982).
131
See also Sadashiv Ambadas Dange, ‘Cosmo-Sexualism in the Vedic Ritual’
(1974).

as a potential. By rubbing or drilling it, sparks were produced, just

as a new being is brought forth by the union of two separate beings,
and is brought into the world from the interior. This sexual sym-
bolism is also found in allusions where trees are called ‘male’ or
‘female’, such as when the epiphytic habit of a ‘male’ a≤vattha on a
‘motherly’ khadira is mentioned, or when a ‘male’ a≤vattha is married
to a ‘female’ nìm tree.
A more directly sexual connotation is morphological. Any tree,
under certain conditions, could be a phallic symbol, as could
any wooden post, pillar, or pole. The connection between tree and
li«gam is further enhanced by another set of associations, in which
especially the so-called milk trees (kßìrav‰kßa), those that exude the
white liquid called latex, or indeed any liquid, like, for instance,
resin, have sexual connotations. There is a set of female allusions
just as there is a set of male associations: tree-li«gam-latex-sperm, and
tree-latex-milk. Snakes, ancient symbols of fertility, add to this already
obvious chain of allusions.132 Fruits and blossoms play an evident
role in the notion of the tree as a fertility symbol, as do bees and
honey, birds and eggs, and, again, snakes and eggs. In later litera-
ture as well as in Moghul miniatures, peacocks sitting in trees often
indicate a setting for amorous love.
An important aspect of the fertility notion is the range of rituals
traditionally prescribed for those who want offspring. Possibly one of
the most famous procedures is given by Bhìßma in the Mahàbhàrata.133
Not all scriptural evidence of fertility rites is as elaborate as this.
Many references are made to fertility rites under trees in the vari-
ous genres of Indian literature, and there are many iconographic
illustrations in which a scene around a tree may be explained as a
fertility rite, or as functioning as a fertility symbol. In contemporary
India, one can observe such and other rituals, or traces of rituals
that have taken place recently at an astrologically auspicious hour,
almost everywhere. Just as the whole vegetable realm was known to
132
On ancient connections between tree- and snake-worship, see James Fergusson,
Tree- and serpent worship (1868); G. Subramania Pillai, Tree-worship and ophiolatry (1948);
B.C. Sinha, Serpent worship in ancient India (1980); J.Ph. Vogel, Indian serpent-lore: or the
Nàgas in Hindu Legend and Art (1926). It is striking that M. Winternitz, ‘Der Sarpabali,
ein altindischer Schlangenkult’ (1888) hardly makes any connection between the
snake cult and sacred trees.
133
The same passage is elaborated upon in the context of the vrata connected
with Va†asavitrì, in Chapter Five.

58 chapter one
be influenced by the position of the moon, the stars, and the plan-
ets, so a woman’s womb was known to be governed by a monthly
rhythm; and just as a woman’s cycle was known to oscillate, to have
an ascending and a descending process, so trees were often regarded
to have a cycle related to the moon too. Depending on the point
on that scale, and determined by the supposition that the juice cur-
rent in the tree was in an ascending or descending stage, it was
thought a proper time to plant, harvest, or cut a tree, or to wait.
Although contemporary fertility rituals often include snakes, there
is no evidence that the tree-snake-li«gam connection was an ancient
one in such procedures.134 Some scholars have suggested an ancient
connection between trees and li«gams by conceiving of the li«gam’s
origin not as phallic but as a tree stump.135 In that case, it would
have been a sacred tree that had been cut for ritual and sacrificial
purposes.136 When only a stump remained, still rooted, may such a
stump have begun to be venerated and worshipped as such.137 It is
possible that such a stump, greening again or remaining just a stump,
evoked veneration, as much perhaps as the yùpa, pole, pillar, and
mùrti which were made from it. Even if no conclusive textual or
art-historical evidence for such a monocausal connection exists, there
are several temples in South India today where the original sacred
tree, the sthalav‰kßa, is worshipped in stump form, simply because the
original sacred tree has died and been cut down. In several places,
this relic is even covered with a metal cast to preserve it. A person
not familiar with the particular temple myth could easily take the
stump relic for a li«gam.
A special role in the fertility network is played by the ritual reper-
toires connected with blossoms and fruits. A blossom is a promise
of fruitfulness to come: it displays its sexual organs openly, exudes
134
For a study of the origin of the li«ga concept, see N. Gangadharan, ‘The
“li«ga”—origin of its concept and worship’ (1978). For general information, see
Stella Kramrisch, The Presence of •iva (1981).
135
One of the authors presenting this thesis is G. Subramania Pillai, Introduction
and History of Saiva-Siddhanta (1948), pp. 122–124. See also C.V. Narayana Iyer,
Origin and Early History of •aivism in South India (1936), pp. 49–58.
136
Ideally, the stump would sprout into a whole new tree, such as in B‰hadà-
ra»yakopanißad 3.9.28.
137
There is a passage in Àpastamba≤rautasùtra 8.17.1 where cakes are offered to
Rudra, on a tree stump or on top of a termite mound. Without expressly referring
to a li«gam, this could at least mean that tree stumps may have functioned as nat-
ural altars.

a fragrance that attracts fertilising insects and honeybees, and in

form, colour, and odour creates the mood of spring, when young
girls pine for a lover and when settled couples become young and
romantic again. A tree’s fruits are a welcome addition to the nor-
mal diet, they symbolise the season of ripeness and fullness, and the
abundance of pollen and seeds scattered around the tree bodes well
for the future. Trees are rarely depicted in combination with child-
bearing and children, however. Few of those alluring dryads has any
children. Depictions of family scenes beneath trees are extremely
rare. Although there may be much emphasis, both implicit and
explicit, on fertility, small children are not important in Indian art
or literature, in striking contrast to the children-filled world of India
today.
The fifth and last notion is generosity. The tree is a giver par excel-
lence, like the cow and the earth. Only bounty come from those,
nothing but goodness and auspiciousness. In Mahàbhàrata 7.69.5–10 ff.,
personified trees came to P‰thu Vainya and begged a boon of him,
upon which he commanded Earth to grant (literally: milk out) their
wish. First the trees rose to milk the earth, so that the ≤àla tree
became the calf, the plakßa tree the milker, and the udumbara the ves-
sel. It is also said that at that time people lived in caves and trees,
and whatever they needed came from trees. Even their clothes were
made from bark.
The traditional lists of what trees produce are almost endless: any-
thing from timber, firewood, food, and fodder to bark, resin, med-
icine, ropes, liquor, dyes, starch, and much more. Apart from the
subsistence use people traditionally made of trees, we have evidence
of a wide range of ritual uses of wood, from poles and pillars to
utensils, amulets, potions, and incense. Especially in the epics, we
come across a genre of wooden objects made with special attention
from carefully selected and sometimes consecrated wood: war char-
iots, bows, arrows, musical instruments, and even gambling devices.138
Trees were intimately connected with sound: the Maruts racing
through the tree tops, Gandharvas and Àpsaras making music on
the branches, and the voices of gods whispering through the fluttering
138
Nuts of the vibhìdaka (also vibhìtaka) tree were used in gambling. Perhaps this
was why the tree stood partly in disrepute as an unholy tree in Mahàbhàrata 3.66.41,
or perhaps it was because the tree was connected with Kàlì.

60 chapter one
leaves. In Taittirìyasaáhità 6.1.4.1, it is related how Vàc (“Speech”,

“Sound”) entered into the trees, which might mystically explain why,
through a da»∂a made of wood, a student is said to acquire the gift
of eloquence and a refined voice. Many are the references to mighty
weapons, especially the wooden bows owned by Indra, •iva, Kàma,
Ràma, and Arjuna. Both the Pà»∂avas and Ràma had a special
affinity with the ≤amì tree, which is still expressed in certain rituals,
such as on Dasara day.139
Many wishing trees are mentioned by name and location in the
epics. Although a person could approach such a tree with any desire,
in practice many wishing trees are increasingly connected with hav-
ing offspring.140 Trees are considered generous to a fault, but when
a tree of gold is seen in a dream, this spells disaster. When a per-
son thinks he or she has seen a golden tree, especially in a ceme-
tery, this presages death.141 Perhaps it is in this light that the saying
“The tree of ignorance has golden leaves” refers to the saásàrav‰kßa,
and cautions people to curb greed and desire, just as in the Bhagavadgìtà
the devotee is exhorted to cut such a tree with the sword of dis-
criminating wisdom.
Trees were considered great givers. They were thought to give
freely, showering their blossoms even over the hand that held the
axe, and offering shade and shelter to the hero who didn’t care to
thank or remember the tree once he had moved on.142 The idea of
a wishing tree is expressed in various myths, stories, temple art, and
all kinds of similes in Indian patterns of speech. A tree, or its resid-
ing tree spirit, could be asked for gifts of nature, directly related to
its biology and botany, but also for assistance or intervention in daily
matters, and even for wisdom, and finally mokßa. It was supposed to
cater to the needs of women, travellers, and mendicants alike. Its
139
See Madeleine Biardeau, Histoires de poteaux (1989), p. 303; and Rao B. Rama-
krishna, ‘The Dasara Celebrations in Mysore’ (1921).
140
Such as Mahàbhàrata 3.230.35; 3.231.16; 13.123.8. Special wishing trees are
mentioned in 1.29.40 (the trees in Alambatìrtha), 6.7.14 f. (East of Meru, in
Bhadrà≤vadvìpa, a special mango tree called Kàlàmra), and 6.7.20–26 (on Jambùdvìpa,
an eternal mango tree called Sudar≤ana), and elsewhere.
141
Mahàbhàrata 3.119.12.
142
Many of these sentiments are expressed in the Anyokti, such as 247 and 248.
Trees are called benevolent, righteous, generous, self-sacrificing, and service-minded
there. Especially interesting is the shift in perspective from which these passages are
written, namely, from the perspective of the trees which give food, shelter, shade
and other gifts freely, but which receive little or nothing, not even gratitude, in
return: they may even be too unselfish (247.10)!

generosity was thus multidirectional and its gifts may be both saásàric
and nirvà»ic.
1.4 The ritual use of wood
If he who cuts down trees or cattle,

Or makes a bloody slime in battle,
Should thereby win to heaven—well,
Who (let me ask you) goes to hell?143
In the Vedic ritual domain, wood, along with water and butter or
milk, was one of the main materials. Specific types of wood were
prescribed for the yùpa, for the sacrificial fire, for the various uten-
sils used in the sacrifice, for the fuel needed in the cremation cere-
mony, for the student’s or ascetic’s staff, for amulets and charms,
for the annual Indra-pole, for the construction of houses and tem-
ples, for musical instruments, for thrones, for incense, and for poles
for the pa»∂al used in wedding ceremonies or theatrical performances.
In the epics, references are made to sacred knowledge regarding the
production of weapons, chariots, and shields used in warfare. Before
stone and metal began to be widely used, wood was considered one
of the most auspicious materials for making statues of the deities.
In this section on the ritual use of wood, we focus first on the
solemn cutting of the wood that is to be processed for one of the
above-mentioned ritual objects, and then on the various traditions
in using wood in the cultic domain. Since wood easily decays, espe-
cially in India’s monsoon climate, we relied heavily on textual pre-
scriptions here. Both the vanaprave≤a and the use of wood in religious
ritual have come down to us in relatively well-conserved forms, such
as, most spectacularly, in the vanaprave≤a/vanayàtrà part of the con-
temporary Navakalevara procedure in Orissa, and in persisting Vedic
rituals such as still occasionally and partly performed by bràhma»ic
priests in the South West of India.
Vedic and ≤àstric prescriptions are not merely priestly regulations
belonging to a bygone era, but are still being followed by some, on
certain occasions.144 Trees have become rare, however, especially
143
Quoted in the Pañcatantra, in Book III, the section on crows and owls (Kàkolukìya),
‘The cat’s judgment’, p. 255 in the translation of Arthur W. Ryder (1998).
144
An interesting residue is found in Robert Levy’s description of the Bhaktapur

62 chapter one
those trees that were traditionally much sought after for the ritual
use of their wood, such as sandalwood.145 Wooden utensils which
are produced in a textually prescribed way are extremely costly in
comparison to mass-produced contemporary utensils. The wood for
the statues at Purì is still obtained in much the same way as was
once prescribed for the yùpa.146 When Frits Staal searched for ortho-
dox communities of bràhma»as still sufficiently versed in Vedic ritual
to perform the Agni sacrifice, he found them in Kerala and Western
Kar»à†aka.147
The technical term vanaprave≤a includes much more than the excur-
sion to the forest (both vana and ara»ya).148 It ranges from the moment
a select company of priests, astrologers, carpenters, musicians, and
labourers sets forth to the moment they return with the consecrated
trunk(s) loaded on a wagon. At that point, the artisans can begin
their work of carving the wood into whatever it was destined for.149
This is the most elaborate way of procuring wood, since a full tree
is brought home. When only a part of a specific tree was needed,
chariot festival, especially the selection of the tree and raising of the deity-pole dur-
ing the New Year festival in the present Nepal: Mesocosm: Hinduism and the Organization
of a Traditional Hindu City (1990).
145
The word candana, sandalwood, has become a term for anything which is the
most excellent of its kind. See Yàska’s Nirukta 11.5.
146
See Chapter Four. The authors of The Cult of Jagannath and the Regional Tradition
of Orissa (1978), edited by A.C. Eschmann, H. Kulke, and G.C. Tripathi, make no
connection between this and the Vedic vanaprave≤a or the ritual prescriptions for
acquiring the wood for carving a statue of the deity, such as in Viß»udharmottara-
purà»a 2.155. Instead, they look among regional traditions for the mixed origins of
the Navakalevara procedure. An author who did search for connections between rural
pillar deities and the yùpa is Madeleine Biardeau, Histoires de poteaux: variations védiques
autour de la déesse hindoue (1989).
147
See J.F. Staal, in collaboration with C.V. Somayajipad, M. Itti Ravi Nambudiri,
and Pamela MacFarland, Agni: The Vedic Ritual of the Fire Altar. Chants and Recitations
of the Agnicayana (1983), about the Agnicayana ritual performed in Kerala in 1975.
See also his ‘Vedic religion in Kerala’ (1980/1981).
148
Passages on the vanaprave≤a to acquire a tree destined to become a sacrificial
post include Black Yajurveda 1.3.5; Àpastamba’s •rautasùtra 11.20.4; 7.1.9 ff.; 2.1 ff.;
•atapathabràhma»a 3.6.4.12; 6.4.1 ff.; 7.1.8 ff.; Taittirìyasaáhità 1.3.5; 6.3–4; and
Vàjasaneyisaáhità 5.42. On the vanaprave≤a to acquire wood for a statue, see Viß»udhar-
mottarapurà»a 2.155.5; 3.89; B‰hatsaáhità 43.16; 53; 59; Bhavißyottarapurà»a 139.38;
Bhavißyapurà»a 1.131; Matsyapurà»a 257; Kàlikàpurà»a 90.24–25.
149
In the texts on iconography and architecture, it is prescribed that the wood
be seasoned for a period of at least six months, but in texts on poles and posts
that were to be burned or thrown into the river at the conclusion of the ritual this
is not mentioned. As we will see in Chapter Four, the wood destined for the stat-
ues in the Jagannàtha temple is not to be seasoned either.

there may have been no more than a minor ritual procedure. For
instance, when a student’s staff was to be handed over to a bràhma»a
youth in the course of the upanayana ceremony, it was prescribed
that it be made from a palà≤a branch. Mantras were recited in the
tree’s shade, and both the branch and the tree itself were anointed
with ghì. It is also related that the palà≤a tree should be ritually cir-
cumambulated, after which the trunk and appointed branch were
anointed. Only then could the wood be cut off.
A full vanaprave≤a, according to Vedic texts, consists of the follow-
ing stages:
(1) after the right moment has been determined astrologically, it is

decided what kind of wood would be most auspicious, depend-
ing on the yajamàna’s var»a and the specific wish with which the
sacrifice is being performed,
(2) going out into the forest and finding the tree,
(3) circumambulation, propitiation/pacification, and anointing of the
chosen tree,
(4) the placing of darbha grass on the points where the axe is to cut
the tree, for protection, as if one hurts only the blade of grass,
(5) the actual cutting or cleaving,
(6) stimulating the tree to fall in the right direction; if it does not,
expiatory rites are required,
(7) a reverential address to the stump remaining rooted on the same
spot, and
(8) trimming the trunk of its branches and twigs to make trans-
portation possible.
Additional details could be related to trees that were to be avoided

as inauspicious (such as, for instance, a tree with a crow in it, or
with birds’ nests in it, or which is too close to a cremation place);
or could concern supernatural ways (visions, dreams, other omens)
to determine the direction in which to set out in search of the tree,
and to ascertain that the right tree had indeed been found; or could
relate to the manner in which the remaining stump was handled,
such as with oblations and mantras of its own. The tree, when still
standing, should be soothed with words expressing apologies that it
had to offer its life, arguing that in this manner it would not be
fated to die through the axe in the woodcutter’s hands or anony-
mously in a forest fire or in old age, but would be guaranteed a

64 chapter one
splendid existence, even immortality, by taking part in the sacrificial

ritual. Propitiation could also be directed to the spirits possibly resid-
ing in the tree, requesting them to leave. Apologies could be offered
to all the lifeforms damaged involuntarily, such as when the falling
tree would disrupt the undergrowth around it. Mantras recited for
the tree could be meant not only for the spirits and animals, exhort-
ing them to leave the tree before it was cut, but they could also
express the wish that it may grow up again from the stump and
sprout a hundred or even a thousand branches.
Just as the Vedic vanaprave≤a clearly served as a model for the later
prescriptions in the ≤àstras, so the yùpapratiß†hà, the setting up of the
sacrificial post, served as a model for later ceremonies when poles,
posts, stakes, pillars, and even temples, houses, and statues had to
be ritually ‘established’, pratiß†hita. A full yùpapratiß†hà consisted of
(1) sprinkling the post,

(2) pouring water into the hole,
(3) sprinkling grain,
(4) laying down a bunch of grass,
(5) throwing a wooden splinter into the pit,
(6) anointing the top of the post,
(7) setting up the post, erect,
(8) placing the base evenly in the earth,
(9) and in a straight line with the uttaravedì,
(10) filling the pit with earth,
(11) beating down the earth around the post,
(12) girdling the post with a triple band of grass, and
(13) fixing the svaru in the middle of that.
Variations could relate to the size and form of the post, especially
the form of the top, to the material with which the post was anointed,
and whether a small piece of the yùpa, usually called the splinter,
was thrown into the pit or into the fire in order for the life-force
and splendour of the original tree to be transferred to the pole or
to the flames. For the foundation of a house or a temple, it was
later prescribed that a lotus be thrown into the pit. When a village
was founded, a circle was drawn around the wooden stake to define
the four cardinal points. The yùpa could be wound using a cord
functioning as climbing stairs to or from the gods, but in other pas-

sages it is said that the wooden post was indented for the same pur-
pose, or that a ladder was put there for the yajamàna and his wife
“to touch the heavens”.150 Ideally, a post was fixed both in the earth
and in the sun.151 Ascetic rites of climbing wooden posts at sunrise
or sunset may still be connected with this notion.152
The vanaprave≤a and the yùpapratiß†hà are presented here as the gen-
eral models of which several variations, both in detail and in major
aspects, were possible. It appears that the Vedic prescriptions evolved
into ≤àstric traditions without major differentiations, but since these
were scriptural regulations they do not provide clues to the way they
were actually put into practice, nor do we know much about regional
or vernacular traditions, or about those variations that died out or
of which the scriptural basis was lost. In studies of the theoretical
side of Indian iconography and architecture, such as those by Alice
Boner and Stella Kramrisch, we find a wide variety of prescriptions
concerning the rules for the artisans (≤ilpins), but the procedure of
procuring the wood in a ritually prescribed manner appears, in the
main, to have continued to be composed of the same vital points.153
Both in vàstu and in ≤ilpa texts, the master architect (sthapati), and
the assistants, like the surveyor (sùtragràhi), the painter (vardhaki), and
the carpenter (takßaka), are required to be acquainted with the Vedas
and their accessory sciences.154
Five groups of regulations can be identified: (a) the preparatory
phase, (b) the actual excursion, (c) the ritual cutting down, (d) the
processing of the wood into the ritual object, and (e) the ritual estab-
lishment. In the most elaborate case, when seasoning was required,
150
Taittirìyasaáhità 6.6.4.1.
151
See °gveda 3.8.3 and 3.8.7, as well as •atapathabràhma»a 3.7.1.14.
152
As in Yuan Chsuang’s description of ancient Prayàga, in Beal, p. 234, and
in John Campbell Oman, The mystics, ascetics, and saints of India (1903), pp. 231–233.
153
Apart from complete texts like the Mànasàra and the Vàstusùtropanißad, there
are relevant chapters in various Purà»as dealing with the topic of dàru comparable
to the dàrusaágraha»a (lines 251–347 in the chapter on stambhalakßa»am in Mànasàra):
devàlayàrtha dàruparìkßa»am (Chapters 89–91, Book 3 of the Viß»udharmottara) and the
dàrvàhara»avidhi (in the vàstuvidyànukìrtanam, Chapter 257 of the Matsyapurà»a). On
wood for statues, see the pratimàvidhi (Chapter 131 of the prathamabràhmaparva) in the
Bhavißyapurà»a, and the pratimàlakßa»am (Chapter 57) and vanasaáprave≤àdhyàya (Chapter
58) of Varàhamihira’s B‰hatsaáhità.
154
See also Ananda K. Coomaraswamy, Symbolism of Indian Architecture (1983),
p. 11.

66 chapter one
the period of time from beginning to end could be considerable.

Otherwise, it was up to the artisans to decide how long they needed
for carving and, possibly, dressing the object. It appears that it made
no difference whether the wooden object was used only once, and
then discarded, or set up (semi-)permanently. A pillar in a house, a
palace, or a temple was supposed to stand for eternity, whereas the
wooden deities at Purì are replaced every twelve years or so. In less
elaborate cases, such as when fuel for the sacred fire was required,
or smaller pieces of wood for producing minor ritual paraphernalia,
the procedure may have been considerably shortened. In Indian reli-
gious rituals the preparatory phase was as vital and solemn as the
central phase, the high point of the ritual. That afterwards the rit-
ual objects may be burnt or thrown into a river was of no conse-
quence to the precision and circumscriptedness with which both the
vanaprave≤a and the pratiß†hà were executed.
One of the first decisions that had to be made before the setting
forth was to choose the kind of wood required for the specific pur-
pose. There are several, occasionally conflicting, rules of thumb here.
In the Aitareyabràhma»a (2.1.15) it is prescribed that a yùpa made of
khadira wood be used when one wishes to attain the celestial realms,
vilva when one wishes food, and palà≤a when one wishes splendour.
In another passage (5.24), udumbara is prescribed for the throne (àsandi)
on which the yajamàna is seated, and for the yùpa of those who wish
to attain power and food. Again, a yùpa of palà≤a wood is prescribed
for those sacrifices accompanied with the drinking of soma.155 A stu-
dent’s staff for a bràhma»a should be made of vilva or palà≤a, for a
kßatriya of nyagrodha, and for a vai≤ya of udumbara, or, alternatively,
palà≤a, udumbara, and vilva, or par»a, vilva, and a≤vattha respectively.
The main points in deciding about the kind of wood were deter-
mined by a combination of factors. From early on, there appear to
have been some standardised notions about the ‘properties’ of the
types of wood used in rituals, medicine, construction, etc. Lists could
be composed from the Vedic texts consisting of general and specific
guidelines, just as they appear, more systematically than in the scat-
tered earlier references, in sùtras and ≤àstras. Apart from generally
accepted associations, such as between palà≤a wood, Brahman, and
bràhma»ic priests, or between vilva, its many branches, and pros-
155

perity, specific tables of correspondences could be derived, for exam-

ple differentiating between the various var»as, matching specific qual-
ities of the various types of wood with specific ailments or wishes,
or taking into account the specific aim with which a sacrifice or rit-
ual was performed. The Aitareyabràhma»a (2.1.15, and 5.24) prescribes
types of wood for the various var»as, whereas in other texts palà≤a,
khadira, vilva, and rohitaka are prescribed as favourite types for the
yùpa in general. For the production of minor ritual implements like
the stirring stick, ladle, scoop, cooking vessel, vat, milking pail, and
pestle, see Kau≤ìtakasùtra 60.21. Elaborate prescriptions are given for
the wood used as students’ staffs, depending on caste and on indi-
vidually determined factors such as character, ambition, and the spir-
itual goal of the aspirant.156 Most intricate are the prescriptions given
for the making of amulets.157 The most effective of those was con-
sidered the da≤av‰kßa, made of ten kinds of sacred wood, used as pro-
tection and for healing.158
In later texts, guidelines that came to be regarded as ≤àstric are
given for the fabrication of wooden poles used when a village was
founded, a house or temple was constructed, or an image of the
deity was carved. In such prescriptions, various determining factors
can be detected, including associations based on form, name, colour,
botanical peculiarities, mythological connections, chemical or medi-
cinal qualities, etymological equivalations, morphological similarities,
and phonetical allusions. These factors can be placed under the main
headings of (1) empirical observation, (2) symbolic allusions, (3)
morphological characteristics, and (4) suggestive names. In such
wood-lore, all four categories are often juxtaposed, as they are in
ancient systems of medicine.159
156
Interesting epithets for a student’s staff include yùpavat (like a yùpa), vàrkße
da»∂a˙, and yàjñikasya v‰kßasya da»∂a˙, in Gautamasm‰ti 1.25, Àpastamba’s Dharmasùtra
1.1.2.38, and Bauddhàyana’s Dharmasùtra respectively. For many other textual ref-
erences and remarks on da»∂a, see Jan Gonda, ‘A note on the Vedic student’s staff ’
(1975); Brian K. Smith, Reflections on Resemblance, Ritual and Religion (1989), pp. 98–99.
157
Especially the Atharvaveda is full of prescriptions for amulets, such as those
made of a≤vattha to ‘root out’ or ‘burst’ the enemy, of vara»a to ‘ward off ’ the enemy,
of khadira to ‘devour’ the enemy, of tàjadbha«ga to ‘break’ the enemy, and of vad-
haka to ‘hit’ the enemy. See Atharvaveda 8.8.
158
Atharvaveda 8.7.9.
159
See, for instance, G.U. Thite, Medicine. Its Magico-religious Aspects according to the
Vedic and Later Literature (1982), pp. 232–235; Arion Roßu, ‘Pratiques magico-religieuses
en médécine indienne’ (1986); Kenneth G. Zysk, Religious Healing in the Veda (1985);

68 chapter one
The crucial phase in the ritualised search for wood is the moment
when the tree has definitively been pointed out. Both the negative
and positive criteria may vary here. There are trees to be avoided,
just as there are trees to be favoured. Trees with smooth leaves,
blossoms, and fruits are best. Branches should be many and stretch-
ing outwards, with many leaves. The tree should be free from dis-
ease, vigorous, still covered by its bark, and pleasing in its beauty.
The trunk should preferably be straight. As soon as the tree has
been selected, the phases of veneration, pacification, and supervision
are entered into. Attention to details, such as marking ‘up’ and ‘down’
on the trunk, seeing to it that it falls into the right direction, lop-
ping off the branches to be used for minor purposes, and ritual care
of the remaining stump, is crucial in this phase. In the course of
time, the technical knowledge required to ascertain the best type of
wood for the statue of a deity or the construction of a chariot, a
building, weapons, or a musical instrument, must gradually have
become mixed with traditional prescriptions for the cutting of trees
for yùpas and Indra poles, the wood of which was not selected with
an eye to durability. Wood that was prone to attract termites, and
wood with hollows or other irregularities in it, must have fallen off
beforehand. Wood destined for statues was sought with extra recep-
tiveness for supernatural signs and revelatory connections between
the particular god or goddess and the wood in which it would deign
to reside (adhivàsa) after a proper pratiß†hà ceremony. As gods and
goddesses were known to have specific preferences, care was taken
in selecting a type of wood favoured by the deity. From ancient
times, certain trees were connected with specific gods. The va†a and
vilva are sacred to •iva, the a≤vattha to Viß»u, and the plakßa to
Brahmà. Agni was naturally connected with dry trees that provided
good firewood, and Varu»a with trees that love water. •rì is con-
nected with the vilva, and Pàrvatì, together with •iva, with the deo-
dar (devadàru).
Wood destined for the sacrificial fire required different qualities
than wood for durable objects. Since fire was seen as a gift to the
gods, it was prerequisite that it be selected carefully. The chips and
twigs (ara»i, samidh) with which the fire was started once the first
Sudhir Kakar, Shamans, Mystics and Doctors: A Psychological Inquiry into India and its
Healing Traditions (1982).

spark had been produced by either rubbing or drilling were to be

distinguished from the main firewood both for practical reasons and
because of their highly symbolical function. The cremation fire
required specific types of wood as well.160 One of the favoured char-
acteristics had to do with fragrance (gandha), such as that of the costly
sandalwood. Traditionally, another characteristic had to do with the
tree’s colour: wood with a white core was considered best for bràhma»as,
a red core for the king and nobles, a yellow core for vai≤yas, and a
black core for ≤ùdras.161
In daily life, a king was ideally surrounded by auspicious and
empowering objects made of wood, which he had to touch before
making a decision, and which he had to sit on, or even ingest, for
continued lustre, virility, and strength. The wood of the pillars in
his palace, the throne he sat on, and the royal staff and weapons
he carried are illustrations of carefully selected types of wood. In
some passages, there are further references to amulets, charms, potions,
and unguents that a king could resort to for guaranteed success.
The various ritual uses of wood show a worldview brimming with
symbolic values and sympathetic correspondences. Man could use
his knowledge of these to his advantage, but in that interconnect-
edness he was well aware of possible retributions when something
inauspicious might happen, through neglect, accident, ignorance, or
ill-will from outside. Indian society provided niches for those who
could invoke the sacred and remedy the inauspicious. This was not
just the privilege of bràhma»ic priests. Ritual specialists needed the
collaboration of artisans, architects, carpenters, botanists, and magi-
cians.162 Their joint lore was handed down orally and scripturally,
and was safeguarded by the class-and-caste system. In how far highly
160
•atapathabràhma»a 1.3.3.20; Àpastamba≤rautasùtra 1.5.8 and 16.1.7; Hemàdri’s
Caturvargacintàma»i 2.1 and 3.1.
161
Viß»udharmottarapurà»a 3.89.12.
162
Secondary literature on this is numerous. Art-historical studies include Odette
Viennot, Le culte de l’arbre (1954); Ananda K. Coomaraswamy Symbolism of Indian
Architecture (1983); A.L. Dallapiccola, Shastric traditions in Indian arts (1989); Stella
Kramrisch, The Hindu temple (1946); J.N. Banerjea, The development of Hindu Iconography
(1974); and N.V. Mallaya, Studies in Sanskrit texts on temple architecture (1949). Many
works on ancient ritual contain passages in which the use of wood is elaborated
upon: for instance, J.J. Meyer, Trilogie altindischer Mächte und Feste der Vegetation (1937);
A. Hillebrandt, Ritual-Literatur. Vedische Opfer und Zauber (1877); Julius Schwab, Das
altindische Thieropfer (1886).

70 chapter one
sensitive things like the pacification rites under the tree continued to
be heartfelt or became a mechanism over time is not easily decided.
It is possible that, in the course of centuries, the fear of potentially
revengeful spirits living in trees has faded, but reverence for a tree
that is to provide the wood for a statue of the beloved deity is undi-
minished. In the bhakti mood that spread over the whole subconti-
nent, many sacred trees, especially the trees connected with the
greater deities, such as through myths, epiphanies, legends, and sacred
geographies, may no longer literally be considered to be the resi-
dence of a particular deity. Nevertheless, the religious reverence for
a tree as a “mythological and metaphysical ideogram” (as Eliade
calls it)163 appears to have kept the major prescriptions for the rit-
ual cutting of wood still valid and partly even painstakingly adhered
to during the vanayàtrà in contemporary Orissa. But wooden statues
have grown rare, and only a few wooden temples are left in India.164
The difficulty of finding and then paying for the proper types of
wood at prohibitive costs makes the acceptance of substitutes more
and more common.
In recent decades, tree-planting programmes have increasingly been
initiated or supported by temple organisations. Ancient texts are now
being mined for proper ceremonies to accompany the ideological
planting of trees. It is with pride that the sthàpatis of some newly
built temples, both in India and in diaspora communities around the
world, proclaim that they were constructed following “≤àstric” pre-
scriptions, including the use of sacred wood where applicable. It is
clear that the role of wood in the ritual domain was long ago taken
over by stone and metal, and recently also by synthetic substitutes.
On the other hand, in the overpopulated, polluted, and deforested
India of today, strong, healthy, vibrant trees have again become a
symbol of the sacred. The notion of the sacrality of trees may have
shifted gradually over time, and certainly today the planting of trees,—
an act which was extensively lauded throughout the sùtras and ≤àstras—
is considered a far more religious act than cutting them, for whatever
religious purpose. Yet, even though religious sentiment may now
163
Mircea Eliade, Patterns in Comparative Religion (1958), p. 274.
164
Examples of surviving architecture in wood are found in Hermann Goetz,
The early wooden temples of Chamba (1955).

focus more on the living tree than on the dead wood, many Hindus
still insist on a traditional cremation fire. Just as pious Hindus still
demand to be put on the floor or bare earth when they know they
are going to die, so they feel that in the final moments their corpse
should rest on a pile of wood.165
165
For life as a “show of wood” (tamàsha lakarì kà), from the infant’s cradle and
toys to the fuel of the funeral pyre, see Gold, Fruitful Journeys, p. 200.

CHAPTER TWO
FORESTS, WOODS, GROVES, PARKS AND TREES:

THE KING’S DUTY, THE POET’S BEAUTY
2.1 Framing the forest: A place of plenty, a state of stillness
2.1.1 Forests and forest-produce: The domain of the king

The question of the extent to which the ancient Indian kings and
the complex of rights and duties they had regarding the forests and
their produce, are connected with the sacrality of trees is intricately
linked with ideas about sacred kingship. One of the most direct
links between forests, sacred trees, and kingship appears to be the
Indra-mahotsava, the great festival in honour of Indra. Just as Indra,
the god of energetic action, was considered the king of the gods, so
the earthly ruler was considered the king of the earth and its beings.
Many characteristics, such as leadership, ascribed to Indra as chief
of the gods were also expected of the ideal king. His connection
with growth, vitality, rainfall, and vegetation especially made the
ideal king Indra’s representative on earth, as did his association with
general prosperity by upholding Dharma; protection of his subjects
and the annihilation of evil powers; and wide-reaching arms for
procuring victory over enemies and granting living space to all his
subjects (prajà).
The first ruler ever was called P‰thu (masc.), the broad one, who
generously provided loka (“Lebensraum”), or P‰thivì (fem.), the wide
earth.1 Apart from protecting his subjects, the king was expected to
increase his power and extend his realm. Many of the usual epithets
applying to kingship refer to this, for example, viràj, vi≤àla, vipula. He
had to perform rites aiming at such expansion, of which the com-
plicated a≤vamedha is only one example. That later the king became
more and more associated with Viß»u, especially in the sovereign
1
For P‰thvì, “the wide one”, see °gveda 5.84 and Atharvaveda 12.1. For P‰thu, as
the first king ever, see Atharvaveda 8.10.24 and •atapathabràhma»a 5.3.5.4. References
in later texts are, for instance, Mahàbhàrata 3.184, Viß»upurà»a 1.13 and Bhàgavatapurà»a
4.15–23. For loka, see J. Gonda, Loka. World and Heaven in the Veda (1966).

forests, woods, groves, parks and trees 73
aspect of his three strides through which he claimed the three worlds
as his own, appears logical.
The Indra-mahotsava, or Indra-dhvaja festival was considered a source
of vigour and vitality for the country. It was for the most part ini-
tiated and supported by the king, and, in some regions, it remained
a popular festival far into modern times, long after the king’s con-
nection with it had diminished. The Indra-mahotsava appears to have
been a festive occasion paralleling other festivities in which stakes,
poles, trees and all kinds of standards formed the ritual centre.2
The standard-and-banner (dhvaja-stambha) of the Indra-festival was
supposed to protect both the king and his realm. In order to be
charged with such a power, its wood had to be procured in a ritu-
ally prescribed way. The procedures of going to the forest ( prave≤a,
prave≤ana) to select the tree, the ritual acts of establishing or fixing
the pole ( pratiß†hà), and the ritual “filling” of the pole with the god’s
presence (adhivàsana) were to be executed with utmost concern for
its deeper meaning.3 In some of the texts, mantras are mentioned, as
well as fasting by the king, and throwing into the fire offerings of
rice, curdled milk, and even a hundred lotus flowers and ten thou-
sand wooden chips from the a≤vattha tree. Although in the more mun-
dane texts it is the merry-making of the masses which is emphasised,
the sacrality of the tree-pole in the centre is clear. For the peas-
antry, the annual festival must have been an interval of rejoicing in
security, prosperity, and fertility, whereas for the nobility and the
military it must have meant a celebration of the king’s victorious-
ness and invincibility.4
That the pole in the centre was also called a jarjara, and its ban-
ner a vaijayanta, connects it with the aetiological myth in which the
2
The Indramahotsava is referred to (under various names) in several texts, such
as Kau≤ikasùtra 140, Atharvavedapari≤iß†a 19, B‰hatsaáhità 43, Bhavißyottarapurà»a 139,
Bhavißyapurà»a 1.131, Matsyapurà»a 257, Agnipurà»a 121.65 ff., Mahàbhàrata 1.57.22
ff. and Viß»udharmottarapurà»a 2.154–157. See also J.J. Meyer’s part III on Indra, in
Trilogie altindischer Mächte und Feste der Vegetation (1937). See also J. Gonda,
‘The Indra Festival according to the Atharvavedins’ (1975).
3
For vanaprave≤ana passages in connection with Indra: B‰hatsaáhità 43 and 59,
Viß»udharmottarapurà»a 3.89, Bhavißyapurà»a 1.131, Matsyapurà»a 257, as also J.J. Meyer,
Trilogie, part III, where he elaborately deals with the various vanaprave≤ana texts
both specifically for procuring the Indra-tree and generally for finding the right tree
for other sacred logs destined for images of the deity, house- and temple-construc-
tion as well as various special pillars and poles.
4
For the Kathàsàritsàgara version of the Indra festival, see Aparna Chattopadhyaya,
‘Spring festival and festival of Indra in the Kathàsaritsàgara’ (1967).

74 chapter two
banner was first raised in heaven to ward off enemies of the gods.

It was also said that, when the first theatrical performance was staged,
intended for the welfare of king and country, the attempt of the
asuras to prevent the first divine play from being enacted was coun-
tered by Indra who drove them off with his standard. Any king who
ritually re-enacted these mythical feats during the Indra-mahotsava by
erecting the Indra-pole, was believed to conquer his enemies in a
similar way, just as the actors in a religious play still worship the
jarjara in order to effect the success of the performance and the pro-
tection of the actors.5
In the rite of the theatre foundation, the following words are
addressed to the Indra-pole:
Just as Mount Meru is unshakable
and the Himalayas remain firm,
also be thou unshakable
and bring victory to the king.6
There appears to have been a tendency to give gods other than
Indra, especially Viß»u, a share in the worship. Even K‰ß»a was
accorded an equal share after he defeated Indra, as in the Harivaá≤a
passage (2.19.44 ff.). However, the sacred symbol of the tree in the
centre remained, thus connected with the ancient sacrificial stake
( yùpa) and many other representatives of the great cosmic tree, the
‘arbor mundi’ and the ‘axis mundi’, as well as of the primeval purußa.7
5
For the jarjara, see Nà†ya≤àstra 3.12–13 and 72–81. See also Natalia Lidova,
Drama and Ritual of Early Hinduism (1994), as well as F.B.J. Kuiper, Varu»a and
Vidù≤aka (1979), pp. 138 and 157–162, and ‘The Worship of the Jarjara on the
Stage’, pp. 241–248. I am not sure whether the Indra-pole of the festival could
ever be a bamboo, such as in the case of the jarjara in the theatre. Meyer, Trilogie,
part 3, p. 5, states that during the festival Indra was worshipped in the form of a
stick ( yaß†irùpe»a) made of bamboo ( yaß†im vai»avìm). This stem required a scaffold
for fixity (“mañcasthàá kàrayet”). That both the festival-pole and the theatre-pole
were decorated with multicoloured fabrics is obvious from many other references.
In the Nà†ya≤àstra (23. 171–178), dealing with the jarjara, a five-section bamboo stem
of approximately 2m. long is mentioned.
6
Nà†ya≤àstra 2.61–62, in Lidova, Drama and ritual, p. 25.
7
For the association yùpa-jarjara-dhvaja, see •atapathabràhma»a 3.7.1.4–10 and
3.6.4.1–8. There might be an interesting parallel in the ritual prelude to the annual
Perahera in Kandy, Sri Lanka, where sections of the trunk of the jak tree are rit-
ually installed in the compounds of the four temples. They are called kapa, sacred
pillar. For four consequent nights there are small processions around the kapa in
which the priests carry the bows and arrows of the gods to whom the temple is
dedicated. See also G.R. Welbon and G.E. Yocum, Religious Festivals in South India
and Sri Lanka (1982), p. 306.

In Kau≤ikasùtra 140.81, a passage that deals with the Indra-mahotsava,

it is also clear how in the procedure of setting up the Indra-stan-
dard, its fixity was emphasised. Obviously, the stability, centrality,
and verticality of a full-grown tree were simulated in the pratiß†hà-rite
of fixing the pole, even when the pole was to be uprooted and
thrown into the river after the festivities. The words used here, dhrau-
vyam and sthairyam, point at the very essential quality of stability in
the ritual setting up of the standard: although it was supposed to
stand only as long as the festival lasted, as a symbol of steadiness,
reliability, victory and invincibility the first requirement was that it
should stand firm. And as the king was the person who had the
Indra-tree erected, he needed to see to it that this banner would
stand. By the firmness of the banner, the king symbolically guaran-
teed prosperity and security to his subjects.
Keeping this aspect of kingship, namely, the guarantee of stabil-
ity, order, and good organisation in mind, we now turn to the royal
task of managing the state as a stable household, a household in
which forests and forest-produce also played a part. In the relevant
prescriptive texts, mainly manuals on Dharma and statecraft, Dharma≤àstra
and Artha≤àstra, but also in the special genre of texts on forestry and
tree-cultivation, V‰kßàyurveda, a picture emerges in which, ideally, the
king regards the natural resources in his realm as a household to be
managed with consideration for all beings dependent on them.8 In
this he should be motivated more by foresight and integral man-
agement than by greed or short-term exploitation.
Organising festivals such as the Indra-mahotsava for the benefit of
all was always one of the duties of the king. This particular festival
may have been, in course of time, emphasised more for its merry-
making aspect than its highly charged ritual meaning, but the deeper
religious symbolism must have been evident enough for the various
commentators to elaborate on it. This festival may have differed
from region to region, and from period to period, but as one of
8
For a study of the Artha≤àstra passages on arboriculture, I used the edition of
R.P. Kangle, The Kau†ilìya Artha≤àstra, consisting of text, translation, notes and a sep-
arate study. For the study of the Dharmaßàstra passages I used the Manusm‰ti, Kashi
Sanskrit Series, edited by Haragovinda Shastri and Gopala Shastri Nene, as well
as Georg Bühler’s translation in the Sacred Books of the East. For the V‰kßàyurveda
I used Rahul Peter Das’s edition plus translation of Surapàla’s V‰kßàyurveda, Das
Wissen von der Lebensspanne der Bäume. All textual references are to these editions.

76 chapter two
those multilayered traditions connected with the tree-cult, it is cer-

tainly worthy of serious attention here.
One could say that the symbolic level, the aetiological level, the
mythological level, and the ritual level of this aspect of the royal
duties were counterbalanced by the more practical levels of forestry
and arboriculture. Let us not forget that in the context of ancient
Indian kingship the borders between the symbolical/ritualistic level
and that of statecraft or economy/ecology were more fluid than we
perceive them now. Both the rights and the duties of rulership were
divinely instigated. They were seen as part of a divinely given order.
Even when the manuals on Dharma, statecraft and arboriculture were
full of technical and practical know-how—the Artha≤àstra’s Machiavellian
accumen has been commented upon by many and a text such as
Surapàla’s V‰kßàyurveda can even be considered a downright horti-
cultural treatise—the religio-philosophical, the ethical, and the prac-
tical very much interacted.
When we consult the Dharma≤àstra on this matter, we find that the
king was considered pivotal in the successful management of a coun-
try’s human as well as natural resources. On the one hand, the king
was thought to be supported by royal consecration, regular ritual
re-enactment of mythical events that guaranteed the stability and
prosperity of king and country, as well as by all kinds of bràhma»ical
legitimation in the form of scriptures and ceremonies, but, on the
other hand, he was expected to be very pragmatic and knowledge-
able about the material basis of his power. This material basis obvi-
ously had to do with land, the military, and the economy. Ideally,
economy was more or less also ecology. From very early on, in the
≤àstra-authors there seems to have been an avid insight into the inter-
relatedness between long-term prosperity and restrictive management
of natural resources. The forests were theoretically seen as consti-
tuting one of those multilayered aspects of the land in which the
king had the main key to proper householding, both for himself and
the people involved.
As written in Dharma≤àstra 7.131, the king had a right to the sixth
part of trees, honey, herbs, roots, fruits, etc., but he should be mod-
erate and considerate in taking his annual taxes, just as the leech,
the calf, and the bee take their food only little by little (7.129). In
order to guarantee the rightful use of the land, he should have forests,
well-known trees, groves, etc. guarded by companies of soldiers and
by spies to keep away thieves (9.264–266).

In general, the king should emulate the combined energetic actions

of Indra, the sun, the wind, Yama, Varu»a, the moon, fire, and the
earth (9.303). This assignment made him cover the domains tradi-
tionally ascribed to the eight lokapàlas. The king was often consid-
ered to be Kubera, the god of wealth, as well as Padmà or •rì,
goddess of fortune. One of the ways in which a king was consid-
ered to fulfill this obligation was by managing his realm like an
effectively run household. This is elaborated upon in the Artha≤àstra.
Not only should he cause the countryside to be settled, for instance,
by bringing in people from outside (2.1.1), but he should also see
to it that villages are settled mainly by ≤ùdra agriculturists, with, at
the boundaries, a river, a mountain, a forest, a stretch of gravel or
sand, a cave, an embankment, a ≤amì tree, a ≤àlmalì tree, or a milk-
exuding tree such as a≤vattha or nyagrodha (2.1.2). He should allot
arable fields to those peasants willing to settle down and work hard,
and he should encourage work in mines, factories, produce-forests,
and elephant-forests, as well as setting up trade-routes, water-routes,
land-routes, and ports (2.1.19). He should establish irrigation works,
and render all kinds of assistance in structural and practical matters.
He should also prompt the institution of sacred places and parks
(2.1.21).
The countryside was regarded and honoured by the king in its
many aspects, not as a mere place for plunder, or as a means of
supplying his court with additional income, but rather as a domain
to be managed righteously. He should also grant plots of land to
ascetics, such as wilderness for Veda-studies and soma-sacrifices, with
safety guaranteed to every being in them (2.2.2). He should also
arrange the setting up of recreation- and game-parks. He should
establish forests for forest-produce, and appoint foresters as caretak-
ers of such forests (2.2.5). Those who trespass or unrightfully take
things away from such forests, should be fined. He should appoint
a director of forest-produce who is responsible for produce, logistics,
taxes, and penalties (2.17.1). At the same time he should have low
lands and forests cleared when there is a threat of robbers or wild
animals (2.34.7).
The V‰kßàyurveda is much more technical and explicit in its treat-
ment of the art of tending trees. By its very nature, as a manual on
forestry and arboriculture, it regards not the king but the person
who actually cultivated the trees as the main actor in this. Yet, the
perspective of the king as the vestige of all power is not lacking in

78 chapter two
this work, for instance, in the very first verse the king in whose realm
there are recreational parks for the pleasure of men and women is
praised. The next verse even goes so far as to state that the best
conditions of life, such as youth, health, beauty, the company of
lovely women and friends, and the performance of melodic music
have no value if there are no parks in which to enjoy those.
In the final verse of the text, the author, Surapàla, a medical prac-
titioner at the court of the Bengal king Bhìmapàla, acknowledges
that he had composed the work for the sake of his king. In view of
the above-mentioned duties of the king regarding forest-management,
this manual may be regarded as a practical and detailed elabora-
tion of what was considered one of the domains of the king, espe-
cially since the V‰kßàyurveda is generally taken to constitute a part of
the Viß»udharmottara and of the Agnipurà»a.9 The most renowned king
to take such duties seriously was certainly King A≤oka, who is, nowa-
days, considered a humanitarian and ecologist avant-la-lettre, and in
this respect is world-famous not only for his animal hospitals but
also for his tree-planting programmes.
In all three texts considered above, it appears that one of the
king’s duties was also to provide secluded land for dharmavanàni.10
The word dharmavana might refer to temple-grounds, sacrificial sites,
meditation-groves, and secluded hermitages, but the term might also,
in some cases, have more specific meanings. It appears that the king
had to allot certain lands for the performance of specific religious
duties: in all three texts bràhma»as, hermits, and ascetics are men-
tioned as groups claiming rights to plots of lands where they could
wander, live, and practice their religious exercises. That it was con-
sidered a king’s duty to provide such places to ascetics as well is
found in other categories of texts also. To what extent kings really
encouraged such practices by specifically granting plots of land, or
9
There are several texts called V‰kßàyurveda, such as Viß»udharmottarapurà»a 2.29–30;
Agnipurà»a 147.24 ff. and 182; Varàhamira’s B‰hatsaáhità 2.54 or 55; and the so-called
Gulma-V‰kßàyurveda, being chapter 24 of the Artha≤àstra. Some of these texts have
been commented upon in the notes of Rahul Peter Das’s study, and in an article
by J.J. Meyer, ‘Die Baumzuchtkapitel des Agnipurà»a in textgeschichtlicher Beleuchtung’
(1933). See also E.G.K. Rao, ‘V‰kßàyurveda or horticultural practices among the
ancient Hindus’ (1980). For a general account, see Girija Prasanna Majumdar,
Vanaspati: plants and plant-life as in Indian treatises and traditions (1927).
10
For an elaboration on the word dharmavana, see Rahul Peter Das, Lebensspanne,
p. 2 and 502, where, by way of an elucidation of dharmavana, another text is quoted:
V‰kßàropa»a-prakàravyàkhyà of Sadà≤ivavyàsa. On this, see Rahul Peter Das, p. 45.

if they merely condoned them, is not clear, but there seems to have
been enough room and living-space for all at that time. Hermitages
are described in idyllic terms of silence, simplicity, and solitude, of
sylvan beauty and fruitful bounty. Whenever a king wanted a son
or something else very badly, or if a prince had to be sent into exile,
the route to such hermitages was known to the urban court. This
seems to indicate that such places, however isolated some of them
may have been, were not anonymous. This implies a high degree
of organisation and information in the realm, and puts the remarks
on informants, spies, and guards stationed in the countryside into
the right perspective.
2.1.2 Arboriculture and religious merit

One of the religious dimensions of the V‰kßàyurveda is the direct con-
nection which is supposed to exist between the planting of trees and
karmic or heavenly rewards. There seem to be two aspects to this:
comparative and absolute. Comparative aspects are to be found in
those statements in which the planting and nursing of trees is com-
pared to other blessings, such as having sons; and absolute in those,
much more numerous, statements in which the planting of a specific
tree is causally connected with specific otherworldly rewards for one-
self or for one’s ancestors, the manes. As those ancient statements
about the merits of planting trees are being used anew today, for
example in attempts to interest people in various kinds of tree-plant-
ing programmes, this aspect forms an intriguing detail. Ancient state-
ments are thus being converted into ecological slogans, which appear
to rely on religious traditions for additional effect.
The best known statement is the following:
A pond is equal to ten wells;
ten ponds are equal to one lake;
ten lakes are equal to one son;
and ten sons are equal to one tree.11
In the commentaries on this, the latter equation is related to the
son’s function to keep one from hell: even more efficiently than the
producing of a son, the planting of a tree keeps one from all kinds
11
V‰kßàyurveda 6: “da≤a-kùpa-samà vàpì da≤a-vàpì-samo hrada˙ da≤a-hràda-sama˙
putro da≤a-putra-samo druma˙”.

80 chapter two
of misfortune in this life and the next. It is even said that in the
afterlife the trees planted personally turn into as many sons.12
There is another scale in this evaluation of the greatness of trees
(tarumahimà), namely, the distinction in the ways in which trees are
beneficial: they may be beneficial only for oneself, or they may benefit
all. In V‰kßàyurveda 4, a solitary tree on the side of the road, where
people can rest in its shade, is favoured over a multitude of trees in
the forest, and trees planted directly in the earth are favoured over
trees planted in containers (koß†ha). In practical matters, this benefit
seems to be in terms of shade (and later in the text in terms of food,
medicine, flowers, raw material, etc.), but in a more religious sense
trees appear to be connected with the forefathers, with religious
merit, and with specific gods. Even when a tree, especially a mango
tree, is merely watered, the manes are said to rejoice.
The connection between ancestors and trees is a very common
one. The dead, and with them, Yama, the god of the dead, were
often thought to reside in trees. Sometimes a young tree was planted
on top of a grave.13 There is a world-wide association between ashes
and new life. A tree in its very form represents the generations, i.e.,
the family-tree. Moreover, there is an ancient connection between
rain, trees, roots, grasses, and the souls of the deceased being born
anew. In V‰kßàyurveda 5, this is said literally: by their leaves, blos-
soms, fruits, and water trees effect the pit‰-tarpa»am, the lustration of
the ancestors.14 This statement is a reminder of the more elaborate
formulation in Viß»usm‰ti 91.5–8: the person who donates trees for
common use brings joy to the gods by the blossoms of the trees; by
the fruits he pleases the guests; and by their shade he brings plea-
sure to the newly-arrived. When the god (= Indra) rains, the water
is pleasing to the ancestors.
Trees, in general, enable one to attain dharma, artha, kàma, and
mokßa (V‰kßàyurveda 8). When one looks at the more specific merits,
one sees that the reward of planting a krì∂àràmam, a recreational
park, is a prolonged sojourn after death in a place with gods, pets,
12
See Rahul Peter Das, p. 68, where Viß»usm‰ti 91.4 is quoted: “v‰kßàropayitur
v‰kßà˙ paraloke putrà bhavanti”.
13
That, in some way, this tree was directly connected with the person buried
beneath it, is especially evident in the story about the graveside of Tansen, the
famous musician of Akbar’s durbar: anyone who chewed its leaves would attain an
exceptionally sweet voice.
14
V‰kßàyurveda 5: “(. . .) pattrai˙ pußpai˙ phalais toyai˙ kurvanti pit‰-tarpa»am”.

àpsaras and yakßas (V‰kßàyurveda 7). The planting of a sacred tulasì

shrub (basil), is said to result in a thousand years in Vaiku»†ha for
every day it is kept in one’s house (V‰kßàyurveda 9). In the same way,
the planting of a vilva tree is said to bring about the presence of
Lakßmì, the goddess of plenty, in one’s house, for oneself, one’s sons,
and one’s grandsons (V‰kßàyurveda 10). The planting of an a≤vattha
means that one will be received in Hari’s presence (V‰kßàyurveda 11).
In the same vein, the planting and tending of one dhàtri tree is
rewarded in the same manner as if one had held a great many
sacrifices, and given away many lands: such a person will always be
close to Brahmà.15 The planting of two va†a/nyagrodha/banyan trees is
rewarded with a sojourn in •iva’s heaven. The planting of three
nimba trees is rewarded with a sojourn in Sùrya’s realm, the plant-
ing of four plakßas is said to effect the same result as the ràjasùya,
whereas the planting of five àmras results in the liberation of four-
teen past and future generations; the planting of six ≤irìßas is rewarded
with the realm of Garu∂a, and the reward of planting seven palà≤as
is the domain of Brahmà as well as immortality; the planting of eight
udumbaras leads to a sojourn in Soma’s realm (12–18).
Further, the planting of a madhùka tree is said to bring Pàrvatì’s
satisfaction, absence of diseases, as well as homage to all the gods
(19). Someone who plants a jambù tree would tend towards the dharma
of an ascetic ( yati ), whereas the planting of all other fruit-bearing
trees would bring forth a thousand jewels and milk-cows. The per-
son who plants an a≤vattha, a picumanda, a nyagrodha, ten ciñci»ìkas, or
a three-set of kapittha, bilva and àmalaka, or a set of five àmras, will
never see hell.
So far, according to our text, those are the explicit merits con-
nected with the planting of trees. When looking for a kind of order
or logical system in such statements, one can merely say that there
might be a direct link between a specific tree as associated with a
specific god, and the planting of such a tree. The most common
associations are those of the a≤vattha or the tulasì with Viß»u; of the
vilva or va†a/nyagrodha/banyan with •iva; of the nimba with Sùrya; of
the ≤irìßa with Garu∂a; of the palà≤a with Brahmà; of the udumbara
with Soma; and of the madhùka with Pàrvatì. These are ancient asso-
15
The dhàtrì (amardakì, àmalakì) tree is said to originate either from a drop of
saliva fallen from Viß»u’s mouth while he was praying, or from a joyful tear shed
by him in sheer delight. See also Padmapurà»a 47.8 ff. and Skandapurà»a 12.12.

82 chapter two
ciations, mostly based on mythical events. We may well be right to

search for such original events in all the associations made above,
but we should also accept that in some cases it might well have been
the Indian love of system and symmetry, and the urge to order way-
ward data in tables of direct correspondences or even equivalences,
which produced such a list.
When we compare such statements in the V‰kßàyurveda with other
v‰kßàropa»a (tree-planting) passages elsewhere, we see that a parallel
exists: the more sacred the species of tree, the less trees one needs
to avoid hell and reach heaven.16 Only one pippala, nimba or va†a is
needed to guarantee reaching heavens, whereas one would need to
plant at least three of another type of tree, although ten would be
even better. Trees favoured for their flowers and fruits (pußpa-phalair)
fall into a different category: the planting of those is highly praised
for obvious utilitarian reasons, both in this world and for the sake
of the ancestors. Shade, moreover, is a quality highly appreciated
both by the living and by ancestors, and by all kinds of semi-divine
beings like kinnaras, rakßasas, devas, gandharvas, manus and maha‰ßis.17 A
tree is like a son (putra-vat): even more so, trees are always reliable,
whereas sons are not. Trees planted by a particular person are said
to take away the kle≤as that may have attached themselves to that
person. A special place is accorded to the tulasì shrub planted in a
special container in the courtyard of a house. Apart from its other
merits, it is considered equal to a hundred a≤vatthas or a thousand
àmras!18
In the Dharma≤àstra and Artha≤àstra, the religious merit of individ-
ual actions of the king was not at issue, but in general it was the
king who had to see to it that the various domains of private and
public life were maintained in good order. One such domain was
the science of horticulture and arboriculture. This field was consid-
ered one of the state departments. In the final passages of the
Artha≤àstra, the conscientious and skillful nursing of trees, parks, and
forests, as expounded in the science of statecraft, is connected with
16
For instance, Sadà≤ivavyàsa’s V‰kßàropa»a-prakàravyàkhyà, appendix 4 in Rahul
Peter Das, pp. 475–490.
17
See Rahul Peter Das, appendix 5, p. 491, lines 6–7 of the V‰kßàdìnàá
ropa»àdiprakara»a: “kinnaroraga-rakßàási deva-gandharva-mànavà˙ tathà mahàrßaya≤
caiva à≤rayanti mahìruhàn”.
18
Rahul Peter Das, appendix 5, lines 66–67, p. 493: “àmra-ropa-sahasre»a pip-
palànàá ≤atena ca tat-phalaá hi tad ekena tulasì-vi†apena tu”.

great merits both in this world and the next. Good management
produces and preserves spiritual merit, material well-being, and plea-
sure, and destroys spiritual evil, material loss, and hatred. So, in gen-
eral terms, there was worldly as well as spiritual gain in maintaining
the balance between the various factors, but nothing of this merit
was explicitly referred to as benefitting the king personally. In this
regard there is an interesting statement in the Dharma≤àstra (9.255),
where it is said that a king who does not rule well loses the reward
of heaven, whereas, when his kingdom is secure, it will go on
flourishing, like a well-watered tree.19
Here again, a thriving tree is used as a symbol of a well-man-
aged household, that of the state. A good king, moreover, had to
see to it that its produce and profits were evenly and justly distrib-
uted, that all might share in its shade, enjoy its beauty and its use-
fulness, and that it would continue to grow for the benefit of present
and future generations and the ancestors.
2.1.3 Dharma, artha, and kàma

Glancing through the relevant passages in which the connections
between state and arboriculture are touched upon, it is evident that
both privately owned trees, wayside or other public trees, and parks,
woodlands, and forests were acknowledged in their multifunctional-
ity. Although the ecological necessity of trees was not explicated as
such, there appears to have been an awareness of the various ways
in which trees played a role in both private and public life, and an
acknowledgement that all had their place and their use. A strong
traditional connection was made between trees and ancestors, but a
tree’s direct utilitarian position both for the individual tending a tree,
as well as for the community which took responsibility for the cen-
tral village tree or the shade-giving trees in the wider vicinity, was
also acknowledged. The same recognition was given to the manifold
uses of a nearby woodland or forest for the individuals who made
a livelihood out of it, for the sage who meditated there, and for the
state which had a share in its produce.
19
Dh•. 9.255: “nirbhayam tu bhavedyasya ràß†raá bàhubalà≤ritam/tasya tad-
varddhate nityaásicyamàna iva druma˙ //”.

84 chapter two
The intriguing phrase “≤‰»gàravàtikà-krì∂àvana-dharmavanàni kar-

tavyàni” (VPV 1.2),20 translated as: “The king has to see to it that
love-bowers, recreational parks and religious groves are provided”,
could be understood as follows. Idyllic places to which lovers could
withdraw, recreational parks, and woods for sacrificial, meditational,
and ascetic purposes were to be provided by the state. Whereas the
term ≤‰»gàravàtikà (≤‰«gàra = sexual passion etc.; + vat = well-dressed,
amorous, erotic) seems clear as a green place where lovers could
meet in privacy, and the krì∂àvana (krì∂a = game, play, recreation)
as an open space where all kinds of recreation (from amorous glances
to sports, festivities, and leisure) were sought, the interpretation of
the term dharmavana is less evident. Could it indicate those places
where wandering sages and mendicants put up camp, where ascetics
lived? Or, in more general terms, those grounds belonging to a tem-
ple where fruits, flowers, and leaves used in temple services were
grown? One could also think of a grove of auspicious trees, for
instance, those trees that provided the temple with sandalwood, sacred
firewood, wood for the images of the deities, berries for màlas etc.,
and where vratas and other rituals were performed. The idea that a
dharmavana could also be a meditation grove isn’t so farfetched.
What is so intriguing about this compositum is that such places
were actively provided (kartavyàni).21 Kàma and krì∂a were thus fully
acknowledged, as was their association with natural phenomena, such
as trees, and with cultured nature, such as parks. To what extent
such places were open to all strata of society remains a question.
Parks especially seem to have been for the pleasure of the privileged
few, although early Buddhist texts give the impression that there was
no strict segregation between the kind of park which was open to
all and the other kind of park which, as a special favour, was given
to Buddhist monks. Perhaps ‘religious parks’ were open to all strata
of society, whereas ‘public parks’ were supervised and guarded in
such a way that only the upper classes could move freely there.
There must have been strictly private parks as well, belonging to the
nobility and to rich merchants.
The ideal was that such parks, provided with ponds filled with
lotusflowers attracting busy bumblebees (V‰kßàyurveda 1), dotted with
20
VPV = V‰kßàropa»aprakàravyàkhyà 1.2. For particulars about this text, see Rahul
Peter Das, Lebensspanne der Bäume (1988), p. 45.
21
See also V‰kßàyurveda 1–2.

shade-giving trees and flowering shrubs, should appeal to all four

domains of life: dharma, artha, kàma and mokßa (VAV 8). There would
be room for the play of the senses and of the sexes: laughter as well
as silence and solitude; lovers’ talk and political discussion as well
as religious sermons. This was to show that trees ‘belonged’ to no
group in society exclusively. They covered the domains of educa-
tion, love, fertility, prosperity, bounty, beauty, religious instruction,
and ascetic practices simultaneously.
The Sanskrit words for such places are often composita formed
with -àrama (such as vipulàrama, VAV 1) and -vihàra (such as vihàropa-
vanàni, VAV 2). In many epic descriptions, the same kinds of words
are used to portray city parks and forest hermitages. The idea that
what delighted the senses also delighted the soul seems to have con-
stituted no hard boundaries that demarked the terrain of the mun-
dane against the domain of the spiritual. That such dharmavanàni
were not open to those who consciously came to destroy their sanc-
tity is witnessed in the epics where ascetics complained to the kings
about the rude and aggresive disturbance caused by ‘demons’. That
these ‘demons’ might well have been tribal and other ‘unholy’ (apavi-
tra) persons would indicate that such claims to specially assigned plots
of land were not beyond dispute.
Dharma was connected with such places in many ways. Many social
groups found their livelihood in the forest, directly as gatherers and
collectors of forest-produce, or indirectly in the form of village peo-
ple who grazed their cattle there, picked berries or fruits, collected
firewood and searched for medicinal plants, and thus fulfilled their
dharma in living the kind of life prescribed for them. Yet, there was
an ambivalent connection between Dharma and the woods. As we
have seen in Chapter One, the well-ordered village life controlled
by the bràhma»a priests was often negatively contrasted with the
a-dharmic life away from it. Threats to one’s dharma would arise
when one would journey to other places, when one would come into
contact with other classes of people, or when the priestly system was
not prominent in a particular place. Woods and forests were such
places, not only because they were beyond the safety and security
of the ordered community, but also because the regulations of Dharma
were not maintained there. On the contrary, forests were often asso-
ciated with those who had consciously broken away from the Dharma
order, such as ascetics and outcasts, and with those who had never
belonged to it, such as tribal people and gypsies.

86 chapter two
In such a view, the world beyond the village was a-dharmic, the
forest was a-dharmic, the alien was a-dharmic, mainly because the
bràhma»ic order was not predominant there, and as such there was
no guarantee of social propriety or ritual purity. The forests remained
inauspicious (nitya-ama«gala) from the bràhma»as’ point of view. From
the ascetics’ and philosophers’ point of view, the forest appeared
attractive exactly because it promised purity, more purity than worldly
village life, however dharmic, could ever provide. The forest tempted
those who had become thoughtful and sceptical about the bràhma»ical
worldview and its ultimate effectiveness, with its pristineness, its soli-
tude, its simplicity, its higher form of Dharma: the basics of Brahman
and àtman without all the ritual clutter of sacrifices and the obliga-
tions of economic and social life.
One aspect that made life in the forest especially pure in the eyes
of the hermits and ascetics was the absence of animal slaughter.
Nourished by a natural diet, preferably by those things that nature’s
seasonal bounty produced and which they could take without inter-
rupting any essential life-chain (such as nuts, fruits, berries, grains)
was considered, by them, the most virtuous way of avoiding the
accumulation of new karma. It can not be denied, however, that
à≤ramites and ascetics in such idyllic settings are often described as
using animal skins as clothes, rugs etc., and that even there fire-sacrifices
were made, vegetarian or otherwise.
Kings appeared to regard such settlements as an integral part of
their realm. Not only did they consider it their duty to provide such
places, and, if necessary, assist in the battle against evil forces such
as demons and ogres (which might well have been tribes or gypsies),
they often had a kind of umbilical connection with such places and
especially with some ascetics who they knew by name. This con-
nection made itself felt particularly in moments of crisis: how many
persons of royal blood were sent into a forest exile, how many went
to ask advice, a boon, or a blessing from such sages?
Artha, the material gain, from the forests must have been consid-
erable, even when only a sixth of forest produce was considered the
king’s rightful share. Ideally, this was not merely a passive right to
whatever the forest produced: a king should take initiative, establish
new ventures, encourage the locals, and punish looters and tres-
passers. Forests appear to have belonged to the state-household as
much as pasture land, agricultural fields, interstate trade, local com-
merce, handicraft, and artisanship did. There are ancient reports

about overseas trade in which some of the coveted items imported

from India were connected with the forests: special timber, peacocks,
predators. Some kings must have possessed amazing numbers of ele-
phants and spent a fortune on training and maintaining them. Special
forests were assigned as habitats for elephants; others as game reserves
for kings and their guests. Such places had to be protected and
guarded. Spies and spotters had to be appointed, and courts installed
to mete out punishment. Mines were often connected with the forests
as well. The question of how much gold and diamonds were actu-
ally mined by the kings, however, does not belong to the domain
of arboriculture. Iron must have played an important part in the
production of weapons and agricultural implements, and in trade as
well. A few early trade records mention spices too, which were grow-
ing wild in the forests, especially in the southern part of India.
Forests seem to have been considered crown land from very early
on. It was the king’s prerogative to set up settlement programmes
in underdeveloped areas, and to issue permits to ≤ùdra cultivators for
making forest plots into arable land. Deforestation must have been
a common feature ever since the Aryan presence in India, directly
linked with a growing population and royal intervention politics.
Whereas Kau†alya categorises forest produce using thirteen cate-
gories, such as timber, reeds, fibre, medicine etc. (Artha≤àstra 2.17.4–17),
other sources mention additional categories such as food and fod-
der, wood for musical instruments, pulp and bark for paper, cos-
metics, detergents, oils, resins, wax, glue, starch, scents, condiments,
dye etc.22 In general, the role of wood in the development of civil-
isation was considerable, and India was no exception to this.23 There
are indications that special kinds of Indian wood were imported in
Mesopotamia, in Mari, and Babylon. King Solomon is said to have
ordered not only gold, silver, ivory, monkeys, and peacocks from
India, but also a special tree, which might well have been sandal-
wood. Incense and other kinds of arboreal aromatics are said to have
been among the first products traded between India and South
Arabia, while some special wood was brought in from Sindh around
700 bc for the construction of Sennacherib’s palace at Nineveh.
Nebuchadnezzar’s palace might have had Indian logs of teak and
22
See, for instance, J.F. Dastur, Useful plants in India and Pakistan (1964).
23
See John Perlin, A forest journey: the role of wood in the development of civilization
(1989).

88 chapter two
ceder too. Darius’ palace at Susa could also boast of some Indian
timber.24 The effects of such luxury trade at a certain moment in
history is hinted at in Pliny’s complaint about the Indian trade being
a serious drain on the national income of Rome, from which place
550 million sesterces went to Asia each year.25
As the term artha is not limited to material gain, but also refers
to the material wealth with which one surrounds oneself, we would
do well to consider how much daily life in India was determined by
trees and forest produce. Just as individual trees were praised for
their generosity, so the forest could be praised as a treasure hoard
of precious produce for the common people living in its vicinity and
also for the affluent people living in cities, especially the royal house-
hold. Many materials were directly connected with either agricul-
ture, horticulture or arboriculture. The forest provided the simple
basic materials for housing and construction, countless useful com-
modities needed by artisans and engineers, as well as the luxury arti-
cles coveted by the affluent few in cities, at courts, and in the distant
destinations of international trade.
With the subject of luxury articles like scents we have already
encroached upon the domain of kàma. Many luxury commodities
were somehow connected with the sensual and the erotic, such as
stimulants, ornaments, cosmetics, and narcotics, for example, incenses,
hair tonics, kohl, tattoos, perfumes, fixatives, balms, henna, betel-
nuts, condiments, alcoholic beverages, flowers, and leaves for feed-
ing silk-worms. Much of this was not essential at all, but merely a
pleasurable extra to delight the senses. In the Kàmasùtra, both men
and women are advised to refine their knowledge of those things to
an expert use in the enjoyment of life in general and of the erotic
in particular. Just as in the V‰kßàyurveda, the knowledge of garden-
ing and tending trees was considered one of the sixty-four arts, along
with such seemingly unconnected things as the art of preparing oint-
ments, the art of adorning oneself with jewelry, silks, and flowers,
and the art of teaching parrots to speak (in order to let them act
as go-betweens). Those were considered serious accomplishments in
social life. And just as it was part of the king’s duty, according to
24
For such data, apart from John Perlin’s study, on India see Klaus Karttunen,
India in Early Greek Literature (1989), and John W. McCrindle, Ancient India as described
in classical literature (1971).
25
Quoted in Romila Thapar, A History of India (1974), Part One, p. 115.

the V‰kßàyurveda, to provide green spots for amorous encounters and

recreational leisure, so it was, according to the Kàmasùtra, every-
one’s duty to harmoniously blend artha, kàma, and dharma in one’s
daily life.
Although the attraction between a man and a woman should be
a natural and mutual titillation, the tricks and artifices which can
be used by one of the couple to help the encounter to take the
desired turn are many. Knowledge of the sixty-four arts comes in
useful here. In part 3 of the Kàmasùtra, in the chapter called ‘the
ways of attracting others to yourself ’ it is said that when a person
fails to obtain the object of his desires by any of the ways common
among man and woman, he or she should then have recourse to
artificial means, to tricks, magic, and recipes for love-balms and
potions. Many such means appear to have required a thorough
knowledge of plants and trees, since they provided the main ingre-
dients for cosmetics, ointments, and aphrodisiacs.26
In addition to all the intricacies of the individual experiences of
the erotic, a domain of life which was considered as worthy of a
manual as those on artha and dharma, we are especially interested
here in the king’s role in providing opportunities, occasions, places,
and accessories for the amorous and the erotic. Only rarely in such
texts are conception and pregnancy mentioned. Remarkably enough,
human fecundity, clearly a king’s concern too, is never the major
theme. On the contrary, kàma appears to be all about the delight
of the senses, not about responsibility or household matters. Ardent
lovers are never depicted with interfering or disturbing children
around. The lovely groves and parks which the king provided for
himself, his court, and possibly the other urban affluent appear to
have been off limits not only for the poor but also for children.
Ideally, such places stimulated the natural chemistry between man
and woman, although the meeting of lovers was not their only pur-
pose. The words àrama and vihàra both indicate recreation, relax-
ation, enjoyment, and delight. Natural beauty, especially the cultured
beauty of gardens, groves, orchards, and parks, appears to have been
considered essential for the well-being of the urban upperclass. Kàma,
then, comprises the whole spectrum of sensual delight, not only the
26
For the study of relevant passages in the Kàmasùtra, I used the text of Kashi
Sanskrit Series, no. 29. On this matter, see also Bhagwan Dash and Suhasini
Ramaswamy, Indian Aphrodisiacs (2001).

90 chapter two
erotic or sexual, even if Kàma, as a god, was often called the god
of love, physical love, and the amorous. A manual like the Kàmasùtra
emphasises that a satisfactory sexual life depended on many factors:
not only the right choice of partner, but many technical and phys-
ical details also as well as amorous skills, creating the right envi-
ronment, having an extensive knowledge of tricks and artifices, and
especially applying a refined sense of how emotions, moods, yearn-
ings, and imaginations work, and may be played upon accordingly.
Descriptions of natural beauty, especially the cultured beauty of
well-ordered parks, in Indian literature often tend to be given with
an ulterior motive: to prepare the reader for the erotic mood of the
characters. Lyrical descriptions of spring landscapes, with special
emphasis on flowering trees, are often merely a prelude to the amorous
drama which will be played out in such landscapes and under such
trees. There are notable exceptions, such as in some of the descrip-
tions of Sìtà and •akuntalà in the forest, where is expressed delight
in nature pure and simple. In most cases, however, descriptions of
natural beauty serve as backdrops for a love-scene. The K‰ß»a-Ràdhà
couple springs to mind immediately, but also •iva-Pàrvatì and
Ràma-Sìtà. Even if no couple is involved, there is often a pining
man or woman, for whom the mood of the season increases the
sense of longing and lovesickness, as in the Meghadùta and °tusaáhàra.
It appears that the delight of the senses was considered as essen-
tial as the economic and the social domains. A king had to see to
it that all three spheres of life were supported by an infrastructure
protected and guaranteed by the state. Trees not only produced all
kinds of useful ingredients and luxury articles, they also provided
shade, seclusion, and stimulation for the delight of the sexes. Or, to
put it more theatrically, it was the king’s responsibility that his sub-
jects lived and loved happily.
The subject of the king’s relationship to the bràhma»as has been
dealt with in several thorough analyses of ancient Indian kingship.27
The connection between a king and the hermits or ascetics in his
realm appears to have varied from king to king and from period to
27
Most relevant to the subject were, to me: J. Gonda, ‘Ancient Indian kingship
from the religious point of view’ (1956/1957), and W. Rau, Staat und Gesellschaft im
alten Indien (1957). I regret not having had access to Nancy Falk’s dissertation,
Wilderness and Kingship in Ancient South Asia. Instead, I used her article of the same
title (1973).

period. Ideally, a ruler supported and facilitated all four aspects of

life, and in practice this must have meant that renunciates, be they
young or old, were allowed their share in the land, so that it was
accepted that they had a right to places where they could live soli-
tarily or communally, places where they gathered for religious meet-
ings, rituals, festivals etc., and places where their life-style was respected
in such a way that they could find their food in nature or by beg-
ging. It even went so far that in some circumscribed areas no hunt-
ing or other such sacrileges were permitted to destroy their sphere
of purity and tranquility.
Especially in the Ràmàya»a, this last aspect seems to have been
taken very seriously by King Da≤aratha, who was requested by the
seer Vi≤vamitra to send his son Ràma to the forest in order to help
the sage to protect his patch of forest against the raids of the ràkßasas,
the demons led by Ràva»a. Although this story is recounted on the
level of mythology, one could easily translate the situation where a
‰ßi’s forest-sacrifice was consciously disturbed by hordes of demons,
to a real-life situation in which hermits had to defend their territory
against tribes, gypsies, hunters, harlots, ≤ùdra cultivators, etc. In both
the Artha≤àstra and the Dharma≤àstra this aspect of the king’s duties is
mentioned. In the V‰kßàyurveda his duty to provide land for such pur-
poses is explicitly dealt with.
There seems to have been a structural affiliation between the court
and the hermits in the forest: not only did the king know about their
existence, their names, and the exact location of their hermitage, but
he also relied on their services when occasions required those, such
as when advice or a blessing was needed, or when special court cer-
emonies required their attendance, such as when King Janaka invited
Vi≤vamitra and his fellow-ascetics to the court of Mithilà. It is also
known that some of the kings had lively ties with Buddha and his
followers, expressed in invitations, discourses, gifts of food, clothes
and land, such as parks, orchards and groves.
This symbiosis, however, should not blind us to the fact that the
ascetic life could have been considered a threat to the established
order in the kingdom, as it must have been to Buddha’s own father,
King •uddhodana. There must have been moments in Indian his-
tory when the precarious balance was threatened by a kind of drain
to the forests. When young, intelligent, healthy men tended to lose
interest in family matters and were drawn instead towards the ascetic
life, kings must have seen this tendency as a potential danger to a

92 chapter two
well-balanced society. Whether kings ever actually discouraged young

men from doing so is not known to me, but in the var»à≤rama-sys-
tem we find a widely spread ideal in which there was a well-struc-
tured division between an active social life (artha, kàma and dharma)
and gradual renunciation towards the end of one’s life. Such a sys-
tem was given as a horizon, as a kind of superstructure for the val-
ues of a society. In the waywardness of actual life there may have
been anamolies at the bottom of such a system, where young men
renounced family life before they ever started a family of their own,
and many more at the top, where old people continued to play an
active part in social life till the moment of death.
The forest may have begun to function as a metaphor of mokßa
in the same way as the word vanap‰ß†ha connoted not just any inhab-
itant of the woods, but the person who had consciously left society
to attain mokßa free from the usual ties, responsibilities, and distrac-
tions. Forest, in that case, denotes not only a place but also a state:
the state of simplification, interiorisation, and de-identification, in
ideal cases followed by complete renunciation, saányàsa. Yet, even
the most solitary renunciants appear never to have been completely
lost to society, since their very existence had an impact on the
same society they had left.28 Some may occasionally have returned
to society from their forest-retreats and mountain-tops, for example,
when a summons came from the court, or on the occasion of a
kumbhamelà, or some my have returned of their own accord, with a
message for the world they had left. The message of a hermit must
have been received with mixed feelings by those in charge of soci-
ety: renunciates may have belonged to the society by comprising an
established category in it, albeit only marginal, yet they were an
implicit threat to this society by their very being, the example they
set, and the message they may have transmitted, orally or otherwise.
The extent to which mokßa ever became a tangible ideal for the
greater part of Indian society is a matter of debate. For most Indians
it must have been a comforting vision, no more. The later devo-
tional (bhakti ) movements may have had a levelling effect as far as
age, gender, and social stratification were concerned: even in the
28
The idea that such an impact could be felt as tragically negative is given shape
in Stefan Zweig’s novel Die Augen des ewigen Bruders (1928), where the other side of
renunciation is shown: a woman whose husband had left for the forest lost her
livelihood and consequently her two children who died of hunger.

most mystic utterances of the devotional hymns, there is the con-

tinuous perspective-shift from ideal to attained state, and the reverse,
from achieved state to soulful yearning. Buddha, who was an active
teacher for some 45 years after the attainment of nirvà»a, is a notable
exception for whom the state, once attained, appears to have remained
stable once and for all. The state of a jìvan-mukta, a person liberated
and living on, appears to have been exceptional enough to merit its
own technical term. This might indicate a strong tendency to see
mukti or mokßa as something too far ‘beyond’ to connect it with this
life, even in the case of a forest ascetic. Mokßa is mostly mentioned
in terms of striving, and only rarely in terms of achievement. We
should not forget, however, that this impression might well be dis-
torted by the fact that the precise individual moment of mokßa, if
ever such a state was attained, may have been the point after which
no further communications were made.
From the perspective of the king, be he privately pious or not,
mokßa may have been no more and no less than the other ideals his
realm was hinged on: a relatively simple but ingenious device to give
meaning and perspective to old age. Ascetics, at least when they
were old and venerable, were exemplifications of this perpective, but
could also pose a potential threat to the established order, such as
when young people chose the ascetic type of life at an early age.
In this way we have connected the forest and other patches of
wooded land, be they wild or cultivated, with underlying social ideals.
It is clear that wildernesses were not merely marginal. They were a
vital part of the realm in more ways than one. Forests may have
comprised a considerable source of income for the king; he may
have used forests also for hunting-parties and elephant-breeding; he
may have used forests as resource, as natural boundary, as a refuge
for marginal groups, as a place where old people and ascetics should
go to. He may have perceived their great economic, recreational,
and religious value, but all in all he must also have felt uneasy about
them since they were wild places over which his control was mini-
mal. Moreover,
What would be the use of many forest-grown trees? Better is a single
tree at the side of the road, where people take a rest.29
29
V‰kßàyurveda 4: “bahubhi˙ kiá vane jàtai˙ varam eka˙ pathi tarur yatra vi≤ràm-
yate janai˙”.

94 chapter two
At the same time, the forest continued to work its charms on roman-
tically inclined kings, such as at the very beginning of Kàlidàsa’s
drama about •akuntalà, when the king, the very moment he lays
eyes on the girl, exclaims:
In palaces such charms are rarely ours;
The woodland plants outshine the garden flowers.30
2.2 The thrill of the aesthetic: Seasons and their hold

on the human heart
2.2.1 Seasons as a setting

Although it is clearly in the kàvya literature that the most numer-
ous, the most intricately expressed, and the most sensually inter-
connected descriptions of nature are to be found, we may find
allusions to the seasons in almost all the literary and pictorial gen-
res. What interests us here is the religious notion of such emotions.
However, the religious, the social, and the aesthetic are admittedly
hard to distinguish in descriptions of, for instance, the spring-festi-
vals, Vasantotsava.31
Such seasonal festivals must have been signal events pivotally posi-
tioned within the religious year. Kàlidàsa is known to have stated:
“utsava priyà˙ khalu manußyà˙”: “men are, by their very nature,
fond of festivals,”32 and it was considered a king’s duty to organise
and facilitate them. Such festivals might have been held for the enjoy-
ment of the subjects, but, seen from the position of the ruler, they
were also important for the welfare of the state.33 Kau†alya, in the
30
In the rendering by Monier Williams, Sakoontala: or the lost ring. An Indian drama
(1887).
31
Regarding the spring festival, in addition to the monography by Leona Anderson,
Vasantotsava. The spring festival of India (1993), there are several books on Indian fes-
tivals, such as B.N. Sharma, Festivals of India (1978), Om Lata Bahadur, The book of
Hindu festivals and ceremonies (1998), etc. In anthropological studies on festivals, the
Indian spring festival is one of the favourites. For Indian festivals in the perspec-
tive of world religions, see the Shap Working Party’s publication, Festivals in World
Religions (1986), edited by Alan Brown.
32
Sharma, Festivals of India, p. 3.
33
Ràmàyana, Ayodhyaka»∂a 11.67.15: “utsava≤ca samaja≤ca vardhante ràß†ravard-
hanà˙”.

Artha≤àstra, uses four terms, utsava, samaja, yàtrà and vihàra.34 He advised
kings to allow newly conquered subjects to keep their familiar
festivals.
Apart from its connections with various deities and mythic events,
the religious dimension of the cycle of the seasons is stated in gen-
eral terms as the well-ordered rhythm of things in nature. In the
Purà»as we also find references to such celebrations, preserving pop-
ular, probably non-Sanskritic rituals. Prescriptive ritual texts such as
the G‰hyasùtras, •rautasùtras, and the Nibandhas enumerate the rituals
to be performed and the deities to be worshipped.35 Such Sanskrit
portrayals are mainly prescriptive, whereas in poetry and drama we
find descriptions, either based on common practice or presented as
a blend of practice and literary fiction.36
The best known poetic text on the cycle of the seasons is, of
course, the °tusaáhàra, tentatively attributed to Kàlidàsa.37 The most
common presentation of the various seasons in this text is a poetic
allusion to the ways a particular time of the year affects pairs of
lovers, especially the women. The signs of a particular season appear
to evoke pre-established, almost archetypical or stereotypical moods.
Whereas women are most occupied with thoughts of love and long-
ing in spring, all seasons are presented mainly in their parallels and
correspondences to erotic moods. The beauty of this short Sanskrit
text would thrill any reader of that language as well as any lover of
nature, but as lyrical poetry it has kàma as its main object, not nature
as such. The natural phenomena of the various seasons merely form
a setting for moods of love and passion, although there are verses
which, when taken as separate units, simply describe aspects of the
34
On the term ‘utsava’ see J. Gonda, ‘Skt. utsava-‘Festival’’ (1975).
35
Nibandhas (digests) constitute a secondary literature belonging to the Pàñcaràtra
school. They often serve as manuals for local temple arcakas.
36
According to Leona Anderson in Vasantotsava, pp. 4–5: “Each text formulates
the festival in accordance with its own frame of reference. Each portrayal of the
celebrations is, indeed, a portrayal, a stylized vision filtered through the media of
the text. Just as each festival is celebrated in a particular way at a particular time,
so too, each of our descriptions is unique to a specific author, time, and place.” A
striking example of this is found in the beginning of Ahobala’s Vasantotsavacampù,
described in V. Raghavan’s article ‘The Virùpàkßa Vasantotsava Campù of Ahobala.
A Vijayanagara-kàvya’ (year not given, see bibliography). Much space is taken by
the description of the splendidly arrayed dignitaries attending the festival.
37
Text, transcription and translation are given by John T. Roberts, The Seasons:
Kàlidàsa’s °tusaáhàra (1989).

96 chapter two
particular season without referring to any mood they may evoke in

lovers. One illustration of such ‘neutral’ verses is the following:
Radiant as the new kusumbh buds,
bright as red dye of sindoor,
Surging from the speed of strong winds,
fanned to full force at top speed,
Tearing into clinging young vines
hung from each twig on tree tops,
Come the fire and flames by whose force
earth on all sides is hard scorched.38
Although in all six of Kàlidàsa’s seasons there is at least one such
‘plain’ verse, summertime especially is described in purely natural
terms. In fact, in high summer hardly any love is in the air, although
one could characterise the elaborate descriptions of nature yearning
for water and destroyed by fire as indirectly referring to certain stages
of love and passion.
Even at a first glance it is obvious that it was Kàlidàsa’s intimate
observations of plant-life which allowed him to describe plants, flowers,
and trees in their particular seasonal details in such a way that they
are directly recognisable to any Indian reader, whereas the fauna
remains more neutral, only vaguely sketched with far less wealth of
striking detail, although bees, cuckoos, and peacocks abound. One
cautious explanation could be that in the poetic experience of the
seasons, flora was more intimately and intricately linked with the
amorous moods than was fauna, at least in Kàlidàsa’s portrayal.39 It
is interesting to note that stereotypes of particular seasons were given
to painters in the Viß»udharmottarapurà»a: it was up to the individual
artist to refine, detail, and personalise such general prescriptions.40
Trees were an essential part of this, not only in springtime when
they were loaded with (preferably red or yellow) blossoms, but also
in other seasons. In the °tusaáhàra, sandalwood is described as cool-
38
Verse I.24, in John T. Roberts’ The Seasons, p. 42.
39
Two critical articles on Kàlidàsa’s intimate knowledge of Indian flora: M.V.
Apte, ‘The Flora in Kàlidàsa’s Literature’ (1951) and Bimalacharan Deb, ‘The Flora
in Kàlidàsa’s Literature: A Note’ (1955). Very useful is the book by V. Aggarwal
and B.M. Chaturvedi, The imagery of Kàlidàsa (1985).
40
For example, in the Chitrasùtra, Viß»udharmottara 42, spring is indicated by merry
men and woman, “laughing” vernal trees, swarming bees, and, of course, cuckoos.
Summer is characterised by dried pools and deer seeking the shade of trees. The
depiction of the monsoon is marked by dark clouds and birds perched on trees,
whereas autumn is signalled by trees heavy with fruits.

ing in the heat of summer. The young twigs sprouting everywhere

during the rainy season are a sight for sore eyes. In autumn there
is the kodivara tree, with purple-yellow blossoms attracting maddened
bumblebees. In winter, the pale priya«gu creeper has the sallow com-
plexion of a love-lorn woman. And, in the season of mists, amorous
women use the produce of trees as balms, ointments, and scents to
adorn their anticipating bodies and thus delight their ardent lovers.
The glorification of love, sexual arousal, fertility, and sensual delight
is often refined and justified by the classical theory of the rasas.
Desire, in the Vedic hymn of creation, was seen as the first vital
stirring, the earliest seed of the spirit.41 Without the thrill, the arousal,
the awakening, the rising, the stirring, there would be no creation.
The processes signalling the alternation of the seasons are directly
connected with the moods evoked in human beings by such clues.
The same vital fluids that run through trees in spring are seen to
run through humans. The bursting vitality of spring trees touches
the heart, which opens up; the senses, which are titillated; the feet,
which want to dance; the hands, which want to reach out, and the
sexual organs, which want to celebrate. The yearly cycle of the sea-
sons, shown in the annual rhythm, is often presented as being mir-
rored almost exactly in female fertility, and the connection between
women and trees, alternately laden with buds, blossoms, and ripen-
ing fruits, is a theme widely elaborated on in Indian literary and
pictorial traditions. The delight of the senses, the state of receptiv-
ity and fluidity, the overall arousal is seen as a sacred fulfillment.
The solemn duty to participate in life’s vitality and, importantly, to
pass it on, is meant to be so, it is one’s dharma.
The inherent sacrality of seasons and sexuality is found through-
out Indian history, although it found its most explicit expression
where the life-affirming tone was dominant. Ascetic tendencies, sus-
picions about the devitalising effects of sexual activity, negative atti-
tudes towards women, restrictions of caste and society, and the rivalry
between human and divine love may, at some stages, and in some
circles, have competed with this basic positive evaluation of the sen-
sual and the erotic, yet the sacrality of sex, be it in nature or in
man, seems to have been generally acknowledged until the impact
of the colonial presence in India.
41
°gveda 10.129.3–4.

98 chapter two
2.2.2 The woman-and-tree motif

A special motif in Indian literary, ritual, and pictorial traditions deals
with the intimate connection between women and trees. This cate-
gory is either called the woman-and-tree motif (in Sanskrit ≤àla-
bhañjikà, literally she who seizes and/or breaks a branch of the ≤àla
tree), or the dohada motif (the craving of plants and trees, which, just
before budding, have an ardent desire to be touched by the foot or
the mouth of a lovely woman).
Although in popular etymology this last word may be connected
with doha = milking or milk, the word is most probably derived from
either the Prakrit daurh‰da, literally sickness of heart, or nausea; or
from the Sanskrit dvaih‰da, two-heartedness.42 Both etymologies point
at pregnancy cravings, the peculiar appetites, wishes, and longings a
woman might experience during pregnancy. In the former case, these
cravings are a side-effect of her general nausea; in the latter case,
they are caused by the fact that she has two hearts in her. It was
thought that such pregnancy cravings came from the child inside the
woman making its wish known, and since it was considered essen-
tial for an auspicious birth that such a wish be granted, pregnancy
cravings became a distinct motif in folk-lore, as well as a useful tech-
nique for introducing unexpected turns in storytelling. It was con-
sidered the duty of the husband to satisfy such cravings, however
disturbing they may be. Maurice Bloomfield noted the following
points regarding the dohada motif:
(1) it either directly injures the husband, or compels some action on

his part which involves danger,
(2) it prompts the heroic husband to displays of skill, courage, shrewd-
ness, or wisdom,
(3) it takes the form of pious deeds on the part of the husband,
(4) it is used as an ormanental incident in a story,
(5) it is feigned by the woman for the sake of some ulterior motive,
(6) it is obviated by making the woman believe that the craving is
being satisfied.43
42
See also MMW’s Sanskrit-English Dictionary, p. 499.
43
Maurice Bloomfield, ‘The Dohada or Craving of Pregnant Women’ (1920).
See also appendix 3 to C.H. Tawney/N.M. Penzer’s translation of Somadeva’s
Kathàsàritsàgara, ‘On the dohada, or craving of the pregnant woman, as a motif in
Hindu fiction’ (1924–1928), Part One, pp. 221–228.

Even animals were said to have pregnancy cravings, for example,

the crocodile, which expressed a wish to eat a monkey’s heart in
the Suásumàrajàtaka and the Vànara/Vànarindajàtaka.44 The poetical
dohadas connected with certain trees, however, were relatively simple
and harmless. Also, such arboreal cravings had nothing of the irreg-
ularity and unexpectedness of many of the cravings expressed by
both humans and animals in the epics. Particular cravings of a num-
ber of specific trees were well-known. They were said to have these
predictable wishes every year just before blooming, and the role of
the young woman in this was institutionalised as part of the spring
festivities. This idea that plants and trees would blossom as a result
of direct or indirect contact with women was also readily used in
poetic similes and imagery.45 In that sense, the dohada rite was not
a fertility rite, but a rite of fertilisation. In contrast to this, in the
case of the ≤àlabhañjikà pose it was the tree which appeared to do
the fertilising, not the woman.
As such, dohada and ≤àlabhañjikà were complementary rather than
interexchangeable, although in plastic art it is not easy to define a
scene as exclusively and definitely representing either of the two.46
In art we find that the spar≤a, àli«gana, and pàdaghàta types of dohada
(the craving for touching, embracing, and kicking with the feet,
respectively), predominate, but in literature there are a few more
types. The most common dohada poses are touch (in the case of the
priya«gu creeper), sprinkling a mouthful of liquor (the bakula), kicking
with the foot or heel (the a≤oka), glancing (the tilaka), embracing (the
kurabaka), pleasurable talk (the mandàra), laughing (the campaka), breath-
ing upon the tree (the cù†a), singing (the nameru), and dancing (the
kar»ikàra).47
44
See Jàtakas no. 57, 208 and 342 in the Cambridge edition, as well as in
Tawney/Penzer’s appendix 3 to the first volume of the Kathàsàritsàgara, pp.
224–225.
45
See also Karpùramañjarì 2.49: “Even the trees bloom through the secret of
beauty-of-form”.
46
See also Gustav Roth, ‘The woman and tree motif. •àlabhañjikà-∂àlamàlikà
in Prakrit and Sanskrit texts with special reference to •ilpa≤àstras including notes
on dohada’ (1957).
47
For more about dohada and ≤àlabhañjikà, see, in addition to Bloomfield and
Tawney/Penzer, K. Rama Pisharoti, ‘Dohada or the Woman and Tree Motif ’
(1935), Gustav Roth, ‘The woman and tree motif ’ (1957), and J.Ph. Vogel, ‘The
Woman and Tree or ≤àlabhañjikà in Indian Literature and Art’ (1929); in Surapàla’s
V‰kßàyurveda such ‘needs’ as those for touching, embracing or kicking by ankleted
feet are taken as seriously as the need for water, sunshine and fertiliser. See verses
147–150.

100 chapter two
Rama Pisharoti, in a brief look at Sanskrit literature on this issue,

makes many references to dohada.48 He traces the occurrence of the
dohada motif in literature back at least 1,500 years. Trees are depicted
not only as sentient beings and as objects of worship, but also as
expressing desires for contact. That the contact of woman pleases
them, makes the tree, again, in this context, male. Although it was
said that specially qualified women could make a tree blossom even
out of season, poetic convention connects dohada with spring. The
many references to trees flowering out of season at the most crucial
moments of Buddha’s life appear to belong to a completely different
theme, although the pose in which his mother, Queen Màyà, is often
depicted—grasping a branch of a flowering ≤àla tree, and giving birth
while standing thus intertwined—is often compared to the ≤àlabhañjikà
pose. It is clear that it is not a case of the usual dohada, even when
the queen is pregnant, since it is definitely not the tree’s craving
which is expressed here. That the queen expresses a desire to enter-
tain herself with a moment’s play (krì∂à) in the grove, makes it more
a ≤àlabhañjikà pose than a dohada. The flowering trees which recur
at vital points in Buddha’s biography, however, form a motif of
their own.
In one of the stories contained in the Avadàna≤ataka, a festival called
•àlabhañjikà, celebrated at •ravasti, is mentioned.49 It appears that
in addition to a mere game (krì∂a) of girls and young women, a
more elaborate and public convention, a melà, something like a fair
or festival, was also connected with the flowering of trees, especially
the ≤àla trees. It must have been this which drew the queen towards
the ≤àla grove. In poetry and drama, the branch-seizing damsel illus-
trates the erotic mood, and in art it is, at times, functional in the
form of brackets, but always ornamental, too, as it displays female
curves to maximum advantage. It can also be charged with deeper
religious meanings, such as when pillars with similar motifs are
included in regular priestly acts of temple worship. A variation on the
so-called stambhaputrikà, or pillar-woman, can be found in the story
of the àpsaras Kalàvatì, who was cursed to enter a stambhaputrikà.50
48
K. Rama Pisharoti, ‘Dohada or the Woman and Tree Motif ’, p. 110.
49
For a text edition, see J.S. Speyer, Bibliotheca Buddhica 3, pp. 302 ff.; for a
translation, see Léon Feer, Avadàna≤ataka, cent légendes bouddhiques traduites du Sanskrit
(1891), pp. 207 ff.
50
See Vogel, ‘The Woman and Tree or ≤àlabhañjikà in Indian Literature and

The connections between tree and woman as recurring motifs in

art and literature tend to dwell more on the woman than on the
tree, but it is fascinating to note that in the dohada motif the tree is
on the receiving side. Even in the case of dohada, however, the focus
is ultimately on the girl, who pleases the tree in order that it may
open its blossoms: blossoms which she picks and puts in her hair,
or takes home for spring decoration. The alluring aspect of the fem-
inine pose in close contact with the tree is elaborated upon, whereas
the tree seems to be secondary, a contrasting and accommodating
background for feminine charms. It functions as a stimulant for the
aesthetic and the erotic, and, as such the ≤àlabhañjikà and dohada
motifs distinguish themselves from the yakßa and v‰kßakà scenes, where
the anthropomorphoid figure, be it a man or a woman, is one with
the tree. A tree deity was thought to live in the tree with which it
was depicted, to share its nature in a way, whereas in the above
motifs there is an effectful play of contrasts: the connection between
the woman and the tree is merely temporary, her act of contact
more or less a performance for the sake of the beholder. A definite
process of separation between human beings and trees has set in, in
spite of the affinity which is still so eloquently expressed.
The idea that some specific trees needed the collaboration of spe-
cially qualified women to blossom may have ancient traces of litur-
gical magic in it, however, in these two motifs the arborial world
begins to become mute, and fade into the background. At the same
time, some of the women depicted in this way were loaded with so
much jewelry that their nudity tended to be repulsive. No wonder
nineteenth-century men like V.A. Smith and Alexander Cunningham
described some of them as “nautch-girls”.51 Both the ≤àlabhañjikà motif
Art’, pp. 212–218; this stambhaputrikà seems to come very close to the image of a
goddess carved on (!) a tree, and worshipped, in Bà»a’s Harßacarità, as well as to
the ‘natural’ appearance of the goddess Gelubai on (!) a tree in Padmapoda, Orissa.
This tree-goddess, which is actually no more than a protruding mound produced
by years of rubbing black oil and red vermillion on one spot of the tree’s trunk,
is dressed, decorated and worshipped. This image is extensively documented in
Stephen P. Huyler, Meeting God. Elements of Hindu Devotion (1999), pp. 107–111. What
justifies the connection between these three instances, is that in all three cases the
pillar or tree really is the goddess.
51
See V.A. Smith, History of Fine Art (1911), p. 117 and 380 ff.; A. Cunningham,
in his ‘Archeological Survey Report’ (1880), volumes 10 and 11. Vogel, in his arti-
cle on the ≤àlabhañjikà motif, speaks about “aggressive nudity” and “more human
artfulness and worldly affinities”, p. 224.

102 chapter two
and the dohada motif appear to originate in ancient popular usage,

but we have no idea as to whether they have monocausal origins,
such as in a single mythic or even historical event, or have devel-
oped from an amalgam of notions. Such notions may be notions
about female tree deities, or they may be connected with ritual prac-
tices during spring-festivals, or, perhaps, with Vedic yùpas imagined
as staircases to heaven, or with Indra-dhvaja symbolism. There might
even be connections with phallic symbolism, such as a woman drap-
ing herself around a tree like a creeper or climber; or adopting a
classical erotic position such as that of embracing a man while rais-
ing one leg very high against him, as if climbing him. The aesthetic
consideration that in the frontal poses a woman’s charms are opti-
mally exposed may also be relevant. That such an image—the set
of woman, leafy branch, and tree-trunk—forms an ideal triangle for
supporting horizontal beams in architectural constructions, might not
say anything about its possible origin, but this fact definitely con-
tributed to its persistance as a pictorial motif in houses, temples, and
gateways. That Buddha’s mother, Queen Mahàmàyà, was said to
have given birth to her son in exactly the same pose allowed the
pan-Indian motif to continue in a particularly Buddhist form as well.
People dependent upon trees for their livelihood had used magi-
cal and ritualistic ways of ensuring a tree’s fertility. In J.J. Meyer’s
three-volume study of Indian vegetation divinities, such acts are enu-
merated: the trunk of a tree is beaten lightly with a stick (as if with
a phallus), the owner emits semen at the root of the tree, a couple
makes love beneath a tree, etc.52 When a tree, for instance, the
palà≤a, the parijàta, or the ≤àlmalì is on the point of opening its buds
into fiery red blossoms, it is said to need the help of a young and
lovely woman to finally open up. This seems to have been especially
the case with those trees on which the blossoms appear before there
are any leaves. The colour red is especially favoured, not only for
the flowers and the newly unfolding leaves of the tree, but also for
the woman: her clothes, the dye on her hands and feet, her lips, the
wine etc. In such acts, the tree itself appears sometimes as the cen-
tral point, sometimes as the counter point: some of the rites definitely
centre around the tree, but most reflect the ulterior motive of the
woman’s own fertility and wishes.
52
J.J. Meyer, Trilogie altindischer Mächte und Feste der Vegetation, esp. Part One on
the god Kàma, such as on pp. 18 and 57.

Perspectives regarding the phenomenon of the wishing tree vary.

Yet, as a distinct motif, both the ≤àlabhañjikà and the dohada pose
express grace, playfulness, and vitality in such a way that the dec-
orated exterior of countless temples have made lasting impressions
of auspiciousness on generations of believers. Whereas the dark inte-
rior, the garbhag‰ha, might have been suggestive of ultimate secrets
and mysteries, the sun-lit stone reliefs outside of temples such as
those in Bhubaneshwar, Konarak, and Khajuraho have communi-
cated their messages of joy and beauty to all those who could relate
to their life-affirming statements.53
2.2.3 Rituals around trees in springtime

Although all six seasons were given their rightful place in the annual
cycle, it appears that, just like anywhere else, most people in India
experienced a special delight in the advent of spring. Unlike most
complex life-forms, man’s sexual activity is not bound biologically to
a set time of the year. Yet, as soon as the first signs appear that
nature is gradually waking up from her annual slumber, there is a
special life-affirming thrill in man, parallel to the burst of activity
seen among animals, in plants, and in trees.
In India, somehow the mythical event of Kàma’s return to life after
being turned into ashes by •iva’s fury, reinforces the impact of this
particular season. Mythical time is different from our seasonal or
calendrical time, but in the course of the amalgamation of diverse
local festivities and mythic events, this story of Kàma’s rebirth became
fittingly connected with springtime. Anderson, in her study of the
Vasantotsava, made it quite clear that the word Vasantotsava, or
spring festival, was an umbrella term for a disparate number of spring
related festivities, but not fixed to a set moment in the ritual year.54
There appear to have been a number of festivals, known by different
names, which clustered around the vernal equinox, at the end of
the lunar month of Phàlguna (February-March) and the beginning
of Caitra (March-April). However, the celebrations of the spring sea-
son extended from as early as the month of Màgha ( January-February)
53
That the motif inspired poets outside of India as soon as it was made acces-
sible to them by translations and pictorial reproductions, is clear in the case of
Shelley and Keats.
54
Anderson, Vasantotsava, p. 12.

104 chapter two
to as late as Vai≤àkha (April-May). Included in the Vasantotsava

complex of festivities were such festivals as Holì/Holàkà, Phàlgunotsava,
Caitrotsava, Madanamahotsava and Kàmotsava. Three potentially
distinct clusters are formed, by distinguishing between the festivities
designated simply as spring festivals, the festivities connected with
the god Kàma, and festivities called Holì. As Anderson says,
(. . .) the most manageable hypothesis is to assume that the Vasantotsava
is a generic festival which accommodates the widest variety of obser-
vances bearing structural similarities but exhibiting many regional
variants.
In the best known source narrating the celebration of Vasantotsava,
the play Ratnàvalì, we find information on the urban ways of cele-
brating spring.55 Street scenes, where common people make merry
to the point of ribaldry, are described, as are the celebrations of
members of the royal family inside the palace grounds. The activi-
ties of the ordinary people (laukikav‰tta), consisting of merry songs,
music, dance, imbibing of spirituous liquor, and sporting with red
water or powder seem rather estranged from the natural scenes of
flowering trees and the love-song of birds. Licentious behaviour
appears to be normal in spring festivals all over the world; India
was no exception, and it is clear from the literature that all strata
of Indian society participated in this festival. There are details, how-
ever, which allow us to look beyond this ribald ambiance and detect
such intimate things as women gracefully dancing, singing, listening
to stories of Gaurì/Pàrvatì, sitting on a swing, and worshipping
Kàma.56
The king was not supposed to engage directly in the merriment:
instead he was expected to watch the festivities of the citizens from
some distance, for instance, from the roof of the palace. There are,
however, descriptions and pictorial representations of the king and
his ladies engaged in similar rituals, although these did occur within
the palace compound, and not in the tumultuous streets outside. The
custom, especially among the women, of spraying each other with
red water from syringes (s‰«ga krì∂a) might have originated in the
practice of daubing one another with red or yellow pollen (flower-
55
The Ratnàvalì is elaborately discussed in Chapters 3 and 4 in Anderson,
Vasantotsava, as well as in Meyer, Trilogie, Part One.
56
See also the Kàvyamimàásà, in the edition of C.D. Dalal and R.A. Shastri,
p. 104.

dust) in the springtime. This might have been intended originally to

transfer fertility from the flowers to the persons on whom the flower-
dust was thrown. This practice reaffirms the affinity between nature
and the forces of nature at work in human beings. Whatever its ori-
gin, the spraying of red powder may be seen as a powerful sym-
bolic act that persists in most of the contemporary Holì festivities,
although its possible origin is not known to most of the celebrants.
As well as pollen and other plant powders, such as vermillion and
sandalwood, musk (an ointment with an even more obvious sexual
connotation) was also used in this way.
In the second half of the Ratnàvalì, the scene has shifted from the
city streets to the pleasure grove. The trees in this royal park are
on the verge of opening their mango-blossoms, or, if they have
already opened into flower, they fill the air with their pollen. The
air is full with the song of birds and the humming of bees. In the
words of Madanikà, the queen’s attendant,
Cool from Southern mountains blowing,
Freshly swells the grateful breeze,
Round with lavish bounty throwing
Fragrance from the waving trees;
To men below, and gods above,
The friendly messenger of love.57
Even those trees with blossoms of another colour are seen in a red
mist, since their newly opened leaves glow red. The bakula, campaka,
mango and a≤oka trees are mentioned especially. The bakula is said
to crave a mouthful of wine sprinkled at its roots before it is will-
ing to open its buds, and the campaka needs loud and joyous laugh-
ter from the mouth of a lovely girl. The trunk of the a≤oka is decorated
with saffron fingerprints, and an image of Kàma (also called
Pradyumna, Manmatha, and Madana) is placed at the roots and
then worshipped. The pregnancy craving of an a≤oka is commonly
known as a kick by ankleted feet. Preferably the woman’s feet are
dyed red; the robes and ornaments on this occasion should be
red too.
The mediating role of women in this seems to be twofold: firstly,
they satisfy the tree’s craving so that it can open its buds and burst
into flower and, secondly, the natural fecundity of the tree is trans-
57
See p. 270 in H.H. Wilson, Select specimen of the theatre of the Hindus (1871).

106 chapter two
ferred to the women by their intimate association with the tree. As

such, a woman in conjunction with a tree is a highly charged sym-
bol carrier of vitality, sexuality, and fertility. There might even be
a third aspect to this mediating role, e.g., in the apotropaic or exorcis-
tic function ascribed to the ritual ingestion of particles of the a≤oka
tree, such as drinking water in which eight a≤oka buds have been
soaked. Apparently, a direct correspondence was seen between the
name a≤oka (no-sorrow) and its properties of alleviating grief. In Bengal
and Orissa, a festival called A≤okàß†amì existed and still exists in
part today.58
Something comparable was done with the blossoms of the mango
tree. They were eaten or drunk on the first day of the new year
(i.e., the day after Holì). Mango blossoms, singly or still attached to
a twig, were put behind the ear or given as congratulation gifts.
That such mango twigs were compared to arrows from the god of
love, seems to have been more than just a literary cliché. In certain
regions, men and women would actually select their lovers by offering
them a mango or palà≤a twig. Although the mango tree has yellow
blossoms, it is described as glimmering red when its young leaves
dance in the spring breeze. Its blossoms are Kàma’s arrows, shaken
by the spring breeze and kindling the flame of love in the hearts of
women.
As a god, Kàma began to be associated with spring festivities in
many ways. In the Matsyapurà»a, there is an explicit connection
between mango tree and Kàma: when the fire with which •iva set
Kàma alight threatened to destroy the whole universe, •iva agreed,
for the sake of the universe, to divide this fire among the mango
tree, spring, the moon, flowers, bees, and cuckoos. Placing an image
of Kàma at the foot of an a≤oka tree emphasises such an associa-
tion, just as a tree growing from ashes is seen as a common link
between the dead and the living.
The pleasure groves of kings were designed to function for pri-
vate enjoyment, as in the spring, when the king went there with his
queen, possibly accompanied by many other lovely women. A plea-
sure grove was not raw nature, such as in the countryside, nor was
58
The ritual consumption of a≤oka and mango blossoms and leaves appears to
be an ancient custom. See Matsyapurà»a 154.243 ff.; Viß»udharmottarapurà»a 1.132.4;
and Bhavißyottarapurà»a 132.43 ff. On a≤oka amulets, see Meyer, Trilogie, Part One,
pp. 40–41.

it raw street-life, such as in the city lanes. It was a natural though

controlled and cultured (‘cooked’) environment, intended for the relax-
ation and enjoyment of the privileged classes. It appears that the
god Kàma was historically of more importance than he is today,
and that rituals of worship were performed by many, especially by
women wishing to have children, but also by men who wished to
gain control over women, especially by securing sexual vigour.59
Kàma’s rituals were also connected with women praying for good
mates or husbands, or for a long life for their husband once they
were married.
Evidence of Kàma’s connection with trees, illustrated, for exam-
ple, by his incarnation as a mango or a≤oka tree, and by his use of
their blossoms as arrows, may be enhanced by Coomaraswamy’s
statement that the god Kàma originated from a yakßa.60 Such an
assumption finds partial support both in Kàma’s iconographic rep-
resentation and in the altars or shrines which were made for the
worship of Kàma. His image was placed beneath a tree, a small
altar or stone table was placed in front of it, and the god was wor-
shipped with offerings of flowers, turmeric, sandalpaste, perfumes,
rice, clothes, etc., while the trunk of the tree was decorated with
saffron or red fingerprints. It is no coincidence that the ideal time
for wedding ceremonies was spring, and that Kàma was addressed in
many of them, as can be seen in ancient text passages like Atharvaveda
3.29.7, and Gobhila’s G‰hyasùtra 1.1.10. Other parallels, such as the
extensive use of the colour red, the consumption of wine, honey
(from pollen!), and unhusked grain, as well as the throwing of red
powder, make the connection even more obvious.
2.2.4 Lovers on a swing

A vertical wooden pole was erected on many occasions, for exam-
ple, the yùpa in the sacrificial context, the jarjara in the centre of a
theatre performance, and the Indra-standard on the occasion of the
Indra-mahotsava. Those three wooden poles have verticality and cen-
trality in common. It also appears that for such solemn occasions the
log had to be brought in fresh from the forest, where it had been
selected, honoured, and cut with due consideration and celebration.
59
For this particular aspect, see Anderson, Vasantotsava, pp. 65–66.
60
See A. Coomaraswamy, Yakßas (1928/1931), pp. 22–27.

108 chapter two
This ritual of solemnly going to the forest to select, worship, cut,

and transport the log is prescribed in the manuals as vanaprave≤a(na),
and it appears that more or less the same procedure was prescribed
when a tree was sought for a pole, for the construction of a house
or a temple, and for the sculpting of a wooden image of the deity.
The ‘fixing’ of such a pole in the earth was also a matter full of
symbolic and ritual importance. As a symbolic act, the fixing of a
pole was connected with all cosmogonical fixing that had been done
before this world became stable. Mountains were thought to ‘fix’ the
floating earth and protect the sky from falling upon and crushing
the earth. Vertical objects fixed in the earth were considered to be
kila, nails hammered into the surface in order to keep things stable.
The act of consecration ( pratiß†hà) made this feature of cosmogonic
re-enactment even more evident; the ritual act of consecration was
thought to ‘fix’ ( pratiß†hàpayati ) the object forever, or at least for the
duration of the sacrifice or festival.
Ideas about stability were also connected with the myth of the
ocean-churning. Things as they are known to us now are thought
to have come into being through the act of churning the Ocean of
Milk, and this was done with the help of a churning-stick. The usual
way a churning-stick functions is by rotating it, drawing half-circles
till the precious substance emerges from the depths. The parallels
with the ritual act of making fire by using the fire-drill, and the sex-
ual act of a man penetrating a woman, are obvious, and referred
to repeatedly.
In the act of planting a tree (v‰kßàropa»a) some such functions and
symbolisms are anticipated. It is clear that, however auspicious, power-
laden, and highly charged with cosmological symbolism such ritual
poles might have been, trees were considered most useful and sacred
when alive and standing rooted. A roadside tree, casting its shade
on weary travellers and resting animals, was considered to be of
greater value than ten similar trees in the forest, but it appears that
when a special tree was needed, such as for a sacrificial post, a jar-
jara or an Indra-dhvaja, priests went to the forest to find a fitting tree
rather than selecting one of their own shade-trees closeby.
To what extent people used to go to the deep forest to celebrate
spring rites around trees is not clear. Some of the flowering trees
might have been found in the direct vicinity, in the village square,
the outskirts of the city, or the city parks. Especially in Buddhist

literature, we read about orchards: monoculture plantations of, for

instance, mango trees. City parks appear to have been laid out for
the recreation of citizens, and festivals might well have taken place
in such public parks. Country people most probably celebrated those
festivities in the woodland or in the village square.
In some such recreational scenes in groves, parks, and orchards,
depicted in the relatively late genre of court miniatures, we see lovers
on a swing. Very often, this is the divine couple of K‰ß»a and Ràdhà
set against an idyllic background of bowers, ponds, and safely graz-
ing cows or deer, but we also see aristocratic couples enjoying them-
selves in the breeze generated by the gentle swinging movement.61
Couples are shown in various stages of sexual activity, and there is
even a genre of semi-pornographic images in which artful lovers use
the movement of two separate swings to add new thrills to their con-
course, or a swinging woman is slowly lowered over and on top of
an expectant lover, passively but ardently reclining on a couch.62
Such swings were usually suspended from trees. Swings could range
from simple wooden boards hung from a tree-branch to cushioned
love-seats in a secluded bower. There must have been swings per-
manently attached to trees in private gardens, but some of them
may have been brought out especially for the occasion of spring. It
appears that recreational swinging, in India, mainly belonged to the
domain of lovers and of women, either in groups or singly.
In an anonymous bàrahmàsa song in old Marà†hì, it is said that
In the festival of the month of Chaitra, banners are raised,
women worship Gaurì in the sitting posture on the swing,
Southernwood (davanà) is offered to Bhavanì and Shankara
who are worshipped with great devotion.63
61
In a number of Indian museums, as well as in the collections of other muse-
ums around the world, we find Indian swing scenes. Some illustrations of such
scenes are found in the following books: B.N. Sharma, Festivals of India, figs. 11, 15,
18, 22, 35, plate 2, as well as a photo of a contemporary swing scene, fig. 69;
Leona Anderson, Vasantotsava, figs. facing pp. 88 and 192; Herbert Härtel/Jeanine
Auboyer, Indien und Süd Asien (1971), figs. 121, 122, 123; Klaus Fischer, Erotik und
Askese (1979), fig. 14; Heinrich Gerhard Franz, Das alte Indien (1990), fig. 420, and
Ashley Thirleby, Tantra-Reigen der vollkommenen Lust (1987), p. 193.
62
See Ashley Thirleby, the figure on p. 193, as well as illustration 2 on p. 81
and the illustration on p. 105 in The Illustrated Kama Sutra translated by Sir Richard
Burton and F.F. Arbuthnot (1998).
63
In Vaudeville, Bàrahmàsa, p. 80.

110 chapter two
In general, in the genre of Bàrahmàsa, swinging is often associated

with the rainy months of •rava»a64 and Bhàdon. There is even a
special ràga, called Ràga Hindola, often illustrated by lovers, espe-
cially K‰ß»a and Ràdhà, on a swing.65
As well as recreational and erotic swinging, magico-ritual swing-
ing was practised by priests, kings, ascetics, and deities. During
dolayàtràs, the divine couple, mostly K‰ß»a-Ràdhà, or a variation of
them, was taken out of the temple-interior and brought outside, in
a joyous procession where all could see and cheer their beloved gods.
At some stage in such a procession, the divine couple were put on
a swing and swung gently to and fro, pushed lightly by the priests.
In ancient India, priests are said to have used swinging as a device
for granting fertility to men, cattle, and land.66 When a king was
put on a swing in the course of a court ceremony it was often con-
nected with fertility and prosperity as well. The swing could even
be made to function as a scale when the sovereign pledged to donate
his weight in gold coins to his subjects.67 When ascetics wished to
use swinging as a penitent practice, there seem to have been two
options: what the British later called hook-swinging (devotees mak-
ing themselves into a human swing by suspending themselves from
iron hooks pierced through the skin on their backs) and what was
referred to as topsy-turvy swinging (as sàdhus hanging head down
from a swing, and moving slowly over an open cowdung fire which
tortures them with heat and smoke). We will come back to this non-
recreational swinging later.
It may be supposed that temple-deities, who gradually began to
be cared for as if they were kings in a palace or highly respected
guests, were brought out in a procession towards a natural setting
where they were put on a swing as part of the ritual year. Two
occasions on which swinging was a favourite pastime were the advent
64
See plates 50, 72 and 90 in V.P. Dwivedi, Bàrahmàsa: The Song of Seasons in
Literature and Art (1980).
65
Plate 6 in Dwivedi, Bàrahmàsa, as well as in some of the other illustrations
mentioned previously.
66
As in Aitareya Àra»yaka 1.2.4; in A.B. Keith’s translation, p. 77:
Let him not withdraw from the earth one foot, lest he lose hold of it.
The Hot‰ mounts the swing, the Udgàt‰ the seat of Udumbara wood.
The swing is masculine, the seat feminine, and they are united.
This union is made at the beginning of the hymn for the sake of offspring.
67
The ceremony in which the king weighed himself against gold, which was sub-
sequently distributed, was called the tulapurußadàna ceremony.

of spring and the advent of the monsoon. There is an easy, natu-

ralistic explanation for this: after the apparent suspense of winter,
the coming of spring called people away from their houses, out into
the open, where they celebrated the return of vitality and warmer
weather. The advent of the rainy season, signalled by oppressive heat
and heavy clouds darkening the sky, was a time when people des-
perately tried to find some reprieve on roof-terraces, in gardens, and
on swings.
There might be other reasons as well. Since both spring and rain
are intimately connected with eroticism, sexuality, and fertility, swing-
ing in spring and summer has a connotation of helping the forces
of vitality. Spring-swinging would help in building up the erotic
mood, whereas summer-swinging would help in releasing the long-
awaited rain, as in a sexual climax. Rhythmic movement, especially
in dance, was often part of a festival, and was considered essential
if the event was to be magically effective and to allow the season to
move forward, so to speak. It may have been connected with the
course of the sun as well: swinging connects the three worlds and
must have been seen as a powerful means of evoking blessings from
above.68 “By swinging high in the air they make the plants grow
high”.69
When a statue of Viß»u or K‰ß»a is brought out from the tem-
ple on the occasion of a dolayàtrà and put on a swing, this may be
seen as a pastime, a holiday away from the darkness, regularity, and
fixity of temple-life, but also as a celebration of the rasalìlà. When
68
Some authors stretched this connection between the magical act of swinging
and the sun as far as linking the ascetic practice of pole-climbing at sunset with it.
Certain devotees were said to have climbed poles just before the sun was setting,
stretching themselves towards the sun as much as possible. Since this implied an
acrobatic balance between the pole and the direction of the setting sun, this ritual
act is sometimes called ‘swinging’ too. It is clear that this is not swinging as such.
See, for instance, H. Chakraborty, Asceticism in ancient India (1973), p. 161, who refers
to Chinese visitors who witnessed this in Prayàga, at the confluence of the rivers.
69
In J.G. Frazer, The Golden Bough, part 7, p. 101; see also pp. 103 and 107, as
well as part 4, pp. 150, 156 and 279 ff. Elaborate notes on swinging in Indonesia
were published by Albert C. Kruyt, ‘Het schommelen in de Indische archipel’ (1938).
As far as I know, no extensive study has been done on the magical properties of
swinging since then. I myself touched upon it in two articles on swinging in India,
‘De kunst van het schommelen. Vrouwen vieren haar vrijheid in India’ (1991) and
‘Liefdesspel en rebellie. Schommelfeesten in India’ (2000). Rita Wiesinger and Josef
Haekel published an ethnological article on a particular swinging festival, ‘Contributions
to the Swinging Festival in Western Central India’ (1968). I intend to publish a
more thorough study on ritual swinging in the near future.

112 chapter two
the single god is swung to and fro, the gopìs, whose role is performed
preferably by devadàsìs, dance around him in ecstacy. Such a dance
around a swing may have represented both recreation and procre-
ation. The latter may be put to maximum effect when the dancing
girls carry full water-jars with them which are emptied in an act of
sympathetic magic in the course of their dance.
Which was considered to have occurred first, the recreation of
humans or that of the deities, is not an issue here, but since much
of the daily, periodical, and annual cycles in the temple-services may
have developed in an analogy to the elaborate services with which
Indian kings were surrounded in their palaces, there may be more
aspects to the relatively late phenomenon of deities on a swing than
might be thought at first sight. Although there is definitely more to
this practice than just recreation, in the sense that gods need recre-
ation just as much as men need it, it is obvious that at least part
of the ritual swinging of deities may be considered recreational.
Not only lovers and statues of deities, but also individual girls and
women are depicted on swings. Again, it is the relatively late art of
miniature painting, which thrived at most of the royal courts, espe-
cially in the northern half of India since the presence of the Mughals,
which provides us with this pictorial evidence. When girls and women
are portrayed in a female-only context, there is no love in the air,
but there might be longing. Young girls, allowed a moment of free-
dom, enjoy themselves around a swing, where they push themselves,
or are pushed by female relatives and servants, high into the air.
For a moment they can forget the restrictions of comportment and
can swoosh with vigour high into the air, let their skirts blow around
them, let their braids loosen from their usual neatness, and sur-
render to the joy of the moment and the illusion of freedom and
weightlessness.70
At times, instead of joy, a slight melancholy or longing is por-
trayed, there might be loneliness, the pain of an unrequitted love,
or of an unwished marriage alliance arranged by parents. In the so-
called viraha genre of poems of longing for an absent beloved, there
is a song in which the exalted swinging of other couples during the
70
In my search for theoretical models relevant to such ‘women-only’ swinging I
found no adequate parallels. See my article ‘Liefdesspel en rebellie’ (‘Love-play and
rebellion’) in which I studied the possibly rebellious and cathartic aspects of such
swinging.

month of •ràva»a makes the solitary person feel even more lost and
lonely:
My friends have hung swings for swinging with their lovers,
Green is the land and they wear saffron clothes—
And my heart too swings to and fro,
Tossed up and down by Viraha’s harsh blows!71
There might even be a mystical kind of sadness, such as in the more
ecstatic bhakti poetry where natural settings often seem to increase
the longing for the divine beloved, for example, in the songs of
Mìràbàì: when her lady-friends celebrate the Tìj festival with exu-
berant swinging, her soul longs only for K‰ß»a.72
There may be a jubilant festival mood among the women, too.
In India, during some of the festivals, public swings were erected
temporarily, for the duration of the festival only. These were meant
for the use of all. As many of the festivals brought with them a con-
siderably licentious atmosphere of ribaldry and jocularity, most women
from the higher strata of society may have felt uneasy about mix-
ing with such crowds, and may have searched their own ways of
enjoyment. Swings were hung in courtyards and private gardens for
their exclusive use, and there they could let themselves go, free from
the usual restrictions, free from the usual criticism imposed on them
by the men of the household or, worse still, by their female in-laws.73
To what extent the creative purposes (swinging for offspring, for
crops, for rain), the devotional purposes (swinging from hooks in
fulfilment of a vow during festivals), the ascetic purposes (self-torture
by ascetics outside of festival time, for instance, by swinging upside
down over a fire), and the recreative purposes (the swinging of girls
on their own, lovers on a swing catching a breeze; K‰ß»a put on a
swing with Ràdhà sitting next to him, or with gopìs dancing around
him) of swinging are interconnected historically, is difficult to say.
There seems to be a general association between movement and fer-
tility: dancing, rocking, swinging, beating lightly with a stick, etc.
The gentle rocking motion of a cradle hanging from the ceiling like
71
A passage from an old Avadhì song about •ràva»a by Muhammad Jàyàsì, see
Vaudeville, Bàrahmàsa, p. 65.
72
See A.J. Alston, Devotional Poems of Mìràbàì (1980), song 115, pp. 80–81. Also:
Vaudeville, Bàrahmàsa, pp. 53–55.
73
For a swing-song still sung today, see “Hindole ka gìt”, in Randhawa, Flowering
Trees of India (1957), p. 36.

114 chapter two
a swing, is said, apart from its soothing effect, to help the baby grow.
The daring movement of swinging as high as possible during festi-
val time is said to let the crops grow just as high. It is as if the
swinging person can touch the sun, the source of all vitality, or touch
and bring down the clouds, so that it will rain. The recreational
aspect of K‰ß»a on a swing, separated from the rigidity and
immobility of daily temple-service, may be connected with sexual-
ity, fertility, and the coming of rain simultaneously. It appears that
here, again, fertility, creation, recreation, and ascetism are closely
connected.
The varieties of hook-swinging, studied by Oddie, by Crooke, and
by Powell, seem to indicate that the British term is rather mislead-
ing.74 Swinging presupposes a regular rocking movement to and fro
on an axis, a pendulum-like rhythm, whereas the ‘swinging’ in the
so-called hook-swinging involves the actor simply hanging from a
horizontal construction with either hooks in the flesh of his back or
a rope fastened to his waist, or both. When one studies the photo-
graphs illustrating Powell’s article, the association with ‘hanging’ a
criminal, or offering a human sacrifice to the local god or goddess,
is easily made. However, a unilinear development from the hanging
of a sacrificial victim to the swinging of volunteers from a rope or
from hooks during a festival, to the swinging of the images of deities,
cannot be substantively proved. It is not clear, either, in what way
mainstream Hindu ideas absorbed popular c.q. tribal elements of
swinging, nor how popular practices got associated with and legiti-
mated by Hindu mythology. There could be other spheres of influence:
age-old, non-bràhma»ic practices; mythological narratives re-enacted
in festivals, ceremonies, and rituals, court-ceremonies of swinging and
weighing the king; ancient practices connected with sun-symbolism;
and the elements of a tournament, rivalry, young men’s daring, gym-
nastic feats, etc. Yet, all these variations on swinging during festival
time have an aspect of entertainment, and as such are recreational.
74
Geoffrey A. Oddie, ‘Hook-Swinging and Popular Religion in South India dur-
ing the nineteenth century’ (1986), and ‘Popular Religion, Elites and Reform: Hook-
Swinging and its Prohibition in Colonial India, 1800–1894’ (1995); J.H. Powell,
‘Hook-swinging in India’ (1914); W. Crooke, ‘The Holi: A vernal festival of the
Hindus’ (1914), particularly p. 69. See also some interesting remarks in J.A. Dubois,
A description of the character, manners and customs of the people of India, (1879), p. 303, as
well as several books on sàdhus and on asceticism. As far as I know, the oldest
Western description of hook-swinging is by Caspero Balbi, ‘Voyage to Pagu’, included
in Pinkerton’s Voyages and Travels (1808–1814), vol. 9, p. 398.

Although the ascetic practices of swinging over a fire, or using a

swing as support for the arms as the kha‰e≤vari sàdhus do, are not pri-
marily meant as entertainment, those practices acquire a recreational
aspect as awestruck spectators give money or other gifts to the
ascetics.75 The first practice appears to have become very rare, but
the second practice, that of the kha‰e≤varis, can still be seen among
contemporary sàdhus. Some of them who have vowed to stand still
and upright, like a tree, for many years, move only rarely, when
they take a short rest, whereas most kha‰e≤varis rest by leaning on a
swing. Traditionally, this swing was suspended from the branch of
a tree,—this àsana is often called the tree position since the sàdhu
aspires to become like a tree, upright and still, with feet which grad-
ually begin to look like roots—but nowadays such swings are often
attached to a ceiling or to a specially customised contraption. In one
of the famous engravings made by Picart in 1729, we see an ascetic
hanging this way, obviously in one of his relaxed moments, as he
‘hangs’ and doesn’t stand firm as he was supposed to.76 It is obvi-
ous that this is a variant in which there are a tree and a swing, but
there is no swinging as such.77
Whatever may have been the purpose of swinging, our interest
here is in the fact that swinging was originally done from the branch
of a tree. This may have a plainly practical origin, but in addition
there is the axial symbolism of the tree to be taken into account.
The tree is the fixed point for the swinging movement. It is the axis
75
The ascetic swinging over a smouldering cowdung fire is described in several
studies on Indian asceticism, such as Robert Lewis Gross, The Sàdhus of India (1992);
Haripada Chakraborti, Asceticism in Ancient India (1973); John Campbell Oman, The
mystics, ascetics, and saints of India (1903); G.S. Ghurye, Indian Sàdhus (1964). When it
is just an act of swinging upside down, it is referred to as bat-swinging, or bat-
penance, vagguli-vrata, or simply adhomukhi, ùrdhvapàda, or adha˙≤iras tapas. Manu, in
the ancient flood-story, is described as having hung down like this for ten thousand
years: compare Mahàbhàrata 1.30.2, 3.187.4 ff, and 7.75.14. Also, in the Harivaá≤a,
the serpent •eßa is said to have swung from a tree in ascetic fervour for a thou-
sand years.
76
Picart based his drawing on Tavernier’s travel impressions of India: B. Picart,
Cérémonies et coutumes religieuses de tous les peuples du monde (1723–1743). Copies of this
particular drawing are reproduced in Dolf Hartsuiker, Sàdhus. Holy men of India
(1993), p. 18, as well as in Susanne Lausch and Felix Wiesinger (eds.), Reisen zu den
Reichtümern Indiens. Abenteuerliche Jahre beim Großmogul 1641–1667 (1984), p. 221.
77
It is interesting to note that a kha‰e≤vari sàdhu is popularly referred to as a
“stander” and never a “swinger”: he practices the tapas of continuous standing, often
with one leg intentionally raised up. As such, he is often called an ekapàdasthitas.

116 chapter two
around which the swing makes its half-circles. The tree forms the
still point, the pin, the kila that keeps one pinned to the earth, how-
ever high one might swing. A second aspect of this axial symbolism
might be found in the ascetic practice of becoming (‘like a tree’)
(v‰kßa-vat). This vow of standing stock-still (da»∂a-vat) may or may not
be connected with •iva as Stambha by the sàdhus, in the cluster of
associations the kha‰e≤vari might well have made a conscious choice
of imitating the world tree as well as the trunk-like aspects of •iva,
as sthànu, stambha and li«ga. When •iva stood in asceticism, there was
nothing that could disturb him: he had become like a tree, like a
mountain. The sàdhu who takes the kha‰e≤vari vow may well do so
in imitation of •iva. In this connection, we are reminded of the
famous Jain ascetic Gomate≤vara, who stood still for such a long
time that vines and creepers started to cover him, in the same way
they would wind themselves around a tree. His giant statue in •rava»a
Be¬gola, Kar»à†aka, has become world-famous. There are also other
awe-inspiring literary examples, such as the bràhma»a Jajali, who stood
like a wooden post, so engrossed in tapas that a pair of birds built
their nest in his matted hair.78 Another example is the ‰ßi Cyavana,
who assumed a posture called viràsana: standing still like an inani-
mate post, he remained on the spot for such a long period of time
that he became covered all over with creepers, and was turned into
an ant-hill. This way he began to look like a mound of earth.79
What we have thus encountered in our search for the image of swing
and tree, is a variation on the general motif of verticality: the one
who swings for leisure and pleasure does so to catch a breeze, to
enjoy the illusion of freedom and weightlessness, to be cradled in
the primeval motion of a sexual encounter. Statues of deities are
taken out ‘to be aired’, but, in their case, recreation is always cre-
ation as well, whether the statues are single or paired. The swing-
ing movements of humans and gods are said to let the crops grow
high and to let the rains come down.
78
When the fledglings had flown away together with their parents, Jajali waited
for another month, just to be sure the birds would not return, before he left the
spot. See Mahàbhàrata 12.262, as well as M.G. Bhagat on this in Ancient Indian
Asceticism, p. 207.
79
Mahàbhàrata 3.122 ff., see also M.G. Bhagat, Ancient Indian Asceticism (1976),
p. 207.

Even when some of the instances considered here, such as hook-

swinging and pole-swinging, are not really swinging as such, they
are included because of a second kind of resemblance: the ideal of
stability and verticality. Just as one can swing freely only when one
can rely on the tree as being stable and deeply rooted in the earth
while it spreads its branches towards the sky, so the vine can cling
to the host tree in complete trust that it will remain where it is.
Kha‰e≤varins consciously imitate the tree, and some ascetics in their
immobility come to resemble trees. A tree is an ideal; the swinging
of a young woman on a swing suspended from a tree and the cling-
ing of a vine to a tree are counterpoints to this ideal. Swinging
appears to counterbalance the tree in its fixity, its stability. The tree
from which a swing is hung is just another kila, a peg or nail that
keeps the world in place. This deeper meaning of swinging was
expressed in the Bhavißyapurà»a, when the swing for •iva and Gaurì
was said to consist of the two poles Ìß†a (sacrifice) and Pùrta
(beneficence), the upper wooden plank was called Truth, and the
rope was called the serpent Vàsuki.80
In quite another vein, many centuries later, Kabìr wrote the fol-
lowing song about swinging:
The conscious and unconscious are poles.
Between them thought has made a swing.
All beings and all worlds hang there.
The swing sways ceaselessly.
Myriad beings exist there.
The sun and the moon course there.
Myriad ages pass and the swing goes on.
Infinite swing: sky, earth, air, and water,
and God himself taking form.81
2.3 Senses and the sacred: The tension between bhoga and yoga
2.3.1 Kàma and tapas in the sylvan setting

So far in this chapter, we have considered the economic value and aes-
thetic delights of trees. Forests, parks, and groves were also connected
80
Bhavißyapurà»a 133, also called Dolàndolanamàhàtmya or Andolakavidhivar»ana. I
regret not having had access to a special work on dolayàtrà, the Dolayàtràviveka.
81
Kabìr, in the English rendering by Rabindranath Tagore, One Hundred Poems
of Kabir (1973), verse 16.

118 chapter two
to a more negative appraisal of the world in the view of most Indians,

for example, the ascetics. For them, trees seem to have meant a
shelter for the night, a shaded place to meditate, and a secure cir-
cle where dangerous animals, the inclemencies of weather, and the
usual claims of worldly society could or should not penetrate. Those
who lived in an à≤rama spent their lives in svàdhyàya, study, and reli-
gious discourse. They also performed fire sacrifices, whereas the
ascetic was ordered to live without a sacrificial fire. In the pre-
scriptions for the ascetic life living beneath a tree (v‰kßamùle) was one
of the options.
Since trees could simultaneously symbolise the joys of the senses
and immunity to the same, it may be interesting to take a closer
look at those divine, historical, or literary figures for whom these
two domains persistently overlapped or tugged at each other. One
example of such a conflict can be found in the story of °≤ya≤‰«ga,
the young man who was brought up in the forest without knowing
what life was like outside the simple hermitage in which he lived.
The same glowing devotion he developed to the values of his iso-
lated existence, consisting mainly of sacrifice and contemplation, he
felt also for the beautiful young woman who was sent to the her-
mitage to seduce him (with the ulterior motive that their coupling
could release the long awaited rains). Never before had he to make
a distinction between yoga and bhoga: it simply had not been neces-
sary in his single-minded existence. When the temptress presented
herself to him, he could only see her as a fellow-ascetic, since that
was his only point of reference. He saw her as a male colleague,
but one with much more fervour, charm, and radiance than he or
his guru could ever achieve. The glow that was kindled in him was
so strong that the only thing he could think of when she left was
to follow her path and be initiated into her tradition. Although the
motive behind this attempt at seduction was the ancient connection
between love, sexual arousal, and the falling of long-awaited rain,
the most interesting motif, for us, is the original undividedness of
yoga and bhoga in this story.82
Although there is an abundance of pictorial illustrations of encoun-
ters between lovely women and forest-ascetics, this one can easily be
82
For the story of °≤ya≤‰«ga, see Mahàbhàrata 1.10.3.4. About his ignorance
towards women it is said there: “‰≤ya≤‰«go vanacaratapa˙ svàdhyàya tatpara˙ anab-
hijña˙ sa nàrì»àá vißayànàá sukhasya ca.”

recognised since the young man is often portrayed with a single

horn, or sometimes two horns, protruding from his brow. This horn
refers to his origin in the womb of a deer (‰≤a or ‰≤ya), which had
lapped up ‰ßi Vibhandaka’s sperm after the ascetic had ejaculated
at the sight of the nymph Urva≤ì.
This is a relatively simple example of what could become opaque
in the stories of Ràdhà’s love for K‰ß»a, and even more so in
Mìràbàì’s pining for her Lord. The love that existed between K‰ß»a
and Ràdhà is bewildering only in the light of theology or ethics. It
is simple and straightforward when seen in the light of kàma and
mysticism. This rasalìlà is popularly described as if no distinction
existed between yoga and bhoga, but, in general, the yoga here is more
bhakti than asceticism. For the devotee, the pull between Ràdhà and
K‰ß»a speaks of the pull between one’s own soul and the alluring
god. What becomes complex in the case of Mìràbàì, however, is the
intense and exclusive longing expressed by a human being for the
non-human K‰ß»a.83 Whereas Ràdhà and K‰ß»a could be consid-
ered to have moved more or less on the same ontological level, there
is an existential barrier between a smitten princess and a divine
beloved, even when, in mystic experience, this fine line seems to be
crossed during moments of ecstacy.
There seem to be three phases in the pull of attraction examplified
here: direct, with no distinction, as in the case of °≤ya≤‰«ga; direct,
with the pangs of separation as well as the glory of unity, as in the
case of the rasalìlà between Ràdhà and K‰ß»a; and indirect, with
the hard ontological gap between them, as in the case of Mìràbàì.84
In all three situations, the images of surrounding nature provide a
set of pointers as well as prompters: what is presented to the senses
is not just registered, it is appropriated and referred to oneself.
Processes in nature stimulate and set in motion parallel emotions
83
For Mìràbàì’s texts, see A.J. Alston, The devotional poems of Mìràbàì (1980). In
Mìràbàì’s Padàvalì there is also a Bàrahmàsa in old Braj-Ràjasthàni, in the viràhinì
mood. See Vaudeville, Bàrahmàsa, pp. 53–55. In Alston, this is song 115, pp. 80–81.
84
M.S. Randhawa, in Flowering trees in India (1957), speaks rather condescend-
ingly about the way original sensuality or aestheticism “spent itself by the end of
the seventh century AD” (p. 9) “After the Guptas we notice the decay of Hindu
culture. The Hindu mind got so tarnished that it became completely oblivious of
the beauty of buteas, erythrinas and bouhinias. Hindu poetry became stereotyped,
completely lost the erotic charm of Kalidasa and degenerated into bhajans, the
so-called devotional songs, which were colourless, pessimistic and insipid (. . .).”
(p. 13).

120 chapter two
and acts in the human system. There is an example of how even

the ‰ßis collectively became enchanted by the scent of the damanaka
blossoms on the mountain Mandara. Dazed, they went home to
share their enchantment with their wives. Brahmà, who saw the
world thus getting lost in the whirls of passion, revolted, and won-
dered why a tree called damanaka (controller, tamer) should cause
such agitation.85
This last example is especially interesting because the connection
between the scent of the damanaka blossoms and the ‰ßis’ behaviour
is formed by their wives. For the men, the scent seems to have trig-
gered a set of memories and recollections, and to have turned their
feet in the opposite direction, whereas a woman like Mìràbàì was
never enticed to go back to enjoy the world, let alone go back to
her husband. When flowering trees performed their magic on her,
it made her lovesickness for K‰ß»a even more unbearable. In other
words, whereas the mood of spring is described as working its effect
on women especially, men are found to be affected as well. King
Pa»∂u is an example of a man overcome with an amorous passion
for his wife, Madrì, on the sight and smell of the pàrijàta tree, even
though he knew that it would cost him his life. I have no literary
example of men becoming more fervently mystical as a result of such
natural effervescence, but the case of Mìràbàì illustrates that a woman
mystic could be prompted to more intense longing for her divine
beloved by the moods of the season, without thinking back on worldly
love or making the detour of human attachments. The South Indian
mystic, Andal (À»†à¬ ), the only woman among the twelve A¬vàrs,
may be a case in point too. The great dark clouds heralding
the rains made her longing for the Lord even more intense; if he
wouldn’t come to her and “leave the mark of his saffron paste upon
her breasts, she would wither away and fall, like a lovely erukki leaf
gone dry in the summer.”86
85
This story is told in Bhavißyottarapurà»a 133.1–23. About a damanaka festival, see
Agnipurà»a 80. The rite in which the leaves and/or blossoms were consecrated to
•iva is called damanaka-àroha»a-vidhi. The word damanaka could also be a corruption
of Madana (= Kàma), see J.J. Meyer, Trilogie, Part One, pp. 50 and 158–159.
Sometimes Damana is also considered a kind of divinity, and is put on a swing
together with his beloved Àrdrà, in the garden of the gods. For the damanotsava (or
damanikotsava, resp. damanàropa»a and damanacaturda≤ì), see Welbon and Glocum,
Festivals, p. 35.
86
See Vidya Dehejia’s translation in Uma Chakravarty, ‘The World of the Bhaktin
in South Indian Traditions—The Body and Beyond’ (1989), p. 25.

These examples seem to indicate that nature’s beauty was gener-

ally thought to evoke the mood of love and longing, be it human
or divine. In Indian poetry, especially kàvya, the season’s charms
appear to work as aggravators, intensifiers of moods already latently
existent. It might well be inherent to poetry, as a genre, that such
effects are used deliberately, even by mystical poetesses such as Andal
and Mìràbàì. To what extent the technicalities of yoga, especially its
aspect of pratyàhàra, were known to Indian poets who wrote on bhoga,
is yet to be discovered. Even Bhart‰hari, the courtier poet with mys-
tical inclinations, who seems to have been personally familiar with
at least the rudimentaries of yoga, hardly mentions it in the medita-
tion-technical terms of, for instance, the Yogasùtras. Whenever he
refers to yoga, for example, in verse 178 of his trilogy on love, worldly
conduct, and renunciation he even literally opposes bhoga and yoga,
he appears to use the word yoga more in a quietistic than a techni-
cal sense.87 In his Vairàgya≤ataka-trayam, pleasures are opposed to calm,
t‰ß»a is opposed to ≤ama, vi≤ayà to viveka, bhavarati to paritoßa, and vitarka
to dhairya-druma, literally the tree of resolve. Words like dhyàna, samàdhi,
and even nirvikalpa-samàdhi (verse 183) are used freely to indicate the
contrast with the turmoil and treachery of the senses. In this way,
we find blossom-laden trees, ambrosial vines, and passionate creep-
ers used as metaphors for enamoured women in the domain of kàma,
and at the same time, in the vairàgya section, the metaphors used
are dhairya-druma and even ≤‰»gàra-druma, as well as phrases like the
peace of the forest, the tree as a place to spend the night, and the
simple food provided by the wilderness.
Bhart‰hari’s three sections could be seen as representing the three
main aspects of the poet’s life. Although “the collection has suffered
centuries of inflation”, and although it isn’t even certain whether
such a person as Bhart‰hari ever really existed, we take him to have
been a literary personality and call him Bhart‰hari.88 In popular
Indian tradition he was identified as a king or a courtier-poet in the
service of a king. Whatever his background, his verses display some-
thing of a highly personal dilemma: although he was enchanted with
the world and particularly with its amorous aspects, he also saw its
sordidness; and although he was equally enchanted with the promise
87
Vairàgya≤ataka-trayam 178: “(. . .) yoge dhairya-samàdhi-siddhi-sulabhe buddhiá
vivadhvaá buddhà˙”.
88
See Barbara Stoler Miller, Bhart‰hari: poems (1967), p. XV.

122 chapter two
of peace and tranquility offered by a life of renunciation, the pull

of mundane power, passion, and prestige left him undecided through-
out his life.
The collection of his verses, as a whole, does not appear to offer
a solution. Obviously, the poet has not yet made the final choice,
but it seems that later in life he felt a distressing need to tear him-
self away before he would be overtaken by old age and his sensu-
ality would become pathetic. As a poet, he attempted to distill from
the raw confusion of instantaneous emotion the essential qualities
recognised as rasa and bhàva in Indian aesthetics. Somehow, he did
not manage to find peace in some transitional mood or intermedi-
ate state, as most of us seem to do in life. This is why, if one of
his verses would be taken out of the standardised collection, it could
be taken as either professing intense sensuality or preaching world-weary
abandonment, whereas the collection as a whole presents us with
the half-colours of a continuous dilemma. This is expressed most
poignantly in the phrase
. . . sthanabharaparikhinnaá yauvanaá và vanaá và . . .
. . . the youth of women wearied by heavy breasts,

or the forest . . .89
There is a painting in which this intermediate mood is well por-
trayed: Bhart‰hari, beneath a full-grown tree, stands between a group
of ladies (Pi«galà, his wife, accompanied by six attendants) and a
group of ascetics or wandering friars. Bhart‰hari himself is depicted
more or less as one of those ascetics. His hair is tucked up in an
ascetic’s top-knot, but he is still a bard, carrying his musical instru-
ment with him. The setting is peaceful: a cluster of trees in a simplified
landscape of hills and a river. Although it appears that his wife had
come to see him, and not vice versa, his dilemma is shown in the
way he stands apart from both groups, with his head inclined towards
the women. On the reverse of the original painting was a verse indi-
cating his confusion:
89
Verse 85:
kim iha bahubhir uktair yukti≤ùnyai˙ pralàpair
dvayam iha purußà»àá sarvadà sevanìyam
abhinavamadalàlìlàlasaá sundarì«àá
stanabharaparikhinnaá yauvanaá và vanaá và.

The lady with the eyes of a fawn

has captured my heart as a quarry
and robbed me of peace and comfort of my mind.
Friends! your advice proved of no avail.90
Bhart‰hari appears to provide an illustration of how trees can simul-
taneously signify love, longing, passion for the enamoured, and peace,
comfort, and tranquility for the renounced. He describes trees in
glowing terms when he connects them with the seasons and the
delights of the senses, but he also describes the forest as a kind of
refuge from the turbulences of his love-life and the intrigues of the
court. In other words, to him trees can signify flaming passion (≤‰»gàra)
as well as tranquil resignation (≤ànti ). Stoler Miller puts it this way:
As in the erotic poetry, [in the vairàgya verses] the emotions of man
are associated with the natural world; here the calm mood of the for-
est reflects ascetic peace. In fact, Bhart‰hari effects a strange transpo-
sition of the elements of an amorous scene into a convincing description
of the tranquillity of a hermit in the forest. The hermit lies calm and
happy in the embrace of nature almost as a lover lies weary after
love-making in the arms of his mistress.91
Or, as verse 190 puts it:
Earth his soft couch,
Arms of creepers his pillow,
The sky his canopy,
Tender winds his fan,
The moon his brilliant lamp,
Indifference his mistress,
Detachment his joy—
Tranquil, the ash-besmeared hermit
Sleeps in ease like a king.92
Such verses might well have been composed later in his life, when
he had already become bitter about some aspects of his existence at
court, his marriage to the lovely Pi«galà, and the constant treach-
ery of worldly life. There is a mellowness in some of these descrip-
tions, a tender ease that is lacking in most of the other verses, as if
indeed he had occasionally been graced by such moods of tranquility
and contentment when his usual torment had died down, even if
90
This painting is reproduced in N.C. Mehta’s book Studies in Indian painting as
well as in P. Thomas, Kama kalpa or the Hindu ritual of love (1960).
91
Barbara Stoler Miller, Bhart‰hari, p. XXIII.
92
Barbara Stoler Miller, Bhart‰hari, p. 139.

124 chapter two
only for a moment or two. Or was this no more than a poet’s imag-
ination and wishful thinking as he was being carried away by his
own images?
In classical poetical theory, there have been Indian aestheticians
and rhetoricians who equated pure experience of poetic sentiment
with the experience of oneness with Brahman, and who stated that
the sacred could be experienced through the aesthetic. Lee Siegel
has tried his hand at bringing the two together in his book Fires of
Love. Waters of Peace. In his introduction, he puts it this way:
Amaru and •a«kara seem to illuminate one another, even to need
one another. Passion and renunciation generate each other. The dia-
stolic flexings of the heart, expansions of feeling and expressions of
desire, seem to demand systolic responses of equal force and measure,
contractions of feeling and retractions of desire. The reconciliation is
not in the moment but in the rhythm: the continuous and regular
pulse of the human heart.93
We have considered the cases of a young ‰ßi, a court-poet, and two
female mystics, but up to now we have hardly touched upon the
gods themselves. Although most of the Indian gods are thought to
have had sexual partners, there are only a few whose amorous exploits
were elaborated upon. •iva, obviously, illustrates the dilemma of yoga
and bhoga, and in a way K‰ß»a does so too, when his rasalìlà stories
are contrasted with his role as a yoga teacher in the Bhagavadgìtà.
Admittedly, it appears that the modern Indian might be more per-
plexed about these two apects in the same divine person than the
poets of pre-Victorian India themselves.
The god •iva is a unique example of extreme passion and extreme
renunciation in one and the same person. The stories of his asceti-
cism are well-known, and Indian poets and artists were fond of such
occurrences as •iva’s nude appearance in front of the ‰ßis’ wives in
the devadàru-vana, his extended love-play with Pàrvatì among the trees
of the Himàlayan forests, and his ityphallic dances, as well as the
many occasions when he was depicted as an ascetic, a king of yoga,
and master of meditative depths. Whether the worship of the •iva-li«ga
originated as adoration of a sacred tree turned into a mere stump,
as an expression of the phallic cult, as a model of the yogic idea of
ùrdhvaretas, or simply as the continuation of the devadàru-vana story in
93
Lee Siegel, Fires Of Love, Waters Of Peace (1983), p. XI.

which the ‰ßis cursed •iva’s member to fall off, is not really an issue
here. The fact is that from very early on there seems to have been
a connection between li«ga and tree.94 The tree-and-railing motif is
very common on ancient Indian coins. Some of these are accom-
panied by a li«ga. This tree could signify the tree as a symbol of
fertility in general, but it may also signify the god Kàma, or even
the wishing tree. In the same way, the li«ga could be a general fer-
tility symbol, but it could also be more specifically a •iva-li«ga. If it
is a •iva-li«ga, its connotation is not necessarily phallic.
Many texts describe •iva meditating somewhere in the forests and
on mountains. There are many pictorial depictions of •iva together
with the lovely Pàrvatì, who was said to have won him over, not
by using her feminine charms but by sitting down in meditation just
like him. Both as a lover (bhogin) and as an ascetic ( yogin) he is often
portrayed in a sylvan setting, mostly woods of a rather isolated rugged
character, although hardly ever wilderness in its most terrifying aspect.
The tension between tapas and eros may be pinpointed in three
motifs: the story of the nude ascetic appearing before the ascetics’
wives who either make fun of him or fall in love with him; the story
of •iva’s immolation of Kàma, the god of love sent to him by the
gods; and the story of Pàrvatì’s seduction of the meditating yogi.
In the first example, that of •iva in bhikßatana-mùrti appearing
before the ascetics’ wives, the tension is concentrated in the reac-
tion of the ascetics when they find out that •iva has shocked or even
violated their women. As a kind of curse, his li«ga, the very organ
that had caused all the havoc, is caused to fall down to the earth.
Standing upright on the earth, from then on, it will be seen as •iva’s
sign, which is, of course, the literal translation of the word li«ga.95
It is said that •iva was so distraught after Satì’s death that he roamed
around, aimlessly, disheveled, and in the nude. When the hermits’
wives and daughters saw him their reactions were mixed: they were
94
There are several versions of the curse: it could be the ‰ßi Bh‰gu who cursed
•iva because he shocked the wives and daughters in the hermitage with his wild
appearance and outrageous behaviour; he could have been cursed by the hermits
in whose territory he was caught making love; or he may have been cursed by
Bh‰gu when he was made to wait in •iva’s home because the god was too busy
making love to the goddess to receive the eminent visitor; or instead of a curse
there even could have been an act of self-castration in grief over Satì’s death.
95
The devadàruvana episode is found in Bhikßatanukàvya 9.1; Devìpurà»a 8.19;
Skandapurà»a 6.258.18.

126 chapter two
repelled by his wild appearance, curious about the cause of his dis-
tress, and attracted to his vigour.
In the second example a different kind of tension, anger, and
wrath was shown by •iva when he, in his meditation, was disturbed
by an arrow of Kàma, who was audacious enough to approach him
and point his arrow at him. Some versions tell us of a terrorising
demon called Tàraka who could be killed by no one except a son
of •iva. When Tàraka found out that •iva had taken to tapas after
Satì’s death, he started terrorising all the worlds. In a predicament,
the gods made a joint request to •iva to beget a son strong enough
to slay the demon. •iva, however, would not be disturbed in his
meditation. Kàma, the god of love, was then commissioned to go
to Kailà≤a and arouse desire in him. Overwhelmed by the awe-inspir-
ing atmosphere, Kàma hid in the shadows of the trees that stood
on the mountain and his heart sank: •iva was well-known for his
irascibility. So, when Kàma suddenly saw a lovely maiden picking
flowers close to •iva’s meditation site,—Pàrvatì was none other than
a new incarnation of Satì, remembering well her former life and
now trying to find her way back to his heart—he took courage and
shot the fatal shaft. •iva felt the sting, and when he opened his eyes
he saw the delightful Pàrvatì. However, he also noticed the archer
hiding by the curve of a tree-trunk, and divined the cause of his
distraction. Opening his blazing third eye, he burnt Kàma to death.
Afterwards he closed his eyes again and continued his meditation.
Since Kàma is the god of love, this story may be seen as a para-
digmatic illustration of the rivalry between the power of interiorisa-
tion and the power of the senses, or between yoga and bhoga.
In the third example, the tension is at the very beginning of the
story. Since •iva had been lost in meditation for aeons, the world
was losing its vitality. Pàrvatì, lovely daughter of the mountains, was
sent to seduce him. When the usual feminine display of charm and
beauty appeared to have no effect on him, she sat down at some
distance from him, facing him, and lost herself in such a profound
meditation that the great yogi couldn’t help but feel the power and
heat of her asceticism, and open his eyes. Their love-making was
said to put things back in proportion. It is also said that Ratì, Kàma’s
widow, attended the wedding and requested a boon: •iva permitted
Kàma to be reborn from his ashes.96
96
This story is found in Saurapurà»a 53 and 54.

Since the whole chain of events had been set into motion in order
to produce •iva’s son, all the gods were waiting for a child to be
born. Whatever was the reason for the delay—whether Pàrvatì was
infertile or •iva, as an arch-tantric, retained his seed—Pàrvatì her-
self became impatient and started to create a son by rubbing her
skin with oil, molding a son from the resulting substance, and breath-
ing life into him. When •iva returned he angrily and jealously cut
off the young man’s head. This is why Ga»e≤a, born independently
of his father, has the head of an elephant, with which his own head
was replaced. Another son, fathered by •iva, was needed urgently.
In some way, •iva was tricked in releasing his seed, and from his
sperm, fallen into the river Ga«gà, a son was born, called Kumàra
or Kàrtikeya, the later war-god who was to slay the demon Tàraka
and thus liberate the world from oppression.
All these stories are told and depicted against a sylvan setting,
rugged rather than lovely. In sculptures and paintings of •iva, some
trees are usually found: •iva is often portrayed sitting beneath a tree,
in meditation, in maithuna with Pàrvatì, or engaged in some other
action mentioned in the many stories told about him. Although in
ritual matters •iva became more and more associated with the
va†a/nyagrodha/banyan and with the vilva tree, these are not the trees
he is associated with in the kind of stories told above, in which the
devadàru or Himalayan pine tree occurs most frequently.
The same can be said about the trees associated with K‰ß»a in the
stories that focus on him as a young cowherd and lover. One of the
favourite K‰ß»a stories in art, especially in paintings, is K‰ß»a sit-
ting in a tree on the bank of the river Yamunà. He had stealthily
taken the gopìs’ clothes away while they were bathing, and after they
discovered his prank, he bade them to come out of the water and
collect their clothes from him. Although there are no strict differences
between the several aspects of K‰ß»a, it is commonly taken that he,
just like any other mortal man, went through the usual develop-
mental phases: naughty childhood years, his adolescence as a flute-play-
ing gopa, his adulthood as the killer of the wicked king Kaμsa, and,
in later years, as the great friend, adviser, and spiritual teacher of
the Pà»∂ava brothers. In this way, there is surprisingly little tension
between his role as an intoxicatingly attractive young man and his
role as a teacher of yoga, and even, in a hairraising epiphany to
Arjuna, as the god of gods. There was tension, however, in the

128 chapter two
irresistable call that was received by the gopìs at night. They had to
leave hearth, house, and husband in order to join the rasalìlà. Later,
Vaiß»ava theologians tried to smooth over this tension by pointing
out that the society in that area was polyandrous, or, in a more
mystical vein, that the flute calling the gopìs away from their homes
and husbands was no less than God himself enticing the souls to
join him, be they men or women. As far as extramarital relations
and promiscuity are concerned, it is interesting to note that K‰ß»a
is said to have sported with the gopìs before he was legitimately mar-
ried. His favourite gopì, Ràdhà, was not the wife he later married:
Rukminì.
Since K‰ß»a’s home was between Mathurà and V‰ndàvana, the
pastoral and amorous K‰ß»a scenes are set against a rural back-
ground of pastures, rivers, and small clusters of cultivated trees.97
The loveliness of such rural scenes is emphasised, not only in sculp-
tures and paintings, but also in several texts in which the natural
setting adds pungency to the already existent intoxication. K‰ß»a
appears to have been the tutelary god of some pastoral clan. By the
eleventh century, the worship of K‰ß»a was firmly established on the
banks of the Yamunà. He did not preach ascetism or other-world-
liness; for him the world was a playground, and this universe is said
to be his lìlà. As a child, he played all the pranks of a naughty boy,
thus delighting generations of Indian mothers who listened to the
stories; as a young man, he tended the flocks and ravished the hearts
of the young women of Bràj; as an adult, he proved a strong war-
rior and good statesman for the pastoral people of the Yadavas; and,
as a wise man he is thought to have preached the karmayoga of the
Bhagavadgìtà.
Most of the rural scenes portray K‰ß»a as the maddeningly attrac-
tive gopa, often referred to as Gopàla or Govinda. The Arcadian
fields of V‰ndàvana provide the background for those stories. At
97
See Charlotte Vaudeville, Myths, saints, legends (1996), p. 62, for the designa-
tions of the twelve woods around the Yamunà where K‰ß»a’s lìlà might have taken
place. Among them were a bha»∂ìra-vana, a bhadra-vana, and a vilva-vana. Today one’s
first impression is that of a dusty place full of cows and monkeys but with pitifully
few trees left. Pilgrims are told that the original kadamba tree in which K‰ß»a hid
the gopìs’ clothes still exists: for a few rupees one can buy a piece of cloth and hang
it in its branches. A mystical element still survives in the local lore that K‰ß»a’s
garden must be closed at night since it is then that he plays the rasalìlà with the
gopìs. It is even said that the bushes growing in this garden are, in fact, the gopìs
who come alive at night.

midnight in spring, or in autumn, when the full moon shone and

made his dark skin lighten up like blueish silver, he stole into the
mango groves on the banks of the Yamunà to play sweet tunes on
his flute. On hearing this call, the women ran to the grove to meet
him and join in dance and song. The raptured gopìs were so intox-
icated with him that each of them felt singled out by him, as if
K‰ß»a had chosen each one of them as his very special favourite.
Although the tension between bhoga and yoga, or between kàma
and tapas, is more a tension between the lìlà of the cowherds and
the yoga of the Bhagavadgìtà, the tension tends to exist only for the
outsider. The stories themselves are remarkably free of any of the
familiar frictions and dilemmas. K‰ß»a was not an ascetic: in him
the sensual and the mystical fluidly co-existed, interwove, overlapped,
interrelated, and mutually fructified. He was not torn between two
extremes. He was not challenged to fight one side of his nature for
the benefit of the other. In the Purà»as, the stories of his dalliance
are told without inhibition, and in many songs and dances there is
no apparent distinction between the sensual and the mystical. The
emotions evoked by the rasalìlà may be described in all the graphic
terms of love, lust, and longing, such as in the Gìtagovinda by Jayadeva,
which is still recited daily in orthodox Vaiß»ava temples such as that
in Purì. In general, there seems to have been no confusion about
human and divine love among Vaiß»avas, at least not before colo-
nial ideas made them conscious that there should be. The songs as
sung by Andal and Mìràbàì testify to this fluidity, and the ma-
dhurya-rasa or honey-trickling mood is a legitimate part of many K‰ß»a
festivals, kìrtanas, and bhajanas up to the present day.
In the opening scenes of the Gìtagovinda, Ràdhà is introduced reclin-
ing in a bower in the woodlands by the Yamunà. It is springtime,
and Kàma, the god of love, is roving the woods with his bow of
luscious cane and shafts of flowers. The appointed hour for her ren-
dez-vous with K‰ß»a is past, and Ràdhà becomes increasingly impa-
tient, apprehensive, and suspicious. And rightly so, since he is sporting
with the other girls. The following scene is an all-too-familiar out-
burst of shame from his side and blazing accusations from hers.
Inevitably, a reconciliation follows, in which the flame of passion
burns higher than ever before.
What could be taken as a lascivious song by some is often com-
pared to the Old Testament’s Song of Songs. Relevant to our pre-
sent subject is that in the K‰ß»a stories, nature is an accomplice of

130 chapter two
human emotions. The signs of the seasons aggravate the longing,

kindle the passion, and intensify the rapture. Moonlit nights, blos-
som-laden trees, intoxicated bumble-bees, and fragrant breezes all
cooperate with kàma, rati, prema and bhakti. In addition to the sea-
sonal settings, which could be considered a ready-made pattern in
Indian literature, there are many detailed stories in which trees play
a particular role. The often depicted scene of K‰ß»a in a kadamba
tree holding the gopìs’ clothes, has already been mentioned.98 It was
also from a kadamba tree that K‰ß»a jumped into the pool to fight
the monster Kàliya. As a flutist, he is often portrayed beneath a
tree, in a grove, or in a bower. Often he is seen reclining with
Ràdhà beneath a shady tree, and when he is depicted on a swing
with her, this swing is often hung from a large tree. This tree is not
necessarily a pipal tree.99
To what extent K‰ß»a’s roles in the Bhagavadgìtà, as a charioteer,
as a teacher of yoga, and even as the awe-inspiring god of gods, ever
interfered or clashed with his lìlà aspect is not clear. The call of the
heart and the senses might be as legitimate as the call of the soul:
the interiorisation that is an integral part of yoga, even of karmayoga,
demands that a fine distinction be drawn between the one who does
(the kart‰, or in K‰ß»aite terms, the player who is fully involved in
doing), and the one who observes, who refers it all to God, as the
karmayogin is supposed to do. A mystical interpretation of K‰ß»a’s lìlà
with the human soul produces an interior game of hide-and-seek, of
tease-and-withdraw, of intimacy and distance in which God plays
upon the human soul like he played on his flute in V‰ndàvana. The
songs of Mìràbàì and, more recently, of Rabindranath Tagore tes-
tify to this.
98
In India it is often popularly explained that the so-called rag-trees (cìrav‰kßa),
occurring all over the world, are reminders of this kadamba tree in which K‰ß»a
hung the garments of the bathing gopìs.
99
See also Chapter Four on the wooden temple statues at Purì. In the various
legends about their origin, a vital role is played by a banyan tree and a banyan log
floating ashore from the sea. Even now the famous kalpav‰kßa in the temple court-
yard is a banyan. At the same time it is clearly stipulated that the logs from which
the statues are to be hewn should be nimba/neem. In other words, Jagannàtha, pop-
ularly taken to be an incarnation of K‰ß»a, and residing over one of the major
places of pilgrimage in India, is connected with both banyan and neem, and even
with vilva/bel and damanaka leaves in temple worship, and not with a≤vattha. Tulasì
leaves, however, also play a role in Jagannàtha’s temple worship.

2.3.2 The tree, the li«gam, the vine, the snake

Whether the worship of the li«ga originated as adoration of a sacred
tree turned into a mere stump after the ritual cutting; as a phallic
fertility cult; as an expression of the yogic idea of ùrdhvaretas; or as
a ‘tantric’ experience of the power of ku»∂alinì, somehow is not really
the issue here. The fact is that from very early onwards there seems
to have been a connection between li«ga and tree, just as there was
an ancient connection between fixity, fertility, verticality, virility and
masculinity of trees.
One aspect that has been mentioned before, in Chapter One, is
the correlation between the so-called milk trees and fertility: the white
sap of latex-oozing trees is simultaneously connected with the male
semen and the female milk, just as the life-juice of trees is rather
easily and loosely connected with rain, dew, rivers, and soma.
Who were those, condemned in the Vedas, who worshipped the
≤i≤na?100 Is there somehow a point in Indian history when the two
words, ≤i≤na and li«ga, and the cults of both, became connected?
Leaving out, for the moment, the familiar discussion about the pos-
sibly ityphallic proto-•iva depicted on one of the Indus seals, we will
consider the ancient Indian coins on which a vertical object, most
probably a phallus, is depicted beneath a tree. The tree-and-railing
motif is very common on ancient coins: only some of them are
accompanied by the cylindrical form usually interpreted as a phal-
lic symbol. In the light of popular practice, as seen, for instance, in
Indian bàrahmàsa paintings in which women are shown worshipping
several li«gas beneath a tree,101 it is tempting to interpret this form
as a li«ga. Since such coins are diminutive, and worn out by use
and time, one should be cautious. Even if this was a phallus sym-
bol, why was it placed beneath a tree? The tree-in-railing invites us
to think of a cult-object, not only because it is surrounded by a rail-
ing, a fact which makes it stand out from just any tree, but also
because we know this arrangement from later works of art: caityav‰kßas,
bodhi trees, and wishing trees. However, the cylindrical object, although
100
The word ≤i≤na-deva is generally taken to mean ‘having the generative organ
as a god’, which would imply a phallus-worshipper, but it could also refer to a
tailed or priapic being.
101
As in V.P. Dwivedi, Bàrahmàsa: The song of seasons in Indian literature and art
(1980), colour plate A (the month of Jyeß†ha), plate 67 (the month of Kàrttika), and
plate 68 (the month of Vai≤àkha).

132 chapter two
inside the enclosure, is not necessarily a part of a cult: it could just

as well be a worshipper sitting in meditation, with his face turned
towards a tree and his legs in a kind of meditative position.
Leaving aside all early phallic symbolism connected with trees and
the wood of specific trees, there is no denying that some artists
seemed to have taken a particular delight in depicting creeper-like
damsels sensually wrapping themselves around a tree. The idea that
man is a tree and woman a vine or creeper is ancient; in the
Atharvaveda this simile is used in love-magic, and certain species of
wood are used for amulets. Bhart‰hari bitterly reflects,
Enamoured, she is an ambrosial vine,
indifferent, a poisonous creeper.
In the Kàmasùtra, one of the embraces is called la†aveß†i(ta)ka, cling-
ing like a creeper, and another is called v‰kßàdhirù∂haka, or climbing
a tree. In the first embrace, the woman is said to cling to a man
like a creeper twines around a tree; in the second, a woman places
one of her feet on the foot of her lover and the other on one of
his thighs, passes one of her arms around his back, and puts the
other arm on his shoulders. She wishes, as it were, to climb up him
in order to have a kiss, or more. Both embraces take place when
the lover is standing. Both positions can be seen when women are
portrayed beneath a tree. As we have seen in the motifs of ≤àla-
bhañjikà and dohada, the distinctions are not always clear: is the woman
portrayed presented as a yakßinì, a ≤àlabhañjikà, a dohadà, or just as
any amorous woman showing her curves to maximum advantage?
In Vellore temple, there is a sculpture of a swirling tree with
K‰ß»a dancing on its branches. Two naked gopìs are depicted at its
root: one clasps the trunk with one arm, and with the other she
makes a gesture of joy, whereas the other girl puts her leg around
the trunk and holds both her hands in a position similar to the
añjali-mùdra or karka†a-mùdra.102 In Badami, cave 3, there is a maithuna
scene on a pillar: beneath a tree a woman entwines herself around
a man in the embrace of ‘climbing the tree’. In this scene, the blend-
ing of tree, man, and woman is extraordinary: here the tree is not
just a leafy background or an indicator of the season, but an inte-
102
This sculpture is reproduced as fig. 212 in Thomas, Kama Kalpa or the Hindu
ritual of love (1960).

gral part of the maithuna.103 There are many other examples of such
a triad of man, woman, and tree. Sometimes, one of the pair grasps
the tree for support in a complicated and precariously balanced
embrace, such as in the Ladkhan temple, Aihole; in other examples,
the straight trunk is perfectly counterbalanced by the voluptuous
curves of the woman leaning against it or grasping one of the
branches, blossoms, or fruits. In general, the tree in such a compo-
sition forms a still centre or counterpoint with a shady canopy.
Sad or melancholic women also seek support from trees, as can
be seen in some of the miniature paintings, as part of a bàrahmàsa
cycle, in which women in stylised landscapes are often portrayed as
lonely and pining for their absent lovers, or as part of a series of
Ràginìs or Ràgamàla, in which some of the moods are symbolised
by women in parks and gardens; and also in other genres, for exam-
ple, in the nàyika paintings, where the waiting woman (utka), the dis-
appointed woman (vipralabdha), or the woman in moonlight going out
to meet her lover (chandàbhisarika) are often portrayed in conjunction
with a tree.104
One may wonder whether any of this makes the tree, or, more
specifically, its trunk, a phallic object. On the contrary, in love-poetry,
and even in the far more technical sexuological manuals, the thighs
of attractive women are often compared to the trunk of a plantain
tree, as in verse 508 of Bihàri’s Satasaì:
It seems Creator Kàma fashioned her thighs
from the essence of pure beauty
—thighs which outvie the plaintain trunk
and give her lover great pleasure in love making.
The body of a woman is often compared to a wishing tree
(verse 469):
Her dazzling splendour shining through her flimsy dress
is breathtaking, as a kalpa tree reflected leaf and branch
in the waters of the placid ocean.
Poetical descriptions of female anatomy are far more numerous than
those of the male body. Comparisons of female parts with well-known
objects in nature, such as, in this case, particular trees, blossoms,
103
This image is reproduced as fig. 56 in Klaus Fischer, Erotik und Askese.
104
This image is reproduced as fig. 153 in Thomas, Kama Kalpa.

134 chapter two
leaves, and fruits are far more frequent than similar comparisons
between men and trees. In the Kàmasùtra, such allusions or techni-
cal descriptions of the male body in terms of nature are hard to
find. Even in such a book as Alain Daniélou’s L’Erotisme Divinisé,
which gives more attention than average to male anatomy, the major-
ity of descriptions focuses on female anatomy. Is this just a poetic
convention, or does it reflect a belief that the female was the active
force, the agent, or ≤aktì, in this universe? As Lee Siegel observes:
•aktì is the active emanation from the passive reality which is brah-
man. The still and quiet male spirit abides, hidden and imprisoned,
in chaotic, restless matter. Pàrvatì dances alluringly around the entranced
yogì, •iva. The yo»i, the vulva emblematic of the goddess, turns around
the li«ga, the phallus which symbolises the god. The feminine wheel
turns around the masculine axle.105
It appears that we have to look elsewhere and shift our attention
from love-poetry and erotics to magic and mysticism, to find an eso-
teric understanding of phallic symbolism in relation to pillars, poles,
towers, and mountains, in short, anything steady and vertical. Most
such references are to be found in the context of Vedic sacrifice and
Tantric ritualism, although ancient festivals like the Indra-dhvaja-mahot-
sava may be studied in their phallic symbolism as well. There appears
to have been a basic notion, both cosmogonic and directly sexual,
that steadiness, fixity, and verticality were male qualities. Both the
primeval chaos and the underlying persisting chaos of day-to-day
human life need a centre, an axis, a fixed vertical line, a peg, a nail,
a supporting pillar. Archetypically feminine qualities in India are not
represented so much by a passive horizontal earth-body, but rather
by a swirling, climbing, playing, intertwining activity around this axis.
The typically Tantric aspects of this will be touched upon below.
The idea of man as a tree and woman as a creeper or vine may
be more profound than its erotological or art-historical aspects. There
may be deeper notions beneath such conventions, fundamental notions
about the precarious balance in the universe. Some of those may be
found in Vedic sacrificial symbolism and its wood mysticism; some
in the worship of the li«ga; and some seem to be hidden in actual
love-lore, which is sometimes even referred to as la†a-sàdhana, the
way of the creeper. Some may also be found in the auspicious images
105
Lee Siegel, Fires Of Love, Waters Of Peace, p. 90.

of both kalpav‰kßa and kalpala†a. If we accept the phallic symbolism

of a tree, we should attempt to distinguish its various layers: the cos-
mogonic, the sacrificial, the poetical-arthistorical, the erotological,
and the Tantric.106
In Vedic sacrificial and magical texts, this symbolism was made
explicit, as we have seen in Chapter One. In cosmogonies, we find
less ritualistic reflection but an abundance of stories in which not
just one system of thought prevailed, but in which general gender-
specific tendencies may be detected in the recurring motifs. In art,
both verbal and plastic, there may have been conventions and pre-
established patterns, yet, although this was not made explicit, often
all the whirling, climbing, and intertwining done by the women is
consciously counterbalanced by the steady trunk of the tree, as well
as, in practical matters, by the dependable fixity of the male mem-
ber. Man’s virility seems a given: it is the maiden or woman who
has to be coaxed initially, even though, once she has lost her bash-
fulness and has given in to his advances, it is held that there is no
end to her passion.
There are examples of love-sick men too. Ràma, as depicted in
the Ràmàya»a, is one of the most familiar examples.107 Nor is the
simile of twining around one’s beloved reserved for women only: in
the Satasaì there is a verse (670) where
dark K‰ß»a twined round fair Ràdhà
as though the silvery Ga«gà
had joined the blue Yamunà.108
Yet, when it comes to trees, the composition is often such that the
trunk forms the male counterpoint to the female gyrations, just as
106
At the end of the nineteenth century a book was published anonymously,
which dealt with exactly this, Cultus Arborum. A Descriptive Account of Phallic Tree Worship
(1890). I am acquainted with at least one other book printed and published pri-
vately in the same series (1891), but the book on trees is extremely hard to find.
In 1999, a related text, based on the privately printed 1929 version, was published
again, with an introduction by Tedd St. Rain, mentioning Hargrave Jennings as
the probable author.
107
Ràmàya»a 4.1 ff. has even become something like a ‘locus classicus’ for nature
as a love-kindler.
108
Bihàrì’s Satasaì, in Krishna P. Bahadur’s translation (1990), p. 294:
One who’s steeped in the love of Ràdhà and K‰ß»a need not go on pilgrim-
ages, for in the woods of Braja where dark K‰ß»a twined round fair Ràdhà
as though the silvery Ga«gà had joined the blue Yamunà, each step has the
sanctity of Prayàga.

136 chapter two
the artful Pàrvatì curves and whirls around the stock-still •iva and
the vine or creeper winds its way upwards around the tree. Many
such images may have come directly from observing nature, or they
may have been prompted by artistic considerations, yet, in underly-
ing conventions and considerations there may well have been, from
time to time, a recollection of mythological and mystical stereotypes
of masculinity.
2.3.3 Sacred sexuality: ku»∂alinì, brahmada»∂a

Sacred sexuality, precisely defined, is found very early in Indian his-
tory, for example, in connection with the sacrificial cult, of which
the sacred act of the queen’s copulation with the dead horse, pro-
vides the most spectacular example.109 Any metaphorical connection
with the sacred fire would make the sexual act sacred, whether it
be for general welfare and fertility, or, as in the case of the king,
for the progeny of the particular couple which ordered the sacrifice.
In addition to all instances of ritually embedded sexuality, such
as the consummation of marriage three days after the wedding,110
there are other examples of sacred sexuality, for instance, when the
gods had a special purpose for an offspring, as in the case of •iva
and Pàrvatì, whose son was to liberate the world from the terror of
Tàraka; or when bridal mysticism, like that of Andal and Mìràbàì,
expressed itself in explicit erotic terms of longing and encounter; or
when a poet like Jayadeva employed the whole vocabulary of human
love to sing the song of the individual soul longing for the divine.
Most anthropologists would consider the tradition of the devadàsìs, as
wives of the temple-god (often also the wife of the king and licensed
to build up “promiscuous” relationships with other men as well), to
belong to the domain of sacred sexuality too. To what extent the
temples in which ‘barren’ women spent the night at the feet of the
deities and probably got impregnated by the residing priest, may be
called temples of sacred sexuality, is a matter of debate.
109
For the a≤vamedha rite, see •atapathabràhma»a 13.5.2.4 ff.
110
A stump of udumbara wood, dressed in silk and coated with sandal paste rep-
resenting the divinity Vi≤vavasu Gandharva, was placed between husband and wife
during those first three nights.

What concerns us here is a very specific type of sacred sexuality,

a yogic way of using the sexual fire consciously and methodically to
transform one’s level of energy and one’s state of realisation. In the
shape of sexual magic, whether in the form of heterosexual or homo-
sexual acts, some kind of sacred sexuality has been known to most
of the esoteric systems in world history. This could take several forms,
from one-time initiation procedures to black magic, from interiorised
meditative experience to regular actual exercise of sexual forces. In
India, there may have been such practices long before the name
‘Tantric’ was given to them: they probably existed within the wide
range of goddess-worship, and might have developed sets of secret
practices here and there to which one could gain access only after
several stages of probation and initiation. Such secret goddess prac-
tices, combined with the ideas of prak‰ti and purußa, of cakras, nà∂is,
and ku»∂alinì; of yoga meditation; of the sùkßma≤arìra, the brahmada»∂a,
and the brahmarandhra are all found in the Tantras.
Perhaps even more importantly, as an age-old heritage sanctioned
by a statement like the often quoted passage of the B‰hadàra»-
yaka-upanißad (4.3.21)
Just like a man, embracing his beloved, forgets the whole world, every-
thing that exists in him and outside, one does not know anything, not
here, not there, when united with the supreme insight.
The notion of blissful union with one’s àtman as compared to the
total self-forgetfulness of ideal sexual congress, gave Upanißadic author-
ity to various disparate traditions in which some form of sacred sex-
uality was practised. Whereas neolithic rites of fertility and goddess-
worship were celebrated for the sake of communal prosperity, yoga
from the onset had a decidedly individualistic orientation. Its goal
was personal liberation, transcendence of the ego-personality and of
ordinary dispersed consciousness and identification. The goal of
gradually freeing oneself from limited ego-consciousness and merging
with the all-consciousness was generally expressed in terms of supreme
bliss, ànanda.
In the first section of this part (2.3.1), we considered the tension
between yoga and bhoga, or between tapas and kàma. In the second
section (2.3.2) we attempted, cautiously, to trace the ‘eternally mas-
culine’ in tree symbolism. In this third section, we now turn to com-
bine several ideas as they have come together in the yogic practices

138 chapter two
of ku»∂alinì and of sacred sexuality, especially in its Tantric varieties.

Tantric adepts have often claimed that their teachings were esoteric
restatements of ancient Vedic insights and practices which had become
obscure over time. One direct link appears in the Vedic presenta-
tion of sexual congress as an act of worship, where the vagina is the
sacrificial altar, the pubic hair the sacrificial grass by which the fire
is lit, and the labia are the sacrificial fire. The man who knows this
secret offers his semen as a sacred oblation. Parting her legs, he says:
“Spread yourselves apart, heaven and earth!”111 As a ritual, this illus-
trates the archaic parallell between individual and cosmic factors.
Although most utterances of this sort bear witness to the custom
allowing force to be used on an unwilling woman, as well as to the
preoccupation with procreation, it made the parallel between sacrifice
and the sexual act apparent, just as the parallel between lovers’ inti-
macy and merging with the àtman became apparent in the other
passage from the same Upanißad.
Whether such ideas and practices really form a continuum between
Vedic rituals and Tantric left-hand practices is hard to say, but seen
as a whole it appears plausible that some basic notions persisted.
When these resurfaced as Tantric, they were met with apprehension
by bràhma»as of later ages, who considered themselves the only right-
ful custodians of the Vedic heritage. It is important to understand
that Tantrism has always been an esoteric teaching, and that its
ideas and practices were transmitted through highly individual and
highly secret initiations.
What connects this kind of sacred sexuality with the ubiquitous
subject of sacred trees, is its symbolism. We have seen before how
tree-and-wood symbolism in the Vedic ritual context was often
expressed in sexual terms. What concerns us here are not so much
the sexual metaphors used in producing the sacrificial fire, nor the
setting up of the sacrificial post, nor even the whole fire-sacrifice
itself, but rather the opposite: how actual sexual congress, when per-
formed ritually and meditatively, was said to produce ever higher
states of consciousness. This is where the image of the axis comes
in again: the wooden axis ( yùpa) of Vedic rituals, the jarjara of the
theatre, the Indra-dhvaja of the Indra-mahotsava, the kila of the cos-
mogonies, the li«ga of the •aivas, the a≤vattha of the Vaiß»avas, the
bodhi tree of the Buddhists, the various trees of the ≤àlabhañjikàs,
111
B‰hadàra»yakopanißad 6.4.1 ff.

dohadàs, and the pictorial genre of the nàyikas all provide the verti-
cal steadiness necessary for the various forms of activity around it.
In this way, man’s own axis, his spine, forms the steady pillar around
which all the disparate forms of ≤aktì dance their whirls (v‰tti ): limbs,
senses, thoughts, images. The idea of •iva sitting motionless and
Pàrvatì swirling around him continues on the microscosmic level of
man’s individual body. Not only is there a parallel, but it is stated
that a person’s microcosm contains it all: both •iva and •aktì, both
central axis and whirling energy. Just as woman twines around man
and climbs up him like a vine or a creeper, so, in Tantric medita-
tion, may man send the vine of his attention upwards, from cakra to
cakra, from one central vortex to the other, until it reaches cosmic
space where it can merge with the All, •iva, Brahman, through the
opening of the brahmarandhra.
The actual terminology of Tantric meditation uses male-female
polarity in a self-contained sense: every man and every woman, duely
initiated, knows this interplay of male and female principles, inde-
pendent of gender. In meditative consciousness, one’s physical gen-
der is transcended and replaced by an inner play of archetypically
masculine and feminine polarity. Ku»∂alinì is the snake-like energy
coiled up at the base of the spine (brahmada»∂a, Brahmà’s stick), and
when woken up by the force of meditative attention, this snake or
goddess energy curves itself around the basic trunk, left and right,
until it reaches the crown of the head and unfolds itself in full con-
sciousness. To determine whether Upanißadic ideas of the cosmic
tree, the reverted tree, the wishing tree, and the Brahman-tree resur-
face here would require more scrutiny and closer textual study. In
a general sense, at least, there seems to be a continuum of a string
of associations in which the naturalistic (man and woman, tree and
snake, tree and vine), the cosmogonic ( purußa and prak‰ti, the jarjara
and the dance, the churning-stick and the Ocean of Milk), the sym-
bolic (tree and creeper), the aesthetic (point and counterpoint), the
mythological (Aja-ekapàda and Ahirbudhnya),112 and the microcosmic
(brahmada»∂a and ku»∂alinì) remained connected with ancient paral-
lels between sacrifice, sex, and sublimity, or, as Feuerstein prefers to
call it, superlimity.113
112
Aja-ekapàda is the One-footed Unborn and Ahirbudhnya is the ancient ser-
pent of the depths.
113
Georg Feuerstein, Sacred Sexuality (1992), pp. 147–151.

140 chapter two
Whether this associative heritage actually played an active histor-

ically proven role in the emergence of Tantrism, is not the issue.
What is relevant here is that there are patterns of words and images
which Indian mystics, poets, and artists appear to have had recourse
to when a whole range of seemingly unconnected experiences were
in need of fitting expression. Some authors, both Indian and west-
ern, more or less in the tradition of ‘philosophia perennis’, have even
extended such parallels to a universal occurrence. What concerns us
here, however, is the image of the spinal tree and the feminine gyra-
tions around it, as taught in Tantric yoga. Technical terms like mùla-
bhùmi and mùlakanda (mùla = root), Meru-da»∂a, da»∂a-prayoga, and
brahmada»∂a (da»∂a = stick), la†a-sàdhana (la†a = creeper), grantha (knot,
like in a bamboo stem) immediately refer back to a tree in its nat-
ural form. In general such highly symbolic words as padma (lotus)
and soma (a plant which yields ambrosia) are taken directly from the
vegetable realm. The network of nà∂is fanning out from the central
channel of the spine is compared to the leaf of the dhàka or palà≤a
tree, which has a central vein from which myriads of fine lines are
drawn outwards.
Abhinavagupta compares the churning (manthana) of the breaths
to the wooden stick (ara»ì) revolving inside another hollow one, from
which a flame is produced to light the sacrificial fire.114 The upward
serpentine undulations of the ku»∂alinì force are likened to those of
a creeper or vine climbing a tree, and the final opening at the crown
of the head is compared to a trunk dividing itself into countless (or
a thousand, as in the thousand-petalled lotus) branches; or to a ser-
pent, after erecting itself and opening its hood. Raised ku»∂alinì or
ùrdhvagàminì is said to pierce through the various knots just like one
would vertically pierce through a bamboo pole when making a bam-
boo cane into a flute, or into a channel for irrigation.
The Vedic offering is given a mystical interpretation here, for
example, by Abhinavagupta, in which ku»∂alinì is the divine fire, the
only fire able to consume all duality, and it is called pùr»ahuti. With
this simile we again come close to another level of the parallels, that
of actual sexual congress. This inner sacrificial fire perpetually surges
up amidst the ara»ì of the supreme energy, and is stirred up by a
generous libation of clarified butter (or semen), and is thus churned
114
See Lilian Silburn, Kundalini, Energy of the depths (1988), p. 41, commenting on
Abhinavagupta’s Tantràloka 5.22.

by the fervour of love, whether directly, as universal love, or indi-

rectly, by way of human love. Such a great sacrifice is performed
for one’s own sake (svàdhyàyayajña), it is the supreme offer of one’s
self to Brahman. Whether the substance offered is butter, breath, or
semen appears to be a matter of gradation, and is commonly expressed
as the distinction between the righthand way (in which the actions
are interiorised) and the lefthand way (in which the ritualised actions
are actually performed physically).
Although in this cosmographic imagery of the body a human being
is, in a higher sense, androgynous, the fact that •iva has put his seal
upon the world and divided humanity into male and female bodies
brings limitations as well as endless possibilities.115 The yogi and yoginì
together have an additional method of fusing male and female polar-
ities, that of actual but carefully ritualised sexual congress. The tin-
gle ( pipìlikà) with which sexual arousal makes itself known is not
essentially different from the first tingle with which the ku»∂alinì is
roused. The difference between the two is said to be in the way this
first stirring of energy is handled, and whether, in the consequent
process, this energy is dispersed in the usual downward flow through
the genital organs, or is sent upwards and flung into the great
sacrificial fire of pùr»ahuti. Soma, or ambrosial bliss, is thus interpreted
as the union of Sa (= •iva) and Umà (= Umà, •iva’s divine part-
ner), which together form the word Soma. Since this kulayàga is a
practice for which only specially trained and guided disciples qualify,
it is a secret disclosed to only a few.
“Let bliss be experienced”, Abhinavagupta says, “through the unifying
friction of the sexes at the moment of mutual enjoyment; and by its
means, let the unparallelled, ever-present essence be recognized. Indeed,
all that enters through an inner or outer organ abides in the form of
consciousness or breath in the domain of the median way; the latter,
related essentially to the universal breath (anuprà»anà), infuses life to
all bodily parts. That is what is called ojas, vitality, which energizes
the whole body.”116
A subtle and hidden (rahasya) continuum is presented between the
various levels we have touched upon in this section on senses and
the sacred. We have seen a persistent tension between kàma and
115
Utpaladeva’s •ivasotràvali 15.12, commented upon by Silburn, p. 137.
116
Abhinavagupta’s Paràtriá≤ikàvivara»a 46–47, discussed by Silburn, pp. 160–161.

142 chapter two
tapas, or between bhoga and yoga, but also an attempt at esoteric

fusion of the two, as in Tantric yoga. There is, however, no way of
ascertaining that such higher notions were consciously employed by
the artists, artisans, and poets who depicted the woman-and-tree
motif in all its varieties. Most probably, most of them were just doing
their job and were not mystics at all. Yet, since most such pictorial
representations were a part of sacred buildings, and since many of
the dramas, songs, and recitations were, and still are, performed
within the sacred complex, the various layers of interpretation given
to such creations by the domestic priests, the wandering yogis, awe-struck
pilgrims, women wishing progeny, and local peasants familiar with
natural images, could well have existed simultaneously. Even now,
when one visits a temple complex more than two hundred years old,
the more esoteric, mystic, or bizarre images are pointed out only to
the one who qualifies, either by spiritual rank, by scholarly inquisi-
tiveness, or by pecuniary generosity.

CHAPTER THREE
BUDDHA, BUDDHISM, AND THE BODHI TREE
Introduction
Whereas the Hindu connection with sacred trees is known only to

those who have studied particular aspects of Indian culture more
thoroughly, the Buddhist connection with the sacred bodhi tree is one
of the first scraps of information that even a casual contact with
Buddhism brings to light. The official representative icon of Buddhism
is the eight-spoked wheel of Dharma, but the bodhi tree (or bodhi leaf )
is one of the three major representations of Buddhism, together with
the figure of the Buddha himself and his footprints.1
Although in the art-historical context there has been some dis-
cussion about the processes involved in the prominence of one of
these symbols at a certain period at the cost of another, it is in pop-
ular usage that the bodhi tree or -leaf is an acknowledged identity
pointer. It was in the ancient texts that the bodhi tree was assigned
the role of a proper symbol or representation by the Buddha him-
self when he was still alive. In this sense the Buddha himself con-
sented to be represented by a bodhi tree. The seed-sprung sapling of
the original bodhi tree, planted by Ànanda in the compound of the
Jetavana monastery, was meant by Buddha to be his representation
or replacement when believers came to visit the place in his absence
and found the place without a visible symbol (nippaccaya). In Buddhism,
a pre-existing symbol, the a≤vattha tree, thus received a new meaning.
After his death, with the beginning of Buddhist art and architec-
ture, which developed more or less parallel to the emerging Buddhist
cult, we see how central the tree motif remained, to the extent that
not only the form of stùpas, caityas, bodhigharas, and bodhima»∂apas was
morphologically determined by the bodhi tree, but also the scenes
on the railings surrounding the stùpas or caityas often presented some
1
In the oldest reliefs the triratna is used as well. The so-called Buddhist luck sym-
bols, mostly eight, including fishes and vases of plenty, appear to belong to another
category, although the wheel belongs to both.

144 chapter three
tree scene or other: episodes from the Buddha’s biography, scenes

from previous Buddhas’ connections with specific trees, and even
depictions of King A≤oka’s personal, diplomatic and devotional actions
concerning the bodhi tree in Bodhgayà and the mission of one of its
branches to the royal city of Anuràdhapura on the island of La«kà.
Even if the morphological development of stùpa architecture tended
into the direction of building stùpas in the stylised forms of mounds,
bells, domes, and even towers, which gradually lost the simplicity
and direct function of tumuli in which Buddha’s ashes were kept,
to grand constructions towering high into the sky, it is the question
whether any stùpa, however grand, in matters of sanctity, could ever
compete with the bodhi tree usually planted in the same compound;
in fact, the more directly connected the bodily relic is with the
Buddha, the more sacred the stùpa is; and the more directly descended
from the original tree the particular bodhi tree is, the more sacred it
is. The combination stùpa, bodhi tree, bodhighara, and bodhima»∂apa,
with or without an àsana, became more or less classical, although
this differs from period to period and from country to country.
Whereas the outer forms of stùpas began more and more to be
ethico-philosophical representations of the Dharma, their contents often
consisted of sacred relics: physical remains of the Buddha and his
first followers. Such relics were stashed away in the earthen mound
and could not be seen or touched, whereas the bodhi tree in the
same complex was a living reality, there to be seen and touched.
Being connected, in a long line of descent, with the original bodhi
tree under which the Buddha had reached saáyaksaábodhi, it could
be seen, circumambulated, touched, watered, decorated, revered,
and prayed to. At the same time, in addition to its physical reality
and the small devotional acts one could perform beneath it, it stood
as a symbol of the Buddha’s enlightenment, and to some, who
were consonant with old-Indian tree symbolism, as a symbol of the
world tree or axis mundi as well. For the Buddhist believer, a tem-
ple compound must satisfy him or her on several levels simultane-
ously: the physical-devotional, the historical-symbolical, and the ethico-
philosophical.
The trees continued to be there. Whatever changes and adapta-
tions Buddhism went through in its spatio-historical expansion, to
have a bodhi tree in the temple compound not only meant that the
place was authenticised and directly linked to the Buddhist mission,
it also meant that the memory of the Buddha’s moment of enlight-

buddha, buddhism, and the BODHI tree 145
enment was tangibly present. The number of living bodhi trees must
be enormous. Most of them are said to derive from that very first
bodhi tree. The spread of Buddhism in many cases turned out to run
parallel to the spread of the bodhi tree all over Asia.
In this chapter, I intend to dwell on the various trees in Buddha’s
biography, on the bodhi tree as a symbol throughout Buddhism, and
then focus on two particular bodhi trees alive today: those of Bodhgayà
in India and of Anuràdhapura in Sri Lanka.
3.1 Trees in Buddha’s biography
There is no such thing as a continuous life of Buddha narrated in

the stories. Isolated events have been woven into narratives by com-
mentators, and oral traditions have added all kinds of incidents. In
my perusal of trees in the Buddha’s life, however, I make no dis-
tinction between what could be historically authentic and what was
believed by Buddhists, then or later, on the basis of scriptural, oral,
and pictorial traditions. Instead, I take all the strata—historical, scrip-
tural, legendary, miraculous—as forming a fabric which continues to
be woven, and is thus the current that carries the tradition forward,
even if such a corpus of stories is neither consistent nor congruent.
I am very well aware that the associative connections, made in the
course of time, and in an atmosphere of moral edification and poetic
embellishment, often began to lead a life of their own and started
to form completely new narrative motifs. In following the tree-motif
throughout the stories of the Buddha’s life as well as through his
many former lives as narrated in the Jàtakas, I make no normative
distinction between the various sources. The fact that a certain nar-
rative exists is valid in itself, as it shows to what extents belief in
Buddha could be stretched, even if many other Buddhists have never
heard such a story, and certainly would not accept it if they were
ever told such a version. I do not make a distinction between the
canonical kernel of a story and post-canonical embellishments either.2
2
It is clear that such a ‘narratological’ approach has its own pitfalls. If one does
not clearly and methodically distinguish between the text histories of the various
narrative traditions, time and location are taken as being of only relative impor-
tance. This implies, for instance, that the Sinhalese sources in which the bringing
of the bodhi tree to La«kà—episodes so vital to the Sinhalese claim to its special
position—might tend to blur the conception of what earlier Buddhism’s position in

146 chapter three
The most widely known episodes connected with trees are his
birth, his enlightenment, and his death. These are also the narra-
tive themes most commonly portrayed in Buddhist art. On closer
investigation, however, there are around twenty episodes, frequently
or less frequently recounted, about phases in his life in which some
tree or groves of trees are explicitly mentioned.
(1) The story of the historical Buddha’s connection with trees might
well begin with his name. His clan designation ‘•àkya’ (S.) or ‘•àkiya’
(P), sometimes translated as ‘able’, and sometimes related to the
•akas, a particularly white-skinned people (Indo-Scythians?), might
also be connected with the ≤àka tree. The ≤àka tree (Acacia Sirissa) is
supposed, by some, to be the same as the ≤àla tree (Shorea Robusta).
The •àkya clan would then be the people of the ≤àl forest tracts.3
The origin of the •àkyas is given in the legend of Amba††ha, in
which the Buddha tells of his descent from King Okkàka. Long ago,
King Okkàka wished to transfer his kingdom to the son of his favourite
wife and banished the elder princes born from other wives. During
their exile, these princes lived on the slopes of the Himàlaya by the
banks of a lotus pool in a vast ≤àka grove. King Okkàka is reported
to have said about them: “Able (≤àkya) are the princes.” There is a
pun here, as ≤akya also means ‘belonging to the ≤àka tree’. The •àkya
tribe, from which Buddha’s epitheton ‘•àkyamuni’ was derived,
belonged to the Gotama gotra. A gotra (P. gotta), literally ‘cowshed’,
is a clan whose members claim to be descended from one ancestor,
in this case the ancient ‰ßi Gotama. His descendants are known as
Gotamas (P.) or Gautamas (S.), hence the Bodhisattva’s later desig-
nation as Gautama Buddha.
regard to fitting symbols and relics may have been. This acceptance of the ‘nar-
rative flow’, with its focus on what was believed by the believers, instead of what
is historically authentic or dogmatically correct, is a delicate position, all the more
so since stories have their own cumulative and reconstructive effects. The precari-
ousness of this approach is enhanced by the acknowledgement that the emic/etic
distinction has to take into consideration that the believers’ position, too, is layered
both in time and in space. That I have opted for the narratological and cumula-
tive angles, in spite of all these hazards, is justified by the overall object of this
research, the position of the bodhi tree in Buddhist ritual practice.
3
This is suggested by Brian Hoey (1906), p. 453, quoted in Edward Thomas,
The Life of Buddha (1949), pp. 7–8.

If, at some early point in Buddhist history, people had indeed

associated the Buddha’s name with the ≤àka or ≤àla tree, the promi-
nence of ≤àla trees in the moments of his birth (see motif no. 5) and
death (see motif no. 20) could be easily explained. Apart from the
geographical and botanical question whether the places of his birth
and death were indeed forested with ≤àla trees at that time, it is nat-
ural that especially the moments of the Buddha’s birth and his death
connect him with the ancestors, the family, the clan. In that case,
the story that Queen Mahàmàyà dreamt of her conception beneath
a great ≤àla tree on a Himàlayan plateau (see motif no. 3) would fit
in the same string of associations. Although the evidence that the
name •àkya was connected with the ≤àka- or ≤àla tree, is sparse, it
could well be that such an association was once made.
(2) In the Jàtaka and Lalitavistara accounts of the events preceding
the Bodhisattva’s birth, it is said that he chose Jambùdvìpa, the island
or continent of the jambù tree, that is, India, as the continent where
he was to be born. According to the ancient geographical concep-
tions, Jambùdvìpa is one of the four (or seven) great islands of the
world, with mount Meru, or Sumeru (Sineru), in the centre. The
jambù is the rose-apple tree (Eugenia Jambolana), which also figures in
the story of the Bodhisattva’s first meditative experience (see motif
no. 7).
Jambùdvìpa is said to derive its name from the jambù trees sur-
rounding it, or from the enormous jambù tree on top of Mount Meru,
which was said to look like a flagpole with flying banner visible to
the whole continent. It is not completely clear whether all the pre-
ceding Buddhas were believed to have chosen the same Jambùdvìpa
as the continent where they were to be born. The Buddhavaása men-
tions that 24 Buddhas had preceded him, the Lalitavistara 54, and
the Mahàvastu more than a hundred. Although the numbers vary,
there is general consensus about the most recent six of them: Vipassin/
Vipa≤cit, Sikhin, Vessabhù/Vi≤vabhù, Kakucchanda/Krakucchanda,
Ko»àgamana/Kanakamuni and Kassapa/Ka≤yapa.
(3) When Queen Mahàmàyà experienced in a dream how the
Bodhisattva was conceived, she dreamt that she was raised, together
with her couch, and was taken to the Himàlaya by four great kings.
There she was taken to the Manosilà plateau and placed beneath a

148 chapter three
great ≤àla tree seven leagues high. Having been bathed in lake
Anotathà, she was laid to rest in a golden mansion, where the
Bodhisattva, in the form of a white elephant, entered her right side.4
Although the Nidànakathà explicitly mentions the ≤àla tree, it seems
to stand alone in this detail. I have not been able to find an art-
historical depiction of the Bodhisattva’s conception in which this
≤àla tree is actually portrayed.
(4) In the Lalitavistara, mention is made of the moment Queen
Mahàmàyà wakes up and tells the king of her dream. As this com-
munication is part of a tradition according to which the child was
conceived without the intervention or even in the absence of the
king, the moment of communicating the vision and of having it inter-
preted by the court astrologers could be considered a vital point in
the supposed divinity of the conception. In this alternative version,
the queen goes with her lady attendants to a grove of a≤oka trees,
and sends for the king to tell him the wonderful tidings. The king,
however, is unable to enter this grove until the gods of the Pure
Land inform him of what has happened. Court bràhma»as are then
sent for to interpret the dream. That the news of the queen’s preg-
nancy was imparted to the king amidst a≤oka trees seems fitting, since
a≤oka (‘no-sorrow’) trees were traditionally connected with festivity,
femininity, and fertility.
Although this episode is not a very common theme in Buddhist
art, there are depictions of it, such as in Amaràvatì, albeit without
the trees.
(5) Not all the accounts relate that the Bodhisattva was born under
a ≤àla tree: plakßa, palà≤a and a≤oka are also mentioned.5 In the more
miraculous accounts, it is said that the pregnant queen was called
home to Devadaha by her father, King Suprabuddha (Subhùti), and
that on her way from Kapilavastu she ordered the chariot to stop
in a pleasure grove of ≤àla trees, named the Lumbinì grove. Some
other accounts, like the Lalitavistara, make no mention of Màyà’s
intention to go to Devadaha and imply that she merely wished to
4
See also Thomas, Life of Buddha, pp. 31–32.
5
Samuel Beal, The Romantic Legend of Sâkya Buddha (1985), calls it a palà≤a, whereas
in Beal, Hiuen Tsiang’s Buddhist Records of the Western World (1983), it is called an
a≤oka. M.S. Randhawa, and D.S. Randhawa, Indian sculpture (1985) speak about a
plakßa, as does the Lalitavistara.

enjoy herself there. In Mahàvastu 2.18 it is stated that her father had
sent a message calling her home in order to give birth to her child
amidst her own relatives.
The beauty of the particular spot and the particular season is
emphasised: the trees were flowering, bees were swarming, and birds
were singing. Attracted by the scenery, the queen alighted from the
carriage and went from tree to tree, desiring to grasp a branch of
one of the trees (commonly reported to be a ≤àla, but also a plakßa,
palà≤a, or a≤oka), possibly to smell the blossoms; the queen took hold
of a branch with her right hand and at that moment was seized
with the first contraction. Standing on the ground, with one knee
bent and holding the branch while the ladies supported her, she
gave birth to the prince from her right side.
The branch is said to have come down within reach of her hand
of its own accord. This detail is important not only because the tree
is praised as huge, straight, and perfect, and the branches would
have been too high for her, but also because later in the Bodhisattva’s
life there was to be another tree that would lower a branch so that
the emaciated and exhausted Bodhisattva could support himself while
getting out of the water and climbing the bank of the river (see motif
no. 10).
For the first time in the course of events, mention is made of tree
deities here. As one of the miraculous signs accompanying his birth,
it is said that tree deities showed themselves, and, with lowered head,
saluted the new-born child.6 Reference to this episode is also made
by John Strong, who relates that the Elder Upagupta, on the occa-
sion of his visit to Lumbinì with King A≤oka, evoked the tree spirit
who had witnessed the birth of the Bodhisattva.7 In the course of
this chapter, there will be many more references to the Buddhist
belief in tree deities.
Another reference to a tree is made by John Strong in the same
book, when the 32 physiognomic marks of a great man (mahàpurußa)
are enumerated. Buddha, from the day of his birth onwards, is said
to have possessed all of them. The tenth mark is described as hav-
ing the bodily proportions of a banyan tree.8
6
See E. Zürcher, Het leven van de Boeddha (1978), p. 31.
7
See John Strong, The legend of King Asoka (1983), p. 245, and A≤okàvadàna 82.
8
See Strong, King Asoka, p. 46. The idea that Buddha’s body had the propor-
tions of a banyan tree is also mentioned in the account of his last moments before

150 chapter three
(6) It is said, in some of the accounts, that on the day the Bodhisattva
was born, seven other beings that were to play a role in his life also
came into existence, including the tree beneath which he was to find
enlightenment, i.e., the bodhi tree in Bodhgayà. The simultaneous
birth of the child who was to become the Buddha and the tree
beneath which this was to be achieved, points to the strong bond
between the newly born child and its destiny: not only was the tree
of enlightenment born at the exact moment the Bodhisattva came
into the world, also his future wife, his elephant, his horse, his char-
ioteer, Kàludàyin the minister’s son, and the four treasure vases
entered the world at exactly the same moment.
This pattern of parallel births is emphasised only in some of the
traditions; it is natural that, in traditions emphasising the unique his-
toricity of the Buddha, such a pattern is almost absent, whereas in
later developments this synchronicity and symmetry occurs not only
at conception and birth, but also in choosing the site and the tree
where enlightenment was found by previous Buddhas (see motifs no.
11 and 12). This repetitive re-enactment of a given pattern is also
found in the Sinhalese records of the Buddha’s visits to La«kà (see
motif no. 19), which are presented as perfectly mirroring the pro-
cedure of previous Buddhas’ visits.
(7) In the stories about the Bodhisattva’s early life, there is one inci-
dent which is presented as the first indication of the young boy’s
predisposition: the episode of his first meditative experience in the
shade of the jambù tree. Although the timing is not unanimous—in
some stories, he is still a very small child, no more than a toddler,
and in other stories he is a youth, and in some Tibetan versions he
has already gone through the crucial experience of the four encoun-
ters—, the meaning of the story is. For some reason, his father, the
king, had to be present in the fields where the first ploughing of the
season was to take place. Sometimes the occasion is depicted as a
ploughing festival where his father had to plough the first farrow,
in the form of a kind of ceremonial ‘state ploughing’ or as a plough-
ing contest in which the contestants had to show their skills. In
the Lalitavistara, the Bodhisattva is portrayed as a young adult who
death, see also Jouveau-Dubreuil and O.C. Gangoli in their article on the antiq-
uity of the Buddha image. The quotation is from Dialogues of the Buddha, translated
in the Sacred Books of the Buddhists, vol. II, p. 15.

had set out with a number of courtiers’ sons to inspect a farming

village.
Whatever the reason of his being there, the Bodhisattva is said to
have been struck by the cruelty of what was normally considered a
peaceful rural scene. The Mahàvastu and Lalitavistara especially dwell
on the unease and pain that rose in him when he saw how, in the
process of the peasant tilling the ground, a snake was accidentally
sliced through and thrown away, and how a frog was turned up by
the ploughshares and taken away to be prepared for dinner. The
Abhinißkrama»asùtra elaborates on this even more: the Bodhisattva’s
eyes fell on the tired oxen, whose necks were bleeding from the
goad, on the men toiling beneath the noon sun, and on the birds
devouring hapless insects.9
In most of the accounts, the agitation he felt about the suffering
in the beings around him is causally connected with his meditative
experience in the shade of the jambù tree, as if this feeling of conflict
made him withdraw into himself. In the Lalitavistara, it is emphasised
that he spontaneously attained all four degrees of dhyàna there. If
this was true, the process from agitation to upekßà (P. upekkhà) or even-
mindedness must have been successful enough to ease his agitation
for the time being, although the same conflict about the inherent
suffering of life continues to characterise his rebellion and consequent
spiritual quest up to the decisive moment of enlightenment many
years later.
The special mention of the tree is not merely connected with his
meditation beneath it, but also with the fact that its shade had not
moved as long as he sat there. In some versions, it turned out that
when his nurses returned, the shadow of the jambù tree had stood
still to protect him from the mid-day sun; in other cases, it is the
ministers or even the king himself who found him and paid rever-
ence to his feet.
An additional episode is provided by the theme of the five ‰ßis
who happened to fly over when the Bodhisattva sat in meditation.
Suddenly they found themselves arrested in their course. Addressed
by the guardian deva of the wood about the cause of this unprece-
dented power that had halted them and stopped them in mid-air,
they came down, honoured him with verses and prostrations, and
9
See Beal, The Romantic Legend, pp. 73–78.

152 chapter three
circumambulated the Bodhisattva and the tree three times, after

which they continued their journey.
The details connected with this first deep experience of sorrow,
compassion, and his consequent meditative interiorisation under a
tree, where he is paid homage to by ‰ßis, court attendants, and the
king himself provide a foretaste of what was to come later, under
different trees. In the Majjhima Nikàya (1.246), the Buddha himself
describes this first meditative experience in the context of his striv-
ings before enlightenment and thus makes explicit the connection
between his first dhyànic experience and his final enlightenment.10
(8) There is a great variation in the chronology between the Bod-
hisattva’s first meditation and his great renunciation. There might
be many years between a toddler’s trick of disappearing from his
nurses and an adult’s decision to turn his back on the worldly life,
but when we follow the Tibetan versions or the Divyàvadàna, there
was only a short intermediate period between the meditative expe-
rience on the occasion of the ploughing contest/festival, which is sit-
uated after the seeing of the four signs, and his step to leave his
wife, child, father, and kingdom behind.11
Once he had left the boundaries of his father’s realm, he wan-
dered around as a hermit, eastwards. Some geographical specifications
are mentioned, such as that he went to a river called Anomà, a
town called Anomiya (or Anuvaineya, respectively Anumaineya), and
the mango grove of Anupiya. His two teachers, Àlàra Kàlàma and
Uddaka Ràmaputta (S. Udraka Ràmapùtra), are not specifically con-
nected with isolated forest hermitages. It seems that during his wan-
derings he favoured lovely, mild, and quiet places conducive to
contemplation but conveniently close to villlages and towns where
he could go to collect alms. It is not clear to what extent he really
spent longer periods in the solitude of the forests.12 He must have
spent a considerable part of the six years of his quest beneath trees,
10
As we will see in motif no. 20, it is also connected with the meditative sequence
right before the moment of entering parinirvà»a.
11
In Beal, Romantic Legend, p. 108, a remark is made that on the occasions of
his four outings, his father had ordered the male trees to be decorated with mas-
culine jewelry, and female trees with feminine jewelry.
12
Although Buddhist ideas about living in the forest are not at issue in this chap-
ter, in some of the passages on forest life there are clues to Buddha’s attitude, for
instance in the Majjhimanikàya: the Bhayabheravasutta (Mùlapari-yàga-vagga 4), the
Vanapattha-sutta (Sìhanàda-vagga 17) and the Mahàgosinga-sutta (Mahàyamaka-vagga 32).

but accounts of its length vary. In Zürcher (1978: 89) it is said that
he spent six years of ascetism and meditation under a ≤àla tree by
the river Senà. It seems clear that at least the last part of those six
years was spent not too far away from the spot where his quest
would end, the bodhi tree in the village of Uruvilvà/Uruvelà, also
called Senà-nigama, Senàni-nigama, and Senàpati-gràma, most prob-
ably close to the place where Sujàtà was to give him a bowl of
milk-rice to terminate his rigorous ascetism.13
(9) After six years of intense ascetic practice, he gradually found him-
self at Uruvelà where he sat himself under a banyan tree.14 It was
when he was sitting beneath this tree that Sujàtà came with her
annual offering. In the Chinese version, this banyan is just a beauti-
ful tree where she used to pray for a good husband and a son.
When the wish had been fulfilled, she sent her maid Pu»»à to pre-
pare the place in front of the tree for the offering. The maid found
the Bodhisattva sitting beneath that particular tree. Although he was
extremely emaciated, in the eyes of the maid he was so radiant that
she thought he was the deity of the tree who had come down in
person to receive her gifts.
In the Jàtakas it is said that, the night before, he had dreamt five
clear dreams, which inspired him with the certainty that he would
become a Buddha that day, which happened to be the full moon
day of the month Visàkha (April–May). Sujàtà had put great effort
in preparing her offering of milk-rice and brought it to him in a
golden bowl. After having taken a bath in the river, he ate the food.
This was to be his only meal for the next 49 days.
There are some variations in the sequence of events. Some accounts
relate that the food was given to him by Sujàtà when the Bodhisattva
came begging at her door. Whether the five ascetics, seeing his altered
mode of life, left him before or after his encounter with Sujàtà is
not clear. It is not clear either whether he is thought to have taken
a bath in the river before or after the food. There even may have
been two offerings of food and two baths.
13
See Lalitavistara 311.248.
14
The place is called Uruvilvà or Uruvelà. Its possible connection with a bel tree
is mentioned in B. Barua, Buddha and Buddha-Gaya (1975), p. 100, where reference
is made to Dr. Bloch’s Annual Report, 1908–1909, Notes on Bodh-Gayà, p. 144: here,
‘uru’ is translated as large, and ‘vilvà’ as referring to the bel tree or Aegle Marmelos.
Barua adds that the present village of Urel, too, is distinguished by a bel tree at
the entrance.

154 chapter three
The tree beneath which he is said to be found by Sujàtà’s maid

is an important element in the story, since it was a tree that had
already been singled out by Sujàtà’s religious fervour and that was
now occupied by the Bodhisattva. Whether this banyan tree was the
same from which a shepherd boy is said to have cut some branches,
of which he wove a covering over the head of the Bodhisattva as a
shelter from wind and rain, remains a question.15 Those branches
miraculously took root and bore leaves and flowers, which formed
a bower over the Bodhisattva. It is also said in the Abhinißkrama»asùtra
that this shepherd boy gave him goat’s milk to drink, and massaged
and anointed the Bodhisattva’s body with it. Such a story might well
be meant to precede the Sujàtà story, since it was commonly main-
tained that it was her food-offering which sustained him during his
long ordeal of 49 days. The matter of the banyan tree is a little con-
fusing since in the phase immediately following the Buddha’s enlight-
enment, again a banyan tree, called the goatherd’s tree, figures
prominently. There could be one (Sujàtà’s), two (plus the goatherd’s
tree before enlightenment, under which a shelter was made), or even
three (plus the goatherd’s tree of the weeks after enlightenment) (see
motif no. 13).
The narrative motif of a branch taking root again and forming
leaves and flowers is found several times in the stories around the
bodhi tree: the offshoot from Bodhgayà, arriving as a seed at the
Jetavana and miraculously sprouting into a tree instantly (see motif
no. 18) is the most spectacular example. A parallel appears in the
La«kà tales of the bodhi branch (see motif no. 19), as well as in the
pilgrims’ tale about the Buddha’s discarded toothbrush (dantakàß†ha).16
(10) It is said that having taken a bath in the river and having eaten
the food, the Bodhisattva passed the day in a grove of ≤àla trees. In
the same way as there could have been two offerings of food, one
by the goatherd, and one by Sujàtà, there could have been two
baths, one before or after the food, and a bath he took in the river
when he had to wash his clothes. It seems that it was on the occa-
15
See Beal, Romantic Legend, p. 192.
16
For Buddha’s discarded tooth-brush growing into a tree in Nàlanda, and still
alive when the Chinese record Ta-T’ang-Si-Yu-Ki was written, see Beal, Buddhist
Records (1983), p. 173. In India, there are many parallel stories connected with liv-
ing trees grown from the tooth-brushes of saintly persons, such as those of Caitanya
and Guru Nanak.

sion of washing the clothes that he was thought to have been assisted
by a tree deity who reached out to him to help him climb the river-
bank. This tree is variously called Akubha, Kakubha, Pinjuna, and
Kyalaka, and the deity Akubha or Akuba. Rajendral Mitra gives
Pentaptere Arjuna as its botanical name, and this tree kept its impor-
tance in the pilgrims’ tales, as it is said that the imprint of the
Bodhisattva’s fingers on that tree is still to be seen.
(11) It is said that the Bodhisattva rose towards evening, and observed
a certain amra tree on his way. Wondering whether this could be
the tree of enlightenment, he went near it and wanted to sit down.
At this time, the earth shook. The Bodhisattva deliberated that there
are two occasions on which the earth shakes this way, viz. when a
man gives up the last remnant of virtue, and when a man’s virtue
has reached the utmost limit. Since neither of these applied to him,
he reasoned that this could not possibly be the bodhi tree.
As he went on his way, the devas of the Suddhavasa heavens, in
order to point out the real bodhi tree to him, adorned it with flags
and banners. As the Bodhisattva left the amra tree and went along
the road towards the a≤vattha tree, he was accompanied by divinities
who sang his praises and showered him with flowers. The Bodhisattva
then recognised and acknowledged the true bodhi tree.
(12) Not in all accounts is the bodhi tree mentioned: in what is sup-
posed to be the Buddha’s own account there is no mention of the
famous tree.17 All other stories seem to agree on the central role of
the a≤vattha tree in this phase of the Buddha’s biography. This tree
could well have had a platform around it, being the centre of the
village, but it could also have been a solitary tree away from the
village. The special seat beneath this tree could be considered an
imaginary centre (bodhima»∂apa) where all previous Buddhas had sat,
or a proper stone platform where village elders used to gather and
where religious teachers taught their doctrines. Whatever condition
the Bodhisattva found the area of the a≤vattha to be in, after trying
each of the four directions he chose the east and sat himself down
on a cushion of grass, reverentially given to him by the grass-cutter
Sotthiya/Svasti or Svastika, whose name is also given as •ànti. After
being seated, he spoke out his resolution not to rise and leave his
seat before attaining full enlightenment.
17
Mahàsaccaka-sutta, Majjhimanikàya I.240 ff.

156 chapter three
In the Lalitavistara, it is said that there were four or eight tree

deities (bodhiv‰kßadevatà) residing in the a≤vattha, who praised and wor-
shipped the Bodhisattva as the Buddha-to-be. Krakucchanda, Konàka,
and Kà≤yapa, as well as 4,000 other Buddhas were supposed to have
attained saábodhi at the foot of this bodhi tree. What is supposedly
meant here is that they attained enlightenment on the very same
spot, beneath their own respective trees. Especially the Lalitavistara
pictures the Buddha-to-be as a crown prince in the process of coro-
nation: after abhißekha, he is consecrated, and sits on the throne
( parya«kam) which he should not leave. That this seat is strewn with
ku≤a grass increases the effect of a throne.
The Bodhisattva sat down cross-legged. We do not know much
about the position he took under the other trees mentioned above,
but in the jambù tree episode he is also emphatically described as
sitting cross-legged during meditation. In the ensuing battle with
Màra and the deepening meditative process, a deva living in the bodhi
tree is said to have reported on the Bodhisattva and his progress to
the other tree devas in the surrounding trees.
It is generally agreed that the Buddha remained beneath the bodhi
tree at least one week, during which he contemplated the chain of
causation. The bodhi tree thus witnessed both his resolution not to
rise and the attacks of Màra, as well as the final enlightenment (bodhi,
saábodhi, saáyaksaábodhi ) that gave the a≤vattha its later designations,
such as bodhiv‰kßa, bodhidruma, bodhitaru, bodhimùla, bodhiyaß†i or simply
bodhi or even bo. Also names like mahàbodhi and saáyaksaá bodhi
were given to this tree. However, the crucial role of this tree should
not divert our attention from the fact that for many Buddhists the
bodhima»∂a or vajràsana is central, and not the tree. In Alexander
Cunningham’s drawing of the Bodhgayà plan, this is clearly seen.18
(13) The records differ about the number of days the Buddha spent
on which spot in the wider area around the bodhi tree, but they all
agree that the Buddha took his time there. Whereas the first week
is generally said to have been spent beneath the a≤vattha, and the
second week in contemplating the a≤vattha where he had attained
enlightenment from some distance, the details differ. Since he remained
18
See Alexander Cunningham, Mahabodhi or the Great Buddhist Temple under the
Bodhi tree at Buddha-gaya (1892), plate II. See also Leoschko, Bodhgaya: The site of
enlightenment (1988), p. 16, fig. 6, which is a reproduction of Cunningham’s sketch.

immobile, without blinking his eyes even once, this spot is generally
called ‘unblinking gaze’ (animißalocana). Whether this spot had a tree
is not clear, and whether he sat or stood is not clear either. Today
this spot is marked by a stùpa, and Theravàda pilgrims are told that
this is the place where he spent his second seven days.
In a full account of the 49 days, it is usually the third week that
is again connected with a tree, a patra tree (Borassa Flebellifera, a type
of palmyra palm), and the spot is now indicated by the same kind
of tree. This tree does not have an equally prominent place in the
pilgrims’ cult, but as one of the post-enlightenment spots where
Buddha is said to have spent a week it is entitled to its share of
devoted attention.
(14) In the Southern tradition of the full 49 days, the fourth or fifth
week is said to have been spent in a place where the devas came to
worship him. This is now called the ratnaghara, or jewel-house. Whether
he spent a week here before or after his walking up and down,
enjoying the state of full liberation, is a matter of debate. Most of
the Theravàda pilgrims today are told to pay homage to the ca«krama»a
(with stone lotuses and vases marking his footsteps) first, and then
to the ratnaghara.
It is said that the great gods came down to honour him, but there
is no unanimity about whether it was here that Buddha resolved to
keep the doctrine to himself, after which the gods came down in
person to implore him to spread the Dharma. Was it here that Màra
came to tempt him to attain nirvà»a at once? It would seem logical
that this occurred at the very end of his Bodhgayà sojourn, when,
after having consented to the gods’ request, he would have risen and
set out to the deerpark near Vara»asi, but this is not evident from
the accounts.
Whatever the sequence, the third tree mentioned by name is the
ràjàyatana tree, ‘abode of the king’. It is said to have been a Buchannia
Latifolia, possibly a tree in which a tree deity was known to reside,
hence its name. In general, it is said that the Buddha spent a week
in meditation under this tree, but whether this was before or after
he was protected by the nàga king Mucalinda/Mucilinda, is vague.
In the Mahàvastu account, it is said that the tree deity came down
from the tree to serve as a sunshade for the meditating Buddha.19
19
Mahàvastu I.52–57.

158 chapter three
This would provide a parallel to the act of the nàga Mucalinda who
protected him with its hood, as well as to the generous act of the
jambù tree during the Bodhisattva’s first dhyànic experience.20
It was beneath this ràjàyatana or beneath the ajàpàla (goatherd’s)
nyagrodha tree, or in the ktchirnìka grove that Buddha is said to have
accepted food from the two Orissan merchants, after which he had
colic pains. These were healed after eating an amra fruit given to
him by a medicine deva (who also was the guardian deity of the
grove). Buddha is said to have buried the fruit’s stone, which turned
into a tree, bearing flowers and fruits.21 As it is generally agreed that
the Buddha lived without food for the full 49 days after Sujàtà’s
offering, there is an inconsistency here.
Whatever sequence is followed, it is clear that, apart from the
bodhi tree there is mention of three more trees: the palm tree, the
ràjàyatana, and the ajàpàla nyagrodha, as well as the ktchirnìka grove
and the miraculously grown amra tree. The ajàpàla nyagrodha, today
called the goatherd’s banyan, is mentioned in most of the texts, but
it is not clear whether this was supposed to be the same tree where
the goatherd had given him goat’s milk and had made a shelter for
the Bodhisattva by making nyagrodha branches into a bower. Was it
here where he was accosted by a haughty bràhma»a, who asked him
what the qualities are that make a bràhma»a?
(15) Although the trees mentioned in the previous phase might rep-
resent common scriptural traditions which turned, in time, into pil-
grimage lore, it is the tree we now consider that has found its way
into art-historical traditions as well: the Mucalinda/Mucilinda tree
under which the Buddha is said to have spent another week of med-
itation. Although some authors have tried to identify this tree as a
Barringtonia Acutangala, it is not the tree itself which formed a tradi-
tion of its own, but the nàga king Mucalinda who lived there, and
who emerged from his hole to wind its body round the Buddha,
and thus protected him against sun, storm, and rain with his hood.
Was it here that the great god Brahmà himself implored him to
share his insights with those seekers on the brink of final realisation?
20
For Mucalinda’s act, see also Jàtakas I.77; Lalitavistara 488 (377), and Mahàvastu
III.273.
21
See Beal, Romantic Legend, p. 238.

Was it here where Màra’s daughters made a last attempt to lure

him away from his course?22
Whatever the sequence of his post-enlightenment meditations in
Bodhgayà, the new Buddha, moved by compassion with other beings
who might be open to his teachings, left for Vàrà»asi and the deer-
park to begin his teaching career and to start the Buddhist sangha.
(16) Whereas his first preaching, in the deerpark of Isipatana (Sàrnàth),
is not explicitly connected with a particular tree, many other of the
Buddha’s teaching activities are connected with trees, parks, orchards,
and groves. Some of the parks and groves are explicitly mentioned
as donations from lay disciples, of which the Jetavana is the most
famous. Many others are mentioned: Ve¬uvana (bamboo grove),
Jìvaka-ambavana ( Jìvaka’s mango grove), P(r)àvàrika-ambavana (P.’s
mango grove), Sìtavana, Ambapàli/Àmrapàlì’s mango orchard as
well as places like Pubbàràma (the Eastern Park, donated by Migàra
Visàkhà of Sàvatthi) and the Nigrodhavana or Nyagrodhàrama,
donated by King •uddhodana in Kapilavastu.
When Buddha’s father inquired about his son’s life, he was told
that the Buddha spent his life beneath trees, just like all previous
Buddhas.23 In addition to the fact that teaching activities in India
traditionally took place beneath trees, the Buddha’s teaching career
is explicitly connected with life in parks and groves, not so much
with specific solitary trees, nor with woods and forests, as in Hindu
ascetic tradition in general, and in his own pre-enlightenment quest,
but rather in explicitly named parks and orchards. However, our
focus on trees should not distract us from the mention of many
mountain peaks and caves where, for instance, rain retreats were
made by the Buddha and his monks.
(17) Although the Buddha’s career as a wandering teacher is mostly
connected with parks and orchards, there are a few trees singled out
as the result of a specific event. One of the supposed miracles per-
formed by the Buddha is said to have taken place at the foot of
Ga»∂a’s mango tree at Savatthi. Outsiders had challenged the Buddha
to display his miraculous powers, to which he, after ample consid-
eration, had consented. In the course of this contest, the challengers
22
See also Jàtakas I.78; Saáyuttanikàya I.24, and Lalitavistara 490 (378).
23
See Zürcher, Het leven van de Boeddha, p. 153.

160 chapter three
had pulled out all the mango trees in the royal garden, but Ga»∂a,
the king’s gardener, had found a ripe mango and presented it to
the Buddha. Buddha ate the fruit and told the gardener to bury the
stone in the earth. No sooner had Buddha washed his hands over
it than it sprang into a mighty tree.24
Besides the mango miracle there are a few other miraculous sto-
ries connected with trees. There is the story of Buddha’s disciple
Yasa/Yasada, who, it was said, was born after his father, a wealthy
banker in Benares, had prayed to a famous kalpava†a tree, a wish-
fulfilling banyan. In our discussion of trees in the Jàtakas, we will
come back to this aspect of wishes fulfilled after praying to a tree
or tree deity. There is also the story of the Buddha’s discarded tooth-
brush turned into a tree;25 and the blind men’s staves which turned
into great trees after their sight was restored when they had paid
homage to the Buddha. The park’s name 'Àpta-netra-vana’, the
‘restored sight’ park, still reminds us of this miracle.26
(18) The event of planting the seed of the bodhi tree to grow into
the first sapling, in the Jetavana in •ravasthi, could well be consid-
ered a miracle in the sense of the previous section, but it is more
than just a miracle, it is the prototype of what was to be repeated
many times: the planting of a seed, a sapling, or cutting of the orig-
inal bodhi tree, as a representative of the Buddha in his absence, and
of the event that took place under this tree, i.e., the final enlight-
enment. It is said that the Buddha only consented to Ànanda’s request
after some hesitation and resistance. However, since an offshoot of
the bodhi tree was considered a proper representation in the sense
of a relic-of-use, as well as a reminder (as meant in the third cate-
gory, that of udde≤ika objects), from the moment the first bodhi tree
was consciously planted to represent the Buddha, a precedent was
set, and the role of the bodhi tree in the spread of Buddhism was
shaped with the Buddha’s own consent.27 In how far this story is
24
Note the parallel to the seed-sprung amra tree (in motif no. 14) and the
seed-sprung bodhi trees in •ravasthi and Anuràdhapura.
25
See, for instance, Beal, Buddhist Records, p. 173.
26
See, for instance, Beal, Buddhist Records, p. XLVI.
27
In the Kali«gabodhi-jàtaka, the three categories of relics are enumerated as: (1)
relics of the body (≤arìrika), (2) relics of use ( paribhogika), and (3) relics in the sense
of a reminder, a symbol, or a memorial (udde≤ika).

apocryphal, being an ex post facto apology for the cult of the bodhi
tree, cannot be recovered.
The outline of the story is as follows: Anàthapi»∂ika remarked to
Ànanda how unfitting it was that the devotees, who had come to
pay their respect to the Buddha, found him not to be present there
and put their gifts on his porch or by the gate of the Jetavana.
Ànanda’s request for a proper place or symbol where the visitors
could leave their gifts and pay respect resulted in Buddha’s consent
to use a sapling of the bodhi tree as a proper replacement of his
physical form, and as a reminder of what the bodhi tree stood for,
namely the final enlightenment. Elder Moggallàna, with his magical
power, flew through the sky to collect a seed from the original tree
in Bodhgayà. This seed was planted by Ànanda and miraculously
grew into a big tree instantly. It was sanctified by Buddha’s all-night
meditation beneath it and is popularly referred to as Ànanda’s bodhi
tree.28
(19) Although the most direct accounts of Buddha’s life present
Magadha, or the greater area of Bihar, as the country where Buddha
spent his years as a teacher, there are traditions that connect other
countries with his visits as well. One of these traditions is situated
in Sri Lanka, which the Buddha is believed to have visited three
times. It is said, in the Sinhalese chronicles, that, just like former
Buddhas, the Buddha came to La«kà on the occasion of a plague: he
first came to free the island from the yakkhas (S. yakßas), demonical
28
Since the expression of the wish to have something tangible in Buddha’s absence
and the consequent planting of the bodhi tree, in my opinion always misses the vital
link which would explain the choice of the bodhi tree as the best representative, I
take the liberty to quote parts of the relevant passage from the poetic rendering by
the Vietnamese monk Thich Nhat Hanh: “We come to the monastery but it seems
empty without you. We walk around your hut a few times and then return home,
not knowing what else to do.” (. . .) Venerable Ananda, who was standing nearby,
proposed an idea. “It would be nice to plant a bodhi tree here at the monastery.
That way, whenever disciples come to visit and you are gone, they could visit the
bodhi tree in your place. They could even bow to it as though bowing to you. We
could place a stone altar beneath the tree where disciples could offer flowers. (. . .)”
(Thich Nhat Hanh, Old Path, White Clouds. Walking in the Footsteps of the Buddha (1991),
pp. 407–408.
When one compares the original texts on this specific episode, some make the
Buddha himself the first to mention the bodhi tree as a proper symbol, and some
let Ànanda make the suggestion. Either way, there is no explicit justification explain-
ing the choice of the bodhi tree as the most fitting representative other than that it
had been so with previous Buddhas too.

162 chapter three
beings; during his second visit he came in order to mediate between

the nàga kings Mahodara and Cùlodara, and during his third visit
he is said, among other things, to have consecrated the spot where
the bodhi sapling was to be planted a few centuries later.
In addition to the relic cult (of hair, bones, tooth and alms-bowl,
as well as his footprint at Adam’s Peak) such visits generated, his
supposed stay in La«kà connects the island with the bodhi tree in a
unique way: it is said that the Buddha explicitly meant a sapling of
the bodhi tree to be brought to La«kà, indicated not only by the
Buddha’s third visit during which he consecrated the spot, but also
by his resolution-of-will just before dying.29
Although methodologically it is not our concern here to distin-
guish between historical, canonical, and post-canonical or apocryphal
claims to tradition, it is clear that with specific claims by specific
countries we have entered a completely new phase. What counts
here is that a local tradition sprang up which connected the island
of La«kà, or Tambapa»»i as it was often called, not only with the
Buddha’s presence, but also with a special protection, in the form
of the Buddha’s three circumambulations around the island to ritu-
ally protect it, and with a special function, i.e., to keep the line of
the bodhi tree unbroken up to the present day.
(20) After the meal offered to him by Cu»∂a the blacksmith, the
Buddha is said to have rested in Cu»∂a’s mango orchard, and to
have proceeded from there to Ku≤inagara. On the way to Ku≤ina-
gara, after crossing the Hira»yavatì river, he chose a ≤àla grove as
his last resting-place. The trees were said to be in bloom out of sea-
son (three months after the rain retreat, i.e., December or January)
and to shower their blossoms on the dying master. Some accounts
speak of two huge ≤àla trees on either side of him, some others speak
of four ≤àla trees of unusual height. Buddha explained to Ànanda
that there were countless gods assembled to be present at his last
moments, divine mandàrava flowers and sandalwood powder fell from
the sky, and divine music resounded through the air.
It is against this background that the Buddha is supposed to have
instructed Ànanda about the four places of pilgrimage, and in another
29
In Nissanka (1996), mention is made of two other sources for the Jetavana
bodhi tree episode, the Pùjavaliya and the Paccuppanavatthu, to which regrettably I had
no access.

source, about taking the bodhi tree to La«kà.30 When the moment
of final death and liberation, parinirvà»a, had come, the deities liv-
ing in the ≤àla trees are said to have mourned along with all the
others present there.31 Whereas some mention the tree under which
the Bodhisattva was born as an a≤oka tree, all accounts speak of ≤àla
trees around his deathbed. Lying in the lion posture, the Buddha is
said to have repeated his dhyànic method for the last time. In this
way, the ≤àla trees of his parinirvà»a are connected with the jambù
tree of his first dhyàna session, and his second exercise of the dhyànic
stages under the bodhi tree just preceding the enlightenment.
3.1.1 Four hypotheses

Although from the above twenty episodes in the Buddha’s biogra-
phy it becomes clear how much his life was connected with trees,
orchards, parks, and groves, hardly any forest or wilderness is men-
tioned in the Buddhist texts dealing with the post-enlightenment
episodes. One of the reasons for this might be related to the area
in which he travelled: the Eastern Gangetic plain might not have
been densely forested even in the Buddha’s lifetime. Another reason
could be that the Buddha, being an aristocrat and a man of mild
temperament, favoured moderate and lovely landscapes, with shady
groves of trees, clear rivers and friendly villages, instead of wild
sceneries, dominated by uncontrolled growth, non-Aryan tribes, and
ferocious animals, plus, possibly, unkempt dark-minded ascetics as
well. A third reason could be found in the circumstance that, as a
teacher, he had a growing group of monks to feed, and that being
dependent on alms he knew the vicinity of a town or village was
essential for their well-being.
Whereas all three of the considerations are no more than con-
jectures, there might be a fourth reason, supported by scripture. The
Buddha, looking back on the six years of his ascetic period, reflected
on the fear (bhayabherava) that used to come over him when he wan-
dered and meditated in the forest on his own. His choice of land-
scape after his enlightenment might well be related to the position
30
See N.A. Jayawickrama, The reception of discipline and the Vinaya Nidana (1962),
p. 82, quoting from Bàhiranidàna 97.
31
For pictorial representations, see W. Zwalf, Buddhism: Art and faith (1985),
p. 38, Odette Viennot, Le culte de l’arbre dans l’Inde ancienne (1954), p. 236, and H.G.
Franz, Das alte Indien. Geschichte und Kultur des indischen Subkontinents (1990), p. 213.

164 chapter three
of Buddhism as a middle way: no extremes, but rather the mild,

kind, pure, concentrated sort of life one can lead when the outer
circumstances do not form any hindrance to leading the regulated
life of a Buddhist monk. The advice given to his monks emphasises
that the place where one lives should be in line with one’s charac-
ter and personality: for some, in a specific period of their life, soli-
tary life in the forest may be fruitful, but when fear, worries, loneliness,
and ‘unwholesome thoughts’ tend to dominate, communal life would
be preferable. In the available literature on this, it happens to be
the aspect of fear that is emphasised: the fear, when being alone in
the forest, of hearing unidentified movements and rustlings. When
one is seized with fear, interiorisation is hard to be accomplished,
and when one is feeling uneasy because of loneliness, the mind is
distracted. The raw forest life in the wilderness appeared not to be
conducive to the mental composure the Buddha valued so highly.
The forest might be an ideal place for other kinds of religious seek-
ers, but not so for the Buddha.
The fact that so much of the Buddha’s life, as it has come down
to us in the form of a vast number of only loosely connected inci-
dents reported in the scriptures and expressed in Buddhist art, is
connected with trees, is only partly explained by the pre-existing tree
cults in ancient India. The special affinity that exists between trees,
the Buddha’s personality, and the nature of his teachings, seems to
be found in the congeniality of large, leafy trees to the atmosphere
of shade, quiet, and reflection sought in monastic Buddhism. The
parks and groves donated to the sangha were not wildernesses either:
they must have been maintained and cared for as places where fruits
and flowers made life agreeable, where the sunlight was filtered,
and where community life could be lived according to the rules of
conduct the Buddha had given. Although some of the texts occa-
sionally mention isolated tracts, mountain tops, solitary caves, and
uninhabited areas, the early story of Buddhism seems to have been
played out against the friendly background of accommodating land-
scapes and moderately inhabited towns and villages. The fact that
many of the trees figuring in the Buddha’s life-story are emphati-
cally called by their names is a feature only partly explained by
specific literary traditions. It seems that, in Buddhism, the lively cor-
relation between geography, botany, pilgrimage, and biography was
maintained in such a way that even today one could walk in Buddha’s

footsteps and visualise in detail what it was like when the Buddha
walked there in person so many centuries ago.32
More than twenty single trees are specified in connection with the
narratives of the Buddha’s biography. This cannot be explained away
as reconstructive embellishments which tried to connect the impor-
tant episodes of the Buddha’s life with specific trees, just as his
enlightenment was connected with a specific tree. If it comes down
to the bare bones of history, it is not even certain that the Buddha
attained enlightenment beneath a tree.
The tendency to present Buddhist doctrine in the form of pre-estab-
lished patterns is well-known. In the same way, there might have
been a narratological tendency towards a tree pattern, modelled after
the very early generally accepted fact of the enlightenment under a
tree. The remarkable prominence of specified trees in the Buddha’s
life-history would thus be partly explained by the predisposition
towards repetitive patterns. The various trees in the Buddha’s life
would thus form a matrix after which the other episodes were given
shape. This matrix hypothesis would provide a first explanation.
A second explanation is more naturalistic in character. When we
see the Buddha as a person with a reflective nature, tending towards
reflectiveness both before and after enlightenment, it would have
been a fully natural thing for him to seek the shade of trees. Such
a natural predisposition does not, however, explain the motif of trees
connected with the moments of his early years, such as his concep-
tion and birth. This second explanation, which we would classify as
the shade-and-reflection hypothesis, presupposes a conscious
choice. As such, this hypothesis could only partly explain the fre-
quent occurrence of trees in the the Buddha’s life, and would leave
the tree motif in the earliest episodes unexplained.
32
Of course, human habitation and cultivation must have changed those land-
scapes considerably. Most Buddhist pilgrims nowadays do not travel on foot any-
more, but there are examples in which walking to, in, and around the major
Buddhist sites has remained an integral part of pilgrimage, especially those pil-
grimages which are performed in a more meditative manner, such as those guided
by Shantum Seth or Thich Nhat Hanh. See the documentary film made of this,
available to me in German as Schritte der Achtsamkeit. Eine Reise mit Thich Nhat Hanh,
made by Thomas Lüchinger (1997).

166 chapter three
A third explanation could well be found in the landscape: trees

were so much part of daily life both of the Buddha and his follow-
ers that it seems only natural that somehow they figure in most of
the stories. Trees must have been abundantly present in the day-to-day
life of the Buddha, and they must have been equally present and
alive and recognisable for those who, gradually over the centuries,
shaped the narratives of Buddha’s earthly life. They must have pro-
vided a self-evident naturalistic setting, and as such we would name
this third explanation of the frequent occurrence of trees in the
Buddha’s life-story, the landscape hypothesis.
Finally, there is the symbolical meaning of trees, both in pre-exist-
ing and co-existing mythology and tree lore, and in the specifically
Buddhist meaning connected with the tree of enlightenment. Trees
were carriers of widely established symbol systems independent of
specifically Buddhist meanings given to them. That the Buddha sought
the shade of a particularly attractive a≤vattha for his decisive medi-
tation might have been prompted by no more than a naturalistic
urge. It was beneath this tree that he attained enlightenment, after
which the bodhi tree became a symbol. The hypothesis of the bodhi
tree as a symbol of enlightenment is valid for Buddhism in a specific
sense, but is interrelated both with the symbolism of the a≤vattha in
general, and with the symbolic meanings connected with other trees
such as jambù, a≤oka, and banyan. In this sense, the symbol hypoth-
esis could help to explain both the specific and the general.
In this manner, four hypotheses are offered as possible and par-
tial explanations for the frequent occurrence of specified trees in the
Buddha’s biography. It seems to me that these four are very much
interconnected and that none of them is qualified to explain all
twenty motifs. Notwithstanding the obvious predominance of vari-
ous types of trees in the twenty stories, we should not forget that
ritual worship in Buddhism is limited to one specific tree, the bodhi
tree believed to have directly descended from the original tree in
Bodhgayà.
3.2 The bodhi tree as a motif in literature, art, and architecture
3.2.1 The continuation of pre-existing tree cults

Even if many of the tree stories connected with Buddha’s biography
might be mainly later poetic and devotional embellishments, it is

clear that Buddhist scriptures as well as obvious worship of the pipal

played a vital role in the uninterrupted dendrolatry of Indian cul-
ture. Although some purists might object to the word ‘tree cult’ or
‘tree worship’ in relation to Buddhism, it is clear that trees are
accorded a remarkably prominent place in the various devotional
narratives. Some scholars have stated that what used to be a widely
spread nàga- and yakßa cult, gradually, in the course of centuries,
turned into tree cults by the impact of Buddhism. It could also be
maintained that a tree, as a symbol, happened to be more in line
with the Buddha’s character and Buddhist teachings than chtonic
powers like serpents and archaic powers like yakßas.
Apart from that, Buddhism was always inclined to develop its mid-
dle position: not the darkness and rigours of ascetic life in the forests,
nor the bright lures of worldly drama in market-places, courts, and
palaces, but the subdued atmosphere of reflection and mental disci-
pline. Although there is a remarkable lack of what one could call
symbology in Buddhist texts, it seems self-evident that, in addition
to the circumstances of his conception and birth, the solitary trees
so prominent in the Buddha’s life-story, especially after his renunciation,
primarily provided him with shade, quiet, calmness, and reflection,
whereas all the more mythological or miraculous stories about tree
deities, nàgas and yakßas indicate a colouring by the popular cults,
on which, as a matter of fact, devotional Buddhism was grafted.
When we picture the young Bodhisattva, retiring to the shade of
a jambù tree in order to sort out his feelings of agitation by the rural
scenes of cruelty and suffering, we see the beginning of a pattern.
Without referring to any pre-existent cultural ideas about trees, we
may say that the young prince sought the half-tones of reflection
and shade beneath a tree that happened to be there. It was not the
darkness and wilderness of the forest he sought: it was the subdued
quiet of a shady tree overlooking the fields. This seems to be a per-
fectly natural move for a young man who tended to be oversensi-
tive to the harsh realities of what was considered normal life.
In the same way, when he brought his ascetic phase to an end,
he sat himself beneath a huge banyan tree where he received food
from Sujàtà, and then sat himself beneath an especially attractive
a≤vattha tree, a tree which might well have been the central village
tree, but also a solitary tree outside the village boundaries, from
which he vowed not to rise before he would have attained complete
enlightenment.

168 chapter three
That so many of his sermons later took place in the shady quiet
of parks, groves, and orchards seems perfectly natural too. In the
Middle Country (Majjhimade≤a) where the Buddha’s life appears to
have been played out, he seems to have favoured the moderately
withdrawn atmosphere of cultured nature, where he could dwell,
together with his monks, in an atmosphere conducive to tuition and
meditation, but not too far away from towns and villages where alms
could be collected and where doctrinal exchange would be possible.
Even without linking up to a pre-existent dendrolatry, to tree-deities,
nàgas, and yakßas, it would have been quite a natural thing for a
teacher like Gotama to favour solitary shady trees for contempla-
tion, and lovely groves and orchards for teaching and training. In
this way, we can see the natural relation that he had with trees with-
out immediately stressing this tendency as the continuation of a
pre-existing cult of tree worship.
It is evident that much of the cultural climate, of which the cult
of tree deities, nàgas and yakßas was an important popular and
wide-spread aspect, seeped into and got mixed up with the initial
facts of Buddha’s life. There is indeed an uninterrupted line of ven-
eration of the pipal in India, although the cluster of symbols con-
nected with the a≤vattha in the Vedic and Hindu context evolved in
a different direction than in the Buddhist context. Strictly speaking,
the a≤vattha was called a bodhi tree only if a direct descent from the
original tree of enlightenment was guaranteed. For most Buddhists,
the cult of the bodhi tree was sanctioned by the Buddha himself: both
the occasion of planting the seed in the Jetavana and the Sinhalese
version of Buddha’s resolution about the bodhi tree to be brought to
La«kà count as the Buddha’s own legitimation of such a practice.
What distinguished the Buddhist cult from that of Hindu con-
tempories was not only the cluster of meanings associated with the
a≤vattha, but also the symbolism itself. The Buddha was said, in the
accounts of the Ànanda-bodhi tree in Jetavana, to have sanctioned
the custom that people who had come to pay homage to him and
found him absent, would from then on pay homage to the bodhi tree,
as they would have paid homage to him had he been there in per-
son.33 The original idea seems to be that the tree acted as his rep-
resentative in his absence. That it was the tree beneath which he
33
See esp. the Kali«gabodhi-jàtaka (numbered 479 in Fausböll’s collection).

had attained enlightenment, and not, for instance, the tree beneath
which it was said he was born, seems significant for the symbolism
that developed later, i.e., the bodhi tree becoming the symbol of
enlightenment. We seem to be dealing with two strands of thought
here: first, the tree as a representation (or replacement/stand-in) of
the Buddha, as a person (we will see more of this in early Buddhist
art where he is not portrayed as a person but indicated by a tree,
a bodhima»∂a, a vajràsana, footprints, a tri≤ula, or a wheel) and sec-
ond, the tree as a symbol of enlightenment. In what stage Buddhist
ideas about the interpretation of the meaning of the bodhi tree were
influenced by popular cults and belief systems is a matter of debate.
It appears to have been so from very early onwards.
One of the domains in which there was a common basis with
Hindu ideas and beliefs is the domain of cosmology. The concep-
tion of several continents or islands (dvìpa), with Mount Meru (or
Sumeru/Sineru) in the centre, on the top of which the 32 or 33
gods live, and where the central tree (a jambù or pàrijàta/pàricchat-
taka) grows, has a common basis, but its particulars are interpreted
in a Buddhist vein.34 One of those Buddhist details is that the cen-
tral tree on top of Mount Sineru is said to have gradually sprung
into flowers during the Buddha’s successive meditative stages. In this
way, the step towards seeing the bodhi tree as the cosmic centre is
but a small one.35 Yet it is remarkable that in such cosmologies
a≤vattha and nyagrodha are never mentioned: instead, it is the pàrijà-
taka or jambù trees that take prominence. I have found no textual
evidence for the statement, made by Viennot, that the a≤vattha is the
terrestrial representative of the heavenly pàrijàta tree, which would
thus also establish a correlation between Indra sitting in the shade
of the heavenly pàrijàta/pàrijàtaka and Buddha sitting in the shade of
its terrestrial representative, the a≤vattha or pipal.36
The second domain where, in Buddhism, there is a continuation
and adaptation of what must have been a lively popular belief dur-
ing the rise and evolution of the Buddhist world view, is the fre-
quent reference to yakßas, ràkßasas, nàgas, and pi≤àcas as beings specifically
34
See Jàtakas 6.125 and 6.432; also 1.5.208, as well as Saáyuttanikàya 5.409 and
A«guttaranikàya 4.118.
35
In a way, every single stùpa marks the symbolical centre, but the experience
of the bodhi tree in Bodhgayà, or, more correctly, the seat beneath it, as the cos-
mic centre from which all distances were measured, seems to be unique.
36
Odette Viennot, Le culte de l’arbre, p. 103.

170 chapter three
connected with forests and trees. Yakßas are often mentioned by their
names, and they are alternately portrayed, both in the scriptures
and in art, as almost-humans, demons, dwarves, or superbeings
(mahàpurußas). It is not clear whether what are often called tree deities
(S. v‰kßadevatà, P. rukkhadevatà) were thought to belong to yet another
category. Or, to put it more systematically, it seems that the divin-
ity of the life-principle in specific trees was seen in its two forms
simultaneously, both the divinity of the tree itself and the anthro-
pomorphised being expressing that divine principle.
Especially the Jàtakas tend to present the tree-beings as semi-inde-
pendent inhabitants and guardians of the trees they lived in. Whether
the ethical, humanist vein of the Buddhist teachings had an impact
on the mellification of the malevolent aspects, in favour of the benev-
olent, is a matter that would need much more specified research.37
The same goes for the tendency of separating the deity from the
tree, i.e., distinguishing between the complete tree as a divine man-
ifestation and the belief in semi-divine beings living in trees. It appears
that the monastic commentators tended to favour the distinction,
such as made in the Milindapañha, where the monk Nàgasena is
reported to have said about a palà≤a tree: “This is not about the
tree, but about the dryad that lives in it. (. . .) The word ‘tree’ is
used here for indicating the dryad that lives in it (. . .).”38
The question whether there was a unilinear chronological, i.e.,
irreversible, development from the sacredness of trees to the acknowl-
edgement of the divinity of separate, individual beings living in them
is not easily answered. There might have been such a tendency in
some circles, but the matter seems to have been more complex:
would it have been more in harmony with the Buddha’s teaching
to believe in semi-divine beings populating the trees than in the
sacredness of trees themselves? When the Buddha personally sanc-
tioned the reverence paid to the bodhi tree as his representative in
his absence, was this related to any pre-existent tree cult, or was it
something autonomous, not related to what the people around him
had inherited as myth, folklore, and popular cult? And again, was
the bodhi tree meant to function as a representative of the historical
Buddha in his absence, i.e., also after his death, or did the bodhi tree
37
See Gail Hinich Sutherland, The disguises of the demon: The development of the yakßa
in Hinduism and Buddhism (1991) and Ananda K. Coomaraswamy, Yakßas (1928).
38
Milindapañha IV.3.19–20.

stand for a principle as well, the principle of enlightenment, attained

by the Buddha beneath this tree, a principle that should be revered
by any who believed in it. It seems that all four aspects of the tree
cult in Buddhism occur: sacredness of the tree itself, the dryad or
tree deity living in a tree, the bodhi tree as a living representative of
the historical Buddha, and the bodhi tree as a symbol and reminder
of the principle of enlightenment.
The methodological problem whether the first two aspects are
totally separated from the last two seems to be relevant in the light
of the developmental history of Buddhism. If one views the Buddha
as an autonomous person who very much went his own indepen-
dent way and who taught the stories of his life and the insights
gained in his enlightenment in a clear, reduced way, in which only
the directly relevant was referred to, then we see, in his sober accounts,
not so much a refutation of popular belief, but merely that he is
silent about them or deals with them from a Buddhist perspective.
That popular belief came crowding in everywhere, even when he
himself was still alive, was only natural. But if his direct disciples,
those living as close to his historical appearance and literal words as
possible, felt no harm in the assimilation of such popular practice,
our distinction might well be too artificial.
Whatever the degree to which Buddhist writers licensed the impact
of popular belief, Buddhist literature in the Jàtakas and Dhammapada
is a veritable treasure-house of stories connected with trees and tree
deities. Especially brimming with such beings are the stories about
the former births of the historical Buddha and his closest associates.
The justification for including such stories, in which the Buddhist
veneer consists of the usual statement, at the end of the story, that
in a former birth one of the characters was the Buddha, who had
somehow shown an act of moral restraint, selfless service, compas-
sion, and generosity, may be found both in the narrative entertain-
ment and in the edification of those who were willing to follow
Buddhist ethics. The dryads in Buddhist stories often appear to be
of a mild, even loving and caring character. As such they fit in the
context, for such stories were meant to be edifying, but as they were
situated sometime in the India of the pre-Buddha era, the belief in
beings associated with a specific tree, figuring not only as the inhab-
itant but also as the guardian of such a tree, loosely combines
pre-Buddhist tree lore with the Buddhist ethic of concern, caring
and compassion. That the Buddha himself was presented as having

172 chapter three
been a tree or a tree deity in former lives made the message even
more direct.
Not all the stories have such an obvious ethical justification. Some
of them merely reflect the common belief about treasures guarded
by tree spirits. Some stories dwell on their willingness and ability to
fulfill wishes uttered by the supplicants, who are sometimes described
as hungry travellers who happen to be passing by, or as supplicants
specifically come to a certain tree to pay homage and plead for the
fulfilment of a specific wish. In one of the stories, that of Yasa or
Ya≤ada, the banker’s son born after his father had threatened to cut
down the huge banyan in Benares if his wish for a male child were
not fulfilled by the residing tree spirit, a comment is made that the
consequent birth of a son was not the result of the intervention and
benevolence of the tree spirit but plainly the result of karma, although
to others the birth of a son might look as if it were a wish granted
by the tree deity.39 We may assume that other stories in which the
Buddhist veneer is only very thin found their justification in the fact
that they were supposed to have taken place in a time before the
Buddha set the wheel of Dharma into motion. They were accepted
as mirroring the place of the tree cult in Indian society at large, to
which the Bodhisattva’s role added the necessary edifying flavour.
What is striking in this vast amount of tree stories in the Buddhist
scriptures is that the a≤vattha or pipal hardly plays a role. Banyans and
mango trees are the trees in daily life most often mentioned by name.
In that sense, there is no uninterrupted tradition from the ancient
pre-Aryan and Vedic reverence for the a≤vattha and later Buddhist
reverence for the a≤vattha as the tree beneath which Buddha attained
enlightenment. Rather, the uninterrupted tradition seems to lie in
the folkloric-indigenous rather than the priestly aspect of the Indian
tree cult. That so many trees and tree deities figure in the Buddhist
stories situated before the appearance of the Buddha seems to be
only loosely connected with the cult of the bodhi tree. Yet, admit-
tedly, Buddhism might have played a vital role in keeping these
stories alive in Buddhist garb, stories that would otherwise have got
lost in the literary process which was dominated by bràhma»a authors
who tended to look down upon such non-priestly cults.
Yakßas were not only connected with trees, but, through them, also
39
See, for instance, B.C. Law, A Study of the Mahàvastu (1978), p. 161, and Beal,
Romantic Legend, p. 260.

with fire and water. Yakßìs and river-goddesses are hard to distin-
guish in Indian temple art. It appears that yakßas often had platforms
under their trees in the form of tables, thrones, or low stone altars.
This elementary form could, in the course of time, have been extended
by building a roof over it or adding a shrine, called caitya or cetiya.
It seems that there were circular as well as square caityas, built all
around the sacred tree, without a roof, which had the tree in the
centre. What role Buddhism played in the transformation from blood
sacrifice offered to malevolent tree deities, to vegetarian, unbloody
offerings to benevolent yakßas is a matter that would require more
careful research.40 Nonetheless, in the Jàtakas there is mention of
blood sacrifice offered to trees, although not by any of the model
persons like the Bodhisattva and his close associates in former lives.
Naturally, the effect of such contrasts between the popular habit of
sprinkling blood in front of trees and the Buddhist norm of ahiásà
is that the edifying principles of Buddhist ethics are presented in a
favourable light. If this is true, the stories of ogre-like yakßas who
exacted bloody offerings from the supplicants served effectively as a
contrast to the Buddhist attitude of compassionate concern for all
forms of life. However, such a contrastive role in the literature does
not imply that also in practice Buddhism played a vital role in the
transformation from blood-offerings to unbloody gifts. It certainly
provided the ethic to such a gradual transformation, just as ahiásà
was known as one of the prerequisites for the pure life of a yogi or
sàdhu.41 Whereas forest life often had a negative connotation exactly
as a result of the a-dharmic life led there (i.e., not centred on priestly
sacrifice, ritual purity, and rigorous social stratification), in certain
groups of ascetics it was this very same aspect, the absence of blood
sacrifice, which highly added to the alleged purity of life in the forest.
It is remarkable that it is from Buddhist texts that we acquire
much more detailed information about such popular tree cults in
India at that time than from other literary sources, not so much
because tree cults were propagated, but because they offered an
effective contrast to the Buddhist ethic.42 In addition to occasional
40
Viennot, Le culte de l’arbre, p. 101, seems quite sure of this: “. . . un esprit de
douceur et d’amour . . .”
41
See, for instance, Patañjali’s Yogasùtras II.30 and 34–35.
42
Or, as Sutherland, Disguises of the demon, p. 41, calls it: “. . . the complex and
paradoxical relationship that the Buddha has with these representatives of autoch-
thonous belief.”

174 chapter three
meat offerings, the most common rituals at such a caitya seem to

have consisted of watering, sprinkling with honey, milk, and sugared
water, rubbing with red powders and oils, circumambulation, the
playing of music, and the performance of dance. Such ritual rever-
ence, however, seemed to be less a token of reverence and piety
than a way to placate an otherwise vengeful spirit. King A≤oka, a
few centuries after Buddha’s appearance, paid homage to the bodhi
tree in Bodhgayà in a comparable way, probably with the bloody
part left out. It might be that A≤oka was the first Buddhist to openly
and publicly worship the bodhi tree in such a way, just as he appears
to have been the first to make a pilgrimage to the four sacred places
of the Buddha’s life an institution. Even if an assimilation of Hindu
habits was already in progress at that time, at least he seems to have
established a pattern, and to have provided a model for the way
reverence was to be paid to the bodhi tree. In such a manner the
cult of yakßa shrines could be loosely, indirectly, connected to the
cult of the bodhi tree, more in the way of taking over the form but
not the content or intent. The idea that a tree spirit had to be pla-
cated or cajoled is completely absent from the Buddhist bodhi cult,
but both the ritual and architectural forms might well be directlty
linked to the yakßa cult.
Whether the same can be said about the nàga cult is a matter
that needs some consideration. Nàgas emerge from Buddhist scrip-
tures not in an effective play of contrasts but rather as benevolent
beings who showed their reverence to the Buddha in several ways,
although the Buddha is also said to have intervened in a battle of
nàga kings in La«kà. Nàgas were part of the Buddhist cosmology
through their position of being guardians of the subterrestrial. They
were associated with the base of Mount Meru, with gold, jewels,
and most importantly, with am‰ta. In the eternal battle between ser-
pents and birds, or, cosmologically, between the subterrestrial and
the solar spheres, there is a tension that emerges in Buddhist stories
too. It is said that nàgas vied for the Bodhisattva’s golden bowl, given
to him by Sujàtà and wanted to take it into the netherworld where
the bowls of the previous Buddhas were kept too, but in some ver-
sions it is Indra (P. Sakka) who managed to attain it, with the assis-
tance of the solar bird Garu∂a. Another episode in which such a
rivalry is expressed, is the story of how the branch of the bodhi tree,
transported from India to La«kà by boat, was claimed by the sea

serpents. The accompanying nun changed herself into the bird Garu∂a
(or P. Supa»»à) and won the precious object back.
It is not only the battle between subterrestrial and solar realms
reflected in Buddhist stories, but also the internal strife, the battles
between competing nàga kings, which found their way to the Buddhist
lore. It is said that the fierce battle between two nàga kings was the
cause of the Buddha’s second visit to La«kà. Yet the nàgas who figure
in the Buddhist stories never use their ferocity and venom against
the Buddha or against Buddhist teaching. On the contrary, nàgas are
reported to have been present at his birth, where they stood aside
reverently paying homage, or representing, in some reliefs, the water
with which the new-born child and his mother were cleansed; or
during the test of the golden bowl in the river Nairañjana, where
they are portrayed with folded hands. Nàgas were said to have accom-
panied him when he proceeded towards the bodhi tree; it was the
nàga king Mucalinda who emerged from the netherworld to protect
the meditating Buddha with his coils to sit on, offering his hood as
an umbrella; and in many scenes depicted in Buddhist art snakes
are presented in the act of paying homage.
It seems that the forms of animosity that were directed against
the Buddha did not come from yakßas and nàgas, however ferocious
they might have been under different conditions, but from two adver-
saries from other realms: his relative Devadatta (who was his cousin
and with whom he was co-educated), and the demonical Màra with
his seductive daughters and fierce armies. Both yakßas and nàgas seem
to have been ‘won over’ to the Buddha’s sovereignty,43 just as other
beings, esp. animals, are portrayed in the attitude of paying respect
and bringing gifts: elephants, monkeys, and gazelles. In some of the
pictured scenes, gods like Indra and Brahmà, as well as secondary
deities such as tree deities and heavenly beings like Kinnaras and
Gandharvas are shown in an attitude of reverence. The more the
Buddha’s position as a universal monarch was emphasised, the more
reverence was shown from the non-human realms too. At the same
time, the universal reverence shown to the Buddha in text and stone
was an expression of belief, and not of any actual situation in the
43
In the context of Sri Lanka and Nepal one could also speak of an “imperial-
istic restructuring of a tribal society”, as in Sutherland, Disguises of the demon,
p. 42.

176 chapter three
countries to which Buddhism spread. Even such powerful monarchs

like A≤oka and Devànaápiyatissa could do no more than propagate,
not coerce.
3.2.2 The bodhi tree: Its naturalistic and symbolic position

Even if we acknowledge the pre-existent and co-existent cults of
sacred trees, it was not self-evident that the new religious system
allowed such cults to crowd in and to become associated and inte-
grated in the course of this process. At a certain point, such an
assimilation must have been officially condoned, justified, sanctioned
or even actively supported. Buddhism, of course, grew on a soil and
breathed the air of its direct surroundings: although the Buddha him-
self might have gained shattering insights and shaped his doctrine
accordingly, his followers were still very much rooted in the Indian
heritage of Brahmanism, yogic ascetism, and popular belief. The
Buddha is said to have been born and to have lived among kßatriyas:
many of his followers came from completely different backgrounds,
and most of them, at least the lay disciples, remained connected with
such circles. Even the monastic followers, although converted, and
although they had consciously chosen to follow in the Buddha’s foot-
steps, did not live on an island, isolated from trends and tensions in
society at large. Questions were put before the Buddha, decisions
had to be made, rules had to be laid out, and frictions had to be
dealt with.
In relation to our subject of investigation and on the basis of the
various textual traditions, it appears that three explicit statements
were made: (1) the planting of the bodhi tree in the Jetavana, (2) the
decisions about the cult of remembrance on Buddha’s deathbed, and
(3) A≤oka’s missionary activities, his conscious propagation of the
bodhi cult, and the start of the pilgrimage tradition.
When Ànanda asked the Buddha for a place where the devotees
could leave their gifts and pay respect to the Buddha in his absence,
according to the text of the Kali«gabodhijàtaka, it was Ànanda who
proposed to plant a branch of the bodhi tree, and not the Buddha
himself who proposed the idea. In the strictest sense, the cult of the
bodhi tree as the Buddha’s representative was not initiated by him,
but by his disciple Ànanda. Yet, according to the texts, it was per-
mitted and actively supported by him. It is said that, at Ànanda’s
request, the Buddha sanctified the newly planted tree by spending

a night in meditation beneath it. Although we have no idea how

ancient this episode really is, or at what time in Buddhist history
this Jàtaka was composed in its present form, for many generations
of Buddhists it must have been an authoritative tradition. The ques-
tion whether the Ànanda-bodhi tree episode really stood at the begin-
ning of the cult of the bodhi tree, or was interjected as a legitimation
after the fact, has to remain unanswered. In the same way there is
no conclusive evidence that the cult of the bodhi tree had a clear
unilinear development: it is not proved that the bodhi tree as a cult
object started as the Buddha’s physical representative in his absence,
that it developed into a reminder of the Buddha and in particular
of his enlightenment, and then turned into an overall symbol (1) for
Buddha as a historical person, (2) for the enlightenment experience
attained by the Buddha, but to be attained by all who seriously
endeavour to attain it, and (3) for the Buddhist teaching in general,
in a single strand of evolution. There could even be a fourth aspect
in this symbolism, namely the bodhi tree as a symbol of loving care
and selfless generosity, thus linking particular Buddhist ideas with
the main current of the Jàtakas and with greater Indian tree symbolism.
Although such a process seems likely, it is no more than a recon-
structive model. When we look at the art-historical evidence, there
is no clear-cut chronological sequence of such phases either. Just like
the texts were written in diverse contexts, in various periods of time,
so the respective iconographical and architectural schools operated
under various conditions. The first reliefs, in which the Buddha is
not directly depicted in his human form, but represented by the bodhi
tree, by an empty throne beneath a tree, or one of his other sym-
bols, sometimes on their own, sometimes in combination, show how
the early distinctions in the physical objects (≤arìraka, such as the foot-
prints), the objects of use ( paribhogika, such as the seat and the bodhi
tree), and the symbolical (udde≤ika, such as the wheel, but also the
bodhi tree and the stùpa) were fused. It seems that the bodhi tree could
be seen as an object ‘used’ by the Buddha, as belonging to his para-
phernalia, and simultaneously it was seen as a symbol, as indicating
or illustrating the Buddha. This fusion is even more complex since
it could be maintained that the bodhi tree was a symbol of the Buddha
in general and of his enlightenment, the enlightenment which
made the Bodhisattva into a Buddha, in particular. In this sense we
have to wonder what was considered to be illustrated when a bodhi
tree with an empty throne, or a bodhi tree with a throne on which

178 chapter three
footprints were impressed, or flowers, or other offerings, was depicted:

were they all pointing to the same thing?
In other words, do the stùpa, the bodhi tree, the footprints and the
empty throne have the same function of indicating (ud-de≤) the Buddha,
at least as long as the Buddha was not given his later Buddha appear-
ance? If the absence of the Buddha image in early Buddhist art is
not seen as a negative phenomenon—i.e., his being absent—but as
carrying a full, positive meaning in itself, would the bodhi tree have
a different meaning in the narrative scenes from the one it had later
in reliefs where Buddha began to be depicted in person? Does a
scene where the Buddha is depicted sitting on a platform beneath
a bodhi tree signify something different from the case when just the
empty platform had been depicted beneath the tree? In terms of
paribhogika and udde≤ika objects, it would make a difference: in the
first case, the tree would be an object ‘of use’, and in the second
case the tree would be the object that represented, indicated and
illustrated the Buddha and his teaching. Yet, there are many scenes
in Buddhist art where not only a tree or a throne or the footprints
are depicted in order to indicate the Buddha, but all three symbols
simultaneously. To say that the bodhi tree is a symbol of Buddha’s
enlightenment, a replacement of the Buddha in his absence, and, in
a narrative, that it is just the bodhi tree at the moment of Buddha’s
enlightenment, would distinguish three aspects in bodhi tree symbol-
ism as it has come down to us in art.
If we extend our search into the symbolism of the bodhi tree as
found in Buddhist art, to the wider area of trees, whether specific
or unspecified, we find the narrative element predominating: the
other trees, especially ≤àla, jambù, and nyagrodha trees, are portrayed
as part of a narrative scene only, but not as symbols, representa-
tions, reminders, or replacements. It seems that the other trees that
figured in his life-story never really left their narrative context to
become statements on their own, with, perhaps, the exception of the
domain of the purely ornamental.
A special position is taken by the trees that are said to represent
the enlightenment of the former Buddhas. They are: the pàtali (Bignonia)
for Vipa≤yin, the fig tree (unspecified) for Sikhin, the ≤àla tree (Shorea
Robusta) for Vi≤vabhù, the sirìßa (Acacia Sirissa) for Krakucchanda, the
udumbara (Ficus Glomerata) for Kanakamuni, the nyagrodha (Ficus Indica)
for Ka≤yapa, along with the a≤vattha (Ficus Religiosa) for •àkyamuni.
It is clear that both the ≤àla and the nyagrodha appear as enlighten-

ment trees of former Buddhas and also figure as specified trees in

the narrative tradition of •àkyamuni’s life. These trees have not been
monopolised by one mythical event only: they play a double role by
appearing in •àkyamuni’s life as well.
Although some Chinese traditions have it that the first Buddha
image was made when the Buddha was still alive, the scene of the
sculptor going to Tràyastriá≤a heaven where the Buddha was preach-
ing to his mother and where the artist copied his exact features, has
never, to my knowledge, been depicted. Nor is the subsequent scene
where, on completion, the sandalwood statue was shown to the
Buddha the moment he came down from heaven. All depictions of
this episode depict either the triple staircase only, or the staircase
with the Buddha’s footprints on it, but no object like a statue is
seen.44 Hstan-tsang reports that he actually saw the statue at Ko≤ambì
and that it was connected with miraculous effects on those who
looked at it. An interesting detail in the Bharhut depictions of the
Buddha’s descent at Samkassa is that the Buddha is not only rep-
resented by his feet placed at the top and bottom of the stairway,
but he is also present in the lower right, where he is represented by
a garlanded tree. In the Gandhàra depiction, the anthropomorphic
image is included, as well as the deities Indra and Brahmà, and two
flower-throwing deities in the sky.45
Although the chronological sequence—(1) featuring Buddha’s words,
(2) Ànanda’s request, (3) Buddha’s ashes, (4) the first ‘humanised’
Buddha image copied from his exact features, (5) A≤oka’s words on
seeing the Buddha when seeing the bodhi tree, and (6) the Sinhalese
claim to have the bodhi tree planted in La«kà—is not known, we see
that the question about the bodhi tree as a proper representation is
highly delicate and complex.46 There even appears to be a seventh
layer in this symbolism if we include the role of trees and tree deities
in the world around the early followers, the model role of trees and
tree deities as portrayed in the Jàtakas, and the later traditions of
former Buddhas beneath their specific trees. It is impossible to arrange
44
See Kanako Tanaka, Absence of the Buddha Image in early Buddhist Art (1998),
p. 94.
45
See Patricia Eichenbaum Karetzky, The Life of the Buddha (1992), pp. 179–180.
46
In Beal, Buddhist Records (1983), p. 70, there is a passage about Ànanda’s fore-
boding of the Buddha’s pending death. In this dream, he dreamt about a large tree
suddenly knocked down by a storm. This Chinese episode provides us with yet
another indication of the interwovenness of the Buddha and trees.

180 chapter three
all six or seven aspects in a chronological order, even in any kind

of order. This intricate web is not to be reduced to single strands
of historical unilinearity. Canonical and post-canonical traditions are
too much interconnected, as are the scriptural and the art-histori-
cal, or the folkloric and the specifically Buddhist. Yet, to distinguish
six aspects or layers in the bodhi tree symbolism might aid our aware-
ness of what the bodhi tree has meant and still means for Buddhists.
The role of folk-cult traditions in this should not be underesti-
mated. It was there, as a basis, as a context, when Buddhism started
to develop: it had its impact on the interpretation of the Buddha’s
life-stories; it highly coloured the Jàtaka narratives; it was consciously
integrated into the Buddhist monastic belief system by the lay fol-
lower A≤oka; and it had its lasting effects on the Buddhist bodhi-pùjà
and pilgrimage tradition. Especially in the Jàtakas, the popular ideas
about tree deities, the generosity of trees, the selflessness of the
Bodhisattva in former existences, and compassion as one of the dri-
ving forces in the evolution of karma, fuse into a moral example of
compassion, care, selflessness, and service. Even a tree’s shade, given
so generously to tired travellers and weary peasants, is presented
there as a generous gift of trees to men and animals, and it is exactly
this shade that was sought by the young Bodhisattva when he was
confused by the cruelty involved in the rural activity of ploughing
the fields.
Apart from all the popular, miraculous, symbolical, and meta-
physical aspects that might have been connected with trees in the
course of time, it was shade which made the Buddha, throughout
his life, go towards a tree. He himself is never shown to have had
any motif for approaching a tree other than shade, although later
ideas about former Buddhas present the matter as if he hardly had
a choice, but merely followed a pattern that had been laid out by
his predecessors. To go to a tree seems to have been primarily a
natural thing for him: when he needed rest, he looked for a tree
that was able to give that, plus shade. Some other yogis, ascetics and
≤rama»as might have selected a cave, a hut, a cell, a riverbank, or a
mountain top, but the Buddha seems to have had a preference for
temperate, open landscapes dotted with trees, but not densely forested.
When we try to distinguish the Buddha’s own actions from what-
ever more miraculous traditions added, embellished, and interpo-
lated, we see a very simple and natural situation: a man withdraws
beneath a tree to sit in its shade and enjoy the relative quiet beneath

a tree to reflect, preach, or die. Although the Buddha himself seems

to have favoured trees for their shade and calm, he is never por-
trayed as taking part in any tree cult whatsoever. In other words,
his liking of trees seems to have had no more than a natural basis,
and no symbolic or cultic ground at all, even if later traditions made
him do so in ritual re-enactment of what former Buddhas had done.
There seems to have been no other reason than a natural inclina-
tion; yet, since the transformative moment of his enlightenment took
place beneath a tree, from that time onwards the bodhi tree deserved
a special position as the spot where he was seated when that awe-
some event occurred. Although apparently it was Ànanda who made
the request to plant a bodhi tree in the Jetavana, according to the
Pàlì tradition it was the Buddha himself who consented to it, and
even agreed to sanctify the new tree by meditating beneath it dur-
ing one night.
In how far the cult of the bodhi tree did indeed begin during the
Buddha’s lifetime and in how far the Buddha himself actively sup-
ported it is not for us to decide here. That such a story was later
interpolated to justify the growing bodhi cult seems highly probable.
It is a fact that, at some time, perhaps encouraged by A≤oka, but
this could be earlier as well as later, the bodhi cult must have expanded
from the original tree in Bodhgayà to newly planted cuttings or seeds
within the compounds of Buddhist monasteries. At such a point in
Buddhist history, the specific Buddhist notions about the bodhi tree
must have mixed with general notions and overall Indian habits of
paying reverence by circumambulating, praising, giving small offerings,
lighting candles, and decorating. Since the a≤vattha had been a cult
tree from ancient times, the existing symbol system of the a≤vattha
might have got mixed with the specifically Buddhist notions to grad-
ually form new symbol systems, such as in Anuràdhapura. The par-
allel development of relic cults and the emergence of stùpas as relic
containers must have been of mutual influence. The pictorial tradi-
tions, mostly connected with stùpas, but also with bodhigharas and
bodhima»∂as, must also have been mixtures of scriptural, folkloric, and
art-historical elements.
When we survey the history of the bodhi tree as a symbol, we see
that for most of the believers both the stùpa cult and bodhi tree wor-
ship had the sanction of the Buddha’s consent. Learned monks might
be reticent about the extended bodhi cult, but even they regularly
paid and pay their reverence by circumambulating, reciting relevant

182 chapter three
texts, and allowing special festivals, where the bodhi tree was and still
is the centre.47 For an a≤vattha to be a bodhi tree it seems to have
been vital that its direct descent could be ascertained; for a bodhi
tree to be a symbol both of the Buddha himself and of his enlight-
enment it seems to be vital that the Buddha originally had consented
to this; and for the belief in the effectiveness of the bodhi-pùjà, in
addition to its purely devotional character, it appears that general
Buddhist notions of virtue and merit got mixed with ancient ideas
about the generosity of trees, both as a moral example and as a
practical concern expressed in prayers, pleas, and vows.
At first sight, it seems remarkable that the bodhi tree, as a witness
of the Buddha’s enlightenment, does not invite much meditative activ-
ity around it: the ancient visitors to the Jetavana are said to have
put their gifts beneath the bodhi tree; A≤oka is reported to have spent
a considerable amount of his wealth on costly gifts and ritual per-
formance beneath the tree in Bodhgayà; the bodhi tree planted in
Anuràdhapura is described as the centre of a lively cult, but nowhere
is mentioned, as far as I know, that the vicinity of the tree was
considered an especially proper place conducive to Buddhist medi-
tation. An individual’s enlightenment is presented as the result of
merit as much as of meditation, and somehow, up to recent times,
Buddhist meditative activities were not specifically connected with
the presence of the bodhi tree, but were conducted in cells, huts,
halls, and, in individual cases, in hermit’s caves, and on forest paths.
Although the bodhi tree, in one of its aspects, symbolises the Buddha’s
moment of enlightenment, meditative re-enactment of this enlight-
enment experience beneath a descendant of this very tree by Buddhist
individuals and groups has never become an officially reported
activity around the bodhi tree. This could be due to a lack of regu-
lar meditative discipline in general, but also to the inherent inade-
quacy of a centre of ritual to be simultaneously a centre of meditative
withdrawal.
47
In the formulas of Buddhist homage to the bodhi tree known to me there
appears to be an easy use of the verbs nam-, vand- and pùj- as more or less syn-
onymous. See the Appendix in 3.7. The discussion whether the word worship is
valid in regard to trees in Buddhism seems to be more a matter of English than
of South Asian languages, be they classical or contemporary.

3.2.3 King A≤oka and the cults of the bodhi tree and of pilgrimage
In what is believed to be one of the oldest and untampered suttas,
the Mahàparinirvà»asùtra (5.16–22), the Buddha is believed, on his
deathbed, to have encouraged pilgrimage to the four sites (cattàri
†hànàni) where the major events of his life had taken place. There
is no indication, however, that pilgrimage had become an institution
before the time of A≤oka. The word †hàna (Vedic sthàna, Sanskrit
sthàman) is the same word used by Anàthapi»∂ika and the Buddha
himself, when the Buddha was requested to allow Ànanda to pro-
vide a place where the believers could pay their respect to the mas-
ter when he was absent.48
Although the word is the same, the four established ‘places’ (later
grown into eight and even 32) differed from any other place in that
they were directly, physically, and geographically connected with the
major events in the Buddha’s life, whereas the first secondary place,
assumed to have been the bodhi tree in the Jetavana, at •ravasthi,
was “as it were a sthàna/abiding place”, and might be called a
replacement or representation of the Buddha in his absence, or, if
one wishes, a symbol even, both of the Buddha in general and of
his enlightenment in particular. Several authors draw attention to
the fact that there is no indication that during the Buddha’s lifetime
any of his followers had made a pilgrimage to one or even four of
the main †hànas. Even the bodhi tree that was planted as a seed in
the Jetavana was procured in a miraculous way by the Elder Mogallàna
and not brought home to the Jetavana after, for instance, a regular
pilgrimage to Bodhgayà.
Both in scriptural and pictorial traditions, King A≤oka seems to
be the first to have consciously set out, in the company of Elder
Upagupta, to the sacred places indicated by the Buddha on his
deathbed. Whether A≤oka really visited all 32 places of pilgrimage
remains a question. As John Strong writes:
A thirty-twofold scheme (thirty-three if one counts the center) was, in
Indian cosmology, a very popular way to arrange units symmetrically
around a center. (. . .) It is not surprising, therefore, that in the thirty-two
places of pilgrimage, we have not only an attempt to recall the vari-
ous events in the life of the Buddha, but, once again, a systematic
48
See especially the Kali«gabodhi-jàtaka.

184 chapter three
establishment of his whole-person—his life as a mahàpurußa—on the

face of the kingdom.49
In such a way, A≤oka’s pilgrimage, however pious in intent, may
also be seen as imitating or recalling the figure of the mahàpurußa as
well as that of the cakravartin. In symbolically reconstructing the body
of a mahàpurußa, King A≤oka would be establishing, on the geo-
graphical surface of India, not only the body of the Buddha but also
the body of the cakravartin, both of whom possess the 32 marks of
the Great Man. A≤oka, naturally, did not have those 32 marks him-
self, but he may have attempted to glorify his kingship by identify-
ing it with that of a cakravartin, and with that of the Buddha himself.50
What made A≤oka decide to set out on such a pilgrimage might
be a pious remembrance of the Buddha’s deathbed injunction, pos-
sibly combined with ideas of atonement for his previous acts of vio-
lence, or of the general merit ( pu»»a) ascribed to pilgrimage, as well
as political motives and royal tactics as described above. It is said
that he approached the Elder Upagupta, a Buddhist teacher from
Mathurà, with the intention: “Elder, I want to honour the places
where the Blessed One lived and mark them with signs as a favour
to posterity.”51 During the progress of this pilgrimage (or pilgrim-
ages), A≤oka erected stùpas and marked the sites with pillars com-
memorating his visit, thus evoking a spirit of piety for the places
where the Buddha trod and where specified events had taken place.
Whatever A≤oka’s intentions in setting up pillars marking the sites,
his efforts to commemorate the events and places connected with
them were successful to such a degree that most of the locations
were thus definitively marked for posterity, so that archaeologists
could determine most of them some 2,000 years later. It is gener-
ally accepted that A≤oka’s determinations of the sites were correct.
In some cases, the stone pillar with inscription still survives intact,
and sometimes only the ornamental capitals survive, but elsewhere,
such as in Bodhgayà, there seems to have been an ongoing tradi-
tion since the days of the Buddha himself.
Bodhgayà, as the place where the Buddha attained enlightenment,
was singled out by A≤oka not only as one of the four places where
49
Strong, King Asoka, pp. 124–125.
50
Strong, King Asoka, p. 125.
51
See Strong, King Asoka, p. 244 and John C. Huntington, ‘Sowing the Seeds of
the Lotus’ (1985), p. 48.

he gave generous gifts (reportedly 100,000 pieces of gold), but also

as the place where he returned after completing the tour. He seems
to have been drawn to this place in a very personal way, as is
expressed by the phrase “his faith was particularly aroused by the
Bodhi tree.”52 He makes further offerings there, including his most
precious jewels. Looking at the bodhi tree aroused in him the over-
whelming experience of looking at the Buddha himself.53 This infat-
uation with what A≤oka simply referred to as the bodhi aroused the
suspicion of his jealous queen, Tißyarakßità, who thought that it was
the name of his new mistress. When she tried to destroy the tree,
A≤oka was beside himself with grief. “If the tree of the Lord comes
to die,” A≤oka declared, “I too shall surely expire”. In this way, the
bodhi tree was identified not only with the Buddha in the aspect of
nirvà»a, but with A≤oka himself as well. In the Sinhalese accounts,
this emotional identification is even more emphasised by the fact
that A≤oka pledged his kingdom to the bodhi tree, as he implored
the Sinhalese King Devànaápiyatissa to do likewise on receiving the
bodhi cutting from India.54
It could be maintained that A≤oka, apart from establishing pil-
grimage (dharmayàtrà) as a Buddhist tradition, also set the model for
the bodhi-pùjà, in the form of individual rituals as well as a quin-
quennial festival during which the bodhi tree was bathed with milk
scented with sandalwood, saffron and camphor. The milk was poured
from (at least) 5,000 pitchers encrusted with precious stones. Some
100,000 flowers were offered. He had loads of food and drink pre-
pared, bathed himself, put on new clothes, and fasted for a day by
maintaining the eight precepts. He then requested all the disciples
of the Buddha to assemble there. In fact, not only did several hun-
dred thousands of monks assemble there, even the Elder Pi»∂ola
Bhàradvàja is said to have come down from the heavens and to
have taken the seat of honour. Even if A≤oka was not the first to
offer costly gifts to the bodhi tree, he must have been the most gen-
erous giver by far. His son tried to outdo him, and was punished.
Later Buddhist kings are recorded to have donated generously to
the site of Bodhgayà as well.
52
Strong, King Asoka, pp. 126 and 257.
53
Strong, King Asoka, p. 126, and Sujitkumar Mukhopadhyaya, The A≤okàvadàna
(1963), p. 93.
54
See Geiger’s translation of the Mahàvaása, p. 125.

186 chapter three
In the same way that A≤oka is said to have been awestruck by

his meeting with the Elder Pi»∂ola, who claimed to have been pre-
sent at many of the events in Buddha’s life, at Lumbinì he was spo-
ken to by the tree deity that had been a witness at the birth of the
Bodhisattva under the ≤àla or a≤oka tree. A stretch of centuries was
thus bridged: those two figures who had been privileged to be alive
when the Buddha was there, and who had actually witnessed some
important events, favoured the king by presenting themselves to him.
Such a deity, having lived for hundreds of years in the tree that
stood on the spot of Buddha’s birth, however, is not mentioned in
relation to the bodhi tree in A≤oka’s time, although regarding the
original event it is said that the tree deity (or deities) residing in the
bodhi tree regularly reported on the Bodhisattva’s meditative progress
during the night of enlightenment to the deities of the surrounding
trees. A≤oka’s close and intimate relation to the bodhi tree in Bodhgayà
may have had a tactical ground, but it is also an expression of the
emotional bond that men were thought to be able to have with trees
at that time. Even though his queen erroneously thought that ‘Bodhi’
was a tree nymph or a mistress, no mention is made of any tree
deity belonging to the bodhi tree in Bodhgayà when A≤oka paid his
respect to it.
In the A≤okàvadàna it is said that A≤oka, whose name means ‘free
from sorrow’, felt a natural affinity to the a≤oka tree as well. It is
reported that, when, on the occasion of a visit to flowering a≤oka
trees, the king was aroused by the amourous atmosphere, his accom-
panying ladies were not willing to caress, probably because of his
well-known meanness, or even on account of his rough skin. When
he was dying, he compared himself to an a≤oka tree whose flowers
were whithering and whose leaves were falling down. The queen’s
jealousy, her suspicion that ‘Bodhi’ was his new mistress, or a tree
nymph monopolising the king’s attention, does not seem too far-
fetched when taking into account that tree deities were considered
very real by human beings at that time, and that the flowering sea-
son was commonly associated with the moods and festive activities
of amorous women.
The connection that King A≤oka appears to have had with the
bodhi tree in Bodhgayà is expressed even more vehemently in his
tears when he waved the boat off that carried the cutting of the
southern branch to La«kà. In Sinhalese accounts, the coming of the
bodhi tree is presented as preordained by the Buddha himself, as a

resolution of will on his deathbed. It fell to A≤oka to carry out this

resolution in the course of his missionary activities. It is related how
he had a golden vase made by Vissakamma (Vi≤vakarman) himself
and that, amidst great pomp and rituals, the specified branch broke
away of its own accord and settled itself in the soil within the golden
vase. The newly planted tree was duely consecrated and brought to
Pà†aliputra, and then escorted to the harbour town of Tàmalitt (S.
Tàmralipti), where the king, again, kept it for seven days and where
for the third time he pledged the kingship over Jambùdvìpa to it.
After this, he placed the new tree on board of the ship, where it
was entrusted to the nun Sanghamittà and the minister Ari††ha.
A≤oka is described as standing lamenting on the shore when the ship
sailed away, gazing as long as it was within sight.55
We have seen how King A≤oka was instrumental in the growth
of some important aspects of Buddhism: the commemoration of the
sacred sites of Buddha’s biography, the institution of pilgrimage, the
missionary spread of Buddhism through Southern Asia, and the cen-
trality of the bodhi tree as a symbol of enlightenment, as the carrier
of kingship over Jambùdvìpa, and as the most precious representa-
tion of the Buddha himself.
For our investigation into the relation between the pre-existent
and co-existent context of the Indian tree cults and the Buddhist
bodhi cult, it may be relevant that A≤oka is said to have supported
the integration of Buddhist and popular cults. As a ruler over a vast
area where Buddhism was merely one of the belief systems, he insisted
on Dharma in a general sense, and nowhere is there an indication
that the highly ethical approach of Buddhism was found to clash
with the psychologically established need of rituals, festivals, and the
belief in the miraculous. The miraculous aspect of the bodhi tree is
ascribed to an event that is supposed to have happened in close con-
nection to the Buddha himself, when in the flash of a moment the
seed was caught by Elder Mogallàna before it reached the ground,
brought to the Jetavana through the air, and when planted grew
into a full tree in a matter of minutes. The miracles that a few cen-
turies later accompanied the destruction and consequent revitalisa-
tion of the original tree in Bodhgayà in the course of events brought
55
See Jayawickrama, The reception of discipline and the Vinaya Nidana (1962), pp.
82–86.

188 chapter three
about by the jealousy of Queen Tißyarakßità, seem to be in the same

category as the miracles that accompanied the cutting, planting, and
transport of the bodhi branch intended for Anuràdhapura.
In the pictorial traditions, A≤oka’s dealings with the bodhi tree are
depicted in several ways. We are in the unique position here that
we are provided with several narrative scenes in stone as well as his
edicts carved on stone pillars, several of which have been retrieved
and deciphered. In addition to the stone remains, there are indica-
tions that it was A≤oka’s care for the bodhi tree in Bodhgayà which
stood model for the pilgrimage to it and to other major places of
Buddha’s biography, and turned it into an institution. To what extent
Buddhists followed his example is not clear, but it can be supposed
that the structured maintenance of the major pilgrimage sites at least
kept them alive in the memory of the people living around them,
so that when the Chinese pilgrims reported on their visits, they could
mention a memory kept alive at least by the local people. The insti-
tution of dharmayàtrà never became obligatory in Buddhism, although
some Buddhist kings, as recorded in history, must have felt it to be
a pious obligation to send envoys and gifts to the sacred places in
India and Nepal.
The most direct effect of A≤oka’s missionary activities and his gen-
erous support of the major sites seems to have been the arrange-
ments between A≤oka and the Sinhalese King Devànàápiyadassi.
Not only do they have their Buddhist names in common,56 the cen-
tral position that was taken by the bodhi tree, first in India by A≤oka,
then in La«kà by Devànàápiyadassi, is a case in point. In the
Sinhalese accounts, it is said that the transfer of the bodhi branch
from Bodhgayà to La«kà was prearranged by the Buddha himself;
it allegedly was one of the resolutions of will on his deathbed to
have the bodhi tree planted in La«kà on a preordained spot, the
Mahàmeghavana near Anuràdhapura.
Apart from the start of a pilgrimage tradition, we see the start of
a deliberately structured relic cult here. The idealisation of India’s
geographical outlines as a ma»∂ala with stùpas and dharmaràjikas
marking the main points on the map was thus parallelled by the
start of the bodhi cult in La«kà: from this main branch brought to
56
A≤oka is also, apart from Dhammàsoka, called Piyadassi, while the Sinhalese
king is called Devànàá-piyadassi.

La«kà, 40 bodhi trees were said to have sprung, which were planted
in specified places all over the island. Planting a bodhi tree some-
where, in addition to its religious significance, seems to have been
a token of established royal supremacy, like planting a royal flag.
The intimate connection between royalty and Buddhism is illustrated
by the bodhi tree’s function as one of the royal insignia. The distri-
bution of cult objects such as Buddha’s ashes and fragments of his
body, as well as objects he used during his lifetime seems to have
been an active component of A≤oka’s policy of dharmaràjya.
A parallel to A≤oka’s mission to La«kà is unknown to me. There
have been missions (dùtas) as far away as Kashmir, Afghanistan, and
even Greece, Egypt and Kyrenaika in North Africa, but none seems
to have been as successful in terms of ‘Dharma-empirialism’ as the
mission to La«kà, where he sent his own son and daughter, as well
as the bodhi tree, as the most precious relic for the believers to pay
their respect to and for the Sinhalese people in general as a token
of the great dynasty’s friendship.57 Whether A≤oka, who was a lay
Buddhist, had any ulterior motive for his Dharma mission remains a
question; a fact is that he was instrumental in spreading Buddhism
far beyond the boundaries of Magadha and the Middle Country.
Within his own realm, he transmitted a lay Buddhist ethic to all his
subjects, he encouraged and supported a living cult around the major
Buddhist sites, he transplanted a major branch of the bodhi tree to
Anuràdhapura, and invigorated the relic cult within Buddhism. His
residence in Pà†aliputra was conveniently close to Bodhgayà, and it
was this sacred place of Buddha’s enlightenment that is reported to
have received his most personal attention. It may be due to A≤oka
that the cult of the bodhi tree remained uninterrupted even when
Buddhism almost disappeared from India: by moving a branch of
the bodhi tree from Indian soil to La«kà, that other tree stood as a
tangible token of Buddha’s enlightenment through turbulent times
of threat, change, and decline in India.
3.2.4 The bodhi tree in iconography and architecture

Even for an outsider, it is evident that trees and leaves are repre-
sented frequently in Buddhist art. Besides all the narrative scenes,
57
For the word ‘Dharma-empirialism’ I am indebted to Ulrich Schneider, Einführung
in den Buddhismus (1980), p. 150. See also the introduction to Schneider’s book.

190 chapter three
which are full of trees, we see many Buddha statues with decora-
tive leaves over his head, and we find many coins with the tree-and-rail-
ing motif, we see yakßi»ìs and ≤àlabhañjikàs. We see caityas, stùpas,
bodhigharas. We even see some of the stùpas still very much resem-
bling the ancient tree shrines. In more contemporary Buddhist art,
we see how the bodhi leaf has become an easily recognisable icon
too, representing Buddha, Buddhism and enlightenment.
The tree-and-railing motif on Indian coins is not specifically
Buddhist, though. It indicates the tree shrine, and as such occurs in
Vedism, Hinduism, Buddhism and Jainism, without specifying which.
But it is Buddhism that gave the long-revered a≤vattha the specific
meaning of being the bodhi tree. First a purely mythical and sym-
bolical tree, the a≤vattha acquired a historical dimension by the event
of Gautama’s enlightenment under it. In other words, the general
became specific because of Buddha’s historically dated and geo-
graphically specified association with it. In that way, the a≤vattha left
the abstract, philosophic domain and became specific. An a≤vattha is
called a bodhi tree only if it is established that it stems from the orig-
inal bodhi tree in Bodhgayà (often via Anuràdhapura). This means
that when, in early Buddhist art, a bodhi tree is depicted, it signifies
‘the’ bodhi tree, namely that in Bodhgayà. On rare occasions, it may
indicate the bodhi tree in the Jetavana or the cutting brought to
Anuràdhapura.
What we are not sure about is the extent to which, after A≤oka,
bodhi trees were planted or moved, generated either from the tree
in Bodhgayà, or from the tree in Anuràdhapura, or possibly from
the tree in the Jetavana as well.58 As far as I know, there is a gap
between A≤oka’s time and early modern times, when travel accounts
again mention bodhi trees, and how small trees were sent to, for
instance, Birma, Thailand, and later to Japan as well. The multi-
plication of the Sinhalese trees is documented and is still referred to
as an authentic tradition in contemporary •ri Lanka; concerning
other a≤vatthas in Buddhist temple grounds, however, claimed to be
bodhi trees, it is impossible to establish where they ultimately came
from.
In the narrative scenes, some trees are not just symbols, decora-
58
Although the statement that the bodhi tree in Bodhgayà was replaced by a
fresh shoot from Anuràdhapura several times seems to be taken for granted in most
of the studies on Bodhgayà and Anuràdhapura, I have not found any Indian source
for this, nor any pictorial or epigraphic evidence.

tion or leafy background, they are given a specific historic sense:

they represent the trees used by former Buddhas (especially the last
four or six), or they represent the trees figuring in one of the major
events in Buddha’s life, or in that of A≤oka. Not all artists and arti-
sans were truthful to tradition, shaping the tree with naturalistic accu-
racy; some traditions differed in specifying especially the trees of
Buddha’s birth (≤àla, a≤oka, plakßa), and not all pictorial traditions kept
close to scriptural sources, but in general one can say that as long
as the historic aspect of Buddha’s earthly life was felt as having taken
place within our time, accuracy in such details seems to have been
the standard.
Especially because in early Buddhism the historic sense was still
acute, there is a complementarity between scriptural, art-historical
and geographical or topographical traditions. A≤oka’s role in this has
been pointed to before. In addition to this complementarity, there
seems to be mutual verification: textual traditions may help in deter-
mining an art-historical scene as well as the exact place where remains
could be—and actually were—found. On the other hand, finding
the exact location of one of the major sites can help verify the nar-
rative tradition and help explain some of the iconographical details.
When people like Cunningham organised their excavations, they were
led by all kinds of indications: passages in Buddhist scriptures, nar-
rative scenes at other places where Buddhist art once flourished,
locally specified claims, A≤oka’s inscriptions and pilgrims’ tales.
Trees are much more perishable than stone, but stone portrayals
of trees have been kept through the centuries. If the Anuràdhapura
claim about its being the oldest historical tree in the world is valid,
it is a fortunate circumstance that the bodhi tree survived the perils,
persecutions and passage of time, but even if the original bodhi tree
and its direct descendants had become lost to posterity, the stone
portrayals would have kept the tradition of the bodhi tree visually
alive for later generations. Another reminder, in addition to the liv-
ing bodhi trees and the stone reliefs, which also helped in keeping
the physical presence of the Buddha on earth tangible for the believ-
ers, was the stùpa. Originally meant as a container for a part of
Buddha’s ashes, the stùpa’s function was stretched to include the func-
tion of reliquary in general. Stùpas also became bigger: from small,
earth-covered containers they became tumuli, heaps, mounds, domes
and architectural constructions with elaborate terraces, railings, stairs,
stepped intermediary constructions and spires.

192 chapter three
To what extent the tree shrine (caityav‰kßa) influenced the devel-

opment of the stùpa, is a matter of debate. Especially the harmikà,
the edifice that crowns the stùpa, reminds us of a treetop. Burial
mounds and graves all over the world are crowned by a tree: a
young tree which grows from the ashes, indicating the continuity of
life, or a world tree crowning the continent, or forming its centre.
But the crowning part of a stùpa could be derived from a flag, a
banner or an umbrella as well. The axial pillar of a stùpa has some-
times been compared to the world tree. As we have seen in Chapter
One, anything vertical and axial was easily homologised with the
world tree, but in the case of the stùpa there is more to this equa-
tion: the stùpa, as a reliquary of ashes, originally invited the plant-
ing of a tree on its top as a symbol of resurrection and continuity
of the life cycle.59 Many Buddhist monuments had started as tree
shrines, and continued to be connected with bodhi trees even if the tree-
cum-diamond-seat often had lost its central place to the temple-cum-
Buddha-image, and usually stood somewhere off-centre, although still
the focus of a lively devotion within the temple compounds today.
The question to what extent this string of associations included the
yùpa-indrakìla-indradhvaja symbolism, as is argued forcefully by Irwin
and Snodgrass, is better left to the specialists.60
Many of the stone reliefs depicting the adoration of a bodhighara
or a stùpa show a close resemblance between Buddhist tree shrines
and early stùpas. To what extent the verticalisation of stùpas had any-
thing to do with tree symbolism remains a question. One aspect of
this possible parallel that has not been taken into account, as far as
I know, is the fact that the scriptures often mention the height of
the original bodhi tree to have been enormous, whereas the Chinese
travellers often point to the modest height of the bodhi tree they actu-
ally saw. This idea of a huge, overshadowing and overtowering bodhi
tree is also expressed in references to the Mahàbodhi temple as stand-
ing under (sic) the bodhi tree, as also in the title of Cunningham’s
study Mahàbodhi or The Great Buddhist Temple under the Bodhi Tree at
Buddha-Gaya. The fact that in many stone reliefs bodhi leaves are
59
N.N. Bhattacharyya (1975), Ancient Indian Rituals and their Social Contents, pp.
117–118, draws attention to the parallels between Buddhist stùpas and Muslim tombs
of the Pirs in Bengal and Bihar. This comparison includes not only the form but
also the adjacent tree.
60
See John Irwin, ‘The axial symbolism of the early stùpa’ (1980a) and Adrian
Snodgrass, The Symbolism of the Stupa (1985).

found crowning the scene, either as belonging to the central tree or

as a traditional ornament the naturalistic origin of which had lost
its direct importance, at the very least seems to indicate that the
bodhi tree was felt to tower over the Buddhist scenes. Whether
the function of the parasol to give shade and its position as one of
the royal paraphernalia were ever really fused with the same func-
tion of a tree’s shade and the symbolism of Buddha’s victory beneath
the bodhi tree deserves a more comparative study. It is only natural
that the crowning leaves are most common in depictions of the
Buddha in the bhùmispar≤a- or Màravijayamùdra.
It seems to me that the idea of shade would deserve more detailed
attention in Buddhism. It is known that Buddha, from a very early
age, was naturally inclined to seek the shade and reflectiveness given
by trees and that much of his life was spent beneath trees. When
he was crown prince, umbrella bearers were always close; when he
wanted to be left alone to think, it was in the shade, and it was in
the shade of a jambù tree that he underwent his first dhyànic expe-
rience; the nàga king Mucalinda is said to have respectfully shaded
him from the sun and to have protected him against rain and wind,
and later he used to preach not inside buildings nor in the solitude
of the forest, but in the pleasant light-and-shade atmosphere of parks,
orchards and groves. Shade, in Buddha’s life, does not seem to mean
merely the absence of direct sunlight, it also indicates the right
reflective mood, the right measure of withdrawal and participation,
a balance between coolness and compassionate concern.
When Buddhist scriptures and art reliefs indicate that something
happens beneath the bodhi tree—Buddha’s victory over Màra, his
meditative progress, his final enlightenment, but also the adoration
depicted in so many scenes—it seems as if, in between the natural-
istic aspect of shade and the symbolisation of enlightenment, there
are the half-tones of Buddhist reflectiveness. In other words, when
something is depicted as taking place beneath the leaves of the bodhi
tree, be they part of a complete tree or just as an ornamental ele-
ment, it indicates both the naturalistic-historic aspect (it was a tree
beneath which Buddha attained enlightenment), the reflective-medi-
tative aspect (the half-tones of the right measure of withdrawal and
participation) and the symbolic aspect (the bodhi tree as a symbol of
Buddha himself, his victory over Màra, his enlightenment and even
some of the other meanings such as kingship, empire and the direct
lineage of the former Buddhas).

194 chapter three
Before Buddha was portrayed in his human form, increasingly as

a free-standing statue emphasising his timelessness rather than por-
traying a specific episode, he was often represented by a wheel, his
footprints, an empty throne or a bodhi tree. Apart from the discus-
sion whether Buddha himself forbade any image making or whether
such aniconic scenes should not be read from the point of view of
‘absence of the Buddha image’ but rather as forceful statements
of Buddha’s presence, the tree was presented as one of the aspects
of Buddha, or as representing all aspects, pars pro toto. The Buddha
never actually turned a wheel when he started to preach, yet the
wheel became a forceful symbol of both Buddha himself and of
Buddha’s teaching. ‘Setting-in-motion the wheel of Dharma’ (Dharma-
cakrapravartana) was not merely a historic moment, a moment in
Buddhist history; once the wheel was set in motion, the wheel stood
for the ongoing conveyance of the Buddhist message. This is also
valid for his footprints.61 One could argue that in the all-India con-
text, for the believer, the bhakta, the devotee, feet indicated the mas-
ter to whom one paid one’s respect; yet, Buddha’s feet are also
portrayed as indicating his complete physical appearance, such as
when he was coming down the triple staircase in the episode of
Buddha’s return from heaven where he had preached to his mother.
And in Bodhgayà there is a lively devotion concerning the stone
imprint of his feet. It is said that he left an imprint at Adam’s Peak,
in Sri Lanka, as well. Why his feet? Because it was a pre-existing
symbol, easily and naturally evoking devotion to the master? Is this
also valid for the throne? Did the throne indicate his royalty, the
seat beneath the bodhi tree, any seat he ever occupied?
It is pointed out by Cunningham that the real centre in the
Bodhgayà temple plan is neither the temple nor the bodhi tree, but
the vajràsana, the seat where Buddha sat beneath the tree. It is said
that in Sri Lanka the seat on which he sat during his visit there is
kept in the Kelaniya stùpa. And it is believed, by many Buddhists,
that Buddha statues should be seated higher than all humans pre-
61
Note the frequent reference to Buddha’s footsteps in the titles of books on
Buddhism, such as Footprints of Gautama the Buddha (Marie Beuzeville Byles), Old Path,
White Clouds. Walking in the Footsteps of the Buddha (Thich Nhat Hanh), Where the Buddha
Trod: A Buddhist Pilgrimage (R. Raven-Hart), Auf den Spuren des Buddha Gotama. Eine
Pilgerfahrt zu den historischen Stätten (Hans Wolfgang Schumann), and Op het voetspoor
van Boeddha ( J.Ph. Vogel).

sent there. The seat seems to be a meditation seat as well as a

throne: when it was left empty, as in early Buddhist art, it often
even functioned as an altar on which flowers were offered. This is
still the present situation in Bodhgayà where the vajràsana is a stone
slab on a modest pedestal on which often gifts of flowers and cloth
medaillons are left by those believers who are privileged enough to
be allowed inside the enclosure. The great Buddha image was installed
inside the temple, whereas the throne or seat beneath the tree re-
mained empty. One can only guess what this means. The bodhi tree
depicted in art-historical scenes is often decorated with garlands, and
the seat beneath covered with flowers. Flowers are often thrown onto
the stone Buddha feet in Bodhgayà. Is this simply the universal way
of expressing devotion? And is devotion to the bodhi tree, both in
the old reliefs and in contemporary Buddhist sanctuaries, both an
a-historical, all-Indian reverence for the a≤vattha and an expression
of reverence for the historically determined connection between
Buddha and the bodhi tree?
It is opined, by some, that the cult of the bodhi tree in Buddhism
gradually replaced, or at least refined, the cult of the nàgas. There
are close connections between Buddha and nàgas in Buddha’s biog-
raphy, his former existences as recounted in the Jàtakas, and in
Buddhist art (especially in South-East Asia). We wonder whether the
nàga cult could be said to have been buddhisised: at the very least,
we can see how nàgas are presented as tamed and even converted,
just like yakßas, functioning as benevolent but awe-inspiring guards.
To what extent the Buddhist attitude towards sacrificial cults really
made an end to ophiolatry, and gradually focused more and more
on ‘pipalolatry’, shifting from a chthonic symbol of fertility, poison
and subterrestrial riches, to a solar symbol of light-and-shade, med-
itation and a steadfast determination to enlightenment, and from
yajñà to pùjà, is a matter that needs to be studied parallel to the
developments in India generally. It is interesting that the processes
of taming and conversion often implied servility: both yakßas and
nàgas are portrayed as guards, protecting the Buddha physically (as
the nàga king Mucalinda did), or the Buddhist sanctuaries, as door-
guards, dvàrapàlas. This function of guarding or protecting, as the
nàgas in Buddhism, however, is not really a dramatic shift as
compared to their earlier function of guarding the treasures thought
to be hidden in the subterranian realms. Even stùpas, Buddhist
temples, and free-standing Buddhist statues often had treasures in

196 chapter three
them that needed to be protected: precious stones, gold, silver, relics,

manuscripts.
One other process, comparable to conversion, taming, and sub-
jugating is the gradual change of focus from the tree to the tree
shrine (bodhiv‰kßa, caityav‰kßa) to the bodhighara ( g‰ha = house), and to
the Buddhist temple where free-standing Buddha statues on pedestals
form the centre of devotion. In this process, i.e. this shift from extra-
murality to intramurality, the tree remained extramural; only a few
leaves over the Buddha’s head on the intramural statues sometimes
remind us of the original position. This shift seems to have been a
very gradual one. Since trees are much more vulnerable and per-
ishable than stone, we often have stone remains where arboreal
remains have long since vanished. This absence of trees where
Buddhist stone remains have been found does not imply that the
bodhi tree had lost its importance; there may have been a bodhi tree
where climate, architecture and connections with the main centres
of the bodhi cult, like Bodhgayà, •ravasthi and Anuràdhapura made
such a thing plausible. Yet, also in Buddhism men have a tendency,
in their travel accounts and other descriptions, to dwell on man-
made structures like buildings, statues, pillars and ponds, and forget
to mention the trees and plants, except when there is an obvious
cult around such a tree. The Chinese pilgrim travellers did have an
eye for such things, as well as an ear for the local lore, and do men-
tion the bodhi trees they saw. To what extent the nineteenth-century
accounts of bodhi trees at the major sites in India, Nepal and Sri
Lanka, in the process of Buddhist revival, are indicative of what per-
sisted as the cult of the bodhi tree in the centuries between the Chinese
travel accounts and the nineteenth-century romantics, explorers, arche-
ologists, art historians and neo-Buddhists remains an open question.
If the case of Bodhgayà is to serve as an example, it may well have
been Hindus who, with the almost disappearance of Buddhism from
India, continued to revere local bodhi trees as a≤vatthas, without, per-
haps, connecting them with Buddha at all, and even if they did,
Buddha was seen as one of the avatàras of Viß»u. In such a case, it
might have been especially Vaiß»avas who continued to take care of
local bodhi trees, which, to them, were simply a≤vatthas, even after
the Buddhists were gone and the temples were turning into ruins.
Yet, when Buddhism was reviving at the end of the nineteenth cen-
tury, the Hindu role in this was not acknowledged positively at all:

on the contrary, Hindu worship of trees, with the habit of pouring

sugared water and perfumed milk on the roots, was often blamed
for the sorry state a sacred tree was in.
3.3 Rituals around the bodhi tree in Bodhgayà
It appears that it was the Buddha himself who performed the first
rituals of adoration of the bodhi tree, when, in the second week of his
sojourn in Bodhgayà, he positioned himself a short distance from it
and gazed at it with unblinking eyes. We could rightfully wonder what
made him do this. There is no trace of the normal a≤vattha rever-
ence and ritual behaviour around sacred trees here, but something
completely personal. There might have been fondness, gratitude,
wonder, amazement. There might have been a gradual acknowledge-
ment of the great thing that had happened there. Or, by taking
some distance, the Buddha may have let the experience seep through:
he may have wished to ruminate, gradually digest it, look at it
more objectively. Rising from the very spot where he had had his
enlightenment experience, and taking a few steps away from it,
might be seen as the first stage of processing his experience, of assim-
ilating his new insights, absorbing them fully into his system. That
he had not just sat there, but is said to have sat or stood there with
unblinking eyes, makes it a more than casual behaviour and turns
it into the first ritual of reflecting reverently on the bodhi tree.
Nothing was said about the tree itself, not about its size, its beauty,
the light dancing on its shining leaves, nor about its symbolism. What
really seems to have counted was the spot, the tree itself seems to
have been secondary. This pre-eminence of the spot, the experience
of the power of the place where the Buddha had sat in enlighten-
ment, is still expressed by reverence to the vajràsana. At certain times
it might have been the vajràsana, be it imaginary or the tangible
stone seat provided by A≤oka, which received the highest reverence
from Buddhist pilgrims, whereas the tree merely crowned the place,
and therefore was regarded as ancillary, secondary. This might have
been the reason why the geometry of the sacred area, as pointed
out by Cunningham, seems to have taken the vajràsana as the cen-
tre, and not the tree. Yet, before pilgrimage to the sacred spot, with
the vajràsana at its centre, ever started, the bodhi tree was already
prominent because of Buddha’s consent to planting a bodhi tree in

198 chapter three
the Jetavana as a fitting replacement in his absence, and by A≤oka’s

outspoken devotion to the tree.
When we look at the texts that might come closest to expressing
Buddha’s own statements, we find the word udde≤ika when he refers
to the tree as a reminder, and the word †hàna/sthana, on his deathbed
when he refers to the sacred area of Bodhgayà in general, meaning
the spot itself, not specifically the tree.62 Whatever role the parallel
ongoing tradition of the Indian a≤vattha cult may have played in shap-
ing the Buddhist cult of the bodhi tree, there is no reference to this
by the Buddha or his direct followers. They seemed to see the bodhi
tree as a phenomenon in itself. Perhaps it was, since it is neither
the outer, physical aspect of the tree, nor its botanical characteris-
tics which were emphasised, but the spot beneath it. Yet the tree
was tangible, transferable, and the spot (sthana) was not. Today, when
Buddhists in Bodhgayà are questioned about their devotion to the
bodhi tree, the more educated tend to insist that their reverence for
the tree in memory of what Buddha once experienced beneath it
on that very spot, is not worship. In their opinion they act exactly
the same as Buddha who gazed at the tree in reverence and grati-
tude without blinking his eyes.
When Buddhists, apart from a heartfelt devotion, have the karmic
merit of such an act as a secondary motive, their attitude is again
legitimised by Buddha’s own words. On his deathbed he is recorded
as having connected his injunction to visit the four places with reli-
gious merit, literally: religious inspiration.63 Merit (P. pu»»a, S. pu»ya)
is mentioned repeatedly in the Bodhgayà inscriptions, even the trans-
ferable form of merit which is indicated when the benefactor grants
the merit of his gift to his parents or other ancestors. In the course
of time, the sacred centre developed into an undistinguishable unit
of tree, àsana, temple, and statue, so that whatever religious exercise
or ritual was performed, ‘tree’ and ‘place’ could no longer be dis-
tinguished as separate categories in Bodhgayà. In many other places
of pilgrimage or other temple complexes however, there is a clear
spatial and symbolic distinction between temple or stùpa and the tree.
As we will see in Anuràdhapura, the tree can be far more famous
and central than the adjoining stùpa or temple.
62
See Mahàparinibbànasutta 5.16–22.
63
In the Mahàparinibbànasutta: “saávejaniyaá †hànaá.”

Those who make circumambulations or prostrations direct them-

selves to the triad of tree, seat and temple, or even all four when
the statue is seen as a category in its own right, but the words used
may differ. When one goes inside the dark temple with its relatively
small interior at the base of the towering structure, one greets an
imposing Buddha statue, sitting majestically in the bhùmispar≤a-mùdra,
also called the Màravijaya-mùdra. When one greets the tree-cum-àsana,
one pays respect to the symbol and physical reminder of Buddha’s
enlightenment. Buddhism lacks the parallel Hindu institution of pil-
grimage manuals and local pa»∂as who take care of the rituals for
the benefit of their clients and perform these on their behalf. On
the other hand, Buddhist believers seem to perform their rituals
around the bodhi tree in a natural language of respect rather than
in a way ordained by priests or special pilgrimage manuals. This
contrasts starkly with the ritual behaviour of the Hindu pilgrims who
include Bodhgayà in the pañcakro≤ì route. It is not known how long
the Bodhgayà temple and the tree fall under the official places to
be visited by the Hindus in the course of their ≤ràddha rituals, but
they are mentioned in many of the lists of ‘places to visit and offer
≤ràddha" as Dharmakßetra (or Dharmàra»ya, Dharmaprasthà, Dharma-
sthàna).64 Although there is some confusion about who is meant by
the name Dharme≤vara,—is it Buddha, who indeed is a preacher
of Dharma, the god Yama, who is often called Dharmaràjà, or is it
perhaps the epic hero Yudhiß†hira?65
However, the tree is not specifically connected to Buddha in such
Hindu texts, but it is seen as a particularly impressive (a≤vattha-ràjà)
tree symbolising the trinity of Brahmà-Viß»u-•iva:
Namaste ’≤vattha-ràjàya Brahmà-Viß»u-•ivàtmane
The term bodhidruma seems to have been interpreted as a tree of wis-
dom or a kind of insight which could help liberate one’s ancestors:
bodhidrumàyakart‰»àm pit‰»àá tàra»àya ca
64
For the connection between Gayà and Bodhgayà, see Claude Jacques, Gayà-
Màhàtmya (1962), and the texts of Vàyupurà»a 100 and 110, as well as Gayàmàhàtmya
2.71 and 6.33–36. The latter passage is quoted and translated in the Appendix
which is section 3.6 of this chapter.
65
For the possible connection of Bodhgayà with the five Pà»∂ava brothers, see
the Vanaparva of the Mahàbhàrata, 95, verses 13–14.

200 chapter three
Not a word about saáyaksaábodhi or nirvà»a. It seems that for Hindus,

besides ‘helping liberate one’s ancestors’, and ‘attaining the fruit of
bodhi’ the bodhi tree in Bodhgayà possessed the extra ability to fulfill
worldly wishes. This would make it into a kalpav‰kßa. It is rather strik-
ing that ‘sight’ and ‘touch’ are mentioned explicitly as parts of the
ritual behaviour. Both the Buddha statue (or, Dharme≤vara/Dharmaràjà
in the words of the Hindu manuals) and the bodhi tree should be
seen and touched as well as prostrated to.
It can be assumed that the Hindu images beneath the bodhi tree
painted in the eighteenth century by Thomas Daniell and around
1830 by Charles D’Oyly,66 were put there by Gayà pilgrims, or pos-
sibly by the •aiva monks who reportedly lived there since the end
of the sixteenth century. The statue of a four-armed Avalokite≤vara
might have been seen as a statue of Viß»u. The matter of the foot-
prints forms another parallel to Hindu Gayà. There is one pair now
beneath the bodhi tree, and another pair in front of the small •aiva
temple directly to the right of the entrance to the Mahàbodhi tem-
ple, which is called Buddhapàda, against Viß»upàda in Hindu Gayà.
It is interesting that both places have footprints. Such pàdas are not
very common in Hinduism, although it is usually assumed that in
Gayà they indicate the three famous strides which Viß»u took to
establish his supremacy. The Buddhapàda are not mentioned in the
Hindu texts, but as far as I know neither are the Viß»upàda in
the texts about Hindu Gayà.67 The parallel is evident, but just as
Bodhgayà knew its times of rise and decline as a place of Buddhist
pilgrimage, so Hindu Gayà appears to have been an almost deserted
town when Chinese travellers visited it, although its praises had been
sung already in the Purà»as. Especially in the 11th–13th century
Gayàmàhàtmya, the pilgrim is told how to conduct his ancestral rites
during the several stages of his pilgrimage. At some moment in his-
tory, the Bodhgayà area must have been included in the prescribed
routes, not because it was felt to be a Buddhist place where inter-
faith respect was due, but simply because it was considered as a
sacred place with an image of Dharme≤vara within the temple and
a famous a≤vattha tree just outside. Even if the name of Buddha was
actually used, by Hindus Buddha is often called simply Bhagavàn
66
See Leoschko, Bodhgaya, reproductions on pp. 5, 26 and 87.
67
See also J.H.C. Kern, Manual of Indian Buddhism (1896), p. 98.

or Lord, there was nothing incongruous since Buddha gradually

became incorporated into the Hindu line of avatàras.68
I have not been able to trace what kind of Hindu offerings were
prescribed for Bodhgayà. There might have been merely the usual
acts of prostration, seeing and touching, as previously mentioned,
but it seems likely that pi»∂as were offered in front of the statue or
even on the vajràsana. In the cases where the a≤vattha was regarded
as a kalpav‰kßa, there would have been the normal acts of binding
yellow threads, offering gifts of water, milk, food, flowers and incense,
and of prayer. This can still be seen around the secondary bodhi tree
today.69 There are no reports of any blood offerings being made by
Hindus although, when the legal right to the site was disputed dur-
ing the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth
century, the visiting Buddhist dignitaries complained about the Hindu
way of worship at the sanctuary.70 The idea that blood offerings were
or had been made beneath the bodhi tree or in its direct vicinity was
considered as an act of sacrilege. Those who had come to the bodhi
tree in the past, and hailed it as an a≤vattha/kalpav‰kßa, might well
have offered non-vegetarian food and spirituous liquour beneath it.
When we bear in mind how yakßas used to be offered in exchange
for their munificence and benevolence, the a≤vattha in Bodhgayà might
have been no exception. It is unknown to what extent local people
were conscious of the specific history of the place during the period
in which no Buddhists lived there.
When we shift our attention from Hindu practices beneath the
bodhi tree in Bodhgayà, and focus on Buddhist practices as recorded
in the stories centring on A≤oka, we find an extraordinary devotion
to the bodhi tree. King A≤oka is said not only to have expressed this
by his generous gifts and arrangements for future maintenance, but
also because of his deeply personal, one could almost say mystical,
68
See, for instance, Viß»upurà»a 18.21.30. In Jackson’s edition of Buchanan’s
Journal (1925b), p. 38 ff., there is a passage on •a«kara’s alleged visit to Bodhgayà.
In local lore Viß»u is supposed to have sent Buddha as his avatàra to protest about
the numerous animal sacrifices, but on second thoughts assigned that role to •a«kara
and Udayana, and not to a “nàstika” like Buddha.
69
On this secondary a≤vattha, standing on a stone platform at some distance from
the central bodhi tree, see below.
70
There are reports that some of the smaller votive stùpas were used as li«gams,
see Brian Hodgson, ‘On the Extreme Resemblance that Prevails Between Many of
the Symbols of Buddhism and Saivism’ (1972).

202 chapter three
attachment to the tree. Firstly, when he looked at the tree, he believed

he actually saw the Buddha, an experience which overwhelmed him.
Secondly, he believed that if the tree should die, then he would die
too. He incorporated this into political strategy by dedicating his
reign to the bodhi tree at least three times. He let his counterpart,
the Sinhalese king Devànàápiyatissa, do the same by sending him
a cutting of the tree and by distributing more offshoots of the tree
to over 40 Buddhist centres on the island.
To what extent A≤oka’s institution of a five-yearly festival around
the bodhi tree in Bodhgayà actually continued to be an established
practice after his death, cannot be determined from the records, but
Chinese travellers reported these annual festivities which were held
when the rains stopped, and about how people came from far and
wide to celebrate the bodhi festival with a decorated tree, gifts, music
and dance. From Pàlì sources, which are mainly eulogic and only
partly descriptive, we can hardly learn anything about the state of
things in Bodhgayà. Together with Sanskrit works such as Lalitavistara
and Buddhacarita they tend to glorify the place, without telling us
much about the physical or historical aspects. Descriptive passages
are rare, and although the eulogistic character of Buddhist art should
not be forgotten either, we can study the art scenes which have been
handed down to us for an additional clue as to whether the festi-
vals and rituals really took place there.
In the Sàñci reliefs we see a royal figure, presumably king A≤oka,
heading a solemn procession winding around what supposedly is the
bodhi tree of Bodhgayà.71 We also see a noble personage kneeling
before the footprints representing Buddha. We see humans, animals
and divinities paying respect to the bodhi tree, we see gaily decorated
trees as well as àsanas covered with gifts of flowers. Besides things
connected to A≤oka, we have surprisingly little material on daily or
even yearly rituals and festivals. We must presume that most rituals
performed by Buddhists beneath or around the bodhi tree in Bodhgayà
were very elementary: the gift of light and smell and sound, the sim-
plest offerings of the bodhi-pùjà, occasional processions and perhaps
festivals, and probably circumambulations and recitations by visiting
pilgrims and the residing monks. There might have been recitations,
initiations and meditations beneath the tree, just as there are today,
71
It might be Grünwedel, Buddhistische Kunst in Indien (1893), who was the first
to identify those reliefs as narrating the A≤oka-Anuràdhapura episode.

but nothing has been recorded, apart from what can be seen in the
inscriptions and what we gather from Chinese and Birmese visitors.
What has been recorded is: the gifts of statues, slabs, construc-
tions like railings, stùpas and pillars carrying inscriptions about the
donors. What has also been recorded is the establishment of monas-
teries, pilgrims’ hostels, maintenance and construction activities like
the digging of tanks and the erection of commemorative monuments.
There are passages about royal missions from other Buddhist coun-
tries, such as La«kà, Birma, Nepal and Tibet. Some of them left
accounts of their acts in stone, but the acts of devotion performed
beneath the tree must have been too natural and self-evident to have
been worth mentioning. What is strikingly absent is mention of med-
itative practice. Part of ritual behaviour is the ritual re-enactment of
what once happened. Therefore, if one were to repeat it one would
keep it real. If one were to imitate what Buddha once did there,
one could bring this awesome content and meaning closer to one-
self. The records make no reference to this.
The images portray devotion, reverence, reminiscence, and muni-
ficence, but not meditation. The image of Buddha seated in medi-
tation displaying the mùdra calling the earth as witness of his victory
over Màra became widespread, but to what extent meditative prac-
tice ever became common among Buddhists, monastic or lay, in
Bodhgayà or elsewhere, is debatable. This overall lack of emphasis
on meditation might have caused the tradition of forest monks in
Sri Lanka, Birma and Thailand, and this might also have caused a
person like Bodhidharma to turn his back on Indian Buddhism, set
out on his own, and start his new life with ten years of solitary med-
itation in southern China. This lack of emphasis on meditative prac-
tice might well be inherent to a pilgrimage centre where there is
too much activity. Although the tree in Bodhgayà would be the place
par excellence, the daily reality of a place of pilgrimage is not con-
ducive to extended meditative practice. It seems that nowadays the
meditative inspiration, in imitation of Buddha, is not only felt by
Buddhists, but by other groups as well, such as interfaith groups.
Moreover, in a wide area around Bodhgayà regular meditation camps
are organised by Buddhist and non-Buddhist meditation masters alike.
It appears that only recently such a practice has been initiated by
small groups, most of them non-Asian neo-Buddhists. Now, if one
really feels like meditating beneath the bodhi tree, one can seek per-
mission from the temple authorities to use the so-called meditation

204 chapter three
gallery on the first floor of the Mahàbodhi temple where one can
sit and walk very close to the spreading branches.
The ritual behaviour of Buddhist pilgrims in Bodhgayà varies,
depending mainly on denomination and personal religious fervour.
It is most common for all visitors whether Buddhist or Hindu, pil-
grim or tourist, to salute the Mahàbodhi-temple, the Buddha statue
inside, and the bodhi tree. A slightly more intensive way of paying
one’s respect to the place consists in salutations and three parikrama
rounds, making a circumambulation of the temple, tree and àsana.
In the next phase of intensity gifts are offered: flowers, garlands,
incense, lights. Sometimes the Buddha’s footprints are included too.
Most of the time they are covered with a few solitary flowers like
marigolds, jasmine and hibiscus, and occasionally a coin. Some of
the more thoroughly knowledged pilgrims recite texts, such as praises
and prayers, which they also do in a wider area of the complex,
such as in the places where Buddha is said to have sat, walked,
eaten, bathed, etc. Some of them walk around a wider area, includ-
ing the Mucalinda pond, Sujàtà’s place and the river outside the
temple complex. Whereas Buddhist pilgrims tend to stay for an
extended period of time, repeating the ritual behaviour day after
day, the Hindu pilgrims from Gayà pay only short visits. They include
temple, statue and tree as part of their pañcakro≤ì route on their way
to the next stop.
Bodhgayà is hardly ever included in the standard international
tourist tours, and not easily accessible because there is no airport
anywhere near to it. Bihar is not considered to be a place of tourist
interest to non-Buddhists anyway. To experience one’s stay in Bodhgayà
more intensely as a pilgrim varies according to the denominations
and rituals. The most visible ritual behaviour nowadays is displayed
by the Tibetan Buddhists. Their most common ritual is the contin-
ued full-length prostration, performed in the wider area around tem-
ple and tree. Most of them use special wooden boards and velvet
cushions to protect their skin from gravel, and thorns or insects in
the grass. They use piles of pebbles as a counting device: the hun-
dreds and thousands are counted with silk tassels or knots in their
prayer-màlàs, but the first electronic devices made in Taiwan or
Korea have already found their way to Bodhgayà. More esoteric
rituals are performed too, such as the rice-ma»∂ala ritual. Texts
are recited, either solitary or in groups. Prayer-beads are counted,
candles and butter-lamps are lit, and major parikramas, circling the

whole complex, are made by a steady stream of red-robed monas-

tics and lay Tibetans. Special ceremonies are performed too, the
most famous of which are the Kalacakra ceremonies by the Dalai
Lama.
Although one cannot say that the tree is the very centre of such
a ritual, the tree does mark the place where Buddha once sat and
attained full enlightenment and thus evokes fervent devotion. Some
gather leaves from the ground, others sit at a distance and merely
look at the tree in reverence, just like Buddha once did. Some, espe-
cially the Theravàdins from Sri Lanka or Thailand, slowly move in
walking meditation on exactly the same spot where Buddha once
did so. This spot is now called the ca«kramana.
During my 1994 visit my special attention went to the secondary
a≤vattha tree standing to the north of the temple. As far as I know,
this tree does not mark the spot of a specific episode in Buddha’s
stay at Bodhgayà, but it is supposed to have been planted at the
same time when the main a≤vattha was planted, some time after
the old tree was blown down in a storm in 1876. It is bigger than
the bodhi tree, has finer leaves, and is enclosed in a spacious con-
crete platform. Buddhists seem to have no special veneration for this
tree, although the cool space beneath it is often used for rituals and
an occasional nap. At some point in recent history, the Hindu stat-
ues kept beneath the major bodhi tree must have been moved to this
secondary tree. Although the Hindu pilgrims made obeisance to
Buddha’s statue and the bodhi tree first, it was this secondary tree
which received their special devotion. Its trunk was circled with yel-
low thread. Gifts of rice, water, red and yellow powder and flowers
were left at its base. Some pilgrims put red or yellow marks on its
trunk, or even tied a turmeric root to it. The statues beneath it
received a simple pùjà. The traditional pi»∂as are offered here only
rarely, but all Hindus left a small gift and circumambulated the tree
three times with folded hands, muttering parts of the prescribed
prayer from the Gayàmàhàtmya, or simple mantras.
Something curious happened in the small •aiva temple directly in
front of the main entrance to the Mahàbodhi temple. The unwary
visitor, who is not yet familiar with Bodhgayà’s pilgrim patterns, is
sidetracked by one of the Hindu priests and coerced for a rushed
tour through the building in which the figures on the altar suppos-
edly represent the five Pà»∂ava brothers. There are footprints in
front of this Hindu temple as well. They are regarded by most visitors

206 chapter three
as Buddha’s footprints, as are the footprints directly beneath the bodhi

tree. Occasionally, however, they are conveniently explained as
Viß»upàda to the unsuspecting Hindu pilgrim, a statement which is
expected to produce a monetary gift to the priest. The contrast
between this priestly coercion and the freedom of movement and
behaviour in the rest of the complex is striking.
Another group of pilgrims is apt to catch one’s eye: ordinary peo-
ple, poorly dressed, shy, and led by one of their own, shuffle through
the complex, and pay reverence to Buddha and tree in a manner
that contrasts starkly with the usually unobtrusive, serene Buddhist
pilgrims and the brightly clad Hindu visitors. They are Ambedkarites,
neo-Buddhists from the ranks of the untouchable poor who have
become Buddhists in one or no more than two generations as a
result of mass conversions following Dr. Ambedkar’s example. I hap-
pened to meet them again in the local museum where, out of habit,
they left their sandals on the porch (most of them were not wear-
ing any at all). They kept their hands reverently folded, and touched
the threshold and the feet of the statues as if those were mùrtis. They
were reprimanded by the museum guards for doing this.
In the wider area around the temple complex, in addition to the
previously mentioned museum, one can find hotels, dormitories, and
lodges, as well as temples built by the Buddhists of various nation-
alities. There are Sinhalese, Birmese, Japanese, Bhutanese, and Tibetan
temples. The giant Japanese Buddha statue was paid for by the
Japanese, but made by Indian artisans. A giant statue of Maitreya
is to be made. There is a Tibetan refugee market in the direct vicin-
ity of the Mahàbodhi complex. Several thousand Tibetans live there.
Some are monks, some are lay pilgrims, and others run one of the
small family businesses in the Tibetan refugee market, where they
sell items for devotion, woolen clothes, blankets, carpets or jewelry.
Money is also earnt by local Hindus, as riksha-men and streetven-
dors, but also as touroperators to the other Buddhist sites, as masseurs,
and as local gurus offering meditation courses. One of the most amus-
ing ways of earning money from the pilgrims is done by boys, who
sell tiny fish in small plastic bags. In order to gain merit the fish
are set free in the Mucalinda pond, only to be caught and sold again
the next day.
In Bodhgayà’s history we detect the ancient a≤vattha motif as well
as the motif of royal consecration and sacrifice. Whether one sees
the Buddha as a world sovereign (cakravartin), or as a Buddha in a

line of Buddhas, or as a human teacher or as a god-hero, the var-

ious narratives could be read in such a way as to provide ample
confirmation. Through the figure of the Buddha we see the conti-
nuity of ancient Indian traditions, bràhma»ic as well as popular.
Both in scriptural tradition and in Buddhist iconography there is a
wealth of details marking the continuity of pan-Indian motifs. Yet,
although the tree motif in Buddha’s biography forms a tight fabric
of the sustained caityav‰kßa cult throughout Indian tradition, the cult
of the bodhi tree is unique. It seems that from the dual symbolism of
the a≤vattha tree, as indicated by the famous °gvedic passage about
the two birds in the fig tree, one of which was eating tiny red fruits
and the other was just watching (abhicàka≤i ), Buddhism developed the
reflective aspect in a uniquely persistent way.72 The a≤vattha is not
connected to fertility in any way in Buddhist religious texts. Some
Buddhist stories mention the a≤oka tree in this respect, especially in
its relation to Queen Mahàdevì Màyà’s dream of conception, and
even her delivery of the child, in an obvious parallel to the a≤oka
festivals, the fertility- and ≤àlabha«jikà motif. Yet for the Buddhist
narrative tradition as well as for the popular cults, from the moment
of Buddha’s enlightenment the bodhi tree stood for determination,
reflection, shade, stillness. It might have been that some popular cults
made it into a kalpav‰kßa now and then. Its association with rain and
harvest in Sri Lanka is dealt with in the next section, on Anuràdhapura.
However, foremost, especially in Bodhgayà, the bodhi tree stood for
the awe-inspiring meditative experience in which the Buddha attained
final insight. In other words, from the well-known Vedic simile of
the two birds in the fig tree, Buddhism strongly emphasised non-
eating, i.e., the reflective aspect.
The a≤vattha generally is not a particularly long-lasting tree. It is
never as impressive and imposing as a nyagrodha/va†a/banyan. It is a
tree of light and shade, of rustling leaves, of a sun-dappled, quiver-
ing, shady reflectiveness which does not draw one into the dark
recesses of irretraceable growth, like a banyan does; on the contrary,
it affords cool, translucid reflectiveness without obscuring one’s view,
without imposing itself, without enclosing. In view of what Buddha
said about places which are conducive to meditation and fit for a
Buddha (or Buddhist) to stay, the a≤vattha seems an excellent choice.
72
°gveda 1.22.164.20.

208 chapter three
Some parts of the tradition deny that he ever had a choice. The
very spot was pre-ordained by previous Buddhas but, at the same
time, there seems to have been a deliberation about the suitability
of the tree as well as the direct vicinity: its pleasantness, with a river
and an alms village closeby. Although the •aiva mahànta who dis-
covered the place a few hundred years back doesn’t seem to have
been aware of its specifically Buddhist past, it is said he liked the
place because of its pleasant quietness, and decided to stay and set-
tle down there. There is no special mention of the a≤vattha, but as
it is a rather common tree around temples and temple ruins all over
India, this shouldn’t be taken as an indication to its absence at that
time. As far as I know, there are no records about the kind of cult
held beneath or near the tree when there were no Buddhists living
there anymore, apart from a note made by Hodgson about votive
stùpas being used as li«gams. It may be assumed that an occasional
Buddhist pilgrim visited the place, and that, in general, the tree was
revered as a temple a≤vattha by the residing •aiva priests as well as
by the local inhabitants, Hindu as well as tribal, and by some of
the visiting Hindu pilgrims from Gayà.
How long the Hindu statues of Ga»e≤a, •iva-Pàrvatì73 and what
was sometimes called a Viß»u, sometimes an Avalokite≤vara, had
been standing beneath that tree before they were moved to the sec-
ondary a≤vattha, is not recorded, but the assembly of statues is a
reminder of times when Hindu ways of worship were stronger than
Buddhist. This might well have been so for centuries, roughly between
Muslim conquests and the Buddhist revival at the end of the nine-
teenth century. The presence of the •aiva ma†hà, and the control its
mahànta had over the whole temple complex, might have stimulated
its gradual Hinduisation. The presence of the ma†hà and the mahànta’s
control were not, in spite of Buddhist uneasiness about it, illegal, but
fully justified by the Gayàmàhàtmya literary prescriptions and tradi-
tional Hindu pilgrim’s behaviour prescribed in the Purà»as.74 Although
the legalistic procedure concerning the respective claims was long
drawn out, it now seems to have been settled to mutual satisfaction.
Its potential as a future parallel to Ayodhya interreligious violence
is not denied by the authorities, but there no longer seems to be
73
locally called Gaurì-•a«kara.
74
See, for instance, the Vàyupurà»a passage in the Appendix to this chapter.

cause for alarm, even if the state of Bihar is a place full of politi-
cal, economical and communal violence from time to time.
Bodhgayà nowadays appears to be one of those places where inter-
religious encounter is based on a positive, mutually respectful behav-
iour rather than a powerplay of sectarian leaders. Not only is it an
interdenominational as well as intra-religious meeting-point for pil-
grims from all kinds of Asian Buddhists, but it also draws increasing
numbers of newly converted westerners as well as all kinds of inter-
faith groups and those groups and individuals who are drawn by
Buddha’s example of what steadfast meditation is able to accomplish.
Even though in rare accounts when the Buddha himself is believed
to have reported on his enlightenment the bodhi tree is not explic-
itly mentioned, early narrative traditions all agree on the bodhi tree
in Bodhgayà. Three important events connected with this bodhi tree,
other than the enlightenment episode, are: the planting of one of its
seeds in •ravasthi, A≤oka’s outspoken reverence for the tree in
Bodhgayà, and his ‘gift’ of its southern branch to the Buddhists of
La«kà. Whereas the first event is supposed to have taken place some-
where in the middle of Buddha’s life, the two other events must
have taken place somewhere in the middle of A≤oka’s reign, from
circa 268–265 to 239–232 bc. It is especially the Sinhalese chroni-
cles and the Chinese travel accounts which give us an idea about
belief and practice around the bodhi tree as well as about its size
and condition.
When Paul Deussen visited Bodhgayà in 1893, he remarked that
he was certain that it was exactly the spot where Buddha once sat,
since “Buddha lived long enough to point out the exact spot to his
numerous disciples.”75 Buddhist literary tradition, however, seems not
so sure about Buddha ever returning to Bodhgayà and fixing the
exact location for posterity.76 On two occasions during his later life
the physical locality is mentioned explicitly: when the bodhi seed was
collected by the Elder Mogallàna and given to Ànanda to plant in
the Jetavana, and when Buddha, on his deathbed pointed out four
75
See Molly Aitkin, Meeting the Buddha. On Pilgrimage to Buddhist India (1995),
p. 63. See also Deussen’s notes edited by H.K. Kaul, Travellers’ India: An Anthology
(1979).
76
Thich Nhat Hanh, Old Path. White Clouds (1991), in his free rendering of
Buddha’s life, mentions several occasions when Buddha visited Bodhgayà again. He
appears to have based these narratives mainly on Chinese episodes.

210 chapter three
places worth visiting for religious inspiration.77 In general it is believed

that King A≤oka, guided by Elder Upagupta, fixed the right spots
(4, 8 or even 32). The pillars indicating the exact spot, however,
were usually erected at a respectful distance. Although the wider cir-
cle where the events reported in the scriptures must have taken place
is more or less defined, it is not at all clear that the spot where the
bodhi tree now stands is the exact spot where it stood when Buddha
sat beneath it. In general, the vajràsana is believed to indicate the
very spot, not the tree. Since the tree reportedly suffered damage
several times, and was subject to storm and decay, and was either
replanted or grew again from one of the offshoots, it seems highly
improbable, and botanically impossible, that the present tree stands
on the exact spot where it stood when Buddha sat beneath it. The
point fixed for posterity is the seat, not the tree itself.
In general it is believed that the tree A≤oka found in Bodhgayà
was the same tree beneath which the Buddha had sat. Following the
stories of the A≤okàvadàna and the Sinhalese accounts (Mahàvaása,
Dìpavaása, and especially the Mahàbodhivaása and the Nidànaka†hà)
A≤oka visited the bodhi tree at least three times: in the course of his
pilgrimage to the 32 places, and later, when he returned to pay his
special respect. In the Sinhalese records he is said to have visited
Bodhgayà at least once more when the southern branch had to be
severed from the main tree and sent to La«kà. It must have been
on one of these occasions that queen Tißyarakßità grew suspicious of
his infatuation with what she simply called ‘Bodhi’: assuming that
he had a new mistress (sapatnì) by that name, or perhaps that it was
a tree nymph with whom he had an amorous relation, she ordered
the tree to be destroyed by black magic. Part of that magic spell
was to wind a thread round the trunk. When the queen was con-
vinced of her husband’s repetence because of his tears and anguish,
she ordered the spell to be undone. Miraculously, the withering tree
revived and was gratefully and generously tended by a relieved king,
who besides adding a pillar and funds for the maintenance of the
place, also had built a platform or seat where Buddha had report-
edly sat beneath the tree, a railing around tree and vajràsana, and
initiated a five-yearly bodhi tree festival. The memory of some of
77
“dassaniyaá saávejaniyaá †hànaá”, those places that are apt to cause emo-
tion or awe.

these events has been kept alive in the stone reliefs of famous stùpas
elsewhere.
How Bodhgayà fared between A≤oka’s special affinity with the
place and the visits of the Chinese pilgrims (5–7th century) can only
be guessed. Was it A≤oka himself who had a more elaborate struc-
ture built, referred to as a “small vihàra” by the pilgrim Hiuen-tsang,
as well as the stone wall surrounding the bodhi tree, which still existed
in ad 637 when he visited the place? Or was this earlier shrine with
stone railing the one mentioned in several inscriptions as erected by
the munificence of Lady Kura«gì? The Bodhgayà related sculptures
of the Bhàrhut stùpa, belonging to the period between 120 and 100
bc, depict an open pavillion supported by pillars with the vajràsana
in its centre, and the trunk of the bodhi tree behind the throne. On
the basis of inscriptions and references in texts, as well as small
stone models found in the ruins and elsewhere, it can be assumed
that there were several stages of construction activity, and that the
basis of the great temple was made somewhere between the second
and third century. Also, several sa«ghàramas were reportedly built,
such as those by Lady Kura«gì’s husband, and by the Sinhalese
king Meghavarma (between ad 301 and 328) as well as by King
Brahmamitra. At some stage the Jewel Walk Shrine was erected. At
some other stage it was a Sinhalese monk, Prakhyàtakìrtti, who made
arrangements for repair and construction, as well as provision for
recurring repair expenses.
At what time and by whom a first Buddha image was installed
in the Mahàbodhi temple is not known, but it is inferred from the
Chinese travel accounts that it must have been sometime after the
visit of Fa-hien and positively before the visit of Hiuen Tsang. Chinese
pilgrims visited India during various periods from the beginning of
the fifth century up to the end of the seventh century. These accounts
report several monasteries with residing monks. The most valuable
information comes from Hiuen-tsang who visited India between 629
and 648. He reports in detail about the bodhi tree, the vajràsana, the
temple and all other constructions present there around the year
637, such as walls, railings, caityas, tanks, as well as the statues and
other sacred trees he saw. What is remarkable in his account is the
lively atmosphere he found, the way so may sacred spots around
Bodhgayà which are connected with episodes in the well-known nar-
ratives, were actively remembered and marked with monuments.
He stated that “The whole place seems to have come to life as a

212 chapter three
sanctuary in remembrance of the Buddha’s sojourn there.” It was

flanked by several monasteries where monks from several denomi-
nations and nationalities lived according to monastic rules (vinaya). D.K.
Barua makes the interesting suggestion that the •aiva king •a≤à«ka
of Bengal, who has, since Cunningham’s excavations, been blamed
for having fanatically demolished both temple, tree and image, to
be in reality the one who cleared away the ruinous remains in order
to erect much grander ones.78 Traditionally, the reconstruction and
enlargement were ascribed to King Pùr»avarmà around the begin-
ning of the seventh century.
Another Chinese text gives details on the appearance of the bodhi
tree. When Buddha was alive the bodhi tree was said to have been
several hundred feet high, but the tree the Chinese traveller found
(after having suffered the spell of black magic ordered by A≤oka’s
jealous queen, and the supposedly destructive acts of King •a≤à«ka)
looked a lot smaller, but thriving. It was surrounded by platforms,
terraces, walls, and railings. Once a year, on nirvà»a day, in one day
the whole tree would wither, and shed its leaves, but immediately
after it revived itself with yellow-green bark, and its leaves became
a shiny green. Whether this lively remembrance of Buddha’s sojourn
instigated lively pilgrimage is not at all certain. It is said that after
the rains (varßa) people used to come in their tens of thousands to
celebrate, offer incense, flowers, dance and music.
I-tsing, who visited India between 671 and 695, recorded wor-
shipping the image in the Mahàbodhivihàra, with gifts of silk cloth for
yellow robes (ka≤àya). Other precious gifts from pilgrims are recorded
in inscriptions. It appears that there was a slight decline between
the end of the seventh century and the beginning of the tenth cen-
tury, but the sacred place received generous patronage again after
that. Important historical data about the temple’s restoration are
given in Birmese inscriptions. It is especially relevant for our subject
to mention the ceremonies around the sacred tree: offerings of food,
perfumes, banners, lamps donated to the temple and the image in
it, and pùjà to the bodhi tree which was decorated in the manner of
a kalpav‰kßa, as well as the distribution of gifts to the poor. It is also
said that the Birmese kings made arrangements for the continuous
offering of lights. Small clay models of the temple were later found
78
See D.K. Barua, Buddha Gaya Temple (1981), appendix two, esp. pp. 230–235.

elsewhere, sometimes as far away as Chittagong in East-Bengal and

Birma, which might have been brought home by pilgrims as sacred
souvenirs by pilgrims. To what extent effigies in the form of small
metal trees, called patañsà or kalpav‰kßa, were merely used for offering
to the bodhi tree (as is still done in Anuràdhapura today), as men-
tioned in one inscription,79 or whether they were taken home as a
pilgrim’s souvenir, is not recorded, but it does indicate a familiar
trait in pilgrim behaviour all over the world. Many votive stùpas are
said to have been donated as markers of the spot where some specific
episode in Buddha’s sojourn in Bodhgayà was assumed to have taken
place, and gradually the whole area around tree and temple must
have become dotted with such stùpas.
But all these gifts did not merely produce one-way traffic. We
already mentioned clay models of the temple and metal replica of
the bodhi tree found elsewhere. In one of the Birmese inscriptions
(dating between 1472 and 1492) a mission was sent from lower Birma
to Bodhgayà to take offshoots of the bodhi tree and plant them in
sanctuaries at Pegu.80 To what extent this venture was unique or
whether it was organised occasionally by other kings and monks from
various countries remains unsolved.
The days of the Muslim conquests must have been hard on
Bodhgayà. Buildings must have fallen into disrepair, and the history
of the sacred place became obscured for centuries, in fact up to the
date of the arrival of the first mahànta, possibly at the end of the six-
teenth century. It is said that this •aiva saányàsin, called Gossain
Ghamandi Giri, was attracted by the sylvan solitude of the place,
without making the connection to its Buddhist past. He erected a
small ma†hà there, which in time was enlarged to house other men-
dicants of his order, the Giri order of the •a«karàcàrya tradition.
Some authors put the arrival of the first mahànta at a much later
date, and give him the name of Mahàdeva. Evidently the Buddhist
monuments were in ruins, covered by growth, and untended since
no Buddhists were living anywhere near. The Nepalese monk who
is recorded as visiting the place at the beginning of the nineteenth
century, and who lodged and lived with the mahànta for a consid-
erable period of time, seems to have been an exception.81 When the
79
See D.K. Barua, Buddha Gaya Temple, p. 65.
80
81

214 chapter three
archeologist Dr. Buchanan Hamilton visited Bodhgayà in 1812, he

found everything in an extremely ruinous condition. Yet, for some
reason, in the middle of the nineteenth century the residing mahàn-
tas seem to have gradually become aware of the lucrative potential
of the place. Although their attitude to the sanctity of the place
remained rather indifferent, they seem to have become impressed
by the growing interest from British historians and archeologists, as
well as by the visiting emissaries from Birma (1874) who came with
costly gifts.
The striking thing about these Birmese requests to the British
District Magistrate of Gayà, is that the pilgrims came for the bodhi
tree rather than the temple. In the ensuing correspondence between
Birma, the British Government Office in Gayà and the •aiva mahànta
of Bodhgayà, the mahànta seemed to have agreed to all proposals
regarding the worshipping of the bodhi tree and all restoration activ-
ities deemed necessary.82 Although the intentions stated by the Birmese
were grand, not all of them were carried out, so that when Sir Edwin
Arnold visited Bodhgayà he was shocked to see the sorry state the
sacred place was in, and reported on this to The Englishman (Calcutta),
as well as The Daily Telegraph (London) and the East and West Journal
and the Maha Bodhi Journal. General Alexander Cunningham and
Dr. Rajendralal Mitra were sent to supervise its restoration, but this
was interrupted by the Anglo- Birmese war. It was in the course of
this process, when the sacred complex of Bodhgayà was in dual
control of the •aiva mahànta and the Government of India, that the
old bodhi tree was felled by a storm. Two saplings were planted in
two different places, one on the site of what was supposed to be the
original spot directly west of the temple, and the other to the north
of it.
The debate about the rightful ownership gained momentum by
the publication of Edwin Arnold’s poem The Light of Asia (1879) and
the visit of a wealthy young man from Colombo, David Hewavitarne,
later known as Anagarika Dharmapala. A striking detail is given by
Arnold’s respectful request to pick a few leaves from the bodhi tree,
and by the mahànta’s indifferent reply.83 When Arnold later visited
Sri Lanka, he took those three or four leaves with him, thus paral-
82
Quoted in D.K. Barua, Buddha Gaya Temple, pp. 75–76.
83
See Aitkin, Meeting the Buddha, pp. 101–102, and D.K. Barua, Buddha Gaya
Temple, pp. 80–81.

leling A≤oka’s mission to Anuràdhapura more than 2,000 years ear-

lier. His suggestion that Buddhists should restore the sacred place
and amicably settle the question of ownership was taken up fervently,
first by the Sinhalese and later by Buddhists from other nations.
When he presented one of the leaves to the Temple of the Tooth
in Kandy, it was eagerly accepted and placed in a golden casket for
regular worship. It is not known where he left the other leaves. As
is reported in his diary, when Anagarika Dharmapala visited Bodh-
gayà in 1891, he also gathered some leaves. When he met the Hima-
layan Buddhists of Darjeeling, he not only presented them with some
relics of Buddha and a Buddhist flag, but also with a few leaves
from the bodhi tree. He also presented bodhi leaves to Japanese and
Thai Buddhists. Later on, the Mahàbodhi Society sent five bodhi
saplings to Japan. In a letter to his mother, written from Bodhgayà
in 1913, E.M. Forster also enclosed a leaf from “the sacred Pipul
Tree at Boddh Gaya.”84 It seems a natural and valued pilgrim’s
memento, and Buddhist lore has it that the best leaf is the one which
falls into one’s lap without touching the ground (remember the falling
seed caught by Mogallàna before it touched the ground), whereas a
leaf gathered from the ground is of secondary value only, and a leaf
obtained by breaking it off a branch is considered of questionable
value. In light of Buddha’s explicit orders to his monks to never
harm a tree, or part of a tree in any way, this is understandable.
In the process of Buddhist revival in Asia, the restoration of
Bodhgayà became a vital issue, not only among Asian Buddhists and
Indological scholars, but worldwide, with the support of theosophists,
unitarians and non-Asian neo-Buddhists. The court case over own-
ership involved the Buddhist right to worship images of Buddha in
the temple, and the mahànta’s demand that no Hindu images be
removed. For this study it would be interesting to find out when the
collection of stone reliefs and statues, painted beneath the bodhi tree
in the sketches made by Thomas Daniell (18th century) and D’Oyly,
were actually moved from the official bodhi tree site to the secondary
bodhi tree. Those images were Buddhist as well as Hindu, and there
must have been a time when this was not considered anomalous.
Therefore, we can assume that the chronicle of the bodhi tree in
Bodhgayà, as believed by the faithful, could run something like this:
84
See Aitkin, Meeting the Buddha, p. 82.

216 chapter three
(1) The original bodhi tree, which was then simply called a≤vattha or
pipala, sprouted at exactly the same moment when Siddhàrtha Gautama
was born. It stood on the same spot in the Middle Country where
former Buddhas sat in enlightenment.
(2) When the Bodhisattva was about 30–35 years old he walked
towards the glorious a≤vattha tree near Uruvilva, which was eagerly
pointed out to him by devas. The Bodhisattva is said to have made
a careful distinction between the trees that were not meant to be
the spot where a future Buddha was to sit in his moments of enlight-
enment, and those which were meant for him, as they were for pre-
vious Buddhas.
(3) The tree is described as being several hundred feet high, with
clean light earth around it and free from weeds. In its direct vicin-
ity there were other trees which bent their crowns towards the a≤vattha.
The tree was inhabited by a tree deity who reported on the Bodhi-
sattva’s meditation progress to the deities living in the surrounding
trees. It was beneath this tree that the Bodhisattva chose to face the
East, and sit down on a cushion of grass provided by the grasscut-
ter. During his stay in Bodhgayà he spent seven days beneath the
tree, where he won victory over Màra and attained saáyaksaábodhi.
Another seven days were spent closeby in loving contemplation of
the tree beneath which he had attained the final insight.
(4) When Anàthapi»∂ika pointed out to Ànanda that he was per-
turbed by the behaviour of the devotees who left their offerings on
the doorstep of the Gandhaku†i or by the gate of the Jetavana
monastery when the Master was absent, Ànanda requested Buddha
to provide a place where offerings could be placed. Buddha gave
his consent by stating that a bodhi tree would be a fitting replace-
ment and representation. The Elder Mogallàna flew to the bodhi tree
in Bodhgayà using his magic powers. There he caught a seed from
the tree in his robe before it dropped to the ground. This seed was
planted in the Jeta grove in •ravasthi where it instantly and mirac-
ulously grew into an adult tree.
(5) Buddha mentions on his deathbed the spot of his enlightenment
as one of the four places worth visiting for religious inspiration.
(6) A≤oka purposefully visited Bodhgayà three times, first in his gen-
eral round of the thirty-two places, then in order to make special

offerings and arrangements, and at least once more when the south-
ern branch was cut and taken to La«kà. Mention is made of his
establishing a five-yearly festival, and of his visiting Bodhgayà on the
occasion of the Kàrttika festival as well.
(7) It is not clear whether the episode of the magic spell put on the
tree at the jealous queen’s request, was before or after the cutting.
There is some confusion about A≤oka’s own earlier hatred of the
tree. Later he claimed that he saw Buddha when he looked at the
tree and even pledged his kingdom to it several times.
(8) How the bodhi tree fared between A≤oka’s reign and the visits of
the Chinese pilgrims, has not been recorded. The a≤vattha is not a
particularly long-lasting tree, and there is, to my knowledge, no
descriptive record of the tree before the Chinese pilgrims wrote their
travel accounts. Some of their accounts endeavour to be descriptive
and give exact observations and measurements, but the legendary
and purely descriptive appear to be muddled. It is described as being
about 40 or 50 feet high, with yellow-white bark and glossy green
leaves. Two details should be added: it is evergreen and on nirvà»a
days it withers and revives soon after. It also is the object of a fes-
tival when the rainy season is over.
(9) Whether the Bengal •aiva king •a≤à«ka was hostile to Buddhism
and demolished the whole place out of vengeance, or whether he
was pious and cleared the wider area of ruins, foundations and debris
in order to set up a new, much grander, construction, remains a
matter of conjecture. Tradition has it that at that time, or shortly
after, a new tree was planted (circa 610).
(10) Francis Buchanan Hamilton visited the place between 1811 and
1812. When editing his personal diary for publication he crossed out
a passage where he had mentioned that the bo-tree could have been
planted by a Ceylonese king and that it was called ‘Buddh Brup’.85
A few pages later, he left intact a passage about the Birmese believ-
ing that the tree had been planted by A≤oka, whereas the Hindus
believed it was planted by Brahmà.86 He also mentions that the
85
See V.H. Jackson, Francis Buchanan (1925a), p. 56.
86
See D.K. Barua, Buddha Gaya Temple, p. 58, and Rajendralal Mitra, Buddha
Gaya: The Great Buddhist Temple (1972), p. 92.

218 chapter three
Birmese considered “the Buddh Brap as the centre of Jumbudwep,

and reckon all distances of places in the world from thence.”87 He
found the tree in full vigour, and estimated that it could not be
more than 100 years old.
(11) In the process of archeological excavations, especially connected
to the names of Alexander Cunningham and Rajendralal Mitra, it
was recorded that the tree still existed in 1861, but was very much
decayed. In 1863 the tree appeared to have deteriorated and in 1876
the tree was dead having been felled during a storm. It was replaced
by a seedling about three feet high. It was also recorded that
Cunningham found, in the course of his excavations, parts of a much
older tree underneath the base of the temple.
(12) During the •aiva control over the site since the sixteenth or
seventeenth century, the tree was not mentioned at all, but since
a≤vatthas are sacred to Hindus as well, there is no reason to assume
that the tree was harmed. More surprisingly, from the Gayàmàhàtmya
we learn that Bodhgayà, or Dharmaprasthà/p‰ß†ha as it was called,
was included in the pilgrims’ itinerary. Claude Jacques reports that
when the old tree died at the end of the nineteenth century, a new
one was planted on more or less the same spot, and a secondary
one to the north of the temple. It is to this secondary a≤vattha that
the Hindu pilgrims bring their ≤ràddha offerings.88 It could be that
during the process of planting the two new trees, the statues were
moved to the secondary tree, but it could have been much later, for
instance after the temple management had come under the joint
control of both Hindus and Buddhists. When the footprints were
placed beneath the main tree is not recorded either.
(13) Since the Buddha Jayanti celebrations in 1956 all kinds of restora-
tion and construction work has been going on. The tree is now com-
pletely surrounded on three sides, and on one side by the wall of
the great temple. The stone railing is accessed by two ironwork gates.
Some of the branches are supported by iron stakes, most of the time
the lower branches are full of garlands, banners, flags and textile
lotuses or streamers. The trunk is wound with orange and yellow
87
See Jackson, Francis Buchanan (1925a), p. 61.
88
See Jacques, Gayà-Màhàtmya, p. 33, and plate VIII in his book.

cloth, a little higher up there may be traces of gold-leaf on the trunk.

Its foot is covered with offerings like flowers, rice, water, red or
orange powder and incense. The vajràsana, attached to the temple
wall, is accessible directly only for distinguished guests, who are let
in by the gatekeeper. In this way temple, statue, àsana and tree form
a conglomerate whole. Those who make circumambulations, cir-
cumambulate all four together.
(14) In recent times several special activities have taken place directly
beneath the tree a few of which have been officially recorded, such
as the ordination of a Birmese monk, international meditation classes,
and large gift ceremonies benefitting the Tibetan community.
3.4 From Bodhgayà to Anuràdhapura
3.4.1 Legends and history

The Buddhist tradition concerning King A≤oka’s zeal in promoting
Buddha’s Dharma is generally believed to be based on historic facts,
with obvious evidence in the inscriptions on pillars and rocks. His
special missions to La«kà, sending not only his own close relatives
but even a cutting from his beloved bodhi tree, is commonly taken
as historic as well. Buddha’s own special choice of La«kà as the
keeper of the most authentic tradition, in the form of his very own
words as well as the first cutting of the original bodhi tree, might
well be an ex post facto justification of the bodhi cult and of the
glorification of La«kà as a stronghold of the authentic tradition.
Apart from the A≤oka stories themselves, there are two events in
which the special role of the island, as the guardian of the authen-
tic tradition as well as of the authentic original bodhi tree is related:
Buddha’s three visits to the island, on the last of which he is said
to have pointed out and sanctified the exact place where the bodhi
tree was later to be planted, and the resolution-of-will on his deathbed
indicating that the bodhi tree was to be planted in La«kà. There is
no external evidence for any of these events. The Sàñcì sculptures
interpreted as A≤oka’s acts of transplanting a branch from Bodhgayà
(then Uruvelà) to Anuràdhapura seem to narrate a story in instal-
ments as it were, a narrative event to which the combined elements
of decoration (peacocks indicating India, and lions representing La«kà),
could be the first clue. Peacocks (Sanskrit mayura) stand for the Maurya

220 chapter three
dynasty, and lions (sinha) for Sinhala or Sinhaladvìpa, also called the
island of La«kà. Apart from the scenes of adoration and royal pro-
cession, the small bodhi tree in the centre of the middle relief could
well contain a second clue: the southern branch of the bodhi tree,
planted in a pot. Apart from what the later Sinhalese chronicles
made of A≤oka’s mission of the bodhi branch to their island, this nar-
rative in Indian stone, dating no more than 100 or 150 years from
the event, is often considered as evidence of the historic authentic-
ity of the tradition. Whereas A≤oka himself just mentions this mis-
sion to La«kà, and merely remarks that it has been successful, the
Sinhalese chronicles present it as something initiated by the island’s
Buddhists. The whole event is worked up into a picturesque and
edifying legend in which Buddha is believed to have pointed out the
place where the tree was to be planted, and to have made known,
on his deathbed, his resolution-of-will that the bodhi tree was to be
planted in La«kà. The historic event of A≤oka’s mission is told in
glorifying, miraculous and also touchingly devotional details. The
chronicles dwell on the pomp with which A≤oka organised the event
in Bodhgayà, on the way the southern branch was miraculously sev-
ered from the tree, and then planted, on the moisture-clouds with
which the newly planted tree was surrounded for seven days so that
it could grow roots in its golden vase or pot, on the procession to
the eastern coast of India where A≤oka tearfully saw the ship depart,
and on the triumphant procession through the island. The chroni-
cles narrrate in detail how the bodhi branch reached the pre-ordained
spot in Anuràdhapura, where it was ceremoniously planted in the
Meghavana park, and again moisturised in a miraculous way.
Additional details like the sea-nàgas claiming the tree, and Therì
Sanghamittà defending it after she had taken the form of a Garu∂a
bird, or such as the role played by a bràhma»a on the way from the
coast to Anuràdhapura and by Sinhalese bràhma»as in the assign-
ment of tasks around the tree, are interesting but of secondary impor-
tance for the main motif.
That La«kà claimed that the island had been favoured with three
visits by the Buddha is something the country has in common with
other neighbouring Theravàda countries in which Buddhism gained
ground, but the passage in which he makes known his resolution
about the bodhi tree in La«kà is unique, and probably an ex post facto
addition to justify the extent of the bodhi cult there. At the same
time, such passages underlined the special position the island claimed

to have as the keeper of the ancient canonical tradition, a position

which was evidently supported by the existence of a main branch
of the original bodhi tree, and its forty miraculously grown offshoots.
When Elder Mahinda and his colleagues who were sent to the
island by A≤oka had duely spent the rain season there, Mahinda is
reported to have said to the king:
“It is a long time since we saw our teacher, the Buddha. We have
been living without a protector; there is nothing here for us to worship”
To which the king reacted: “Reverend sir, did you not tell me he was
dead?”
To which the monk replied: “Seeing his relics is seeing the Buddha.”89
Compare this with the Buddha’s statement: “he who sees the Dhamma
sees me.”
King Devànàápiyatissa thereupon sent off the novice who had come
from India together with Mahinda to collect relics. With A≤oka’s
help, he received from Indra (P. Sakka), king of the gods, Buddha’s
right collar bone, and with due pomp Sinhala’s first stùpa was erected
over this.
In due course A≤oka’s daughter, Therì Sanghamittà, also came to
the island to establish an order of nuns. It was she who brought the
branch of the bodhi tree with her. It took root in Anuràdhapura,
where it is worshipped to this day. Besides relics and the bodhi tree,
according to Buddhaghosa the A≤okan mission also brought the com-
mentaries on the Pàlì canon, and had them translated into Sinhala.
It is historically more sound to assume that the Sinhalese commen-
taries were composed in the early fifth century in Anuràdhapura by
Buddhaghoßa himself who, according to tradition, was born a bràhma»a
in India.
Although A≤oka must have had a hand in developing the rituals
around the sacred tree in Anuràdhapura, both by his example of
rituals of devotion and the regular festivals he instituted in Bodhgayà,
and because of his arrangements to send families in which the role
in the cult of the bodhi tree was defined by their hereditary profes-
sional skills, it seems that the ritual tradition that developed around
the sacred tree in Anuràdhapura is also uniquely Sinhalese. The
89
From Mahàvaása 17.2–3, translated in Richard Gombrich, Theravada Buddhism.
A Social History from Ancient Benares to Modern Colombo (1988), pp. 149–150.

222 chapter three
most striking feature is its connection with rain. We have seen that
in India the a≤vattha is traditionally seen as a tree of the sun—its
solar symbolism is mythologically connected with soma and am‰ta,
with life, with the axis it forms from the sun’s rays on its branches—
and that the ever-fluttering leaves, which break the sunlight as if
they were many mirrors, were taken to indicate the dynamic expres-
sion of the divine. A specifically Buddhist interpretation, connected
to Buddha’s resolute will and consequent enlightenment, touches a
different aspect: the tree’s tranquil shade and the reflective state
shade is conducive to. Although in popular cult its association with
human fertility was wide-spread, it was not a tree which was par-
ticularly connected with rain, monsoon or the natural rhythm of
flowering and fruition. At the same time, it can be argued that,
although it is an evergreen, it bears fruit, tiny red figs, in November
and December. This fruit is not eaten by men, but mainly by birds,
which assist in spreading the species by voiding the undigested seeds.
However, these aspects are missing in Buddhism and its connection
to rain in Sri Lanka must definitely be sought elsewhere.
Anyone who is only a little familiar with gardening knows that
the chances of growing a healthy tree by cutting a major branch
and just planting it in the ground are not very good. It was a pre-
carious thing A≤oka did: cutting a branch, planting it in a pot or
vase, and sending it on a long journey from Bodhgayà to Pa†àli-
putra, then to Tàmralipti on the eastern coast, hence overseas to
Jambukola, and on to Anuràdhapura with many stops on the way.
Although A≤oka may have been familiar with the origin of the
Jetavana Ànandabodhi tree, a tree that grew from a seed with mirac-
ulous speed, he himself did not grow a tree from seed in the nat-
ural but slow way, but instead he lopped the tree. Even when it is
insisted upon that the branch severed itself of its own accord, so
that the great monarch may not be accused of inflicting harm on
the tree, a thing explicitly forbidden by Buddha himself, it must have
been quite an accomplishment to grow a healthy, sturdy tree from
a branch. Sinhalese tradition has it that miraculously a cloud sur-
rounded the newly planted branch in Bodhgayà, thus providing con-
stant moisture so that it could grow roots and develop new twigs.
It is not reported whether this was the very same cloud which accom-
panied the tree during its long journey from Bodhgayà to Anurà-
dhapura. As soon as the precarious moment of planting the tree on

the terrace of Anuràdhapura had come, again clouds surrounded the

newly planted tree in Sinhalese soil.
Both clouds, rain and mist are mentioned, and although the weather
at the time of planting, allegedly in December, may have been rainy
or nebulous, the fact that it is mentioned is meaningful in itself. Is
it a coincidence that the park in which the cutting was planted was
called Mahà-megha-vana, or park of the great cloud(s)? It is said, in
the Mahàvaása, that Buddha himself had selected the site. Anyway,
the tree was not planted by human hands, but broke loose from the
hands of men, rose in the air, where it remained illuminated by a
six-rayed halo. At sunset it came down by itself, and planted itself
in the soil. For seven days a cloud shaded and watered it with salu-
tary rain. It is said that fruit grew on it instantly. These grew into
seedlings so that the king was able to send eight new seed-grown
shoots to different places on the island. Later 32 more shoots were
distributed.
This is the story about the special clouds that surrounded the tree
during its most precarious moments. The motif of the ritual water-
ing of the tree is thematically connected to this. In Buddhism, King
A≤oka is the first to be mentioned as having brought great numbers
of pitchers filled with perfumed water as a gift to the sacred tree in
Bodhgayà. This ritual act of offering water to the bodhi tree is even
outdone after the tree, damaged by the magic spell put on it on the
order of the jealous Queen Ti≤yarakßità, appeared to be dying.
Because of his anguish that the tree might die, the king brought in
an even greater number of water-filled pitchers, in an attempt to
bring it back to life. When the tree arrived at the Sinhalese coast,
it is not specified what kinds of rituals other than salutary were per-
formed by the king or by Elder Mahinda, nor during its many stops
on the way from the coast to Anuràdhapura. The rituals are sim-
ply referred to as “homage”. It seems that from the very beginning
watering the tree has been a daily ritual. It must have been con-
sidered the most fitting gift, expressed in daily care, first performed
by the royal ladies of the court, and later mainly by the nuns.
Apart from the daily watering, mention is made of special water-
ing festivals, and the extra watering done during a period of drought.
It is popularly believed that pouring water in a ritual act of sym-
pathetic magic can cause the rains to come. Not all people in La«kà
were equally dependent on seasonal rain for the crops, but rainfall

224 chapter three
was seen to benefit all. Mention is made of a tank and trenches dug
closeby, as well as of clay provided for the special pitchers in which
the water was carried to the tree.
One of the other fluids sprinkled on the roots of the tree is milk.
This was done by A≤oka in his attempt to revive the tree after its
destruction, and it is still done during festival days. Pouring milk
over the roots of a sacred tree has been a very common thing in
India ever since certain trees were held sacred, and the practice is
continued up to this day, especially in Southern India. Although the
symbolic connotations of sprinkling milk over the roots of a sacred
tree might be missing in official Buddhism, as a popular practice it
was buddhisised by A≤oka. He even sent families of cowherds along
with the other attendants to La«kà. Although it is mentioned that
during the special bodhi tree festivals milk was indeed sprinkled onto
the roots of the tree, when the Bodhgayà tree was reclaimed by
Buddhists at the end of the nineteenth century, it was this practice
of sprinkling milk, especially sugared milk, which was blamed for
rotting away the roots in the past. The sprinkling of milk at the foot
of the bodhi tree in Bodhgayà was then discontinued, but it seems
that now and then it is still being done in Anuràdhapura, most often
in the form of offering bowls of milk and milk-rice instead of sprin-
kling the milk freely. Offering a bowl of milk or milk-rice could be
claimed as done in imitation of Sujàtà, and would thus be more
properly Buddhist in character than the all-Indian habit of sprin-
kling milk. I am aware that for Buddhists this argumentation would
seem correct, but historically it is not, since it was in the pre-enlight-
enment phase that this special dish was given to the Bodhisattva.
Anything that happened before the enlightenment could not be called
Buddhist or Buddhistic in the strict sense of the term.
Water and milk could be used in their natural form, but also per-
fumed. Scent is one of the main gifts in pùjà, be it in the form of
incense, balm or perfume, or even in the pure and direct form of
flowers and garlands. In many of the stories relating to the lavish
gifts given to the bodhi trees in Bodhgayà or Anuràdhapura by kings,
mention is made of perfumed water and even perfumed milk quite
regularly. It should also be remembered that Sujàtà’s gift, originally
meant for the tree deity but presented to the Buddha-to-be, con-
sisted of a dish of perfumed milk-rice. Neither should we forget that
the connection between Sujàtà’s milk-rice and fertility was easily
made: her offering was meant as a gesture of thanksgiving for acquir-
ing a suitable husband and for the birth of a son.

The special connection between the bodhi tree and water or rain
in Sri Lanka is evident in the story of the clouds appearing over the
Mahàmegha park when the tree was planted, but was also carried
on by continuously watering it, a daily task performed by four royal
ladies especially selected for this by King A≤oka. Although descrip-
tions of the rituals around the bodhi tree in Anuràdhapura are scarce,
it seems that this task was gradually taken over by the nuns. This
shift could have been necessitated when the city of Anuràdhapura
ceased to be the seat of the court. It is also said that this task should
be performed by four virgins, be they virgin princesses or virgin
nuns. This practice, moreover, is corroborated by a ninth-century
inscription at the Mahàkalattewa in the Anuràdhapura district.90 A
fact is also that later the seven chief bhikkhunìs were in charge of
this. A special way to water the bodhi tree consists of sprinkling paritta
water on it, to protect it from evil. In the Sinhalese Bodhivaása this
practice is mentioned as belonging to the duties of prince Devagupta,
who, riding on an elephant, had to carry the paritta water in a golden
goblet around the city during bodhi festivals, and of prince Sùryagupta
who had to sprinkle the paritta water around the bodhi tree.91 In times
of severe drought, paritta chanting is still performed by the monks,
and the sacred water supplied by the Tissa tank is sprinkled around
the tree.
Mention is made of special anointing and watering festivals held
by many of the Sinhalese kings. This makes the associative chain of
bodhi-tree-king-kingdom and bodhi-tree-clouds-rain connected with the
other chains of associations: Gautama Buddha-bodhi-tree-royal-
consecration and bodhi-tree-king-fertility-prosperity.92 Even now it is
customary during periods of drought for the bodhi tree to be watered
with water from the nearby Tissa tank, not only because of practi-
cal necessity but also as an act of sympathetic magic. Local people,
especially those dependent on rain for their crops, expect it to rain
after their watering rituals. The above mentioned strings of associ-
ations are connected to the local farmers’ custom of bringing the
first product harvested from their fields as an offer to the bodhi tree.
This gesture is not only carried forward because of the connection
between the bodhi tree and rain, but also by the memory of the
90
See Anuradha Seneviratna’s article ‘Customs Around the Bodhi Tree in Anura-
dhapura’, in Nissanka (1996), p. 205.
91
See Seneviratna, in Nissanka (1996), p. 201.
92
See Seneviratna in Nissanka (1996), p. 208.

226 chapter three
ancient ruler Devànàápiyatissa who had pledged his kingdom to the

bodhi tree. In remembrance, people feel that they should not con-
sume anything before the first harvest product has been offered to
the tree. Locally this is called the “Alutsal mangalle”, or festival of
the new rice. On the same occasion, boiled milk-rice in two golden
bowls is also offered to the bodhi tree and to the great stùpa.
Many other rituals are mentioned in the texts. In addition to the
sprinkling or watering rituals there are gifts of food, flowers, incense
and light. Although watering the bodhi tree can be seen as also belong-
ing to the category of food and drink, it deserves a special place. A
simple act of reverence to the bodhi tree in Anuràdhapura thus con-
sists in an elementary form of pùjà, mostly accompanied by cir-
cumambulation and recitation of laudatory verses with hands folded.
In the Kali«gabodhijàtaka and other commentarial works the merits of
such pùjà are described. More elaborate acts of worship, as ascribed
to A≤oka, are: the hanging of garlands, flags and banners, the plac-
ing of vases of plenty (pu»»aghata), the construction of railings, plat-
forms, entrances and pillars, and the special acts of sprinkling the
direct vicinity of the tree with fine sands, and of playing religious
music. It seems that most of such ritual acts around the bodhi tree
were taken over by the Buddhists of La«kà from A≤oka, or may
already have belonged to the Sinhalese ritual vocabulary at that time.
Considering the elaborate arrangements A≤oka made by sending
many Indian families with specifically assigned tasks, we should not
be surprised by all this. He not only sent attendants to take care of
and protect the tree, certain families had specific tasks in providing
raw materials or in processing the raw materials into ritual objects,
whereas other families were in charge of coordination and adminis-
tration. It seems that the Indian princes, along with the bràhma»a
families, were initially the ones to perform the rituals, but how this
gradually but increasingly began to be the affair of the Buddhist
monks and nuns from the adjoining monasteries and nunneries is
not reported. What is known is that certain monks from the Ga»avasi
sect had specific ritual tasks, both in connection with the bodhi tree
and the tooth relic in Kandy. Today some of the families carrying
out certain tasks in the villages around Anuràdhapura still claim to
be descendants of the eight princes sent by A≤oka.93 Since for many
93
See Seneviratna, in Nissanka (1996), p. 201.

the bodhi tree is a living Buddha, pùjà rituals are performed three
times a day in front of it. There is a morning, midday and evening
ritual every day, consisting of music, offerings of food and drink as
well as of light and scent, salutations, recitations and circumambu-
lations. Local devotees as well as pilgrims who have come to wor-
ship, often make their offerings through the officiating Buddhist
monks. Flowers are offered throughout the day, mostly lotus flowers
and blossoms from temple trees, such as the frangipanni.
Special rituals are either connected with the four annual festivals
or with special occasions and celebrations. Apart from the new-rice-
festival mentioned above, there is an old-and-new-year festival, the
festival of Kàrttika (already celebrated by A≤oka beneath the tree in
Bodhgayà) and a special anointing ceremony.94 A recently developed
variant is the bodhipùjà prayer session held by lay Buddhists. On spe-
cial calendar days, like Vesak, Poson, Unduvap and full-moon days
there is also specific ritual activity around the tree. On special occa-
sions in the past there was the consecration ceremony (abhißeka) of a
king, and the royal bodhi-festival held every twelve years. We will
now take a closer look at two of these ceremonies: the ancient
Kàrttika festival and the recent variant of the bodhipùjà in the form
of prayer-cum-exorcism sessions by laymen.
In the Mahàvaása it is mentioned that King A≤oka was engaged
in a Kàrttika festival beneath the bodhi tree in Bodhgayà when the
messengers from La«kà came to him with their request to send Therì
Sanghamittà as well as a bodhi tree (“. . . as he stood at the foot of
a Sàla tree and honoured the beautiful and sacred bodhi tree with
the offerings of the Kattika festival”, Mahàvaása 17.16–17). This
Kàrttika festival is performed on the full-moon day in November.
According to the Purà»as such a festival was held every year, in hon-
our of Viß»u. For Buddhists in Sri Lanka it marks the beginning of
the monsoon. One of the main ritual acts consists of lighting lamps
in front of the bodhi tree. Through its connection with the start of
the rainy season it is also a festival during which prayers are said
for divine assistance during the farming cycle. Bowls of milk-rice are
offered and music is played.
94
There seem to have been anointing ceremonies in which the tree itself was
‘consecrated’ as well as ceremonies in which Sinhalese kings were anointed beneath
the tree.

228 chapter three
This festival shares some of the characteristics of the recent vari-

ants of the bodhipùjà. In this specific contemporary form, pùjà ses-
sions partly consist of prayers for divine intervention in farming
matters, which are not performed by Buddhist monks but by an
officiating lay priest, the kapu‰àla, who pleads in the name of his
clients to what is considered the deity of the bodhi tree in Anuràdhapura,
the Kaludevatàbandara, or black god. This god has even its own
shrine room on the upper terrace beneath the bodhi tree. Another
ritual act, often carried out by peasants, is exchanging sandy soil
taken from the banks of the nearby river for sacred sand taken from
the lower terrace around the bodhi tree. This special sand is then
strewn on their fields in the hope that it will protect their fields and
crops.
The recently practised bodhipùjà prayer-and-sermon sessions seem
to have evolved from such secondary activities around the sacred
tree. People appear to have come to the bodhi tree with special wishes
and pleas ever since it had a place among them. They must have
come hoping for intervention, whether from the Lord Buddha him-
self or from the deity who was supposed to guard the tree. They
made vows, and when their appeals were granted, they returned
with simple gifts like flowers, lamps, incense, and ornaments for the
tree. The kapu‰àla lay priest officiating there mediated their requests
as well as their subsequent thanksgiving. Some people may have
believed that it was Buddha who intervened, but most of them seem
to have considered the tree deity to be Viß»u, who was tradition-
ally associated with the a≤vattha as well as with the colour blue or
bluish black.
The recent bodhipùjà prayer-and-sermon sessions can be seen as a
continuation of the traditional veneration of the bodhi tree, but with
a specific shift toward a popular level, forming something of a bridge
between Buddhism proper and the Sinhalese spirit religion as well
as the widely spread belief in planetary powers. Although its origi-
nator, the venerable Ariyadhamma, is said to have had no special
regard for the deity of the bodhi tree, this service quickly evolved
into a popular pùjà for this-worldly ends. In general, the rituals of
such a bodhi tree service can be classified as white magic with an
almost exorcistic nature, which is normally the domain of the kapu‰àlas.
What appears to be so appealing to the lay public is also its con-
gregational character, and the adoration of Buddha as a mother
figure. What is striking in regard to the traditional and popular

homage paid to the bodhi tree, is that the tree itself does not seem
to matter very much, nor Buddha’s enlightenment symbolised by it.
The tree seems to derive its appeal from the strong popular con-
viction that it is a power place par excellence. This contrasts with
the serene piety of traditional Theravàda Buddhism, but as we have
seen above, the accumulation of merit, although mostly thought to
be for the other-wordly purpose of gaining favourable rebirths, has
indeed been connected to the bodhi tree, both in Bodhgayà and
Anuràdhapura, since very early on. The difference here is that in
this recent variant, such results are the explicit and sole benefits
sought by the participants. Whereas the fusion of karmic and nirvà»ic
Buddhism may never have been uncommon beneath the bodhi tree,
the bland explicity of this-worldly ends sought in this variant of the
bodhipùjà has met with the derision of many other Buddhists.95
3.4.2 Sacredness, service and care

It is sometimes said that Buddha did not appeal to faith, or that
Buddhism is not a faith. But there are many instances in the Pàlì
canon in which faith is indicated, or somewhat reversely, where con-
duct is criticised on the grounds that it does not instil faith. One of
the most commonly pronounced statements of faith is ‘taking refuge’,
a statement which is preceded by a salutation to the perfectly enlight-
ened Buddha. It is hard to imagine that Buddha would have agreed
to this ‘personality cult’; yet, in the Mahàparinirvà»asùtra, in the same
passage in which he declares that after his death only the Dhamma
and Vinaya remain to instruct and guide his disciples, we see the
beginning of a kind of personality cult, providing canonical justification
for pilgrimage to the four main places of his biography, as well as
for the worship of relics, starting with his ashes. Such remarks were
made to his monks, but the devotional practices that evolved were
primarily a matter of the laity. And it was a lay devotee, King A≤oka,
who set in motion much of the ritual that concerns us here.
95
As described in Seneviratna and Wikremaratna, ‘Bodhi-pùjà: collective repre-
sentations of Sri Lanka youth’ (1980), as well as in Richard Gombrich and Gananath
Obeyesekere, Buddhism Transformed. Religious Change in Sri Lanka (1996), chapter eleven,
pp. 384–410. An earlier description was given in Gombrich, ‘A New Theravàdin
Liturgy’ (1981).

230 chapter three
As we have argued before, it was Buddha himself who sat or stood

contemplating the bodhi tree for a whole week. And it was Buddha
himself who is believed to have consented to Ànanda’s request about
planting a bodhi seed in the Jetavana. Even more so, this request was
brought about by the situation that arose when devotional gifts were
left by the lay visitors at the porch of Buddha’s chamber. This implies
that even during Buddha’s lifetime, people used to come and ven-
erate the great teacher with the elementary gestures and gifts that
have constituted pùjà to this very day: a salutation and a gift of
flowers. Buddha does not seem to have objected to this, nor to the
canalisation of such behaviour in his absence. According to the tra-
dition he personally allowed, not merely condoned, the planting of
a bodhi tree as his representative, and is even said to have sanctified
it by meditating beneath it for a whole night.
We have no indication about such devotional practice in the period
between the master’s death and the devotional and missionary activ-
ities of A≤oka. It is said that it was A≤oka who started the institu-
tion of lay pilgrimage by going on official tours (dharmayàtrà) to the
sacred sites connected with the significant events in Buddha’s life.
He is also said to have erected a fabulous number of stùpas, but
even if the number of 84,000 may be grossly exaggerated, by erect-
ing stùpas containing relics (first just Buddha’s ashes, then his other
physical remains, then relics-of-use, and then relics of his close dis-
ciples), by marking the sacred sites as indicated by Elder Upagupta,
and by especially favouring the bodhi tree, as well as by making
arrangements for the future maintenance of the sacred sites, he set
an example for other dynasties, and also paved the way, sometimes
literally, that later pilgrims would go.
The sacred sites were marked for posterity: their stories as well
as their exact location were thus kept alive in the memory of Buddhists
as well as in that of local villagers. As Buddhism spread, only very
few people in those days could afford to travel the long distances to
the sacred places. Some of those places seem to have been forgot-
ten at an early stage already, but other places were added, at least
theoretically: those connected with former Buddhas. When Buddhism
spread outside India, new myths arose, and all Theravàda countries
claim, in one way or another, that Buddha paid these countries at
least one visit. Places where the Buddha was supposed to have touched
the ground became pilgrimage centers in their own right.
More relevant for our topic is the cult of relics. This relic cult is

all the more remarkable because it appears not to have been taken
over from existing popular usage, but to have been invented by
Buddhists themselves, even if Buddha perhaps had not started it
intentionally, and would probably have condemned it. After his cre-
mation it so happened that his ashes were divided into eight parts,
and given to eight claimants, each of whom built a stùpa over them,
and instituted a festival honouring Buddha’s physical remains. It
could well be that the threefold classification of relics was made later,
when the cult of relics had already spread and was in need of an
ex post facto justification. Buddha himself, on the occasion of Ànanda’s
request for a place where lay visitors could leave their offerings, is
said to have made this division into corporeal objects, objects of use,
and (symbolical) reminders. It may be relevant here to note that it
was the layman Anàthapi»∂ika who started this. The Elder Ànanda
merely passed the request to the Buddha. The bodhi tree is classified
as an object of use, but in practice it functions mostly as a reminder
or symbol, both of Buddha himself and of his enlightenment. We
will see that Sri Lanka claims to possess relics belonging to all three
categories, especially a tooth and a collar bone (first category), his
begging-bowl and the first cutting from the bodhi tree (second cate-
gory), and many stùpas, secondary bo-trees and later also the stat-
ues (third category), although a Buddha statue is only treated as
authentically sacred if it contains a corporeal relic as well.
The doctrine of relics looks rather like an after-the-fact legitima-
tion of devotional practice, but we should keep in mind that mostly
the relic cult has remained a very simple affair. It is carried on with-
out professional intermediaries, and on an individual basis, never
congregational. It is interesting to follow the course of events that
led to the gift of the first relic to the island of La«kà. In the Mahàvaása
it is related how Mahinda, having spent the rainy season on the
island, reported to the king that the Indian Buddhists felt they had
no protector, and had nothing to worship. He explained the con-
nection between Buddha and a relic in the following terse statement:
“Seeing his relics is seeing the Buddha.” As a result, the right col-
lar-bone, the alms-bowl, and, most important of all, the bodhi branch,
were brought to the island. Although it is hard to form an idea
about the historical authenticity of such a request, as it is written
down in a relatively late chronicle, the point is that it was a ven-
erable monk, the Elder Mahinda, who is portrayed as asking for an
object to worship. This poses the question as to who, during A≤oka’s

232 chapter three
reign, was supposed to decide about such things as relics: the king,
or the elders of the Sangha, or even the king of the gods, Indra? It
also poses the question as to what extent had the monastics at that
time become engaged in such devotional practices as relic worship.
In this special case we see a triangle of relations: King A≤oka,
ruler of the vast Mauryan empire in India; King Devànàápiyatissa
of the island of La«kà, who passed on the request from Mahinda
to A≤oka; and Elder Mahinda, who was A≤oka’s son as well as a
senior Buddhist monk, sent to La«kà as a missionary on A≤oka’s
orders. In this triangle it is the monk Mahinda who is reported to
have requested a relic for the sake of worship. It is King Devà-
nàápiyatissa who made arrangements for the party to go to India.
And it is A≤oka who was said to have personally initiated the pro-
cedure of cutting the bodhi branch. We acknowledge that Buddhist
kings might have had reasons of their own when they connected
their realm, their power and their belief with the bodhi tree, but it
is certainly striking that the monk Mahinda is presented here as the
one asking for a relic to worship. This could mean two things. Firstly,
that at the time the chronicles were written, the relic cult was an
accepted part of monastic as well as lay Buddhism, and secondly,
that at the time the Mahàvaása was written, such a request did not
seem implausible, meaning that even in case of a later justification
of Buddhist devotional practice, especially when it came from such
a venerated monk like Elder Mahinda, monastics were positively
inclined towards the relic cult.
Whatever reason a Sinhalese Buddhist king could have had for
installing some of the sacred relics in his realm, and distributing bodhi
trees throughout the island, and whatever motive a Buddhist emperor
in India might have had in sending three important relics to a rel-
atively small island—only one of his many neighbours—the fact that
a monk is described here as the one who makes the initial request
is meaningful. Another telling detail is the tradition that it was the
Sinhalese king himself who ran into the water as soon as he spot-
ted the long-awaited ship with the bodhi branch on board. Although
the ship (or two ships, tradition varies) contained the minister Arittha,
who was a close relative of the king, as well as the princess Sanghamittà
and her nuns, together with an unspecified number of Sinhalese
ambassadors and Indian attendants, it seems that it was the king
who considered himself the recipient of the relic, and not the Sangha
as such. Although it was Mahinda who had made the initial request,

in the chronicles it is the king who is the first to receive the tree,
even though Elder Mahinda is reported to have been present at the
coast, too. This makes it more a mission from one ruler to the other,
a symbol of royal patronage of Buddhist Dharma, than merely a rela-
tionship between two Sanghas. Therefore, since it was Mahinda who
supposedly initiated the transfer of the Indian relics to the island of
Sinhala, it appears there is a multilayered start of the relic-cult in
Sri Lanka.
The bodhi sapling, once ashore, was joyously received, placed in
a pavillion near the coast, and worshipped for three days. Then, in
a great procession which made many stops on the way so that peo-
ple could show their reverence, the cutting was carried to the outer
edge of the city of Anuràdhapura, where it was to be planted in the
pre-ordained spot in Mahàmegha park. The actual planting of the
cutting is described as an event full of pomp, pageantry, and mira-
cles. One of the telling details is the moisturising cloud. Obviously,
the generous humidity benefitted the cutting in such a way that,
from the first eight seeds, new shoots ( phalaroha) developed, which
could be distributed to the main Buddhist centers, followed by another
batch of 32 seed-grown plants all over the island.
Sinhalese tradition has it that it was the king who was the first
convert. We thus have the peculiar situation that a great king from
India sends his closest relatives to the king of La«kà, first his son,
as a general embassador of Buddhist Dharma, and then his daugh-
ter, entrusted with what is most dear to him, a cutting of the bodhi
tree. It is even said that A≤oka implicitly presented his dedication of
his kingdom to the bodhi tree as a model to be followed by the
Sinhalese king. King Devànàápiyatissa seems not only to have fol-
lowed his example in this; he also took new sprouts (seedlings from
the bodhi cutting) and distributed them all over the country, as if
marking the boundaries and connecting the various areas, not only
with Buddhism but also with the rest of the realm. Ever since,
Sinhalese Buddhism has been intimately linked with royalty and royal
protection. Whatever reasons A≤oka might have had for sending his
close relatives, and even, on request, a cutting of his dearly-loved
bodhi tree, Sinhalese chronicles date this priority position of La«kà
even further back, to the Buddha himself. Although indeed the bodhi
tree in Anuràdhapura is said to have produced seedlings several times
after the tree in Bodhgayà had been destroyed, or when other
Buddhist countries requested one, Anuràdhapura’s tree’s connection

234 chapter three
with the royal dynasties diminished when the tooth relic in Kandy
gained prominence. Its strictly religious significance, however, seems
to have never faded.96
The Sinhalese records tell about festivals, gifts, and architectural
activity. Around the high terrace on which the bodhi tree had been
planted, a bodhighara was added in subsequent centuries, as well as
railings and surrounding walls with four entrances at the four car-
dinal points. Such additions and restorations were mainly executed
at the behest of kings. At some stage, a temple with statues was
added, as well as stone pillars and statues at three of the cardinal
points. It seems that, even in times of interdenominational strife and
of Hindu predominance in La«kà, the ritual importance of the sacred
bodhi tree remained intact. It could well be that the sacrality of the
tree transcended all intrareligious as well as interreligious animosity,
partly because of its direct connection with Buddha’s enlightenment,
and partly because Hindus felt an even older reverence for a≤vatthas
than Buddhists. A third reason that the tree was spared and that
the rituals could continue more or less uninterruptedly, although
probably very much diminished at certain periods of time, could well
be found in the arrangements King A≤oka had made for its main-
tenance and daily care. It is said in the Mahàvaása that, together
with the tree, he had sent large groups of people as attendants, who
were assigned various duties in the daily and periodical rituals as
well as in the supporting services such as supplying material (milk,
clay) and objects (golden bowls, ornaments and statues) for ritual
use. Those families, some of royal descent, some bràhma»ic ritual-
ists, others artisans and cowherds, seem to have settled in the close
vicinity of the bodhi tree, and to have carried on the task of regular
supply, supervision, and performance of rituals from one generation
to the next. Special mention is made of guards who had the task of
driving away crows, monkeys, and bats.
It is interesting that the daily task of watering the tree has been
kept restricted to the court ladies and nuns from the time of
Sanghamittà (who was both a princess and a nun) onwards. Even
96
See also the anonymous author in Cornhill Magazine (1895), p. 171, who
wrote: “This is the year of our Lord 1895, and the Buddhist pilgrims have done
reverence to every leaf which has fallen from that tree since 288 years before His
birth. We know that the heathen is an erring man who bows down to wood and
stone, but we do not always realise that his constancy is a thing we cannot match.”

without royal patronage, elementary care was taken of the tree,

although some records from the colonial period report on the ruinous
and overgrown state of its direct vicinity.97 Most likely, a small num-
ber of dedicated monks and nuns, together with the families tradi-
tionally entrusted with tasks in the ritual service to the tree, kept the
tree from further harm when the jungle encroached on its environs.
It seems that the vicissitudes of political changes did not all too seri-
ously affect the tree, not even in the dark period from the collapse
of the Ràjarata civilisation in the middle of the thirteenth century
until the gradual revival of Sinhalese Buddhism at the end of the
nineteenth century. But, of course, there is no one around to prove
that the tree now standing in Anuràdhapura is still the same tree
brought to La«kà some twenty-three centuries ago. Neither is there
anyone who could definitely prove that most of the chronicles’ state-
ments about the Anuràdhapura tree are more than patriotic fervour,
pious embellishment and ex post facto justification of the bodhi cult.
3.5 General conclusions
Although there are claims, by Hindus, that some of their famous

sacred trees are extremely old, the beginnings of such trees are mostly
to be found in the mythic past. Even if the age of the bodhi tree in
Anuràdhapura has never been established scientifically, its tradition
has considerably more connections with official South Asian history
than any of the Hindu counterparts, such as the sacred temple trees
in Kàñcipuram, Hindu Gayà, Prayàga, and Purì.
Since some of the famous stone reliefs of the Sàñcì stùpa have
been interpreted as depicting aspects of A≤oka’s episode of sending
the cutting to La«kà, reliefs which were made not much more than
100 or 150 years after the actual event, the connection between
A≤oka and Devànàápiyatissa is often taken as a historical or at least
semi-historical matter, if only in its barest outlines. Other sources,
such as the A≤okàvadàna and the Sinhalese chronicles, might offer
corroborations, but in their sheer mass they offer pious and edificatory
97
For such early records, see the remarks of Robert Knox, an English seaman
taken prisoner by the Sinhalese around 1660, who speaks about the bodhi tree as
“Bogahah” (bodhighara), in An historical relation of the island Ceylon (1681). See also
R. Raven-Hart, Where the Buddha trod; A Buddhist Pilgrimage (1956) and Travels in Ceylon,
1700–1800 (1963) and the anonymous article in Cornhill magazine mentioned above.

236 chapter three
embellishments. Yet, the tradition of the bodhi tree in Anuràdhapura

as the oldest historical tree in the world seems to be not only a mat-
ter of belief for Sinhalese Buddhists, it is believed by many other
Buddhists as well. That at times it has been necessary to take new
offshoots from this tree to replace the tree in Bodhgayà is believed
by many. It even seems probable in the light of the vicissitudes the
tree in Bodhgayà went through, but there is no strong evidence of
such reverse missions. The real shift that took place in transplant-
ing a branch of the bodhi tree from the original site in Bodhgayà to
a previously ordained site in Anuràdhapura, however, is not the func-
tion the tree might have had for the occasional replacement of the
Bodhgayà tree, but rather the shift of attention from the sacred spot
(marked by Buddha’s enlightenment experience) to the symbolic
meaning specifically assigned to the tree. Although later Sinhalese
tradition has it that the very spot in Anuràdhapura was hallowed
not only by Buddha’s choice of that place, by his resolution-of-will
on his deathbed, as well as by the claim that that very spot in
Anuràdhapura had been the location where the trees of former
Buddhas once stood, in the earlier stories as well as in strict Theravàda
tradition in Sri Lanka, it is the tree of which the sacredness is vital,
not the spot.
The reverse is true of Bodhgayà. Whatever calamities might have
befallen the series of bodhi trees there,—destruction brought about
by religious fervour, or feminine jealousy, destruction by fire, storm,
neglect, or all-too-generous pouring of sugared milk by local devo-
tees or Hindu pilgrims from Gayà, or even too ambitious enlarge-
ment plans for the temple for which the tree had to be relocated—,
the spot is sacred, because it marks the awe-inspiring event of Buddha’s
enlightenment. Most pilgrims naively believe that this is the original
tree standing on the original spot, but even in case it might be
proved, some time in the future that the original spot is to be found
somewhere beneath the Mahàbodhi temple, and that the present
tree is only the most recent one in a long line of descendants, this
would not alter, in any serious way, the sacrality of the place, since
it is the integrated complex of tree, vajràsana, temple, and Buddha
statue that is paid homage to, and not merely the tree. The sacral-
ity of Bodhgayà is further enhanced by many other sacred spots
directly connected with episodes in Buddha’s sojourn there.
Whether the sacred bodhi tree is connected with the original place
of Buddha’s enlightenment, or indirectly, with Ànanda’s request and

Buddha’s meditation beneath it in the Jetavana, or with Buddha’s

special resolution, A≤oka’s mission, and Mahinda’s request, such as
in Anuràdhapura, or even whether the sacred bodhi tree in some of
the numerous Buddhist temple-compounds in one of the Theravàda
countries really is a direct descendant or not, the bodhi tree has taken
its place in the religious imagination of the Buddhist believers wher-
ever they are. The bodhi tree has become a symbol as well, inde-
pendent of place, and time, and lineage. One of the obvious indications
of this is the early Buddhist use of the bodhi tree in art reliefs. One
of the most recent indications may be found in the Sinhalese altered
version of the bodhipùjà by lay Buddhists, when the participants do
not necessarily perform their pùjà beneath a bodhi tree (in Anuràdha-
pura or any other bodhi tree on the island), but do so by imagination
and visualisation only.
Apart from that, the function of the bodhi leaf has developed a
history of its own. The earliest examples of a cult of the bodhi leaves
known to me are the references made by Arnold, Anagàrika Govinda,
and Forster. The leaf given to the priests in Kandy was treated like
a relic by them, as were the leaves given to Japanese Buddhists.
Buddhist pilgrims might have taken bodhi leaves as a memento or
even as a kind of relic ever since bodhi trees were revered, but such
a practice has not been recorded. Nowadays, tourists in Bodhgayà
can buy mechanically decomposed bodhi leaves, of which only the
delicate outlines are left, which gave them the name ‘skeleton leaves’.
Although the first descendant of the bodhi tree was the seed-sprung
tree in the Jetavana, it is not known to me that there ever was a
special cult around bodhi seeds. It is remarkable that A≤oka insisted
on a cutting instead of the safer but slower way of planting a seed.
Although, in India, seeds from several trees have been used as rit-
ual objects, such as in the form of prayer beads, it is not known to
me that the bodhi seeds were ever used in a ritual way. The Vedic
simile of the two birds sitting on the a≤vattha, of which one was eat-
ing the tiny red fruits, and the other was just watching, might have
developed its own emphasis on reflectiveness and bare attention in
the Buddhist meditation methods, obviously the fragile dried figs
were not sufficiently sturdy to make prayer beads from, like, for
instance, the widely used rùdràkßa beads in •aivism.
Neither has there been any extensive cult of the wood of the bodhi
tree. The people officially in charge of the bodhi tree in Anuràdhapura
had severe restrictions in the matter of pruning the tree whenever

238 chapter three
the necessity was obvious. It is a matter of pride to the Sinhalese

that botanists and tree surgeons from the Smithsonian Institute came
to Anuràdhapura to tend the suffering tree. What is further known
to me is that Cunningham found some wooden remains buried in
Bodhgayà: this could be decomposing root material, or even rem-
nants of an older tree, but also dead branches ritually buried after
they had died on the tree. In Anuràdhapura, there used to be a
royal burial ceremony for any dead branch of the bodhi tree.
Besides the cult of living bodhi trees in their tangible, directly phys-
ical, botanical aspects, there is the legendary, or narrative, aspect
of trees in Buddhism. The many solitary trees mentioned in both
Buddha’s biography and in the stories about his previous incarna-
tions indicate the direct communications between human beings,
gods, and trees. It appears that pre-existing and co-existing tree cults
freely interacted with evolving Buddhist themes, resulting in a wealth
of tree lore in popular Buddhism. The cult of the bodhi tree, both
in its ritual and its symbolic aspects, may be distinct from Indian
tree lore in general, but was never really separate. The many sto-
ries about trees and tree deities in Buddhist literature and art seem
to have carried a weight of their own: they often presented an
effective contrast between archaic, often malevolent and demanding
beings feared by the people, and merciful, generous, and altruistic
beings examplifying the high ethical standards of Buddhism. Although
this shift from ferocious nàgas and yakßas to tempered and tamed pro-
tectors of Buddhist monuments and relics is evident, the change is
less dramatic than it seems: from very early onwards in Indian folk-
lore, both nàgas and yakßas used to have such functions as guarding,
protecting, and giving. The widely acclaimed selfless generosity of
trees and tree deities seems to have been seamlessly interwoven with
Buddhist ideals of self-sacrifice and benevolence, especially in the
Jàtakas.
Although Buddha’s initial attraction to trees might be found in
their characteristics of shade and reflectiveness, evolving Buddhist
tradition shaped this predisposition into two directions: firstly, as the
re-enactment of what former Buddhas had achieved under specific
trees, and secondly, as the symbol of Gautama Buddha’s enlighten-
ment beneath the bodhi tree in Bodhgayà. Tradition claims that it
was the Buddha himself who consented to the ritual use of the bodhi
tree as a symbol indicating him and his enlightenment. In that way,
reverence for the bodhi tree gradually detached itself from the loca-
tion where Buddha had attained saáyaksaábodhi, the original bodhi

tree in Bodhgayà, and evolved a cult of planting new trees, either

grown from seed or deliberately cut from the main tree. The per-
sisting cult of the bodhi tree in contemporary Buddhism may well be
enhanced by the allegedly unbroken lineage of bodhi trees all over
the Buddhist world as well as by their powerful symbolism. That
this symbolism may have its locally determined variations is shown
by comparing the rituals in Bodhgayà and Anuràdhapura.
3.6 Appendix: A selection of texts in praise of the bodhi tree
(1) One of the simplest texts, often recited sotto voce when saluting
the bodhi tree, is found in the Sinhala Bodhivaása, in L. Lokuliyana
(ed.), Sinhala Mahàbodhivaása (1970), p. 01:
Yassa mùle nisinno và
Sabbani Vijayan aka
Patto sabbannutam sattha
Vande tam bodhipadam
In a translation by A. Seneviratna (Nissanka (1996), pp. 197–198):
I pay homage to the Bodhi Tree
at the foot of which the Noble Teacher sat
and conquered evil and attained Enlightenment.
(2) The Mahàbodhivandana as given by D.K. Barua in Nissanka (1996),
p. 122:
Sattha Sunilayatanettahari/
Kantambudhara nipatena sincam/
pujesi tam satta dinani/
Bodhirajam virajam sirasa namàmi/
Mule dumindassa nisajja yassa/
dhiro subodhi catusaccamaggam/
Maram jinitva samaram Munindo/
Taspadapindam Sirasa namàmi/
Yassa mule nisinno’va Sabbarivijayam aka,/
pattosabbanutam sattha vande tam Bodhipadapam./
Imehete Mahabodhi Lokanathena pujita,/
Ahampi te namassami, Bodhiraja namatthu te.
In Barua’s translation, pp. 122–123:
I bow down my head and salute that King Bodhi (Tree) which was
worshipped for seven days by the Master (Buddha) (after the attain-
ment of Sambodhi) through the flow of tears coming out from his
deep blue wide eyes.

240 chapter three
I bow down my head and salute that King of Trees sitting at the
root of which the Great Seer (Buddha) defeated Mara (and) his army
(and) knew gradually the Four Truths (and) the Way.
I salute that Bodhi Tree sitting at the root of which the Master
destroyed all evil enemies and became a perfectly Enlightened One.
I too worship that Maha Bodhi (Tree) which was worshipped by
the Lord of the World (Buddha).
Oh, the King Bodhi (Tree), salutations to Thee!
(3) Vàyupurà»a 100, 7–29, as given by B. Barua (1975), p. 233:
Namas te A≤vattha-ràjàya Brahmà-Viß»u-•ivàtmane/
Bodhi-drumàyakart‰»àm pit‰»àátàra»àya ca//
Ye asmat kule màt‰vaá≤e bàndhavà durgatìá gatà˙/
Tad dar≤anàt spar≤anàc ca svargatìá yàntu ≤à≤vatìm//
R(at)natrayaá mayà dattaá Gayàm àgatya v‰kßarà†/
Tvad pra≤àdàn Mahàpàpàd vimukto ’haá bhavàr»avàt//
In translation, pp. 233–234:
I bend my head in obeisance to thee, o A≤vattha, the lord of trees,
standing as a living form of the Holy Triad of our pantheon with thy
high fame as Bodhi-druma, the renowned Bo, for the release of the
dead forefathers, the makers of the line of descent. Those in my direct
line and those connected with the mother’s line, the kith and kin who
have gone into the state of woe, may they, from thy holy sight and
touch, pass into an eternal state of heavenly life. The triple debts have
I paid, o king of trees, by coming on pilgrimage to Gayà. By thy
benign grace am I rescued from the awful ocean of existence and lib-
erated from deadly sins.
(4) Gayàmàhàtmya 33–36, as given by C. Jacques (1962), pp. 221–223:
Dharmaá dharme≤varaá natvà mahàbodhitaruá namet/
caladdalàya v‰kßàya sarvadàsthitaviß»ave/
bodhitattvàya yajñàya a≤vatthàya namo nama˙//33//
ekàda≤o"si rùdrà»àá vasùnàmaß†amastathà/
nàràya»o’si devànàá v‰kßaràjo’si pippala//34//
a≤vattha yasmàttvayi v‰kßaràja nàràya»astiß†hati sarvakàlam/
ata˙ ≤ùbhastvaá satataá tarù»àá dharyo’si du˙khasvapnavinà≤a-
no’si//35//
a≤vattharùpìnaá devaá ≤a«khacakragadàdharam/
namàmi pu»∂arìkàkßaá ≤àkhàrùpadharaá harim//

In translation, pp. 221–223:

33. When having saluted Dharma and Dharme≤vara, one should salute
the great bodhi-tree: Hail to the tree of which the leaves tremble,
in which Viß»u has his permanent abode, which is the essence of
the liberating insight, which is sacrifice personified, to that a≤vattha,
hail!
34. You are the eleventh of the Rùdras and the eights of the Vasus,
you are the Nàràya»a of the gods, you are the king of the trees,
o pippala!
35. O a≤vattha, because Nàràya»a has his abode in you forever, you
are always the most auspicious of the trees, you are beneficent,
you destroy the effects of a bad dream.
36. The god who has the form of an a≤vattha, who carries the mace,
the disc and the conch, I salute you, lotus-eyed one, who has
assumed the form of a tree, o Hari!
(5) Verses addressed to the bodhi tree by the bodhipùjà priest Jayanta,
given by Gombrich, in: Gombrich and Obeyesekere (1996), p. 399:
O Lord Bo, who gave [the Buddha] tenfold power of wisdom, by the
merit of past births we have come to worship here. May all planetary
ills and calamities be banished from the face, ears, and tongue.
O Lord Bo, who gave the tenfold power and wisdom, we worship
you to calm the fires of sorrow. Through the two legs and from the
soles may all planetary ills and calamities diasappear.
O Lord Bo, who gave tenfold power and wisdom, we have come
to deck you with lovely flowers and worship you. From the waist,
intestines, kidneys, and so on, may all planetary ills and calamities
disappear.
O Lord Bo, who gave tenfold power and wisdom, we have come
to offer you lights and lovely flowers. Such things as poisons, venoms
and tying [by black magic], may such bad planetary ills and calami-
ties be banished.
Expel and banish badness caused by the nine planets. May we be
blessed by the power of the ninefold Sangha. O Lord Bo, who destroyed
the power of Màra, may we obtain the help (pihi†a) of the Fully
Enlightened One.

CHAPTER FOUR
GODS OF WOOD, GODS OF STONE: THE RITUAL

RENEWAL OF THE WOODEN STATUES AT PURÌ
What wooden log is floating there, by the bank of the river, a non-human
[form] . . . (°gveda 10.155.3)
What the highest ‰ßis in Vedànta called ‘brahman’, that is shining here
on top of the Blue Mountain forever in its wooden form (Purußotta-
mamàhàtmya 2.25)
I am neither made of wood nor of stone. I assume this form just to
delude the world (Purußottamamàhàtmya 3.146)
Introduction
The great temple of Jagannàth at Purì, in the state of Orissa on the

East coast of India, has been known outside India since the great
commercial ships used the ‘White Pagoda’ as one of their orienta-
tion marks. When the British administrators and missionaries wrote
their disdainful reports about idolatry, pilgrimage and other forms
of ‘superstition’ in India, the case of Purì often served as a baffling
example of how bad it could become, and what religious fanaticism
was capable of inducing in the believers. The word ‘Juggernaut’
( Jagannàth) in western languages still connotes an event or a human
artefact that, once started, cannot be stopped and threatens to smash
all that happens to come in its way.1
Apart from the value such early reports have for the history of
religious ideas, especially for the reception of ideas about Hinduism
in Europe and America, the case of the Purì temple to this very
day provides a highly interesting illustration, not any longer of what
‘depravities’ religion is capable of, but rather of the extremely com-
plex picture that results when many elements weld into one through
1
For colonial reports on Purì, see W.W. Hunter, Orissa: The Vicissitudes of an
Indian Province (1872), Laurie, Orissa, the Garden of Superstition and Idolatry (1850), Peggs,
Pilgrim Tax in India (1830) and The Government Grant to Juggernaut Temple (1848), and
D.B. Smith, Report on Pilgrimage to Juggernaut (1868).

gods of wood, gods of stone 243
the long synthetic process of evolution, all leaving their indelible

impress, as in a kind of living history. What is so intriguing about
Purì is that the processes of interaction and change do not form a
linear evolution that can be traced by gradually going back in time:
rather, most of those layers are present, visible and alive simultane-
ously even now. Its temple cult displays a rich condensation of pre-
viously separate religious fragments. Only later were they unified
under a single umbrella.
Both temple organisation2 and temple architecture3 have received
due attention from social scientists and art-historians. The Orissa
Research Project, based at the South Asia Institute of Heidelberg,
and executed mainly between 1970 and 1975, had adopted a multi-
disciplinary approach, and its participants contributed greatly to the
information and academic debate about Purì. Not only did exten-
sive field-studies in Orissa bring to light all kinds of comparative
material that could assist in defining the factors that have made the
Jagannàth cult into what it is today, they also unearthed a consid-
erable number of relevant palmleaf manuscripts that were copied
and catalogued in Heidelberg, after which the rare ones were donated
to the State Museum in Bhubaneswar.4
Although western scholars are handicapped by the fact that the
temple is off limits for non-Hindus, there are numerous knowledge-
able informants who are willing enough to share their inside infor-
mation. Yet there is one temple tradition of which the particulars
are known to only a few: this is the highly secret Navakalevara (‘New
Body’ or ‘New Embodiment’)5 ceremony, a set of rituals accompa-
nying the periodical renewal of the wooden temple statues. This
chapter offers an attempt at describing and analysing these rituals
in the light of ritual studies and the research on intrareligious pluralism.
2
On Purì temple organisation, see especially Jakob Rösel, Der Palast des Herrn der
Welt (1976/1980).
3
On Purì temple architecture, see especially Starçza-Majewski, The Jagannatha
Temple at Puri: Its architecture, art and cult (1993).
4
The most relevant manuscripts are listed in the bibliography given in Anncharlot
Eschmann, et al., The Cult of Jagannath and the Regional Tradition of Orissa (1978/1986).
5
I have not been able to come to a satisfying etymology of kalevara. Hunter, in
his Orissa, tries several explanations, one of which would relate it to cadaver. R.K.
Das, Legends of Jagannath, Puri (1981), p. 62, has the following passage, which I have
not been able to trace back to the Sanskrit texts on Purì: “(. . .) viß»o kalebare tas-
min kßetre purußottame (. . .)”: “This Purußottamakßetra is verily the physical body
of Viß»u.”

244 chapter four
In order to introduce the highly complex form of this specific cer-

emony it is necessary to just mention a few aspects of the history
of the Purì cult. The incongruity that in such a famous and renowned
set-up the very centre of devotion is formed by three wooden figures
that could, at the very best, be called archaic, in spite of all the
finery they are bedecked with, can be partly explained by the processes
within several political and religious groups in Orissa, and the ways
in which these processes interacted.6 In older western literature on
Purì we tend to find expressions of aesthetic shock, but today judg-
ments are withheld, and comments are phrased more neutrally, such
as by Stella Kramrisch:
The image of Jagannàtha, Lord of the World—in this temple of the
twelfth century in Puri, an imposing structure built in the Great Tra-
dition and of lavish sophistication—is a log of wood. Just that and
nothing else.7
One of the defining processes most directly relevant for the Nava-
kalevara rituals is the K‰ß»aitisation of the Jagannàth cult.8 For most
of the devotees the fact that their beloved god Jagannàth has a
wooden form (dàrurùpa, dàrumaya) has nothing incongruous: K‰ß»a
himself is believed to have promised to be reborn in a wooden form
in the present Kaliyuga.9 This divine promise is elaborated upon in
6
About the aesthetic shock on seeing the wooden statues, see Ulrich Schneider,
Der Holzgott und die Brahmanen (1984), pp. 1–3) and Jakob Rösel, Palast (1980), p. 77.
Schneider also points out the contrast between the wooden statues and the palace-like
surroundings. On the Purì temple as a palace, and the Jagannàth rituals as royal
court rituals, see Rösel, Palast, part I, G.C. Tripathi, and Hermann Kulke. Their
first full art-historical description is found in Rajendralal Mitra, The Antiquities of
Orissa (1875–1880).
7
Stella Kramrisch and Barbara Stoler Miller, Exploring India’s Sacred Art: Selected
writings of Stella Kramrisch, edited and with a biographical essay by Barbara Stoler Miller
(1983), p. 117.
8
For the avatàra system in recent centuries, see the contributions of Anncharlot
Eschmann. For the process of K‰ß»aitisation in Orissa, see Friedhelm Hardy,
‘Màdhavendra Purì: A Link between Bengal Vaiß»avism and South Indian Bhakti’
(1974), G.C. Tripathi, ‘The Influence of some Philosophical Systems on the Mode
of Worship of K‰ß»a-Jagannàtha’ (1975), Baba Mishra, ‘Folklore and Puranic Tradition
about the origin of God Jagannath’ (1937) and V. Raghavan, The Great Integrators.
The saint-singers of India (1964).
9
This is a story peculiar to the Purì cult, and found in the Purußottamamàhàtmya.
Geib, Indradyumna Legende: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des Jagannath Kultes (1975), shows
how passages in this text were rewritten and reinterpreted by bràhma»ic editors to
fit in the Purì context. The wooden statues seem to be unique in the sense that
nowhere in India, in a bràhma»ic temple of such fame, is there a wooden statue

the story that K‰ß»a, when resting in the forest, was shot at by the
tribal hunter Jarà (‘Old Age’), who mistook the soft pink soles of
K‰ß»a’s feet for the ears of a deer.10 For some reason his body (or
a part of it) could not be burnt, and turned into a fossil. In the
form of a fossilised log of wood this body came floating down the
Mahànadì river, and stranded by the Purì beach. In some stories it
is said to be the river that carried the piece of wood, sometimes the
sea itself. Against the background of the forest episode the river
would seem more probable. In that case the spot where it was found
would be the Mahànadì estuary, to note the river arm Và«kì. This
place is now remembered as Banki Mohan (Và«kì Muhà»a), and
would more or less correspond to the present area of Cakratìrtha.
In some of the ancient stories a forest is mentioned surrounding the
Blue Mountain of Purì. This may be the deep forest where the tribal
chief Vi≤vavàsu secretly worshipped the stone image of Nìlamàdhava.
The legendary Indradyumna, king of Màlava, alternately portrayed
as a devoted pilgrim and a conquering warrior, had been looking
for the great god Nìlamàdhava in the form of a dark blue (nìla)
stone deity all over Purußottamakßetra, but had not been able to find
him (covered by sand, or creepers, they say). As he was disappointed
in not finding the god, he sent out a search party to find the statue
and bring it back to him. Finally one of his ministers, a bràhma»a
named Vidyàpati, found the hidden statue while it was being wor-
shipped by the tribal chief Vi≤vavàsu in the heart of the forest.11
This •abara chief remembered an old prediction ( janapravàda) about
the advent of a great king, and argued that the king would certainly
bring great fame to the deity. The statue, however, disappeared with-
out a trace.12 Later on, directed by a dream, the king found the
as the centre of devotion. What also turns out to be unique is the way these wooden
statues are periodically renewed. For their first full art-historical description, see
Mitra, Antiquities (1875).
10
Some stories even say that K‰ß»a was sitting on a branch of a neem tree, with
his feet dangling. Apart from the visual effect this detail has on the course of the
story, it makes the narrative connection between K‰ß»a, a neem tree, and the Purì
images made of neem wood, an obvious one. See also R.K. Das, Legends, p. 25.
11
I am aware of the debate about the terms tribal, indigenous and semi-tribal.
I use the term tribal only when it is meant to refer to an original state, and use
‘tribal’ when the present situation of the daitàs is meant.
12
Some say because the image could only be seen by the divine eyes (divyàd‰ß†i )
of the numerous gods who used to come down there to worship, with their gifts
of divine food and heavenly flowers. The wooden form that later came in its place
was meant specifically for human eyes (carmad‰ß†i ). For this paràrdha theory, see

246 chapter four
wooden log on the beach, and had the deity (or deities) carved from
its wood, and the mùrti(s) installed on the Blue Mountain (Nìlàdri),
most probably a sand ridge forming the ancient centre of Purußotta-
makßetra where the great temple of Purì now stands.13
In another set of stories the log had been floating in the ocean
before it stranded on the Purì beach. There is an interesting paral-
lel in the stories about the goddess Ma«galà of Kaka†pur. We
will deal with those later. At Purì the version of the log found at
the seaside has two distinct, unconnected threads to contribute to
the complex fabric: to explain the wooden form of the deities in the
temple, and also to connect the two banyans in the temple compound
with K‰ß»a. The main banyan there, the kalpava†a, is said to have its
origin in a chip of K‰ß»a’s wooden bier, whereas the other banyan,
a vaá≤ava†a is said to derive from the chip that floated to Prayag
(Prayàga) but had an irresistable urge to go to Purì. A four-winged
crow ate a few of its berries and voided them in the temple com-
pound, after which a full banyan grew from the seed.14
In these narrative strands, we find two persisting motifs: a statue
that had disappeared (and thence a ritual re-enactment in the form
of a search party as the first component of the Navakalevara pro-
cedure), and the original tribal connection with the deity (and thence
their role in the later temple rituals). Although these two motifs have
many alternative versions in scriptural and oral traditions, I men-
tion only these two because of their direct relevance to the Navaka-
levara rituals. In order to understand how the periodical renewal of
the wooden temple statue(s) came to have its fixed procedure, it is
essential to mention some additional points.15 First of all, it is clear
Schneider, Holzgott, pp. 91 and 115. Notice also the third quotation at the begin-
ning of this chapter, where God is said to take these forms just to delude the world
(“lokànàá mohanàrthàya”, see Schneider, Holzgott, Sanskrit text p. 25).
13
The various versions speak of one image carved from the log, or four images
carved from one log: Jagannàtha, Balabhadra, Subhadrà and Sudar≤ana. See below,
under 4.3.
14
See also Rösel, Palast, p. 257. The motif of some mysterious or sacred thing
drifting ashore is present in many cultures. For this “Schwimm-Motif ”, see also
Geib, Indradyumna Legende, p. 65.
15
Originally there must have been only one statue. At what point in history it
became a collective of four wooden deities is not clear. Generally, the present set
of four (caturvarga) is considered classical by the believers, even when research has
laid bare a complex interweaving of political, demographical, iconographical and
sectarian factors.

from various sources that the sacred images were taken away from
Purì to be kept in safety somewhere in the hinterland at least a
dozen times. For a variety of reasons, such as political turmoil, sec-
tarian shifts of power, and the risk of looting, the statues were hid-
den on a small island in Chilka lake, buried beneath a banyan tree,
or installed in a tract of deep forest.16 Secondly, there is the histor-
ical fact that Muslim raids often made it necessary to hide or bury
Hindu statues.
The event that most probably caused the Navakalevara to take
its present, periodical form, is the burning of the wooden Purì stat-
ues by the Muslim general Kalapahad (Kàlàpahà∂a, respectively
Kalàpàhà∂a; also spelled Kàlàpahàr) in 1568. A ‘tribal’ temple ser-
vant named Bishar Mohanty (also spelled Visara Mahànti) is said to
have retrieved the sacred contents hidden inside the statues, called
the brahmapadàrtha, and to have brought it back to Purì where it was
installed in newly made statues by king Ràmacandradeva I.17 According
to the Ka†akaràjavaá≤avali:
Hereafter the kingdom came under the rule of the Mohammedan
(Yavana) Kalàpàhà∂a and there prevailed a spell of anarchy. Yavanas
ruled over it for 19 years. (. . .) During this period, the Chief of the
Yavanas came to know of (the actual location of ) the statues from a
traitor, went to the place, brought out the four images from the sanc-
tum sanctorum of the temple and carried them away on elephant back.
He plundered the treasure-house of the Lord and also broke a part
of the upper portion of the main temple. He also broke the statues of
the deities placed in the side-shrines of the temple. He felled the Va†a
tree called the Kalpa-V‰kßa and burnt it down.
Thereupon his body broke into pieces. His minister said: “You have
experienced this state due to commitment of the sin of burning (the
holy images)”. Having seen this his son immersed the remaining por-
tion (of the wooden images) into the Ganges. While it was floating in
the waters a servitor of the Lord named Visara Mahantì who was
16
Interestingly, Nancy Cassels, Religion and Pilgrim Tax under the Company Raj (1988),
pp. 21–32, points at moments in history when rulers were encouraged to bring
back the statues and reinstall them at Purì for reasons of dwindling gains in pil-
grim tax.
17
Note that I use the term bràhma»a for the person (Sanskrit bràhma»a, in English
without diacritic marks written as brahman or brahmin). In order to distinguish
bràhma»a (the person belonging to the first var»a) and Brahman, brahman (neutrum)
or brahmapadàrtha (the sacred contents of the Jagannàth statues), in this chapter I usu-
ally write the full technical term brahmapadàrtha instead of the more colloquial term
brahman.

248 chapter four
moving around in the guise of a Vaiß»ava, spotted it, rescued it, and
having kept it in a drum (M‰da«ga), brought it to a village named
Kha«∂àyita-Kàluà in the state of Kuja«ga.18
In the village he continued to pay service to the sacred remains with
simple offerings. A new ruler, Ràmacandradeva, receiving a direc-
tive from Jagannàth in a dream, laid claim to the remains, and had
new images fabricated in which he had the remnants inserted. After
some years, when the king took control of Purì also, he had the
images installed there. The temple bràhma»as of Purì declared the
king to be ‘a second Indradyumna’. It was this king who called to
Purì all the hereditary servants of Jagannàth who had been living
in other places since the destruction of the temple.
Apart from this semi-historical fact there is the obvious necessity
to occasionally renew wooden statues. Those people (mostly tribal)
in India who still have wooden statues in their shrines or in the
open air, know that every thirty years or so, such a wooden object
will have to be replaced, as termites will probably have eaten their
way through the wood, and humidity (from rain, libations, and rit-
ual baths) might have taken its toll both of the paint and of the
wood itself. As far as I know, such replacement is a relatively sim-
ple affair. The elaborate Navakalevara ceremony stands in striking
contrast to this.19
I intend to describe the ritual renewal of the wooden Purì deities
in five successive stages, after which the presented material is analysed
in two ways. The first focus is on the intrareligious complexity and
plurality as mirrored in the allocation of tasks, and the second is on
the narrative fabric, the narrative and historical motifs that may have
determined the course of the Navakalevara procedure.
4.1 Description of the Navakalevara ceremony
Against these outlines, a mixture of legends, historical facts, tribal

prerogatives, kingly manoeuvres and bràhma»ic reconstructions, we
can now describe the successive stages of the Navakalevara ceremony.
18
Tripathi and Kulke, Ka†aka-ràja-vaá≤a-vali (1987), pp. 96–97.
19
According to Heather Elgood, Hinduism and the Religious Arts (1999), p. 63, there
is another Vaiß»ava temple, which periodically renews its images associated with
the worship of K‰ß»a, a temple in Rajasthan dedicated to •rì Nàthjì.

(1) The vanayàtrà and vanayàga

In the ritual almanac ( pañjì) used in the Purì temple, there is room
for the Navakalevara procedure every twelve years or so, when there
is an intercalary month of Àßàdha, the summer month of June-July.
The time schedule is such that the first phase, that of the vanayàtrà,
or procession to the forest, is started 65 days before the beginning
of the annual Anavasara, the period of retreat and leisure when the
Purì deities are said to be indisposed after their public bath. On the
first day, the tenth day of the bright half of the month of Caitra,
special garlands are offered to the four deities, and then taken by
the main priests (the three senior daitàs and the patimahàpatra, who
is the main temple functionary in all five stages of the Navakalevara
ceremony)20 and carried on their heads during the procession, later
to be offered to the goddess Ma«galà, and to the respective trees,
when these are found.21
The search party at this stage is said to consist of the following
persons: 1 patimahàpatra, 21 daitàs, 12 accompanying assistants (arti-
sans, musicians, policemen etc.).22 This party leaves the temple com-
pound and proceeds to the palace, where the king’s representative,
called ràjaguru or àcàrya, Vidyàpati, joins them. The group spends
the night (or two nights) in the Jagannàtha Vallabha monastery, an
à≤rama-ma†hà within Purì, where rituals, prayer and meditation pre-
pare the persons involved for the task ahead. When the party leaves
20
The patimahàpatra is said to be a half-•abara, a descendant of the bràhma»a
emissary Vidyàpati and the daughter of the tribal chief Vi≤vavàsu. Whatever the
lineage of this important Mahàpatra family might be, in the Navakalevara the
patimahàpatra occupies a central position, representing both the ‘tribal’ heritage and
the bràhma»a tradition. In some of the accounts, the patimahàpatra is simply listed as
a daità, for instance when Khuntia writes that during the transference rite only
daitàs are present (Somanath Khuntia, The Temple of Lord Jaganath (1995), p. 7).
An additional confusion arises when some authors speak of daitàs and patis as two
distinct groups, whereas others call them daitàpatis collectively. It is generally assumed
that the patimahàpatra families, the daità families, and the pati families involved in
the Navakalevara ceremony are all descended either directly from the tribal chief
Vi≤vavàsu or from the marriage of his daughter to the bràhma»a emissary Vidyàpati.
21
From the descriptions it is not clear whether all the garlands are offered to
the goddess Ma«galà. It is evident that later on, again, garlands are, one at a time,
offered to the respective trees.
22
In this description I mainly follow the data given by Tripathi, ‘Das ‘Navakalevara’-
Ritual im Jagannatha-Tempel von Puri’ (1974), and in Eschmann, et al., ‘Navaka-
levara: The unique Ceremony of the ‘birth’ and the ‘death’ of the ‘lord of the
World’ (1978/1986), pp. 223–264, amplified, if necessary, by details and variations
from other descriptions.

250 chapter four
the monastery, another four bràhma»as are added to the group: they
will be active in the dàrupùjà (tree worship) and vanayàga (Vedic for-
est sacrifice) later on, when the sacred tree has been found.
On arrival in Kàka†pur,23 some fifty kilometres from Purì, the four
Jagannàth priests (1 patimahàpatra, 3 daitàs) and five pa»∂itas (1 ràjaguru,
4 Vallabha bràhma»as) proceed to the temple of the goddess Ma«galà.24
The five pa»∂itas remain in the entrance hall, where they recite the
Durgàsapta≤ati, whereas the group of four Jagannàth priests offer sev-
eral gifts to Ma«galà, among which are the special garlands, and
the famous mahàprasàda, the food cooked daily in the temple. Together
with the residing priests, they perform an elaborate pùjà. These four
are said to spend the night at the feet of the goddess, where the
patimahàpatra waits for a dream or a vision in which they will be
directed to the places where the sacred trees for the statues are to
be found. If after two (some say three) nights such a direction has
not yet been given, the priests look for a sign in the way the first
of the flowers that are being heaped on Ma«galà’s form happens to
fall to the floor: this should indicate the direction in which the search
party is to go.
23
The small town of Kàka†pur is situated in an area known for its religious
ruins, Hindu, Buddhist as well as Jaina. It lies by the river Prachi (Pràcì), and the
direct surroundings are well-known for the abundance of neem (nimba) trees. More
relevant data on the role of Kàka†pur, provided by Frédérique Apffel Marglin and
Purna Chandra Mishra, are given at the end of this Chapter.
24
How the goddess Ma«galà came to play this role in the Navakalevara is not
made clear in the literature written from the Purì perspective (see also Tripathi in
Eschmann, et al., The Cult of Jagannath, pp. 242–243, and Frédérique Apffel Marglin,
Wives of the God-King: The Rituals of the Devadasis of Puri (1985), p. 330, note 4). For
enlightening narrative parallels between Purì and Kàka†pur, see below, under 4.3.
It is said that this is the only Ma«galà statue outside the Purì temple compound
(Khuntia, The Temple, p. 5). The position of Vimalà-Ma«galà inside the temple court
of Purì is not clear either. Rösel (Der Palast, pp. 240–256) distinguishes four types
of deities in the temple court: substituted, accumulated, socialised and interregion-
ally coordinated gods or goddesses. In general he tends to see a magnetising force
at work in which the court of the “Hochgott” functions as a magnet that draws
all kinds of local and interregional pilgrims as well as their gods to find a place in
various degrees of proximity to the main deities. Marglin (Wives of the God-King, pp.
268–269) sees in her the type of an ambivalent unmarried village goddess and pre-
sents her role in the dream communication as a ‘conception’. Vimalà-Ma«galà has
a strangely exalted status in the matter of mahàprasàd: the food that has been offered
to Jagannàth is called prasàd, and only after it has been offered to Vimalà too, may
it rightfully be called mahàprasàd, ‘great grace’. I have also heard a Jagannàth priest
justify the term mahàprasàd by pointing out that it is the combination of bel (vilva)
(for •iva) and tulsi (tulasì) (for Viß»u) leaves that makes anything coming from the
Purì deities doubly blessed. For the wide variety of meaning given to the same

The search party is to find the tree for Sudar≤ana first, then for
Balabhadra, for Subhadrà, and finally for Jagannàth. Apart from the
direction given to the patimahàpatra, the priests involved in the quest
know what specific signs they have to look for. The more of the
prescribed signs and characteristics the sacred tree appears to have,
the more auspicious it is. All four deities have their own specific
marks, such as the plough and the pestle for Balabhadra and the
conch and the disc for Jagannàth. In general, the sacred tree should
be close to water, a burial ground or a monastery; it should be
without birds’ nests, and at the roots there should be anthills and
snakeholes.25
As soon as the priests have decided that the particular neem (nimba)
tree has been found, they settle down in its direct vicinity. Among
the typical things they do is the construction of a ma»∂apa (sacred
pavillion) to the west, and the arrangement of a vedì (sacrificial altar)
there. This is the sacred spot where the homa (Vedic fire sacrifice)
will take place. To simulate the supposed tribal origin, several •abara
huts are erected around the sacred centre: in these huts the daitàs
will spend the night.
The next three days are spent in a highly ritualised atmosphere,
while the actual vanayàga is being performed. On the first day the
tree itself is worshipped: while sacred music is being played, the
priests circumambulate the tree seven times, they bathe the trunk,
rub it with sandelwood paste, wrap it in cloth, and present it with
the special garland taken from the corresponding deity in the Purì
temple. Also a cakra (Viß»u’s disc) is installed close by, and four extra
bràhma»as, selected from the neighbouring villages, are posted at the
four ma»∂apa gates, where they continuously recite mantras.
On the second day the ritual proceeds from the relatively simple
dàrupùjà to an elaborate and complicated fire-sacrifice. It is the ràjaguru
(or, in some other versions, the patimahàpatra) who lights the fire. The
fire in his lighting stick must be produced from rubbing two special
sticks together, or should be taken from a ≤rotriya’s fire in the vicinity.
ritual act, see Caroline Humphrey and James Alexander Laidlaw, The archetypal
actions of ritual: A theory of ritual illustrated by the Jain rite of worship (1994), pp. 34–35.
25
Elizabeth Chalier Visuvalingam speaks of ‘transgressive criteria’: a snake hole
with creeping snakes, beside an anthill; near a cremation ground, •iva temple, river,
or pond; surrounded by three mountains, or on a crossing of three ways or at the
confluence of three rivers.

252 chapter four
The ràjaguru, in this act, identifies himself with Viß»u, and the vedì
with Viß»u’s consort Lakßmì. The resulting fire is regarded as their
son. Numerous mantras from °gveda and Yajurveda are recited, and
many Vedic gods are invoked: Agni, Sùrya, Varu»a, Savit‰, Prajàpati.
The prominent position, however, is taken by the presiding deity,
N‰siáha, who receives 306 àhutis with the pàtala-n‰siáha mantra, and
1008 àhutis with the anuß†ubh-n‰siáha mantra.26
On the third day, the deity for whose statue the tree is destined
is worshipped with 108 àhutis, accompanied by the deity’s own mantra.
The final act of the forest sacrifice consists in the offering of a
water-melon in which four sticks are inserted to make it a substitute
for the sacrificial animal. This substitute is ritually slaughtered by
cutting it into four parts and offering them to the sacred tree.
The next part in the sequence is the propitiation of the tree: sacred
water is sprinkled on it, it is propitiated and requested to forgive
any offence connected with the cutting down; at the same time all
living beings that live in it are prayed to, and asked to be forgiven
that their abode is being taken away from them; also special for-
giveness is asked for the woodcutters who will have to cut the tree
down. The promise is spoken that the tree will not really die and
go into oblivion, but instead will come to great glory when it is wor-
shipped as god’s body by countless devotees in the years to come.
The actual cutting down is preceded by an act of the patimahà-
patra, who symbolically strikes the tree with a gold axe, and of the
Vi≤vavàsu, i.e. the eldest daitàpati, who strikes with a silver axe.27 The
26
The prominent position of N‰siáha, an earlier avatàra of Viß»u, in the course
of the Navakalevara procedure is satisfactorily explained by Von Stietencron, ‘Die
Stellvertreterrolle des Narasiáha im Kult des Jagannàtha’ (1980): N‰siáha is
Jagannàth’s substitute (‘Stellvertreter’) whenever the god is indisposed or absent.
27
The descriptions show some variations here. It seems clear that the ràjaguru
offers the axes as gifts from the king (who historically was the yajamàna, and tech-
nically is so now), but whether he himself actually touches the tree with an axe is
not evident. The gestures of touching the tree with a gold axe where the head of
the statue will be carved, with a silver axe where the torso will be, and with an
iron axe where the shins would normally be (the Purì deities don’t have legs), are
liable to be interpreted in an esoteric way, but I have found contradictory state-
ments about the ‘inverted tree’ symbolism here (as in °gveda 1.24.7 and Ka†hopanißad
6.1.4), which would turn the evident correspondence between the form of the tree,
the figure of the first Man, Purußa, and the form of the deity upside down. Yet,
Marglin (Wives of the God-King, p. 269) rightfully points out that the recitation of the
so-called Purußasùkta over the nyàsadàru, at a later stage of the Navakalevara, confirms
and maintains the proper hierarchical order in which the various parts of the body
of the Cosmic Man correspond to the four var»as in Indian society.

tree is cut down by the four appointed woodcutters who use iron
axes that have been rubbed with honey and ghee. During the final
strokes, they all watch anxiously in which direction the tree is going
to fall: only the eastern or northern direction is considered auspi-
cious. When the tree has finally fallen, the branches are cut off and
buried. The bare wooden log, wrapped in silk cloth, is lifted unto
a waiting wagon while °gvedic mantras are being recited. This cart
is then pulled to Purì by human hands. With this ends the first stage
of the Navakalevara ceremony.
(2) Carving (nirmà»a) and consecration (pratiß†hà)

At Purì, the party with the wagons in which the logs are transported
is greeted with great joy and reverence by the king and, in fact, the
whole temple community. Accompanied by sacred music, the carts
are brought to the northern gate, from where the four dàrus are car-
ried into a temporarily erected ma»∂apa.
The time schedule prescribes that the new logs must have arrived
before the annual bath festivity starts, as the uncarved logs will be
bathed on the same day the old statues have their public bath. In
the temple compound, an additional smaller vanayàga will be per-
formed for the four dàrus, in order to free them from any inauspi-
ciousness and ritual impurity that might have clung to them in the
interval between the two fire-sacrifices. On the next day, the wood-
carvers receive special gifts of silk cloth from the king, before they
start their highly secret job of carving the logs into the prescribed
shapes. Their form is given by the original shape they were carved
in by Vi≤vakarman himself. As his carving was interrupted by Queen
Gu»∂icà, the statues were never completed. Since then this ‘crude’
form has been the model for all four images when renewed peri-
odically. The place where the woodcarvers work is the nirmà»a-ma»∂apa
in which the four dàrus lie waiting to be carved, a room which only
the daitàs and the patimahàpatra are allowed to enter. As long as the
carving is going on, the carpenters are not allowed to leave the tem-
ple compound, and limit their intake of food and drink.
Simultaneously, in another temporarily erected ma»∂apa called the
pratiß†hàma»∂apa, around seventy temple-bràhma»as consecrate a piece
of wood that was taken from one of the logs, in a 13-day process.
Later on this piece will be cut into four, and these four parts will
be used as the coverings or lids of the cavity somewhere around the
navel of the deity, in which the sacred essence from the old statue

254 chapter four
will be placed. This elaborate and vital process of consecrating this

extra piece of wood, called the nyàsa-dàru, takes place in the com-
pany of a metal image of Lakßmì-N‰siáha surrounded by a cakràbja-
ma»∂ala.28 At the end of the consecration process, the dàru receives
pùjà, is covered with a cloth, and waits till the moment when the
sacred contents, called brahman or brahmapadàrtha will be transferred
from the old statue to the new one, and the new lid will be put
into place.
Connected with this process of consecration is a considerable num-
ber of other ritual acts, such as a fire-sacrifice in which, in the course
of five consecutive days, 10,000 àhutis are offered to N‰siáha. On
the seventh day, ten fishes, still alive, are brought into the temple
compound, offered to the ten dikpàlas, and buried outside, in the
ten cardinal directions.29 Then in the course of the next three days,
there are 1008 offerings to Bhalabhadra, Jagannàth, Subhadrà and
Sudar≤ana, each of them accompanied by the deity’s own mantra.
After this, other deities are invoked as well, and offered to: •iva,
Durgà Bhairava, as well as the deities of rivers, oceans, stars, etc.
When the whole of this consecration process has come to an end,
the nyàsadàru is cut into four equal parts. These are put into boxes,
and given to the patimahàpatra.
(3) Transference of the brahmapadàrtha

The culmination of the Navakalevara ceremony will take place at
midnight: the new wooden coverings are taken around the temple
seven times, and then brought to the foreroom of the sanctum, where
the old statues are waiting, by now stripped of all their old cover-
ings. All bràhma»as should have left the temple compound by now,
and only daitàs and the patimahàpatra remain. At exactly midnight
the brahmapadàrtha is removed from the old statues, in strict secrecy,
while the four acting priests are blindfolded and have a cloth wrapped
round their hands. This object, whatever it is, is put into the cavity
of the new statue, after which the consecrated lid is put into place,
28
Supposedly this is not the small metal statue of Lakßmì that normally stands
in front of the wooden statue of Jagannàth on the ratnavedì.
29
Some say this is the only occasion that sacrificial animals are killed within the
temple compound, but there are muffled reports on animal sacrifices to some of
the goddesses. •àkta and right-hand Tantric influences appear to be more present
and accepted at the Purì temple than is generally acknowledged.

and sealed. Each statue, now a mùrti, is taken in a circumambula-

tion around the temple three times, in the same sequence as the
dàrus were found, with Jagannàth as the last one. The row of four
new statues is placed facing the old ones, after which the old statues,
now considered corpses, are carried outside, to the Koili-Vaiku»†ha
by the western gate, where they are put into graves, together with
their wooden paraphernalia. The graves are covered, but left unmarked.
(4) The period of mourning

With the burial starts a period of mourning, which concerns the
whole temple community but ritually affects only the daitàs, who are
considered to be Jagannàth’s closest kin. The whole daità commu-
nity, including the family members at home, mourns for ten days.
After the burial, the daità priests leave the temple compound through
the northern gate, go home, and take a ritual bath. Since they are
considered Jagannàth’s closest relations, they inherit whatever belonged
to him. At present there seems to be no actual inheritance of clothes,
jewelry etc., but a round sum of money by way of compensation.
On the thirteenth day, there is a huge common meal offered by the
daitàs to the temple community, and with this meal the period of
mourning is over.30
(5) Final stage: finishing the statues, and navayauvana-dar≤ana

During the mourning period, the new mùrtis were left untouched,
and only after the full moon of the extra (i.e. second) Àßàdha month
is the work on them taken up once more: the wooden bodies, rubbed
with oils and balms, get covered with several layers of silk and
cotton cloth, after which starch and plaster are applied to finish the
bodies.31 Finally paint, made from local (i.e. tribal) ingredients, is
applied to the faces, in order to give the deities their characteristic
look.
30
This period of ritual impurity following on death in the family is elaborated
upon by Marglin (1985: 264–269).
31
In the temple booklet A brief look at Shri Jagannath temple, by Mahimohan Tripathy
(1997), drawing number two, there is an artist’s impression of the deities in the
so-called “Abakasha Besha” (avakà≤a veßa, the dress that makes visible), which, to
my knowledge, comes closest to revealing what the deities look like underneath their
usual decorations. This drawing also makes clear that the form of Jagannàth’s head
differs considerably from the head of the other two deities, and that the two male
deities have arms (protruding from the lower side of the head), whereas the god-
dess has none.

256 chapter four
When the four statues are thus finished, at the next new moon,
on the first day of the bright Àßàdha-half, there will be the ritual
of painting in the eyes. This is considered a festive occasion, and
called netrotsava.32 Directly after this, the new gods will be shown to
a cheering crowd, eager to have a look at the new figures: this sight-
ing of the young deities is called navayauvana-dar≤ana, and with this
the Navakalevara sequence of rituals has come to an end. On the
next day, the annual car festival will be started, drawing many times
the normal number of celebrating Purì-citizens as well as pilgrims
from all over India.
This Navakalevara tradition, obviously one of the least-known parts
of the Jagannàth cult, has been mentioned in no more than a rudi-
mentary form by most of the authors on Purì, with the exception
of Marglin, Starcza, Khuntia, and especially Tripathi who person-
ally attended some parts of the 1969 Navakalevara ceremony. Since
certain details of the procedure are kept confidential, and since some
of the relevant manuscripts, kept in the temple library, are unique
and forbidden to any outsider, it is impossible to have a complete
or consistent picture. Moreover, even the selected few who belong
to the groups involved, often are not informed about the role of the
others. Also in the official publications, issued by the Orissa gov-
ernment, this confidential nature is respected.
While one could still argue about details, some have ventured to
give partial categorisation and qualification: the Navakalevara cere-
mony has been presented plainly as an occasional renewal ritual
made necessary by the decay of the wood; some have seen some
symbolical and theological values in it as well;33 some have tried to
compare it to existing tribal customs; it has, reductionistically, been
called a relic-cult and a ≤ràddha ceremony; it could as well be called
a remainder of Vedic tree worship, or of the feudal past. Whatever
32
Painting in the eyes of the Jagannàth statues is considered a ritually circum-
spect task that is assigned to the patimahàpatra or a prominent bràhma»a, and should
not be executed by the daitàs. On netrotsava or netronmilana, see also Diana Eck, Dar≤an:
Seeing the Divine Image in India (1981), pp. 7 and 53. In Richard Gombrich, ‘The
Consecration of a Buddhist Image’ (1961), a comparable circumspection in paint-
ing the eyes is described in the context of the consecration of a Buddha image.
33
As in Joanne Waghorne and Norman Cutler, Gods of Flesh, Gods of Stone
(1985/1996), p. 15: “to demonstrate the fundamental belief that sacred images are
transitory and perishable.”

function or form the Navakalevara might be reduced to, it is clear

that it is a fascinating amalgam of countless aspects of Orissa culture.
I myself would like to elaborate upon a few other aspects: firstly,
of the Navakalevara as a ritual re-enactment, in which the alloca-
tion of tasks, the set of characters, and the main plot are predeter-
mined by two stories: that of Indradyumna as the instigator of the
cult, and of Ràja Ràmacandradeva I as the one who re-established
it; and secondly, of the Navakalevara as part of a far wider chain
of legitimation, justification, regulation and integration processes. In
order to analyse the Navakalevara as a ritual re-enactment, and to
take into account the pluralistic allocation of tasks or distribution of
labour in the sequence of ritual acts, we make a two-fold analysis,
one focusing on intrareligious plurality, and the other one with its
focus on the rituals.
4.3 Pluralism, plurality, and identity
There are many kinds of pluralism in the Jagannàth temple cult

at Purì. Analyses of the temple organisation have laid open the well-
structured complexity of the tasks allocated to the families of tem-
ple assistants (sevaks). In a temple which does not allow non-Hindus,
but does allow Buddhists, Jains and Sikhs; and which before the
Constitution (1948) seems to have been in the habit of at least screen-
ing any ‘tribal’ and pariah (harijan, dalit) that would wish to enter,
orthodoxy is not easily defined.34 Moreover, it has an obvious link
with Orissa’s tribal population, even to the extent that the daità-fam-
ilies have vital roles to play in some of the rituals. One wonders
about the criteria that allow or forbid entrance to the temple com-
pound, or, rather, allow proximity or maintain a ritually prescribed
distance, when, at the annual festivals, the deities are brought out
34
Marglin, in Wives of the God-King, p. 247, maintains that real tribals and untouch-
ables were not allowed to enter before 1948, when the latter forcibly gained entry.
What might happen when an untouchable ventured into the temple compound of
a high-Hindu temple before the law gave him that right, is forcefully portrayed in
Mulk Raj Anand’s novel Untouchable (1935/1970), pp. 57–63. It is often told in Purì
that even Mrs. Gandhi was denied entrance, on account of her being married to
a Parsi. The story of a nineteenth-century European who entered the temple in
disguise but was caught, caned and heavily fined (10,000 rupees) is retold by Rösel,
Der Palast, p. 179, footnote 2.

258 chapter four
into the open and carried through the streets.35 Moreover, one of
the aspects the great temple is famous for in the whole of India is
its food: in huge kitchens enormous amounts of dishes are prepared,
to be offered to Jagannàth first (which makes it into prasàd) and then
to the goddess Vimalà/Ma«galà (which makes it into mahàprasàd ).
Most of this food is acquired by the temple sevaks as ‘khei’, or sold
to the pilgrims who communally eat it in one of the corners near
Ànanda Bazar,36 or take it home as a blessing to those left behind.
The same mahàprasàd is often served at weddings and other life-cycle
rituals, and is also given to the dying as a last taste as well as the
blessing of the gods.
There seems to be enough justification both for the temple’s strict-
ness and its permissiveness. Most of the believers will apologise for
the fact that non-Hindus are not allowed in, but at the same time
will find a way to justify it. Yet, the peculiar phenomena that all
var»as and jàtis eat communally, and especially that the king is a ser-
vant to the gods too, expressed in his task to sweep Jagannàth’s char-
iot during the annual chariot festival, are used as indicating Jagannàth’s
being the Lord (nàtha) of the whole world ( jagat), especially in this
age of Kaliyuga. The characteristic roundness of his eyes is tenderly
explained as his being ever awake to watch over the world; at the
same time the stiffness of the wooden figure is not seen as an hin-
drance to his compassionate concern and his active interfering with
the world, but rather as a sign of his majesty.
Other forms of plurality, such as the interreligious pluralism in
the contacts with Buddhism, Jainism and Islam, have been hinted
at by most of the authors, but as far as I know there are no recent
extensive studies on this. The impact of Buddhism at an early stage
is shown in several aspects, but nowadays this impact is taken to
have been in the pre-•a«kara stage of bràhma»isation, although
35
Some say that such festivals, when the deities can be seen by all, and can
even be touched by the lucky ones, have the function of sharing the deities with
all, no matter what background. A further reversal of the usual restrictions is played
out when obscenities are shouted by the people drawing the chariots through the
streets of Purì. This carnival atmosphere has been related to the rhythm of the sea-
sons: it is the beginning of the monsoon, and linked with fertility. That around the
same time, in Kandy, the former royal capital of Sri Lanka, the annual Perahera
takes place, in which the Buddha’s tooth is carried around in a procession of ele-
phants, may be seen as one more correspondence between the Jagannàth cult and
Buddhism.
36
Rösel, in Der Palast, speaks of “Scheinegalitarismus” here.

Buddha’s position of being the ninth avatàra is maintained in other

parts of India to this very day. The connections with Mahàyàna
Buddhism might have influenced some aspects of the cult’s iconog-
raphy. Islam seems to have mainly negative connotations: iconoclastic
Muslim raids on the temple made it necessary to hide or bury the
statues several times, while the Muslim general Kàlàpahà∂a is said
to have gone as far as burning the dàru statues and the kalpav‰kßa.
The kind of pluralism we focus on here is of the intrareligious
kind: it deals with the internal interplay of various layers of Hindu
religious culture in Orissa. The main interaction seems to be between
tribal culture, bràhma»ic establishment and feudal kings, but woven
through that interaction, and directly related to it, is the iconologi-
cal, theological, literary and sectarian history of Orissa against the
background of relatively late Àryanisation and bràhma»isation. Other
persisting cultural influences come from the Dravidian South, from
the neighbouring states Andhra Pradesh and Bengal, as well as from
the high percentage of tribal population in Orissa. As the state always
lay open to the sea, there must have been some sort of contact with
other nations by seatrade as well, although there are surprisingly few
traces of such a past.
What is so striking about the Jagannàth cult, and probably unique,
is the presence and visibility of all these factors in its present form.
And the most fascinating aspect is the fact that during an elaborate,
secret and expensive ceremony, taking, all in all, more than a hun-
dred days, every twelve years or so the statues are renewed in a
series of rituals in which Vedic, sectarian Hindu as well as tribal
elements are blended, but never blurred: all separate elements remain
clearly recognisable. In spite of the obvious bràhma»ic interference
and appropriation at some stage, in spite of the obvious decline
of the king as a factor of importance, in spite of the process of
Hinduisation in tribal groups, the various parts are recognisable, as
is the persisting tribal identity and tradition. That there is a blend
but not a blur is all the more striking in the Navakalevara sequence
of rituals, since there the ‘tribal’ prerogative is seen whenever close
physical contact, especially with the bare bodies of the deities, is
required.37
37
I propose this bare-bodies hypothesis in contradistinction to the ‘tribal’ ambigu-
ous connection of non-bràhma»a sevakas with the temple at all other times than the

260 chapter four
There is another form of intrareligious pluralism in the history of

how the solitary god Jagannàth came to be accompanied by two
look-alike wooden deities: his halfbrother Balabhadra and his half-
sister Subhadrà. The fact that there are more statues than only one
on the altar is nothing out of the ordinary in India, where gods
often have partners of the opposite sex, and a favourite animal or
vàhana, by which they are carried when they move. The peculiar
trait of this trio is that they are made more or less in the same style,
and thus closely fit together. That they look so much alike is all the
more amazing when one realises that both Balabhadra and Subhadrà
have a completely different history: they got associated with Jagannàth
in the processes of •ivaitisation, Viß»uitisation and K‰ß»aitisation in
Orissa. The female figure that is commonly called Subhadrà now
must at some time have been Jagannàth’s wife, and has been called
Durgà, Kàlì and even Ma«galà or Vimalà in a •aiva phase, or
Lakßmì and •rì in a Vaiß»ava phase, as well as Ràdhà or Rukminì
today. Balabhadra still carries the imprint of that •aiva phase, for
instance in his iconographical attributes, and the mantra that is used
when he is addressed; at the same time he is often called Balaràma,
the elder halfbrother of K‰ß»a.
To make things even more complicated, at some time in the Purì
history a fourth figure was added: Sudar≤ana. This addition is often
justified by referring to the four Vedas, and would thus constitute a
bràhma»ic move in the course of obvious processes of Vedic infu-
sion in the Purì cult. This fourth statue is made of wood procured
in the same way as the wood for the other three deities, but it has
no face, no hands, and is, even more so than the others, just a
wooden log wrapped in cloth. In popular bazar representations of
the Purì triad he is often absent, as are the other three figurines
that normally accompany Jagannàth on the trivedì: two metal statues
of goddesses, mostly called by the names of Lakßmì and Sarasvatì
or Bhùdevì, and a statue that is sometimes described as wooden,
sometimes as made of stone, and is called Nìlamàdhava, Jagannàth’s
predecessor at Purußottamakßetra. A proper description and analysis
of these additional figures would need a study of its own; for the
special periods of Anavasara and Navakalevara. Although their role in the Navaka-
levara ceremony certainly has moments of ritual inauspiciousness, the dominant
trend underlying their prerogative on the bare bodies of the deities seems to be con-
nected with origins: the wooden statues in general, and the special role of Bishar
Mohanty, who handled the brahmapadàrtha after the statue was burned, in particular.

present chapter, let it suffice that they are described as making the
full picture of the Jagannàth cult far more complex and pluralistic
than can be dealt with here.
Although at the end of the Navakalevara sequence of rituals the
deities finally emerge as hinduised mùrtis, no effort has been made
to change or mask the fact of their wooden origin. On the contrary,
why the persistence of the wooden form (dàrurùpa)? Why the intri-
cate allocation of tasks, as a part of which not only close contact
with the body of the deities is assigned to the daitàs in the temple
services, but also the ritualised repetition of a ceremony of renewal
that cannot be called typical in any Orissan tribal community? Why
didn’t, at one stage or another, the object of devotion change from
a wooden to a stone or metal image, as was common practice in
other parts of India? The statue that is said to have preceded the
wooden Jagannàth image was Nilamàdhava, made of stone: why a
reversal of the usual transformation process here?
The result is that at one of the most famous places of pilgrimage,
not only is the centre of devotion constituted by crude wooden logs
dressed up as Hindu deities, but this wooden form is also consciously
and conscientiously maintained through elaborate and secret rituals
of periodical renewal. In many other temples in India, there is a
lively devotion around sacred trees standing somewhere off centre.
There are many temple stories about sacred trees that once formed
the old core of the sacred complex, a fact that might come back in
the name of such a temple, the name of the deity, or the specific
rituals performed under the tree now.38 In the Jagannàth temple
compound, there is such a tree, but the main statues are not con-
nected with this tree: they have come from outside, and are made
from the wood of other trees. Not only does the wood of the con-
temporary statues come from outside the temple (found sometimes
as far away as ninety kilometres), there is no traditional connection
between the famous va†a (banyan, nyagrodha) tree of ancient Purußot-
tamakßetra and the wooden statues in the sanctum.39
38
Examples are found in many South Indian temples which are said to have a
sthalav‰kßa, the sacred tree with which it all started. In a way the famous va†a (banyan,
nyagrodha) tree in the Purì temple compound, under which the original Nìlamàdhava
statue is said to have been worshipped by the tribal chief Vi≤vavàsu, is such a
sthalav‰kßa. At the same time it is a kalpav‰kßa (wishing tree), as well as an akßaya-va†a
(a tree granting eternal life to the ancestors and a full life-span to whomever prays
to it).
39
Among many kinds of plurality we seem to have a tree pluralism here as well.

262 chapter four
In the various stories, the first wooden log is said to have been
found on the beach, where it had stranded after floating down the
Mahànadì river. This wooden log got connected with K‰ß»a in sev-
eral ways: as a chip of K‰ß»a’s wooden bier that came drifting down
to Purì; as the unburnt part of his corpse; via his promise to rein-
carnate in wooden form at the time of Kaliyuga; and in the suppo-
sition that part of the sacred brahmapadàrtha could be K‰ß»a’s bones
or ashes. More generally, this log was connected with Viß»u in sev-
eral ways as well: in the legend that it was one of Viß»u’s hairs that
came floating to the Purì beach; in the form of his avatàra N‰siáha,
both narratively and iconographically portrayed as a pillar-deity; and
in the form of the ≤àlagràma stone, mentioned as one of the proba-
ble constituents of the brahmapadàrtha sealed in the log’s cavity.40 Yet
the fact remains that there is no story connecting this log with the
sacred va†a tree or the stone statue said to have formed the sacred
centre of the ancient Purußottamakßetra.
Another string of stories, probably more original than the reread
and rewritten Viß»u/K‰ß»a legends, is the tribal motif of the •abara
chief Vi≤vavàsu worshipping a stone statue of Nìlamàdhava under a
tree in the forest. There seems to be an incongruency between the
tribal worship of a stone Nìlamàdhava and the persisting ‘tribal’
claims on the wooden form of Jagannàth. An intermediary episode
is formed by the story of how the wooden log found by Indradyumna
could not be lifted by the king or his bràhma»a assistants, but only
by the tribal Vi≤vavàsu and his relatives, or, in another version, could
be lifted easily by the daitàs and only with great difficulty by the
bràhma»as. There is no continuing narrative tradition which would
explain the wooden origin of Jagannàth in one uninterrupted line
from a deity worshipped by a tribal chief, installed as the main deity
at Purì, by a king who had to incorporate tribal and bràhma»ic
Not only are there two sacred banyan trees in the Purì temple compound that have
nothing to do with the sacred neem trees from which the statues are made, tradi-
tionally Viß»u/K‰ß»a is associated with a≤vattha trees, and •iva with banyans. Neem
trees are often married to a≤vattha trees in South India.
40
About Viß»u’s hair, see Geib, Indradyumna Legende, p. 86, Purußottama-màhàtmya
23, 47–78, and 18, 13ab, as well as Verrier Elwin, Tribal Myths of Orissa (1954),
p. 4, and Walter Ruben, Krishna: Konkordanz und Kommentar der Motive seines Heldenlebens
(1943), p. 44. On K‰ß»a’s promise to reincarnate in wooden form, see Eschmann,
et al., The Cult of Jagannath, p. 142, and R.K. Dash, Legends, pp. 24 and 32; on
N‰siáha as a pillar-deity, see Eschmann, et al., The Cult of Jagannath, pp. 101–117;
on the ≤àlagrama stone, see R.K. Dash, Legends, p. 151.

elements in his newly welded realm. Things are not that simple or
unilinear in the case of Jagannàth. There seems to be a case of mul-
tiple inversion here.
Both the legendary king Indradyumna of Màlava and the histor-
ical Orissan kings like Yayàti II, Narasiáha I and Ràja Ràma-
candradeva I play a role in the attribution, adoption, adaptation,
appropriation and assimilation processes. A king, however power-
ful as he might have been, needed to cement bonds and alliances:
in Orissa a king’s new subjects would probably be predominantly
tribal. The bràhma»ic community of Orissa is said to be partly con-
nected with Dravidian dynasties in the South, but also with Northern
and Central Indian immigrants. Kings sometimes regulated the struc-
ture of the social community around them by inviting and subsidis-
ing bràhma»as from other parts of the country to settle in the newly
conquered, less Àryanised/bràhma»ised areas of his realm. The Purì
bràhma»as often tell these stories, and how they came from Àryavarta,
particularly Kanauj, centuries ago, at the instigation of Orissan kings.41
In India, the relationship between royalty and bràhma»as has often
been controversial, antagonistic and competitive, but in general it
was assumed that kings needed the cooperation of the bràhma»as, just
as much as the bràhma»as needed the royal patronage. Although
Orissan bràhma»as must, at some point, have seen how powerful the
new cult was becoming, and started the process of rereading, rewrit-
ing and retelling the stories that could possibly connect the authen-
tic literary sources with the new developments taking place in the
Purì cult, they made no effort to erase the traces of possible tribal
origin.42 They combined the motifs, the narrative strands, the pil-
grimage lore, the iconological and sectarian traditions, and some-
times perhaps rewrote them to make the cult theologically and
41
On the bràhma»a settlement projects of Orissan kings, see Geib, Indradyumna
Legende, p. 6, Schneider, Holzgott, p. 146, Rosel, Der Palast, pp. 107–109, 118–120,
and 333–335) and Kulke’s contributions in Eschmann et al., The Cult of Jagannath
in general.
42
One of such bràhma»ic efforts of legitimation is found in the Purußottama-
mahàtmya, a part of the Skandapurà»a, studied by Geib, Indradyumna Legende. Two of
the quotations with which this essay opened, are taken from this text. The first
quotation, taken, at random, from a °gvedic magic formula, of which the familiar
Sanskrit words ‘dàru’ (wood), ‘plavate’ (floats), ‘sindho pare’ (on the other side of the
river) and ‘apurußam’ (non-human) for Purì bràhma»as immediately evoke the Purà»ic
stories of Jagannàth’s origin, is an even stronger illustration of this bràhma»ic legit-
imation process.

264 chapter four
philosophically plausible, but obviously without the compulsion to

write the tribal factor away and cover it beneath the Purì sand. On
the contrary, not only was the wooden form explained, justified and
sanctioned in the light of the traditional scriptures, the crude wooden
form was kept deliberately and intentionally. Whereas many tribal
customs changed over the centuries, the form that had entered the
high-bràhma»ism or high-Hinduism of Purì did not change, and
became a tradition in itself.
Although the direct connection between the tribal •abara tradi-
tion and Jagannàth cannot be conclusively argued in terms of his-
tory, efforts have been made to show the uninterrupted continuum
from uniconic tribal cults, via village shrines, sub-regional Hindu
temples to the great all-India centres of Hindu pilgrimage.43 The
present form of the Purì deities, in that case, would not so much
be representative or typical of the tribal tradition, but rather of the
process of Hinduisation in tribal groups.44 In that sense the Hinduisa-
tion can be deduced from such exterior indications as the dresses
and the jewelry; such ritual indications as the elaborate pratiß†hà
ceremonies to make the statue into a mùrti, as well as the daily
pùjà offered to it; such theological/philosophical indications as the
incorporation of Jagannàth in the system of Viß»u’s avatàras, and the
triad that was formed to represent Vaiß»ava, •aiva and •àkta consti-
tuents, or the quartet (that was formed when Sudar≤ana was added)
in an analogy to the four Vedas. The emphasis on the continuous
brahmapadàrtha throughout all the perishable wooden forms is, more-
over, an illustration of the all-Hindu belief in àtman, brahman, and
reincarnation.
43
For this continuum, see Eschmann et al., The Cult of Jagannath, her own chap-
ters IV, V, and XIV; also figures 56–70. A useful resumé (called Shri Jagannatha
Smarika) is to be found in the booklet that was published on the occasion of the
prà»a-pratiß†hà ceremony of a Jagannàth temple in Delhi, edited by B.K. Dash (1979),
with contributions by M. Mansinha, A. Eschmann and H. von Stietencron.
44
It is not necessarily the bràhma»a way that has the greatest impact in processes
of Hinduisation; rather, village Hinduism might often represent an intermediary
stage working both ways. Sanskritisation might be a useful term in some other cases,
but I see no indication that in the history of the Jagannàth cult there was only a
one-way process, that of ‘upward’ social mobility. For the irrelevance of the term
Sanskritisation in a modern Orissan temple, see James Preston, Cult of the Goddess:
Social and Religious Change in a Hindu Temple (1980a), p. 95. I am not sure either that
the Jagannàth cult actually represents a case of tribalisation or regionalisation. I see
too many multiple processes at work here and I am reluctant to use those terms.

To what extent this Hinduisation process among some of the trib-

als had started already before the daitàs became connected with the
Purì temple cannot be recovered. Nor can it be made out in what
iconographical stage the deities Purußottama, Nìlamàdhava, N‰siáha
and K‰ß»a were at that point of Orissan history; nor is it known
what probable •aiva prototypes like Ekapada Bhairava, or tribal pro-
totypes like Stambhe≤varì, looked like at that time.45 At the present
state of knowledge, it seems to me that to speak of an uninterrupted
continuum is too bold a statement. I would prefer to speak of mul-
tidirectional forces. At the same time, both the •aiva and the Vaiß»ava
iconography in this case have too many lacunae to prove that the
forms of Jagannàth and his companions are directly connected with
•iva, Viß»u and •aktì. At some stage, maybe gradually, maybe forcibly
by some king’s intervention or by bràhma»ical reinterpretation, or
even by some reformer’s or mystic’s authority, there must have been
an assimilation and incorporation that spoke to the hearts of many,
in spite of all the incongruencies and inconsistencies.
Simultaneously, the practical necessity to replace decaying wooden
statues, or the historical fact of Muslim threat, or even the kingly-priestly
creation of an elaborate ceremony which would integrate not only
the bràhma»ic, tribal and royal elements but also a great part of
Orissa’s geography, might all have been factors in the origin of the
Navakalevara tradition now under closer scrutiny.
4.3 The allocation of tasks
All the plural strands mentioned above are present in the series of
the renewal rituals called Navakalevara. When we look at the whole
picture, we see that the main purpose is to procure new statues in
a ritually auspicious way, but the rituals have numerous forms and
functions, depending on the various stages. When we analyse these
forms and functions by looking at who does what, there is, indeed,
a tendency for the ‘tribal’ functionaries to be assigned tasks that are
connected with the bare body of the deities, that is, the original
forms of the gods underneath their Hindu clothes and jewelry.46 No
45
See especially Joanna Gottfried Williams, ‘•iva and Jagannàtha’ (1984), pp.
298–311.
46
According to Marglin, the daitàs look like Hindus, but their connection with

266 chapter four
wonder the daitàs play such a prominent role in the Navakalevara

ceremony. The daitàs are traditionally said to be the only ones who
know how to carve and paint the wooden logs, but this seems to be
considered not merely an inherited knowledge or craft, but a mys-
tical proximity as well;47 not only do they carve the logs in com-
plete silence and secrecy, they are the ones, together with the
patimahàpatra, who perform the crucial, most vital rite of all, the trans-
ference of the brahmapadàrtha at midnight.
If it were not for their role in this transference rite, one could
easily be led to the conclusion that the tasks are assigned in the
usual var»a hierarchy: after the ràjaguru, the patimahàpatra and the
senior daità have symbolically touched the sacred tree with a gold
and silver axe respectively, it is the task of the ‘tribals’ (i.e. the daitàs,
and among them particularly the mahàra»as or woodcutters) to really
physically handle the tree. It is the daitàs who cut and carve the raw
material of the wooden logs; who transfer the brahmapadàrtha from
the uncovered old bodies to the still nude new bodies: who bury the
old statues and go into mourning because of their deceased relative;
and who paint the characteristic faces. But as soon as the more the-
ological or more ≤àstric parts are to be played, the bràhma»as come
to the front and do things their bràhma»ic way: the pùjà in the
Kàka†pur temple; their knowledge of which special signs to look for
during the search; their expertise in the ritual prescriptions for the
dàrupùjà and vanayàga as well as for the pratiß†hà rituals related to the
nyàsadàru; and their special roles in the netrotsava and navayauvana-dar≤ana.
Meanwhile, it is the patimahàpatra who seems to be the main actor,
a kind of master of ceremonies, who is continuously present at what
is experienced to be the core of the ceremony: he gives the garlands
to the gods; he receives the vision at the feet of the goddess; he (or
the ràjaguru) lights the Vedic fire: he (or the ràjaguru) is the one who
symbolically strikes the dàru first; he is present in the secret chamber
the temple is often considered to be inauspicious. I do not fully agree on this point
of inauspiciousness, but accept her term ‘ambiguity’ (Marglin, Wives of the God-King,
pp. 244–247. Their characteristic other Purì designation, angasebak (a«gasevaka, body-
servant), carries this same ambiguity.
47
It is told that Bhadrakalì (a local •abara goddess) at a given time transformed
herself into Uttaraya»ì (a goddess already present in the temple court) to transmit
the secret knowledge about the wood for the statues. There is a parallel story told
about the goddess Ja∂e≤varì, who transformed herself into a temple sevaka in order
to transmit the necessary details of the Navakalevara to the priests. See also Rösel,
Der Palast, p. 249.

when the statues are cut and carved; he transfers the brahmapadàrtha
from the old Jagannàth to the new one; and supposedly he is the
one who paints in the eyes when the daitàs have finished their job.48
A simplistic interpretation of the Navakalevara ceremony in terms
of the usual hierarchy, namely the allocation of tasks according to
sacrificial and menial duties, would not be valid here. At the high
point of the Navakalevara ceremony, all the temple functionaries
have to leave the temple, all lights are blacked out, only the patimahà-
patra and the three main daitàs remain for the very solemn and secret
rite of transferring the essence. It is not relevant here what this
essence really is: be it ashes, bones, a piece of wood, a ≤àlagràma
stone, a combination of metals, Buddha’s tooth, or whatever; what
really counts is that this very substance is regarded as brahman, the
most essential, the most precious, the most mystic core of the stat-
ues. And while it is the patimahàpatra who transfers the brahmapadàrtha
from the old Jagannàth statue to the new one, it is the three daitàs
whose task it is to transfer the essence of Balabhadra, Subhadrà and
Sudar≤ana.
We could counterargue that at this stage all eight statues are in
the nude, so that it is to be expected that it is the daitàs’ task. Yet,
since all are blindfolded, with hands covered in cloth, and a com-
plete black-out of lights is ordered for the whole of Purì, no one
really sees the wooden statues at all. Wouldn’t it be more fitting in
the normal allocation of tasks in the temple, and more consonant
with the traditional var»a way, for bràhma»as to perform this rite?
There is no startling conclusion to be drawn from this a-typical
prominence of the daitàs and the absence of bràhma»as during the
reincarnation rite, especially in the light of the fact that a huge group
of bràhma»as is indeed engaged in elaborate pratiß†hà rituals, in which
a relatively small piece of wood, as bare and naked as the logs them-
selves, which is later to serve as a lid covering the brahmapadàrtha, is
being consecrated. Rather, we can state that the pluralistic allocation
of tasks in the Navakalevara shows a pattern that can be recognised
48
There is a continuous confusion in the descriptions about the subtler points
of the central acts. It appears that those authors who tended to have more bràhma»a
informants than representatives of other groups often ascribe the ‘highest’ tasks to
the bràhma»as, whereas those who sought their information from mixed groups of
sevakas, tend to accord the highest prestige in the Navakalevara rituals to the patimahà-
patra, as a kind of middle figure mediating between the tribal origin and the
bràhma»ic appropriation.

268 chapter four
as more or less typical of the var»a hierarchy in a bràhma»ised or

hinduised setting, but with one important exception, which makes
the above statement only a tentative one. In the following discourse
on the ritual analysis, we will come back to this role of the daitàs
in the transference rite.
The plurality of roles in the daily life of the temple, and in the
other festivals throughout the year, is well mirrored in the cast of
characters in the Navakalevara ceremony. Although the numbers
given in the various accounts vary greatly, the reports seem to agree,
more or less, on the main characters. According to Tripathi, the
vanayàtrà starts with the following persons: 1 patimahàpatra, 21 daitàs,
and 12 other functionaries. Later the ràjaguru, also called àcàrya, joins
the party. Four bràhma»as from the Vallabha à≤rama-ma†ha are added,
and, during the vanayàga, another four bràhma»as join the party from
the neighbouring villages where the tree was found. A group of nine
bràhma»as thus faces a group of 21 daitàs and 12 other sevakas (musi-
cians, policemen, woodcutters, etc.). According to Khuntia, however,
the composition of the group is as follows: 1 patimahàpatra, 20 daità-
patis, 1 lenka, 9 mahàra»as, 16 bràhma»as, 3 deulkàra»as, 30 police officers,
and 2 inspectors of police. This makes a total of 82 persons and
gives a completely different picture of the additional tasks. The group
of nine mahàra»as is described as the actual woodcutters: they are
the ones who cut the tree, and later carve the wood, with the assis-
tance of many other daitàs. They are the ones who make the new
chariots every year, and who will now make the new statues as well.
They are supposed to be descendants of the woodcarver who sculpted
the very first Jagannàth statue for King Indradyumna: in the course
of the Navakalevara ceremony, the senior woodcutter is often called
Vi≤vakarma. The use of the original name for the descendant who
now plays that role strengthens the idea that the whole procedure
is a replay of the original events. Just as the senior daità is often
called Vi≤vavàsu, and the ràjaguru is called Vidyàpati, the renaming
of the actors in the ritual drama makes the Navakalevara a ritual
re-enactment of the events that established and re-established the
Jagannàth cult.
In this way, a distinction is made between the patimahàpatra, daitàs,
daitàpatis and mahàra»as. According to Tripathi, it is the patimahàpatra
who waits for a vision at the feet of the goddess Ma«galà, whereas
Khuntia maintains that it is the oldest daitàpati. A difference is also
seen when Khuntia describes the sequence of events beneath the

sacred tree: the patimahàpatra is said to touch the tree with a golden
axe, the daitàpati touches it with a silver axe, and the head wood-
carver of the Mahàra»a family touches it with an iron axe, after
which the other woodcutters will actually cut the tree. The main
point of difference in Khuntia’s enumeration of tasks is that not even
the patimahàpatra is allowed in the nirmà»a-ma»∂apa, neither during
the carving nor during the transference rite. Khuntia does not men-
tion the netrotsava and navayauvana-dar≤ana at all.
When we rely on Tripathi’s detailed scholarly description of the
Navakalevara ceremony held in 1969—he mentions that he was an
eye-witness at some of the rituals, and relied on both informants and
scriptures, we see a prominence of the patimahàpatra at all stages, and
a group of three main daitàs prominent whenever close contact with
the bare bodies is required. This role of the three daitàs is empha-
sised even more in Khuntia’s account. In a case like this, it will
hardly ever be possible to be certain and exact about such matters
as long as all official communications from the temple and the gov-
ernment agree on the confidential nature of the Navakalevara, and
as long as even the persons directly involved do not fully agree on
such matters as the allocation of tasks, and as long as the actual sit-
uations cannot be compared satisfactorily with the textual prescrip-
tions in the secret temple manuscripts and the oral heritage of the
daitàs.
There are temple manuals, such as the Nìlàdri-mahodaya, which
deal with the temple rituals, and several Jamala (Yàmala) texts, such
as the Brahmajamala, which deal with Jagannàth in particular. It is
said that in the palmleaf manuscript Nìlàdri-mahodaya, the places where
the sacred trees will be found are given centuries ahead. In this text,
also the special characteristics of the sacred trees are said to be given
for all four deities. As far as I know, such texts are not admissible
to outsiders. Some more texts, however, were found in other palm-
leaf collections in Orissa, such as those owned by the king, and thus
accessible to the ràjaguru. This circumstance brought them within
reach of a bràhma»a scholar like Tripathi, and copies of them are
present in the Heidelberg University library. Of those, I made a
closer study of the Vanayàgavidhi.49
At this stage, precept and practice cannot yet be adequately com-
pared. Yet, the material available shows a fascinating plurality of
49
MSS/567, copied by hand, in Devanàgarì script.

270 chapter four
roles, performed by a large variety of functionaries combining the

bràhma»ic, tribal and royal layers of Orissan society and culture.
The most intriguing aspect is the persisting role of the daitàs in the
playing out of the Navakalevara tradition, all the more so because
the prominent parts played by the daitàs cannot be explained from
any traditionally tribal way of renewing wooden statues. Daitàs turn
out to be neither the first worshippers of a wooden Jagannàth, nor
of an even earlier wooden Nìlamàdhava. There is nothing of that
sort that would explain the prerogative they have on the bare bod-
ies of the deities, nor does anything from a unilinear tribal tradition
justify why daitàs handle the brahmapadàrtha in the supreme moment
of transference. As long as the daitàs are the solemn actors in this,
more is called for than just the reductionistic model of a typically
bràhma»ic hierarchy in the allocation of tasks. We propose that part
of the answer lies in the historical circumstance that it was a ‘tribal’
temple servant who handled the brahmapadàrtha after the burning of
the Jagannàth statue(s) by the Muslim Kalapahad. This specific sit-
uation might have strongly affected the daitàs’ prerogative in the
transference rite.
4.4 Analysis: A ritual re-enactment
When we take the complete Navakalevara ceremony to consist of

five stages, we see that there is much more to it than its most obvi-
ous function of producing new statues. The new statues are again
made of wood, although all over India wood has long since been
replaced by stone or metal as the most fitting material for a statue.
Not only are the statues still made of the same perishable material,
the way their bodies are carved and their faces are painted is not
really typical of any tribal group in the area, at least not as they
are to be found now. Naturally, if there had ever been a prototype
that could be directly linked to the present Jagannàth figure, it would
long since have decayed, except in the very rare case that it had
miraculously been kept under favourable conditions. It may be sup-
posed that there has been a probably tribal tradition of carving
figures in about the same way as the Purì deities are now carved,
and that in the course of a Hinduisation process the clothes, jew-
elry and garlands were added. Particularly A. Eschmann has tried
to explain the present look of the Purì deities from such a Hinduisation

process within a tribal tradition. The reason that the figures are kept
that way—crude wooden forms all dressed up—might be that the
famous temple acted as a conservatory or museum. Once the form
got separated from its natural context and was lifted up to the
high-Hindu surroundings of the Purì temple, it remained basically
unaltered. Whereas many rituals and festivals around the deities could
develop more or less freely, and many costumes, make-up and other
finery (the so-called ve≤as) became an established part of the temple’s
ritual calendar, the basic frames remained what they were.
Orissan history is full of wars that were fought on its soil, and
the involvement of the Orissan kings with the Purì temple cult is
based on a partly legendary, partly historical connection between
kings, allies, state deities and the sacred geography of ancient Purì.
Whereas the legendary king Indradyumna is said to have established
the wooden figure of Nìlamàdhava-Jagannàth at the top of the Blue
Hill of Purußottamakßetra, it is the historical figure of Ràja Ràma-
candradeva I who is called the second Indradyumna, by virtue of
his act of re-establishing new wooden statues after the old ones had
been burned. The relevance of this story for the Navakalevara cer-
emony in its present form is that, indeed, there was something to
be transferred. This story, whether historically true or not, is valu-
able for the claim that the Purì tradition of the wooden image was,
essentially, uninterrupted. From the charred remains of the statues
the brahmapadàrtha was recovered and kept hidden in a far-off vil-
lage. It was this very essence that was transferred to the cavity in
the newly made statues, thus guaranteeing an unbroken line. To
what extent this is history or temple legend, and as such probably
a reconstruction, cannot be recovered, but the historical facts of
repeated Muslim raids in Orissa, combined with the ancient narra-
tive motifs of lost-and-recovered deities, make it a plausible tale.
In what way, and by whom, the rituals of periodical renewal were
developed, it is difficult to say. It is often maintained that it was
•a«kara (around 800) who hinduised or bràhma»ised the Purì tem-
ple rituals that he found to be almost completely tribal in charac-
ter, that it was Ràmànuja (around 1100) who established the pàñcaràtra
mode of worship, and that it was Caitanya (around 1500) who
K‰ß»aised them. Of K‰ß»a there is no trace in the Navakalevara
tradition apart from his explicit connection with the wooden form.
Would this imply that the Navakalevara tradition had already become
established in a fixed form before Caitanya and Jayadeva came to

272 chapter four
Purì? Although nowadays some people justify the Navakalevara taking

place during a double Àßàdha month with the legend that it was
exactly in such an intercalendary Àßàdha month that K‰ß»a died,
this seems to have no relevance to our question about the age of
the Navakalevara rituals. It is a fact that the Navakalevara cere-
mony, as we know it now, takes such a long stretch of time to be
completed, that an extra month in the ritual calendar neatly solves
the time problem. In such a manner, the periodical rituals do not
come in the way of the annual rituals: what would be more logical
than to place the Navakalevara sequence of rituals as partly coin-
ciding with the Anavasara and directly prior to the annual car
festival?
The rathayàtrà is normally preceded by the period of Anavasara,
the time when the gods are indisposed after their public bath. They
are given time to recuperate, and remain hidden for a fortnight. In
this period, the daitàs perform the Anavasara-nìtis, which are said to
consist of extensive repainting of the statues after their bath. These
rituals are secret, hidden from view completely. Afterwards the gods
re-emerge, in their freshly painted form, one day before the rathayàtrà
starts, and they give dar≤ana to the assembled crowd. This special
dar≤ana is called navayauvana-dar≤ana, meaning that the deities appear
in their youthful form. On the next day, which is the second day
of the bright fortnight of Àßàdha, the car festival begins. When a
renewal of the statues is due, the temple’s calculation is such that
the end of the Navakalevara coincides exactly with the regular navayau-
vana-dar≤ana: the only difference is that at the completion of a full
renewal the gods are presented in their new, and not merely repainted,
form. Although the schedule is tight, the extra Àßàdha month leaves
enough time for the carving, consecration, transference, mourning
and painting.
That the procurement of the raw material for the statues is bound
by numerous rules and regulations is not surprising when one knows
about the ancient Vedic ways of procuring a tree for the yùpa or
Indra-dhvaja, or for procuring wood meant for specific religious pur-
poses.50 And when one is familiar with the manuals that were tra-
ditionally used when houses and especially temples were to be built,
50
Authoritative authors on this are Varàhamihira (such as in B‰hatsaáhità 59.1
and 5cd) and Marici (as in Vimànàrcanakalpa and Vaikhanasa Àgama); other texts are
Bhavißyapurà»a 131.6 and Àpastambìya G‰hyasùtra 3.9.3.

or statues to be consecrated, the elaborate ways of the Navakalevara

tradition can be better understood in the light of such ≤àstric pre-
scriptions. Yet one cannot help wondering in what way such Vedic
and ≤àstric traditions found their way into the Purì temple: it is not
that those habits have been adhered to there since Vedic times, it
is not that the ≤àstric prescriptions have been valid there since the
beginning of its history. Rather, they must have been introduced at
a stage when almost everywhere else new ways were already taking
over.51 The Jagannàth temple cult seems to be not only a museum
where ancient forms were walled in against external changes, there
even seem to have been several reversal processes in the form of
reinvented traditions.52
But what is all the more intriguing is that this is not merely a
bràhma»ic orchestration of a cult in a place set up as an orthodox
centre of pùjà and pilgrimage, but also a visible stronghold of ‘tribal’
ties and traditions. Although the bràhma»ical take-over from the
king and the subsequent reconstruction in their hands are obvious
in many ways, the ‘tribal’ ties are not effaced, at least not so in the
Navakalevara ceremony.
We have no clue as to how the allocation of tasks became settled
in the temple. It could have been a gradual process, it could indeed
have been •a«kara and Ràmànuja who bràhma»ised the goings-on
in the temple, but we do not know how the daitàs managed to keep
their stronghold in the temple rituals, and their so-called birthrights
or kinship rights to Jagannàth as well. According to the Ka†akarà-
javaá≤àvali, it was King Ràmacandradeva who acknowledged Bishar
Mohanty’s role and conferred upon him the post of ‘nàyaka (chief )
51
About this reversal, reinvention, or “Rückgriff ”, see Schneider, Holzgott, p. 16:
“(. . .) dann sind das eben doch nicht mehr die vedischen Verhältnisse; es ist vielmehr
ein Rückgriff auf sie, der nur moglich wird, indem man einen riesigen zeitlichen
Bogen spannt (. . .)”.
52
When one studies the origins and history of bràhma»as in Orissa, one sees that
many of the dynasties brought their own bràhma»ic experts but also took over the
locally established ‘kßetra’ bràhma»as in the processes of legitimation and assimilation
(Rösel, Der Palast, p. 118). Some of the imported bràhma»as from northwestern and
southern India were known to be staunch ‘vaidikas’. I was told in South India that
nowadays only bràhma»as from the Kar»à†aka coast would be able to perform the
Vedic sacrificial and consecrational rituals following exactly all the prescriptions con-
cerning the kind of wood used for fires and implements. It remains a question to
what extent authentically Vedic and authentically tribal traditions have actually
shaped the Navakalevara set of rituals. Both traditions may well have been involved
in processes of change before they got connected with Purì.

274 chapter four
of the Purußottamakßetra’. And it was the same king who called back
to Purì the hereditary temple servants and created new posts for ser-
vices for which no sevakas were available. It is they who come to the
front as soon as the basic physical aspect of the deities is at issue.
And, as we have seen, the transference of the mysterious life-sub-
stance surprisingly belongs to their role as well.
In this way, when we speak of Vedic, epic, Purà»ic, ≤àstric and
‘tribal’ elements in the sequence of the Navakalevara rituals, we are
well aware that the present form must be a result of plural processes.
There are several categories in this ritual process: pùjà, dhyàna, yàtrà,
dar≤ana, dàrupùjà, vanayàga in the first phase; there is snàna, pratiß†hà,
pramàna or rùpakara»a in the second phase; there is prà»apratiß†hà or
brahmapratiß†hà in the third phase; there are burial, mourning and a
communal meal in the fourth phase, and there are ve≤akara»a, netrot-
sava, and navayauvana-dar≤ana in the final phase. Compared to what
is usual in India today, this is very elaborate, very traditional, in a
way even archaic. When seen in the light of the relatively young
age of the Jagannàth cult, this is all the more remarkable.
Although the Navakalevara is not part of the annual calendar, it
is fully integrated in the ritual cycle of the temple. The last stage,
that of painting, decorating and presenting to the public even coin-
cides with the annual repainting after the Anavasara stage. This inte-
gration of the Navakalevara in the normal rhythm of the Purì temple
goes so far that at the night of the transference rite all other tem-
ple sevakas are sent home, all lights are blacked out, so that no one,
not even from a rooftop or the top of a tree, would be able to see
what is going on at the innermost core of the temple. Even the
actors themselves do not see what it is they carry in their hands.
This unique rite, in all its darkness and secrecy, forms the high point
of the Navakalevara procedure. It is what gives sense to everything,
the deities, their form, their history, their rituals, their place in the
pilgrimage tradition, their rank in the series of avatàras, their basis
in the scriptural traditions, their connections with the local past,
and, most of all, with the great Hindu scheme of things in the
brahman-àtman-reincarnation train of thought. God is not only present
in the Purì statues—if properly consecrated any statue is a mùrti—,
the Jagannàth mùrtis are doubly divine by the presence of the undy-
ing essence, the brahman hidden in the cavity.
While many of the ritual aspects merit much more attention than
they have received here, I focus on the moment of transference

because it conveys the core of the procedure, but also because it is

an act mainly in the hands of the daitàs. Their privileged position
has been explained from the observed fact of the daitàs’ kinship with
the bare bodies, yet, since all are blindfolded, this bare-body hypoth-
esis hardly counts as an explanation for their role in the transfer-
ence rite. Moreover, it is not the bodies of the deities that are relevant
in the rite, but it is their guha, their nàbhi , their sacred core in which
the brahman resides.53 This highest of the highest is handled by the
daitàs. This fact cannot be explained from the normal allocation of
tasks in the temple, not from the traditional var»a hierarchy in Indian
society, and not from any specific habit that the •abaras or Khonds
used to have, or still have, either. The only plausible answer seems
to lie in the special prerogative the daitàs have had since Bishar
Mohanty retrieved the brahmapadàrtha from the charred remains and
brought it back to Purì, where it was installed inside new wooden
forms. Although there are many indications that the whole of the
Navakalevara is set up as a ritual re-enactment, the special role the
daitàs have in the transference rite underlines this understanding of
the periodical renewal as an elaborate playing out of the origins.
When we compare the descriptions of the Navakalevara ceremony
with the two events that gave shape to it, there are the following
parallels: (1) a search party, (2) a dream in which the whereabouts
of the log are shown, (3) the forest, (4) a tree or wooden log that
is found, (5) lifting and handling of the log by the •abaras/daitàs,
(6) the carving, (7) the transference of the sacred remains or sacred
essence.
When we compare the Navakalevara with other relic cults, the
comparison lacks sufficient ground due to the unique fact of peri-
odical renewal of the wooden casing. When we compare it with
other pillar cults, we see that some tribal groups do have occasional
replacements of their wooden posts, and that some of these posts
are even said to contain something special in a cavity, like gold nails,
or other metal objects, but I know of no tribal tradition, now exist-
ing, that calls the content of such a cavity by the name of brahman
or brahmapadàrtha. In high-Hinduism, there are other instances of
some mysterious thing, whether substantial or ethereal, generally
called prà»a, which could be separated from a mùrti, if circumstances
53
Some call it chest, or heart, others navel (nàbhi ).

276 chapter four
required this,54 but no other situation is known to me where this is

done regularly and integrated in the normal ritual cycle.
A relic can be encased in a new casing, but the Jagannàth cult
is not a relic cult, it is the deities themselves that are worshipped,
not the relic they might have inside.55 A symbolical object might be
buried beneath a house or temple to be constructed, thus forming
its pratiß†hà; life ( prà»a) can be ritually given to a statue, or ritually
taken away from it; but none of the parallels closely fits the Purì
situation. There is a ritual plurality here that cannot be made fully
plausible except when we allow for a special, historically given ‘tribal’
claim to proximity and kinship, based not only on their original
affinity with the bare bodies, but also, as seen above, on a mystical
kinship caused by Bishar Mohanti’s handling of the brahmapadàrtha
rescued from the charred remains.
Whether there has ever been a kind of competition or rivalry in
this respect, whether the temple- or palace bràhma»as ever claimed
that they, and not the daitàs, ought to be the main actors in the
transference rite, is not known to me, but it seems not too daring
a supposition when I assume that as part of a Hinduisation process
the ‘tribal’ priests themselves started to equate the secret contents of
the cavity with the high-Hindu concept of brahman. In that case,
there would, on closer scrutiny, not be a ritual anomaly, but a mutual
rapprochement.
In most of the literature on the Navakalevara the role of the god-
dess Ma«galà in Kàka†pur is mentioned, but only in an article by
Apffel Marglin and Mishra is given a plausible reason for her role.56
In the Ma«galà-mahàpurà»a it is stated that Durgà is also called
Ma«galà. In Orissa she is considered a ≤akti of the goddess that was
54
See Rösel, Der Palast, p. X, who quotes a newspaper article about the priests
of the famous Vithal temple of Pandharpur who, out of protest against the admis-
sion of untouchables to the temple, had taken out the ‘pran’ ( prà»a, lifeforce) from
the statue and kept it in a copper pot.
55
The reverse (ancient sacred wood that becomes encased in metal or stone, and
is thus kept for posterity) can be seen here and there. In my travels through South
India, I found some of such encased remains of the sthalav‰kßa still present in the
temple that got built adjacent to the sacred tree.
56
Frédérique Apffel Marglin and Purna Chandra Mishra, ‘Death and Regeneration:
Brahmin and Non-brahmin Narratives’ (1991), pp. 209–230. On some other aspects
of the goddess Ma«galà in Orissa, see Lynn Foulston, At the Feet of the Goddess. The
Divine Feminine in Local Hindu Religion (2002).

born when Durgà, having grown tired after fighting with Mahißàsura,
was thrown into the ocean where she floated around helplessly. When
she breathed out, a baby girl was born who immediately grew into
a goddess. Together with Durgà, Ma«galà pulled the demon out of
the ocean and killed him. Because she had benefitted all, she was
called Ma«galà. In the above mentioned article, Marglin and Mishra
tried to collect several versions of Ma«galà’s story (kathà) as recited
on the occasion of her festival during the month of Caitra (March/
April) of 1987. In one narrative, told by a priest, Ma«galà is con-
nected with Ràma’s pursuit of Ràva»a in Si«gala Dìpa (•rì La«kà)
where she stayed behind when Ràma went back to India. After
ardent prayers by a young Orissa woman, Mamatà, the goddess con-
sented to come back to Utkala (Orissa). Arriving at the mouth of
the river Pràcì, which flows by Ma«galà’s temple in Kàka†pur, the
goddess went into the water and could not be found. Her purpose
was that by being in the river she could calm the waves of the sea
so that the dàru (the middle part of K‰ß»a’s body that would not
burn and was thrown into the sea by Arjuna) would come ashore
at the mouth of the river Banki near Purì. Slowly, by Ma«galà’s
calming action, the dàru floated ashore, where it was found by the
envoys of King Indradyumna.
Meanwhile, the girl Mamatà, praying on the banks of the Pràcì
river for the return of the goddess, was told to take a flower and
throw it into the river; wherever the flower would stop, there the
statue of the goddess would be found. Two bràhma»as managed to
find it, get it out, and transport it to Deuli Ma†hà in Ma«galàpur,
where it was worshipped. Later, in the time of the British, it was
brought to a new temple, built in nearby Kàka†pur by the Bengali
merchant/zamindar Manomohan Roy.
When King Indradyumna of Purì, who had built Jagannàth’s tem-
ple after a divine voice had told him that a dàru from the sea should
be installed there, had to renew the images, he proposed to consult
Ma«galà, as it was she who had caused the dàru to come ashore.
So, since then, the search party from Purì comes to pray to Ma«galà
in order to receive her advice on where the sacred trees are located.
In fact, in the various versions quoted in the article, there is a fine
distinction not made in the other summaries of the Navakalevara
procedure. In order to find the sacred trees, the delegation first goes
to Ma«galà’s Deuli Ma†hà in Ma«galàpur where the image was first
placed. There they expect to receive the knowledge in a dream.

278 chapter four
Only if this fails, they go to the present Ma«galà temple in neigh-

bouring Kàka†pur where they place flowers on the statue in order
to divine the position of the trees from the manner in which the
flowers fall from her statue to the ground.
This episode of the flowers may well have its origin in the way
Ma«galà’s statue was found in the river Pràcì, indicated by a flower
floating there. In the same way that King Indradyumna was told
about the dàru in a dream, the priests are told the whereabouts of
the new dàrus in a dream. And in the same way that Ma«galà’s
stone form was indicated by a flower, the flowers in Ma«galà’s tem-
ple divine the position of the trees. These two narrative parallels
have become woven into the intricate web of Navakalevara rituals.
Our presentation of the Navakalevara procedure as a ritual re-enact-
ment of the founding events,—be they mythical or historical—is thus
supported by these little-known details provided by the recitations
on the occasion of Ma«galà’s fire-walking festival. This festival com-
memorates the birth of the new era, the arrival of the dàru on the
shore of Purì.
By taking into account both bràhma»a and non-bràhma»a sources,
as well as oral stories giving legitimacy to local customs, it is possi-
ble to make sense of an extremely intricate fabric of narratives and
rituals.
4.5 Conclusion
If any conclusion may be drawn at this stage, it seems that, although

the direct historical link between tribal traditions and the wooden
temple deities at Purì has not been satisfactorily proved, the daitàs
have a prerogative on the bare wooden bodies of the statues. The
allocation of tasks for the daitàs is shown to be based on a special
prerogative rather than a binary opposition between sacrificial and
menial tasks, or between auspicious and inauspicious duties.
The five-phased Navakalevara procedure has the direct practical
purpose of periodically producing new mùrtis, but beyond this prac-
tical purpose it has the elaborate form of a ritual re-enactment of
two partly legendary, partly historical events. It has been demon-
strated how the Navakalevara ritual procedure is composed of at
least seven elements derived from those events, the re-enactment of
which significantly determines the fixed form of the periodical renewal.

In these rituals there is an intriguing cooperation of royalty, bràhma»a

priests and ‘tribal’ temple functionaries. Elements of tree worship,
tribal wooden pillar-deities, royal power politics, Vedic, epic and
≤àstric traditions, popular •ivaitic and Viß»uitic cults, and Orissan
state history are all blended to form an intrareligious whole that is
both strikingly archaic and very much alive.
Relating back to the ubiquitous theme of rituals around sacred
trees, we can state that in the contemporary Navakalevara cere-
monies we have found an intriguing example of continued sacrality.
In contrast to the other chapters, however, the emphasis is on wood
rather than trees. Although there are numerous sacred trees both in
the temple compound and outside, the focus is on the dàru, the log
of wood with which the present era is supposed to have begun. As
such, it is a story more of human imaginations and machinations
than of nature. At the same time, the basic material which the mùrtis
are made of is not man-made, but naturally and spontaneously grown
(svayaábhù). The link between forests, rivers, ocean, temple, and stat-
ues remains unbroken.
A variety of narratives, both oral and scriptural, is indispensible
for understanding the procedure of the New Embodiment as a rit-
ual re-enactment of a series of loosely connected founding events.
Its composite character may be partly based on re-invention and
reconstruction, yet, it is the four trees growing in the forest, and the
four wooden logs inside the temple which continue to take centre
stage.

CHAPTER FIVE
CONTEMPORARY TREE WORSHIP
Introduction
In the preceding chapters, we have seen examples of how diverse

and multilayered the ideas about the sacredness of trees are. The
words ‘diversity’ and ‘multilayeredness’ are used here to refer to
sacrality, as the sacredness of trees was the object of our research.
This focus on sacredness should not, however, blind us to the quo-
tidian realities, such as expressed by M.S. Randhawa:
“Why did the Hindus regard the pipal tree as so sacred?” I often won-
dered. A pipal tree beside the village pond is the village club where
the villagers assemble for an afternoon chat. Under its hospitable shade
the wayfarer seeks refuge from the heat of the sun in summer, the
elders gather for gossip and the boys watch the buffaloes enjoying their
afternoon bath.1
In the empirical study The sacred in popular Hinduism carried out by
A.M. Abraham Ayrookuzhiel in Chirakkal, North Malabar, it appears
that many of the people interviewed believed in the mahàtmyam (great-
ness) and ≤reß†ham (prosperity) of plants and trees, but far less in their
ai≤varyam or daivìkam or divyatvam.2 A comparably casual elucidation
of the phenomenon of sacred trees is found in the Mahàbhàrata, such
as in the phrase ‘par»a-phala-anvita˙’.3 What is striking when we
turn to the present is that those various layers do not exist in a his-
torically layered developmental sequence, such as in an archeologi-
cal excavation which presents time in vertically segregated layers: in
contemporary India, they exist simultaneously.
When I started to collect material on the sacredness of trees in
India some ten years ago, I had no idea of the extent of this unbro-
ken, widespread continuity. I started to study texts and iconography,
but hardly relied on rituals I had actually seen being performed dur-
1
M.S. Randhawa, Flowering Trees, p. 4.
2
A.M. Abraham Ayrookuzhiel, The sacred in popular Hinduism (1983), pp. 44–48.
3
Àdiparvan 138.25.

contemporary tree worship 281
ing my earlier travels. I had witnessed, with the typical reaction of

the historian, that the bodhi tree in Bodhgayà was (still, or again) the
object of a lively cult. And I knew about a few sàdhus living beneath
trees. I had seen one or two hazy old photographs of nàgakals under
sacred trees in South India. In such photographs, taken with an
art-historical focus, the attention is mostly on the sculpted stones,
rather than on the tree. One of the first depictions of sàdhus beneath
sacred trees that westerners became familiar with was the illustra-
tion of a banyan tree, with adjacent shrine and surrounded by ascetics,
in Tavernier’s travel records (1641–1667).4 In his book Much Maligned
Monsters Partha Mitter elaborates on the ways western artists such
as the engraver Bernard Picart had to build up their illustrations
from hearsay, a process which often resulted in a compilation of all
that was known about Indian gods, mixed with a fair amount of
fantasy and imagination.5
In addition, I had collected many random remarks about tree cults
in various ethnographic studies of nineteenth- and twentieth-century
India.6 In the course of time, my archive of serendipitous findings
of references to tree worship grew. When, in 1998, I returned to
India with the research for this book foremost in my mind, I was
staggered as well as delighted by the enormous wealth of living sacred
trees and the lively rituals going on beneath them. Two contempo-
rary authors from whose books I had noted down tree-lore, and had
studied recent photographs of actual rituals around sacred trees, were
Michael Wood, in his travel journal of a South Indian pilgrimage,
The Smile of Murugan: A South Indian Journey, and Stephen Huyler, in
most of his books, but especially in his most recent one, Meeting God:
Elements of Hindu Devotion. Another contemporary author with an eye
4
Some editions have, in addition to Tavernier’s own sketches of diamonds and
maps in which the diamond mines he visited are indicated, some borrowed illus-
trations, such as from the hands of the two von Bry brothers (Frankfurt 1598) or
of B. Picart (Amsterdam 1723–1743).
5
Partha Mitter, Much Maligned Monsters. History of European Reactions to Indian Art
(1977), esp. illustration 35 on p. 70. For an interesting overview, see also B. Picart,
Cérémonies et coutumes religieuses des tous les peuples du monde (1723–43).
6
Most older studies have merely scattered references to sacred trees. Some, how-
ever, have a chapter on the worship of plants and trees in specific groups of the
population, such as J.A. Dubois, A description of the character, manners, and customs of
the people of India (1879), William Crooke, Religion and folklore of Northern India (1926),
Henry Whitehead, The Village Gods of South India (2nd ed. 1976), J.J. Meyer,
Trilogie altindischer Mächte und Feste der Vegetation (1937), and Verrier Elwin, Tribal Myths
of Orissa (1954).

282 chapter five
for sacred trees I was aware of at that time was Alan Morinis, in
his Pilgrimage in the Hindu Tradition.
Nothing in my Sanskrit-oriented literary research up to that point
had prepared me for the vitality of the tree cult in contemporary
India, especially South India. There were sacred trees everywhere,
not as relics of the past, but as centres of lively devotion; not merely
as wayside shrines of popular, rural, or indigenous folklore, but also
in the courtyards of great temples. No armchair study of Sanskrit
texts and Indian temple architecture had prepared me for those
enchanted green circles within many temple compounds. I noticed
that the ritual activity around such trees was often as intense as in
the garbhag‰ha, or even more so. In South India, they were practi-
cally everywhere. I saw so many, most of them with traces of fresh
gifts, that soon I had to make a deliberate choice of what particu-
lars to look at, whereas other aspects turned out to be so common
and ordinary that I could take them for granted.
The design of this Chapter mirrors that choice. In the first part,
I investigate some of the underlying traditions, both Sanskrit-based
and vernacular or oral. Such foundation narratives are referred to
in the temple myths, handed down in, for instance, the Sthalapurà»as
and Màhàtmyas.7 I highlight a number of temple complexes which
have allegedly grown around an original sacred tree. In such cases,
the sacred tree is called a sthalav‰kßa, the sacred tree with which the
story of the particular temple is said to have begun. The selected
cases present merely a sample, since I could visit only a few, and it
turned out to be extremely difficult to collect sufficient information
on other such sacred trees, in contrast to the well-documented
man-made buildings or statues found in such places of pilgrimage.
Most places of pilgrimage have their own sources and channels to
provide the faithful with relevant information. In bookshops and mar-
ket stalls in the alleys surrounding a major temple, and often even
within the temple ground itself, various pamphlets, cassette tapes,
and devotional paraphernalia are offered for sale. Moreover, if one
7
For an overview of such literature on South Indian places of pilgrimage, see
David Shulman, Tamil Temple Myths: Sacrifice and Divine Marriage in the South Indian
•aiva Tradition (1980), p. 32 as well as the appendix to the bibliography in his book,
from p. 353 onwards. For the rest of India, relevant scriptural references to the
arboreal origin of sacred sites may be found in the various màhàtmyas belonging to
such centres of pilgrimage.

can get access to the temple archives, there is a possibility of finding

a veritable wealth of myths, legends, semi-historical chronicles and,
above all, manuals on rituals. It is rare, however, that the sacred
tree of such a complex is paid much attention, although the found-
ing myth may still refer to such a tree.
In the second section of this Chapter, I examine the ritualising
around sacred trees as seen today. Following twelve headings, major
aspects of such ritualising are investigated in their forms and func-
tions. That the arbitrarily chosen headings present merely a tenta-
tive selection of data, and that this account is far from systematic,
let alone exhaustive, should be made clear from the outset.
In the third section, an attempt is made to distinguish ritual cat-
egories as well as states or stages in contemporary tree cults. Although
some categorising may safely be done by defining various phases in
the cult around a sacred tree, the data are too diverse to present
them in a set unilinear frame of structured development. Many of
the random data escape such strict evolutionary outlines, and make
clear that fate and fame are as important in determining the sacredness
of a particular tree as natural processes and gradual development.
The sources are diverse. Bits and pieces from many domains and
disciplines were selected and sifted through: anthropological, botan-
ical, archeological, folkloric, geographical, ritualistic, astrological, etc.
Some aspects of this Chapter remain on the level of generalising
observations; some illustrations present unique and very particular
cases; and some notions are based on no more than haphazard
remarks found in stray literature or in local people’s narratives. I
purposefully refrained from forcing the data into a model; I merely
put some semblance of order in what, at first sight, appears as a
scattering of vaguely related data. But it is evident that it is ‘trees’
and ‘rituals around sacred trees’ that link all the disparate data pre-
sented here.
5.1 Sthalav‰kßas, mythic landscapes, and sacred geographies
When one pauses, just for a moment, to evoke the mythic landscape
in which, once upon a time, the gods, goddesses, heroes, and sages
are said to have lived, one is struck by the primeval ‘ecological’
interrelatedness of it all. Yet, such a landscape, as it is presented in
Indian mythology, was no pristine paradise where sin had not occurred;

284 chapter five
rather, it was a place in which divine, human, animal, and plant

life interacted in a characteristic way, and was more or less similar
to what shapes the Hindu worldview today. We find no pristine
peacefulness there, but the familiar haphazardness of the natural and
supernatural worlds. In much the same way, cosmogonic myths rarely
or never depart from absolute beginnings: somehow, creation is more
a process of re-arranging, re-cycling, or re-ordering than that it is a
creatio ex nihilo.
What distinguishes such mythic landscapes from ours is not their
expected paradisical perfection, but mythic time. A sage can medi-
tate for aeons, a deity can forget all around him when engrossed in
amorous play, and a young woman can lose all track of time at
the sight or smell of a pàrijàta flower. Time even slows down to the
tenacious eagerness with which a young tendril winds itself around
a tree.
It is in such a mythical past that India’s sacred geography is
thought to have been dotted with those trees, groves, and forests
that have found their way into the narratives. Mountains and rivers
hardly change, and thus are more or less stable survivors from one
chapter of time to another, but trees are known to decay and die.
This makes the stories of the sthalav‰kßas so peculiar: those particu-
lar trees are considered to have survived the fully natural surroundings
and to have made a transition to their present cultic environment,
the man-made shrine and temple.8 They thus form a bridge between
the mythic landscape and the present sacred spot. Michael Wood
writes poetically on this:
This landscape has been celebrated in Tamil poetry for 2,000 years;
there are hymns to the sacred Cavery in the Sangam poetry. But it
is above all the landscape sung by the saints between ad 600 and 900.
Their hymns form a kind of litany of the land, encapsulating the myths
of a society and a civilization, myths about the primeval spirits of this
alluvial world: folk deities of water, juice, rain, sperm and sap, gods
of mango tree, cili tree, jambu tree. Their shrines form the landmarks
8
The verb ‘transit’ appears to convey the idea of transition from one unit of
time to another better than more neutral words in which the connotation of some-
thing stable in the midst of turmoil (axis, ladder, bridge, or flight of stairs) is not
contained. In the Indian experience of time and cosmology, such trees have suc-
cessfully survived the transition and are thus ‘undying’ relics of that other dimen-
sion. It is intriguing to see that with ‘transition’ we come close to the original
meaning of ‘tradition’.

in a network of sacred journeys created by the ancient poets: an imag-

inal landscape which gave form to this fluid green wilderness.9
The tree from the mythic landscape erupts from mythic time into
the present. This may be in the form of a living ancient tree, or
perhaps in the form of a sacred enclosure, which forms a kind of
navel, omphalos, or the pì†hà (platform) where the tree once stood.
The idea of a navel (nàbhi ), the exact spot where formerly the vital
strength was passed on, again evokes vertical connections, as is also
expressed in such images as a lotus on a stem or a tree rising from
the sleeping god Viß»u’s navel. It may also be in the form of a
stump (stambha), the remains of the original tree protruding from the
ground, from which, possibly, new shoots have grown into a new
tree. It may even be in the form of a stump that is now fossilised,
or in some instances encased in stone or (semi-)precious metal to
keep it for posterity following its natural death in old age.
Mythic time thus erupts into present time. For many who visit
such temples where a sthalav‰kßa, or its remains, still forms a centre
of worship and ‘remembering’, there might be no strict segregation
between the mythic past and present sacredness, but for those who
are in charge of such a temple, this ‘eruption’ is a tangible extra
value, and heightens the awe and reverence with which such a tem-
ple complex is regarded by daily visitors, pilgrims, and the resident
priests. This makes such a temple complex a true tìrtha. Such a tìrtha,
understood as a crossing place between different worlds, becomes
the object of great awe when its sthalav‰kßa is regarded as a tangible
relict of that other dimension, mythic time. In how far such a tra-
dition was invented or is based upon a continuum of tree-worship
on that very spot is difficult to say in most cases. In the case of
Bodhgayà’s history, there are inscriptions, excavations, and early eye-
witness accounts which show that the original tree was replaced sev-
eral times in a series of natural or man-made threats. In some of
the temple complexes in South India, the ‘founding’ tree is not on
the exact spot where, according to the place-history (sthalapurà»a), it
ought to be. This could imply that the original tree was replaced
by a nearby sapling, that the accompanying li«gam was replaced in
the course of time, or that later construction activity necessitated a
9
Michael Wood, The smile of Murugan: A South Indian journey (1995), pp. 186–187.

286 chapter five
move. We also noticed that the dead trunk or stump may be moved
away from its ‘navel’ (nàbhi ) or ‘root’ (mùlasthàna) if restricted space
requires a move to a corridor or a corner.
In many South Indian temples, we have to take the ancientness
of the tree, the exact spot, and the web of stories with which the
sthalav‰kßa is situated in mythic time, at face value. In some cases,
like Purì, Gayà, and Madurai, there are semi-historical temple records,
pilgrims’ descriptions, or colonial reports about archeological finds
that can be compared with the claims the priests make, but not all
temples claiming to have the original living tree at their sacred cen-
tre are supported by ancient documents in well-kept accessible archives.
Neither have all such temple chronicles been researched by objec-
tive historians or archeologists.
Madurai was originally known as Kadambavanam, the forest of
kadamba trees. The trunk of the very first kadamba is said to be pre-
served in the northern prakàra of the Sundare≤vara shrine. •iva is
known at Madurai as Sundare≤vara (“the beautiful Lord”), and his
bride as Mìnàkßì (“the fish-eyed”). The town of Madurai, also called
Halasya, because it has the layout of a coiled serpent, is said to
derive its sacredness from the combination of a founding tree, the
kadamba, and a svayaábhùli«gam. It was this naturally emerging li«gam,
more than the tree or forest, which stood at the origin of the sacred
city. Its sacred power was discovered when Indra, roaming the earth
to find purification for the sin of having inadvertently killed a bràhma»a,
found that he had miraculously lost his defilement on that spot. The
legend goes that the now fossilised kadamba trunk belonged to one
of the four sacred trees that grew on Mount Meru, together with
the jambu, the banyan, and the pipal. There is a Sanskrit text on this,
the Halasyamàhàtmya, and a Tamil Tiruvilayadalpurà»a. There is even
a Ka†ambavanapurà»am, composed by Vìmanàta Pa»†itar.
Not all temple complexes in which an ancient sacred tree is to
be found claim that their tree is a sthalav‰kßa. I use the word sthalav‰kßa
in the more traditional sense as founding tree, rather than as any
temple tree forming part of a simulated sacred landscape within a
temple complex. In that limited sense, the three major living sthalav‰kßas
in the South are the mango at Kàñci, the jambu at •rìra«gam/
Tiruvanaikka, and the neem at Vaithì≤varancoil. In Madurai and
Mylapore, only the stumps are left, and in Cidambaram, said to
derive its sanctity from a li«gam standing in a grove of tillai shrubs,
there appears to be no particular tillai tree stated to be the oldest.

Such a tree is not necessarily the object with which it all began.
In India today, one can easily observe the various stages from sim-
ple sacred tree through wayside shrine and small devotional temple
to an ever-expanding sacred complex. But not all temple complexes
have grown in such an organically given process of gradual expan-
sion. The reverse, i.e., that the temple was first and the tree added
only later, more or less as an afterthought, may be the case as well,
such as when kings had prestigious temples built, within the walls
of which some trees were planted, for shade, for sacred wood, for
leaves or flowers, or for rituals of worship. The sacred tree could
be an integral part of the cosmographical design, consciously planned
and planted. According to McKim Malville:
The axis of the temple extends upward and sinks deep into the nether-
worlds, the dark pàtàlas, which are the abodes of chaos and the ser-
pent, •eßa. (. . .) In the temple compound grows the sacred tree which
has sunk its roots deep into the subterranean zone of death and thrusts
its leaves into the realm of the sun. The tree is symbolic of the ever
growing li«gam which separates heaven and the dangerous world of
chaos lying beneath our feet.10
In some temple complexes, I observed newly planted trees at the
periphery, some of them coupled, such as an a≤vattha married (i.e.,
grafted) to a nìm tree. It also happens that when it is realised that
the ancient sthalav‰kßa may die soon, a young sapling is planted nearby
for continuity’s sake. Those are not first-degree sthalav‰kßas. However,
the real sthalav‰kßa may still be somewhere in the ancient centre of
the temple complex, threatening to destroy the buildings with its
roots and branches. Sometimes, the buildings have clearly ‘grown’
around this central tree, thus hazarding the healthy survival of the
tree, as it has become closed in by bricks, mortar, and roofs.11
A temple complex which has arisen around such a sthalav‰kßa
appears to have a status comparable to that of a temple which has
10
McKim Malville, ‘Astrophysics’, in Kapila Vatsyayan (ed.), Concepts of Space,
Ancient and Modern (1991), p. 129.
11
Temples are indeed considered, by some, to ‘grow’ as organically and gradu-
ally as plants and trees, such as in the following temple inscription dated AD 1129:
“The Kedare≤vara temple planted by Some≤vara, blossomed (. . .) under Vàma≤akti
I, and bore fruit through the great Gautamàcàrya.” Also: “(. . .) the fortune of the
Kedàra temple was planted, as if a tree of plenty for the world, through Some≤varàrya”.
From the Epigraphica Carnatica, ed. and trsl. by E.C. Rice (1886–1904), vol. VII, Sk.
100, quoted in David N. Lorenzen, The Kapalikas and Kalamukhas (1972).

288 chapter five
arisen around a svayaábhùli«gam. Even more sacred is the combina-

tion of both spontaneous li«gam and ancient sacred tree, such as in
the •aivite complexes of •rìra«gam and Kàñcipuram. Even a rela-
tively unknown pilgrimage centre such as that of Bakreshwar, in
West Bengal, has both. There are hot springs in the same complex,
as well as a Tantric sma≤àna (burial- or cremation ground), with the
samàdhis (memorial shrines) of several sàdhakas as well as a few res-
idential huts around a sacred tree and a pañcamu»∂i-àsana, a medi-
tation seat adorned with (at least) five skulls. The sanctity of the
place is further enhanced by its connection with the sage Aß†avakra
(whose name can be rendered loosely as one whose body is bent or
twisted in eight places), who was reportedly drawn to the place to
find relief from rheumatic pains in the healing water.12
In the mythic landscape preceding the man-made temples, clearly
there were not only mountains, rivers, ponds, forests, and trees; there
were also such features as spontaneous li«gams, hot springs, and ter-
mite mounds. For •àktists, this sacred, mythic landscape is dotted
with those spots where body parts supposedly fell from Satì’s corpse
when it was carried by a grieving •iva. Another way to map the
sacred landscape is by pointing out those places where a drop of
nectar fell from the original vase (kumbha); or the places where Ràma
or Sità walked, Arjuna shot his arrow, or K‰ß»a danced in ecstacy.
Pan-Indian visions of Bharatmàtà’s sacred soil are thus focused on
particular areas or particular places.13
India’s sacred geography may be ordered according to various sys-
tems, such as those of the five elements ( pañcabhùta), the nine plan-
ets (navagraha), the seven cities (saptapurì), the 108 pì†hàs, and the four
kumbhas/caturdhàmas, indicating the four cardinal directions. Kàñcipuram
is considered extra sacred because it belongs to two such geogra-
phies, that of the seven cities and that of the five elements. Moreover,
it is sacred to both •iva and Viß»u, whereas the other six cities are
sacred to only one of these. There is also an esoteric system of
12
See E. Alan Morinis, Pilgrimage in the Hindu Tradition. A Case Study of West Bengal
(1984), who mentions Bakreswar as one of the siddhi-yielding pilgrim destinations in
Bengal. I noticed that what appears to be the central banyan there is marked by a
yo»i-like crack in its trunk, reverently smeared with red powder. Much more eleb-
orate attention is given to Bakreswar by S. Bagchi, Eminent Indian •àkta Centers in
Eastern India (1980).
13
As in David Shulman, ‘The crossing of the wilderness: Landscape and myth
in the Tamil story of Ràma’ (1981), pp. 21–54.

homologies between external ‘crossing places’ (tìrtha) or enshrined

deities and locations within the human body, such as Jagannàth in
the thigh ( jàng), Kedarnàth in the waist (kamar), and Chatrapati Viß»u
in the chest (chàti ).
All such systems express geographically ordered embodiments of
the divine. On a regional or even local level, however, almost every
place has a sacred history marking the familiar landscape in partic-
ular ways. Sacred geography appears to exist in ever-widening, or
ever-contracting, rings covering the map of India’s soil. It appears
that such sacred histories of one particular place are part of a phe-
nomenon far more common in the South than in the North, and
more characteristic of Tamil than of Sanskrit literature. Such descrip-
tions of local geography, often in etiological terms, turn the whole
area into a hierography, a sacred geography, with narratives of the
deities imprinted on the landscape. Topographical features thus
become the vehicle by which the sacred history of the place is com-
municated to the devotees.14
Sacred trees are just one of the various markers of the divine
imprint on the landscape. They indicate an eruption of the sacred
from the divine past into the devotional present. Just as the tree is
said to cover the three worlds, that of the netherworld, our famil-
iar world, and that of the gods, so the sthalav‰kßa is thought to cover
both mythical time and present time. The more ancient the tree is
thought to be, the more sacred power it is considered to possess.
This sacred power has to do with its age,—it recollects mythic time,
and is a tangible relic from the mythic past—but also with its long
history of devotion, which to many believers implies a great mass of
accumulated devotional expression. The more people have come to
a place, a statue, or a tree, and performed worship there, the more
it is thought to be vibrant with power, as if collectively expressed
devotion were something tangible and quantifiable.15 A tree daubed
14
See also William P. Harman, The Sacred Marriage of a Hindu Goddess (1989).
15
This same idea was expressed by Morinis, in Pilgrimage in the Hindu Tradition,
p. 279: “One interesting explanation that I was given for the sacredness of pil-
grimage sites in West Bengal proposed that the collective worshipping performed
by thousands of pilgrims over many years results in the accumulation of holiness
in the site of worship. This statement (most cogently expressed by the mahànta of
the Tarakeswar ma†hà) gives a quasi-materialistic explanation for a site’s holiness,
in that holiness is conceived as a concrete force which accumulates where devotion
and worship are practised.”

290 chapter five
with vermillion, surrounded by votive statues partly buried beneath

the tree’s roots, partly cracked by the expanding trunk, with roots
surrounded by old and new devotional gifts, and freshly hung with
flowers, prayer-beads, threads, bells, mantra paper, has an added value.
It is surrounded, as it were, by the almost tangible aura of devotion
left there by countless supplicants.
One of the most ancient sthalav‰kßas is stated to be the one in
Kàñcipuram: it is a mango tree claimed to be 3,500 years old. Not
only that, it is said to have had, in its days of glory, four main
branches identified with the four Vedas. The fruits from each major
branch were said to have a different taste, just as the four Vedas all
have a different flavour. When I visited the place in 1999, a young
sapling had been planted in the sandy soil nearby. In one of the
halls was a chunk of an old branch, said to have represented the
Atharvaveda, kept reverently but rather unceremoniously in a dark cor-
ner. Some of the minor branches of the ancient tree had miniature
cradles attached to them, but much fewer than on other sacred trees
I had seen in South India. This may be connected with the fact
that there were always priests around who supervised and directed
the devotional behaviour of the visitors. Most of the more incon-
spicuous sacred trees in India are left unguarded; devotees usually
perform their rituals there without the service of an intermediary,
and thus are more spontaneous and direct in their ritual behaviour.
Such a prestigious tree as the one in Kàñci, however, is carefully
guarded by its priests. The story connected with it, that of Pàrvatì
waiting beneath it for •iva, makes it a tree especially suitable for
prayers connected with conjugal happiness and fertility. That it is a
fruit-bearing tree, a mango, makes it a natural object of female atten-
tions, often in the form of vratas, religious pledges taken in exchange
for a specific result.16
Another interesting case of a sthalav‰kßa is found in the Tiruvallar
(Tiruvallavar) Temple in Mylapore, Madras. Although the original
sthalav‰kßa has been replaced by a tree planted at the edge of the
compound, around which at certain intervals on the ritual calendar
lively devotion occurs, the stump of the original tree is still there,
encased in a cylindrical form made of mortar, painted black, and
looking almost like a li«gam. Next to it is the statue of the poet
16
More on the Kàñcipuram tree below.

Tiruvallar and his lady. The tree is supposed to be an iluppai maram,

the wild olive tree, from which the poet ‘came down’ as an avatàra.17
Another stump is located in the area of the Sundare≤vara shrine
within the Mìnàkßì-Sundare≤vara complex in Madurai. Connected
with this shrine are also the li«gam and the golden lily pond, which,
together with the original kadamba tree, are the three founding con-
stituents of the sacred site. The tree trunk is fenced off and bears a
sign explaining that this was the original kadamba oak tree which
shaded the li«gam in the forest. The great god Indra, on finding him-
self purified of the offense of bràhma»ahatya, is said to have decorated
the li«gam with golden lilies from the pond. The remains of the
sacred tree were transferred from the original location: it has been
moved from the inner sanctum of Sundare≤vara to an adjacent cor-
ridor. The casualness with which such a change of place is carried
out seems to contradict our idea of the sacred centre and the fixity
of sacred objects within the temple’s ritual space.18
Two other examples of sthalav‰kßas are found in the sacred trees
of Gayà and Bodhgayà. The rituals around the tree in Bodhgayà
are elaborated upon in a separate Chapter. As a part of Sanskrit
and Pali history, the bodhi tree could be rightly called a sthalav‰kßa,
but it is hardly regarded as such by Hindus as it is mainly a Buddhist
place of pilgrimage. Nevertheless, as we have made clear, in the case
of Bodhgayà, there is a Hindu claim on the sacred site as well. In
the Gayàmàhàtmya, the a≤vattha in Buddhakßetra (i.e., Bodhgayà) is one
of the pilgrims’ stops in the traditional parikrama of the wider vicinity
17
The Tamil text on the cylindrical stump reads as follows: “Wild olive tree,
covered by the ceppu. In its vicinity is the place where Tiruvallar came down (or:
incarnated, as an avatàra).” See also S.M.L. Lakshmanan Chettiar, Folklore of Tamil
Nadu (1973), p. 43, who speaks of a “huge stem of a dried illuppai tree (. . .) cov-
ered with a sheet of copper.”
18
This observation, in my opinion, is worth elaborating upon in future research.
It points to the fluidity and mobility of even the most sacred centre. Fixity, such
as of the stambha, the nàbhi , or the sthalav‰kßa, thus appears to be linked to a ‘nomadic’
or ‘peripatetic’ worldview in which Vedic sacrificial fields, however awe-inspiring,
were set out only for the duration of the sacrifice, and then erased, or in which
Tibetan sand ma»∂alas (Kalacakra) are set up in an elaborate process of designing,
colouring, and empowerment, and then swept away and thrown into a river. Both
concepts implied here, that of ritually defined sacred time and that of the sacred
centre, call for more scrutiny than was possible in the frame of this research. See
also J.C. Heesterman’s introductory remarks to his contribution Centres and Fires
in Bakker (1992), p. 69.

292 chapter five
of sacred Gayà, the so-called Gayàkßetra. Its origin makes it a sthalav‰kßa,

in principle at least, and in this way it marks the transition from
the mythic landscape to the present. However, to speak of a mythic
landscape here is inappropriate since Buddha’s life, in terms of the
distinction between mythic past and recorded history, belongs to a
slightly different category than the lives of gods and legendary heroes
connected with the origins of the other sthalav‰kßas discussed here.
The akßayava†a in Gayà also qualifies as a sthalav‰kßa. It has in com-
mon with the tree in Purì not only that it is called an akßayava†a,
but also that it is connected with an ancient centre of pilgrimage
where people come to perform the rites for the deceased. That the
same place draws people performing rites for the ancestors and those
who wish for progeny does not appear to be viewed as an anom-
aly. Especially the va†a, with its particular morphological symbolism,
symbolises both life and death. In Purì, the ≤ràddha rites are per-
formed by the sea, and in Gayà only the last part of the pi»∂adà-
nam is performed beneath the tree. Nevertheless, the term akßayava†a
(the ‘undying’, ‘indestructible’ va†a, or, rather, the va†a of deathless-
ness) certainly refers to the ancestors. In the continuum of life and
death, prayers for the deceased and prayers for progeny are more
related than we would tend to think at first. The thought complexes
concerning the ancestors in Hinduism and the ideas about reincar-
nation are not as radically opposed as they are often thought to be.19
On the contrary, the interconnectedness of life and death fits in well
with the symbolic notion of a tree, especially a tree such as the va†a.
The famous akßayava†a in Prayàg/Allahabad, standing at the con-
fluence of three rivers (trive»i-sa«gam), is similarly connected with life
(as a wishing tree), the washing away of sins (i.e., freedom from the
need to be reborn), and the ancestors. In the Prayàgaràjamàhàtmya,
there is a phrase in which it is maintained that the akßayava†a in
Prayàg was the only living entity remaining in the great dissolution.
In the recent past, all that was left of it was a dry branch wrapped
in cloth, buried in the basement cave of the fort. Today there is a
thriving replacement. The old tree was the subject of many legends,
19
An intriguing observation is made by Ann Grodzins Gold in her book Fruitful
Journeys on the term ‘flowers’ for the remains of the dead which are brought to
those places of pilgrimage where ≤ràddha rites are performed (Prayàg, Gayà, Purì):
“The term ‘flower” ( phùl) nicely embraces all the implications of birth and death
surrounding pattar. (. . .) Moreover (. . .) phùl means womb and menstrual blood, the
very place and stuff of birth.” (p. 19).

such as the story narrated by the Buddhist pilgrim, Hiuen Tsang.

He relates that a man-eating demon used to devour the corpses of
the pilgrims who had committed suicide by jumping from the tree
into the Ganges, an act that was supposed to bring them final deliv-
erance. A heap of bones on that spot was pointed to as the telltale
proof.20 When Albiruni visited the place around 1030 ad, ritual sui-
cide was still practised there, but after Akbar had the ford and the
embankment constructed the custom died out.21
Kàñcipuram22
We now elaborate on three living sthalav‰kßas. In the case of the
Ekàmbare≤vara and Jambuke≤vara Temples, in Kàñcipuram and
•rìra«gam, it is believed that the living trees are those with which
the sacred spots’ histories once started, in contrast with, for instance,
the Jagannàth Temple of Purì, where the tree’s botanical history is
broken. The three South Indian sthalav‰kßas mentioned most often are
found in the Ekàmbare≤vara, the Jambuke≤vara, and the Mìnàkßì-
Sundare≤vara Temples in Kàñcipuram, •rìra«gam, and Madurai,
respectively. Three of the best known akßayava†as are found in Prayàg,
Gayà, and Purì. Although in the technical sense of the term both
the Northern and the Eastern akßayava†as are sthalav‰kßas, they are
rarely acknowledged as such outside Southern India.
The Ekàmbare≤vara Temple in Kàñcipuram lays claim to a his-
tory that goes back as far as 3,500 years. This age is generally agreed
upon, and is written not only in the pilgrims’ books and tourists’
guides, but also on the board by the tree itself. This estimation may
be based on common ideas about the age of the Vedic texts, as the
four major branches of the tree are considered to represent the four
Vedas. It is said that •iva himself invited the four Vedas to Kanchi,
20
See S. Beal’s translation, Chinese Accounts of India. From the Chinese of Hieun Tsang
(1957–1958), I, p. 232. Also, John Irwin, ‘The Ancient Pillar-Cult at Prayàga
(Allahabad): Its pre-A≤okan origins’ (1983), pp. 253–280.
21
When the most recent kumbhamelà was going on in Allahabad, there was a
touristic/journalistic website where people were offered the possibility of taking a
“virtual dip”. Even as ancient customs are dying out, in India people never fail to
create new (and comfortable!) ways of participation and, if we may say it, salvation.
22
It is maintained by some that the name of the town is derived from the kàñci
tree. See C.R. Srinavasan, Kanchipuram through the ages (1979). See also Chantal
Boulanger, La prêtrise des temples ≤ivaites de Kanchipuram (1992). The •rì Ekàm-
baranàtha(r)/Ekàmranàtha temple is also documented in P.V. Jagadisa Ayyar, South
Indian Shrines (1920/1922), pp. 71 ff.

294 chapter five
and that he, in the form of a li«gam, took up residence beneath that
tree with its four outstretched arms. The local priests maintain that
the ‘founding’ li«gam originally arose beneath the tree. Today, it is
situated in the second prakàra. At the foot of the tree can be found
a stone relief depicting the major myth associated with this site, that
of the goddess worshipping the li«gam.
In one of the versions of the founding narrative it is told that, in
mythic times, •iva and Pàrvatì had a quarrel over a game of dice
which Pàrvatì had won. Following his defeat •iva put her under a
curse that would cause her complexion to become black, her eyes
misshapen, and her look terrifying. Alarmed by this prospect, Pàrvatì
went to her brother Viß»u in his Vamana-avatàra form, and wor-
shipped him at Kàñcipuram. Viß»u restored her eyes and gave her
the name Kàmàkßì, the one with the beautiful eyes. On Viß»u’s
advice, she formed a li«gam of sand and worshipped it, praying
ardently that •iva might marry her. •iva came to visit her there,
but as the fierce heat of the sun he radiated was too much for her
to bear, she again called upon Viß»u for help. Viß»u created a mango
tree to give shade to his sister. •iva then scorched both the tree and
Pàrvatì herself with one glance. Thereupon, Viß»u cooled and com-
forted her with the rays of moonlight nectar emitting from his
moon-form ( pùr»acandra). In the same way, he created a lake full of
this nectar and requested her to bathe in it for unparallelled phys-
ical beauty. As a result of the cooling effect of the moonlight lake,
the scorched tree grew and bore fruit.23 Pàrvatì placed the sand
li«gam at its base and worshipped •iva once more. The original li«gam
in Kanchi, officially called a p‰thvìli«gam, constituting the earth ele-
ment in the five-element system, is also popularly called a saika†ali«gam,
a li«gam made of sand, or, alternatively, a li«gam risen from sandy
23
I failed to find a satisfactory explanation for the use of the term eka-amra, the
one mango tree, or for its equivalent in Bhubaneshwar’s sacred name Ekàmbakßetra.
Why so explicitly call it the one (or single, solitary) mango? Or does eka refer to
the god, as is proposed in M. Monier Williams’ Sanskrit Dictionary, p. 230, where
eka-amra is not listed as such, but ekàmranàtha is translated as “‘matchless lord of the
mango.’ N. of •iva as worshipped at Kàñjìveram.” Several authors mention the
connection with Orissa in this respect. We could draw the line a little further and
suggest a connection between the eka-amra •iva/Murugan of Kanchi and the eka-pada
•iva/Bhairava of Orissa. See also Boris Oguibénine’s reaction to Shulman’s article
‘Murukan, the mango and Ekàmbare≤vara-•iva: Fragments of a Tamil creation
myth?’ (1979), in ‘Cosmic Tree in Vedic and Tamil Mythology. Contrastive Analysis’
(1984), p. 374.

soil. I noticed that the new sapling now planted at a short distance
from the ancient mango is indeed rooted in sandy soil. The sand is
respectfully connected with the river that is said to have formerly
flowed directly in front of the tree with the li«gam beneath it. It is
said that their marriage took place on that very spot.24
The present mango tree appears to be very old. Its four main
branches are said to bear four different varieties of mangoes. The
current belief is that this tree was planted by Pàrvatì herself 3,500
years ago.25 There is a shrine attached to the tree in which priests
direct the worship of the devotees. Many special pùjàs are performed
by young couples: since the tree is connected with the marriage of
the divine couple, young people come to it with special requests for
conjugal happiness and pregnancy. Miniature cradles are hung in its
branches as votive gifts. On a board at a little distance from the
tree, the tree’s lore is written both in Tamil and in English.
The mythic landscape we encounter here is a cosmography in
which the five elements (fire, earth, water, air/wind, and space) are
present in (or represented by) five li«gams distributed over Southern
India.26 The Ekàmbare≤vara Temple is supposed to contain a sand
li«gam, representing the earth element.27 One of the ‘transition’ myths
connected with this li«gam is that Pàrvatì pressed it so tightly in her
arms that it still carries the imprint of her breasts and bangles.28 The
mythic time of which the temple legend forms merely an episode is
the continuous union of •iva and Pàrvatì.
24
This is just one version of the story; see D.D. Shulman, Tamil Temple Myths
(1980), and an earlier publication by the same author, ‘Murukan, the mango and
Ekàmbare≤vara-•iva: Fragments of a Tamil creation myth’ (1979). On Kanchipuram’s
•aiva temples, see Chantal Boulanger, La prêtrise. On the plant myths connected
with the temple, as well as the ways those plant myths found expression in temple
reliefs and statues, see Shakti M. Gupta, Plant Myths in Indian Temple Art (1996).
Kàñcipuram is among those •aiva temples in which the deities’ marriage is a part
of the annual major temple festival. The most famous marriage festival takes place
in Madurai. For the annual re-enactment of the divine marriage, see the above-
mentioned book of David Shulman, and W.P. Harman, The Sacred Marriage of a
Hindu Goddess (1989).
25
In the above version of the story, it was her brother Viß»u who was said to
have created the tree.
26
They are earth, in Kanchi, water in Shrirangam/Tiruvanaikka, fire in Tiru-
vannamalal, wind in Kalahasti, and space in Chidambaram.
27
Earth, p‰thvì, and sand, saika†a, are used interchangeably here.
28
See also Gabriella Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi, The Self-milking Cow and the Bleeding
Li«gam. Criss-cross of Motifs in Indian Temple Legends (1987), p. 45.

296 chapter five
In the same temple complex there is an interesting depiction of

another scene preceding the marriage. In one of the reliefs, Pàrvatì
is seen performing penance, standing on one leg beneath a mango
tree. She is surrounded, in the way of an ascetic, by five fires, in
her case those of the four cardinal directions, and the fifth fire is
the sun blazing above her. In this blazing sun, one is reminded of
the cooling moonlight sent to Pàrvatì by Viß»u.29
We thus have not only one of the elementary li«gams here, but
also the four Vedas represented by the four different branches of the
mango tree, and the eternal opposition or complementary forces of
sun and moon, of Viß»u and •iva, and, of course, of •iva and his
eternal love, Pàrvatì. The tree was meant to give shade to Pàrvatì
and protect her from •iva’s fierce radiation. A mango tree is tradi-
tionally valued for its shade-giving properties and its delicious fruits.
There may be additional reasons why it was a mango tree beneath
which the li«gam was installed: for instance, the mango’s shape, which
is reminiscent of breasts (Pàrvatì’s), and the mango’s traditional asso-
ciation with marriage, fertility, and birth.
•rìra«gam
The Jambuke≤vara Temple in •rìra«gam, near the town of Tiruchipalli
(Trichy), forms part of the same mythic landscape in that it houses
another elementary li«gam, the water li«gam. According to the tem-
ple legend, an ascetic was performing penance in a grove of jambu
trees (navàl in Tamil) when a piece of fruit fell in front of him. This
fruit he presented to •iva on Mount Kailash. •iva ate the fruit and
spat out the seed. The ascetic picked up this seed, which was sanctified
by the god’s saliva, and swallowed it. Inside the ascetic, it grew into
a tree which split his head with its branches. Shulman points out
the tree’s implicit association with primeval chaos and the notion of
a violent birth and growth.30 Both the violent way the tree bursts
from the devotee’s head and the direct connection of the water li«gam
with subterranean regions of moisture and darkness indicate associ-
ations with the netherworld, the womb, and fertility. This tree gave
generous shade to the abode of the gods. •iva was also invited to
sit in its shade. He consented on the condition that the ascetic return
29
For a depiction of Pàrvatì performing yogic penance beneath the mango tree
in Kanchi, see plate 115 in Shakti M. Gupta, Plant Myths, p. 95.
30
Shulman, Tamil Temple Myths, p. 47.

to the spot where he sat when the fruit fell in front of him. The
ascetic, with the tree emerging from his head, took up residence
there. Pàrvatì created a water li«gam on that spot, in such a way
that the tree continuously provides shade to the li«gam.31
This pair of jambu tree and water li«gam is still in the ancient heart
of the Jambuke≤vara Temple complex. It is even maintained that
every day, punctually before the daily service, a piece of fruit drops
from the tree to serve as food for lord •iva, and that the water
floods the li«gam spontaneously when it is time for abhi≤ekham.32
According to David Shulman, Tamil temples are seen as the center
or navel of the universe, the one point of land which is never con-
quered by the cosmic flood:
It is at this site that Brahmà or •iva burns away the flood-waters and
produces the world, while the waters of the primeval deluge are retained
within the shrine in the reduced form of the temple tank or lake—a
symbol of chaos subdued.33
The narrative motif of a stone or seed spit out by a god or a saint
and then turning into a sacred tree is widespread, and is connected
with the hira»yagarbha motif. It is an interesting detail that the divine
seed bursts not from the stomach but from the devotee’s head.
According to Shulman, there might be a reason for this, the sug-
gestion of self-sacrifice. Moreover, since the fruit stone was covered
in the god’s saliva, there is a reversal of common taboos on saliva.
In a way, the seed became prasàda: normally, any food leftovers are
impure, especially when touched by saliva, but when the fruit stone
is •iva’s leftover, it becomes pure grace. Of course, •iva’s own seed
is the subject of a number of stories indicating the indirect genesis
of his progeny. There is a parallel, in some well-known stories, with
divine sperm being swallowed inadvertently by a woman or an ani-
mal (a deer, a fish), after which a special being of mixed origin is
born. That, in this narrative, the tree is said to have sprouted inside
the ascetic and to have stuck its branches through the crown of his
head may be no more than a product of the universal imagination
concerning the interconnectedness of man and nature. But this
31
See, again, Shulman’s Tamil Temple Myths, and Gupta’s Plant Myths.
32
This water is supposed to come from the sacred Kavery river through sub-
terranean channels. On spontaneous, natural, or inadvertent forms of abhi≤ekham,
see Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi, Self-milking Cow, pp. 113–121.
33
David Shulman, ‘Murukan, the mango and Ekàmbare≤vara-•iva’ (1979), p. 27.

298 chapter five
feature may also be interpreted in a more esoteric vein, such as in

relation to ideas about nà∂is, cakras, and ku»∂alinì.34
There is another legend about this jambu tree, a depiction of which
is found in the same temple.35 This relief illustrates the story of two
devotees of the god •iva, named Malyavàn and Pußpadanta, who
were always quarreling and competing, each wanting to surpass the
other in devotion. Because of this disposition, they were cursed to
become an elephant and a spider, respectively. •iva advised them
to go to the Jambuke≤vara Temple in South India and worship him
there. The elephant poured water over the li«gam and kept the area
around the tree tidy. The spider wove a web in the tree, which
formed a canopy over the li«gam, thus preventing dry leaves from
falling on it. Again, spider and elephant quarrelled over their duties
and privileges, and in the course of their argument both were killed,
but attained salvation by •iva’s grace, since he was moved by their
devotion. It is also narrated that the elephant went straight to •iva’s
heaven, while the spider was reborn as a king who built a temple
in remembrance of the events of his previous life.36
What makes this ancient heart of the •aiva temple complex so
intriguing is, again, the mythic landscape of naturally sprouted tree
and naturally emerged elementary li«gam.37 This mythic scenery is
not only evoked or reconstructed, it is actually believed that both
the tree and the li«gam physically survived the passage of time, and
have been there continuously, in a hierophany outside time. The
li«gam stands in what is called subterranean water, becomes sub-
merged in this water once a day, and receives one piece of fruit
34
I have refrained from going into such esoteric interpretations, although I am
aware of the vast terrain and the lure of reading yogic symbolism into much of
the material presented here.
35
For depictions of Pàrvatì, the elephant, the spider, and the jambu tree, see
plates 213, 214, and 215 in Gupta, Plant Myths. A special depiction is found in
Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi, Self-milking Cow, plate 2, where a snake is added to the ele-
phant and the spider worshipping the li«gam at Kalahasti, on a relief on the outer
walls of the •ivatemple at Srisailam, Andhra Pradesh. See also p. 12, where the
author relates that the snake is said to perform the rite of ala«kàra by daily plac-
ing a gem on the li«gam.
36
This story was also referred to by Shulman, Gupta, and Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi
in their respective studies.
37
Although it is said that Pàrvatì created the li«gam, it is still maintained that it
is a self-created (svayaábhù) one. This apparent contradiction may be a matter of
definition: when self-created means ‘not man-made’ or ‘not made by human hands’,
then a li«gam created by Pàrvatì is theoretically a svayaábhù type of li«gam.

from the tree as a freely given daily offering. It appears that in India
such naturally (svayaábhù- or svàyaábhuva-) and spontaneously (sahaja-)
manifesting hierophanies connect the present sacred spot with a time-
less sacredness in such a way that temples built around such a nat-
ural manifestation are doubly sacred.
This temple complex could even be called thrice sacred, as
•rìra«gam, near the South Indian city of Tiruchipalli (Trichy), has
become famous for having no fewer than two temple complexes, and
especially, because of the •rì Ra«ganàthasvàmi Temple of Viß»u.
Jeannine Auboyer published her book Sri Ranganathaswami: A temple
of Vishnu in Srirangam about the architecture of the Viß»u temple. In
South India, many stories, myths, and semi-historical events are con-
nected with this temple, whereas the •aiva temple we elaborated
upon above is less well documented. In a way, the famous Viß»u
temple also started with a tree: the tree that indicated the place
where the original sanctuary was flooded by the rising waters of the
Kaveri and buried beneath the sand, until King Kili, resting beneath
that tree, rediscovered it. Remarkably, there is a very sacred vilva
tree in that Vaiß»ava temple, but I was not able to determine whether
it is believed to be the same vilva, normally an emblem of •iva,
which once, allegedly, pointed out the lost sanctuary to the king. In
addition to this tree lore, there is a highly revered garden, a secret
garden from which the flowers for worship are taken by the garland
makers. Those who carry the garlands must cover their noses with
a cloth so that they may not accidentally smell the fragrance of the
flowers before they are offered to the god.
Purì
Purì, the famous Vaiß»ava place of pilgrimage marking the eastern-
most of the four dhàmas, has become widely known outside India for
two reasons: its white pagoda, which served as a beacon to European
seafarers, and the religious fanaticism displayed around the so-called
‘Juggernauth’ car festivals. That it has an ancient wishing tree within
its temple walls is a fact known to most Indians, both Vaiß»avas and
•aivas. The temple complex is home to the images of many gods
and goddesses, which have been investigated by a number of schol-
ars to determine the various strands that might have formed the fab-
ric of what Purì now stands for as a temple town. Little scholarly
attention has been given to its renowned tree, or to any of the many
sacred trees found in and around the city. There was a time when

300 chapter five
statements about Purì’s cult being originally Buddhist were taken

seriously; recent scholarship on Purì no longer dwells on this. One
argument was the widespread notion that Buddha was Viß»u’s ninth
avatàra. In J.A. Dubois’ A description of the character, manners, and cus-
toms of the people of India (1879) I found a tree (!) listed as the alleged
ninth avatàra, qualified as a Bhadra avatàra, and called Ravi or Aruli.
This is occasionally referred to as the tulasì shrub, the sacred basil.
This form is explained by Dubois as originating from the story that
Viß»u, out of a desire to unite with a giant’s daughter, changed into
a huge tree.38 This convergence of Buddha, K‰ß»a’s avatàra Jagannàtha,
and a tree in the position of the ninth avatàra is certainly intriguing.
Regarding the akßayava†a at Purì, a story of its origin is told that
is completely different from the two sthalav‰kßas elaborated upon above.
Today, this tree is situated off centre within the inner courtyard,
and is famous as a wishing tree, but most pilgrims are not aware
of its mythological connection with the statues in the sanctum. There
are several separate strands in the local legends that deal with the
tree-motif:
(a) the place where the akßayava†a now stands is the original Blue
Mountain (a sand ridge?) on top of which a va†a once grew;
(b) a log of wood (sometimes simply called dàru, sometimes specified
as va†a) came floating down the river to the sea at Purì; from
this log the first image of Jagannàtha was sculpted;
(c) again, there was a va†a growing on top of the hiding place in
Orissa’s interior when the four statues had to be kept concealed
for the duration of no less than 192 years; and
(d) today, there is a living va†a in the temple complex famous as a
wishing tree, especially for women who wish to have offspring.
In some of the narratives concerning the Jagannàthakßetra, there is the

mythic landscape of a mountain with a tree growing on its summit.
Whether there ever was a mountain, a hill, or even a sand ridge
on top of which a banyan grew is lost in the geographic past of the
place, but many of the texts refer to both this mountain and this
tree. Purìkßetra thus strongly evokes a primeval landscape: a moun-
tain, a tree, and the Indian ocean. This ocean is often associated
38
Dubois (1879), pp. 312–315.

with the Milk Ocean from which the seven precious gifts were
churned, one of which was a wishing tree. Some versions also refer
to a statue beneath this original tree, made of a bluish stone, thus
connecting the blue stone of the statue with the Blue Mountain.
Overlapping with this story is the narrative of the log stranded at
Purì’s beach. This log is sometimes referred to as the charred remains
of K‰ß»a’s body, and is sometimes simply called a log of va†a wood
that came floating down the river towards the sea. It is thought by
some that the log came floating by in the sea, which connects it
with the Milk Ocean as well as with the wishing tree. Moreover,
this log (dàru) is the first legitimation of the wooden deities in the
sanctum: it was from this piece of wood that the first wooden tem-
ple image was supposedly sculpted.39
The third strand brings us closer to the present and into semi-
historical records. When, according to the temple archives ( pañjì),
the safety of the four temple statues was threatened by the advent
of the ‘Yavanas’ (in the person of Raktabàhu), they were taken away
to a temporary hiding place in the village Gopalì in the kingdom
of Suvar»apur (Sonepur), Orissa. Here, they were hidden in a sub-
terranean chamber covered with earth. A va†a was planted on top
of it. When, after 192 years, the first king of the Ke≤arì dynasty,
Yayàti ( Jajàta), wished to restore the temple to its former glory, and
reinstall the statues there, the images could not be located since no
one from that time was still alive to remember the details. Finally,
guided by a dream, the king spoke to an old lady whom he hap-
pened to see bowing down at the roots of a va†a tree by a lotus
pond. When asked by the king why she paid reverence to the tree,
she replied that her grandfather used to say that the image of
Jagannàtha was buried there. Upon the king’s orders, the va†a was
felled, the place was dug up, and the four statues were found. The
statues were brought to Purì along with the hereditary servants of
the deities, the sevakas. The king ordered new images to be made
according to ≤àstric prescriptions, and these were then properly
installed on the Ratnavedì. It is not clear, however, from what kind
of wood these new statues were made.40
39
Remember that the first statue under the tree was supposed to be made of
stone, not of wood!
40
This might well have been the moment that the tradition of carving the stat-
ues from nìm (margosa) wood started, but for what reason remains unclear.

302 chapter five
In the secret temple books that are now used by the bràhma»a
priests, the sevakas, and the temple artisans, the ≤ilpins, it is prescribed
that the images, which must be renewed periodically following the
secret Navakalevara procedure, be made of nìmba (neem) wood,
whereas the famous wishing tree in the courtyard is still a va†a, or
popularly called banyan. Local, tribal, sectarian, and high-brahminic
Hindu traditions somehow interacted, or, to put it more negatively,
became confused in such a way that now we have a sthalav‰kßa in
the form of a va†a tree and statues made of neem wood.
For many devotees, especially women, a va†a, particularly the va†a
in the sacred enclosure of a temple complex, is a wishing tree, and
connected with the boons once granted to Sàvitrì by Yama, the god
of death. In Purì, the va†a tree is worshipped by daily visitors on
their usual rounds, but especially by pilgrims who express their wishes
there. It is said that a woman who wants progeny must sit under
the tree and wait till a leaf or a piece of fruit falls into her lap: a
leaf indicates that a girl will be born to her, whereas a piece of fruit
means a boy.
The above is a description of a small selection of places in whose
temple courtyards the sacred tree not only forms a cosmic landscape,
together with such variables as earth, garbhag‰ha, li«gam, a temple
tower, a mountain, subterranean water (or a tank, river, or ocean)
or wind, fire, and space, but appears to extend from mythic time
to the present time uninterruptedly. Since a properly consecrated
object of devotion in India really is the embodiment of the divine,
a spontaneously emerging hierophany is doubly awe-inspiring. A
sthalav‰kßa covers not only the three worlds, it also spans from the
primeval landscape to the man-made temple complex. Its sacredness
can rightly be called triple. Its divinity crosses both time and space.
In the evocative atmosphere of such a naturally sacred geogra-
phy, where the tree (or its remains) forms a genetic line, the ‘umbil-
ical cord’ (alternatively the ‘navel’) through which the present spot
was once connected with the primeval landscape has to compete
with the very ‘womb’ of the sacred complex, the garbhag‰ha. This
series of references and its language of symbolic systems again make
clear the correspondences between the human body, the various parts
of which are thought to correspond to tìrthas, and gods. They also
point to the map of India as a Mother’s body, and to the temple
complex as an imitation of the human body with the emphasis on
its reproductive organs. There are schematic representations, either

architectural or esoteric in character, of temple complexes in which

the navel or genital area is represented by a sacred tree or flagpole.
Most devotees pay their respects to both. In view of the fact that
both the icon and the fixed place indoors where this icon is to be
kept are later developments in Indian religious history, the surviv-
ing sacred tree, in its outdoor setting, however walled in, in many
ways remains a vital reminder of origins. I also observed that many
of the rural ≤àktapì†has in Bengal casually doubled as picnic spots.
In the underlying system of symbolical equivalences and esoteric
correspondences, not only is the geographical outline of Mother India
seen as a sacred body dotted with special vortexes of ≤akti epipha-
nies, but there are special pilgrimage circles around the sacred sites
connected with favourite gods, goddesses, and their stories. The pì†ha
system, according to Mircea Eliade, may be perceived as an exam-
ple of the coalescence of the cults of the great goddess, fertility cults,
and popular yoga. Sircar, in his study of the •àkta pì†has, speculates
that the earliest pì†has were associated with natural features of the
environment: a li«gam with hills and mountains, a yo»i with tanks
and pools, and breasts with a pair of hills in the landscape.41 In such
a landscape of male and female hierophanies, India’s soil was per-
ceived as a body, and in the system of the ≤àkta pì†has the greater
expanse of India’s body was dotted with those special localisations
of the sacred power where parts of Satì’s body fell. A third dimen-
sion of this sacred body symbolism is found in the yogic/Tantric
meditative system of the cakras and nà∂is.
The place-histories (sthalapurà»as) and great praises (màhàtmyas) thus
pinpoint the sacred, the mythical, and the legendary in today’s land-
scape. The sacred stories are imprinted on secular soil, and it is
claimed by many that natural features like mountains, rivers, pools,
rocks, and cliffs still tell those stories in vivid details. Trees are far
more liable to decay than those, yet it is claimed that some ancient
ones are the very same trees mentioned in the founding stories. Even
if the original tree has been replaced a few times by a young sapling
purposively planted next to it, the present tree is considered to pos-
sess the unbroken power of the original one.
This makes the divine, the sacred, tangible. Often, it is endeav-
oured to simulate this natural experience within the walls of a
41
D.C. Sircar, •àkta Pì†has (1973, orig. 1948), pp. 7–8.

304 chapter two
purposively planned and constructed temple complex. According to

McKim Malville, a temple complex is more than a model:
Today the living Indian temple is both a model of the universe carved
in stone, and a participatory creation myth. (. . .) Every day the prop-
erly prepared individual can return to the primordial instant of cre-
ation and can thereby mimic the evolution of the universe as it oscillates
between chaos and cosmos.42
That a temple complex may be seen as a participatory creation myth
is found not only in the “irrepressible animism that persists even
today (. . .), celebrating the continual epiphanies of nature—in rock,
river, tree and snake” brought into the confines of the temple, but
also in the continuous ritual of recreating by re-enacting, as well as
in the daily service of attending to the needs of such divine mani-
festations. Ritual in India often takes the form of recreating the pri-
mordial, and this may be enhanced by the studied system of
correspondences underlying the temple layout. There are symbolic
systems of temple architecture that imitate the ma»∂ala, Mount Meru,
etcetera, but also those in which the sacred site is outlined like a
body, that of the first Purußa, the vàstupurußa, or the Mother’s body.
Schematic representations of temple complexes sometimes show the
following correspondences: the garbhag‰ha corresponds with the head,
the antaràla with the chest, the balipì†ha with the navel, the dhvaja-
stambha with the (male) genital area, and the gopuram with the feet.43
This is at variance with the views of the garbhag‰ha as the womb.
The cosmogonic act of separating heaven and earth using a pil-
lar was given architectural form in the symbolic pillar in the centre
of the temple. This most sacred centre may be called a navel, a
womb, or a reproductive organ, and may be represented by a pond,
a yo»i, a li«gam, etcetera: it may even be a living tree, a flagpost,
the sacrificial stake, or a sculpted pillar. All such vertical forms have
in common that they connect the two ends of the spectrum, pàtàla
and heaven. These vertical movements have their roots in the sub-
terranean zone: they reach down to the realm of primordial chaos,
and reach out to cover heaven. Especially the living tree epitomises
the process of growth from the substratum of darkness and death,
42
McKim Malville, in his article ‘Astrophysics, Cosmology, and the Interior Space
of Indian Myths and Temples’ (1991), p. 128.
43
See, for instance, Ayyar, South Indian Shrines, p. 83.

and thus fertility.44 This arboreal fertility never exists merely within
and because of itself: it transports the subterranean energy upwards
into our world, where it meets the opposing current of energy drawn
from high above, such as sunlight, air, and rain. Our middle world
is thus the meeting point of two vital trajectories. This perception
underlines the experience of being at the center of vast systems of
energy transportation.
At several places in India, rivers are understood to come from
trees, especially from the roots of trees.45 Moreover, Indian mythol-
ogy has a great many variations on the theme of the primeval waters
on which Nàràya»a floated, with the cosmic tree rising from his
navel. In Purà»ic tradition, the tree was replaced by the lotus, from
which Brahmà was born; he is also called Abjàja, born of the lotus.
Later on, in iconography and decorative arts, aquatic cosmogony
became a common motif, such as the plant or tree rising from the
mouth or navel of a yakßa, or from the throat of a makara, or from
a vase of plenty.46
The worshipper who comes to the temple ideally first circles around
the temple compound, offering obeisance to the deities in minor
shrines. He walks around the centre “in an individual act of demar-
cation”47 until he reaches the recesses of the innermost shrine, hid-
den away in stone and darkness, like a cave, or like the bowels of
the earth. This hidden truth, to be recovered from the depths of the
sea, from primordial chaos, or from the darkness of the earth, is
also what gives the thriving tree its vitality. And in the Jambuke≤vara
temple, it is this endless gushing forth of waters from the hidden
depths that makes the li«gam and the jambu tree so awe-inspiring.48
44
See also David Shulman, Tamil Temple Myths: Sacrifice and Divine Marriage in the
South Indian •aiva Tradition (1980), pp. 44–45.
45
For a fascinating account, see Anne Feldhaus, Water and Womanhood: Religious
meanings of rivers in Maharashtra (1995), p. 112, especially note 23. See also Mircea
Eliade, Patterns in comparative religion (1958), p. 193, who mentions the ‘ageless river’
(vijaranadì ) which runs beside the miraculous tree spoken of in the Kau≤itaki Upanißad
(1,3).
46
See Eliade, Patterns, p. 190, as well as Coomaraswamy, Yakßas, vol. 11, p. 13
and 24. For the combination of trees, makaras, and vases of plenty, see also J.Ph.
Vogel’s studies.
47
Shulman, Tamil Temple Myths, p. 19.
48
In Bakreshwar, the Bengali place of pilgrimage mentioned earlier, a priest
showed me how underneath and inside the shaft of the bigger li«gam the original
one, much smaller, could be seen. This ancient li«gam was claimed to have ascended
from pàtàla directly, although even the priests there have not reached consensus on

306 chapter five
5.2 Popular rites, rituals, and ritualising around trees
An enormous variety of ritualising is presently going on beneath and

around trees in contemporary India, ranging from simple gestures
of respect to elaborate rituals of selecting, propitiating, cutting, and
carrying away the tree, as in the traditional vanayàga or forest sacrifice.
Travel records and the early anthropological literature have left us
with so many loose ends and so much random data that it was nec-
essary to radically sift through them in order to distinguish the major
aspects.
We can do no more than pioneer a loosely structured framework.
We opted for an approach which focused on the most obvious occa-
sions when, as well as ways in which, we saw rituals being performed
beneath and around trees. We selected the following aspects: (1) the
flowering season, (2) the cutting of trees, (3) the use of wood, (4) the
use of other products such as blossoms, leaves, fruits, sap, medicine,
amulets, aromatics etc., (5) the marriage of trees, (6) saáskàras or
threshold rites beneath trees, (7) the wishing tree, (8) symbols and
stories, (9) swinging, (10) meditation and tapas, (11) tree-derived or
tree-like forms, (12) the sacred grove.
(1) The flowering season

In the literary descriptions of seasonal festivals, we have already dwelt
on the impact of the spring mood on kings, poets, and common
people alike.49 The aspects of the flowering season that are still being
celebrated today appear to have continued in more or less the same
vein, though the unprecedented deforestation and urbanisation have
made the naturalistic part, namely, the colourful vista of blossoming
trees, less obvious and less abundant. In tribal areas, the flowering
trees are still very much at the centre of spring festivals. The Oraon
and Santal festivals centered on the flowering ≤àl trees are famous.50
To the Santals the month of Phalguna (February–March) is the begin-
ning of the new year. The blessings of the gods and goddesses inhab-
whether it is a svayaábhùli«gam or not. The impression of being in contact with the

netherworld was enhanced by the hot vapour coming out from this ‘rupture’ in the
surface of the earth.
49
See Chapter Two.
50
As we looked at those occasions only from the point of view of celebrating
the flowering of trees, we did not dwell on the more rowdy and carnivalesque
aspects of spring festivals here.

iting the jungle are invoked. If this worship is not done properly,
this might result in inadequate flowering and fruiting, and even in
harm being done to the people by the animals of the forest.51
One of the ritual ways to gather blossoms to be offered to the
deities is by shooting arrows at them. Mahuà flowers are often con-
nected with love and marriage. Another kind of blossom known to
be a ‘love-kindler’ is the mango flower, connected with Kàma-Madana,
the god of love. They are offered to the moon, to Kàmadeva, and
to •iva on the occasion of Mahà≤ivaràtra, and they are braided into
marriage bowers.
A≤oka blossoms are used widely too, in this same context. In Bengal,
there is a festival called A≤oka≤àß†hi, on the occasion of which its buds
are eaten, and special water in which a≤oka blossoms have been
soaked is ingested, mainly by women.52 Its flowers are also used in
temple services. The a≤oka tree is one of the trees said to need a
special incentive to flower, a motif poetically elaborated upon in
Kàlidàsa’s play Malavikàgnimitra.
K‰ß»a is often associated with the flowering kadamba and tamàla
trees. Another tree connected with K‰ß»a is the pàrijàta tree, the
so-called paradise or wishing tree, a blossom of which, given to
Rukmi»ì, so much evoked second wife Satyabhàma’s envy that K‰ß»a
felt compelled to steal the entire tree from Indra’s paradise for her.
This is the coral tree said to have been produced from the churn-
ing of the Milk Ocean. This tree is often regarded as a wishing tree,
kalpadruma, the original of which still stands on mythical Mount Meru.
The blue-blossomed tamàla tree, too, is often associated with K‰ß»a,
not only because K‰ß»a and the tree share the colour blue, but also
because in a variation on the theme of his death after being shot
inadvertently by a hunter, it is sometimes said that K‰ß»a died when
perching on a branch of a tamàla tree after a hunter mistook the
white soles of his dangling feet for the ears of a fawn.
Two other symbolic uses of flowers from trees should be noted
here. The first is the belief that a blossom falling from a tree into
a woman’s lap means that she will conceive a girl. In some cases,
a woman who wants offspring is advised to sit beneath a flowering
tree with her skirt spread out. The number of leaves, blossoms, and
51
See Sitakant Mahapatra (ed.), The Realm of the Sacred (1992), p. 43.
52
See Khirod Chandra Ray, ‘A≤okàß†amì Festival’.

308 chapter five
perhaps fruits that fall into her lap indicates the number of children
she is going to have, a blossom meaning a girl and a leaf indicat-
ing a boy. This practice also takes place at Muslim saints’ tombs,
where rose or jasmine bowers are often planted. A peculiar use of
blossoms may be observed during hook-swinging ceremonies, when
tree flowers are strewn from high.53 In such cases, the blossoms indi-
cate fertility and fecundity, in human as well as botanical matters.
The showering of blossoms over the crowd may be seen as imitat-
ing the natural world: just as the graceful and generous scattering
of blossoms by a tree may be viewed as a promise of a fruitful har-
vest, so the hero suspended from a high crossbeam above showers
flowers (or oranges, or limes) over the spectators as a blessing as well
as a promise of abundant harvests.
Comparable with this is that of showering blossoms over a river,
thus “filling her lap”, i.e., gratifying the river goddess and making
her fertile, or even fulfilling her pregnancy cravings (dohada). Filling
a woman’s lap with a cocoanut is a common ritual gesture per-
formed by a priest at the end of a ceremony meant to effect preg-
nancy. Since many rivers are perceived as feminine in India, one of
the rituals of river worship includes this gesture of filling the river’s
lap, not necessarily with cocoanuts only, but with anything a god-
dess might fancy: flowers, lights, incense, and, naturally, sà‰ìs, prefer-
ably red or yellow, the colours of fertility and vitality. Strewing a
season’s blossoms over a river is a simple gesture of respect, but may
well have aspects of imitative magic in it.
To summarise the disparate data concerning the ritual use of blos-
soms in present-day ritual practices to mark the spring season, we
distinguish between the rituals around flower-laden trees, and the
giving of their blossoms to the deities as a mark of the season. The
ritual use of blossoms in love, marriage, and fertility symbolism is a
third aspect, which we will deal with later.54 In Indian temple art,
trees, fruits, and blossoms are used profusely in decorative patterns.
Also, when narratives in which a particular tree figures are depicted,
the season-linked motif can often be determined by looking more
53
The practice of hook-swinging is also dealt with under item nine (‘swinging’)
in our list. The variety in which blossoms or fruits are showered upon the festival-
goers seems to be more of the heroic than of the ascetic kind.
54
See item four in this list.

closely at its blossoms, leaves, or fruits. The depiction of flower-laden

trees in Indian miniatures often indicates the mood of the season.
Nowadays, the same standard references to the season can be seen
in the setting of Indian movies, in advertising, and in popular cal-
endar art.
In the Kàmasùtra, knowledge of flowers is presented as one of
the laudable arts a proficient lover should master. Especially the
woman should know what to do with flowers: how to make them
into a garland, how to braid them into her hair, how to make scents
and balms from them, and how to understand their symbol lan-
guage. In the famous system of sixty-four arts, there are several in
which flowers are involved, such as adorning a statue of the deity
with rice and flowers, preparing beds and couches by showering
them with flowers, stringing garlands and wreaths, adorning the hair
with blossoms, making artificial flowers, and, of course, the knowl-
edge of gardening. In how far such knowledge is still valid today,
or to what extent it ever was outside a small élite, remains unknown.
(2) Cutting
In general, when a tree is to be cut for religious purposes, be it to
serve as a post, pillar, stake, or flag-pole, or to yield the material
for an image of the deity, a ritual utensil, or temple construction,
the tree is selected with special care. In the artisan’s manuals (•ilpa≤àstras,
Vàstusùtras, Mànasàra, etc.) there are elaborate prescriptions regard-
ing what kind of wood is fit for what purpose. A recurring theme
is that the different var»as should select the type of wood that is
known to be appropriate for them, or one of the other types of
wood that are fit for all var»as. Nowadays, the selection criteria for
the trees used for the temple statues in Purì are clear and explicit,
and are still adhered to. Also in Southern India, in certain areas,
there are still bràhma»a priests following strict rules in selecting the
wood for their ritual paraphernalia. Otherwise, at least some gen-
eral prescriptions are adhered to, such as in temple construction and
the manual production of ritual objects. The present scarcity of cer-
tain types of wood, however, lays severe limitations on the ritually
correct adherence to such rules. The cutting of sandalwood for cre-
mation firewood is strictly limited, and often the sandalpaste used in
devotional services is adulterated or even artificial. Because of this
scarcity, most of the sandal trees that are cut today serve some

310 chapter five
specific cultic purpose, since the ritual use of sandalwood is given

priority, theoretically at least, over the use of sandalwood for the
production of luxury objects.55
The more extreme alternative to the practice of restricted cutting
is the regulation that some sacred trees, such as the a≤vattha, are
never to be cut. By some, cutting down an a≤vattha, or even lopping
off a branch, is seen as more or less equal to brahminicide or the
slaughtering of a cow. But in the rare case when it has become
imperative that a sacred tree be cut for religious purposes, a few
basic rules are still adhered to. Apart from the selection criteria
regarding what type of wood is to be used for what specific pur-
pose, there are criteria regarding its direct surroundings as well as
the tree’s outer appearance.56 In general, three phases can be dis-
tinguished, that of selecting, cutting, and transporting, that of the
physical fabrication of the image by artisans, and the awakening or
establishing of the image, especially ‘opening its eyes’ (netronmìlana).
Before the actual cutting takes place, there should be some form
of propitiation. At times, the tree spirit supposed to inhabit the tree,
and at other times just the animals living in it or dependent on it,
are propitiated and offered an alternative residence. For this, the
ancient words of the B‰hatsaáhità may still be used:
You have been designated to serve as an icon for such-and-such a
deity. We bow to you, tree. Please accept these offerings of worship,
in proper manner. May those beings who dwell here receive our trib-
ute, which is given properly, and choose another dwelling. May they
forgive us. We bow to them.
The eastern side of the tree should be marked as ‘face’, since the
completed image on the altar will also face east. Once this is done
it is no longer a tree, let alone a log of wood: it has been marked
as the god in uncarved form. The transportation back to the con-
55
In a recent newspaper article (October 2004) on the death of India’s most
wanted bandit, Koose Maniswamy Veerappan, it was reported that one of his crimes
had been the smuggling of sandalwood. Accessed as www.bbc.co.uk, 19 October
2004.
56
For summaries of such prescriptions, see Madeleine Biardeau, Histoires de poteaux:
variations védiques autour de la déesse hindoue (1989), pp. 37–38, and Stella Kramrisch,
‘Traditions of the Indian Craftsman’ (1959), p. 20. See also Ananda Coomaraswamy,
The Indian Craftsman (1909), and James Frazer, The Golden Bough, abridged edition
(1974), Chapter 9, pp. 37–40, and Chapter 28, p. 316.

struction site, often within the temple compound, is regarded as a

procession, a yàtrà. Once the wood has been deposited in the area
where it will be carved, it is again worshipped using mantras and
auspicious substances. Often, the artisans have to do their work in
a liminal state of ritual purity, and even before they make the first
cut with the chisel, the wood is treated as a deity in the making.57
An interesting justification for killing a particular tree when the
wood is destined for temple statues is the explicit promise that the
tree, thus felled and destined for a glorious future in which it will
be the recipient of boundless devotion, will escape the normal fate
of being felled by the forester’s axe or dying an anonymous death
in old age. This is the state in which sacredness is accorded to what
used to be just one of many trees in the forest. This primary sacred-
ness is enhanced if a proper vanayàga is performed, complete with
the pouring of oblations into the fire and the recitation of mantras.
It is thought that both the tree and all the beings living in it or in
some way connected with it should be praised and propitiated. Any
neglect or ommission could have strong repercussions for the func-
tionaries involved.
The carpenter or sculptor is to mark off on its trunk the various
proportions of the image that is to be carved from the tree. When
the final felling is to be done, the blade of the axe is to be anointed
with honey and clarified butter. He is instructed to cut round the
tree clockwise, beginning from the north-eastern point. The tree
should under no circumstances fall southward. The moment the tree
falls, the priest should touch water. The transportation of the log
has its own ceremonial, as has the process of sculpting. With the
final consecration of the statue, the process comes to an end.58
There is some speculation about the fate of the stump that is left
in the forest when the tree is cut: is it abondoned, or is there some
kind of ritual in which the stump is honoured? The idea that li«gam
worship might originate from the worship of the stump of such a
sacred tree is not farfetched as one of the possible non-phallic ori-
gins of the li«gam. In Vedic ritual, the stump was left in its place,
57
See also R.H. Davis, Lives of Indian Images (1997), p. 35.
58
Medieval •aiva texts like the Kàmikàgama list 22 constituent rites making up
the ceremony of establishment (pratiß†hà), beginning with the initial selection of the
material, and ending with the final worship of the fully established temple image.
See also R.H. Davis, Lives of Indian Images, p. 34.

312 chapter five
and a libation was made on it. Libations on tree stumps must have
been a common feature of Vedic ritual, such as is expressed in the
•atapathabràhma»a. Traditionally, the treecutter placed a stalk of grass
on the place where the axe was about to fall, and said, “O plant,
shield it!” And when the tree had been felled, he poured ghee on the
stump, saying: “Grow out of this, O Lord of the forest, grow into
a hundred shoots! May we grow with a hundred shoots!” In how
far and to what extent this Vedic practice is still adhered to today
is difficult to say. It appears to me that in the past hundred years
much of this has become extinct, but in certain circles some revival
and revitalisation can be detected. An interesting case in point is the
construction of prestigious temples overseas for which Vedic or Àgamic
guidelines may be more strictly adhered to than in India itself.59
Even when some of the traditional materials and conditions are lack-
ing in such temples abroad, Indians on such solemn occasions appear
to remain fond of natural metaphors and references, as in the pratiß†hà
and kumbhàbhißekam rites in the Penn Hills Temple in Pennsylvania.
Although in his elaborate description Fred Clothey says nothing about
the planting of a sthalav‰kßa in that temple complex, his language
when describing a«kuràrpa»a is significant:
The sprouting of these seeds througout the week are (sic) intended to
be homologous to the ‘planting’ of the temple and its icons (p. 187)
and:
Temple-building, like acculturation, is implantation. Seeds are caused
to germinate; icons are set in permanent pedestals like trees into a pit.
(. . .) So too the human community, mirrored in the temple, is implanted
to take permanent life and to grow in new soil (p. 194).60
59
This phenomenon opens a new field of study not included in this research:
research on the planting of sacred trees in diaspora temples, and the rituals per-
formed beneath them. I have noticed sacred trees in Hindu temples in Sri Lanka,
Malaysia, South Africa, Europe, North America, and the Caribbean, but have con-
ducted no systematic research. In diaspora studies, such as the collection of articles
in T.S. Rukmini (ed.), Diaspora. Global Perspectives (1999), ample attention is given to
the construction of temples, the establishment of statues, and the celebration of fes-
tivals, but little notice is taken of sacred trees planted overseas. See also Harold
Coward et al. (eds.), South Asian Religious Diaspora (2000), as well as J. Poynting (1985),
Literature and Cultural Pluralism: The East Indian in the Caribbean, for instance, on sacred
plants and ritual implements brought from India by the migrants.
60
Fred Clothey, Rhythm and Intent. Ritual Studies from South India (1983), esp. the
chapter ‘The construction of a temple in an American city’.

The other left-over material is formed by the branches: they are not
taken along with the procession, but are left on the spot. It is known
that in the course of the Navakalevara procedure in Orissa some of
the bigger branches are taken to Purì to be carved into the detach-
able arms and feet needed for the various ve≤as of the Jagannàth
statues. Formerly, when a tree was cut in order to serve as fuel for
the cremation pyre, it was imperative that the entire tree be used
for the cremation; it was thought that otherwise one of the closest
relatives would die soon. What happens to the remaining material,
such as the stump and the branches, when a tree is destined for the
temple is not clear.
In some of the older anthropological studies, it is noted that, for
instance, the Màghas in Bengal used to stand ready with a green
twig to graft on the stump of the tree, to give the tree the oppor-
tunity of sprouting again, as well as to propitiate the tree spirit whose
occupancy had been rudely disturbed. Sometimes, modest propitia-
tory offerings were placed on the stump, such as ghee, betel, and
small coins. An amusing way of deflecting the guilt or sin connected
with the felling of a tree in colonial India consisted of felling a tree
in the presence of Europeans on whom the blame of the sacrilege
could comfortably fall. The treecutter in such a case pleaded that
he was acting under the orders of the European masters. According
to Crooke,
In clearing one spot an orderly was obliged to take the axe and cut
the first tree before a Magh would make a stroke, and he was con-
sidered to bear all the anger of the disturbed spirit until the arrival
of a European relieved him from the burden.61
Irrevocably connected with cutting are the punishments for the wan-
ton felling of trees, such as going to the Asipatravana hell, a forest
where the leaves of trees are like swords. In Kau†ilya’s Artha≤àstra,
varying levels of fines are prescribed for those who destroy trees,
groves, and forests. It says,
For cutting off the tender sprouts of fruit trees, flower trees or shady
trees in the parks near a city, a fine of six panas shall be imposed; for
cutting off the minor branches of the same trees, twelve panas, and for
cutting off the big branches, twenty-four panas shall be levied. Cutting
61
William Crooke, Religion and Folklore of Northern India (1926/1972), pp.
401–402.

314 chapter five
off the trunks of the same shall be punished (with a fine between 48

and 96 panas); and felling of the entire tree shall be punished with (a
fine between 200 and 500 panas). (. . .) For similar offenses committed
in connection with the trees which mark boundaries, or which are
worshipped (. . .) double the above fines shall be levied.
In what terms such traditional fines are translated into contempo-
rary currency is not easily defined, but it is evident that both the
pañcàyats and the forestry departments have the right to sanction tres-
passers and fine people who illegally take away wood.62 Environmental
groups are adamant in keeping the rules in this, and put much pres-
sure on local, regional, and national authorities to maintain strict
vigilance.63
It is no coincidence that both woodcutters and kilnburners were
regarded as belonging to the lowest social strata: not only were they
responsible for taking the lives of many beings dependent on the
trees, since they disturbed the abodes of tree spirits, but their pro-
fessions were regarded as highly inauspicious and burdened with
potential vengeance and retaliation.64 It would be interesting to inves-
tigate the position of those labourers employed by multinational log-
gers nowadays: being employed by an international firm and working
with heavy machines might give them high status, but the fact that
they are deeply involved in killing various life forms might make
that status an ambivalent one. This is nicely expressed in a song
from the Simla hills, noted down by M.R. Randhawa. The wood-
cutter is implored by the tree itself to be cautious:
O cruel woodcutter,
Cut merely my lower branches;
Do not stretch out
Your axe towards the top,
O leave it for the birds’ nests.65
There are also instances, especially in local folklore, that upon the
cutting of a tree or a bamboo, milk and blood trickled out, which
was seen as evidence that it was the goddess herself who had inad-
vertently been hurt. The origins of some specific sacred trees might
62
Such as the Vàn Pañcàyat, the local council responsible for forest management.
63
See Chapter Six.
64
See Randhawa, Flowering Trees, pp. 76–77.
65
Randhawa, Flowering Trees, p. 392.

be explained in such a legend. Just as some li«gams are said to have

been discovered through a flow of blood from the fresh wound in
the bark of the tree growing over it, or through the spontaneous
pouring forth of warm milk from a cow over the buried li«gam, espe-
cially in South India,66 there are parallel myths about sacred trees
which bled after having been touched by an axe. In such a story,
a cow may let her milk drip over the wound in the bark, causing
the cut to fill up and stopping the flow of blood. It is said that the
•ivali«gam at Bhìma≤a«kar emerged from such a bleeding tree. A
temple was built there afterwards.67
(3) Wood
It is clear that most of the usefulness of trees is connected with their
wood. Sacred trees, however, are not necessarily the most useful trees
in terms of durable wood, fruits, medicine, shelter, etcetera. It is evi-
dent that a sacred tree is supposed to pass on its sacredness to its
wood, even when detached from the living tree, and that an exten-
sive craft and ritual tradition around the use of sacred wood for pro-
ducing sacred objects has continued up to this day.68
Today, the banyan and the pipal are still considered so sacred that
they will not be cut; even taking away a branch or a twig without
special permission is perceived as a sacrilege by some. Nevertheless,
when it has been decreed that their wood is needed for a special
purpose, they are felled, but never those around which a cult already
exists.
The other type of wood often connected with ritual use is san-
dalwood (candana). It is needed for the funeral pyre, for statues, for
incense, for màlas, for pastes and oils, and, outside the religious
sphere, for cosmetics and fancy articles. Its odour makes it a favoured
wood in temple services, and, as with the banyan and the pipal, its
twigs are used in the sacred fire.
In the past it was clearly specified what kind of wood was to be
used for the sacrificial fire, and of what type the ritual implements
ought to be made. Nowadays, since wood is scarce and expensive,
66
See Gabriella Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi, The self-milking cow and the bleeding li«gam
(1987), pp. 188–192.
67
See Anne Feldhaus, Water and Womanhood: Religious Meanings of Rivers in Maharashtra
(1995), p. 97.
68
For a general study on the ritual use of wood, leaves, bark etc., see R.C.
Hazra, Studies in the Purà»ic records on Hindu rites and customs (1975, orig. 1940).

316 chapter five
cheaper kinds of wood that are more readily available are substi-
tuted. When the words ‘Vedic’ are used as a qualification in this
respect, it often means that the priests have insisted on using the
prescribed types of wood. Precise knowledge as well as money to
buy them and time to procure them are often lacking. When Frits
Staal searched for bràhma»as who would be able to perform the fire
sacrifice according to the Vedic prescriptions, he finally found them
amongst the Nambudiris in the South-western part of India.69 It is
there that practical knowledge about the wooden implements tradi-
tionally used in ritual is still to be found, although this is becoming
ever rarer, among priests and artisans (≤ilpins) alike.
Sacred wood is still connected with the major life-cycle rituals.70
To win the love of a prospective partner, an amulet of wood may
be worn; for the sacred fire at the wedding ceremony, mango wood
may be used; the log of wood traditionally placed between the
newly-weds in the first two nights of their honeymoon was udambara
wood; a twig or a berry of the a≤vattha may still be used in the rit-
ual for securing progeny; a twig with two berries may be used to
ensure that the baby will be male. Especially if a boy becomes an
ascetic there may be many more occasions on which sacred wood
is used, such as for his staff (da»∂a), his màla, his eating bowl, and
his fire (dhùni). Formerly, ascetics may have used bark also to make
garments. Some ascetic saányàsins must carry a bamboo staff with
seven knots.
Twigs, the ends of which are purposively frayed, are used as tooth-
brushes. Although the neem (nimba) tree is most famous for this, and
is even nicknamed the ‘Colgate tree’, there are occasions for which
other twigs are prescribed. Examples are when twigs from the mango
tree and from the aghàda trees (such as on Rishi Pañcamì) are pre-
scribed, or occasions on which neem twigs are forbidden (such as on
Navaràtra/Durgapùjà). The famous banyan tree on the Narbada near
Brooch is said to have sprung from the tooth-twig of the saint Kabìr,
and that used by the saint 'Addu-l-Gàdir Jilàni became a nìm tree
at Ludiana.71 The chilbil tree, one of those which is supposed to have
69
Frits Staal, et al., Agni, the Vedic ritual of the fire altar. Chants and recitations of the
Agnicayana (1983).
70
See also the introductory remarks in Vasudha Narayan’s article ‘Water, Wood,
and Wisdom: Ecological Perspectives from the Hindu Traditions’.
71
Crooke, Religion and Folklore, p. 404.

grown from the toothbrush of a saint, is connected with the fate of

the last ràja of Gonda in Oudh. It had been prophesied that his
dynasty would come to an end once a monkey sat in its branches.
This is said to have happened during the Great Mutiny of 1857,
and ended in the ruin of dynastic rule.72 In the same category as
saints’ trees are those reputed to have sprung from Buddha’s tooth-twig.
There are stories that the Buddha had once planted a willow twig
after using it, and that it immediately grew to the height of seven
feet. Even when unbelievers tried to cut it down, it miraculously
sprang up again. Crooke tells about the other tree grown from
Buddha’s toothbrush, the tree called dantadhàvana, at Sakita: it once
was so famous that its twigs were distributed to religious establish-
ments as relics, just as leaves were distributed from the bodhi tree in
Bodhgayà.73
Specific branches, bare or flowering, are used in fertility and wed-
ding ceremonies, such as ≤àl branches in the spring festival, and
mango branches on the occasion of a wedding. Bamboo sticks may
be dressed with silk sà‰ìs and represent the local goddesses, whereas
plantain stems may be used as pillars for the pa»∂al in which a the-
atrical performance or wedding is performed. In rural areas scare-
crow-crosses, acting as guardians of the field, used to be made from
the dead branches of local sacred trees. Wooden effigies sometimes
served in magic rites in which the transference of sin or an evil spirit
was the target.74 During an epidemic of cholera or smallpox in South
India, people used to take a log or branch of nìm wood and carve
it roughly into a figure with a rounded head. It would be fixed in
the ground, sheltered by a pa»∂al of nìm leaves, as long as the epi-
demic lasted.75 Variations of this practice are still seen today. The
same is still valid in Orissa, where nìm branches or logs are used to
portray the goddess Maulimàtà: the wood, the twigs, and the leaves
of the nìm are considered cooling and soothing during a fever.76
That sticks may be used to represent the torso of the deity brings
us to the extensive use of sacred wood for the so-called stake, pillar
72
Crooke, Religion and Folklore, p. 406.
73
Crooke, Religion and Folklore, p. 406, quoting Beal.
74
Whitehead, The Village Gods of South India (1921/1976), p. 163.
75
Whitehead, Village Gods, p. 65.
76
See, for instance, Cornelia Mallebrein, Die Anderen Götter: Volks- und Stammesbronzen
aus Indien (1993), p. 123.

318 chapter five
and post deities.77 In a way, the pillars of the pavillions are deities
too. Specific ways of indicating a post’s sacredness are by daubing
it with red dots, by garlanding it, by painting eyes on it, by dress-
ing it, or by sculpting it to resemble a body and a head. A wide
variety of forms are used here, from simple sticks and stakes in a
village shrine to elaborately and finely chiseled pillars in temples.
Starting from the yùpa, there is the whole range of the jarjara, the
Indradhvaja, the stambha, the sthanu, to the li«gam, the pillar deity, and
the wooden temple statues of Purì. In the ritual felling of trees des-
tined to be made into cult objects can be seen the continuation of
the age-old cosmic symbolism of the world-axis and world-pillar.
Even when the living tree has been cut off, its trunk, transformed
into the body of the deity, is seen as alive, perhaps even more so
because priestly establishment rites ( pratiß†hà) have empowered it in
the forest, and again on completion of the statue.78
There are instances of living trees whose trunks show a peculiar
trait, morphologically associating them with the face or the form of
the deity. The trunk of such a living tree is then painted, dressed,
and worshipped as a deity. There are trees of which only that par-
ticular part is worshipped, such as when cracks in the bark look like
a yo»i, when new smooth wood growing inside such a natural rup-
ture looks like an emerging face, and even when some protruding
form looks strikingly like a li«gam.
A derivative use of wood which calls for careful selection of the
tree, often as scrupulous as when wood is destined for ritual objects,
is the making of musical instruments. Musical instruments used in
temple services require careful scrutiny as well as special sanctity
attached to the particular tree. The bow of the sarangi, made from
the wood of a tree that grew where a young girl lay buried, was
said to make its music exceptionally melancholous and sad.79 The
tree that once grew over the tomb of Tan Sen in Gwalior, the
famous musician of Akbar’s court, was said to have a similar but
positive effect: anyone who chewed its leaves would attain a won-
77
On pillars, stakes and posts, and their connection with iconic deities, see
Anncharlott Eschmann’s publications on Orissa, and more general, Madeleine
Biardeau, Histoire de poteaux, as well as her article ‘Brahmans and Meat-eating Gods’
(1989).
78
For general prescriptions, see R.H. Davis, Lives of Indian Images (1997).
79

derfully sweet voice.80 In the ethnographic literature, some references

are made to the totemistic use of a sacred tree that formerly belonged
to a rival kingdom when it is triumphantly made into a war drum.
Getting hold of a rival clan’s war drum, or its sacred tree from
which a war drum is produced, almost implied victory over the
enemy.
The same is valid for the selection of wood for bows and arrows.
For archers, these two are surrounded with an almost magical aura,
and many are the ancient stories about magical bows, made from
a unique tree. Arjuna, the archer par excellence in Indian narra-
tives, tried to placate the god •iva into giving him this most pow-
erful weapon. The Gandiva bow is viewed in the same light as the
powerful discus owned by Vasudeva, and both powerful weapons
were attained in exchange for the Khà»∂ava forest.
The use of sacred wood for amulets has already been mentioned.
Some medicinal properties ascribed to specific types of wood make
them fit for healing rituals, which give them a sacrosanct character.
The usage of taking a chip of the amalakì tree to purify water, or
of throwing a few chips into well-curbs, may be seen as plain prac-
tical knowledge, but when one realises the sacredness and vitality of
water both in daily life and in a ritual context, the wood which has
the potency to purify troubled, or at least ritually impure water,
gains an almost religious connotation.
Even as wood is getting scarcer and the supply of the right types
of ritual paraphernalia traditionally made of wood or derived from
wood is becoming more unreliable (too expensive, too rare, or too
bothersome), it seems that ‘wood’ still evokes a deep religious awe.
In the chapter on ecology and contemporary environmental move-
ments, we provide ample illustrations of this persistence of the sacred.
In the rhetoric surrounding the emergence of India as an indepen-
dent country, references to sacred geography were quite common.
One example of this particularly illustrates the subject of sacred trees:
on the wrapper of a booklet containing Mahàtma Gandhi’s biogra-
phy in Sanskrit verse, his portrait is pictured as the radiating sun
functioning as the brahmamùla of the Cosmic Tree, which, naturally,
coincides with India’s geographical outlines. At the same time,
his face occupies the place where in the Indian subcontinent the
80

320 chapter five
Cosmic Mountain is situated. Even when such an illustration must

be seen as an artist’s homage to the Father of the Nation, the sym-
bolic language of geography, tree, and mountain is significant.81
(4) Blossoms, leaves, fruits, sap, amulets

Blossoms may have gradually replaced animal offerings just as red
flowers are used as substitutes for maithunà in Tantric worship, and
cocoanuts, jackfruits, and pumpkins are used as substitutes for human
heads.82
The use of blossoms in worshipping the deity may or may not
have arisen as a substitute for offering blood; it appears to be a nat-
ural gesture to pick a flower from a tree and offer it as a simple
gift of gratefulness, greeting, and respect. Flowers from blossoming
trees are much more common than flowers growing wild in the fields
or on wasteland. Traditionally, gifts of flowers in India mostly con-
sisted of blossoms from flowering trees, or of lotuses. In Indian tem-
ple sculpture, the gesture of offering flowers can be seen everywhere.
When a person offering a flower to, for instance, the Buddha, is
portrayed, it is often a lotus flower that is being given. In the
Bhagavadgìtà, the word pußpa is used in the famous simplification of
devotional ritual: “patraá pußpa» phalaá toyam”, where K‰ß»a urges
his devotees to simply offer leaves, flowers, fruit, and water.83
Some of the blossoms traditionally used in marriage ceremonies
are the flowers of the plantain tree. Those are also used in Dùrgapùjà
as a manifestation of the goddess herself. On the seventh day (sap-
tamì ), banana blossoms are thrown into the river. Sometimes, the
plantain tree itself is at the receiving side of a ritual, such as in a
marriage ceremony, or during the Sùryapùjà, when gifts are offered
to it. Images of the young, straight plantain trunk, its exuberant
flowers, and the widely available bananas are often used as similes
for vitality, beauty, sensuality, and fertility.
81
A booklet titled Bhàratapàrijàtam (“India as a pàrijàta tree”!) by Swàmi •rì
Bhagavadàchàrya. Illustration also shown as a modern representation of the cosmic
tree in J.F.K. Bosch, The Golden Embryo (1960), p. 84.
82
See also J. Goody, The Culture of Flowers (1993): “While garlands accompanied
blood offerings, there is evidence that they were seen as more appropriate to the
sacrificium incruentum, the sacrifice without blood.” (p. 70)
83
Bhagavadgìtà 9.26: “He who offers me with devotion a leaf, a flower, a fruit,
or water, that devout offering of a pure-minded one I accept.” See also BhP.
10.81.3–4.

Blossoms from trees and shrubs are used in worshipping the grà-
madevatà. Gustav Oppert indicated this as follows:
At the worship of the gràmadevatà are used the leaves, flowers, resin
and milky juice of the holy fig and of the red oleander, of the white
calatropis gigantea, of the black datura, the China rose, the Nimb tree,
Euphorbia anti-quorum and of other plants.84
In city temples, it is often flowers from specially cultivated plants
and shrubs that are offered. Special gardens outside the cities pro-
duce flowers for garlands and pùjà offerings, and some temples grow
their own trees and shrubs for the use of their leaves, flowers, and
fruit in the ritual offerings. Both leaves and flowers of the tulasì shrub
are used in worship: bits of these are given back to the devotee as
the god’s prasàda, and are then eaten. Many Indian households which
have no garden have a potted tulasì in the courtyard, on the doorstep,
or on the balcony of an apartment block.85
Other trees whose blossoms are used in •aiva temple worship are
the nàga-li«gam flower tree and the Amalakì tree. The nàga-li«gam is
an unusual flower said to be favoured by •iva because of its pecu-
liar shape: its staminal band is curiously formed to look like the hood
of a nàga, and the pistil looks like a miniature li«gam. A rare depic-
tion is found in the Jambuke≤vara Temple at Srìra«gam.86
The goddesses are said to be especially fond of red flowers, such
as the China rose (hibiscus), which does not grow on a tree but on
a shrub. Viß»u, along with his avatàras, is said to favour yellow. One
of the flowers most commonly offered to him is the marigold, espe-
cially in the form of a garland.
The use of leaves in ritual is widespread.87 Viß»u is sometimes
depicted as floating on an a≤vattha leaf; the trifoliate vilva leaf is dear
to •iva, and offered to him in worship; mango leaves are widely
84
Gustav Oppert, On the original inhabitants of Bharatavar≤a or India (1972, orig.
1893), p. 460.
85
Having a tulasì plant in or near one’s house clearly is as sensitive an issue of
identity as having a crucifix on the wall in other countries. I met several persons,
especially women, who told me they would rather not visit and sleep in a place
that is without a tulasì.
86
For a depiction, see also p. 58 of Shakti M. Gupta, Plants.
87
For the use of leaves ( patra) and blades of grass (such as dùrvà) in contem-
porary pùjà, see especially Lawrence A. Bapp, The Divine Hierarchy (1975), and Gudrun
Bühnemann, Pùjà: A Study in Smàrta Ritual (1988). Besides the offering of flowers,
leaves, and grasses, some other pùjà items are of vegetal origin too, such as gandha
(mostly sandalwood), dhùpa (incense), and tàmbùla (betel nut).

322 chapter five
used on festive occasions, such as the birth of a son, a marriage, or

a theatrical performance. Five mango leaves are offered in pùjà dur-
ing Saptasatì Path, deposited around a brass pot filled with water,
curds, and ghì. During àrati, oil lamps with five flames, a small conch
shell, a cloth, a cluster of bel leaves, incense sticks, and a piece of
burning camphor are waved in front of the deities. In homa sacrifices,
108 bel (vilva) leaves dripped in ghì are thrown into the fire. Leaves
of the amalakì tree are given to both •iva and Viß»u. Leaves of the
≤amì tree are mixed with earth and kneaded into little balls as a
token of the marriage of Mother Earth, and leaves of the neem tree
are used for their soothing, cooling effect. They are also used for
ritual purification after there has been a death in the family. Leaves
of the aghàda tree are used in the worship of Ga»e≤a, and they are
eaten on New Year’s Day. Palà≤a leaves used to be connected with
ancestor rites. Arka leaves may be used as plates for food on special
occasions. In the rite of Navapatrika (the festival of the nine leaves)
Dùrgà is called ‘she who dwells in the nine leaves’.88 Plants and
leaves are directly associated with the goddess, and in the Devìmàhàtmya
she declares, “Then, o gods, I shall nourish the whole universe with
these plants which support life and grow from my very body dur-
ing the rainy season.”89
The leaves of sacred trees often serve as a marker for easy recog-
nition and determination: bel (vilva) leaves indicate •iva, pipal (a≤vattha)
leaves indicate Viß»u (or K‰ß»a), neem leaves are often connected
with •ìtalà/Mariamman, the ‘cooling’ goddess who is prayed to dur-
ing smallpox epidemics. A special link exists between the a≤vattha leaf
and the historical Buddha: not only is he depicted beneath the bodhi
tree, but often in Indian sculpture this tree is merely indicated by
a few of its leaves over his head. Leaves are often used as auspi-
cious motifs in decorative arts, especially the a≤vattha leaf, which has
been found on Indus pottery. Stylised outlines of leaves are also
found in ra«goli, in temple sculpture, on textile, in jewelry, and as a
motif in bodypainting, such as on the hands and feet of a bride.
The fruit is also offered to the gods. Bananas and cocoanuts are
favourite fruit offerings, but mangoes and papayas are offered as
well. Plantains in general are associated with fertility, and bananas
are widely available in private gardens and sold on almost every
88
See, for instance, Amita Ray, ‘The cult and ritual of Durgà pùjà in Bengal.’
89
Devìmàhàtmya XCII, verses 43–44.

corner. In tribal areas, the cocoanut palm is often seen as a verita-

ble kalpav‰kßa or jìvanav‰kßa. Cocoanuts are often given by keepers of
shrines to women who desire children. When a woman’s plea has
been granted, she may hang a basket with a cocoanut inside (rep-
resenting the newborn baby) on the branch of a tree or on the roof
of her house. Cocoanuts are favourite offerings since they resemble
the human head, and thus may have grown into a substitute for the
offering of a human sacrificial victim, but also because of their con-
tents: a rough exterior, with rich white pulp and water inside. They
also used to represent Varu»a, the god of rain. In the Vedas, it was
Varu»a who tore up the celestial Tree of Life, and by squeezing its
fruit between two stones obtained soma or am‰ta, the drink of immor-
tality. Cocoanut milk is one of the ingredients of the solution with
which abhißekham is performed, along with rosewater, turmeric, san-
dalwood, honey, sugar, and the bark of certain trees.
Nuts and seeds are used as well, such as when the popular pan
(the betelnut growing on the areka palm) is offered at the conclusion
of a pùjà. Rùdràkßa seeds, which are supposed to originate in •iva’s
tears, are used in a ritual context too. Traditionally, they are the
seeds of Eleocarpus ganitrus Roxb., but in many parts of India the fruit
of Guazuma Ulmifolia Lam. is also used as rùdràkßa. They are used in
making màlas, strung together to serve as prayer beads in rosaries,
and as body and hair decorations of sàdhus. They also serve as unit
weights used by jewellers and goldsmiths. There is an interesting
scale in their sanctity, depending on the number of ‘eyes’ they have.
The natural patterns on the bigger rùdràkßa seeds may also be artis-
tically carved into what is made to look like spontaneous epiphanies:
a li«gam, a snake, a tri≤ula, or the pra»ava (OM ). The tiny fruits of
the sacred fig varieties, especially of the pipal and the banyan, may
be used as aphrodisiacs.
Bark was used to make clothes by ascetics and other forest dwellers.
Some types of bark were also used as paper. Charms and sacred
songs may still be written on the outer bark of the Bhujpatra tree,
the Indian paper birch, and many sacred texts were once written
on agar bark, aloe wood. Basanti, obtained by boiling sawdust of the
wood of the jackfruit tree or its powder, is still used for dying the
robes of Buddhist monks.
As far as the religious use of juice is concerned, the so-called milk
trees used to have a special place in Indian symbolism. The milk-white
latex was widely seen as belonging to the associative string of milk,

324 chapter five
semen, soma, and am‰ta. Its use in so-called mothering rituals is wide-
spread.90 The use of resin, which is seen as the life-blood of the tree,
in the form of aromatics and incense was known to the Greeks, who
had them imported from India.91 Another kind of liquor connected
with trees is alcoholic beverages made from the corolla of mahuà
flowers or from the fruit of the toddy palm, but liquor is not widely
used in religious rituals, except in the countryside, by the lower
castes, and occasionally in Tantrism.
(5) Marriage
A persisting custom in regard to sacred trees is the practice of ‘mar-
rying’ trees. This is not grafting in a technical sense, but actually
marrying (i.e., pairing, coupling, wedding) two different trees, often
an a≤vattha and a nìmba. They are either planted very close, and are
married later, or they are planted together in one ditch and tied
together with a red wedding sà‰ì. Often, it is the temple priest who
is requested to perform this ceremony. It is hoped that the ‘couple’
will grow up in ideal concord and symmetry. In reality, however,
one of the two often dominates the other: one thrives, and the other
becomes thin and scraggly, and finally dies. Happy matrimony is to
be found as well: often when one looks upwards into the branches
of an a≤vattha, one notices that part of the tree has the much finer
neem leaves. This could indicate a purposive marriage, but could also
point to the epiphytic tendency of the a≤vattha. At some stage a bird
must have dropped an a≤vattha seed in the host tree, which began
to sprout and then thrive on the main tree.92 But with ‘tree mar-
riage’ as such is meant the purposive binding together of a ‘male’
and a ‘female’ tree. Ideally, the two trees become symbiotically inter-
twined and thus gradually begin to resemble the nàgakals of two inter-
twining snakes. Such successfully wedded trees draw many women
to them, lured by the promise of a happy conjugal life and progeny.
90
See especially Hélène Stork, ‘Mothering Rituals in Tamilnadu: Some Magico-
Religious Beliefs’ (1992).
91
Resin, in the context of sacred trees, is ambiguous. It is said that Indra’s curse,
i.e., the punishment for having inadverently killed a brahmin, was equally distrib-
uted over trees, earth, women, and water. Indra’s sin is conceived to be emitted
from those four in the form of resin, salt, menstrual blood and foam respectively.
See also Frederick M. Smith, ‘Indra’s Curse, Varu»a’s Noose, and the Suppression
of the Women in the Vedic •rauta Ritual’ in Leslie (1992), esp. p. 23.
92
For an illustration of this ‘strangling fig’ phenomenon, see M.B. Emeneau, The
Strangling Figs in Sanskrit Literature (1949), esp. p. 348.

A different kind of tree marriage occurs when a man or a woman

is married to a tree. In some cases, preceding the civil wedding cer-
emony, a man is married to a ‘female’ tree, and a woman to what
is considered a ‘male’ tree. In other cases, a man is married to a
tree after two unlucky marriages that ended in widowerhood. Marrying
a tree in a ‘third’ marriage is said to divert the inauspicious, the
bad ( pàp). Young girls may be married to a tree on reaching puberty.
This is viewed as channelling the tree’s fertility into the girl and at
the same time securing her chastity. This was shown recently in the
film ‘Sati’ by Aparna Sen, set in a West Bengal village 150 years
ago. It is the story of a mute nineteen-year-old rural bràhma»a girl
who was forced by her family to ‘marry’ a tree, since their family
astrologer had predicted that any man the girl might marry would
die soon. Elisabeth Bumiller, who happened to be present when a
part of the film was shot, reports:
A knob of the tree had been draped, like a groom, with a garland of
hibiscus flowers. Azmi wore a red-and-white wedding sari as she was
led around the tree seven times and then sat down in the shade by
its trunk for the marriage ceremony, led by a Brahmin priest. In front
of him, on a large banana leaf, were offerings: flowers, papayas, chilies,
coconuts, cucumbers, potatoes. The scene was bizarre, but Sen and
Azmi were working hard to make it both credible and tragic.93
Men who are economically dependent on a particular type of tree,
such as toddy-tappers, honey-gatherers, and latex-collectors, may be
married to their particular species of tree in a kind of reciprocal
pledge.
A kind of marriage ceremony is also seen when the Earth, the
Goddess Earth, or Earth Mother, is wedded to a tree, or to all the
trees covering her surface. During Dasara celebrations this is prefer-
ably a ≤amì; on the occasion of Va†a Sàvitrì Vrata, it is a banyan. In
some tribal areas, the regulations are that, when the new season
approaches, no flowers, fruit, or leaves should be taken from the
tree before it has been ceremoniously married. To take anything
from an ‘unmarried’ tree would seem highly improper and unlucky.
In the traditional marriage pavillion, one of the supporting pillars
is worshipped as the Tree of Life.94 In the marriage ceremony, the
93
Reported in Elisabeth Bumiller, “May you be the mother of a hundred sons”: A jour-
ney among the women of India (1990), pp. 198–199.
94
I have seen contemporary imitations of the original wooden pillar on the occa-
sion of a wedding, made of paper or synthetics.

326 chapter five
trees are called upon as witnesses, along with the sacrificial fire and
the gods. The emphatic tearing of a leaf of the sacred tree or of
the tulasì shrub is a symbol of divorce.95 Although the worship of
such a pillar in the context of a wedding ceremony looks like phal-
lic symbolism, this is not accepted as being so; rather, it is insisted
that this central pillar represents the axis mundi. Although in poetry
the image of a male tree with a female creeper winding its way
around the tree’s trunk may be erotic in intent, it also points to the
culture-given ideal of a Hindu woman’s experience of herself as a
tendril dependent on the strength of her husband.96 In the marriage
ceremony in the pa»∂al, both man and woman perform the pillar
worship, not merely the bride.
In older ethnographic books, some references are made to specific
fertilising acts at the beginning of the season. At the start of spring,
the peasant couple should cohabit beneath a tree in order to secure
its fecundity. For the same reason, it was a lore in some areas that
the man should ejaculate in front of the tree.97 In a similar vein,
there are stories of babies being born in trees, or mankind itself
stemming from trees. In the Gautamìmàhàtmya is the narrative of the
child Pippalàda, who was raised by the trees of his parents’ à≤rama
after his mother, Pràtitheyì, ripped him from her womb, entrusted
him to them, and followed her husband, Dadhìci, to his death. He
wondered, “People are born from people, birds from birds, plants
from seeds; there is no variation in this world. (. . .) How was I, who
am descended from trees, born with hand and feet . . .?98
95
See Crooke, Religion and Folklore, p. 405.
96
There is a poetic use of this image in the so-called Games of •iva in Madurai:
as soon as the local queen, the maiden Ta†àtakai, directing her troops at Mount
Kailà≤a, laid eyes on •iva, she changed from a valiant warrior to a shy and ten-
der girl: “she became bashful, passive and fearful. She leaned unsteadily, like a
flowering vine bending under the weight of its blossoms.” In the translation of
William P. Harman, The Sacred Marriage of a Hindu Goddess (1989), Appendix A, verse
43–44, p. 175.
97
For these details, see J.J. Meyer, Sexual Life in Ancient India: A study in the com-
parative history of Indian culture (1952), as well as his Trilogie altindischer Mächte und Feste
der Vegetation (1937).
98
Gautamìmàhàtmya 40.82, as referred to by Anne Feldhaus, ‘The Image of the
Forest’, in Bakker (1990), as well as in ‘Pai†han and the Nàgas’, in Eck and Mallison
(1991), pp. 102–103.

(6) Wishing tree

Although all trees in India may be regarded as wishing trees in some
way, the idea of kalpadruma or kalpav‰kßa is traditionally linked to var-
ious cosmographical designs, such as those found in the Purà»as. The
word kalpa in this compositum is traditionally linked with the root
kl‰p-, with various clusters of meanings, such as precept or injunc-
tion; fabulous period of time = one day of Brahmà = 1,000 yugas;
and resolve or determination. In the most common composita rele-
vant here, kalpav‰kßa, kalpataru, kalpadruma, kalpava†a, kalpalatà and kalpa-
dhenu, kalpa- is conveniently translated as wish or wishfulfilling. In
popular etymology, however, the kalpa tree is often understood in
the sense of a deathless tree, undying, living for an endless period
of time, or, in a different perspective, in the sense of a tree that
grants immortality to those who pray to it. The meaning of akßayava†a
may have got mixed up here with the term kalpa in the sense of a
fabulous period of time.
There is one series of images in which the world in statu nascendi
is called Brahmà’s egg, brahmà»∂a. This egg cracks open into four
continents with Mount Meru in the middle. Jambudvìpa (the island
of the jambu tree), one of the four continents or isles, is our world.
Bhàratavarßa, or India, is one of the countries. Any tree that has been
proven to grant wishes is considered a representative of that proto-
type. The fame of Indian wishing trees spread far enough for Alexander
the Great and his soldiers to be lured by them. In their imagina-
tion, Indian wishing trees stood not only for trees laden with jew-
els, speaking animals, beautiful maidens, and fruits of immortality
(or at least rejuvenation), but also in general for all the fabulous
riches expected to be found in the subcontinent.
Expressing wishes and prayers in front of a sacred tree occurs in
connection with several trees that are not among the traditionally
known five wishing trees ( pañcav‰kßa).99 The idea that sacred trees are
powerful manifestations of the divine, and ideal spots to come into
contact with heavenly bounty, makes sacred trees favourite locations
to state wishes, promises, and pledges. The way in which this is tra-
ditionally expressed is twofold: firstly, there is the idea that the tree
itself, as a hierophany, in its direct association with boundless gen-
erosity, is able to grant things clearly visualised or ardently desired;
99
Those are the five trees of Svarga, Indra’s paradise: mandàra, pàrijàtaka, saátàna,
kalpav‰kßa, and Haricandana.

328 chapter five
and, secondly, that the particular tree is the abode of a residing deity
who might be cajoled into giving what is prayed for.
A third way in which a tree may become the spot where special
prayers and promises are expressed is when the tree has been known
to have fulfilled wishes stated there. This makes the tree a proven
place of power; that is, its wish-fulfilling capacity has been estab-
lished. It appears that the statement of one individual who contends
that his or her wish has been granted is sufficient to gradually draw
multitudes of petitioners to that tree.
A fourth way may be found in a mythological connection, such
as the va†a connected with Sàvitrì’s asceticism and tenacity, and the
boons granted her by Yama. Any va†a would do for this vrata, as
this particular species has been the object of a long-established cult
of pledges, especially of the Va†a Sàvitrì Vrata. Vratas often determine
domestic religion more than temple services, religious texts, or priests
do.100 Such vratas may be vocalised in front of a deity on the domes-
tic altar, in front of a tulasì shrub on a platform in the courtyard,
or when facing the sun, the moon, or the stars, or beneath a sacred
tree near one’s domicile.101
Temple trees also attract crowds of believers, especially women,
on such calendrically given vrata days. A tree’s proven generosity
may easily turn it into an object focused on wish-granting, just like
cows (kàmadhenu) and the Earth itself. That a tree is chosen as the
spot where a particular wish is expressed may also indicate a believer’s
natural inclination to express his or her wish in front of something
high, something vertical, something that in its very size and shape
promises effectful contact with the divine.
Wishing trees have been depicted in various ways: a hand com-
ing out from the branches to hand over the desired object, but also
as a tree from whose branches were suspended the riches wished
for: pouches of money, fat animals, healthy babies, lovely damsels,
sparkling jewels, etcetera. Wishing trees are also depicted with vases
of plenty at their roots. This could be meant metaphorically, i.e.,
indicating the tree’s ability to fulfill all kinds of requests, but the
100
On vratas in Bengal, see esp. Sudhansu K. Ray, The Ritual Art of the Bratas of
Bengal (1961), in which it is maintained that for many Bengal women brata (vrata)
is synonymous with religion.
101
On vratas in general, see Anne Pearson “Because it gives me peace of mind.” Ritual
Fasts in the Religious Lives of Hindu Women (1996). In the bibliography of her book
can be found a survey of the most relevant literature on vratas.

vases or jars from which plentiful water is flowing may also connect
the tree with the water-world of clouds, rain, and rivers, as well as
with the riches hidden in the netherworld or buried between the
roots of special trees.
The votive gifts that are to be seen around living trees in con-
temporary India may express a wish stated or a wish fulfilled: objects
in the form of legs, arms, and feet are common, as are miniature
cots and cradles. Cots, cradles, and baskets filled with a doll, a stone,
or a cocoanut hung in a tree may be votive gifts after the birth of
a baby, but may also indicate a recovery from small-pox.102 Nàgakals
may be placed beneath a sacred tree as votive gifts as well, and even
rags may be tied to its branches as simple votive gifts. About the
custom of hanging rags on trees, Crooke noted the following:
The widespread custom of hanging rags on trees to relieve disease and
other troubles is probably based on more than one line of thought
(. . .): (1) protection against evil spirits, (2) gaining communion with the
tree spirit by placing a particle of the supplicant’s clothing in close
connection with it.
This implies that a person can hang a rag both before and after the
wish has been granted. Crooke also draws attention to the ‘rag uncles’
in Rajasthan, where trees are scarce. Women are apt to mark a tree
with bits and pieces of cloth simply to declare it sacred and to make
it a place of pilgrimage. The so-called vastrahara»a tree in Mathurà
may well be based on the widespread occurrence of rag trees. The
tree in which K‰ß»a is said to have hidden the garments of the
bathing gopìs is the local variation on a common theme.103
Trees decorated with lamps or lights may express, indirectly, the
generosity and beneficence of the sun. One of the phrases with which
an a≤vattha is traditionally praised refers to its trembling leaves, which
reflect the sunlight like as many candles in the tree. In the scrip-
tures, an a≤vattha was not only associated with both sunlight and
moonlight, but was also called somasavana, the tree from which nec-
tar dripped abundantly. The latex that oozed from it when it was
102
This was noticed by, among others, Crooke, Religion and Folklore (p. 90) in
Northern India, by Feldhaus in Maharàß†ra, and several authors in South India.
It was photographed by Hélène Stork in her article on mothering rituals in
Tamilnadu. I noticed them often, and saw the whole range from brightly painted
miniature cradles with fat little baby dolls in them, to small shreds of polyethy-
lene shopping bags with pebbles tied into them.
103
See Crooke, Religion and Folklore, pp. 138–139.

330 chapter five
incised may well be connected with this epitheton. All trees have a
close relation to both sun and moon, as they are thought to be in
touch with the realm of sun and moon by stretching out their branches
to them. There is an interesting myth about the spots on the moon:
those are caused by the shade of an a≤vattha planted there. Its shade
obscures the moon’s brightness in order to help thieves handle their
business unobserved.
There is a fascinating example of a specific kind of wishing tree in
Midnàpur District. It is a banyan tree in the village Girìsàgangasàgara,
of which the residing spirit became specialised in granting success in
court cases. This tree stands on the margin of the only road by
which the litigants of the area go to the courts to prosecute their
lawsuits. When people bound for the court pass by this tree, they
pray for success, and on their way back, provided they have been
successful, they express their thanks by depositing small gifts or rags.104
(7) Rites of passage

In the so-called saáskàras, or threshold rites, trees and the products
of trees play an important role. Conception traditionally was helped
by wearing wooden amulets in which the fertility of the particular
tree was said to have been passed on. Likewise, just as conception
was ardently prayed for beneath a sacred tree, the act of sexual
intercourse was often paraphrased in terms of wood and fire. The
string of associations tree-soma-latex-milk-semen-water-amniotic fluids
has been referred to already. When, after conception, the puásavana
rite was held, expressing the wish that the embryo be male, a twig
of the fig tree was used, together with two tiny fruits, obviously rep-
resenting the male sexual organ. All such associations indicate the
strong association between the fertility of trees and that of humans.
When the child was born, the afterbirth was buried beneath a
tree, or tied to a major branch of a latex tree, in order that the
mother’s milk would flow freely. This is the explanation often given
in India, where the afterbirth of humans as well as of cows and ewes
may be buried at the roots of a ‘milky’ tree, or tied to a major
branch. C.G. Diehl, in his study of South Indian customs of 1956,
remarks that,
104
See Chittaranjana Raya, ‘On Tree-Cults in the Districts of Midnapur in
Southwestern Bengal’ (1922).

The afterbirth from a cow or an ewe is wrapped in straw and hung

in a “milky” tree. It is very often a banyan tree, but fig trees and oth-
ers are also found, wearing these ornaments. It is a common sight
everywhere in South India. The explanation given by common folk is
that through this arrangement the mother will give more milk. A more
likely explanation is the conception of the afterbirth as a soul (. . .). It
must not touch the earth (. . .). Letting it touch the ground would be
pàvan (sin and misfortune) implying loss of power.105
In general, however, one could say that the custom of burying the
afterbirth between the earth and the roots of a tree is to ensure that
the child is connected to the life force, and to affirm the relation-
ship between the Earth Mother and humanity.106
A miniature cradle may be hung in the branches of the tree under
which the prayer for progeny had previously been expressed. A string
of mango leaves may be hung over the door when a male child has
been born to the family living there. When the prayer for progeny
was expressed beneath a particular tree, the parents often come back
to this tree with the gift of the baby’s first hair. This ritual offering
of the first hair, called mu»∂an or cù∂akarman, is still counted as a
major saáskàra, and may be seen as a gesture of vow fulfillment. It
may also originally be a kind of symbolic sacrifice of the pledged
child, whose hair is being offered instead of the head itself.107 In
Tavernier’s description of his sojourn in India (from 1641 to 1667),
there is a passage about a newly born baby in Bengal which was
bundled in a cloth and hung in a tree in order to make it take the
mother’s milk. Tavernier failed to see the associative link between
the ‘milky’ tree and the mother’s milk, whereas he was shocked to
notice how such babies were pecked at by crows, a circumstance
that, according to him, might explain why so many Bengalis had
only one eye.108
Some girls may be married to a tree when there are specific rea-
sons, astrological or otherwise. It could be written in the stars that
the girl’s marriage would be unlucky. In order to save the unwanted
105
C.G. Diehl, Instrument and Purpose (1956), pp. 183–184.
106
See also Victoria Ginn, The spirited earth: Dance, myth and ritual from South Asia
to the South Pacific (1990), p. 55.
107
See also Kathleen Erndl, Victory to the Mother (1993), p. 70.
108
Jean Baptiste Tavernier, Reisen zu den Reichtümern Indiens 1641–1667 (1984),
p. 231, or p. 167 (Book III in vol. II) of Tavernier’s Travels in India (1977), based on
the original French of 1676.

332 chapter five
girl from the shame of becoming a spinster, she may be safely and
decorously married to a tree instead. Some boys may be wedded to
the trees on which they are dependent for their livelihood. As part
of the wedding ceremony, the bride may pay worship to a ‘male’
tree first, and the bridegroom to a particular ‘female’ tree.
In the marriage pa»∂al, the main pillar is considered to be a
world-tree to which special hommage is paid. As one of the wit-
nesses to the solemn promise of matrimony, trees are invoked, along
with the gods and fire. The leaf of the a≤vattha may be used in mar-
riage symbolism, as its form is said to represent both the yo»ì and
the li«gam. Mangoes are used in the same way, and are often said
to resemble breasts also. They may be used in the form of real fruit
offered to the deity, to the presiding bràhma»as, or even to all the
guests. The mango may also be used as an auspicious motif on tex-
tile, for instance, on the wedding sà‰ì of the bride and of the female
guests. Formerly, a stick or log of udumbara wood was used to keep
the newlyweds apart in the first two nights of the honeymoon. Even
today, in the special chamber prepared for the couple, there may
still be auspicious decorations on the walls or on the bedcover, of
mango, plantain, and a≤vattha motifs.
At death, again, leaves, wood, and trees figure prominently. In
preparation for the moment of death, tulasì or mango leaves may
be given to the dying person. Specially prescribed wood may be
used for the bier as well as for the pyre. Bits of bone and ashes
may be collected, put into a leather pouch, and hung in a tree, or
may be buried at the roots of a specially selected tree, preferably by
a pond, a tank, or a river. A perforated pot of water may be hung
in a tree to ‘cool’ the spirits. Often the spirit of a violently deceased
person is thought to house in a tree for a long time, pestering the
surrounding families with shrieks and howls. The god of the dead,
Yama, along with his victims, is also thought to reside in trees. In
some areas, ancestor platforms or ancestor shrines are built beneath
milk-trees.109 Oyvind Jaer, in his report on the town of Karchana,
noticed that certain families were said to have a special connection
with specific trees because those were believed to be the residence
of spirits linked to bràhma»as who had died unnatural deaths.110
109
M.N. Srinivas wrote elaborately on these in Religion and society among the Coorgs
of South India (1952). See also Yasushi Uchiyamada, ‘“The Grove is our Temple.”
Contested Representations of Kaavu in Kerala, South India’ (1998).
110
Oyvind Jaer, Karchana: Lifeworld, ethnography of an Indian village (1990/1995), p. 5.

When the funeral rites are performed for a person who died in
a foreign country, or whose bones cannot be found, an effigy may
be made with 360 leaves of ku≤a grass or with the same number of
palà≤a leaves or twigs of the udumbara, all of them arranged as to
represent the various parts of the human body. This effigy is to be
burnt instead of the missing body. It is known as ku≤aputtalikàdàha.111
Different leaves, roots, flowers, or twigs could also be used to rep-
resent the various parts of the body. According to the Yajñapàr≤va, a
cocoanut represents the head, a banana the mouth, and two palà≤a
leaves the ears; shoots of the fig tree represent the hair, the navel
is represented by a lotus, and the male organ by the root of the
guñja plant.
Formerly, initiation too was a major saáskàra. The proper type of
wood was carefully selected for the special staff given to the student,
but today in bràhma»ical initiation ceremonies such a staff is rarely
used. In sectarian initiations, màlas may be involved, made either of
tulasì wood (for Vaiß»avites) or of rudràkßa seeds (for •aivites). The
shade of a tree is often the place where a guru teaches his pupils,
and the foot of a tree is still one of the favourite places where yoga,
meditation, and tapas are performed by such initiates.
Formerly, there were elaborate prescriptions for the kind of wood
used for the staffs of the various var»as.112 Ascetics today, on being
initiated into the wandering state, may still receive a staff, a stick,
or a blade of reedy grass. The fact that some groups of ascetics were
(and are) da»∂avat, carrying a staff, gave rise to the idea that they
might use violence when angry. This potential violence is often asso-
ciated with both their da»∂a (used as a là†hi ) and their tri≤ula (used
as a spear or fork).
(8) Symbols, signs and stories

Many of the traditional stories connected with particular living trees
are still remembered today and are recited in the form of vrata-kathàs,
or referred to in the praises addressed to a tree in the course of
worship. One of the geographical areas where this is common is
Braj, a place where many of the trees and woods are still associated
with K‰ß»a’s adventures. The region around Mathurà is one of the
111
D.C. Shastri, Origin and development of the rituals of ancestor worship (1963), p. 30.
112
See esp. Brian K. Smith, Reflections on Resemblance, Ritual, and Religion (1989),
who gives many references to the early texts, esp. on pp. 98–99.

334 chapter five
few locations with which a popular pan-Indian god is connected in

vivid details, which is explicitly described in ancient literature. It is
particularly interesting to see how geographically detailed such topo-
latries appear to be once pilgrimage to that area was revived.113
Although many places of pilgrimage have their own Màhàtmyas and
Sthalapurà»as, it is rare for a pan-Indian god or goddess to maintain
such close ties with his or her place of origin.
K‰ß»a must have been a local hero gradually turned into a pas-
toral deity around whom local folklore wove a spreading web of sto-
ries and acts of devotion. The Braj area roughly includes the ancient
city of Mathurà, built on the right bank of the Jamna (Yamunà)
river between Delhi and Agra, as well as the surrounding area known
in the texts as Mathurà-ma»∂ala, Braj-ma»∂ala, Braj-bhùmi, or simply
Braj.114 Pastoral tribes must have gradually divinised a local hero,
K‰ß»a-Gopàla, the cowherd-god. Later, this god was considered an
avatàra of Viß»u (often called Hari), or even as the supreme deity,
Bhagavàn, such as in the Bhagavadgìtà. Since at least the beginning
of the sixteenth century, the area stands out as a great centre of
K‰ß»aite pilgrimage.
It is particularly during the rainy season that the parikramà or cir-
cumambulation of the whole ma»∂ala, called the ban-yàtrà (vanayàtrà),
takes place. Especially the vanas (‘woods’ or ‘groves’) are thought to
be hallowed by K‰ß»a’s lìlà. In this perambulation, said to be twenty
yojanas or 84 kos, twelve major vanas are traversed, but Vrindavan
(V‰ndàvana), six miles north of Mathurà, is considered the centre by
most of the pilgrims. Here, prak‰ti-pùjà, or worship of the natural
features of the area, takes precedence over mùrti-pùjà, or devotion to
statues of K‰ß»a and his associates. It is fondly remembered by
today’s devotees that Caitanya himself, when he visited the land of
Braj, kissed and hugged the trees, fainting in ecstacy now and then.
For this reason, the whole of Braj is venerated as lìlà-sthala, and
many spots are explicitly connected with a story, such as that of the
kadamba tree from which K‰ß»a jumped into the river Yamunà to
battle with the serpent Kàliya, or the kadamba tree in which he hid
the clothes of the bathing gopìs.
It cannot be denied, however, that some of the names of vanas
situated on the left bank of the river have a distinctive •aivite ring,
113
See Charlotte Vaudeville, Myths, saints and legends in medieval India (1996), part I.
114
Braj, from vraja = cow-pen, cattle-shed.

such as Bha»∂ìrban (Bha»∂ìravana), Belban (Vilvavana), and Bhadraban

(Bhadravana). The latter even contains a shrine dedicated to Mahàdeva
under a large va†a tree. The whole area used to be a centre not
only of the •iva and Devì cult, but also of tree, yakßa, and serpent
worship. The svarùpa-pùjà or prak‰ti-pùjà here extends to divinisation
of the Govardhana hill and the Yamunà river. It appears that the
local form of nature worship, including that of hills, waters, cows,
trees, and snakes, probably combined with a form of Devì worship,
was the constant feature of the rural religion before the great Vaiß»ava
reformers started to visit and reclaim the place at the beginning of
the sixteenth century. It is clear from this how written traditions
about K‰ß»a, brought there by the Vaiß»ava reformers Vallabha and
Caitanya, mingled with the persisting local nature religion in such
a way that the whole area came to be closely and explicitly associ-
ated with K‰ß»a’s exploits.
The sacred trees in the ma»∂ala are kadamba, va†a, vilva, and the
tulasì shrub. It is also said that Vallabha, upon his arrival, first stopped
under a ≤amì tree at the foot of the Govardhana hill, and that he
established his first cabùtarà there, claiming that the tree marked the
site of the ancient Gokula, the village where the baby K‰ß»a was
brought directly after his birth in the royal prison, and where he
spent his childhood years. The so-called Kàliyadamana tree, from which
K‰ß»a is said to have jumped into the Yamunà river to fight the
serpent, is not a specific tree; for the devotees, any kadamba tree on
the Jamna bank is a representative of that original kadamba. The
kadamba in which K‰ß»a is said to have hidden the clothes of the
bathing gopìs is shown today at two different spots in Braj. It is inter-
esting that both are rag trees (cìthariyà, probably from cìr(a), a strip
of bark, a rag). For the K‰ß»aite devotees, the rags represent the
gopìs’ clothes, although rag trees are found all over India and, in
fact, all over the world. The offering of rags by passing travellers
generally indicates a form of greeting and reverence, as well as, prob-
ably, a kind of distraction for the spirit dwelling in the tree who
becomes fixed on the rag instead of haunting the passersby. It is
also said that when mothers fail to offer a piece of rag to the rag
tree, their children may fall ill. In Braj, the rags are transformed
into reminders of the gopìs’ skirts and blouses.
People leave the mark of K‰ß»a’s muku†a (his high head-gear, a
kind of tiara) on some kadamba trees by daubing them with yellow
paste, indicating their belief that K‰ß»a continues to be present in

336 chapter five
all kadambas. A peculiar trait is that the god is said to perch on the
branches of the kadamba trees rather than sit or stand in their shade.
In temple iconography, K‰ß»a may be seen depicted between the
branches of a kadamba tree with lovesick gopìs at its base.
Although there are many tìrthas connected with the stories of a
particular deity, just as Kà≤ì/Vara»asì is linked to •iva, and Ayodhyà
to Ràma, the topolatry of such places is rarely as explicitly con-
nected with the gods’ exploits as is the case in Bràj-de≤a. This may
be explained by the circumstance that the pastoral deity K‰ß»a-Gopàla
is thought to have dwelled in the same area all his life, whereas it
is only in the later stage of his evolution as a pan-Indian deity that
he is alleged to have travelled around, such as is referred to in texts
like the Mahàbhàrata, which connects him with Kurukßetra and the
kingdom of the Yadavas, and in the Purì legends, which link K‰ß»a
with the forests of Orissa and the sands of Purì.
Many other stories connect gods and goddesses with particular liv-
ing trees, as we have seen in the narratives handed down in the
Sthalapurà»as. Some trees are connected with a seed, a sprout, or a
branch, touched, in some way or other, by the particular deity. The
jambu tree in •rìra«gam is linked to the seed spit out by •iva; the
present bodhi tree is linked to the original tree through the branch
brought to Sri Lanka in the time of King A≤oka; and many sacred
trees all over India are said to have grown from toothbrush twigs
used by saints. Some sacred trees derive their fame from the legend
that a famous yakßa or bir (vìra) once inhabited that tree, and many
trees are considered sacred because they show some morphologically
recognisable ‘sign’ of the deity, such as the vilva tree, whose trifoli-
ate leaves resemble the tri≤ula; or the tree whose foliage is as dark
as K‰ß»a’s skin, the tamàl or ≤yàm tamàl; or the tree which shows
some particularity like a yo»ì-shaped crack in the bark; or whose four
major branches are equally thick, representing the four Vedas; or on
whose bark forms can be seen that are reminiscent of a face, three
eyes, etcetera. Such trees are considered the svarùpa of the particu-
lar god or goddess.
(9) Swinging115
Whatever the reason why one of the first occasions on which ritual
swinging in the Vedas is mentioned refers to two male priests who
115
This item shows some unavoidable overlap with the passages on swing festi-
vals and ritual swinging of the deities in Chapter Two.

used a swing to simulate creation, swinging in India has become a

festive, ritual way of recreation and reinvigoration.116 Wooden swings
are also used by ascetics for physical support in the course of their
tapas, and by hook-swingers, who have themselves hoisted into the
air by using a simple contraption of wooden poles to which they
are attached either by iron hooks in the skin of their backs or by a
belt knotted around the waist. Wooden swings are also used by the
deity or the divine couple at the beginning of the rainy season. In
South India, some of the gods may even be swung at the end of
each day or on one particular day of the week. In Madurai, on the
western side of the Lotus Tank, is the Mirror Chamber where, each
Friday evening, images of •iva and Mìnàkßì are placed on a swing
and gently rocked. Swings are used by girls and young women as
part of a festival, and a swing may be used by a bridal couple as
part of their marriage ceremony. Swings may be part of a royal gar-
den or entertainment park. Swinging may be done in order to catch
the breeze at the end of a stifling day. A swing may be a simple
wooden board suspended from the branch of a tree, or an elabo-
rate construction which is big and comfortable enough for an amorous
couple. A baby may be swung in a wooden cot or cradle, and the
deities on the house-altar may sit on a miniature swing as well.117
As far as I know, the popularity of ritual swinging in India has
never been systematically researched. What interests us here is that
the swing is traditionally hung from a tree, and that the board is
made of wood. That the tree forms the counterpoint to the swing-
ing movement is obvious: the tree stands and provides the steady
support for the movement. The tree is rooted in the Earth, balanced
and fixed, whereas the swinging is a flirt with freedom, a play with
weightlessness. The tree provides shade as well as steadiness for the
swinger. Other symbolism may be found in the movement: the higher
a person swings, the more rain will fall from the clouds, or the more
116
Apart from being a regular feature in albums of Ràgamàla, depictions of such
scenes can be found in many books, such as Leona Anderson, Vasantotsava. The
Spring Festivals of India (1993), pp. 88, 192; Heinrich Gerhard Franz (Hrsg.), Das alte
Indien. Geschichte und Kultur des indischen Subkontinents (1990), p. 420; Klaus Fischer,
Erotik und Askese in Kult und Kunst der Inder (1979), p. 14; Herbert Haertel and Jeannine
Auboyer, Propylaen Kunstgeschichte: Indien und Südostasien, pp. 121, 122, 123; and espe-
cially B.N. Sharma, Festivals of India (1978), pp. 11, 15, 18, 22, 35, plate 2, and
fig. 69.
117
For photographs of various folk deities on swings, see Claudia Mallebrein, Die
anderen Götter, for instance pp. 148, 167, 186, 425/426, 434, 437, 440, and 442.

338 chapter five
sunlight will be given by the sun. The swinging movement may thus
be interpreted as a reaching out, an effort to come into contact with
the very sources of vitality: sunlight, air, and rain. When the swing
is suspended from a flowering tree, this effect is enhanced. In the
countryside, people sing various swing songs (hindole ka gìt), such as
the one noted down by M.S. Randhawa:
Father, never cut this nim tree,
The nim offers rest to sparrows.
Father, never trouble your daughters,
daughters are like the sparrows.
All the sparrows will fly away,
The nim will feel so lonely.
For their fathers-in-law’s will all the daughters leave.
Mother will feel so lonely118
That the gently swinging movement may resemble the rocking of a
cradle or the tossing of a baby in the amniotic waters is one of the
reasons why ritual or recreative swinging by an adult may be seen
as a return to a primeval rhythm. Another reason is its parallel to
the rhythm of sexual intercourse. In India, people often speak of the
‘lovers’ swing’, and even when young girls are portrayed in swing-
ing scenes, such as in the Mughal miniatures, love is literally in the
air. Another genre of swinging scenes in Indian art, which is less
well known than the more idyllic or sentimental scenes, consists of
more or less pornographic depictions of a man and a woman on
separate swings united in mid-air, or of an aristocratic male reclin-
ing on a couch and a lady on a swing teasingly being lowered upon
him and his erect member.119
Swinging is a movement in which the elements of earth and air
or wind are combined. Just as a tree is thought to form a bridge
between the deep dark Earth and the high broad sky, so the move-
ment of swinging bridges two sides of the tree. It forms an arch of
which the tree is the stable centre. The living tree, be it a blossom-
118
M.S. Randhawa, Flowering trees, p. 36. He explains about this song, sung in
chorus collectively by young girls on swings: “The nim symbolizes the mother to
whom daughters are like sparrows; when they leave it for their new homes, the
tree feels lonely like the mother whose daughters leave her one by one, as they
get married.”
119
For illustrations, see, for instance, Ashley Thirleby, Tantra-Reigen der vollkommenen
Lust (1987), p. 193, and especially The illustrated Kama Sutra/Ananga-Ranga/Perfumed
Garden. The Classic Eastern Love Texts, translated by Sir Richard Burton and F.F.
Arbuthnot (1987/1999), pp. 81 and 105.

laden tree in spring or a fruit-laden tree in the harvest season, thus

provides the necessary fixity for a moment of freedom, even when
it is clear that such freedom is only temporary: however high a
woman swings, the gravitational pull remains. The illusion of free-
dom may be enhanced by the joyful atmosphere of a festival, espe-
cially on those occasions when the usual restrictions of strìdharma are
slackened and women are allowed a moment of unrestrained joy
beneath a tree with a wooden swing hanging from it.
The same unmoving stability of a tree, comparable to that of •iva
sitting in meditation, is simulated by ascetics who stand still like a
staff, pillar, or tree. They may stand on one foot (ekapàdasthita), but
in order to continue this for long stretches of time, they need sup-
port. This prop is often provided by a swing on which they rest
their elbows. The bent leg is tied double, strapped to the waist in
a loop. Ascetics may even swing themselves, upside down, like bats,
from special contraptions, over smouldering cowdung fires.120
Although some texts do refer to the type of wood the swing should
be made of, within the ritual context it appears that the tree is both
a practical and a symbolic object in this. Many of the miniature
swings on which small figurines of the deities are put, and which
are placed on the domestic altar or hung in front of it, are merely
metal swings without any reference to a tree. They may be sus-
pended from a chain so that they can swing freely, or their base
may be constructed in such a way that the stand is fixed and that
the deities can be pushed forward and backward as on a real swing.
The rocking movement may refer to a primeval state or may simply
be considered to bring joy and a bit of fresh air to the deities, just
as a fan or fly-whisk is often used to bring comfort to the deities
during pùjà. Such recreative services offered to the deities may be
analogous to the elaborate treatment of the king even in his private
chambers or gardens. Moreover, in the tulàpurußa (or tulàdàna) ceremony,
now extremely rare, the king used to be weighed on a swing against
a scale on which gold coins were heaped: when equilibrium was
reached, the amassed gold was distributed amongst his waiting subjects.
120
In the book Ancient Indian rituals and their social contents (1975), by N.N. Bhatta-
charyya, two swinging rituals are mentioned in the context of a description of a
contemporary ca∂aka ceremony: the swing over the ascetic’s fire, and the swinging
on the ca∂aka tree, pp. 160–163. Crooke mentions one more variation not dwelt
upon here: the ritual swinging of a human victim, in his article ‘The Holi: A ver-
nal festival of the Hindus’ (1914).

340 chapter five
(10) Meditation
In Indian art, it is Buddha who is most often depicted sitting in
meditation beneath a tree, but from Upanißadic times onwards it
must have been a common sight to see a bhikßu, a ≤rama»a, a sàdhu,
a muni, or a yogin sitting silently under a tree. A tree is traditionally
known to be one of the places fit for meditation. A tree provides
shade and shelter as well as a natural centre. In contemporary India,
persons can be seen in meditation under trees, but mostly in specifically
indicated or isolated areas. In places where a temple or à≤rama is
near, those who require a quiet place usually seek the shelter of a
cool and comfortable building. Trees where saints used to come for
morning or evening meditation are cherished in the collective mem-
ory, such as the pañcava†ì in Dakshineswar where Ramakrishna used
to sit. Some of the parks in Lucknow are studded with an odd-look-
ing giant tree unusual in India, the boabab tree, introduced from
Central Africa. In Lucknow, this tree is also called Gorakh imli, on
account of its association with Gorakhnàth, the guru of the kanphata
yogis. These yogis use the shell of the tree’s gourd-like fruit as a water
pot.121
That not only the gods of old were close to nature, but also the
human sàdhus who live at the roots of trees, is used as an incentive
to get Indian lay people actively involved in ecological protest move-
ments by having them listen to their words and become inspired by
them.122 That Indian sàdhus can use this connection against them-
selves is illustrated in the following simile used by sàdhu Ràmtìrtha:
There are springing up Sàdhus who, instead of remaining as suckers
and parasites to the Tree of Nationality, are anxious to make their
body and mind humble manure for the tree, if nothing more.123
121
Randhawa, Flowering trees, p. 179.
122
Such as the injunctions given by the venerable saint Deoriaha-Baba: “In all
creepers, trees, living beings, we should see God. We should love and be merciful
to all because God is in all. All beings ( jìvas) are the residence of God . . . We must
always love God, the saints, and all his devotees. It should be our nature that every
living thing is our friend. You should see the power of God in everything —in
mountains, rivers, trees, and even in the hairs on your head. God dwells in every
hair and in every vein; He exists in every branch and in every leaf. There is no
place where God does not reside. If such emotion is created about God, then one
will surely become a true devotee, a true Vaisnava. A Vaisnava after death does
not go to hell but directly to Vaikuntha, ‘heaven’, the home of God.” Quoted in
Robert Lewis Gross, Hindu asceticism: A study of the Sadhus of India (1992, orig. 1980),
p. 213.
123
Quoted in L.P. Bhave, Life of Swàmi Ràma Tìrtha, p. 293.

The bodhi tree in Bodhgayà regularly forms the centre of ritual,

prayer, chanting, and congregation, but only rarely, in quiet lapses,
that of meditation as well. Since so much activity goes on around
the tree, a person can request special permission to sit or walk in
undisturbed meditation on the so-called meditation gallery on the
second floor of the Mahàbodhi temple, which is very close to the over-
hanging bodhi branches.
In isolated areas, caves appear to be preferred to trees, for living,
sleeping, and meditation. Although the image of a sage lost in med-
itation beneath a tree still persists, such a sight has become rare.
Whereas much ritual activity can be seen around sacred trees, med-
itation seems to have moved mainly indoors, and to have become
a secluded affair screened off from the hustle and bustle of the aver-
age devotional practice. A recent reference to this is found in Manil
Suri’s novel The Death of Vishnu, where a bewildered Mr. Jalal, a
Muslim, sought refuge under a banyan in the National Park of Borivili:
He was astonished, and quite pleased, to come upon a magnificent
banyan tree, right in the middle of the park. Surely this was a sign, he
thought, a little guiltily, since he forbade himself from believing in
signs. He cleared a site among the gnarled roots of the tree and sat
down on the ground self-consciously. He tried crossing his legs into
the lotus position, but gave up, and just closed his eyes instead.
He had been sitting there for some time, refusing to be disturbed
by the footsteps, the voices, the occasional giggles, even the roar of a
jet passing overhead, when it happened.
What happened, however, was not enlightenment, although at first
he thought that the flashes he felt might be indicative of what Buddha
and Mahavira had once experienced before him:
When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by a group of schoolchild-
ren gathered around him. One of them flashed the mirror a final time
into his eyes, another kicked dirt into his face, and then they all ran
away laughing.
Wearily, Mr. Jalal got up and shook the mud out of his hair. As
he limped bleary-eyed towards the taxi-stand, he decided the world
had become too overpopulated a place to recreate the conditions for
renunciation from the Buddha’s time.124
124
Manil Suri, The Death of Vishnu (2001), pp. 145–146.

342 chapter five
(11) Derivative vertical forms

Whether worship of the li«gam has a phallic origin or was derived
from the respect shown to the tree stump that was left once a sacred
tree had been cut down, the fact is that in Indian ritual there are
many objects of worship that share this vertical form: yùpa, svaru,
stambha, skambha, kanthu, sthanu, jarjara; in fact, all poles, pillars and
stakes originally made of wood. Many ancient stone li«gams found
in India are also pillar-like. Most contemporary li«gams, especially
those ritual objects combined with a yo»ì, are relatively small stumps,
but art-history shows us ancient ones of considerable height. Those
are remarkably similar to the ancient yùpas which have been found
intact. The connections between the tree, the yùpa, and the tribal-rural
pillar deities have been investigated extensively by, for instance,
Madeleine Biardeau.125 It appears that the ≤amì and Devì worship on
the occasion of Dasara, the mythic figures of Narasiáha and Ekapàda-
•iva, as well as that of Stambhe≤varì might all, in some way or
other, have combined to form the highly revered figure of Jagannàtha
and his associates at Purì. In fact, they are still accompanied by the
Sudar≤ana cakra, a staff-like log, the wood of which is as carefully
selected as that of the three major deities.126
Many of the poles, pillars, stakes, and posts show resemblance in
form, but their functions may vary widely. There are stakes to which
the sacrificial animal is tied, and there are stakes on which the
sacrificial animal is impaled.127 There are flag masts, poles used for
hook-swinging, and pillars elaborately carved to represent deities on
all four sides; and there are posts, upholding a pa»∂al, representing
both the tree of life and the axis mundi. What they have in common
is that they are often still made of wood, although many sacrificial
stakes are now made of metal, and many temple pillars are now
made of stone. It is especially in rural and tribal areas that wood is
still used for this purpose, and also in temporary constructions like
125
Madeleine Biardeau, in her book Histoires de poteaux (1989), and in several arti-
cles, for instance, ‘Brahmins and Meat-Eating Gods’ (1989).
126
See esp. the contributions of Anncharlott Eschmann in Eschmann et al. (1978).
127
According to Eveline Masilamani-Meyer, in her article ‘The Changing Face
of Kàttavaràyan’ in Hiltebeitel (1989), p. 87, contemporary stakes or stake trees
(kalu or kalumaram) are long square poles of hard wood, such as ebony and teak.
Such a stake is not pointed at the top, which makes it unfit for impaling. Impaling
in any case would seem impossible at such a height. The same kalumaram functions
as a hook-swinging post. It may also be called ≤ùla, as in tri≤ùla, •iva’s spear.

theatre pavillions and wedding-tents. In some rural areas, stone plat-

forms can be seen beneath trees, as can free-standing hero-stones,
warrior-stones, satì-stones, etc., which show designs and ways of being
cut that may have derived from an earlier tradition of carving these
things from wood.128 Although such memorial stones may begin to
resemble nàgakals when they get older and weatherbeaten, they
definitely have different meanings and origins.
What the other objects may have in common is their verticality.
They all resemble the trunk of a tree in some way, from a simple
plantain trunk in a temporary pavillion, through crudely hewn vil-
lage posts, to elaborately carved pillars in famous temples. Just as
world-mountains may be represented by temple towers, li«gams, and
ant-hills, world-trees may be represented by various kinds of poles,
pillars, and posts, from the sacrificial stake through the pillar deity
to the richly dressed and decorated wooden statues in Purì.
It is important to note that there is no unilinear evolution here.
Underneath their rich attire, the famous Purì statues are crude logs
of wood, whereas pillar deities unknown beyond their own circle
may be exquisitely carved. The way in which forms are carved from
the trunk of a tree or a log of sacred wood is not only a matter of
craftmanship and artisanship, but also of tradition. In the carving of
the wood, an original event is being ritually re-enacted. This could
be the fashioning of the first Purußa from primeval wood, or the first
carving of the Purì deity, which allegedly was interrupted before the
statue was ready. It is important to realise that, in every ritual object,
the specific design, whether aesthetically appealing or not, is utterly
meaningful, and speaks to the heart of the devotee. For the believer,
the very form, provided it is ritually installed and consecrated, is the
svarùpa of this deity, the god’s own form.
(12) The sacred grove

The sacred grove (saran, Sanskrit ≤ara»a, refuge, but also called kan,
devarakadu, kavu, devarai, and many other names) used to be that
part of the wood where severe restrictions kept people from cutting,
gathering and interfering because it was a place belonging to the
128
See, for instance, S. Settar and G.D. Sontheimer (eds.), Memorial Stones: A study
of their origin, significance, and variety (1982). This book also contains interesting pho-
tographic illustrations of the cutting, transporting, and installation of a khambha
among the Vasawa tribe in South Gujurat.

344 chapter five
gods and the spirits. Those can be represented by stones or statues,

but even without a platform, a shrine, or a priest, a sacred grove is
recognised as such by the locals. The ancestors might live there, or
haunting spirits might dwell there, but it is also the awesome pres-
ence of the deities that makes tribal people avoid this area on nor-
mal days. It is only on special occasions that such a place is entered,
cautiously and reverently.
The rites that take place in such groves are meant to propitiate
the spirits residing in the forest, jungles, and wastelands who may
have been disturbed by the pioneer families who first cleared the
trees. They are conceived of as demanding periodical sacrifices to
assuage the continuous human intervention in their domain. Gradually,
more personal requests, fears, and needs may have found their way
to that sacred area, so that such groves began to function as open-air
shrines, and individual trees in them as wishing trees.
What distinguishes such a sacred grove from a solitary sacred tree
elsewhere is that it is a circumscribed wooded area, an enchanted
circle, not one particular tree, although one specific tree in that spot
may have been selected to focus on. Beneath such a tree, a small
platform may be constructed; stones may be placed at the roots of
the tree, and figurines may be installed there, or may be kept in
special baskets only to be taken out on special occasions. The offerings
may be simple food gifts, in natura, often also containing sprinklings
and liquor. In such sacred groves, bits and pieces of older offerings
can be found as well, such as clay pots, horses, and elephants. The
extent to which the tree still stands central once more elaborate
offerings and ceremonies begin to take place beneath such a tree is
discussed in Chapter Six, section 5, where sacred groves are dealt
with as a separate category.
5.3 Categories, states, stages, and symbol systems
5.3.1 States and stages

In the discussions about the processes of Sanskritisation, Hinduisation,
and indigenisation in India, every participant usually has his or her
own particular angle. What has become clear in such a discourse is
that the above processes may be diverted in various directions when
the establishment of identity and the validity of a certain tradition
are at stake. Hierarchical and evolutionist thinking may tend to view

history as unilinear; the contemporary concern with origins and ‘roots’

may point the other way. The processes of brahminisation or Sanskrit-
isation involve the gradual changing of deities and their ritual envi-
ronments, but to see this merely as a one-way process would do
injustice to the cyclical process that can be observed, as Stanley
Kurtz aptly pointed out:
As a popular deity moves through this process of Sanskritization, its
rougher features are said to be softened. It grows less malevolent, for
example, and is less likely to accept impure offerings of meat and alco-
hol. To encourage the process of Sanskritization, the deity is identified
with the revered gods and goddesses of the so-called great tradition.
Eventually, with success on a broad scale, the deity grows distant from
the needs of ordinary people. This then initiates a new cycle. To
replace a now ossified deity, a new one emerges from the “little” tra-
dition of the villages.129
Rural, tribal, or at least indigenous traditions may thus be held as
more holistic and organic than mainstream Hinduism, qualities which
may be considered preferable to the more evolved states of com-
partimentalisation and priestly control. We hasten to add that, in
India, Ockham’s razor edge becomes easily blurred.
In India, wood, as a primary substance, and as the first material,
is often held to have been at the origin of things, not only in tribal
lore but also in the bràhma»ical literature. There is an abundance
of creation myths, aetiological stories, and associative magic in which
living trees, and their derivative, wood, are referred to as being as
inherently sacred and powerful as they were at the very beginning
of things. Living wood is often as highly revered as living earth: both
are thought to bear the original vitality uninterruptedly as well as
unadulteratedly. Both are thought to be nourished directly by the
kàra»a-salila or primordial fluid.130 It is important to point out here
129
Stanley N. Kurtz, All the Mothers Are One: Hindu India and the Cultural Reshaping
of Psychoanalysis (1992), p. 15, also referred to in Lynn Foulston’s study of local
Hindu religion, At the Feet of the Goddess. The Divine Feminine in Local Hindu Religion
(2002). Although both books specifically focus on female deities, in the matter of
tree cults this cyclical process can be observed in cases of male deities as well.
Foulston selected two villages for her fieldwork, one in Tamilnadu and one in Orissa,
of which especially in the Oriya village settlement most of the cults are directly
associated with sacred trees.
130
See also Anuradha Roma Chowdhury, Attitudes to Nature (1998), pp. 80–82.

346 chapter five
that this sense of a sacred substance was never lost in the process
of time, and that this awe persists both in symbolism and in rituals.
Some of those ideas are still seen in the rites in which Indian peo-
ple from all walks of life honour and supplicate trees. Most such
rites have to do with fertility (men, women, crops, animals), pros-
perity, health, and specific wishes. But it would be wrong to overem-
phasise the instrumentality of prayer, the petitionary devotion with
which a sacred tree is approached, the specific objective because of
which trees are propitiated. Genuine devotion, awe, wonder, and
reverence are to be seen too, in many simple uncalculated gestures.
When people pass a village shrine, they make a simple obeisance,
joining their hands in añjalimùdra (popularly called pranam or pronam,
Skt. pra»àma), and raising them to the forehead. Or the sacred object
and the forehead are successively touched with the right hand, and
sometimes a prostration is made to complete this simple act of wor-
ship. If devotees have special requests in mind, these gestures become
more elaborate and circumspect. Somehow, they have ascertained
that it is the right moment of the calendar, and that their ritual acts
are complete and in the right order. Sophisticated temples may be
more urban in their emphasis and serve regional rather than local
needs; folk shrines continue as they were: simple, serene, human.
Their officiating priests are often women and non-brahmins. There
are ≤àstric prescriptions for simple local shrines as well, which are
known by the officiating priests, but in many popular shrines there
is no pujàri at all, or only at the time of a festival.
Such shrines are everywhere: in small, dark caves, and on hill-tops,
but also on the approaches to villages, and even near what have
now become busy traffic thoroughfares. They can be seen nestling
in the roots of giant trees, in open fields, by the wayside, or in vil-
lage squares. They can be found at the threshold of a private home,
or in the corner of a kitchen, the balcony of a flat, and the court-
yard of an extended family’s house. People look to such shrines for
guidance in family quarrels, land disputes, lawsuits, infertility etc.
Julia and David Elliott, in their book Gods of the Byways, write about
such a shrine:
It has a role in family quarrels, land disputes, marital differences, infer-
tility or mental ailments. The people look to the shrine to solve such
problems and to provide both practical and spiritual aid. It is their
court of justice, their hospital and mental home, their guidance clinic
as well as the focus of their faith. It provides the link between this life

and the next; between the known, natural world and the unknown,
the supernatural.131
One can distinguish plain reverence, specific individual objective-ori-
ented wish-fulfillment rituals, and more or less collective calendrical
rites through which the continuation of the existing, positive state of
affairs is sought to be maintained. This last category in India does
not officially belong to the domain of obligatory rites, but often bor-
ders on it, since any future turn for the worse may easily be blamed
on ritual negligence, especially that of a spouse and a mother towards
her family.132
In the random collection of anthropological data on rituals around
trees in contemporary India, it is possible to distinguish three states.
The first state, that of tree worship proper, implies that the tree is
(still) predominant, and addressed as such. As soon as the tree forms
an umbrella for a memorial stone, for a simple pebble daubed with
vermillion, for an iconic statue of the deity, or for a votive clay horse
or elephant, it is no longer predominant, but merely provides the
place, and, with its shade, marks off the sacred from the secular.
Most instances of what is loosely called tree cult should thus be cat-
egorised as merely secondary tree worship: the tree only provides
the umbrella, so to speak.
The third state occurs in those situations where there was a sacred
tree once, or where there is still such an original tree, but it is no
longer central. When it died it was forgotten, or at least not replaced,
or only recently.133 Some such places are still connected with a found-
ing tree, and their priests are proud to point out the persistence of
the sacred there, but in other such places attention is mainly given
to the enshrined iconic mùrtis. The sacred has been almost fully
131
Julia and David Elliott, Gods of the Byways: Wayside shrines of Rajasthan, Madhya
Pradesh and Gujarat (1982), p. 5.
132
See also Mary McGee, ‘Desired Fruits: Motive and Intention in the Votive
Rites of Hindu Women’ (1992). Compare also the relevant chapters in the books
already mentioned on vratas: Anne Feldhaus, Water and Womanhood (1995) and Anne
Mackenzie Pearson, “Because it gives me peace of mind ” (1996).
133
That the sacred tree was replaced recently by a young sapling could be the
result of several tendencies in Indian society at large, but could well have received
an additional stimulus from the various tree-planting programmes all over India.
Some of those programmes are explicitly focused on planting sacred trees, such as
those distributed as prasàda by the Ve«kate≤vara Temple in Tirupati, or those nursed
in the Sacred Plants Resort just outside Ramanagaram on the main road between
Mysore and Bangalore. See also Chapter Six.

348 chapter five
personalised and anthropomorphised, and even when a tree is still

part of the devotional narrative, it is remembered mainly because
of its connection with the deities, not because of itself.134
The first case can be classified as tree worship proper; the second
case concerns a secondary tree cult in which the tree merely marks
off the sacred spot where the representational objects, such as stones
and images, form the centre; and the third instance concerns a deriv-
ative tree cult: a tree may still be there, off centre somewhere, or
at least remembered in a sculpture, a stump, or a story, but it has
yielded pride of place to the garbhag‰ha.
In the periphery of huge temple complexes, sacred trees often
attract a public of their own. Such peripheral trees are not always
particularly impressive. They seem to be incidental, and most descrip-
tions of temple complexes fail to mention such trees at all. Yet they
must have been planted there with a specific purpose, such as for
using their leaves, fruit, and flowers. In some temples, such trees are
‘married’, or at least used to be. Often, one of the pair has stran-
gled, suffocated, or at least devitalised its partner tree. These trees
could form a fourth category, that of a tree cult condoned or even
regulated by the temple priests but without much priestly interfer-
ence in the rituals being performed there. This fourth category appears
to come closer to proper tree worship but differs in that it is initi-
ated, regulated, and probably supervised by the temple authorities.
It is especially trees of this fourth category which form the tempo-
rary centre of a priestly temple tree cult only on special days, such
as on the occasion of Nàgapañcamì or Va†asàvitrìvrata.
Proper tree worship (the first category) is found in tribal areas, in
less Hinduised villages, in rural areas where trees are very scarce,
and, surprisingly perhaps, in highly Sanskrit-oriented temples where
especially a≤vatthas, surrounded by a layered platform fenced by a
railing, form a symbolic centre apart from the main building. Visually,
such trees, at least when in the countryside, can be distinguished
from normal, ‘secular’ trees because of some trace of worship: a spot
of vermillion on the bark, a simple rice-paste decoration at the base,
a thread around the trunk, a wilting flower, grains of rice between
the roots. During festival time, there may be more lively ritual activity:
134
For an intriguing discussion about the embodiment of the divine in India, see
Joanne Punzo Waghorne and Norman Cutler (eds.), Gods of Flesh, Gods of Stone: The
Embodiment of Divinity in India (1985).

a goat or chicken may be offered, or some country liquor perhaps.

There might be some dancing, and possibly some singing or recita-
tion as well.
This simple primary tree worship is rare. Inevitably, such trees
tend to attract more enduring gifts and representations, like stones
and statues. The tree then becomes a mere ‘umbrella’, a marker of
the sacred instead of the sacred itself. In the compounds of some
Smàrta temples in South India there are a≤vatthas without the usual
clutter of ritual paraphernalia. Such a tree stands for itself, an
Upanißadic symbol of the universe, or of Brahmà, Viß»u, and •iva.
Some flowers are offered, a candle is lit, and a circumambulation is
made while the Sanskrit words of praise written out on the plaque
in front of the tree may be recited.
The secondary function of a sacred tree, what we called the
umbrella function, appears to be very common. Many roadside
tree-shrines in villages, towns, and even big cities qualify as such.
They are trees which form a ritual centre where casual passers-by,
purposive devotees, and festival-goers come to pay reverence. This
reverence can range from a simple gesture of greeting to elaborate
pùjàs. Visually, such trees are distinguished from those of the first
category by the presence of ‘representations’ of the deity, often of
the goddess (Mother Goddess, Earth Goddess), but increasingly of
iconographically more descript deities as well.135 These include stones
daubed with vermillion, crude hand-made clay or wooden figures,
chiseled images, mass-produced statues made of clay, stone, bronze,
and even synthetics, and, increasingly, glass-framed popular calendar-
art reproductions. In order to understand these objects beneath sacred
trees, it is important to distinguish between what is seen as a deity,
and what is given to this deity, for instance, in the form of food,
drink, or his ‘mount’, the horse or elephant.
The divine may be aniconically represented by a li«gam, a yo»ì, a
≤àlagràma, or even a potted tulasì shrub, or by an OM sign daubed
on the trunk of the tree with vermillion or rice paste.136 Often, the
135
For photographs of such simple representations, see Stephen P. Huyler, Gifts
of Earth. Terracottas and Clay Sculptures of India (1996). See also, among many other
books, Cornelia Mallebrein, Die Anderen Götter, Julia and David Elliott, Gods of the
Byways, and Stella Kramrisch, Àditì: The Living Arts of India (1985). There is a wealth
of written information and illustrations in Heather Elgood, Hinduism and the Religious
Arts (1999).
136
Vasudha Narayan, in her contribution 'Arcàvatàra: On Earth as He is in

350 chapter five
sacred is marked off by spears, rice-paste patterns, or flags. A per-

son makes his or her presence known to the gods by sounding a
gong hanging from a branch. Offerings may simply consist of a jug
of water emptied at the roots, but milk is often sprinkled too; increas-
ingly this is done straight from the carton. Flowers, fruit, and incense
are the most common gifts, along with camphor, oil-lamps, honey,
rice, turmeric, and sandalpaste.137 More durable votive gifts may con-
sist in rags with stones in them, small statues, nàgakals, miniature
wooden cradles (with or without dolls in them), clay discs, glass ban-
gles, or prayer beads. The standard offering at a shrine of a god-
dess consists of a red flag ( jha»∂a), red powder (sindùr), a small metal
umbrella (chattra), and a cocoanut tied with a loosely woven red
thread (maulì). Red is the auspicious colour associated with the blood
of life, and the flowers offered at a shrine of a goddess are also
mostly red.138
A mantra is sometimes written in paint, in print, or on tiny slips
of paper strung together. In such ‘umbrella’ sacredness the tree itself
may be fully obscured and overlooked, but at least small gestures
are meant for the tree itself: watering its roots, tying a thread around
the trunk, daubing the bark with red or yellow powder.139 Other
Heaven’, to Waghorne’s Gods of Flesh, Gods of Stone, pp. 62–63, refers to the
origin of the ≤àlagràma in a tree: “In one case, the ≤àlagràma is traced to the Lord’s
manifestation as a tree. A ‰ßi called Salangayana did tapas to see the Lord. The
Lord appeared to him as a ≤àla tree and said, ‘This place will be called ≤àlagràma.
I shall continuously reside here to shower grace on my devotees. I am the tree that
you see.’” Unfortunately, no source is indicated. One of the earliest studies is that
by Gustav Oppert, ‘über den Sàlagràma-Stein’ (1902).
137
On the use of turmeric in rituals, see W. Dymock, ‘On the use of turmeric
in Hindoo ceremonial’ (1891). On the use of sandal in rituals, see P.K. Gode, ‘Some
Notes on the History of Candana (Sandal) in general and of •veta-candana (White
Sandal) in particular (between AD 500 and 900)’ (1946).
138
See Kathleen Erndl, Victory to the Mother (1993), pp. 66–67, and also Gudrun
Bühnemann, Pùjà: A Study in Smàrta Ritual (1988). On the use of the colour red in
goddess cults, I found various associative reasons: red as the colour of blood, of
which red powder is the substitute; red as the colour of the menstrual blood of the
Goddess, connected with the source of human life; and red as the colour that gen-
erally promotes fertility, both as menstrual blood and as pollen.
139
A thread (rakßabandhana) should be wound around a tree seven or 108 times.
It is interesting that thread-tying ceremonies are mostly done by a weaker, depen-
dent person in order to secure the goodwill of a stronger person or thing, for exam-
ple, a girl tying a thread around the wrist of her elder brother, and a woman tying
a thread to a tree. It would be intriguing to ask priests who tie threads around the
wrists of their clients about the meaning of their gesture. Closer investigation is
needed to find out to what extent the ritual act of upavìta or yajñopavìta in relation

natural ways of marking a sacred tree consist of smearing a yo»i-like

crack in the trunk with vermillion, or pouring milk as an offering
to the snakes supposed to live at its roots or in the termite mound
(natural or artificial) found closeby. Trees often function as ‘marker
shrines’ linked to a greater sacred geography, where a temple city
has grown around the nucleus of sacred tree and li«gam, but mark-
ing a tree off from its profane surroundings may also be achieved
by such a simple act as drawing an auspicious kolam or àlpanà. This
pattern may become invisible within a few hours, but serves its pur-
pose of ritual demarcation for the duration of the prayer.
Such tree shrines are interesting melting-pots of social strata, styles,
sects, and symbolisation. They are also signposts in the rural land-
scape. During festival time there may be a priest in attendance, but
most of the time such trees are left to the devotees themselves. It is
they who initiate such a sacred spot and it is they who gradually
shape it into a shrine. Most so-called tree shrines belong to this
category.
Note that bràhma»ic priests may initially be apprehensive or clearly
disdainful of such practices, but once such shrines become lucrative,
and gain status, a bràhma»ic priest may consent to perform rituals
there on special occasions. This, again, heightens the status of such
a place.140
What we have called the third state concerns those sacred trees
(or their remains) which may have given rise to a much larger tem-
ple complex of which the garbhag‰ha has become the ritual centre.
The sacred tree with which it all started, or its later replacement,
is somewhere off centre or even in the periphery. Probably, the tree
to a mùrti is connected with that part of the upanayana ceremony in which the boy
receives his sacred thread, with the festive rakßabandhana, and with the priestly act
of tying a thread around the wrist of a client for the duration of a ritual or a vow.
Alan Entwistle also mentions the tying of thread (salùno) to her brothers at the end
of the annual two-week visit that a married woman makes to her father’s house (in
‘The Cult of Krishna-Gopàl as a Version of Pastoral’ in Eck and Mallison (1991).
Lynn Foulston elaborates on the protective thread on pages 161–162 in her book
At the Feet of the Goddess (2002), and distinguishes its use against negative or harm-
ful forces from the creation of a ritual threshold, such as at the commencement of
a temple festival, when the power built up during the festival is supposed to be
controlled by such a “three-dimensional yantra”.
140
See also Ruth Walldén’s short account ‘Village-cult sites in South India in
Changing Times’ (1990), esp. p. 89: “. . . for the present purpose I would define
the village cult as non-àgamic, as being performed at places where no alleged Hindu
deity is in evidence, and where sacrifices comprise also animals and where the
deities seem markedly local.”

352 chapter five
gradually lost its prominence to the man-made buildings; perhaps it

died without being replaced in the central area although there may
be a young sapling at the edge. Such a state may be designated as
a peripheral tree cult. The sacred site may well derive its sacredness
from an original sacred tree, the so-called founding tree, but the tree
has been more or less degraded, or even obliterated, in the com-
plex processes of installing iconic deities on altars, in niches, and in
sacred chambers behind locked doors.
In the case of such ‘peripheral’ trees, only the acknowledged
sthalav‰kßas are supervised by the temple priests. Bràhma»ical super-
vision in such cases means that ritual behaviour around such trees
is highly regulated, but also indicates the high status of such a tree.
Nevertheless, the main focus is on the statue of the deity elsewhere
in the temple complex. The sacred tree may be located somewhere
in the inner or outer rings of the temple complex where supplicants
perform their own rituals but are restricted by the temple code.
Caution is required, however, in interpreting the map of a temple
complex too hierarchically.
Whereas their narratives are extremely rich and interesting, ritu-
ally, such trees are unimpressive. Apart from the fact that the liv-
ing sthalav‰kßas may be very old, although by botanical standards by
far not as ancient as is maintained, they have become too much of
a (guarded) monument to evoke spontaneous ritual behaviour. At
the same time, the awe they evoke is great. Just as the devotion of
countless devotees worshipping at a sacred spot may seem almost
tangible and quantifiable, so age and myth may be felt as something
almost solid hanging around such a tree.
The reverence Indians have for such trees may be expressed in
the conventional set of circumambulation, añjali and mantra, or in an
outstretched hand touching the trunk, a branch, or only a leaf, or
may be made more explicit by stating a wish or pledging a vrata. In
the case of venerable old trees, the aspect of dar≤ana comes in as
well: simply seeing the tree, being in its presence, and looking up
at it is considered as highly auspicious and rewarding. Note again
a convergence of pilgrimage and tourism here.141
In the fourth state, there is priestly ambivalence towards those
141
Milton Singer, in 1959 already, spoke of ‘cultural sight-seeing added to reli-
gious motives.’ This phenomenon is also evident in the answers to the question-
naires appendixed to Alan Morinis, Pilgrimage (1984). It is related in touchingly
human tones in Heather Wood’s Third-class ticket (1980).

trees that were purposefully planted at a later stage, single or mar-

ried, somewhere at the periphery. It may be that the bràhma»ic
priests merely condone the practice at the outer end of the temple,
away from their own ritually pure inner circle, but it may also be
that they actively encourage the performance of rituals around sacred
trees by planting, ‘marrying’, and consecrating them. Whether, in a
particular complex, there was a tree around which the sacred spot
evolved, or whether the planting of a tree in the courtyard is a new
initiative, the gesture is significant. From one point of view, it is seg-
regation, i.e., removing the tree cult to the periphery; from another
point of view, it is integration and assimilation, since the ‘wild’, ‘pop-
ular’ and non-bràhma»ic is thus being brought into the sacred tem-
ple complex. Field- and street-Hinduism thus become domesticated
and tamed by bringing the popular tree cult into the orbit of a
priest-controlled Hindu temple. We detect two simultaneous move-
ments here: the centrifugal dynamic in which the rank of the tree
cult is diminishing, moving away from the centre to the fringe, and
a centripetal dynamic in which the tree cult is moving inwards, first
entering the temple grounds from the streets and fields, and then
gaining status through bràhma»ical acknowledgement and ritual
integration.
What is interesting from the point of view of ritual studies is the
intricate interplay of scriptural tradition, temple-Hinduism, and pop-
ular practice. Planting a tree in the courtyard of a newly built tem-
ple is not to be regarded as an invention of tradition, nor as succumbing
to popular demand; rather, is it a conscious acknowledgement of the
multiple strands of the Indian religious fabric. In contrast to many
other cultures, the Indian fabric is more or less continuous, an unbro-
ken but dynamic interweaving of various strands. Kings who had
huge temple complexes built around the garbhag‰ha in the dark
womb-like centre also had trees planted, not just for shade, or for
the use of their leaves, blossoms, and fruits but also because Indian
rulers acknowledged the deeply-rooted and widespread tradition of
sacred trees. In such a process, there were four main actors: the
common people, pujàris, bràhma»as, and kings. It has been convinc-
ingly shown that in some cases new dynasties intentionally associ-
ated themselves with local, regional, tribal, or popular beliefs, symbols,
and practices in order to effect a better integration and a wider
influence over the population.142
142
See especially Kulke’s contributions to Eschmann et al., The Cult of Jagannath.

354 chapter five
Trees may become sacred trees in a natural process, but within

a temple complex they may be proclaimed sacred by purposively
planting and consecrating them. This is exactly what is done by
those temple priests who have such trees planted. They proclaim the
trees sacred by performing the rituals of consecration ( pratiß†hà) and
marriage (vivaha). The purposively planted and married trees in a
temple courtyard are regarded by the priests as being as much based
on the ≤àstrika prescriptions as the temple itself.
5.3.2 Ritual categories

In comparing contemporary ritual behaviour around trees with the
symbols and symbolic actions discussed in the historical literary part
of this study, the following should be noted. The textual, art-histor-
ical, architectural, and numismatic evidence of tree worship in ancient
days, however prolific, shows us the ideas and practices of a rela-
tively small section of the society of that time. In contemporary India,
we encounter not only the past and the present, but also the pop-
ular, the rural, and the tribal alongside the high Hinduism of the
temples and of traditional pilgrimage. Any comparison between pre-
sent and past aspects of the tree cult in India is thus necessarily lop-
sided. For this reason, we presented the contemporary data in the
preceding two paragraphs without a strict divison between past and
present, continuity and discontinuity, or textual/traditional and pop-
ular/contemporary. In the matter of the tree cult, it appears that
there is no such dividing line.
A reasonably representative overview of the ideas associated with
the behaviour beneath sacred trees can be patched together from all
the contemporary aspects. When such authors as James Frazer and
Mircea Eliade focused on tree myths and tree lore, they used sev-
eral loosely indicated categories or symbol systems.143 When Eliade
tried his hand at an improvised summing-up of the various aspects
of the sacredness of trees in the world’s traditions, he noted
(a) the stone-tree-altar complex,

(b) the sacred tree as an image of the cosmos,
143
On James Frazer, see especially Robert Ackerman, The Myth and Ritual School.
J.G. Frazer and the Cambridge Ritualists (2002). On Mircea Eliade, see Wendell C.
Beane and William G. Doty, Myths, Rites, Symbols: A Mircea Eliade Reader (two vols.)
(1976).

(c) the tree as a cosmic theophany,

(d) the tree as a symbol of life,
(e) the tree as the centre or support of the world,
(f ) the mystical bond between trees and men (or men and trees),
(g) the tree as a symbol of the resurrection of vegetation.144
An alternative list of topics connected with the sacrality of trees is

found in the Encyclopedia of Religion:
(a) the power of ancestors,

(b) the creation of life in birth,
(c) death and the afterworld,
(d) health and illness,
(e) trees represent certain deities or ancestors,
(f )trees serve as mediators or links to the religious realm,
(g) trees are associated with cultural beliefs in heaven or the after-
life,
(h) trees furnish liquids valued as sacred beverages used in ritual or
as medicines.145
This may be useful as a general framework for symbol systems in

which sacred trees are involved, but does not help in categorising
ritual behaviour around trees in India. When we got more specific,
and scrutinised theoretical treatises recently developed in the field of
ritual studies, such as those given by Grimes, Rappaport, Bell, and
Doty,146 we found that most of the ritual genres distinguished by
them could be related to sacred trees as well:
(1) rites of passage, such as when the placenta, the first nail par-
ings, or a toddler’s hair are left beneath a tree; when a girl is
married to a tree; when a person is buried beneath a tree; when
ashes are strewn around a tree; when a young tree is planted
over a grave, or when ancestors are ‘fed’ and ‘cooled’ from pots
144
Found in his Patterns in Comparative Religion (1958), esp. pp. 266–267.
145
Pamela R. Frese and S.J.M. Gray, on Trees, in Encyclopedia of Religion (1987),
vol. 15, p. 26.
146
Ronald L. Grimes, especially his Readings in Ritual Studies (1996); Roy A.
Rappaport, Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity (1999); Catherine Bell, Ritual:
Perspectives and Dimensions (1997), and William G. Doty, Mythography: The Study of Myths
and Rituals (1986, rev. ed. 2000).

356 chapter five
hanging from a tree; or when, rarely, in isolated areas, corpses

are put into the hollow trunk of a tree to decompose there;
(2) festivals and other calendrical rites, such as when on special days
trees are circumambulated and worshipped, especially by women
with specific wishes in mind; when snakes are worshipped, as
part of the Nàgpañcamì; when blossoms play a part in celebra-
tions of spring and the return of vitality; or when swings are
hung from trees to let the deities, young girls and women, or
amorous couples relax; or to magically evoke the rain just before
the start of the monsoon;
(3) several rites of pilgrimage, worship, and sacrifice, such as the
daily circumambulation, watering, and praising of an a≤vattha or
banyan; pilgrimage to a specific tree that is connected with a
specific god, deity, or saint; or sacrifice, be it sanguinary or not,
beneath a tree in the form of instrumental prayer, or petitionary
devotion, or to secure the continuation of present affairs;
(4) rituals of magic, healing, and protection, such as when the wood
of a specific sacred tree is used for medicine, amulets, images,
or temple construction; when a deity is invoked for its interac-
tion in any request for healing, be it physical, mental, or spir-
itual; when a tree is planted to serve as an abode for the uneasy
spirits preventing a woman’s conception; when a part of the neem
tree is used as protection against smallpox; when a woman’s hair
is nailed to a tree in the course of an exorcist rite; or when a
rag is offered with the aim of transference of evil;
(5) meditation rites, such as when a sacred tree is sought for med-
itation, or when a tree has the reputation of stimulating meditation,
in imitationem Buddhae or Shivae; many sacred trees are specifically
connected with the prolonged meditative sojourn of a saint, sàdhu,
or devotional singer. Apart from Buddha’s bodhi tree, there are,
for instance, Ramakrishna’s pañcava†ì in Dakshineshwar, Yoga-
nanda’s temple-of-leaves in Ranchi, and Tagore’s banyan in Shan-
tiniketan;
(6) civil ceremonies, such as a pañcàyat meeting beneath the village
tree,147 or the ceremonial circling and hugging of a tree to pre-
147
The word banyan seems to have been given by Europeans to a particular tree
under which banyans (often anglicised as bunyans or bunyas), in the sense of members
of the merchant class, used to assemble, both for commerce and worship. Gradually
the name spread to indicate the species all over British India.

vent it from being felled, such as in the Chipko movement; in

a way, the evening chat beneath the tree in the village square,
or the communal smoking there of a bidi after the day’s work
has been done and while the women prepare the evening meal
at home, could also be counted as a secular ritual beneath a
central tree.
Other ritual categories, such as those of exchange and interaction,

are either contained or implied in the above. In general, most of
the so-called sacred trees in India are, in a way, wishing trees: it is
rare that there is no ulterior motive in any ritual behaviour around
a tree.
A distinction must be made between gifts of worship and gifts of
supplication or exchange. The familiar set of leaves, flowers, fruit
and water ( patraá pußpaá phalaá toyam) or the more abstract light,
sound, and smell, qualifies as gifts of worship whereas more specific
gifts,—they may be called conditional gifts—prescribed by texts and
traditions, or by local habits, may fall within the category of special
inclinations or promises, vratas, etc. Such votive gifts are sometimes
given before the fulfillment, sometimes after. Among the special gifts
given in this way are small tokens left by women praying for prog-
eny: rags, stones tied in a rag, stones in a miniature cradle or crib,
or a baby doll (sometimes even a Balak‰ß»a) in a wooden cradle
hung from a branch.
In other places, it is the nàgakals which receive the special atten-
tion of women who want to get pregnant: they are daubed with red
and yellow powder, hung with marigolds, and, sometimes, a cube
of camphor or a stick of incense, or a light, is lit in front of them.
Traditionally, there were at least seven ways for women to secure
pregnancy when it did not happen fast enough or at all:
(1) she should spend a night in a temple and become united with
the deity (or, as rumours would have it, with the resident brah-
min priest),
(2) she should eat a certain fruit or grain,
(3) she should worship specific megalithic stones,
(4) she should have an exorcistic ritual performed, preferably beneath
a tree,
(5) she should embrace a statue of Hanuman in the nude,
(6) she should worship a cobra (as her infertility is supposed to be
due to the fact that in a former life she killed one),

358 chapter five
(7) she should take a full bath in a tank, pond, pool, or river (as
not only sacred water is thought to be fertilising, but the water-
snakes too).148
Specific votive gifts, like clay hands or feet, appear under special
trees which have a reputation for healing.149 This aspect has been
elaborated upon by Stephen Huyler, in his chapter ‘Healing, Sacred
Vows, and Possession’, in Meeting God. He observed that “wooden
representations of entire bodies and body parts, originally given as
votive offerings, are now used as agents for Divine healing (. . .)”,150
and “when a devotee prays for healing, he or she will pick up one
of the votive sculptures and, with it, circle the part of the body that
needs healing.”151 He describes how a devotee, frantically in need of
help, came to such a tree, in Ochura, Alapuzha District, Kerala, to
seek help from the Goddess, Pàrvatì, for her dying grandchild.
Although the place has been famous throughout the area for cen-
turies as a result of the many miracles reported to have taken place
there, the shrine has remained an open air temple. The large field
that constitutes the core of the complex contains two sacred trees
and a sacred grove. It was to the back of the first tree that the
grandmother went. A wooden image of the Goddess was once installed
there by a grateful recipient of her healing powers. It stands at the
foot of a cement platform containing a pipal entwined with a kadamba.
This shrine, together with a few other small open shrines, is in the
hands of non-brahmin priests. Huyler describes, in a rather personal
way, how he witnessed the miracle of a fourteen-month-old girl being
healed at the feet of the diminutive statue. It is striking that the
trees, in local lore, represent the unmanifested Parabrahman, and
that statues are installed all around them, at the feet of which votive
gifts are heaped. In this rural setting, hardly known outside the dis-
trict, can thus be seen a perfect illustration of the layeredness of
148
For such notions, see J. Boulnois, Le caducée et la symbolique dravidienne indo-méditer-
ranéenne de l’arbre, de la pierre, du serpent et de la déesse-mère (1939), pp. 12–13, as well
as J.J. Meyer, Trilogie altindischer Mächte und Feste der Vegetation (1937).
149
“Slowly the demand for earthenware is sinking, day by day (. .). They have
all given up the potter’s craft because of the scarcity of fuel. The trees have been
cut down.” Quoted on p. 193 by Stephen Huyler, Gifts of Earth: terracottas and clay
sculptures of India (1996), from Fischer and Shah, Rural Craftsmen and Their Work
(1970), p. 193.
150
Stephen P. Huyler, Meeting God. Elements of Hindu Devotion (1999), p. 210.
151
Meeting God, p. 213.

Hindu devotion: from the sandy soil one looks up to the whole array
of votive gifts, and from them upwards to the statues of the deities,
and again upwards to the sacred trees representing Parabrahman.
5.3.3 The Va†a Sàvitrì Vrata as a symbol system

Although there is a long and substantial Sanskrit textual tradition
on vratas, the study of such texts merely informs us how vratas ought
to be observed from an orthodox bràhma»ical point of view. How
those vratas were and are actually observed is a completely different
matter. Vratas are not merely prayers; they are vows, personal promises,
pledges, commitment.152 Particular observances often involve fasting,
pùjà, listening to a specific kathà, and the giving of gifts (dàna) to
another person, often a bràhma»a priest. Although vratas are normally
instrumental in nature, immediate responses are not expected. They
encompass many different strands, including both orally transmitted
local folk traditions and written, ≤àstrika pan-Indian traditions. Vratas
connected with sacred trees are interesting in their mixture of both
strands. Since the great Bhìßma himself recommended a particular
vrata for long-lived progeny beneath an a≤vattha, and since even god-
desses are known to have taken up vratas occasionally, women feel
that in the vrata system they have a very personal and highly respected
instrument to negotiate with the divine.153
From early girlhood, women are encouraged to take up several
vows, aimed at, for instance, obtaining a suitable husband, a just
152
As mentioned above, on the more theoretical aspects of vratas, see Pearson,
and McGee. From the hand of Susan Wadley we have ‘Vrats: Transformers of
Destiny’ in Keyes and Daniel (1983). Many calendrical vratas are also listed in
M.M. Underhill, The Hindu Religious Year (1921).
153
Bhìßma’s advice for long-lived progeny, as rendered by B.A. Gupte in his
Hindu Holidays and Ceremonials: “‘What will grant me long-lived sons?’ Bhìßma replied:
“Listen, o king! I shall describe that vrata, which will grant long-lived progeny. O
Dharma! On a dark night (amàvàsya) falling on a Monday (Somavatì) one should
go to an asvattha tree (Ficus Religiosa), and there worship Janàrdan (Vishnu). He
should offer to the god 108 jewels, or coins, or fruits, and go round the tree as
many times (108). This vrata is much appreciated by Vishnu (. . .)’”, pp. 159–165.
Other particulars mentioned are the first bath in a river or tank nearby; the wear-
ing of a silk dress; the observance of silence; the circumambulation (a total of 108
times) around the tree with one’s gift in one’s hand; meditation on the trimùrti;
recitation of the mantra in which the three parts of a tree are connected with
Brahmà, •iva, and Viß»u; prayer to the a≤vattha as the abode of Agni as well as
Viß»u; and gifts to a bràhma»a and a married bràhma»a woman.

360 chapter five
and affectionate mother-in-law, and long life and prosperity for her
brothers. Once she is married, vows are taken to secure the pros-
perity of her marital family, good harvests, and health and long life
for her husband and children. In modern India, such vratas are pri-
marily observed by women. Along with daily worship, such vows
constitute the greater part of their religious activity. It is mainly a
domestic form of religion and is hardly associated with temple ser-
vice, but as several women from the same area or from the same
household join in, some aspects may attain a congregational char-
acter. Traditionally, however, vratas constituted one of the domains
from which Manu explicitly excluded women, at least when they
wanted to perform them independently ( p‰thak) of their husbands.
A popular and widely observed vrata directly connected with trees
is the Va†a Sàvitrì Vrata, observed during the day of the new moon
in the month of Jyeß†ha (in North India). As its name implies, it is
dedicated to Sàvitrì, and is performed for general well-being, the
long life of the husband, and marital felicity. Its scriptural basis is
found in the epic episode of Sàvitrì, who, while sitting beneath a
va†a tree in the forest with her dying husband Satyavat’s head in her
lap, solemnly declared a vow of truth for the sake of her husband
and her parents-in-law. She did this by referring to her chastity, her
fidelity, her truthfulness, and her austerities. It could even be said
that women who nowadays perform the three-day Va†a Sàvitrì Vrata
become temporary tapasvinìs like Sàvitrì herself. The effect of imita-
tive behaviour in this context is obvious.154
In B.A. Gupte’s book on Hindu holidays and ceremonials there
is a pictorial representation of the Va†a Sàvitrì, in which several rel-
evant auspicious drawings are grouped together around a central
‘marriage’ scene: Va†a Sàvitrì is depicted as a woman sitting on a
dais, flanked by a banyan and a pipal, and holding an aerial root of
the first in one hand and a bunch of three leaves of the latter in
her other hand. Three similar leaves emerge from the top of her
head, as if they have sprouted there. This ‘bride’ Sàvitrì is sur-
rounded by auspicious wedding attributes like a mirror and boxes
of betel (to please the tongue) and collyrium (to beautify the eyes).
Musicians play music, a priest is in attendance, and there is a mango
154
On Hindu female asceticism, see Lynn Teskey Denton, ‘Varieties of Hindu
Female Asceticism’ in Leslie (1990).

tree as well as a servant carrying a basket full of mangoes. Fishes

and sparrows (crops!) indicate fertility and harvest, together with such
general symbols of prosperity as the lotus, svàstika, snake, parrot, sun,
and moon. Besides the two main trees, va†a and a≤vattha, there is a
mango tree, a vilva tree, and a potted tulasì shrub.155
In this drawing, according to Gupte, the celebration of the annual
marriage of Mother Earth with the trees (or the vegetative world in
general) can be easily seen, but the diminutive figure of Satyavàn
points to death and resurrection as well. In this way, it is presented
as a cycle, a cyclic vegetative wedding under the aegis of both sun
and moon. This drawing is not a pictographic ka†hà, as it does not
really tell the story of Sàvitrì’s vrata and its rewards, but it does pre-
sent an auspicious representation of Sàvitrì as Mother Earth in which
trees, not rice or wheat, figure prominently. Such an elaborate draw-
ing puts the particular vrata in a somewhat greater perspective than
that of merely one woman’s wish for marital felicity; any woman
performing the Va†a Sàvitrì thus joins in the annual revitalisation of
nature. The vrata’s scope is thus far greater than the well-being of
the woman’s husband or family: it is the greater general context,
the annual vegetative cycle.
It is interesting that the vegetative world is represented by two
trees rather than by rice or wheat, or, alternatively, by a blossom-
ing tree like the a≤oka, or a fruit tree like the mango. Some popu-
lar versions of the Sàvitrì-Satyavàn story explain the prominence of
the va†a tree as follows: Satyavàn was killed when a branch fell on
his head; in another version of the same narrative, it is told that
when Satyavàn felt tired they sat beneath the tree, Satyavàn’s head
in Sàvitrì’s lap; it is even said that they merely rested beneath the
tree when Satyavàn was fatally bitten by a snake.
The tree does not play a major role in the tale, but in the con-
temporary version of the vrata’s performance, the banyan is the prin-
cipal object of worship at the festival, which is celebrated by married
women only. The women fast (upoßana, upasatha) for three days, as
Sàvitrì did. Generally, a depiction of a va†a tree, and of Sàvitrì,
Satyavàn and Yama is drawn on the floor or on the wall of the
house, with sandal paste and rice flour. These representations are
worshipped with mantras and offerings of va†a leaves. Outdoors, a real
155
B.A. Gupte, Hindu holidays and ceremonials, pp. 246–254, plus plate no. 15.

362 chapter five
va†a is worshipped with mantras, while offerings of small coins and

fruit are made. A thread may be wound around its trunk. The wrap-
ping of a banyan tree with string is done in commemoration of Sàvitrì.
Whereas some might consider the va†apùr«ìmavrata to be optional
(kàmya), many women regard it as obligatory (nitya). Some women
may perform the three-day vrata as a rite required by a particular
occasion (naimittika) or because of a particular request.156 It is one of
the most common vratas, and in elaborating on it we have shown
the interrelatedness of myths, religious role models, tree cults, cal-
ender rites, and female ascetism.
156
See Mary McGee, ‘Desired fruits: Motive and Intention in the Votive Rites
of Hindu Women’, in Leslie (1990).

CHAPTER SIX
PLANTING AND PRASÀD VERSUS PLUNDER AND

POLLUTION: SACRED TREES IN INDIAN
ENVIRONMENTAL MOVEMENTS
Introduction
Although there is a pronounced tendency to relate India’s ecologi-

cal crisis directly to the exploitative attitude of the colonial empire,
the bare fact that the British could make their inroad into Indian
civilisation is often seen in the context of a much larger process of
deterioration: the effects of Kaliyuga (6.1). Though calculations of the
moments of beginning and end of the yugas vary widely, the most
common reckoning implies that the whole period of what is con-
sidered history in India would have to be situated within the era
of the Kaliyuga. Practically everything preceding the current yuga would
thus have to be considered prehistory. In other words, all the so-called
remembrances of earlier eras, including the supposed golden heights
of Indian civilisation, would at best be mere fragmentary recollec-
tions of a mythic past.1
Many well-intended but naive accounts of India’s supposed eco-
logical awareness in the Vedic scriptures are now being produced
by Indian authors in order to prove how nature-friendly their dis-
tant ancestors were. Historically, even the highly revered Vedas must
be considered to have been conceived and written in the present
Dark Age. In the believers’ view, however, the Vedas, as ≤ruti, are
outside time. Two very different conceptions of time interact: those
partly astrological partly mythical ideas of the yugas, vast periods of
time of which the present Kaliyuga, the darkest era of all, fortunately
has the shortest duration, and those quasi-historical ideas derived
from a selective reading of India’s ancient scriptures. To make mat-
ters even more complicated, although ≤ruti texts, like the Vedas, may
1
Or, as Baird Callicott puts it: “The origins of Hinduism reach into that dim
twilight zone between prehistory and history.” Earth’s Insights: A Survey of Ecological
Ethics (1994), p. 144.

364 chapter six
be considered to have been written by the ‰ßis in the present era,

their content is considered to be timeless and to transcend the suc-
cessive time periods.
Later we will dicuss how the various positions in the time debate,
particularly in regard to the present degenerate age, are chosen
according to the merit of their persuasive power over certain audi-
ences or in view of certain problems. At least one other position
might convince an Indian audience to look to the past, be it his-
torical or mythical, for inspiration in matters of ecology: the tribal
heritage. Depending on the audience and readership, the glorification
of traditional tribal ways relating to the natural environment may
be offered as an additional source of inspiration. All three positions,
(1) that of the yuga time calculation, (2) that of mythic stories con-
tained in the scriptures as well as in oral and performing traditions,
and (3) that of tribal traditions in ecological matters, are based on
culture-specific interpretations of the past (both the mythical and the
historical past) and the present. Delving into the cultural heritage
with the objective of finding inspiration for the present may thus
result in a wealth of beautiful imagery, but its merit can hardly be
claimed to be congruent with historical facts and everyday reality.
It is a mythical past and a mythical time that is encountered here,
idealised either in collective memory or by the romantic notions of
alienated contemporaries.
As we have seen in the preceding chapters, in contemporary envi-
ronmental activism, such models are used effectively to inspire peo-
ple by means of popular images which evoke a sense of pride and
belonging. They serve as an often more directly appealing incentive
than environmental facts and figures. As we will see, in many cases,
such images often prove far more effective than botanical statistics
or even economic prognoses. Those underprivileged groups who fight
for short-term survival often need an additional incentive to think
further ahead than tomorrow’s meal. To many, religion offers such
a meta-perspective. In India, from the outset, there has been an
appeal to traditional, mostly religious sensitivities, in support of envi-
ronmental issues. Religion, especially devotional religious imagery,
often proves to be more convincing in this respect than an envi-
ronmentalist’s chart of degeneration and doom. For this reason, reli-
gion in India has been referred to as a potential resource for raising
people’s consciousness about these problems. Reservations that have
been voiced about the all-too-fluid connection between ancient texts,

sacred trees in indian environmental movements 365
religious sensitivities, and today’s pressing problems will be consid-

ered later.
We thus focus specifically on religious imagery as a stimulus to
protect existing trees, plant them, nurse them, hug them, and wor-
ship them. Trees and forests form just one of the targets in the envi-
ronmental programmes, but even when limited to arboreal matters,
the subject is a vast one. We further restrict our discourse to the
religious dimension: the place of sacred trees and sacred groves in
the current ecological domain, and to the religious imagery that is
applied to win people over to the protection of the remaining green
that still surrounds them, as well as to replanting and nursing pro-
grammes (6.3).
In 6.4, the appeal to religious imagery is illustrated by the Tirupati-
Tirumali case: the distribution of prasàda in the South Indian
Ve«kate≤vara Temple where, instead of the usual sweets or fruits,
young saplings are handed out to the pilgrims with the request to
take them home and plant them there. In addition to the ‘trees-as-
prasàd ’ scheme there is a ‘foster-parent-tree-planting’ programme in
which devotees are encouraged to pay for the planting and fostering
of trees on the hills surrounding the temple complex.
A special argument in favour of protecting India’s sacred groves
(6.5) has been found in their biodiversity. Ideally, such groves form
more or less isolated spots of varied growth, and are relics of nat-
ural diversity practically unaffected by human interference. There is
a variety of reasons why such special spots were traditionally left rel-
atively untouched. One of the reasons given is the fear of treading
the ground where the wood-spirits, the ancestors, and any wander-
ing souls such as those of people who died violently, dwell. This
may have been, and perhaps in some cases still is, foremost in the
minds of the rural and tribal peoples in charge of such sites. Today,
the fact that some of those sites have been almost undisturbed over
the millennia is an asset, and is the reason why in the course of
only a few decades they have gained the status of relics both of
biodiversity and of the sacred. In ecological ideology, they are pre-
sented in sad contrast to the rest of India’s man-dominated landscape,
even when critical research shows that idealised notions tend to
present India’s sacred groves as more tabu and pristine than they
actually are.
Our main question, i.e., in how far religious imagery is effect-
fully used in environmental activism, does not imply that religious

366 chapter six
sentiments are the main driving factors in Indian environmental

movements. This would be a distortion of the widespread and mul-
tifaceted phenomenon of India’s ecological awakening. We consciously
limit our focus to the role of religious imagery without implying that
religion is the driving factor. It is merely one way of winning peo-
ple over to showing concern about the environment. Although such
an approach is a limitation, this focus should make clear that insti-
tutionalised religion, instead of being a factor that alienates con-
temporary society from nature, in India may be applied as a force
that leads to remembrance, refocusing, and re-integration.
Many of the specifically Hindu elements in India’s nascent envi-
ronmental lobby represent continuity with the past. The embarrass-
ing contradictions between an ideal India of bountiful nature, refined
culture, and lofty tradition, on the one hand, and the harsh reali-
ties of today, on the other, are recognised by many. In the com-
parative study of religions, there is frequently a disjunction between
principles and practices. Traditionally, ecologically sensitive ideas in
religions are not always translated into actual environmental prac-
tices. As Vasudha Narayan exclaims,
But if Eastern traditions, including Hinduism, are so eco-friendly,
why do the countries in which these religions have been practised,
have such a lamentable record of ecological disasters and rampant
industrialisation?2
One answer given to this question is that everyday behaviour in
India often is not based on mystically perceived unity or equality of
all living beings, but rather on the multiple differences and hierar-
chies based on gender, caste, age, economic class, and so on.
Though it is our aim to investigate the various appeals to tradi-
tional religious imagery and sensitivities that are being made by envi-
ronmental movements in India, we first explore deforestation in
precolonial and colonial times before moving on to our specific sub-
ject, the current environmental rhetoric concerning trees, groves, and
forests.
Agricultural-pastoral people spread over the Indian subcontinent
in many phases. The first urban civilisations must have embraced a
considerable portion of the north-west. The discovery of iron, along
2
Vasudha Narayan, ‘Water, Wood, and Wisdom. Ecological Perspectives from
the Hindu Traditions’ (2001).

with fire, made it possible to bring the Middle-Gangetic plains under

intensive agricultural-pastoral colonisation. Fire was employed to burn
down patches of forests, and iron tools were used to prepare the
earth for sowing and planting. Bràhma»as at times also played a vital
role in such processes, as they served as pioneers, together with
princes, in establishing outposts and initiating rituals which consumed
large quantities of wood and animal fat, such as in the story of the
Khà»∂ava forest. Nevertheless, Aryan dominance was not complete:
India’s geographical diversity, and the various relatively unapproachable
areas enabled the continuance of ancient ways of life where the
plough did not penetrate.
Indian kings had both institutional rights and duties to the forests
in their realm. Whereas forests were considered sources of income
to the royal household, kings were obliged to allow locals to exer-
cise their users’ rights. Before the state monopolisation of the forests
by the British, the commercial exploitation of forest produce was
largely restricted to commodities like pepper, cardamom, and ivory.
It was the emergence of the use of timber as a major commodity,
both for railway construction in India and for building the Empire’s
ships, that led to great changes.3
Colonial rule thus led to a dramatic change in the way in which
forests in India were used. Conflicts over forest resources can be
divided into four phases.4 The first phase began when the British,
with the introduction of one-dimensional scientific forestry, ‘reserved’
large tracts of forests for commercial exploitation. Their main objec-
tive was the maximisation of the production of commercially valu-
able timber. Other ecological and micro-economic objectives were
mostly ignored. A common resource was transformed into a com-
modity. Conflicts led to massive protests during the late nineteenth
and early twentieth centuries.
The second phase began with the start of the post-colonial period,
when the 1952 Indian Forest Policy led to the rapid expansion of
3
For extensive information on deforestation in pre-colonial as well as colonial
and post-colonial times, see, for instance, Madhav Gadgil and Ramachandra Guha,
The use and abuse of Nature in contemporary India (1995); David Arnold and Ramachandra
Guha (eds.), Ecolgy and Equity: Nature, Culture, Imperialism (1995); Madhav Gadgil, This
fissured land: An ecological history of India (1993); Ramachandra Guha, The unquiet woods.
Ecological change and peasant resistance in the Himalaya (1989); Mahesh Rangarajan, Fencing
the forest: Conservation and ecological change (1996); and J. Bandyopadhyay, India’s envi-
ronment (1985).
4
See p. 77 in Vandana Shiva’s Ecology and the politics of survival (1991).

368 chapter six
forest-based industries, the large-scale felling of natural forests, and

the conversion to monocultures of commercial species. Conflicts gen-
erated by such intensification of forest exploitation led to movements
like Chipko in which geographically defined effects of denudation
gradually began to be seen as a part of a far wider and more com-
plicated environmental issue.
The third phase began when public interest started to grow, partly
as a critical response to the commercial exploitation of India’s forests,
and partly as a reaction to the failing supply of raw material for the
wood-based industries. Social afforestation programmes became a
new source of conflict between local users’ rights and top-down strate-
gies of reforestation.
The fourth phase is likely to emerge,—and in some areas has
already started—when forest use becomes a transnational issue in the
wake of major changes in biotechnologies and biomass conversion.
On the ideological side of the historiography of environmentalism in

India and in the current awakening of ecological awareness, various
tendencies can be detected:
(1) texts and traditions are currently being mined as rich resources
for encouraging a respectful interaction with nature and natural
resources,
(2) examination of the symbol systems that might underlie attitudes
and behaviours toward nature in Hindu India often tends to
dwell more on culturally inherited ideals rather than on daily
reality as it was and still is lived,
(3) Indian religions (in the form of myths, ritual traditions, symbol
systems, ethical ideals) nowadays are generally considered to be
able to motivate ecological awareness in a positive way, just as
they are assumed to have been in the past.
This is clearly reflected in an earlier publication, Proceedings of the

National Seminar on Environmental Awareness Reflected in Sanskrit Literature,
held in Poona, in 1990.5 In this book, a total of 40 Sanskrit schol-
ars survey their fields for implicit or explicit signs of ecological or
environmental awareness. Most make a direct connection between
5
Edited by V.N. Jha, Proceedings (1991).

the data found in their texts and contemporary needs. They mined
Indian textual traditions for relevant inspiration in today’s search for
effective tools, tactics, and strategies. As a method this approach has
its pitfalls, since texts were searched with the postulated intention of
finding passages referring to a respectful, cautious, and spiritually
charged interaction with the natural environment in times and situ-
ations different from India’s present. This presupposed positive mes-
sage has been questioned lately by some critical western authors.
Paul Pedersen, who calls this ‘the religious environmentalist para-
digm’ cautions that
Values as they are expressed in, for example, scriptural statements
about the sacredness of trees, water, mountains, cows and so on, will
not tell us what people really do to their environment.6
and
The search for the ecological correctness of distant ancestors makes
them too similar to us. It produces historical distortion, misunder-
standing, anachronism. It is a projection of modern conceptualizations
and concerns onto the screen of tradition.7
This same caution is voiced by Arne Kalland:
It has been argued that when nature is seen as immanently divine, as
it allegedly is in Japan, this leads to a ‘love of nature’ relationship.
But such a world-view can also imply a danger to the environment,
at least if nature is preserved because of the spirits residing therein.
This can prevent the development of a true concern for nature as
such.8
He concludes,
One important lesson we can learn from this is that there is hardly
any direct relationship between the Japanese sensibility to nature and
their environmental behaviour.9
Lance Nelson, in the introduction to his book Purifying the body of
God, phrases some similar caveats concerning potentially positive cor-
relations between India’s ascetic outlook and an ecologically positive
6
Paul Pederson, ‘Nature, Religion and Cultural Identity. The Religious Environ-
mentalist Paradigm’ (1995), p. 265.
7
Pederson, p. 267.
8
Arne Kalland, ‘Culture in Japanese Nature’, in Bruun and Kalland (1995),
p. 249.
9
Kalland, p. 255.

370 chapter six
ethic, between the theory of karma and moral responsibility for the
natural universe, between human morality in the cycle of yugas and
environmental decline, between orthodox Vedànta theology and a
reverential attitude toward nature, and between mythic-ritual sacral-
isation or divinisation of geography and ecologically supportive behav-
iour. Nelson also touches upon the problems of Hindu concepts of
purity and impurity, and caste ideology, as well as specific Hindu
ways of construing nature in mythic visions and ritual praxis as
opposed to the discourse of scientifically oriented government con-
servation officials and environmental activists. Dharma texts may well
promote righteous behaviour on Earth, including dealing respectfully
with one’s environment; mokßa texts, on the other hand, encourage
people to be detached from such concerns. Even the notion of sacred
space is highly ambivalent: if certain spots are considered to be inher-
ently sacred and should be kept clean as a tribute to the divinity
connected with the place, people may feel free to pollute the pro-
fane areas which are not sacred and are not connected to any Purà»ic
or devotional narratives. A parallel ambivalence may be noted about
the inherent purity of sacred rivers like the Ga«gà: their purity is
considered to be so great that nothing can pollute them, not the
organic waste of vast masses of people bathing, defecating, and
leaving ashes or even corpses, nor the industrial waste produced by
factories and small-scale industries.10
The overall view of the present Kaliyuga might well explain any
deterioration in today’s India. For some, this implies that it would
be better to accept this general decline, of which environmental
degradation is only one symptom. In many cases Vedànta so empha-
sises transcendence that the value of the world as such tends to be
negated. Similarly, the ascetic vision may often be so inextricably
linked with denial of the world and neglect of the world that, even
when it supports simplicity and sobriety, it denies that environmen-
tal activism could ever be a legitimate course of action to be engaged
in. Hinduism can be a source of complacency as well, and some
Hindu values may impede ecological activism, however rich the devo-
tional and dharmic resources have proven to be. Whereas the ‘one-
ness’ doctrine and its ecological implications are underscored by,
10
Lance E. Nelson (ed.), ‘Introduction’, Purifying the body of God. Religion and Ecology
in Hindu India (1998), esp. p. 7, and ‘Conclusion’, pp. 331–344.

among others, Baird Callicott, Lance Nelson argues convincingly that

advaita conceptual systems do not promote eco-friendly behaviour;
on the contrary, they actually devalue nature.11
Both religiously founded positions, that of the advaita system of
thought and that of the characterisation of the present era as Kaliyuga,
might sooner work as a brake than as an accelerator in the process
of environmental education. There is no doubt, however, that the
general tendency is towards a positive evaluation of Indian texts and
traditions. In a way, this is a repetition of what happened in the
days of the Hindu Renaissance and the rise of neo-Hinduism: ancient
texts and traditions were re-interpreted through the prism of eternal
truths, sanàtana dharma, in which process much of the then current
Hinduism was done away with as degradation that had gradually
perverted the once so pure Dharma. Below we show how those very
texts and traditions are now selectively being screened with another
objective, and re-interpreted through the prism of environmentalism.
Within the religious environmentalist paradigm are several mod-
els, such as the brahminical model, the ≤akti model of feminine power,
the renouncer model (also called the ≤rama»ic mode), the tribal
model, and the post-Gandhian model.
(1) The brahminical model: in this way of looking at the envi-

ronmental crisis, it is the brahminical world view which is taken
as the point of departure. This is especially apparent in those
thinkers who base their arguments on brahminical codes of fam-
ily, caste, and gender behaviour, and who propagate a world
order based on Dharma.
(2) The ≤akti model: those who point out how, from Vedic times
onward, it has been considered a result of feminine characteris-
tics of caring, nurturing, renewal, abundance, generosity, respon-
sibility, and continuity that human life on this earth can be
enjoyed, often link all those qualities under the name of ≤akti.
The ≤akti argument is often used to remind people that in India
archaic systems of thought survive in which nature and natural
resources are perceived as being part of a feminine energy exchange
instead of commodities to be exploited.
11
Lance Nelson, ‘The Dualism of Nondualism: Advaita Vedànta and the Irrelevance
of Nature’, in Nelson (1998), Purifying, pp. 61–88.

372 chapter six
(3) The renouncer model, also called the ≤rama»ic mode, is based
on the ascetic outlook in which a person, whether a full renun-
ciant or a dedicated layperson, should not only live frugally and
soberly, but should also apply the law of karma to the areas of
food intake, waste production, and the use of non-renewable nat-
ural resources.
(4) The tribal model: it has been the merit of cultural anthro-
pologies that tribal communities started to be examined in their
own right, and it is a result of the awakening of global envi-
ronmentalism that tribal ecology is now being explored as offering
a possible alternative ecological wisdom.
(5) The post-Gandhian model: in the post-Gandhian approach
to the environmental crisis, Gandhian ideals of self-sufficiency,
simplicity, non-violence, and democracy of all life-forms are applied
to present situations in which underprivileged groups of people
resist industrial exploitation and the consequent deterioration of
their environment.
What all five positions have in common is that their points of depar-
ture are not merely determined by academic concern about the pre-
carious balance between expanding human life and shrinking natural
resources, but also by religiously inspired worldviews. This is not
unique to Hinduism. In his contribution on sacred trees in Indonesia
to Bruun & Kalland’s book Asian perceptions of nature, Peter Boomgaard
remarks,
Interestingly enough, however, explanations of differences in the exploit-
ation of nature are often couched in religious terms. Christianity is
usually regarded as the ecologically most destructive of the major world
religions. Buddhism finds itself at the other end of the scale with its
reputation of respect for all life forms.12
The connection between conservation and religion was taken seri-
ously when, as one of the outcomes of the Assisi meeting, the WWF
established a global network, and institutional conditions for the
efficient propagation of the religious environmentalist paradigm were
created.13
12
Peter Boomgaard, ‘Sacred Trees and Haunted Forests in Indonesia’, in Bruun
and Kalland (1995), Asian Perceptions, p. 48.
13
See Paul Pedersen, in Bruun and Kalland (1995), Asian Perceptions, p. 271.

In the course of that process, some traditional Indian figures were

repeatedly put forward as models of inspiration or even as patron
saints of environmentalism, such as Agni (as an icon of the intricate
network of forest ecology), Dattàtreya (one of the 24 avatàras, praised
for his ecological sensitivity and for revering 24 natural phenomena
such as the elements and various animals as his gurus),14 •iva (who
saved the earth from destruction by his matted locks, and who swal-
lowed the poison Kàlaku†a), and, of course, K‰ß»a (specially con-
nected with V‰ndàvana Forest and the Yamunà River). Names such
as those of Àditì, Prak‰tì, and Àra»yanì are being revived to evoke
an emotional or intuitive connection with the natural basis of our
existence. Whereas the male gods in that regard are often portrayed
as valiant heroes and ecological saviours, feminine indications of
nature tend to appeal to an inborn respect for the motherly figure
that nourishes all.
In the same way, some myths and stories are referred to over and
over again in order to indicate the extent to which Indian tradition
contains an environmentally conscious heritage. The Gàyatrì hymn
(in extended form) and the Bhùmisùkta are often quoted as examples
of fundamental ecological awareness: before any action is taken early
in the morning, sincere apologies are offered to the earth for trod-
ding upon it with one’s feet. And the patchwork of sacred spaces
all over India, connected by pilgrims’ paths, is pointed out as an
ancient pattern of respect for geographically defined divinity.15 The
same Dharma texts are quoted repeatedly; myths and practices con-
nected with sacred rivers and trees are referred to; and the theol-
ogy that emphasises the world as the body of God is presented as
advocating care and concern. Especially Puranic narratives and bhakti
practices, such as devotion to K‰ß»a or Mother Ga«gà, appear to
have great potential in ecological activism.16
14
See also O.P. Dwivedi and B.N. Tiwari, Environmental Crisis and Hindu Religion
(1987), p. 93, and Antonio Rigopoulos, Dattàtreya: The Immortal Guru, Yogin and Avatàra.
A Study of the Transformative and Inclusive Character of a Multi-faceted Hindu Deity (1998),
about which book Martin J. Haigh wrote a review in Archiv Orientalni 66 (1998), pp.
379–382.
15
In the case of V‰ndàvana this is clear: the sacred geography of Braj, in which
there are pilgrims’ routes from one sacred spot to another, consists, for a large part,
of natural phenomena in the landscape: trees, rivers, pools, hills, and even the very
dust on which K‰ß»a’s feet once trod. The WWF project went along with such
existing reverence in its ‘Vrindavan project’; see Ranchor Prime, Hinduism and Ecology.
Seeds of Truth (1992).
16
Vasudha Narayan, in ‘Water, Wood, and Wisdom: Ecological Perspectives from

374 chapter six
From the many forms the religious environmentalist paradigm has

taken in India, we select only a few for further elaboration, espe-
cially those which are relevant to the study of sacred trees. All such
traditional inspirations have a shadow side to them, as was made
clear by the cautions expressed by authors like Alston, Nelson,
Pedersen, and Kalland. Though we are fully aware that the appro-
priation of traditional texts and symbolic figures in service of con-
temporary environmental ideals involves risk, we nevertheless examine
some of those connections as we notice that they are quite common
in India.
6.1 The concept of Kaliyuga as the link between moral degradation and
environmental pollution
Whereas some Indians are proud to live in modern or post-modern

times, most still have a Paurà»ic conception of the era in which they
live.17 Yugas are calculated in terms of lifecycles of the gods, and,
luckily for contemporary humanity, the present Kaliyuga, lasting 432,000
human years, is the shortest span in a cycle of four:
(1) K‰ta or Satyayuga (1,728,000 human years),

(2) Tretàyuga (1,296,000 human years),
(3) Dvàparayuga (864,000 human years), and
(4) Kaliyuga (432,000 human years).
The sum total of 4,320,000 human years, corresponding with 12,000

years of the gods, constitutes one Mahàyuga, a Great Era. Two thousand
the Hindu Traditions’, in Tucker and Grim (2001), pp. 179–80, states it aptly this
way: “There is a deep relationship between religion and ingrained social structures
and behavioral patterns. The characters featured in the various Puranas (. . .) are
known and loved by the masses. People never seem to tire of these stories. Only
vernacular cinema seems to rival the epic and Puranic narratives in popular influence.”
17
“The people of India, in fact, may not be living even in the eighteenth cen-
tury of the West. They may still be reckoning time in terms of their Pauranic Yugas
(mythic world-ages), and looking at the present from the perspective of that Yuga.”
Dharampal, Bhàratìya Chitta. Mànas and Kàla. Translated by Jitendra Bajaj (1993),
pp. 17 and 19, quoted by Lance Nelson in his Introduction to Purifying the Earthly
Body of God, p. 6. One of the pitfalls of such interacting time conceptions is voiced
by Kane: “A rationalistic interpretation requires that all this that is stated in the
Purà»as is mere conjecture and imagination, and that one cannot safely build the-
ories about the governance of society in ancient times on the accounts contained
in the Purà»as.” Kane, History of Dharma≤àstra (1962), vol. V, part I, ch. XIX,
p. 693.

Mahàyugas constitute one day and one night of Brahmà, and together
form a kalpa. This intricate calculation is not found in the °gveda,
but only in Manu’s works and in the Mahàbhàrata. This cyclic view
of time is presented there as more than merely a calculation system,
but is given mythical and moral dimensions. K‰tayuga is presented as
the ideal or golden age, when there is no hate, pain, fear, or threat.
There is only one God, one Veda, one Dharma, one ritual. The castes
have their various duties and perform those according to their sta-
tus. In the Tretàyuga, Dharma has decreased by one fourth. Various
ritual sacrifices are needed, and men live according to their own
designs and expect rewards for their actions. There is a decrease in
the nature-given Dharma, which is no longer generally accepted. In
the Dvàparayuga, Dharma has shrunk to only half of its original size.
There are four Vedas, which are studied only by a select few. There
is an abundance of rituals, and few men stick to right behaviour, to
honesty, and to truth. Life is directed by desires, various diseases
appear, and Adharma is on the increase. In the Kaliyuga, finally, only
a quarter of the original Dharma is left. People have forgotten spir-
itual aspirations, and evil is predominant. There is a proliferation of
disease, exhaustion, anger, hunger, fear, and doubt. Men live with-
out a proper orientation.
Kaliyuga, according to most calculations, is the era in which we
now live. This era is supposed to have started in 3102 bc, around
the time of the battle of Kurukßetra. It is even said that the real
reason that the Pà»∂ava brothers finally retired from the throne in
order to wander to the Himàlayas was the advent of the Dark Age,
heralded by the terrible events preceding their ascendency to the
contested throne. This Kaliyuga is generally supposed to still have a
long way to go.18
Three authors (Gold, Alley, and Vasudha Narayan)19 make exten-
sive use of the model of the Dark Age in contextualising ecological
18
According to most conservative Hindu almanacs, the end of this eon is not
expected before 428,898 CE. According to Svàmi •rì Yukte≤var Giri, best known
as the Indian guru of Paramahansa Yogananda, and author of Kaivalyadar≤ana. The
Holy Science, however, the conventional calculations are not correct, owing to the
influence of the Dark Era. His method of calculation is based on astrological cycles,
and explained on pp. X–XXIII of his Introduction to The Holy Science, Self Realization
Fellowship edition, Los Angeles 1977. In his view, Dvàparayuga succeeded Kaliyuga
already in the year AD 1700, so that by now we should be well into the transi-
tional phase of Dvàpara, which, naturally, would make the prospects of our present
era less bleak than is generally supposed.
19
Ann Grodzins Gold, ‘Sin and Rain: Moral Ecology in Rural North India’ and
Kelly D. Alley, ‘Idioms of Degeneracy: Assessing Ga«gà’s Purity’, both in Lance

376 chapter six
degradation, either as a theoretical construct or as a view from the

field encountered in interviews.20 Vasudha Narayan, in her contri-
bution to the summer 1997 issue on environmental ethics of the
Journal of the American Academy of Religion, called ‘One Tree is Equal
to Ten Sons’, evokes vivid images of what the world would look like
at the lowest end of the Kaliyuga:
At the end of the Eon the population increases—and odor becomes stench,
and flavors putrid. When the Eon perishes, women will have too many
children. . . . The cows will yield little milk, and the trees, teeming with
crows, will yield few flowers and fruits. . . . Brahmins will plunder the
land bare for alms. Householders, out of fear of the burden of taxes,
will become thieves.21
Another connection between environmental degradation and Kali-
yuga becomes explicit in the interviews published by Ann Grodzins
Gold in Lance Nelson’s book Purifying the Earthly Body of God.22 Her
original plan was: “. . . to understand the interplay of symbolic and
practical dimensions within a farming community’s ecological rela-
tionships.”23 Although she received no clear answers to her original
E. Nelson, Purifying (1998). Vasudha Narayan dwells on Kaliyuga both as an expla-

nation for the present predicament and as a doomsday scenario predicted in the
Sanskrit epics in her article ‘One Tree is Equal to Ten Sons’, pp. 291–292. From
Ann Grodzins Gold’s book In the Time of Trees and Sorrows, co-authored with Bhoju
Ram Gujar (2002), pp. 335–336, note 17, comes the following delightful passage:
“Bhoju had a black helmet with a visor that could be pulled down completely to
cover his face; once when I was riding behind him without any headcover and he
was wearing this item, he overheard a man comment on our appearance in one
of the smaller villages: ‘Now we know the Degenerate Era (Kali Yug) has arrived;
men veil their faces and women go around bare-headed.’
20
Although it has become common to apply the “pessimistic and dismal accounts
of what would happen in Kaliyuga” (p. 693) as sadly having become true in today’s
nature and society, Kane succinctly states “that there are different impelling motives
in different ages, and modern man should not assess the actions and ideals of past
ages by the same yardstick that is applied to contemporary actions and ideals. It
is implicit in the words of Manu (XI:301) that the four ages are not watertight
specific periods of time, but that the Ruler or Government can produce conditions
of K‰ta Age in what is popularly called Kali by appropriate conduct or measures
(. . .).” Kane, History of Dharma≤àstra, vol. V, part I, ch. XIX, p. 696.
21
Her selection of passages is based on Van Buitenen’s translation of the Mahàbhà-
rata (1978), pp. 587–596; italics added by Narayan, pp. 291–292.
22
Ann Grodzins Gold, ‘Sin and Rain: Moral Ecology in Rural North India’, in
Nelson, Purifying, pp. 165–195.
23
Her research on this found its way into her book In the Time of Trees and Sorrows
(2002), but is present in many of her articles. Most relevant to the connection
between trees and religion are ‘Of Gods, Trees, and Boundaries: Divine Conservation
in Rajasthan’ (1995) and ‘Story, Ritual, and Environment in Rajasthan’ (2001).

question, references to the present Kaliyuga as the cause of environ-

mental degradation were made repeatedly in the interviews:
A few villagers express their appraisal of today’s degenerate times with
reference to the Kali Yuga, an era of culminating devolution defined
in Sanskritic Hindu cosmic chronology, and commonly understood
as the present. While most who mentioned Kali Yuga were literate
Brahmins, we now and then heard it evoked by uneducated farmers
as well. In any case, a strong sense of moral and geophysical decay—
with or without the Kali Yuga label—was pervasive at all levels of vil-
lage society.24
She concludes,
In textual depictions of Kali Yuga from the Sanskrit Purà»as, as in
the social and environmental change narratives we elicited from Ghatiya-
liyans, ecological breakdown and moral laxness have a thoroughly inter-
penetrating logic.25
In one of the interviews, an elderly bràhma»a offered his vivid account
of environmental social history:
Farmers say that rain comes from the trees, and there used to be
much dharma. For example, people used to feed Brahmins, and peo-
ple used to do fire oblations (havan) for the goddesses and gods, and
spread fodder for the cows. But now the Degenerate Age (Kali Yuga)
has come. The times used to be good.26
and
The Kali Yuga has come one hundred percent. People used to be
very happy and generous, but now they are misers.27
The diagnosis “No trees therefore no rain” was fluidly interchanged
with “No Dharma therefore no rain”. It was also linked with ideas
of karma, such as in utterances like “When human karma changes,
then God also changes.”28
Closer examination of the “harrowing descriptions”29 in the Dhar-
ma≤àstra and Purà»as reveals a remarkably consistent linking of selfish
behaviour with ecological disaster. Vivid descriptions of drought,
24
Gold, ‘Sin and Rain’, in Nelson, Purifying, pp. 167–168.
25
Gold, ‘Sin and Rain’, p. 168.
26
Gold, ‘Sin and Rain’, pp. 180–181.
27
28
29
Kane, History of Dharma≤àstra, vol. 5, part 1, ch. XIX, p. 694.

378 chapter six
denudation, and attenuation are interspersed with remarks about vio-

lation of Dharma. In such ideas, in which a person’s personal dharma
is causally and spiritually linked with his or her karma, there is a
view of cosmic order as an intricate web of rights and duties, both
individual and collective. Only if every individual keeps to the divinely
ordained prescriptions for his stage of life and status in society may
such an order be kept intact. It is assumed to be a characteristic of
the degenerate Kaliyuga that many individuals neglect those rules. In
such doomsday scenarios, a close correlation can be detected between
the degeneration of Dharma and the ravaging of the Earth.
Another explicit connection is with filth, dirtiness, pollution, im-
purity. There are many Paurà»ic regulations concerning defecation,
gargling, and spitting as well as washing clothes and cleaning the
teeth, and also regarding disposing of dead bodies or ashes in the
water, such as rivers, ponds, and temple tanks. That those rules are
often grossly violated today, even regarding the most sacred river
of all, the Ga«gà, is seen as a symptom of general degeneration, a
decrease in Dharma, and a decline in respect for traditional practices.
This is particularly voiced by Vara»asì pa»∂as, who perceive the
Kaliyuga as the cosmic backdrop to their current predicament. At the
same time, those very pa»∂as contend that even the negative impact
of the Kaliyuga will never be able to overpower the Ga«gà’s purity.30
The religiously legitimised division of labour makes dirt, and par-
ticularly its removal by specially assigned castes, a complicated issue
in India. In the introduction to Purifying the Earthly Body of God, Lance
Nelson vividly evokes the intricacy of the Hindu attitude to dirt in
an anecdote told to him by Philip Lutgendorf:
In the streets of Banaras, by most accounts India’s holiest city, a
Brahmin serenely negotiates a path through piles of rotting garbage,
almost unaware of their odor and ugliness. He remarks simply, ‘Those
people (ve log) are not doing their job these days.’31
The tradition-given carelessness and disdain with which trash is left
behind by the higher var»as, based on the class-conscious certainty
that other people (the “ve log” of the quotation above), those of infe-
rior status whose existence in the hierarchy is justified by the divinely
30
Kelly D. Alley, ‘Idioms of Degeneracy: Assessing Ga«gà’s Purity and Pollution’,
in Nelson, Purifying, pp. 306–315.
31
Philip Lutgendorf, cited by Nelson in Purifying, p. 3.

ordained tasks assigned to their group, will clear up the mess, are
striking. The environmental significance of this attitude is evident.
This is a case where religious custom clearly works against envi-
ronmental awareness and individual responsibility. That “those peo-
ple are not doing their job these days” is often seen, explicitly or
implicitly, as one of the symptoms of the degenerate Kaliyuga. Even
the Gonds, in a passage written by Verrier Elwin in a 1936 (!) pub-
lication, referred to the Kaliyuga as an age of darkness, which, accord-
ing to them, began when the government started to take away their
forests.32 In the book Ecology, Equity: The Use and Abuse of Nature, Gadgil
and Guha quote a Baiga song, also recorded by Verrier Elwin, about
the same issue:
In this Raja’s reign we are all dying of hunger.
He robs us of our axes, he robs us of our jungles.
From village to village go the Raja’s men,
They make roads, but not for us.
The roads are for the Raja’s men.
He steals the Baiga’s bewar.
We are all dying of hunger during this Raja’s reign.
He robs us of our axes, he robs us of our jungle.
He beats the Gond,
He drives the Baiga and the Baigin from the jungle.33
It is evident that the designation Kaliyuga in popular parlance has
become a metaphor, a manner of speech, a common denominator
for bad times, and is simultaneously seen as the overall cause of all
kinds of degradation. It is interesting that in Elwin’s reference to the
Gonds, who at that time were considered to be only superficially
Hinduised, deforestation was referred to as a sign of Kaliyuga’s effects
on men and nature as early as the first half of the twentieth cen-
tury. It would be worthwhile to make a socio-historical study of the
use of the Kaliyuga label as one of the models used by Hindus to
explain—and even justify, at times—contemporary degeneracy. It is
evident that such an overall defeatist attitude can be extremely demo-
tivating in matters of environmentalism. We already pointed out that
there is no consensus about the exact starting point of the Kaliyuga,
32
V. Elwin, Leaves in the Jungle (1936), p. 57, quotation by Ramachandra Guha,
in The Unquiet Woods. Ecological Change and Peasant Resistance in the Himalaya (1989),
p. 57.
33
Madhav Gadgil and Ramachandra Guha, Ecology and Equity: The Use and Abuse
of Nature in Contemporary India (1995), p. 95.

380 chapter six
although the battle of Kurukßetra is generally taken to have been

the starting event. Alternative calculations, such as referred to in
note 17, may be especially attractive to avid yogins who are moti-
vated and stimulated by the magnetic pull of a better, i.e., a more
spiritually inclined, era. Environmentalists could use such an addi-
tional stimulus too.
In the context of environmentalism, Kapila Vatsyayan makes explicit
use of doomsday scenarios found in epics and Purà»as to show how
moral and environmental degradation were foretold in the past.
Apparently without inhibition, she speaks of “desecration of the
bowels of the earth through excessive quarrying”, that “Prithvi, the
eternal mother, has been desecrated”, “the rape of tree- and river
goddesses”, “destruction of the gods of the woods, the Vandevata”,
“dangerous play with the mythical centre—Sumeru, the world axis,
the Himalayas”, “the pollution of the holy space—the air, Vayu”,
“asuric chimneys of black tamasic forces”, and that “we have polluted
holy sound, the primeval Nada.”34
In combination with Joanna Williams’ evocative rendering of the
churning of the Milk Ocean in terms of ecological processes, such
images are gripping, and could well appeal to many Indians today.
Williams, however, is more cautious than Narayan and Vatsyayan,
and remarks, “It is tempting to read all of this as a parable for pre-
sent worldwide ecological crises.”35 This is exactly what is being done
by many. One of the most direct connections between cosmogonic
myth and contemporary environmental calamities is given by the
narrative of the Kàlaku†a poison, the venom that was produced in
the churning process along with precious gifts such as the goddess
Lakßmì, the jewel Kauß†ubha, Indra’s elephant, the Moon, the Wishing
Tree and the Wishing Cow. Only •iva could dispose of this poison,
by swallowing it. This is a second instance of the god •iva’s inter-
vention in a moment of cosmogonic crisis. Such negative images are
often used to depict the evils of the current Kaliyuga, as done by the
Gonds (or Khonds) in Elwin’s description of 1936. The association
with the scenes described in the myth of the churning of the Milk
34
Kapila Vatsyayan, ‘Ecology and Indian Myth’, in Geeti Sen, Indigenous Vision,
pp. 157–180.
35
Joanna Williams, ‘The Churning of the Ocean of Milk—Myth, Image and
Ecology’ in Geeti Sen, Indigenous Vision, pp. 145–155. For an elaborate treatment
of this, see section 1.2. on cosmogonies.

Ocean thus combines three elements: hazardous moments related in

cosmogonic myths, doomsday scenarios of the Kaliyuga, and equally
infernal experiences of industrial processes or destructive natural
forces today.
The Indian idea that we are presently living in an age of dark-
ness, the Kaliyuga, is not unique when seen from a global perspec-
tive. The impact of such a view of the Dark Era can work in different
directions, though. The atmosphere of gloom found in Paurà»ic lit-
erature evoking a kind of fatalist indifference and acting as a licence
for inconsiderate behaviour may be reversed by those who feel obliged
as pioneers to help the advent of a new era. Established religion
often functions as a legitimation of social evils but simultaneously as
a stimulus to overcome those evils by offering moral ideals and prac-
tical guidelines. The Kaliyuga argument, as used in the current envi-
ronmental discourse, may adequately account for deterioration in
morals and living conditions, but somehow lacks finality. Just as the
Indian avatàra system counteracts the yuga system in a vertical inter-
ference with deteriorating Dharma and as an expression of divine
grace in a universe subject to the mega-rhythms of yugas and kalpas,
environmental idealism is regarded as a tradition-inspired activist
force that can weaken lethargic acceptance of doom.
6.2 Religious imagery as an incentive for contemporary environmental

awareness
In the language of Indian myth,

this is the rape of the tree- and river goddess(es),
the Vrikshakas,
and the destruction of the gods of the woods, the
Vandevata.36
In Hindu India, with its wealth of traditional literature, there has

been, since the Hindu Renaissance a tendency to proclaim that any
new event, scientific discovery, technical device, or solution to a
current problem is to be found in the ancient scriptures. It was
maintained that coming events were predicted there, recent discov-
eries were already known by the ‰ßis, and contemporary crises were
36
p. 159.

382 chapter six
intuitively foreboded by seers who taught people to remain faithful

to Dharma. Although this tendency to glorify the comprehensiveness
and timelessness of the Vedas was most pronounced in the euphoric
stage of self-rediscovery at the end of the nineteenth century, Hindu
texts and traditions often still function as vademecums or even as
catechisms, with an alleged answer to any question recent times can
present to them.
When scholars, activists, or priests today are asked for counsel in
the environmental crisis, at least two implicit assumptions are made.
It is presupposed, first that India’s ancient scriptures could be, and
indeed are, relevant sources of solutions for today’s problems, and
second, that the parallels or advice they offer are positive, helpful,
and relevant, i.e., that tradition offers both ideological and practical
expedients for today’s troubled times.
Some critical western scholars have rightly expressed a few caveats
against the fashionable mining of texts and traditions to interpret
contemporary issues. They are equally cautious about glorifying the
supposed ecological awareness thus found in the scriptures. Ancient
scriptures are highly authoritative, and narrative motifs have a strong
appeal. They appear to be able to motivate people even in con-
temporary matters, and correlations are easily made between tradi-
tional world views written down in Sanskrit scriptures and modern
realities. Religions are no more than partners in the current eco-
logical movement, in which science, economics, education, and pol-
itics make indispensable contributions as well. An appeal to texts and
traditions in environmentalism never stands on its own.
Though reverence for nature, frugal living, and the mystical unity
of all living entities have been uninterrupted ideals in the yogic
milieu, the concepts of màyà and saásàra were often more influential
in those circles. As a consequence, the worldly (laukika) gain of
improved living conditions often was not valued much. This situa-
tion still prevails in many Hindu families today. The yogic attitude
of contentment (saátoßa) may keep such families and individuals from
actively interfering in processes of material deprivation caused by
environmental degradation, and they would certainly be slow to
improve on circumstances their forefathers have had to cope with
for generations. With the rapid emergence of an Indian middle-class
community, this complacent attitude is shifting in two divergent direc-
tions: active social engagement on the one hand, and short-term
individualistic greed on the other.

Although tribal ways of dealing with the habitat may indeed be

based on age-old ecological insights, such behaviour was prescribed
merely for the tribe, and its effects were not valid beyond the pale
of their own restricted sphere. Today, in India, there is a marked
tendency, by outsiders, to read deep ecological wisdom into tribal
lore and mores. This may well be justified in many cases, but theirs
is an environmental awareness, the limits of which are determined
by what is considered the in-group. Tribal ecology is both geo-
graphically and socially confined, and environmental movements
should be cautious not to overrate its general applicability. On the
other hand, many so-called environmental movements in India started
as geographically and socially confined interest groups protesting
against the onslaught on their precarious living conditions by out-
siders such as city-based industrialists, multinationals, and officials
from the forestry department. The Chipko movement is an excel-
lent example of a regional group which started with a specific inter-
est in mind but somehow got transformed into a universally valid
symbol.37
Right now, what connects many of the disparate protest move-
ments is a Gandhian or post-Gandhian approach to the basic val-
ues of life, including non-human life. The religious metastructure
often referred to in arousing motivation is closely linked with India’s
sacred geography. The stories, metaphors, images, and parallels appear
to be most effective when they are almost tangibly connected with
a pilgrims’ site, a geographically defined sacred area, a particular
forest, river, or mountain. In how far the tide can be turned, how-
ever, by various means or strategies remains to be seen. Environmental
protest is a matter of sheer survival, especially for the landless and
the other underprivileged. If the public interest in conservation is
made too dependent on religious sentiments and mythical associa-
tions instead of on common sense and a general awareness of respon-
sibility for maintaining a precarious balance, then who can predict
what will happen to ecological activism once the religiously inspired
concern for India’s natural environment disappears?
37
Haripriya Rangan, Of Myths and Movements: Rewriting Chipko into Himalayan History
(2000).

384 chapter six
Sacred geography: Badrinath and Braj

One of the strongest reasons for a positive role of Indian religions
in dealing with the environmental crisis is India’s sacred geography.
That the non-sacred places on India’s map may thus legitimately
function either as dumps or as areas open to ruthless exploitation
has been touched upon earlier. Nevertheless, sacred places do have
a strong appeal: myth, legends, history, and present state of such
places fluidly intermingle, and evoke a heartfelt fervour to rise above
the limited short-term survival needs in order to keep such sacred
areas in the continued favour of the gods, and to preserve them for
later generations of devotees. Notions of sacrality of place and ritu-
als of pilgrimage are beginning to be used as driving forces for eco-
logical clean-ups.
Though religious behaviour may be calculating (sakàma) at times,
a considerable degree of unconditional (nißkàma) devotion occurs as
well. Religious places are taken care of by some with pure devotion
without much concern for tangible merits, and by those with an
acute business instinct in their dealings with the believers as well as
with the deities.
The network of sacred places in India is not in any way a safe-
guard against encroaching pollution, exploitation, and environmen-
tal deterioration. Parallels with this apparent ambiguity towards
sacredness can be found in India’s complex attitude towards dirt and
refuse. Many first-time visitors to India are puzzled by the obvious
obsession with personal and ritual cleanliness, and the careless dis-
posal of garbage by people just outside their own living compounds,
and the lack of hygiene in common latrines, and the mess people
leave behind in public places like buses, trains, and railway stations.38
In what can rightfully be called India’s most sacred city, Vara»asì,
the contrast between the constant bathing on the ghats and the
omnipresent dirt, garbage, offal, refuse on those very ghats and in
the narrow alleys leading to them, is staggering. In the same way,
Ga«gà, the most sacred river, is heavily polluted by human, animal,
and industrial waste, yet people continue to call her the goddess who
washes away all ritual pollution, sin, and anguish.
In Water and Womanhood, Feldhaus describes how residents of
Maharashtra associate the river with feminine imagery. She argues
38
See also Vijaya Rettakudi Nagarajan, ‘The Earth as Goddess Bhù Devì: Toward
a Theory of “Embedded Ecologies” in Folk Hinduism’, in Lance Nelson, Purifying, p. 275.

that they stress a river’s female characteristics over its purificatory

power. The residents of Vara»asì also think of the river Ga«gà in
feminine terms, but use imagery that links Mother Ga«gà with moth-
erliness, especially in its aspects of housekeeping and forgiveness: the
river, like a good mother, is sure to clean up the messes made by
her children. In that sense, the river is regarded as forgiving rather
than angry about human pollution.39
In the reactions to pollution and degradation of the environment,
awareness of India’s sacred geography may have given rise to enthu-
siastic perusal of ancient texts and traditions, but the religious imagery
is effective only in combination with the more common sense atti-
tudes of facts and figures, systems approaches, and scientifically
explained correlations. But where such objective coaxing of people
into more environmentally conscious behaviour meets with reluc-
tance, suspicion, or straightforward resistance, burdened as people
are by the short-term need to survive, an additional appeal to reli-
gious sentiments is often able to mobilise large groups of people.
The more tangibly connected with a sacred site such an appeal is,
the better it appears to evoke the spirit to do something about it,
for the sake of both the gods and the devotees, now as well as in
the future.
One of the most direct and well-known connections between sacred
landscapes, sacred trees, and the divine is the mythical link between
•iva’s long thick tresses and the forests of the Himàlayas. This par-
allel is drawn repeatedly, in several reforestation projects such as that
in Badrinath, as a metaphor for the whole environmental crisis, as
in Maneka Gandhi’s book Brahma’s hair,40 and in many other tree-plant-
ing schemes, even as far away from the Himàlayas as South India.41
The myth about •iva’s hair as the forest cover of the Himalayan
mountains runs as follows: King Sàgara (whose name means ocean),
39
See also Kelly D. Alley in her contribution to Nelson, Purifying: ‘Idioms of
Degeneracy: Assessing Ga«gà’s Purity and Pollution’, p. 312.
40
Apparently there is some confusion about whose hair is referred to. The authors
give an implicit explanation by stating, before the text proper begins, “It is said
that all plants are created from the hair of Brahmà, the creator.” We thus have
two different symbol systems: •iva’s hair, which acted as a buffer for the descend-
ing waters, and Brahmà’s (or any creator’s) hair, from which the vegetable world
is said to have been produced. In many tribal cosmogonic myths, the same corre-
lation can be found between the first God’s (or the first Man’s) hair and the green
world.
41
As in the myths about Pàrvatì planting trees in what are now the archaic cen-
tres of famous temples in South India; see Chapter Five.

386 chapter six
after years of childlessness, had retreated to Mount Kailà≤a with his

two wives. Finally, after much penance, the king’s desire for a son
was granted by a sage dwelling there: “To one of your queens will
be born a son, and to the other 60,000 sons.” In due course, a son
was born to his first wife, and a gourd containing 60,000 male seeds
to the other. All sons grew into sturdy young men, and the coun-
try enjoyed years of prosperity and peace.
In order to be acknowledged as a cakravartin or world conqueror,
the king started an a≤vamedha sacrifice, in the course of which the
roaming horse greatly enlarged Sàgara’s kingdom, till it touched the
ocean on three sides. The gods, fearing that Sàgara would lay claim
to heaven also, set out to steal the horse and hid it by the ‰ßi Kapila’s
hermitage by the sea. Sàgara’s sons were sent to search for the horse.
When they finally found it standing next to the sage, who sat lost
in meditation, they became so enraged that Kapila had kept their
father from the doors of heaven that they rushed towards him. In
his fury following this assault, the sage burned the sons to ashes.
Later, the ‰ßi promised that Sàgara’s sons would return to life on
the condition that the waters of the river Ga«gà be brought down
from heaven to purify their ashes.
King Sàgara grew old and died before he was able to bring Ga«gà
down from heaven. This, finally, was made possible by the extreme
ascetic practices of another son of the royal family, Sàgara’s grand-
son Bhagiratha. The gods were pleased with Bhagiratha’s single-
minded devotion, and •iva agreed to catch the river in his thick
matted hair as it fell from heaven. Otherwise, its tumultuous descent
would shatter the earth and create chaos and destruction. •iva ordered
the river to come down. Ga«gà, standing on a high peak, was
annoyed with him for commanding her. She wanted to rush down
unrestrained. Nevertheless, •iva succeeded in catching the river in
his matted locks, which were dense like a forest, and held her cap-
tive there. Out of kindness to Bhagiratha, however, •iva finally let
her go. She entered Lake Manasoravar, where the original river
divided into seven streams that flowed to the far ends of the globe.
One of these streams flowed to Kapila’s à≤rama by the sea, and
touched the ashes, upon which Sàgara’s sons were lifted to paradise.
Some of these events can be seen today in the stone reliefs in
Mamallapuram/Mahabalipuram on the Southeast coast of India.
This is considered by some to be the exact spot where Kapila lived

in his seaside hermitage, and where the ashes of Sàgara’s sons had
to wait to be liberated and taken into heaven.42
This myth of •iva’s hair functioning as a brake to the thunder-
ous descent of Ga«gà’s waters was explicitly referred to when one
of the priests in Badrinath, in the far North, assisted in a tree-plant-
ing ceremony, an initiative of the G.B. Pant Institute of India’s
Himalayan Environment and Development.43 On that special occa-
sion, the priest blessed all the seedlings and gave an inspirational
talk about the spiritual importance of trees. He urged the pilgrims
to plant the seedlings as an act of religious devotion: “Plant these
for Lord Siva. You will restore His hair and protect the land.”
This attempt to re-establish Badrivan, the ancient forest of Badrinath,
is aptly connected with the Ga«gà-Himàlaya myth, as it was the
same geographical area. But in planting schemes elsewhere the story
of •iva’s hair is also often referred to, since many people all over
India not only know the story well but can easily grasp the vital
importance of trees in breaking the force of descending water, be it
from melting glaciers rushing down the mountains, or monsoon water
falling in torrents from the sky. Planting trees or protecting existing
tree cover is thus praised as an act of religious duty, helping •iva,
as it were, in protecting the landscape and its inhabitants.
Another instance of the role of sacred geography in a reforesta-
tion project is Braj, the wider circle around Mathura and Brindaban
where K‰ß»a is said to have lived, played, and had his eventful
encounters. K‰ß»a was a forest cowherd, who danced with peacocks,
splashed in the river, played the bamboo flute, and spent his youth
and young adulthood with his friends in the forest, herding cows.
K‰ß»a is commonly considered to have stayed away from the intrigues
of city life, and to have preferred to remain in the forest. More than
42
There is an incongruity in this belief, since Sàgara’s sons are supposed to have
found the horse in the netherworld of Pàtàla, one of the seven regions under the
earth, and the abode of nàgas and demons. Such indications of subterranean worlds
should be distinguished from specific ideas about hells, which are quite different.
Since the term is also used as a general name for the lower regions, are connota-
tions of Pàtàla, the netherworld, and Dakßi»à, the South of the Indian subconti-
nent, mixed up here? In general, it is believed that the spot was where the Ganges
delta flows into the sea.
43
As referred to in Hinduism Today, May 1999, in an article by Edwin Bernbaum,
‘Badrinath’s Trees. Local forests being restored as pilgrims now plant trees as offering
to God.’

388 chapter six
once he is portrayed as bursting into song about the beauty of the

forests and the fields.
In the sacred geography of the Braj area, there were twelve major
forests, connected in narrative with K‰ß»a’s biography. In the famous
Ban-Yatra, as reported by David Haberman in his autobiographical
account Journey Through the Twelve Forests, all twelve forests, and many
minor groves and individual trees, are revisited.44 What may have
been massive forests in the time of the young cowherd K‰ß»a are
now reduced to clusters of trees, forming points of recognition along
the pilgrims’ trail. In the words of the •rìmad Bhagavatam (10.2, 32–35),
K‰ß»a is presented as having said,
Just look at these most fortunate trees of Vrindavan. They have ded-
icated their lives to the welfare of others. Individually they are toler-
ating all kinds of natural disturbances, such as hurricanes, torrents of
rain, scorching heat and piercing cold, but they are very careful to
relieve our fatigues and give us shelter. My dear friends, I think they
are glorified in this birth as trees. They are so careful to give shelter
to others that they are like noble, highly elevated charitable men who
never deny charity to one who approaches them. No one is denied
shelter by these trees. They supply various kinds of facilities to human
society, such as leaves, flowers, fruit, shade, roots, bark, flavour extracts
and fuel.45
Not only are the forests in the Braj pilgrimage circuit considered
sacred, connected as they are with K‰ß»a’s words of praise and sev-
eral specific events, many of the particular geographical features of
the area are identified with specific parts of his body, such as by
Nàràyana Bha††a in his Vrajabhaktivilàsa:
Mathura is his heart; Madhuban is his navel; Kamudban and Talban
are his breasts, Vrindaban is his brow; Bahulaban and Hamaban are
his two arms; Bhandiraban and Kokilaban are his two legs; Khadira-
ban and Bhadrikaban are his two shoulders; Chatraban and Lohaban
are his two eyes; Belban and Bhadraban are his two ears; Kamaban
is his chin; Triveni and Sakhikubaban are his two lips.46
44
David Haberman, Journey Through the Twelve Forests. An Encounter with Krishna
(1994).
45
As quoted by Ranchor Prime, Hinduism and Ecology. Seeds of Truth, p. 56, in the
ISKCON translation of the •rìmad-Bhàgavatam, 10.22, verses 32–35. For another
translation of this passage in a comparable ecological context, see Bruce Sullivan,
‘Theology and Ecology at the Birthplace of K‰ß»a’, in Lance Nelson, Purifying,
p. 248.
46
Haberman, Twelve Forests, p. 126.

The very dirt of the area is sacred because it was walked upon by
K‰ß»a, and pilgrims will rub it on their heads and even ingest some
of it, taking it as prasàda, because the very region of Braj is consid-
ered to be identical with the body of K‰ß»a himself. This makes the
wider area of Braj a topographic form of the favourite deity, a phys-
ical manifestation of the love between Ràdhà and K‰ß»a, or, as in
the title of Nelson’s book, the very body of God.
But there is trouble in paradise,47 or as Ranchor Prime puts it,
all is not well on the parikrama path. The twentieth century has taken
its toll. Where once was a forest path filled with shade, nowadays few
trees remain and the sand will soon be burning hot. There are many
places where the path is contaminated by raw sewage and strewn with
rubbish, leaving quite a smell. Parts of the path, where local devel-
opers have made hard roads for their cars, are covered with sharp
gravel and stones which can cut your feet. In these sections vehicles
might force you off the path as they pass.48
V‰ndàvana was once famous for its trees: groves of sacred kadamba,
pipal, tamàl, amalakì, and va†a. Now it has become almost bare, after
having lost tree cover to farming, road construction, and housing.
Also the deer and peacocks, essential to most of the K‰ß»a idyls,
have disappeared. The lush underground of tulasì and forest flowers,
which once provided blossoms for the deity’s garlands, is now unable
to survive the impact of direct sunlight.
Many well-known stories are situated around the Yamunà river,
which is gradually being poisoned today by the factories and sew-
ers of Delhi, seventy miles upstream. An interesting and inspiring
parallel between contemporary pollution and stories from the past is
formed by the narrative of the serpent Kàliya. This huge and ven-
omenous serpent is said to have entered the Yamunà river, which
it made its home. As a consequence, the whole river was poisoned:
trees on the river’s banks withered, the air became polluted, and
birds died. When the cowherd K‰ß»a saw this calamity, he decided
to fight the poisonous snake. He wrestled with the serpent for two
long hours, and in the end managed to defeat it. This became a
popular motif in paintings and statues, in which the god is portrayed
47
Bruce Sullivan: “But there is trouble in paradise today, on earth if not in
heaven.” See Sullivan’s article mentioned above, p. 252.
48
Ranchor Prime, Hinduism and Ecology, pp. 106–107.

390 chapter six
dancing victoriously on Kàliya. This story has been given fresh sig-
nificance today.49
Since the 1980s, several individuals have become highly concerned
about the degraded state of the sacred area. A retired engineer called
Sevak Sharan founded the Vrindavan Conservation Project to stop
the felling of the trees. In 1991, this became the Vrindavan Forest
Revival Project in association with the World Wide Fund for Nature.
Various regional coalitions have started programmes of environmental
planning, sanitation, restoration of culture, and protection of sacred
groves. The International Society for Krishna Consciousness has ini-
tiated the replanting of trees along the eleven-kilometer path that
encircles the town. A tree nursery has been set up, where thousands
of trees of local origin are being raised along with a variety of blos-
som-yielding bushes, medicinal plants, and vegetation used in devo-
tional rituals.
Ranchor Prime relates how the programme ‘Trees for Life’ came
into being. Balbir Mathur, a manager returned from America, who
had made a childhood vow to a lemon tree in his family garden,
decided to plant 144 lemon trees, but found that people were hardly
interested in nurturing them. But when he hit upon the idea of ask-
ing a local saint to bless the lemon tree saplings before they were
distributed and planted, suddenly people were eager to have such a
tree. From this he understood that it was not enough simply to ask
people to plant trees, even when they were given as gifts. “There
had to be another dimension, a spiritual one”, he thought.50 In
Balbir’s own words:
Wherever possible, we distribute trees as prasadam (spiritual blessing),
whether from temples, gurdwaras or mosques—it doesn’t matter. West-
erners don’t understand this, but that doesn’t make any difference—
the religious or spiritual centring of the tree is very important. Trees
have a power and a language of their own which is not easy to com-
municate. When the holy man blessed my lemon trees, all the people
who earlier weren’t interested wanted one. It is that change in the
heart that is needed (. . .).51
Apart from the two cases mentioned above, Badrinàth and Braj, in
which there is a direct and explicit connection between the points
49
An additional motivation to clean the polluted river is the tradition-given fact
that the religious statues in the temples are being washed with Yamunà water.
50
Prime, Hinduism and Ecology, p. 85.
51
Prime, Hinduism and Ecology, p. 87.

in the landscape and the narratives, a connection which is success-

fully referred to in evoking environmental awareness, many other
geographically defined myths are used to stir up religious zeal to
protect a particular feature in a sacred area. Especially the category
of cosmogonic narratives is referred to here. Just as in Christianity
it is the Bible Book of Genesis that is selectively surveyed when a
new orientation is sought in dealing with nature and natural resources,
in Hinduism it is often the cosmogonic material that is mined for
inspirational imagery.
One of the most common myths is that of the Primeval Waters,
especially in the form of the Milk Ocean. In order to gain the elixir,
am‰ta, the gods marched to the ocean, dragging the uprooted moun-
tain Mandara with them. This mighty mountain, which soared high
into the sky and was rooted deep in the earth, had been pulled out
by the serpent Ananta after it was ordered to do this by Nàràya»a
himself. The King of tortoises, Akupara, was requested to lend its
back as a foundation for the mountain, for firmness. In this way,
the gods made Mount Mandara a churning staff, and used the ser-
pent Vàsuki as the twirling rope. Both gods and demons were eager
to get into possession of the elixir. The Asuras and Danavas took
hold of the head of the King of snakes, and the gods stood together
at the tail. Ananta kept raising the serpent’s head and hurling it
down again. Vàsuki emitted puffs of fire and smoke, which turned
into massive clouds with lightning flashes, from which rain poured
down on them. Flowers were showered down from the top of the
mountain. Amidst mighty roars, creatures inhabiting the deep were
crushed by the sheer force and weight of the mountain being moved
around. Large trees came crashing down, and with them their nest-
ing birds. Friction caused fire after fire, surrounding the mountain
with black clouds. Fire drove out all the wild animals from the moun-
tain forests. Indra caused rain to pour down from the clouds. Juices
from crushed herbs and resin from the trees flowed into the ocean.
With the milk of these juices, the water of the ocean turned into
the elixir of immortality.52
52
This rendering is based on Joanna Williams, ‘The Churning of the Ocean of
Milk. Myth, Image and Ecology’ in Geeti Sen, Indigenous Vision, pp. 145–147. See
also ‘The Churning of the Ocean’ in Dimmit and van Buitenen, Classical Hindu
Mythology (1978), pp. 94–98. Both references are to Viß»upurà»a 1.9.2–116.

392 chapter six
What is striking in such stories of the churning of the Milk Ocean

is that, at that time there were already two opposing forces, the gods
and the demons, and that violence, tricks, and treason were applied
to make the gods win. The final product of the churning process
consisted not only of various treasures like the wishing tree, Viß»u’s
jewel, or most important, am‰ta, but also of the Kàlaku†a poison.
There is paradisical bounty and adversity. There are lethal forces
from the beginning. Such lethal forces are often connected with a
serpent’s venom. This same threat was latently present when the
sleeping Viß»u floated on the primeval waters on the coils of the
snake Ananta-•eßa.53 What happened to the venom is decisive for
the unwinding story of creation: it was allowed to escape and cre-
ate chaos, but was conveniently and obligingly swallowed by •iva,
whose neck turned blue and remained so ever after.
Vasudha Narayan reports how songs sung in ecological gatherings
often refer to this aspect of •iva, such as the composition by Sujatha
Vijayaraghavan:
O Nilakantha, lord, come here! (. .)
We have spread potent poison
all over this earth,
the waters of the sea, the air, everywhere.
O Shiva, be a sport, o Shiva, be a sport
—if you suck this poison out
you too will turn blue all over like Vishnu!
She notes that to a large extent the performance of such songs and
dance/dramas often do the work that theological texts once did: that
of reshaping and transforming attitudes and perspectives.54 This story
can be seen as presenting a parallel to industrial processes: when-
ever covetable goods are produced, their production costs a tremen-
dous amount of energy, and the waste products disappear, often
unseen, polluting the environment. Industrial waste is as threatening
and as deadly as a snake’s poison. Kapila Vatsyayan speaks elo-
quently of “asuric chimneys of black tamasic forces” . . .55
53
In the light of the ambiguous position of snakes, even of such a highly ven-
erated snake as Ananta-•eßa, Viß»u or K‰ß»a floating on an a≤vattha leaf might well
present a more secure alternative.
54
Vasudha Narayan, ‘Water, Wood and Wisdom’ in Tucker and Grim (2001)
pp. 195–196.
55
p. 159.

•iva rescued the world from being poisoned by Vàsuki’s Kàlaku†a,

and K‰ß»a fought with the serpent Kàliya, whose poison polluted
the pool by the Yamunà, or, in other versions of the story, the sacred
Yamunà river itself. •iva saved the earth from being shattered by
the fall of the Ga«gà,—a narrative now used as an incentive in
tree-planting programmes in the Himàlayan region—and the blue-
necked •iva is referred to as the swallower of the Kàlaku†a poison
when environmental activism is engaged in stopping industrial pol-
lution. K‰ß»a is known to have battled with the poisonous serpent
which polluted the sacred waters around Braj, and he is also known
to have sucked the demoness Putana’s poisoned breast and not to
have died.
Such stories may work as a religiously inspired incentive to clean
up (i.e., to act like the gods), but may also cause people to depend
on a deus ex machina. Just as ideas of saásàra, màya, and advaita may
hinder the activism necessary to turn the tide, faith in the timely
intervention of the gods may prevent people from taking action
against pollution before it is too late.
This is also the case with many flood myths, and especially those
in which the Varàha incarnation of Viß»u is introduced in his guise
as a boar who digs deeper and deeper in the mud till he lifts the
sunken earth on his tusks and reinstates it. This is divine interven-
tion, and many hope that Viß»u may once again take a form to
fight the present evil. Such faith may well give consolation to some
believers, but reliance on divine intervention may also keep people
from taking initiatives on the strictly human level.
Some stories about Agni have the same ambivalence. Fire is both
destructive and life-giving, in much the same way as snakes repre-
sent both fertility and lethal poison, and boars represent both res-
cue and wanton destruction. The Vedic Agni was a force to be
reckoned with, in nature, in the home, and on the sacrificial altar.
In the Mahàbhàrata is the following intriguing story in which one can
see, depending on one’s perspective, either the destructive or the
life-giving, and perhaps both simultaneously.56
56
In the same MBh. passage on the burning of the Khà»∂ava forest is the pop-
ular story of the sara«ga birds. In this interlude, popular among many beginning
students of Sanskrit as one of their first exercises in translation, it is narrated how
the raging fire spares a nest of sara«ga birds hiding in a hollow tree. See also
Bhàgavatapurà»a 1.15.8.

394 chapter six
The story is situated in the Khà»∂ava forest, in the kingdom of

Kurukßetra, between the Ganges and Yamunà rivers. Arjuna and
K‰ß»a are in the forest one day when a poor brahmin walks up to
them and begs for alms. When they consent, he is transformed into
Agni, the god of fire, who states that his appetite can only be satisfied
if the entire forest is consumed by him. As the forest begins to burn,
creatures start to flee the raging flames. The two Pà»∂avas race
around the burning forest in their chariot, catching the escaping ani-
mals and hurling them back into the flames, all the while laughing
loudly and joking with one another.57
David Gosling, in his book Religion and ecology in India and Southeast
Asia, draws attention to the embarrassing behaviour of the two
Pà»∂ava princes, and the wanton manner in which they fling the
escaping wildlife back into the flames.58 Those who wish to present
the Hindu tradition as a model of ecological propriety must feel awk-
ward about such a passage. In general, the episode has been inter-
preted either as a great sacrifice to placate Agni, or, more realistically,
as a reference to the clearance of forests to provide agricultural land.
In that case, the fleeing creatures may represent not only animals
but also forest tribes.
This fire can be considered to be, and has traditionally been seen
as, the pioneering cultivator’s prerogative: burning the forest so that
the ashes on the forest floor enable the newly arrived farmer to grow
his crops. The swidden cultivation has come under attack in recent
decades, and this particular story causes additional embarrassment
because of the behaviour of the two cousins. It presents us with quite
a different K‰ß»a from the nature-loving adolescent and the ethically
refined teacher of yoga we normally encounter.
Those who insist upon reading respect for nature into India’s
ancient scriptures may feel bewildered and ashamed here. The eth-
ical message of the epics takes into account ambiguity and ambiva-
lence here and there, and this narrative about the two princes enjoying
the death agonies of a vast number of animals trying to escape is
certainly one such instance. Just as lies, deceit, and cowardice are
exhibited in the behaviour of the epic heroes in other passages, so
57
Ruth Cecily Katz, in her study Arjuna in the Mahabharata: Where Krishna is, there
is victory (1989), explains this as no more than the pranks of two adolescents.
58
David Gosling, Religion and ecology in India and Southeast Asia (2001), pp. 11 and
16.

is unneccesary cruelty in this text. Such a story undermines the pre-

supposed ecological and ethical ahiásà message of the Indian scrip-
tures, seen from today’s point of view.
Other, more hidden, aspects of this passage include the exchange
negotiated by the two princes and the bràhma»a, who is Agni in dis-
guise. The Khà»∂ava Forest is offered as food in exchange for the great
bow Gandiva for Arjuna, and the powerful discus for Vasudeva-
K‰ß»a. The negotiation aspect is found especially in the terminology
of a great ritual sacrifice to please Agni, and the princes are pro-
vided with invincible weapons (military power) as well as cultiva-
ble and inhabitable land (state power and subsistence economy) in
order to build their city, Indraprastha (alternatively called Khà»∂a-
vaprastha). Edward Haynes aptly points out that the epic is partic-
ularly important as a representation of a now-neglected non-brahminical
kßatriya alternative within early Indian civilisation.59 The mythical
King P‰thu is credited with being the first royal to clear the forests
and establish the first agricultural settlements and townships. The
two-week conflagration, from the perspective of the two princes, can
thus be seen as an act of creation: the royally instigated fire cleared
the ground, literally and figuratively, for the foundation of their
realm. Such acts have traditionally been considered the duty of ràjas,
and many kings later acted likewise, thus re-enacting the deeds of
the two Pà»∂ava princes in this story.
We briefly referred above to some tribes’ reluctance to lay their
hands on Mother Earth by tilling, a reason why some decline to use
the plough before sowing or planting. We also mentioned how the
Gàyatrì hymn is thought to express an apology for having to tram-
ple on her sacred ground every day. Although some of these notions
have survived to this day,—and some may even undergo a process
of revival in the wake of environmental-awareness campaigns—the
idea of sacred soil is mostly limited to the domain of ritual. In other
words, the notion that tangible earth is directly connected with the
religious and often more abstract notions of Mother Earth or Mother
India is found mainly in the ritual context.
The same may be true of cows and trees. Earth, cows, and trees
are often presented as faithful, patient, generous givers. The ancient
59
Edward S. Haynes, ‘The Natural and the Raj: Customary State Systems and
Environmental Management in Pre-Integration Rajasthan and Gujurat’ in Grove
et al. (1998), Nature and the Orient, p. 735.

396 chapter six
story of King P‰thu, who milked the Earth in the form of a cow,
is often referred to. Even if the earth needs to be tilled before seeds
can be sown, and even if some tribes for that reason decline the life
of a settled cultivator, it gives graciously. Trees give shade even to
the woodcutter. Of course, trees may at certain moments evoke reli-
gious feelings, but in daily life most of them are taken for granted
and dealt with indifferently and even irreverently. Cows yield only
auspicious substances, a belief which, in a ritual context, is expressed
in special words and gestures; but in the daily bustle, vagrant cows
are often shooed away, honked at by impatient bus drivers, or have
stones thrown at them by naughty boys. Ritual reverence for earth,
cows, and trees does not always guarantee respectful behaviour out-
side the ritual context in which they are temporarily elevated. As
Vasudha Narayan puts it,
Lakshmi has traditionally had a far greater hold on people’s faith and
aspirations than the Earth Goddess, and the quest for wealth seems
to be more intense than reverence for the earth.60
Narratives about the earth as a goddess abound. Some of her names,
still used today, are P‰thvì, Bhùmì, Bhùdevì, Dhàtrì and Basumatì.
The name Àditì is sometimes used too, or, in a more abstact sense,
Prak‰tì.61 When the Earth is referred to, in the context of stimulat-
ing environmental awareness, it is mostly as a mother, not in the
form of myths, although many such myths exist, but more in the
sense of the respect due to one’s nurturing biological mother. A tribal
song runs as follows:
Today, earth, cosmos,
Today the hot earth,
The earth has been tied by roots and webs.
The Rohini star has made way for the sun to rise.
Today Mother Earth we worship you.
Please accept our worship
and give us your spiritual power,
your honour.62
60
Vasudha Narayanan, ‘One Tree is Equal to Ten Sons’, p. 295.
61
In the derivation ‘Prakruti’ it has become the name for a South Indian envi-
ronmental organisation.
62
Quoted by Haku Shah and Geeti Sen, ‘Maati: Born from the Earth’, in Geeti
Sen, Indigenous Visions, p. 135.

Treading on her with one’s feet, as we must all do, may be con-
sidered disrespectful in a moment of ritual reverence, in the same
way it is disrespectful to touch anyone with the feet, especially one’s
parents. But what to say of tilling the land, or quarrying, or pol-
luting and deforesting it? Regardless of philosophical and ritual rev-
erence, this is being done openly all the time. Kapila Vatsyayan
speaks of this in the following terms: “Prthivi, eternal mother, has
been polluted and desecrated” and “desecration of the bowels of the
earth through excessive quarrying”. Tribal myths of creation may
also express this essential link between man and soil in a more util-
itarian way, such as in the following legend from the Chodri tribe
in Gujarat:
The gods were once tilling the fields on earth and kept coming across
stumps of trees. Crops had been sown on the tilled areas but a lot of
waste grass remained to be cleared. The gods were wondering how to
do this . . . They decided to create human beings from raw clay, and
breathed life unto them with auspicious words whispered in their ears.
These men started clearing and tilling the fields . . . While they were
about it, the gods also created cows, tigers and other animals.63
The famous temple in Vara»asì where the Goddess Earth, Bhàrat
Màtà, is depicted in the form of a map of India’s soil, as if India’s
geographical contours were those of the goddess, is a case in point.
It is often stated that such sacred geograpy has developed, and is
continuously being maintained, by the paths of pilgrims. Devotional
trails connect North and South, East and West in recognition of
India as a sacred landscape.64 Another example is the rhetoric used
in the national anthem ‘Vande Mataram’, such as in the following
passages:
Mother, hail!
Thou with sweet springs flowing,
Thou fair fruits bestowing,
Cool with zephyrs blowing,
Green with corn-crops growing,
Mother, hail!
63
Told by Haku Shah and Geeti Sen, in ‘Maati: Born from the Earth’, in Geeti
Sen, Indigenous Visions, p. 133.
64
David Kinsley, ‘Learning the Story of the Land’, in Nelson, Purifying, p. 233.

398 chapter six
and:
Himalaya-crested one, rivalless,
Radiant in thy spotlessness,
Thou whose fruits and waters bless,
Mother, hail!
Hail, thou verdant, unbeguiling,
Hail, O decked one, sweetly smiling,
Ever bearing,
Ever rearing,
Mother, hail!65
There was a time when in certain circles of avid nationalists any
disrespect shown to India, or even merely a mleccha’s presence in
India associated with not following the Hindu Dharma, was consid-
ered to be as disrespectful as a violation of one’s own mother, and
of the sacred ground by which one was nurtured. The same com-
pulsive imagery is still used today in some of the stronger hindutva
rhetoric. Vasudha Narayan says on India as Bharatmàtà:
More recently, India personified as the Mother (Bharata Mata) has
been important in political thinking. Mayuram Viswanatha Sastri
(1893–1958), a musician who participated in the struggle to free India
from colonial rule, composed a song popular among all South Indian
classical singers, called ‘Victory, victory to Mother India’ ( jayati jayati
bharata mata). In this and many such songs, India is personified and
extolled as a compassionate Mother Goddess filled with forests filled
with sanctity that should not be violated.66
In addition to the use of Mother Earth imagery and specific cos-
mogonic myths in contemporary references to India’s soil, reference
is also made to cosmographic connotations in Indian environmental
activism. One of the images referred to is that of India as Jambùdvìpa,
the Rose-apple Continent, a cosmic island with a wishing tree at the
summit. Seeing denuded hills may be extra painful to the faithful,
as they present a stark contrast to the bountifully green vista writ-
ten about in their ancient scriptures. The denudation of the wider
hill area around the famous Tirumala-Tirupati temple complex is
65
Vande (or Bande) Mataram, translated anonymously, when it was illegal even to
utter the phrase “bande mataram” in Bengali, in Bankim Chandra Chatterji’s novel
Anandamath (1992, orig. 1882).
66
Vasudha Narayan, ‘Water, Wood, and Wisdom’, p. 184.

one of the reasons why a tree-planting project was started. In Rama-

nagaram, between Mysore and Bangalore, the Sacred Plants Resort
also has combined educational, practical, and religious targets.
There are many examples of religiously inspired environmental
initiatives not connected with trees. Some of these concern the pol-
lution of sacred rivers, especially Ga«gà, but also the Kaveri River
in the South; the dams in the Narmada River; the trash left by
trekkers and tourists in the Himàlayan regions; and the scarcity or
even non-availability of tree-derived ritual substances owing to mono-
culture, pollution, encroachment, and cheaper synthetic substitutes.67
On a more indirect level, Indian ascetic traditions, those of Hin-
duism, Buddhism, and Jainism alike, continue to inspire also those
individuals and groups for whom the ascetic life is not a strictly
religious choice, but a thoughtful alternative to careless spending,
exploiting, and polluting. Many environmental movements call them-
selves Gandhian, indicating that their ideals and direct aims are nur-
tured by ideals of ahiásà and satyagraha. To these so-called Gandhian
(or post-Gandhian) ideals are often added ideas of inter-being, a cri-
tique of anthropocentrism, anti-industrialism, frugal living, village-based
self-sufficiency, etc., ideals which may be, but are not necessarily,
religious. Typical of India’s environmental movements is their local
(or at least geographically specific) orientation. The activism often
has been evoked by locally felt evils, such as a lack of clean water
or of firewood. For those directly concerned, their link with the
mountain, the earth, the river, the forest, is immediately practical,
a matter of survival. All of their daily life-world is endowed with
sacred or semi-sacred meaning not merely in an elevated, ritualistic
sense but also because it forms the basis of their subsistence. Religious
narratives and myths are interwoven with an acknowledgement of
material dependence. Local or regional stories, myths, and histories
often are not known beyond a limited area, and most are probably
not part of mainstream Hinduism at all. For the local people directly
involved, however, such meta-meaning carries extra weight, although
it will probably never find its way to the offical documents.
67
Such as sandalwood, which is becoming rare and costly. In some religious
rites, sandalwood is explicitly and exclusively prescribed, and its scarcity has become
a matter of grave concern, so much so that the Indian government has proclaimed
restrictions and regulations concerning its use.

400 chapter six
Tribal lore contains even more direct links between men, animals,
and natural surroundings. Yet there are few great environmental
movements in which tribal religious inspiration is made explicit in
terms of myth or story. This may be a result of to their relatively
isolated position in relation to mainstream Hinduism and their lim-
ited access to the corridors of political power. There is, however, a
Chipko story of a local chief who left his village in protest against
excessive logging in his area, and summarised his plea at the office
of the Secretary of Forests in Jaipur in the following words: “They
are killing our goddess.”68 Growing groups of rural people protest
against the encroachment of bràhma»a landowners when parts of
sacred groves are being turned into private cultivation plots. There
is a certain parallel with the tragedy of the commons here, but the
very sacredness of sacred groves makes the threats of encroachment,
poaching, or logging by outsiders an extremely sensitive issue. We
will deal with this more elaborately in section 5 of this Chapter.
In general, today, there is a tendency in some circles to idealise
the ecological wisdom traditionally ascribed to tribal groups, although
much of this is also controversial, such as the jhum/kumri method of
shifting/swidden cultivation. In social forestry projects, which were
fashionable in the last fifteen years of the twentieth century, some
aims may have been accomplished, but the targets often were too
divergent and the interests of the various layers of people involved
were too much at odds to allow success. Such projects seem to have
resulted in a certain scepticism towards environmental activism in
many village communities. They often suspect that the end result of
all their efforts will not bring benefits to themselves or even to the
next generation, but mainly to the government officials in far-away
offices.
6.3 Hugging the trees: The Chipko Movement
Remember those forests of oak and rhododendron,

fir and spruce,
those trees of pine and deodar
that have vanished? . . .
68
Or, in an alternative translation: “Our goddess is leaving us”, as related by
A.J. Mehta, Director of Sewa Mandir, Udaipur, quoted on the title page by Mark
Poffenberger and Betsy McGean (eds.), Village Voices, Forest Choices: Joint Forest Manage-
ment in India (1998).

The trees near the streams have been felled,

the rivers have run dry;
the wild fruit, the herbs are gone,
the berries, the wild vegetables have disappeared . . .
With the felling of trees landslides have started;
our fields, barns and homes are all washed away,
where once there were lush forests
there is now sparseness . . .69
One of the few environmental movements in India that have become
internationally famous is the Chipko Andolan, Chipko for short. It
provides one of the most publicised stories of mobilising people, espe-
cially women, to protect their environment. It has become well known
as a successful grassroots movement of local women saving trees by
embracing them, thus staving off loggers and their machines. It could
be considered the last of a series of peasant movements against com-
mercial forestry, as well as a protest movement against intruding
international economic and political control undermining the fabric
of traditional society.
As it is connected specifically with the protection of trees, we will
deal with it a little more elaborately here. Environmental campaigns
in Asia tend to have a local focus.70 Indian environmental activism
cannot be understood in terms of environmentalism alone. Such
movements should be seen in a broader perspective, such as that of
peasant movements and ecofeminism, and are intimately bound up
with development issues. In India, they could be considered a form
of cultural critique, and often take the form of political resistance,
especially against any kind of exploitation. India is considered to
have the oldest and most diverse environmental movement in Asia.
It has deep roots in Indian civilisation, and often refers back to reli-
gious traditions and ancient forms of social protest.
As far as local rebellions against the indiscriminate felling of trees
by outsiders are concerned, the Bishnois are considered to be the
predecessors of the Chipko Movement. The Bishnois are often cited
as being the first historically recorded group in India to have taken
a stance against tree cutting imposed from above or outside.71 They
69
From three Garhwali folk songs by Ghan Shyam Shailani, often sung by Chipko
activists.
70
See also A. Kalland and G. Persoon, p. 2, in their introductory essay to
Environmental Movements in Asia (1998).
71
They are unofficially credited with being the world’s first environmentalists.

402 chapter six
form a small community in Rajasthan, founded by Guru Maharaj

Jambaji (born 1451). They are named for the twenty-nine (bish-noi)
rules or commandments that guide their society, including environ-
mental conservation and use rules, which are treated as integral com-
ponents of their lifestyle. One of the principal injunctions is a ban
on the cutting of any green tree and the killing of animals. In a
way they form a religious community in which violation of nature
is considered a sacrilege. Their guru, popularly known as Jamboji, as
a young man had a vision that the cause of the drought that had
hit the area and of the hardship that followed was people’s inter-
ference with nature. In hunger and despair, people were seen hack-
ing green trees and killing deer. He realised that the indiscriminate
cutting of trees could soon mean the end of the desert people’s exis-
tence. He composed commandments to guide the people’s actions.
Out of these commandments, eight prescribe the preservation of bio-
diversity and encourage good animal husbandry, seven command-
ments provide directions for stable social behaviour, ten commandments
are directed towards personal hygiene and basic good health, and
four provide guidelines for the daily worship of the deities.
One of the personal sayings of Jamboji is recorded as follows: “If
a tree is saved even at the cost of one’s own head, it is worth it.”
Similar inspiration must have guided the events one September day
in 1737.72 During Aurangzeb’s regime, the king of Jodhpur, Mahàràja
Abhay (or Ajit) Singh, wanted to build a new palace. Since he needed
wood to fuel his lime kilns, he sent his soldiers to the area where
the Bishnois lived and where many protected khejadi (or khejri ) trees
were known to thrive. The Bishnois, led by a woman called Amrita
Devi, protested by hugging the trees, especially the khejadi trees, which
were granted absolute protection in their area. This led to a mas-
sacre in which 363 persons were killed defending the sacred trees.
When news of this resistance reached the king, he had the killing
stopped immediately, apologised, and issued a royal decree that in
no Bishnoi village in Jodhpur state were any trees ever to be cut or
any animals to be hunted. In this way, the Bishnois were given state
protection for their belief.
In recent decades, interest in this relatively obscure group of pas-
toralists in the Rajasthan deserts has revived considerably, to the
point that some of their villages have become targets of eco-tourism.
72
In some records it is said to be 1730.

A monument has been erected on the spot of the killing, a temple

has been built, and 363 new khejadi saplings are planted there every
year in an annual commemoration service. A film, called ‘Willing
to sacrifice’ was made which won awards in the category Environ-
ment Film. An All-India Bishnois Jeev Raksha Committee (for Life
Protection) has been formed, several protests and dharnas (Sanskrit:
dhara»as) were led by Bishnois recently, and some programmes of
afforestation were launched. Their community now counts around
six million people, spread over Rajasthan, Gujarat, Haryana, Uttar
Pradesh, and Madhya Pradesh.73
The act of protest more than 300 years ago is often seen as hav-
ing inspired the birth of the Chipko movement in the Himalayas.
Because in this first recorded instant of tree-hugging it was a woman
who directed the protest, the Chipko Movement, the start of which
is also connected with a courageous woman, Gaura Devi, is often
considered to be a recent adherent to a much older way of resistance.74
Since the Chipko Andolan (‘Hug the tree movement’), founded in
the spring of 1973 to protect a plot of trees against industrial exploita-
tion from outside, was also associated with Gandhi (1869–1948),
Gandhi is seen as one of the patron saints of the Indian environ-
mental movement. Two prominent spokesmen of the Chipko Move-
ment, Chandi Prasad Bhatt and Sunderlal Bahuguna, have repeatedly
acknowledged their ideological indebtedness to Gandhi. Mira Behn,
one of Gandhi’s major disciples, published an article called ‘Some-
thing wrong in the Himalayas’ as early as 1952. Other groups are
variously influenced by Marxism, socialism, liberation theology, eco-
feminism, and Sarvodaya traditions. The rise of Chipko may be seen
as a response to the alarming signals of rapid ecological destabilisa-
tion in the hills. The original protest laid bare a multidimensional
conflict over forest resources recognised by many others in India
who were equally threatened.
73
In a news item in the Dutch press, taken over from the BBC, it was reported
that bugs (Derolus dicicollis), coming from the South of Pakistan, had been found to
have affected thousands of khejadi trees in Rajasthan. According to scholars from
the Jodhpur Arid Forest Research Institute (AFRI) the unrestrained felling of khe-
jadi trees had made them vulnerable to pests. This news item was crowned with
the title: ‘Pakistani bug affects Indian Tree of Life’, NRC Handelsblad 25–01–2003.
74
Chipko might have a more immediate predecessor in the movement to pro-
tect forest lands in 1913, when Badridatt Pandey and a few others challenged the
forest policy of the British Government. In some areas, Forest Day is still celebrated
in memory of the martyrs of that shooting in Tilarikand.

404 chapter six
According to Vandana Shiva, in her many remarks on Chipko,

behind the spontaneous engagement of the Himalayan women in
their resistance to the logging of trees could well be seen the artic-
ulation of a growing insight into the effects of the then emerging
masculinist market morality presented as ‘development’. Changes had
been presented to them as positive since they created a cash econ-
omy from which the men received the first benefits. Vandana Shiva:
The early women’s movement in Uttarakhand was therefore an anti-
alcohol movement aimed at controlling alcohol addiction among men
who earned cash incomes from felling trees with one hand and lost
the cash to liquor with the other.75
In March 1973, around 300 ash trees, after having been auctioned
to a manufacturer of sports goods in Allahabad, Symonds Co. (later
often referred to as Simon Co.), who needed wood for the produc-
tion of cricket bats and tennis rackets, were to be felled in Mandal,
in the Himalayan foothills. Some of the villagers who had caught
sight of the loggers, gave the alarm.76 The felling of those particu-
lar trees was a sensitive issue because a little earlier those same vil-
lagers had been denied the right to fell some of those trees for
making agricultural equipment. The Dashauli Gram Swarajya Sangh
(DGSS), a co-operative Sarvodaya-style organisation based in Chamoli
District, founded by local youths with the major objective of gener-
ating employment in an area where ever more young men had to
leave in search of paid labour elsewhere, had requested an allotment
of ash trees in order to make wooden implements used in agricul-
ture. The forest department had refused, and had told them to use
chir trees instead, which were totally unsuitable for the purpose.77
In their reaction to the arrival of outside loggers with heavy trucks
and machinery, two ways of action against the labourers were con-
sidered: (1) to lie down in front of the timber trucks (a Gandhian
method of peaceful resistance), or (2) to burn the resin and timber
75
Vandana Shiva, Ecology and the politics of survival (1991), p. 105.
76
A saying expressing the gulf between the interests of the sports company and
the hill people was the indignant, “Tennis rackets took priority over ploughs!”
77
This points to one of the major issues of the Himalayan forest problem.
Quantitatively, the main problem is not deforestation, but often the change in species
induced by shifts from banj (Himalayan oak) to chir (pine), which is considered to
be far more profitable, since it provides both timber and resins. The leaf litter of
oak forests acts as a primary mechanism for water conservation in the Himalayan
watersheds.

depots in the area (as had been done by the Quit India Movement
before). An alternative to this was suggested by Chandi Prasad Bhatt,
an emerging Sarvodaya worker: to hug (chipko) or embrace the trees.78
In this way the movement was born, carrying in its name the tac-
tic of physically embracing trees often referred to, but rarely put into
practice. In contrast to what has often been contended and what
helped in shaping the myth, namely, that Chipko arose spontaneously
in front of the brutes with their machines, the birth of Chipko pre-
ceded the actual arrival of Symonds Co. in Mandal. There was a
little less than a year between its birth and the moment the women
actually put the hugging into practice. When, in Spring 1973, the
district magistrate heard of the resolve of the villagers to hug the
trees at the risk of being hit by axes or run over by machines, he
called Bhatt to Lucknow for negotiations. Bhatt, as a spokesman of
the DGSS and of the newly formed Chipko, declined to compro-
mise. The sports company had to call back its loggers from Mandal,
but a little later was allotted another section of the forest. A huge
demonstration succeeded in stopping the company’s agents. During
the annual November auctions, Symonds Co. was again allotted a
patch of trees, this time in the Reni forest, near Joshimath. When
DGSS workers there discovered that 2,000 trees had already been
earmarked for felling, they discussed the possible consequences of
cutting so many trees in an area sensitive to flooding. Bhatt again
suggested that the villagers adopt the tactic of embracing the trees.
Through a kind of subterfuge on the part of the forest department,
the men involved in the protest were lured away just before the log-
gers approached, at the end of March 1974. The labourers had cal-
culated on approaching unnoticed, but a little girl spotted them, and
rushed to tell the head of the local Mahila Mandal, Gaura Devi.
Housewives and children were mobilised, and a large group went to
the appointed place in the forest. They hugged the trees and even-
tually forced the loggers to withdraw. Gaura Devi said the following:
It was not a question of planned organisation of the women for the
movement, rather it happened spontaneously. Our men were out of
the village so we had to come forward and protect the trees.79
78
It is said that the direct source of the name Chipko is to be found in the
1972 poem by folk singer Ghanshyam Raturi: “Embrace the trees and/ Save them
from being felled;/ The property of our hills,/ Save them from being looted.”
79
Quoted in Ramachandra Guha, The Unquiet Woods. Ecological change and peasant
resistance in the Himalaya (1989), p. 159.

406 chapter six
David Gosling recounts the event in the following way:

The sight of the gun frightened some of the women, but not Gaura
Devi. She stood her ground, looked the drunkard straight in the eye
and challenged him, “Shoot and only then can you cut this forest
which is like a mother to us. Its herbs take care of our children when
they are ill, its roots build the earth and prevent the soil from slip-
ping away, its strong branches support our houses, our very lives!
Shoot, you coward!”80
From that moment on, Chipko was not merely a reaction of moti-
vated local enterprise that had been denied the raw material from
their own forests needed for their small-scale village industry. It
turned into a peasant movement defending ancient rights of use of
minor and major forest produce. It slipped into the long tradition
of resistance to state encroachment on local users’ rights. Through
its initial success, it opened the way for several investigation com-
mittees researching deforestation, flooding, illegal tapping of resin,
etcetera. Chir trees, which had gradually lost their vitality as a result
of excessive resin tapping, were bandaged. Hunger strikes and demon-
strations were organised. Auctions were sabotaged. Women started
to tie rakhis to trees to express their bond with them, and to signify
how vital trees are for them. Even readings of the Gìtà were held
beneath the earmarked trees.
The movement spread gradually. Some likened it to a dharmayud-
dha, a sacred war to save the Himalayan forests. It heightened aware-
ness of how essential the forest is for the precarious ecological balance
of soil and water. It also contributed to solidarity and to finding a
voice to express local rights. It created a platform where women
could voice their anxiety about the consequences of a shortsighted
money economy among the hill people.
Particularly relevant for the subject of the connection of environ-
mentalism and religious value systems or mythical imagery is the
regular occurrence of Gìtà readings beneath the earmarked trees, the
recitations of the great epics, and the rendition of folk songs and
dances to spread and solidify the message. When the villagers were
authoritatively told that such sit-ins were illegal, the participants
pointed out that all the Vedas had been written and recited in the
80
David Gosling, Religion and ecology, p. 51.

forest. Especially the padayàtràs of Sundarlal Bahuguna, considered

an expression of his great dedication and personal asceticism, are
traditional Hindu methods widely admired. The communal singing
of the forest songs by folk-singer Ghanshyam Sailani created a belt
of shared interests all over the Tehri Garhwal.
One of the reasons for the success of Chipko is the sympathy it
evoked in the pan-Indian public: the Himalayan area has a special
place in the religious imagination. Although India is avowedly a sec-
ular state, in politics considerable care is taken not to offend the
Hindu religious sentiments. This may also be part of the reason why
similar movements in areas that spoke far less to the religious imag-
ination, such as Appiko Andolan, locally known as Appiko Chaluvali,
in South India, remained only a vague shadow of their Himalayan
counterpart. A decade after Chipko’s birth, its echoes were picked
up in Northern Karnataka, where a comparable conflict arose between
the users’ rights of the villagers and the forest department. The
region’s rainforests had been undermined by logging for the plywood
and paper industries, by the conversion of forest to profitable mono-
culture plantations, and by the construction of large hydro-electric
dams for power generation. When their requests went unheeded, the
villagers physically prevented the felling by hugging (appiko) the trees
or even chaining themselves to the trees. Some registered founda-
tions grew out of this protest, such as ‘Prakruti’ (Nature), ‘Parisara
Samrakshana Kendras’ (Environmental Conservation Centres), Village
Forest Committees, and Forest Panchayats. Their main spokesman
is Pandurang Hegde.
At the same time, the ‘Eucalyptus Debate’ (about the advantages
and disadvantages of eucalyptus monoculture) and the ‘Himalayan
Dilemma’ (the multiplicity of the Himalayan conflict as opposed to
popular monocausal assumptions) have made clear that the situation
is much more complex than activists make us believe, and that some
of the popular environmental assumptions should be severely chal-
lenged. The authors Ives and Messerli, in their critical study aptly
called The Himalayan Dilemma, launch
a sweeping attack on conventional wisdom by exposing its lack of solid
factual support and its dependence upon intuition, emotion, and the
dramatic reactions of short-term visiting ‘experts’ whose opinions have
been reiterated so often in the recent literature that they have become
‘facts’. These ‘facts’ have then been popularized by a group of writ-
ers and journalists (. . .) and have permeated the mass media and the

408 chapter six
conservationist literature. This, we believe, is how the latter-day myths,

the ‘sacred cows’, of the theory of Himalayan Environmental Degradation
have come to life.81
and
The theory of Himalayan Environmental Degradation is not a valid
entity and must be broken down into its component parts and each
part must be evaluated on its own merits. Thus, the major linkage,
population growth and deforestation in the mountains leading to mas-
sive damage on the plains, is not accepted. We favour the more cau-
tious approach based upon acknowledgement that the long-term
geophysical processes are more than adequate to account for the on-
going formation of the plains as the continuously rising mountains are
progressively eroded.82
Not only the common assumptions about the Himalayan dilemma
have been challenged, but also the process of myth-making around
the Chipko movement has been looked at critically, such as by
Haripriya Rangan in her book Of Myths and Movements:
How did Chipko come to be transformed from a strategy of protest
by groups demanding concessions for forest based industrial develop-
ment in Garhwal, into an ‘ecological movement of permanent econ-
omy’ whose aim, presumably, was to convince the larger world of the
scientific truth that forests yielded oxygen, water, and soil?83
She poses the question how Chipko, in its victory tour of the world’s
news magazines, was transformed into a shining symbol of grassroots
activism. Ironically, she states, as the Chipko story was embraced
worldwide by ecologists, eco-feminists, policy makers, and academics,
it became increasingly disconnected from the realities that gave rise
to the original protests. This gradual disconnection from the local
situation even prompted a hill woman to complain, “everything has
become paryavaran (environment) these days.”84
That Chipko has become a myth might also have to do with the
fact that it is “tenaciously linked to an imagined space of the Himalayas
that represents the timeless realm of pristine nature and simple peas-
81
J.D. Ives and B. Messerli, The Himalayan Dilemma: Reconciling development and con-
servation (1989), p. 145.
82
Ives and Messerli, The Himalayan Dilemma, p. 238.
83
Haripriya Rangan, Of Myths and Movements, p. 21.
84
Rangan, Of Myths and Movements, p. 42.

ant life—the terrain that escapes history.”85 In general, the Chipko

Movement uses traditional religious imagery and practices. Many
such traditional practices were imaginatively applied and transformed,
such as the rakhi tying. Usually, a thread is tied to the wrist of a
girl’s brother to express her affinity with him. Rakhi, however, has
a significant undertone, as the root rakh- for ‘protection’ indicates.
It is a covert way for a girl to magically have her brother protected
so that he may protect her if need be. This reciprocity also occurs
in the parallel rite mentioned above, that of tying a thread around
a tree: it is mostly a woman who does so, either when stating a wish
beneath a tree (in that case it signifies a mutual connection, a nego-
tiation) or when her desire has been granted (and the thread is the
symbol of a wish fulfilled, a proven generosity, which makes it a
votive gift). Several such connotations may be at play when women
tie threads to trees earmarked for logging. For many, the tying of
sacred threads to the trees is a symbol of a vow (vrata) of protection:
“I protect you in order that you may protect me.”86
Another imaginative transformation of religious practices occurs
in the Chipko foot marches, padayàtrà. They were set up to link vil-
lages in the long Himalayan range, and to make the hill people
aware of the hazards of unrestrained felling of timber and tapping
of resin. As early as 1971, Swami Chidananda of Rishikesh under-
took a month-long march to bless the people in their struggle, but
the Himalayan footmarches are especially associated with Sundarlal
Bahuguna, who became a charismatic figure in the course of time.
Both his marches and his hunger strikes contributed considerably to
the reverence people expressed for him.
Songs, dances, theatre performance, and religious recitations also
became part of the Chipko activities. Mallika Sarabhai presented the
story of the Chipko Movement in her dances entitled ‘Shakti: the
Power of Women’. Folk-poets wrote inspiring songs which were sung
all over the Himalayan region. Recitation of inspiring religious texts
and stories not only kept people awake during long-drawn-out protest
actions, but linked their own actions with those of the deities.
85
According to the text on the back cover of Of Myth and Movements.
86
This is one of the various uses of the Sanskrit “Dharmo rakßati rakßita˙”, used
in the same environmental context by the Tirumala-Tirupati Devasthan, in the ver-
sion “Trees, when protected, protect us”. The same Sanskrit text is used in the
icon crowning the propaganda material of the Vishva Hindu Parishad.

410 chapter six
According to Vandana Shiva,

Chipko started in the Himalayas (. . .), the source of the Ganges River
(. . .). So the God Shiva had to be requested to help in getting the
Ganges down to earth (. . .). Shiva’s hair is basically seen by a lot of
us in India as a metaphor for the vegetation and forests of the Himalayas
(. . .). And so when they see forests cut, they see the God’s tresses
being violated.87
Another way of linking environmental activism with traditional reli-
gious notions is by involving temples, priests, and sàdhus. Some of
these enjoy enormous prestige and influence locally. Also, in a more
institutional form, religious networks and pilgrimage routes are used
as means of communication. Even religious fairs (melàs) frequently
serve as locations where support is sollicited.88 Ramachandra Guha
remarks on this:
The use of a religious idiom and of primordial networks of commu-
nity solidarity suggests that the culture of resistance in Uttarakhand is
simultaneously instrumental and symbolic.89
Such close interaction may even be seen as a challenge:
On the one hand it allows the reappraisal of religious and cultural
beliefs as social systems for ordering the material and secular world.
On the other hand, it allows the reappraisal of scientific beliefs in
terms of their adequacy in knowing nature’s patterns, rhythms and
relationships in order to maintain them ecologically.90
Although some people have expressed unease about such links, and
voiced their concern about the potential damage this could do to
the constitutionally established secularism in India, such interaction
may reflect what is still the basis of Indian society.91
87
Interview with Vandana Shiva, by Ann Spanel, in Women of Power (9). Regrettably,
I can’t trace the source (magazine?) in which the article was published.
88
See Ramachandra Guha, The Unquiet Woods, p. 190.
89
Ramachandra Guha, Unquiet Woods, p. 191.
90
B.V. Krishnamurti and Urs Schoettli, ‘Satyagraha for conservation: Awakening
the spirit of Hinduism’ in Roger S. Gottlieb (ed.), This sacred earth: Religion, nature,
environment (1996).
91
Dwivedi, in Gottlieb, This sacred earth, p. 162: “That should not cause any dam-
age to the secularism now practised in India. As a matter of fact, this could develop
into a movement whereby spiritual guidance is made available to the secular system
of governance and socioeconomic interaction.” Also p. 161: “While the effectiveness
of the caste system to act as a resource partitioning system is no longer viable, the
example of Bishnois and Chipko/Appiko are illustrative of the fact that when appeal
to secular norms fails, one can draw on the cultural and religious sources for “for-
est satyagraha”.

6.4 Religiously inspired planting of trees:

“Trees, when protected, protect us”
In a much cited passage from the Matsyapurà»a, Pàrvatì is shown

planting a sapling of the a≤oka tree, and taking good care of it. She
watered it regularly, and it flourished. When the gods and sages had
watched her doing this for a while, they came and asked her what
she expected to achieve by planting and nursing trees as if they were
her sons. Pàrvatì replied,
One who digs a well where there is scarcity of water
will live in heaven for as many years as there are drops of water in it.
One large reservoir of water is worth ten wells.
One son is equal to ten water-reservoirs;
And one tree is equal to ten sons.92
In South Indian myths, the planting and nursing of a sthalav‰kßa is
often connected with Pàrvatì (as in the myths of Kanchipuram and
Shrirangam). We now proceed to elaborate on two tree-planting pro-
grammes initiated by the Vaiß»ava temple complex of Tirumala-
Tirupati, Andhrapradesh, dedicated to Lord Ve«ka†e≤vara, the Lord
of the Ve«ka†a hills. This temple is located at an elevation of 3,000
feet, and was once surrounded by thick forests. When one gradu-
ally ascends towards the temple complex, one is greeted by billboards
with various renderings of the statement “v‰kßo rakßati rakßata˙”, such
as “Trees, when protected, protect us!” or “A tree protects: let us
protect it!”, adapted from the Laws of Manu, where it is said “Dharma,
when protected, protects us.”
In response to the environmental crisis in India, the Tirumala-
Tirupati Devasthan started two successful attempts at regional refor-
estation and stimulating the planting of specially blessed trees, known
as the Vanàbhiv‰ddhi Endowment Scheme and the V‰kßaprasàda
Scheme, respectively. Instead of being given the usual prasàda (favour
or grace of the deity), a piece of blessed food, such as a sweet or
fruit, to take home and eat as a reminder of God’s presence, in the
Tirumala-Tirupati temple the pilgrim is given a tree sapling in a
small container to take home as prasàda.93
92
See also V‰kßàyurveda 6.
93
This scheme is advertised as ‘Vriksha Prasadam’ on the temple’s website. It is
presented as a fixed scheme to be executed in the name of a single donor. For a
donation of Rs. 15,000, the programme is listed as follows: 100 seedlings will be

412 chapter six
The temple complex has established large tree nurseries on the

hills from which saplings are taken to be freely distributed among
pilgrims. Since around 1981, there are more elaborate schemes in
which saplings can be bought for a small amount of money, or in
which a devotee can donate larger sums of money for the purchase,
planting, and care of trees and special plants all over the surrounding
area. Special priviliges are granted to the more generous contribu-
tor, such as being allowed a special dar≤ana of the deity in the inner
temple shrine, highly coveted accomodation within Tirumala itself,
and public acknowledgement of the gift on large boards which list
the names and the amounts given. When individual trees are planted
in one individual’s name, a small plaque placed beneath it mentions
the name of the giver.94
The Tirumala-Tirupati Devasthànam is rumoured to be the rich-
est temple in India, and is favoured both in India itself and by
Indians in diaspora. One of the best-documented Hindu temples con-
structed overseas, the Pittsburg Venkateshwara temple, was planned
and built under the close surveillance of specially assigned priests
from Tirumala-Tirupati, and even now, as a fully functioning Hindu
temple in the United States, it is closely connected with its mother
temple, ideologically, ritually, and financially.95
raised and distributed to pilgrims in the name of the donor, once every year for a
period of 10 years. See www.tirumala.org.
94
Apart from the ‘prasad’ scheme, there are the following related initiatives:
‘Vana Samrakshana Bhagaswamyam’ (for the amount of Rs. 2,000 the donor’s name
is displayed), ‘Smaraka Vanalu’ (for the amount of Rs. 5,000 ten saplings of a
selected species are planted in a grove on the Tirumala hillside and maintained for
five years. This grove is named after the donor), ‘Vriksha Samvardhanam’ (for the
amount of Rs. 25,000 about 500 saplings are planted on the hills, maintained, and
named as above), ‘Vriksha Pravardhini’ (for the amount of Rs. 1 lakh or more,
1,000 saplings are planted once on the hills of Tirumala. The plantation, carrying
the name of the donor or a person of his choice, is maintained for five years.
Additionally, free darshan through the Vaikuntam Cellar is provided once for five
persons), ‘Vriksha Vardhini’ (for the amount of Rs. 5 lakh or more, 2,000 saplings/
plantation named after the donor/maintained for five years. In addition, the donor’s
name is displayed at all prominent places in Tirumala. Several extra privileges are
granted, such as three free darshans every calendar year, one dupta and ten laddus
given to the donor annually, a one-time gift of a medaillon of the deities, and free
accommodation close to the temple for the duration of three days every year), and
‘Vriksha Sowbhagya’ (for the amount of Rs. 10 lakh or more, 4,000 saplings/main-
tained/named/name display at all prominent places/medaillon of the deities/free
darshan for ten persons/25 laddus/free accommodation/one dupta as well as one
blouse).
95
See, for instance, Fred Clothey, Rhythm and Intent: Ritual Studies from South India
(1983), in the chapter ‘The construction of a temple in an American city’. See also

The nurseries on the Tirumala-Tirupati hills have many varieties

of plants and trees, and those are suitable for the climate and soil
conditions in the various parts of India the pilgrims hail from. When
devotees take a sapling home, it can be seen as a gesture of taking
a relic of the sacred spot with them, so that they can have a memento
wherever they are. Even more important, it is a piece of the sacred
soil; it is a blessed sapling with which they can make sacred their
own yard at home, and from which they can get, in addition to the
normal utility of trees, shade for a moment of reflection, or sacred
leaves, blossoms, and fruit for devotional worship at home.
Taking part in God’s grace by eating blessed fruit or a specially
prepared sweet after having visited a temple is one of the most gen-
eral and common rites connected with Hindu temples. Both the culi-
nary and the healing qualities of some specific temples’ prasàda are
much praised, such as that from Jagannàth’s Purì, which is called
mahàprasàda; and the laddus from Ve«ka†e≤vara’s Tirumala-Tirupati
temple kitchen are almost as famous. Prasàda is considered to be
highly saturated with the deity’s blessing, and it is used as medicine
as well: it may be eaten, applied as an ointment, or carried (in dried
form) as an amulet. In the light of this, to have a Tirumala-Tirupati
tree in one’s backyard that carries all such connotations is regarded
as extremely auspicious.
Taking home a small container with a blessed sapling reared in
the sacred soil of Tirumala-Tirupati may involve risk, considering
the conditions under which Indian pilgrims travel, and the consid-
erable distances they have to cover, but the project is obviously suc-
cessful. The young tree brought home is not merely a tree; it is
considered by devotees to be the deity itself, present in their own
compound. For them, God’s favour has come all the way from the
sacred site to their own garden or courtyard. Such young trees are
also planted inside Vaiß»ava temple compounds all over India, and
some have even been taken overseas to Malaysia, South Africa, and
the United States.
Apart from the solitary saplings carried away from the temple site
by pilgrims, there are many young saplings, often clusters of them,
financed by well-to-do individuals or groups. In this, the Tirumala-
Tirupati organisation builds on the age-old religious structures of
Raymond Brady Williams, ‘Introduction to part III, South Asians in the United
States’ and Diana L. Eck, ‘Negotiating Hindu Identities in America’, both in Harold
Coward et al. (eds.), The South Asian Diaspora (2000).

414 chapter six
endowments and the distribution of prasàda in the temples. Religious,

ecological, and medicinal arguments are thus intertwined in the pro-
motion of this thriving project.
Although the Tirumala-Tirupati tree-planting scheme is certainly
the biggest initiative in this field, it is by no means the only one, as
we have seen above (6.1) in the cases of Badrinath and Braj. The
practice of ritually planting trees seems to be at least fifteen hun-
dred years old, since there is a chapter in the Matsyapurà»a which
formulates the proper ceremony in this context.96 The planting of
trees in temple compounds has been a latent ideal in many com-
munities all over India. Many temple organisations have now adopted
the custom of planting trees within their precincts. Many other
tree-planting schemes are not clearly religious, such as the request
to plant trees on special occasions, instead of giving the usual and
obligatory gifts. This request was made, for instance, by the then
chief minister of Tamilnadu, Karunanidhi, on the occasion of his
birthday in 1996. When the Dutch royal family celebrated millen-
nium transition in Rajasthan in 2000, all members of the family pre-
sent planted a tree with a name plaque beneath it. It is clear that
such tree-planting ceremonies are not religious as such. Many of the
trees planted in the context of social forestry projects are planted
without any ceremony at all, but when a project has educational
targets there is often some kind of ceremony involved in planting
the first tree in the project. In some areas, such schemes are adver-
tised using billboards with slogans and illustrative paintings on them.
Another initiative in which the planting of trees is connected in
some way with India’s religious traditions, and with sacred plants
known from the ancient scriptures, is the Sacred Plants Resort just
outside Ramanagaram, Karnataka, halfway between Mysore and
Bangalore. Dr. Yellappa Reddy, a former Forestry Secretary, started
a unique garden here, around 1975. On a visit to a •aiva temple
at Kokarna, Dr. Reddy had heard the temple priests complain that
it was becoming increasingly difficult for them to obtain bilva leaves
for the worship of Lord •iva. He realised that he must see to it per-
sonally that all epic and Paurà»ic lore concerning trees and plants
would not get lost. He began to identify the names of the sacred
plants and trees mentioned in the scriptures and match them with
96
Matsyapurà»a 59.159.

living plants and trees. He collected all species and subspecies he

could get his hands on for his resort. His garden slowly grew into
a sacred site in which several segments are devoted to the various
gods and goddesses, the heavenly bodies, the elements, etcetera. The
Plants Resort supplies batches of specific sacred leaves and flowers
for rituals, and for specific use in traditional medicine.97
This example stimulated the management of several temples to
grow sacred trees or start a nursery with sacred plants at the far
end of or just outside the sacred complex. Especially neem trees are
propagated as miracle trees: their twigs, bark, leaves, and oil are
used in many ways.98 Often it is the neem tree which is married to
the a≤vattha in the temple courtyard. Whereas the neem tree is con-
sidered to have anti-bacterial properties, and its healing properties
are recognised all over India, the a≤vattha is considered to be the tree
that cleans and heals the atmosphere; it is popularly told that in
case of an all-destroying flood or even a cyclic destruction ( pralaya),
a single a≤vattha tree will survive, beneath which, one day, in a par-
ody of the famous Nàràya»a myth, Viß»u will be seen asleep on a
bed of a≤vattha leaves before creation unfolds once more.
Sacred trees and plants, in popular opinion, guard not only against
illness, epidemics, pollution, and global overheating, but even against
doomsday scenarios connected with the end of time. Planting trees
and re-greening human space in India thus has multiple motives,
and the inspiration for environmental activism may come from var-
ious sources, some of which are scientific, and some of which are
traditionally religious, ritual, spiritual, and medical.
The persistence of the sacred in contemporary Indian life can be
seen in religious tree-lore. Botanically and ecologically, there are
ample reasons for taking environmental measures in India, but on
the popular level, there is no segregation of science, economy, and
religious belief. One is used to complement, support and legitimise,
or authenticate the other, and in the daily life-world of most Hindus,
97
See also Choodie Shivaram, ‘Sacred Plants Resort’, in Hinduism Today 18/4
(1996), p. 24. I visited the place in 1998, but found that its existence was unknown
even to many people living in the area.
98
In the many books on the most common Indian plants and trees, the quali-
ties of the neem are much praised. See especially B.N. Gupta and K.K. Sharma
(eds.), Neem: A wonder tree (1998). See also Chris Kilham, Tales from the Medicine Trail.
Tracking down the health secrets of shamans, herbalists, mystics, yogis, and other healers (2000),
pp. 101–170.

416 chapter six
there is a little of all three. The motives for planting trees often form
a patchwork of facts, feelings, justifications, calculations, and hopes.
When Rabindranath Tagore established Shantiniketan, he spoke of
a ‘forest university’ analogous to the conditions in which the Àrà»yakas
and Upanißads were produced, and some of the trees on the lovely
grounds are now so huge that classes, meetings, and religious exer-
cises regularly take place in their shade. Some political parties have
used tree symbols or tree planting as their icons, and whether this
is meant in the sense of social forestry or has religious connotations
is not easily determined.99 An ‘akßara’ tree was recently planted, a
10-foot-high metal tree with sixty alphabet variations printed on its
leaves. The tree depicts the development of Indian scripts from the
Indus Valley to the present.100 One of the best-known environmen-
tal movements in India is called ‘Kalpavriksha’, Wishing Tree.
An area of study which has hitherto remained largely unexplored
is the extent to which Hindus emigrating to countries like Natal,
East Africa, Malaysia, and the Caribbean have taken saplings or
seeds from India to grow sacred trees in their temple compounds
overseas. In many cases, the nature-derived symbols grew less impor-
tant when temple architecture became more important, especially
when Indians formed urban communities. In Malaysia, where there
are many non-Àgamic temples, there is a persisting association “with
the unusual or supernatural presence (. . .) in unshaped rocks or trees,
and dwelling of serpents and ant hills.”101 Depending on the climate
and soil conditions in diaspora, especially pipal, banyan, neem, and tulsi
99
That tree planting or reforestation has been taken up as a political issue by
some is evident also when one travels through Indian villages. Murals, billboards,
and even trucks often carry slogans promoting such projects. The educational com-
ponents of such projects should not be underestimated, whatever the mixed results
of social forestry. Juliet Keith, in her booklet “Plant more trees”: Farm and community
forestry in India (1986), p. 12, writes, “However, the rural poor are not in a position
to be altruistic and patriotic, despite being aware of the potential advantages of tree
planting. Instead they need to be assured that benefits will accrue directly to them-
selves, making their life more secure. Thus education and non-commercial incen-
tives can encourage people to grow trees, but the rural poor need some form of
financial security to risk uncertain future tree benefits if they have to divert scarce
resources from obtaining essential daily needs.”
100
The alphabet tree was ‘planted’ on the occasion of International Museum’s
Day, 18 May 2001. It was donated by the Indian Museum at the Bhasya Udyan
at Surendranath Park. See also ‘News on the Indian Museum, Kolkat’ at www.indian-
museum-calcutta.org.
101
T.S. Rukmani, Diaspora. Global perspectives (1999), p. 83.

were planted in sacred complexes. More research is required to deter-

mine what natural materials are used in both temple and home rit-
uals by Hindus in colder climates, and whether any sacred trees,
shrubs, and plants are ever planted when Hindu temples are con-
secrated in Canada, the United States, or England.102
6.5 Sacred groves and biodiversity
Sacred groves in India can be anything from a small cluster of trees

with a simple shrine beneath one of them, to patches of forest con-
sidered sacred because they belong to an ashram or a temple or
because of a narrative connection with a god, a goddess, or a divine
hero or heroine, to considerable stretches of relatively undisturbed
woodland. Such sites are entered, with great trepidation and cau-
tion, only on certain occasions. No wood or minor forest produce
may be taken away from sacred groves, theoretically at least, except
for ritual purposes and for constructing or repairing sacred build-
ings. In botanical terms, a sacred grove is ideally a multi-species,
multi-tier primary forest. It is protected by customary tabus and ideas
of sacredness, which have significant cultural and ecological impli-
cations. Its protection may be in the hands of a priest, a temple
committee, a village panchayat, or the community as a whole. The
ownership is officially with the Revenue Department but people have
informal control.
Sacred groves may be found all over India, but most abundantly
in tribal areas.103 Sacred groves, currently specially favoured by
botanists and ecologists as pockets of biodiversity, and by anthro-
pologists as representing the persistence of the sacred, form another
network of sacred spots covering the geophysical map of India. But
in contrast to many places of pilgrimage, most sacred groves are not
visited by outsiders, and even local people steer clear of them most
of the time. Especially tribal groves are tabu grounds, only to be
102
The tree-planting programmes of the Tirumala-Tirupati Devasthàn have been
linked with the Venkateshvara temple in Pittsburg, U.S.A., and the Vrindavan
tree-planting programmes have been linked with the Hindu temple in Leicester,
U.K. One question concerning which prescribed natural materials are used, and
which are replaced by locally available substitutes, is what kind of wood is used in
the fire ceremonies?
103
Most of the studies available to me are of sacred groves in Kerala, Karnataka,
and Tamilnadu, all in the South of the subcontinent.

418 chapter six
entered on specific occasions and with specific purposes. The origi-

nal idea behind this caution may have to do with a kind of nego-
tiation between incoming tribes colonising unclaimed space and the
vegetative deities supposed to be housed in those primeval forests.
It is possible that at a certain stage the forest itself was considered
sacred, without its sacredness being focused on anthropomorphic
deities or spirits. Even today, some sacred groves may be considered
sacred in themselves, without local people attributing the sacred pres-
ence to a named deity, a specific tree, a termite mound, or tabu
animals. Sacredness may not always be reductionistically ascribed to
one specific factor in the grove which can explain the grove’s sanc-
tity, nor need sacredness be totally devoid of utilitarian logic. The
challenge in investigating sacred groves may well be in opening up
to their various aspects as well as to the way they function in the
communities they are embedded in.
Sacred groves are considered by some scholars to be a legacy of
the shifting cultivators, especially in hilly and mountainous regions.
One ground rule of the agricultural system of shifting cultivation was
that the protection of substantial patches of forests should counter-
balance the burning down of those sites that were selected for cul-
tivation. Sacred groves are still an integral part of many agricultural
settlements, ranging in size from small patches to large areas of hun-
dreds of hectares. Dietrich Brandis, the first Inspector General of
Forests, and a German,104 spoke positively of the phenomenon of
sacred groves in India as “traditional forms of forest preservation”,
and lamented the destruction by the 1880s of much of this network
under the British system of forest management:
Very little has been published regarding sacred groves in India, but
they are, or rather were, very numerous. I have found them in nearly
all provinces. (. . .) These, as a rule, are never touched by the axe,
except when wood is wanted for the repair of religious buildings.105
104
In some of the historiographies of forest management in India, the fact that
Brandis was a German is mentioned explicitly, referring to the difference between
British and German ways of managing forests. The general idea in today’s forest
activism in India is that Brandis, as a German, did not belong to a colonial tra-
dition, and, therefore, did not view forests from the angle of profit and exploita-
tion, as mere timber so to speak. That this is an oversimplification is elaborated
upon in Simon Schama’s widely acclaimed book Landscape and Memory (1995). On
Dietrich Brandis, see especially I.M. Saldanha, ‘Colonialism and Professionalism: A
German Forester in India’ (1996).
105
Dietrich Brandis, Forestry in India: Origins and Early Development (1897). Quoted
by Gadgil and Chandran, in Geeti Sen (1992), p. 184.

This attitude is quite different from that expressed by Francis Buchanan,

who contended that the system of sacred groves was a “contrivance”
of local people to prevent the colonial government from claiming
their property.106 This reflects the colonial forest debate, as well as
the debate about the benefits and evils of the system of shifting or
swidden cultivation. From a botanical or ecological point of view,
sacred groves in India ideally are indigenous old-growth forests that
have escaped intensive exploitation for at least 50 years. A sacred
grove, in its most ideal form, consists of diverse life-forms in which
a myriad of ecological interactions among species of plants and ani-
mals take place. Only under special circumstances or at special
moments of the lunar or solar calendar may dead trees, branches,
twigs, leaves, fruits, and medicinal herbs be removed. It is popularly
believed that when a live tree is cut there, milk will flow from the
first cut, water from the second cut, and blood from the third cut.
Persisting in cutting down the tree will inevitably result in the loss
of one’s eyesight. Nevertheless, when some villagers are asked why
their grove has no really old trees in it, they may reply that cutting
mature trees for specific ritual purposes is allowed, and it is espe-
cially the young trees which are zealously protected.
That so many patches of sacred forest disappeared, even after the
British left, is due to many reasons. One obvious reason is that many
shifting cultivators today are forced, through lack of sufficient alter-
natives, to cultivate patches of forests after they have been left undis-
turbed and lain fallow for only a short time instead of for the
traditional twenty or even fifty years. The cycle of regeneration in
many cases has been so drastically shortened that the slash-and-burn
method has recently been even more discredited than it was at the
time when the British imposed their so-called scientific forestry man-
agement on large parts of India. Shifting cultivation was prohibited
by them except in small pockets of tribal areas. Today, there sim-
ply isn’t enough forest available in most areas to follow the ground
rules of leaving assigned patches of forests undisturbed and unex-
ploited for the minimum length of time necessary for the complex
interaction of life-forms to regenerate.
106
That the British attitude to indigenous religious values underwent several shifts
is seen in M.A. Kalam’s Pondicherry paper Sacred groves in Kodagu District of Karnataka
(South India): A socio-historical study (1996), especially when amendments to forest laws
are quoted.

420 chapter six
Another stated insidious threat to sacred groves has been the

process of Hinduisation, especially when constructed shrines and tem-
ples gradually replaced the original grove.107 M.A. Kalam, in his
study of sacred groves in Karnataka, mentions several instances in
Kodagu district where originally shrine-less patches of sacred forest
developed into circumscribed sacred groves around a shrine to a
particular deity served regularly (but not daily)108 by an appointed
pujàri or mantravàdi. Such shrines were often ‘upgraded’ into proper
temple complexes by felling some of the trees. Grove trees had to
make place for a brick building, often marked off from the direct
vicinity by a platform and by fences.
The fate of many other sacred groves has been different. Some
indigenous groups gradually, as a result of conversion to Christianity,
or under the influence of various socio-economic factors, lost inter-
est in caring for them, owing to ‘more enlightened’ ideas, although
even among converts the belief in spirits often remains strong. They
allowed, or at least condoned, encroachment, either by commercial
felling or by colonisation such as by brahmin landholders claiming
patches of forest ground for the lucrative cultivation of coffee, cin-
namon, pepper, or cardamon. In some cases, such land claims went
gradually, and more or less unnoticed and unprotested; in some
cases, villagers protested but did not have the power to make things
undone; in other cases, they were content with a small financial com-
pensation from the sale of timber, or no more than the pledge of
an annual goat sacrifice to the deity of the land in exchange for the
loss of sacred space. There is some irony in the fact that just when
scientists are beginning to appreciate folk ecology and its implica-
tions, a monolithic vision of modern resource management as well
as the rhetoric of market economics (from outside) and the corro-
sion of traditional values (from inside) are engulfing these indigenous
systems.109
The sacredness of such ‘wastelands’ or ‘stands of overmature tim-
ber’ was beyond most Englishmen. Yet the archives of the colonial
107
See Madhav Gadgil and M.D. Subash Chandran’s contribution ‘Sacred groves’,
in Geeti Sen, Indigenous Vision, p. 187.
108
For this criterium, the frequency of pùjà, in determining the status of a shrine’s
degree of tribal or Hindu(-ised) character, see Anncharlott Eschmann’s contribu-
tions to Eschmann et al., The Cult of Jagannath (1978). See also Ruth Walldén,
‘Village-cult sites’ (1990).
109
See also Madhav Gadgil and M.D. Subash, ‘Sacred Groves’, p. 183.

administration show that, in contrast to what many say today, British

forest management was not completely lacking in subtlety and nuance.
Regarding religious sensitivities, there was a rule of thumb of non-inter-
ference.110 It must have been hard to distinguish sacred groves from
non-sacred groves, especially when no shrines or statues were to be
seen. In many cases, there must have been a diversity of opinions
and interests among the local people as well: some may have greeted
the felling as an improvement of their life-world, as an opening to
a better future, the possibility of some quick cash or the promise of
cultivable lands. That so many sacred groves have disappeared in
the last two centuries is due to a variety of factors, of which the
British policy of forest management was only one.
It is debatable whether biodiversity conservation was a conscious
policy behind the original ground rules of shifting cultivation, or
merely a positive result, but the fact is that sacred groves have
become something of a vogue among botanists and ecologists.111 They
have become part of the romantic imagination about a pristine,
bountiful, and respectfully treated natural environment in India.
Today’s idealistic notions about the sacred grove presuppose that it
is mainly due to the evils of modernisation and industrialisation that
Indian forests are still being degraded, as if early societies did not
interfere with nature. In addition to the marked tendency to blame
most of India’s current state of deforestation on what was started by
the British, we notice that today, somehow, overpopulation is no
longer emphasised as a major cause of problems in environmental
matters. The whole issue of drastic deforestation has become so
opaque, and has obviously run out of control in such a way, that
simplistic scapegoating and romantic idealisation of a bountiful past
have become popular escape routes.
The local people’s position often is that sacred groves tradition-
ally have been preserved on behalf of the deities. What used to be
looked down on as ‘superstition’ by many mainstream Hindus, i.e.,
fear of the wrath of the gods as well as faith in their benevolence,
has now turned out to have unexpected ecological advantages, and
110
This is made clear by closer study of forestry archives, as done by Kalam.
See his quotes from some of the rules pertaining to devarakadus in the Coorg Forest
Manual of 1899. See M.A. Kalam, Sacred Groves (1996), pp. 12–13.
111
To a scholar of religion their reductionistic emphasis on biodiversity as the
sole logic behind the existence and persistence of sacred groves seems suspect. I
would rather opt for an interplay of various argumentations and experiences.

422 chapter six
has become the focus of some romantic notions.112 The historical

archives studied by Kalam prove, however, that sacred groves have
been subject to human interventions in many forms and for a long
time, both from inside, resulting from internal changes in the val-
ues and behaviour of indigenous people, and from outside, with the
interests of individuals or companies overriding the religious scruples
of the villagers. Such processes were greatly accellerated by better
transportation and communication.
The groves’ function of water storage appears to have become
more obvious when, with the disappearance of forest, many brooks,
streamlets, ponds, and pools disappeared too. Gadgil and Chandran
found that several sacred groves are associated with bodies of water
like streams, rivers, and ponds. They note,
Indeed the capacity of the kan forests (sacred groves) to store water
and leave a controlled perennial flow in the streams was known to the
colonial Government of Bombay Presidency. Therefore, logging and
clear-felling naturally would affect the watershed value of the groves.113
The ecological connection between sacred groves and water has
found expression in tribal argumentation to keep their groves safe
from encroachment by commercial plantations, but also in mythol-
ogy and local lore. Anne Feldhaus notes,
At several places, rivers are understood to come from trees, especially
from the roots of trees. At the square pool (ku»∂ ) atop Brahmagiri that
is considered the source of the Godàvarì, there are two umbar trees
from the roots of which the river’s water is understood to seep. After
going under ground and reappearing a few more times, the water drips
from the roots of another umbar tree at Ràmku»∂ and Laßma»ku»∂,
partway down the hill.114
With the denudation and degradation of the landscape, an inevitable
disenchantment took place. This, however, does not mean that the
remaining sacred groves have lost their sanctity too. On the con-
trary, the sacred groves that have survived encroachment are con-
sidered to be even more sacred and imbibed with the powerful
presence of deities and ancestors than before. One obvious reason
112
This is critically called the Standard Environmental Narrative (SEN) by R. Free-
man, Forests and the Folk: Perceptions of Nature in the Swidden Regimes of Highland Malabar
(1994).
113
Gadgil and Chandran, ‘Sacred Groves’ (1992), p. 187.
114
Anne Feldhaus, Water and Womanhood, p. 112.

for this was observed by Yasushi Uchiyamada, who noticed that the
consecrated statues of deities at sacred groves about to be cut down
were often carried to other sacred groves.115
The common name for sacred forest all over India is often some
vernacular derivation from the Sanskrit ≤ara»a, meaning sanctuary.
Regional variations on that term include sarna, kan, kavu, Ayyappankavu,
sarpakavu, Durgakavu, devarakadu, than, devarabana, devavana, bhutavana, nag-
bana, kovil kadu, devarai, devarahati, oran, oraon, jaherthan, deovan, and nan-
davana. The sacred groves that are left today are not only sanctuaries
in the traditional sense; they have become storehouses, asylums even,
of the cult of ancient indigenous deities. This makes them interest-
ing to ethnologists and anthropologists as places where the sacred
persists in its near-natural surroundings. In addition to the recent
hype among ecologists, they also attract the attention of ritual stud-
ies specialists, as well as art-historians, for the wealth of cultic expres-
sion found in them.116
The phenomenon of sacred groves may well date back to pre-brah-
minical times, and be connected with the pioneer families who first
cleared the trees. To compensate for their intrusion in what was
considered the domain of wood spirits, i.e., the forests and the waste-
lands, the emerging villages may have felt it their duty to assuage
the spirits disturbed by human intervention. It is also possible that
at first a sacred grove was simply a patch of forest sacred in itself,
in which the numinous was experienced without being anthropo-
morphised. Out of reverence and awe for the density of natural exu-
berance in certain spots, such patches may have been left undisturbed,
and thus were not appropriated by assigning the site to known and
named deities. Sacred groves which have remained shrineless are not
necessarily viewed as less sacred than those which do have a shrine,
115
Yasushi Uchiyamada, ‘‘The Grove is our Temple’. Contested representations
of Kaavu in Kerala, South India’, in Rival, The Social Life of Trees (1998).
116
See, for instance, D.S. Nipunage et al., ‘Cultural Heritage of Sacred Groves’
(1988). M.A. Kalam, in his Pondicherry study of sacred groves, contests that such
places are still witness to human sacrifice today and doubts whether they ever were.
He found no signs of it, although there may still be hook swinging. The most com-
mon votive offerings found there are terracotta offerings of dogs, bulls, horses, tigers,
and elephants. He also noticed the practice of ‘vegetarianising the deities’. This
implies making only ‘hal mathu hannu’ (milk and fruit) offerings, p. 42. Two books
in which such deities are examined are Gods of the byways: Wayside shrines of Rajasthan,
Madhya Pradesh and Gujurat, edited by Julia and David Elliott (1982), and Cornelia
Mallebrien, Die anderen Götter: Volks- und Stammesbronzen aus Indien (1993).

424 chapter six
a deity, and a priest, although such factors do add to a place’s

prestige.117
In some other cases, sacred groves may have started as tabu places
for what might be called the original deities, as well as for totemic
animals and plants, but in the course of time such groves often
became multifunctional, providing the original medicines for the vil-
lagers; sacred twigs, branches, and trees for ritual use, and the con-
struction and repair of sacred buildings; sacred leaves and flowers
for seasonal festivals, etcetera. For many tribal groups, the sacred
grove is a site for culturally crucial social interactions. The annual
marriage ceremony of the earth and the trees is held in some. It
may also be the initiation ground for the youth, where teenagers
learn to survive solely on forest produce in the probation period pre-
ceding their acceptance into the group of adults. It may still serve
as a festival or dancing ground where boys and girls meet their mates
for life. It may also serve as a burial ground or cremation place.
The sacred grove’s connection with the ancestors gradually formed
a tangible proof of land ownership in tribal areas, but also added
to the religious awe people had for such groves. In social terms, the
stories of the sacred groves, as narrated by the local people, also
express the consubstantiality of heroes (veerans, Skt. vìra) and hero-
ines (often suttees, Skt. satì), ancestors, ancestral land, and its living
descendants. The stones found in the centre of a sacred grove may
thus represent deities, or mark memorials to ancestors, heroes, satìs,
and women who died in childbirth.
Within such a grove, often the most sacred centre is the flat stone,
altar, or roofed shrine where the statues of the deities are housed,
where old and new votive offerings such as clay animals or straw
representations lie around, and where the sacrificial animals may be
117
Some interesting mid-phase phenomena manifest the transition between sacred
tree and deity-of-the-tree, such as noticed by the Italian traveller Della Valle, who
visited India from 1623 to 1625, and today’s anthropologist/photographer Stephen
Huyler. Della Valla found in Surat the worship of Pàrvatì in the form of a painted
face on the tree (referred to in James T. Wheller and Michael Macmillan, European
travellers in India (1956)). Huyler reports on the cult of the goddess Gelubai in Purì
district, Orissa: “Several centuries of daily application of black oil and red vermil-
lion to one spot on this sacred tree in a small village in eastern India has resulted
in a raised laquer mound that is treated as the face of the goddess Gelubai. Bangles
have been tied as offerings to the Goddess during prayers by women for the health
of their families.” (Stephen Huyler, Meeting God. Elements of Hindu Devotion (1999), pp.
106–112).

offered. This shrine may be a brick construction, but may also be

no more than an altar stone beneath the major tree. It is said that
earlier votive offerings are never to be removed: they lie around, are
broken, and gradually return to the earth in a mixture of clay shards,
decaying leaves, food gifts, animal droppings, and fallen fruits or
blossoms. The deity or deities worshipped here may be male or
female, but female deities appear to be in the majority, being local
representatives of wood spirits, earth-mothers, clan-mothers, fertility
goddesses, and snake-deities. Vannucci makes an explicit connection
between the goddesses of the sacred groves and the Vedic goddess
Àra»yanì, the lady of the forest who is praised as the mother of all
beings. In the Sundarbans, she is often called Banodebi or Banobibi.118
Elsewhere, she is often seen as some form of Bhagavatì or Bhadrakàlì,
known by such names as Amma(n), Mariamman, Devi, Durga, Sitala,
and Gauri.
The designation ‘sacred grove’ is also applied to cultivated growths
at the far end of a temple complex or just outside the temple com-
pound, where ritually auspicious trees and plants are grown for use
in temple services. Sacred gardens (nandavana) are the cultivated coun-
terparts of sacred groves. A sacred garden may be a floral garden,
an orchard, or a single-species garden for ritual use in the temple
or the temple bazaar.119 Such a garden or grove may well be the
original spot where the shrine in the course of time gained pre-
dominance over the original tree or trees, developed into a temple,
and became detached from the sacred grove in the process of
Hinduisation. Quite a few Hindu temples may be traced back to
tribal-rural sacred groves, just as some of the major places of Hindu
pilgrimage have been traced back to a single sacred tree. At the
same time, processes of Hinduisation may be a threat to sacred
groves when the deities of a particular patch of forest become identified
with established gods of the Hindu pantheon, in the process of which
the grove has to be cleared to make way for an officially conse-
crated temple. At the periphery of such a temple complex, remnants
of that past may still be found, and some elderly people might be
118
Martha Vanucci, ‘Sacred Groves or Holy Forests’, in Vatsyayan (1982). See
also Amitav Ghosh’s novel on the Sundarbans, The Hungry Tide (2004).
119
For instance, the gardeners and garlandmakers of Viß»u’s Nandavana at
Srirangam by the sacred Kaveri river are celibate devotees dedicating their lives to
the worship of Lord Ranganàtha. Every tree in that garden is named after one of
the great Vaiß»ava À¬vàrs and Àcàryas.

426 chapter six
there who remember the forest myths, or who can explain some rit-
ual peculiarities as connected with those origins.120
Hindu sacred groves may be grown naturally, and have a histor-
ical link with the local forests, but may also have been planted and
cultivated in a conscious attempt to re-create an aspect of the Hindu
scriptures, such as the pañcava†ì. Such a planned plantation of the
five most sacred trees together is also called a sacred grove. It may
have nothing wild about it, and may be found surrounded by con-
crete as a tiny green island of sanctity in cities, or as a meditative
corner in a temple complex. Today, most planned panchavatis con-
sist of at least a banyan, a pipal, and a neem, and the other two types
of trees may be ashok, bel, dhatri, or some others, depending on soil
conditions and climate.121 Originally, according to the Skandapurà»a,
a pañcava†ì (note the †) should consist of five fig-trees: va†a, a≤vattha,
bilva, dhàtrì, and a≤oka.122 B.M. Agrawal, a member of the Indian
Forest Service, recently reintroduced this panchavati ethnoforestry tra-
dition in Rajasthan, by advising that family settlements should be
surrounded by the five prescribed trees in each of the four cardinal
directions and in the South East.123
There are two varieties of sacred groves that we have not yet dis-
cussed: the snake-grove (sarpakàvu) and the man-made ancestor-grove
in private backyards. The snake-groves, especially in Southern India,
are believed to host divine serpents whose habitat is left undisturbed,
which are greatly feared and revered both as bringers of death and
of fertility, and whose habitation is never approached at night. Such
groves represent something of the original fear (bhayam) and the rev-
erence for the sacred (≤udham) manifest in snakes. Eggs and milk may
be offered daily, and more elaborate offerings may be made during
snake festivals, such as on the occasion of Nàgapañcamì. Some
120
For this process from grove to temple, see www.cseindia.org/dte-supplement/
forest20031231/from-groves.htm, and forest20031231/landscape.htm
121
When I looked for the panchavati associated with Ramakrishna’s meditative
ecstacy in the Dakshineshwar temple compound, it was hard to find anyone aware
of such a grove. When I finally found what remains of it, it was disappointing, as
monkeys appeared to have appropriated it. Visitors were making them act like cir-
cus artistes to pay for their food.
122
The designation pañcav‰kßa traditionally means the five heavenly trees: Mandàra,
Pàrijàtaka, Saátàna, Kalpav‰kßa, and Haricandana.
123
He recommended aegle marmelos in the North, ficus religiosa in the East, emblica
officinalis in the South, ficus benghalensis in the West, and saraca asoka in the South East,
or, if this was not available, polyelthia longifolia.

snake-groves form a living reminder of the archaic, the roots, the

origin, and are never casually entered. Again, such places function
as sanctuaries, a niche where snakes may live in a world otherwise
dominated by men. A common variation on the snake-grove is the
grove around a sacred termite mound ( puttu), such as in Puttupet, a
village around 13 km. north of Pondicherry.
The man-made ancestor-grove is common in certain areas in the
South. Yasushi Uchiyamada, in a sociological study, points out the
special place of the so-called cremation-pyre cocoanut (chudala teengu,
as he calls it), the cocoanut tree planted in the corner of a domes-
tic garden representing a newly deceased relative. This tree should
be planted immediately over the spot where the corpse’s navel is
supposed to be. A cocoanut tree is a soft tree, it embodies the recently
dead, and it is important that this tree not be watered or manured:
it is meant not to survive, merely to represent the dead for a year.
It is notably different from another tree found in the sacred grove
at the outer end of a private garden: a jack-fruit tree specifically
planted to house the bones and ashes of the cremated until the
buried remains can be taken to a tìrtha to be disposed of in the rit-
ually prescribed manner. Jack-fruit trees are so-called ‘hard’ trees,
and are meant to be long-lived, but both kinds of ancestor-trees are
considered depositories of dangerous and potent life-force. In the
bipolar characterisation made by Yasushi Uchiyamada, there is both
≤akti and dùßam, life-force and fault or sin, in them. On the west side
of a private house, or even to the west of a Hindu temple, such a
kàvu embodies both dangerous fertility and inauspiciousness. A lamp
is often lit, or lamp-oil offered, to honour the “two-way flow of
malevolence and fertility”.124
Sacred groves thus represent, in their multifunctionality and multi-
interpretability, the dichotomies or ambiguities of life in a culture
which tends towards inclusiveness rather than the rigorous, onesided,
and shortsighted exclusion of hidden forces that are regarded as
threatening. It is important that trees in sacred groves represent not
merely benevolence and generosity, but also potentially wrathful
forces. Sacred groves include multiple life-forms in their intricate
interaction, and thus function as biosphere reserves and water reser-
voirs in near-natural conditions; they also include and give a home
124
Yasushi Uchiyamada, ‘Contested Representations’, p. 193.

428 chapter six
to the darker side of life: deities of the wilderness, spirits of the dead,
and all the uncontrolled life-force let loose in creation. They serve
as a reminder of origins in more ways than one.
The recent attention given to sacred groves as pockets of biodi-
versity, gene-pools, and ecological watersheds should not divert from
their other aspects, such as their symbolic and cultural aspects. They
represent, in a nutshell, the main theme of this book: the interac-
tion of several levels of sensual experience, utilitarian reasoning, mys-
tical awe, religious faith, and instinctive fear which combined to
shape the tree cult and which continue to make people respect the
sacred continuity of life and life-forms. Trees, groves, and forests are
vital areas of concentration in the topography of the sacred in India.
Though temple Hinduism has become a ritually and iconographi-
cally defined indoor domain, its links with its green origins remain.

CHAPTER SEVEN
BELIEF, BOUNTY, AND BEAUTY:

THE INTERRELATEDNESS OF SYMBOLIC
AND MATERIAL VALUES
7.1 Belief, bounty, and beauty
One of the ironies of this research has been that the initial ques-
tion—on the mining of ancient texts and traditions by contemporary
environmental movements—has led to sacred trees being mentioned
mainly in the context of sacrifice; i.e., we dealt with dead wood
instead of live trees. The effusive praise with which such trees were
addressed traditionally was part of a ‘negotiation’ between a tree-cutter
and a tree. The alleged environmental respect expressed was instru-
mental, and, to say the least, ambivalent.
One of the justifications with which a selected tree was cajoled
into giving up its life had to do with the more prestigious destina-
tion in store for the tree, as a pole, a ritual instrument, or a wooden
image of the deity. Many of the ancient scriptures referred to by
today’s environmentalists in order to prove how environment-con-
scious their distant Vedic ancestors were, are directly or indirectly
connected with the killing of trees. This anomaly is one of the main
nuances that we hoped to point out in this book.
In order to do justice to the multilayeredness of the issue, we
included a much broader range of texts from throughout Indian lit-
erary history. In addition to the context of sacrifice, we found in the
oldest texts some appreciation of natural beauty, in a sense of delight
in natural exuberance and abundance. This appreciation of the beauty
of trees, parks, woodlands, and forests can be found throughout
Indian literature. It is rare, however, that the delights of natural
beauty are sung with no other motive, as mere expressions of joy,
although on closer scrutiny such passages can be found as well. In
general, the appreciation of beauty appears to be closely connected
with the appreciation of bounty.
Natural beauty is often elaborated upon as a literary prop, sub-
servient to the main story line, as a setting against which the char-
acters in the narrative are outlined. Nature often serves as a backdrop

430 chapter seven
against which the human drama is played out. The centrality of the
human drama is, again, very much evident in the contemporary
environmental lobby. The position that appears to hold the best
cards there is that of conservationism, i.e., care and caution in deal-
ing with our natural resources for the sake of ourselves and of future
generations of human beings. This is what is protested against as
anthropocentrism by Deep Ecology thinkers. But only a few can
afford the luxury of such a radical line of thinking, as environmen-
talism in India is first and foremost a matter of sheer survival, of
short-term human interests.
On the other hand, when we look at the manysidedness of the
sacred tree as a symbol in ancient Indian literature, we wonder
whether the cutting and subsequent processing of wood destined for
ritual objects really was as much at odds with an attitude of respect
for nature as claimed today by radical ideologists. In the cyclical
worldview, life is perceived as a flow. In this way also the otherwise
anonymous tree, once it is consecrated, lives on, in glory, as a
sacrificial stake, a flag pole, or a statue of the deity. It appears to
be a matter of gradation only whether the tree lives out its normal
life in the forest, or is cut down and lives on as a ritual or devo-
tional object. From an anthropocentric point of view (without using
the term in a pejoritive or normative sense), Vedic man has a point
in arguing that there is much greater prestige, immortality even, in
a symbolic way, in a life as a ritual object than in the anonymous
life in the forest.
This same idea is expressed when a single tree on the side of the
road or in a residential area is given preference over a multitude of
trees in the forest. It has become common knowledge that such
anonymous trees all over the world are vital for life on earth, but
to ancient Indians such trees appeared to be of no use at all. Current
utilitarian thinking in terms of systems theory and the ecological par-
adigm, however, ascribes great dignity and value to anonymous
masses of trees. Wilderness has proved to be far more valuable than
could have been expressed in the ancient texts, even if current move-
ments insist on finding ecological parallels there, such as in the myth
about the descent of the river Ga«gà through •iva’s long and thick
forest-like tresses.
The selection of a tree for a specific cultic purpose is orchestrated
by traditional guidelines. Some subjective emotional criteria are built
into these guidelines, such as dreams, visions, and omens. These

belief, bounty, and beauty 431
must complement the stricter criteria given explicitly, such as the

outer appearance, locality, and durability of the wood. In general,
not much room is left for individual preferences, but since most of
the available literary sources on this are prescriptive rather than
descriptive, we know nothing about deviations in actual practices.
A counterpoint to the regulated respect given to the tree about
to be cut down for ritual purposes is formed by the conflagration
of the Khà»∂ava Forest: K‰ß»a and Arjuna, much to the dismay of
contemporary ideologists, are portrayed as wantonly enjoying the
destructive flames and the anguish of animals trying to escape. This
brings us to the purposive burning of forest, mainly for agriculture.
The jhumi method of slash-and-burn or shifting cultivation must have
been practised by Aryans and non-Aryans alike, although today this
is connected only with isolated tribal groups. In ecological studies
on India it is maintained that such a method was all right as long
as there was enough land available so that shifts could be rotated
in cycles of at least twenty years, in which time former patches of
forest were allowed to regenerate. Destruction of forest to allow cul-
tivation of the land and provide living space was traditionally seen
as one of the duties of the rulers, and explicitly pronounced as part
of the royal dharma. Human expansion must have gradually caused
many forests to disappear long before the British started their rail-
road network throughout the subcontinent, clearing space for the
construction of the rail connections which had become necessary
both for human traffic and for goods such as timber needed by the
Navy. Warfare may also have caused early deforestation in India.
For reasons of political security, forested border areas were patrolled
or cut down. Some forests may thus have been cleared for strategic
reasons. Although, in popular ecology, there is a definite tendency
to blame the British for the disappearance of major tree cover in
India, deforestation must have set in long before the British came.
Despite our methodological reservations about the easy a-historic
and non-contextual way in which contemporary environmental move-
ments in India shift from the level of current global knowledge of
ecosystems worldwide to specific insights and traditional environ-
mental restrictions pertaining to some isolated tribal groups, or to
insights expressed in ancient mystical literature, it is clear that there
is a continuity of interrelated material and symbolic values. Although
the material value of living trees has often found expression in two
radically opposed positions (such as that of the multinational logger

432 chapter seven
and that of the local inhabitants of the Himalayan foothills), mate-

rial values have been interwoven with symbolic ones since the time
of the ancient texts. It appears that we can conclude from this that
the co-existence of material and symbolic values did not, at any time,
guarantee that trees would be left intact. No amount of material,
symbolic, or ecological value proves a safeguard against cutting.
A safeguard against over-exploitation can, theoretically, be found
in radically applied ahiása. There are individuals or groups that hold
the position that no harm should be done to any life-form, out of
respect for the law of karma. This is seen in the ascetic’s life: for
instance, there are clear regulations about what to wear, what to
eat, and where to sleep. It is also seen in Jainism, especially monas-
tic Jainism. It is encountered in vratas and other temporary restric-
tions. In this conscious abstinence from the taking of life for one’s
own needs, the human being still stands centre stage. It is out of
anxiety for the consequences of one’s actions more than out of respect,
or an alleged equality of all beings, that such regulations are adhered
to. It is the human drama which determines a non-harming attitude
more than a deeply felt communion with all life-forms. At least, there
is hardly any explicit sentimental concern with such life-forms, or
ecological awareness, although tenderness and affinity with all man-
ifestations of life may result. In contrast to some current expressions,
sentimentality appears to have had hardly any place in karmic con-
siderations of hiása and ahiása. Physical, ritual, and spiritual ideas
of purity in India are complex matters in which several notions are
intertwined. To unravel such notions in order to decide about the
level of respect towards the environment, or the extent to which the
democracy of all beings is acknowledged in such things as dietary
restrictions or ascetic vows, was beyond the scope of this study. We
have pointed out a few exemplary figures, especially in the epics,
which have been indicated as role models of ahiása throughout Indian
history, such as hermits and other saintly persons who took extreme
measures to protect young birds hatching in the nests made in their
matted hair, or the ants which had built a termite hill around a
stockstill figure in meditation.
What comes closest to sentimental concern for trees is found in
the literary figure •akuntala, who tended the trees of her father’s
hermitage as if they were family, and who found it difficult to take
her leave of them when she left for the capital to join her lover.
Another emotion bordering on sentimentality is demonstrated by the

historic figure King A≤oka, in his attitude towards the bodhi tree in
Bodhgayà. Other beings portrayed as having sentimental bonds with
a particular tree are the dryads when they were implored, by the
priests or axe-men about to cut down ‘their’ tree, to move and choose
another domicile. Typically light and transparant emotions are
expressed when the Buddha-to-be is depicted choosing a tree to sit
under. In some texts, it appears as if he had no choice since every-
thing was preordained by former Buddhas, but in other texts he is
described as weighing the merits of a particular tree, or arguing that
there was no special omen, or, later, as fondly gazing at the tree
under which he gained enlightenment.
From the narrative material connected with the bodhi tree, we dis-
tilled four hypotheses: (1) the matrix hypothesis: pre-established nar-
rative patterns forming a matrix for the position of the bodhi tree(s)
of all the Buddhas, including Gautama, (2) the shade-and-reflection
hypothesis: explaining the place of trees in Buddha’s biography from
his reflective nature, (3) the landscape hypothesis: trees as obvious
markers of meaning and as natural centers in a landscape, and (4)
the symbol hypothesis: trees (both the bodhi tree and other trees) as
presenting familiar and easily accessible symbol systems. The bodhi
tree thus became both a symbol of Buddha’s enlightenment and an
institutionalised replacement of the Buddha in his absence. King
A≤oka, with his fervent devotion, set the model for the bodhi-pùjà,
and, through his missionary activities, Dharma empirialism and con-
scious propagation of the bodhi cult, initiated a Buddhist pilgrimage
tradition.
With the Buddha’s particular connection with, and fondness for,
certain trees, we shifted from aesthetic and utilitarian categories, and
touched upon traditional belief systems. Parallel belief systems under-
lie the cosmogonic myths and the sacrificial cult. In the wondering
about origins and the quest for a prima materia, many possible begin-
nings were imagined, and many plausible material causes were pon-
dered. Wood and trees formed one category among many. Along
with, for instance, water, sound/vibration/breath, and seed/egg, the
category of wood/trees continues to present a strong case, living on
in myths, legends, symbols, and cults up to the present day. In an
interconnected world, belief in the sacredness of wood and trees is
expressed on many levels, from myths, magic, medicine, and medi-
tation, to rituals of praise and prayer, and even in people hugging
or chaining themselves to trees, as in the Chipko Movement.

434 chapter seven
We distinguished five major aspects in the sacredness of trees: ver-

ticality, centrality, immortality, fertility, and generosity. Most of these
notions provide us with an ontological validation of a tree’s sacred-
ness, but the sacrality of trees should not reductionistically be accounted
for in terms of morphological or functional categories alone. Often,
there exists a veritable web of sympathetic correspondences in which
the allusions have become so esoteric that the common reader may
easily get lost in high-strung obscure analogies and opaque homolo-
gies. In addition to the naturalistic level, we found various other lev-
els, such as sacrificial symbolism and meditative interiorisation. Many
of these associations are still valid today, although some of the Vedic
sacrificial homologies are no longer properly understood, and the
practice of profound systematic meditation is often replaced by pop-
ular devotional practice. Nevertheless, we found that not only are
many rituals carried out beneath sacred trees, but a multilayered
whole remains. Temple art has conserved many of its narrative
strands, and in numerous temple compounds one can still see in the
original architectural design that the tree (or its derivative) was once
central. The sthalav‰kßas are crossing places between different worlds,
marking the spot where the mythic landscape erupts from mythic
time into the present. They thus serve as a tangible relict of that
other dimension, mythic time, and provide a triple sacrality: not only
are they embodiments of the divine just as any other properly con-
secrated object in the temple complex, as a spontaneously emerging
hierophany they are doubly awe-inspiring. Moreover, in their ancient-
ness they cross the gap from primeval landscape to man-made temple
complex.
Much of this original position has become obscure as a result of
shifting devotional and ritual attention to man-made shrines and stat-
ues. But even when the divine has been walled in and given a human
face, spontaneous shrines continue to emerge outside and even inside
temple walls. Simple outdoor shrines are attended by many layers
of society, although even in post-constitution days a fluid kind of
social segregation is perceptible: simple tree shrines situated outdoors
tend to be visited more by the lower strata, and by women, sàdhus,
and people of tribal origin. Regarding today’s state of affairs, we dis-
tinguished both a centrifugal dynamic in which the rank of the tree
cult is diminishing, moving away from the centre to the fringe, and
a centripetal dynamic in which the tree cult is moving inwards, first
entering the temple grounds from the streets and fields, and then

gaining status by bràhma»ical acknowledgement and ritual integra-

tion. We found an intricate interplay of scriptural traditions, temple
Hinduism, and popular practice.
One of the most persistent forms of a tree cult in which the whole
complex of myth, ritual, and symbolism is more or less intact was
found in the Navakalevara procedure of selecting and processing
wood for the statues in the Jagannàtha temple at Purì. The whole
procedure was found to be a fabric woven of various strands for
which the temple acted as a museum or conservatory: once the form
got separated from its natural context and was lifted up to the
high-Hindu surroundings of the Purì temple, it remained basically
unaltered. In addition to the practical purpose of periodically pro-
ducing new mùrtis, this particular set of rites was shown to be a peri-
odical re-enactment of partly legendary and partly historic events,
but in its prave≤ana aspect it more or less mirrors the Vedic pre-
scriptions for obtaining trees meant for sacrificial stakes, flagpoles,
or temple pillars, and those found in ≤ilpa and vàstu texts of later
date. God is not only believed to be present in the Purì statues,—
if properly consecrated any statue is a mùrti—the Jagannàth mùrtis
are doubly divine by the presence of the undying essence, the brahma-
padàrtha hidden in the cavity. The special role of the daitàs in the
transference rite underlines this understanding of the periodical renewal
as an elaborate re-enactment of the origins.
All of these remnants show the persistence of the sacred, in both
its material and its symbolic aspects. This is also seen when scientific
facts and figures relating to the material value of tree cover in India
are mixed by the environmental lobby with persisting practices, myths,
popular devotional narratives, and other religious sensitivities. We
found that such a connection creates incentives where plain envi-
ronmental campaigns could not effectively reach the conscience and
the hearts of the people in order to alter their behaviour adequately.
But linking environmentalism with religious traditions can be dan-
gerous. Religious sensitivities may be mobilised to awaken people’s
interest (“let us be like •iva, like K‰ß»a, like Buddha”), but religion
may simultaneously give rise to serious obstruction, such as causing
people to rely on the god’s intervention instead of acting for them-
selves, or to blame Kaliyuga for today’s state of degeneration. It is
also argued that overall attitudes, such as expressed in terms like
saásàra, màyà, advaita, and quietistic yogic saáto≤a, may inhibit social
activism, and that remnants of the caste-hierarchy still persist in the

436 chapter seven
blaming of those lower in rank for not doing their job of clearing
away human and industrial waste.
One of the strongest motivations for a potentially positive role of
Indian religions in dealing with the environmental crisis is India’s
geo-piety. The patchwork of sacred places and sacred geographies
all over India, connected by pilgrims’ paths, is often pointed out as
an ancient pattern of respect for geographically defined divinity. In
the reactions to pollution and degradation of the environment, the
awareness of India’s sacred geography may have given rise to enthu-
siastic and well-meaning perusings of ancient texts and traditions,
but the religious imagery is effective only in combination with com-
mon sense attitudes of facts and figures, systems approaches, and
scientifically explained correlations. But where such objective coach-
ing into more environmentally conscious behaviour may meet with
reluctance, suspicion, or straightforward resistance, additional appeal
to religious sentiments is often able to mobilise large groups of peo-
ple. The more tangibly connected with a sacred site such an appeal
is, the better it appears to evoke the spirit to do something about
it. At the same time, however, the shadowside of sacred geography
clearly manifests itself. The non-sacred places on India’s map may
thus legitimately function either as dumps or as areas open to ruth-
less exploitation.
When environmental activism is linked with traditional religious
notions, for instance by involving temples, priests, and sàdhus, by the
use of religious idiom and imagery, and by imaginatively applying
and transforming traditional practices such as dances, songs, read-
ings of the Bhagavadgìtà, and rakhi-tying, such an intertwining appears
to solidify the environmental message and to mobilise people other-
wise not interested. Acknowledgement of material dependence is tra-
ditionally interwoven with religious narratives, and in many cases
references to this revive a sense of belonging and responsibility.
Nevertheless, since India is not only a secular but also a multi-reli-
gious society, the predominance of Hindu rhetoric may have its pit-
falls for other communities. In the context of the hype around sacred
groves (as pockets of biodiversity and as illustrations of the persis-
tence of the sacred), it has been reported that some sacred groves
have become appropriated by other than the original (mostly tribal)
groups. Some have become targets of eco-tourism. Some have become
commercial cultural spaces. Some have become monopolised and
turned into institutions of Hinduism. Conservation, for its own sake,

is gaining importance too. It is even said that conservation, in some

places, has turned into a new religion.
Religion was thus found to be both an incentive and an obstruc-
tion to environmental consciousness. By referring to religious sensi-
tivities, current environmental movements may be able to mobilise
groups of people otherwise not interested, and to offer incentives for
environment-conscious behaviour by linking today’s ecological insights
to role models in traditional narratives; however, mixing science, his-
tory, and religion may seriously backfire when favourite inspirational
texts are looked at more thoroughly and critically. But as things are
today, such appeals to the religious heritage are effective. Institu-
tionalised religion, parallel to being a factor that alienates contem-
porary society from nature, in India may simultaneously be applied
as a force that remembers, refocuses, and reintegrates.
7.2 The interrelatedness of symbolic and material values
Myth and ritual are media of communication through which per-

sons find meaningful systems of symbols for ordering, identifying,
and clarifying experiences. In society, symbols are efficient means of
organising information in a condensed format: they provide coher-
ence, and they function as mechanisms by which a particular cul-
ture is organised. Mostly, they have an inspirational quality, and
provide both meaning and identity.
India’s common inheritance abounds with mythical resources. They
actively contribute to the ideological framework. They articulate
significance on the cosmological, the sociological, and the individual
level. There is an abundance of creation myths, aetiological stories,
and associative magic in which living trees, and their derivative,
wood, are referred to as being as inherently sacred and powerful as
they were at the beginning of things. Living wood is often as highly
revered as living earth: both are thought to bear the original vital-
ity uninterruptedly as well as unadulteratedly. Both are thought to
be nourished directly by the kàra»a-salila or primordial fluid. Mythic
occurrences often become detached from historical processes, and
tend to present particular cultural phenomena as universal. In short,
they may be seen as a poetic attempt to close the ontological gap.
Trees seem to be ideal ‘gap’-crossers. They are ideal ‘communi-
cators’, ‘channels’, and ‘intermediaries’, as they are thought to belong

438 chapter seven
to the three realms simultaneously. Some of those ideas are still seen
in the rites with which Indian people from all walks of life honour
and supplicate trees. One could distinguish plain reverence, specific
objective-oriented wish-fulfillment rituals, and more or less collective
calendrical rites through which the continuation of the existing, pos-
itive state of affairs is sought to be maintained. As ritual symbols,
they have been investigated in many particular cultural systems, as
well as in their universal symbolic language. Ethnographists like
Mannhardt, ritualists like Frazer, and phenomenologists like Eliade
gave them an important place in their morphologies of the sacred.
J.J. Meyer’s studies were carried out in more or less the same vein,
although more specifically (but not exclusively) focused on India.
What such works have in common is their a-historicity. From such
studies it is hard to determine the extent to which contemporary
groups of people still harbour such notions or still practise such rit-
uals. Useful ethnographies, such as those by Dubois, and Elwin, may
still be valid for some of the groups they describe. I have reason to
assume that rituals around sacred trees, often connected with indi-
vidual, unofficial, and extra muros devotional behaviour as well as
imbedded in traditional temple and pilgrimage behaviour, are not
subject to rapid erosion through processes of modernisation, urban-
isation, and secularisation as other domains are. One may wonder
whether the sacredness attributed to trees increases or decreases as
trees become rarer and forests sparser. In general, deforestation
appears to have a momentum of its own. It would be wrong to con-
nect the phenomenon too closely with particular cultures and their
ideas of the sacred or the profane.
This brings us to the notion of sacredness. We are used to employ-
ing the word ‘sacred’ by way of contrast: normal, profane things are
by far in the majority, but sacrality is attributed to a few objects
and instances. When we examined the words with which things that
are holy, sacred, auspicious, ritually pure, etcetera, are traditionally
indicated in India, it struck us that words like pavitra, pu»ya, ≤uddha,
svaccha, ≤reyas, and sàf, or their derivatives, refer to nothing inher-
ently sacred but denote some object, person, or situation made aus-
picious after a string of divine events or human actions. At the same
time, the experience of the sacred is not reducable to a set formula.
As building blocks in the phenomenon of the sacred tree, we dis-
tinguished, among other things, empirical observations, symbolic
allusions and equivalences, esoteric systems of correspondence, mor-

phological characteristics, suggestive names, cosmogonic narratives,

and a detailed sacred geography. This links up with the (once lively)
theoretical discussion about the possible interrelationship between
myth and ritual in the academic study of religions. In our research,
we found close connections between the two, but no conclusive evi-
dence. The sacredness of a specific tree, or the sacredness of a par-
ticular species of trees, is never conclusively and reductionistically
explained, even if some historic details, narrative traditions, or ritu-
alistic building blocks can be provided to account for some aspects
of the sacredness of trees, or the geographically ordered embodiment
of the divine, in general.
In India, where the sacred and the non-sacred are fluid categories,
not officially decided upon by any authoritative institution, sacred
trees continue to be seen as vital manifestations of the divine, ≤akti,
or nitya-suma«galam. Trees appear to be particularly fitted to serve as
a channel between limitless divine bounty and the supplicant with
his desire for boons, gains, protection, and happiness. Rituals give
ample expression to this. Rituals make this experience of the sacred
culturally explicit. Myths provide the narratives, the particularities,
the translation into a framework men can relate to, share, and trans-
mit to following generations. As a symbol, a particular tree, trees in
general, or forests as a whole create order, arrange levels of mean-
ing, and articulate significance. A tree provides the spot where the
human need for reassurance is accommodated.
Whether it is the live tree which is venerated and addressed, or
the devotional object placed beneath it, or the wooden statue carved
from it and ritually installed in a great temple, the human devotee
feels close to a source of great power and beneficence. As a sym-
bol, a sacred tree bridges the ontological gap between human alien-
ation and the omnipresent, omnipotent All. A sacred tree, literally,
functions as a reversed funnel, with man at the narrow end, the
receiving side. Wishing trees were found to combine three functions:
the naturalistic (a physical tree is known to give generously of its
shade, its fruits, flowers, and leaves, its medicine, and its other byprod-
ucts like honey), the intermediary (a tree as the connection between
various realms), and the accommodating (a tree as the place where
a tree spirit or deity lives). Once a tree becomes a shrine, housing
both statues and ex voto gifts, it is often found to be gradually reduced
to an umbrella function: not the tree is the centre of devotion but
the statues in the shrine.

440 chapter seven
In connecting ecology and the economy of the sacred, environ-

mental movements explicitly reconnect material and symbolic val-
ues. Not all experiences of sacredness can finally be reduced to utility,
nor can sacrality be separated totally from material and emotional
needs. One of the most sacred trees, the pipal, is useful in that it
provides shade, but its tiny berries are not at all impressive. Its
fluttering leaves reflecting the sunlight present a pretty sight, but
these characteristics are not sufficient to explain the veneration shown
to it. It is here that the role of imagination and affection (kalpa,
vikalpa) must be acknowledged. Somehow, this tree, from very early
on, as can be seen in the pipal motif on Indus seals and pottery,
caught the imagination of Indian people. This may reflect a blend
of utility, beauty, reverence, chemistry, botany, and much more. That
it became connected historically with Buddha’s enlightenment added
to an already existent affection. At the same time, one may wonder
why it was a pipal which was chosen by •àkyamuni as the tree
beneath which he would attain final liberative insight, or why Buddhist
tradition maintained that it was a pipal tree under which he was des-
tined to attain enlightenment.
Shade may not be a substance, nor have a hard material value,
but in a country like India, shade is experienced as a vital near-mate-
rial property, as essential as food and drink, at times even more so.
In much the same way, today, tree cover in mountainous areas is
considered essential even when the trees growing in such forests are
not of the obviously lucrative or productive kind. It is the under-
lying ecological order which makes such forests essential. It is their
function as a buffer for heavy rain and melting snow, to keep the
topsoil in place, that determines their ultimate value. In ecological
thinking, practically applied and toned down to basic causal factors
of interconnection, both shade and buffer are recognised as mate-
rial values in the systems theory. It is to this precarious balance that
environmental movements appeal when they play upon religious sen-
sitivities. The hard material value of quick cash profits from the sale
of wood is set against the more subtle long-term need of keeping
the topsoil intact. The latter argument may not be sufficient in itself
to keep the forests from being logged and looted; an additional incen-
tive is provided by referring the ideal of conservation to the peo-
ple’s favourite gods, narratives, and religious role models.
To me, it is less evident that the ideal of ahiása is explicitly
appealed to in the case of threatened trees. In Asian Buddhism, such

as in Thailand, both the ecological systems theory and the ethico-reli-

gious cluster of dharma, karma, and ahiása are brought into the dis-
course. In India, some environmentalists call themselves neo-Gandhian,
but they appear to apply the ideal of non-violence mainly to pas-
sive resistance, such as on occasions when they are seriously chal-
lenged to resort to armed violence against the authorities or the
multinationals. As far as I know, the ideal of ahiása is not directly
applied to trees. The exhortion that one should not harm trees as
they are life-forms which have as much right to live as humans do,
and should not be harmed in any way, sounds almost too senti-
mental for today’s Hinduism, in my view.
In using this line of argument, one could easily be put into a cor-
ner by reference to the constant cutting of trees in the ancient reli-
gious texts, or to the royal cousins Arjuna and K‰ß»a having a good
time when burning the Khà»∂ava Forest and killing all creatures
living there. Using ancient religious, philosophical, or ethical texts to
provide guidelines for today’s behaviour is full of pitfalls. Encouraging
people to be selectively inspired by scriptural traditions may be fruit-
ful in India’s environmental lobby, but a counter argument is read-
ily available from the very same scriptures.
In a not directly religious or ethical way, there are ancient tradi-
tions in which Indian rulers were pro-actively concerned with the
management of parks, orchards, woods, and forests, and their pro-
duce. From texts such as Artha≤àstra, Dharma≤àstra, and V‰kßàyurveda,
a much more plausible model for today’s management of arboreal
wealth in the country may emerge. The king is ideally a just ruler
with equal concern for all strata in society, and for all life-forms in
his realm. The local van-panchayats act more or less in this tradition
still. Such clashes of priorities, as that between tennis rackets and
wooden ploughs, which fired the nascent Chipko Movement’s indig-
nation, indicate that today’s India is a multilayered society living in
various time zones, varying from Pauranic conceptions of Kaliyuga to
postmodern fragmentation and arbitrariness.
Be that as it may, the persistence of the sacred is undeniable. In
daily life, many handicrafted wooden objects are being replaced by
objects made from synthetic materials. The tree cover is thinning at
an alarming rate. Ancient stories have been forgotten and replaced
by Bollywood melodrama. New technologies bring rapid changes.
Nevertheless, sacred trees showing signs of fresh worship are every-
where.

442 chapter seven
7.3 Appendix: Ambivalence of religious inspiration in the

‘greening’ of tradition
Traditional religion Today’s environment

Values Actions, behaviour
Distant ancestors Modern conceptualisations
Natural beauty Vedic sacrificial violence
Sacred trees being praised Sacred trees ending up as sacrificial
objects
Killing trees for the sacrificial The promise of ‘immortality’
domain
Honeyed verses to the tree Man’s need for it and its produce
Natural beauty Nature as backdrop for the human
drama
Equality of all life-forms Utilitarian conservationism for human
ends
Theory of karma Irresponsible and inconsiderate
behaviour
•iva offering his matted hair to •iva the destroyer
brake the thunderous descent of
Ga«gà
K‰ß»a in pastoral Braj K‰ß»a destroying the Khà»∂ava
Forest


Women’s vratas for husband and Fertility, overpopulation
children
Kaliyuga Fatalism, doomsday scenarios
Geo-piety, sacred geography Non-sacred space as dump or for
ruthless overexploitation
Kàlaku†a poison swallowed by •iva Reliance on divine intervention
Purifying qualities of Forgiving Mother who cleans up
Mother Ga«gà the mess
Saásàra, lìla, màyà, advaita Irrelevance of nature
Yogic saáto≤a Complacency, indifference
Vedànta transcendence World-negation
Dharmo rakßati rakßayata˙ V‰kßo rakßati rakßayata˙
Sacred groves: persistence Sacred groves: biodiversity
of the sacred
Tribal ways Complaint: “Everything is
paryavaran these days!”
Earth Goddess: respect •rì, Lakßmì: wealth, prosperity

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INDEX
Agni, 6–9, 31, 37–38, 56, 62, 68, 252, brahmada»∂a, 136–139
316, 359, 373, 393–395 brahmamùla, 319
akßayava†a tree, 43, 49, 54, 261, brahmapadàrtha, 242, 247, 254,
292–293, 300, 327, 372 260–276, 435
Ànanda’s bodhi tree at Jetavana, 143, brahmarandhra, 137, 139
160–162, 168, 176–177, 181–183, brahmav‰kßa, 37
190, 198, 222, 230–232, 237 Brahma’s hair, 385
Anderson, L.M., 94, 103–104, 337 Brandis, D., 418
Anuràdhapura, bodhi-tree, 160, 182,
188–189, 220–241 caitya, 48–49, 51, 131, 143, 173–174,
Apffel-Marglin, F., 250, 276 190–192, 196, 211,
asok(a), ashok tree, 20, 33, 56, 99, Callicott, J.B., 363, 371
105–107, 148–149, 163, 166, 186, Chipko, 368, 383, 400–410, 433,
207, 307, 361, 426 441
ash(es), 8–9, 43, 51, 56, 80, 103, 106, Clothey, F., 312, 412
123, 126, 144, 179, 189–192, 229, Coomaraswamy, A.K., 30–33, 38, 41,
230–231, 262, 267, 370, 378, 44, 65, 69, 107, 170, 305, 310
386–387, 394, 427 cosmic tree, 30, 37, 40, 43, 50, 74,
Àra»yanì, 8, 373, 425 139, 294, 305, 319–320
Auboyer, J., 109, 299, 337 Crooke, W., 114, 281, 313, 316–317,
326, 329, 339
Badrinàth, 384–387, 414 Cunningham, A., 51, 101, 156,
banyan tree, 8, 22, 54–55, 127, 130, 191–192, 194, 197, 212, 214, 218,
149, 153–154, 160, 166–167, 172, 238
207, 246–247, 261–262, 281, 286,
288, 300, 302, 315–316, 323, 325, dàru, 244, 250–255, 259, 261, 263,
330–332, 341, 355–356, 360–362, 266, 274, 277–279, 300–301
416, 426 deva(tà), 6, 37, 39, 65, 82, 131, 151,
Beane, W.C., 8, 50, 354 155–158, 170, 216, 240, 320–321,
beauty, 3, 7, 10, 15, 17, 22–23, 30, 380–381, 396
68, 78–79, 83, 85, 89–90, 95, 99, Devì/Bhùdevì, 8, 260, 335, 342, 384,
103, 119, 121, 126, 133, 149, 197, 425
294, 320, 388, 429, 440, 442 dharmavana, 19, 78, 84–85
bel tree, 130, 153, 250, 322, 335, 388, Dubois, Abbé J.A., 114, 281, 300
426
Biardeau, M., 24, 56, 60, 62, 310, Eliade, M., 29, 41, 70, 303, 305, 354
318, 342 Elwin, V., 27, 262, 281, 379–380
bird(s), 9, 40, 46–47, 54–57, 63, 96, Eschmann, A., 62, 243–244, 249–250,
104–105, 116, 149, 174–175, 207, 262–264, 270, 318, 342, 353, 420
220–222, 237, 251, 314, 324–326, Fergusson, J., ix, 57
389, 391, 393, 432 Frazer, J.G., 111, 310, 354
bodhipùjà, 227–229, 237, 241, 433
Bodhgaya, secondary bodhi-tree, 201, gopì(s), 18, 22, 112–113, 127–132, 329,
205–206, 215 334–335
Bosch, F.D.K., 28, 31–32, 37, 41, 320 Gold, A.G., 5, 71, 292, 375–377
bounty, 5, 7–8, 10, 22, 42, 45, 59, Gonda, J., 7, 30, 33, 52, 67, 72–73,
79, 85–86, 105, 327, 392, 429, 439 90, 95

508 index
green, 6, 8, 10, 15, 22, 28, 58, 84, 89, Ma«galà, 246, 249–250, 258, 260,
113, 212, 217, 282, 285, 313, 365, 268, 276–278
385, 397, 398, 402, 415, 426, 428 Mathurà, 128, 184, 329, 333–334,
‘greening’ of religious tradition, ix, 442 387–388
Meyer, J.J., ix, 1, 32, 48, 55, 69, 73,
Haberman, D., 388 78, 102, 104, 106, 281, 326, 358,
hair, 6, 27–28, 55, 88, 122, 138, 162, 438
262, 309, 323, 331–333, 340–341,
355–356, 385 Narayanan, V., 316, 349, 396
hook-swinging, 110, 114, 308, 337, Navakalevara, 61–62, 259–261, 265–279,
342, 423 302, 313, 435
Huyler, S.P., 101, 281, 349, 358, 424 navel/nàbha/nabhi, 26, 31–32, 43, 48,
50, 253, 275, 285–286, 297,
Indra’s dhvaja/banner/pole/vajra, 30, 302–305, 333, 388, 427
32, 40, 61, 68, 73–74, 102, neem/nìm/nimba tree, 130, 245, 251,
107–108, 134, 138, 192, 272, 318 262, 286, 302, 316, 321–324, 338,
‘inverted tree’ symbolism, 30, 32, 356, 415–416, 426
36–39, 41, 252 Nelson, L., 369–371, 374, 376–378,
Irwin, J., 30, 33, 192, 293 384–385, 388–389, 397
nyagrodha tree, 10, 28, 30, 39–40,
jambu tree, 36, 45, 81, 147, 150–151, 54–55, 66, 77, 81, 127, 158–159,
156, 158, 163, 166–169, 178, 193, 169, 178, 207, 261
284, 286, 296–298, 327, 336
jarjara, 33, 73–74, 107–108, 138–139, palà≤a/palash(a) tree, 28, 37, 51, 63,
318, 342 66–67, 102, 106, 140, 148–149,
170, 322, 333
kadamba tree, 36, 128–130, 286, 291, parikrama, 50, 204, 291, 389
307, 334–336, 358, 389 Pàrvatì, 8, 68, 81, 90, 104, 124–127,
Kàka†pur, 246, 266, 276–278 134, 136, 139, 208, 290, 294–298,
Kàlaku†a poison, 34, 373, 380, 358
392–393, 442 phallic symbol(ism), 57–58, 102, 124,
Kaliyuga, 244, 258, 262, 363, 370–381, 131–135, 311, 326, 342
435, 441, 442 pipal/pippal(a) tree, 36, 51, 130,
kalpadruma, 43, 307, 327 167–169, 172, 216, 240–241, 280,
kalpala†a, 43, 135, 327 286, 315, 322–323, 358, 360, 389,
kalpataru, 43, 327 416, 426, 440
kalpava†a, 160, 246 Pippalàda, 326
kalpav‰kßa, 36, 41, 43, 130, 135, plakßa tree, 36, 45, 59, 68, 81,
200–201, 207, 212–213, 247, 259, 148–149, 191
261, 323, 327, 416, 426 prasàd(a), 250, 258, 297, 321, 347,
khadìra tree, 28, 57, 66–67, 388, 394 363, 365, 389–390, 411–414
Khà»∂ava Forest, 9, 319, 367, 393–395, prave≤ana, 435, 442
431, 441–442 Prayàg(a), 33, 65, 135, 235, 246,
kìla, 29–30, 108, 116–117, 138 292–293
Kramrisch, S., 32–33, 45, 50, 58, 65, P‰thivi, 8, 72, 397
69, 244, 310, 349
Kulke, H., 62, 244, 248, 263, 353 rakhi, 406, 409, 436
Ku»∂alinì, 40, 50, 131, 136–141, 298 Randhawa, M., 113, 119, 148, 280,
314, 318–319, 338, 340
loka, 20, 45, 52, 72, 246
sacred geography, 70, 271, 283–284,
Mahameghavana, 188, 220 288–289, 302, 319, 351, 373,
mahaprasàd(a), 250, 258 383–385, 387–388, 397, 436, 439,
Mahony, W.K., 24, 27 442

index 509
sacred grove, 5, 21, 54, 306, 343–344, udumbar(a)/umbar tree, 28, 59, 66, 81,
358, 365, 390, 400, 417–428, 436, 110, 136, 178, 332–333, 422
443 umbilical cord, 31, 43, 86, 302
Sacred Plants Resort, 399, 414–415
shade, 3–4, 8, 10, 41, 60, 63, 80, vanaprave≤a(na), 61–66, 73, 108
82–83, 85, 90, 96, 108, 118, Vanaspati, 6, 30, 46, 78
150–151, 157, 164–169, 180–181, vanayàga, 249–253, 266, 268–269, 274,
193, 195, 207, 222–223, 238, 280, 306, 311
287, 291, 294, 296–297, 325, 330, vanayàtrà, 61, 70, 249, 268, 334
333, 336–337, 340, 347, 353, Va†a Sàvitrì Vrata, 57, 290, 328, 348,
388–389, 396, 413, 416, 433, 359–361, 409
439–440 Vatsyayan, K., 30, 33, 51, 54, 287,
Shulman, D., 282, 288, 294–298, 305 380–381, 392, 397, 425
Siva’s hair, 385–387, 410, 432, 442 Viennot, O., ix, 2, 5, 69, 163, 169,
skambha/Skambha, 26–30, 32, 37, 48, 173
342 vilva tree, 28, 66–68, 81, 84, 115,
soma, 12, 21, 28, 33–37, 52–53, 66, 127–130, 153, 250, 299, 321–322,
77, 81, 131, 140–141, 222, 335–336, 361
323–324, 329, 330 vrata, 36, 43, 57, 84, 115, 290, 328,
≤ràddha, 43, 49, 199, 218, 256, 292 333, 347, 352, 357–362, 409, 432,
Staal, F., 3, 62, 316 442
sthalav‰kßa, 51, 58, 261, 276, 282–293, V‰ndàvana, 22, 128–130, 334, 373,
300, 302, 312, 352, 411, 434 389
stambha, 30, 37, 46–47, 65, 73,
100–101, 116, 285, 291, 304, 318, Whitehead, H., 281, 317
342 Williams, J., 380, 391
Sthambhe≤varì, 265, 342 wishing tree, 1, 31, 35–36, 41–45, 60,
swing(ing), 104, 107, 109–117, 120, 103, 125, 131–133, 139, 261, 292,
130, 306, 308, 336–339, 356 299–302, 306–307, 327–330, 344,
357, 380, 392, 398, 416, 439
tapas, 12, 26, 32, 115–117, 125–129, ‘woman-and-tree’ motif, 4, 98–100,
137, 142, 306, 333, 337, 350 133, 142
Tavernier, J.-B., 115, 281, 331
Tirupati/Tirumala, 347, 412–414, 417 Yamunà/Jamna, 5, 22, 127–129, 135,
tree stump, 52, 58, 63–64, 68, 124, 334–337, 373, 389–394
131, 136, 285–286, 290–291,
311–313, 342, 348, 397


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Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Nugteren, Albertina, 1955–

© Copyright 2005 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated,

Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is

printed in the netherlands

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

I. Symbol and sacredness: Trees in ancient religious literature

III. Buddha, Buddhism, and the bodhi tree

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

3.2.1 The continuation of pre-existing tree

IV. Gods of wood, gods of stone: The ritual renewal of the

V. Contemporary tree worship

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

VI. Planting and prasàd versus plunder and pollution:

VII. Belief, bounty, and beauty: The interrelatedness of

Bibliography ................................................................................ 445

Index ............................................................................................ 507

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

When I started my research on sacred trees, my initial interest had

(1) trees in ancient religious literature,

A work like this relies heavily on studies by others. I recognise my

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

Since I took a contemporary phenomenon as my point of depar-

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

SYMBOL AND SACREDNESS:

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

When did the notion of sacredness regarding trees arise in Vedic

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

Was it because the tree was seen as a living entity, a personality

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

When oﬃcials at the court started to compose guidelines and man-

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

latter, is a comparison with the persisting cult of sacred rivers in

1.1 The experience of nature, the landscape, the forest

When we reﬂect on the experience of nature the ancient Indians

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

What do we have, then? Honeyed verses from the Vedic priests,

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

Some such hymns are directed to powers that were conceived as

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

What has come down to us, as a negative appraisal, is a certain

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

belonging to the village as ‘Umfeld.’23 Àra»ya, on the other hand,

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

from the well-ordered family life to yogic experiments in the forests,

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

Apparently, there was a shift in the evaluation of forest life that

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

Albertina Nugteren - 978-90-47-41561-9

years of exile, preparing them both physically and psychologically