Autobiography of A Banyan Tree
I am an old Banyan tree and I am writing my autobiography. I was born on 26th January, 1814. I have a faint recollection of my infancy. Actually people fail to imagine the age of a Banyan tree like me because they generally fail to calculate it as they lack knowledge. I don’t like to accuse them, instead I would like to inspire them to take preparation to celebrate my bi-centenary.
People say that only great men can think of writing autobiographic. If goodness is also greatness, I can, without pretension, justly write the story of my own life which will interest my readers.
First a tree cannot be sure of anything about its birth. If is said that a certain bird while eating a bunch of banyan cones dropped some seeds on the ground where I stand new. I was born of one of those seeds I remained cold and low throughout winter and one fine morning, in spring. I opened my eyes and smiled upon the sun. Gradually, I grew into a plant a young plant to sustain life upon earth in a fully fledged manner and contributing whatever I can for the society and the environment.
I have gathered varied experience in my long life. On a fine summer day, I felt a little puzzled when I saw myself being worshipped by some village women; but I do not know what holiness they found in me. I am now a stout and strong Banyan tree deeply rooted to the ground. Once I saw a weeping woman following the pier of her husband to the cremation ground with a child in her arms. Her eyes were red and her cry, seemed to reach the sky. It was a great tragedy that took place fifty years ago. I have also seen many happy sights like wedding processions, pilgrims going to distant alters, processions of young people celebrating their victory in tournaments and the like. On the last day of Bengal year, a village fair is held in the place around rue and the people of the neighborhood come to join it.
Several generations of men of this place and its adjoining areas have come in direct contact with me. I have seen them come and go, but I am still living. Generations of monkeys, countless generations of birds have lived upon my branches. People, birds and other animals are still with me, fairs and meals are still held and I may have another hundred years’ life unless I am struck by a deadly thunder or uprooted by the violent storms or cut by man. But in any case I wish to die with mental satisfaction that during my long tenure of life my enemies were directed towards rightful actions and duties worth living.