Sacred Fig

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A recent re-reading of Richard Mabey on the ancient and revered Fortingall Yew in Scotland put me in mind of other trees with a well-documented spiritual connection. Such a tree is the sacred fig (Ficus religiosa) or bodhi tree in whose ample shade Gautama Buddha is said to have attained enlightenment whilst meditating. The site of this sacred tree is in present-day Bodh Gaya in Bihar state in India. The original tree is said to have been destroyed but a branch of it was taken by Emperor Ashoka to Anuradhapura in Sri Lanka in 288BC. A cutting from this descendant tree was later returned to Bodh Gaya thus ensuring that the tree that stands at the Mahabodhi temple complex is, in theory, a clone of the original – a tree historically if not genetically predisposed to spiritual enlightenment.

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I visited Bodh Gaya in early 2008, breaking my journey from Varanasi to Kolkata by way of a detour via Patna and Gaya to spend a couple of nights in the pilgrimage town. Venerated as the most holy place in Buddhism, Bodh Gaya is less a town, more an extended religious complex with temples and monasteries belonging to all manner of Buddhist traditions. Bodh Gaya lies close to the poor, crowded city of Gaya, a scooter-taxi ride through dusty farmland in one of India’s most poverty stricken and politically corrupt provinces. The weather was dank and drizzly, although this being India it was still unremittingly hot and humid; the sky was grey-white without feature, drained of colour, which is something that can rarely be said about India in general. Spoiled for choice for accommodation, I lodged in a friendly Tibetan establishment where I was served hearty dumplings and beer with the meals – as befits a people living on a high arid plateau, Tibetan Buddhists have a tolerant and pragmatic outlook on life.

Buddhists from all over the subcontinent thronged the streets and thoroughfares that linked the town’s numerous temples, and I encountered Burmese, Tibetan and Nepalese pilgrims as well as Ladakhis and mountain folk from all over the Himalayan region. The pervading atmosphere was undoubtedly one of gleeful joy, with excitement and piety shown in equal measure. For many of the visitors, poor farmers from isolated mountain villages, this pilgrimage would probably the only journey in their lives that would take them so far away from home. It must have felt much the same in medieval Europe when adventurous folk made long arduous journeys to Rome, Santiago or Canterbury.

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I am no Buddhist but nevertheless I paid my respects to a wide variety of the town’s temples, driven more by curiosity and cultural interest than any sort of spiritual craving. I was particularly interested in the ancient sacred fig that grew at the Mahabodhi temple and so joined the cheerful crowd that repeatedly circumambulated the temple. The route followed a walkway that passed beneath the boughs of the sacred sprawling tree on each circuit. The sacred fig tree, many branched and mature, was protected behind a stone wall along which many saffron shawls had been draped to signal the tree’s sanctity. Such physical confinement seems a characteristic of venerated ancient trees – Mabey had complained in his piece of the Fortingall Yew being disappointingly inaccessible, and even at home here in Norfolk the 900-year-old Hethel Old Thorn, the subject of an earlier blog post, is surrounded by a solid wooden fence fence.

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After a few clockwise revolutions around the temple I noticed a small group of Himachali pilgrims on their hands and knees on the paving beneath the tree. I saw that they were gathering some of the tiny figs that had fallen from the tree. No larger than blackcurrants, I wondered what they would do with the fruits – eat them or make some sort of spiritually charged cordial? – but apparently they would be used to create prayer beads. I gathered a small handful myself and over the next few days dried them out on tissue on the window ledge of wherever I was staying.

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Back home a couple of months later I tried my hand at germinating the fig seed I had gathered in India. I planted dozens of the miniscule seeds in potting compost and within a few weeks had half a dozen or so plants. Four of these survived the re-potting process and of these I kept three and gave one to my friend Karin who had expressed an interest in what I had done. One of my plants, clearly the runt of the litter, did not last long but the other two have grown slowly over the years to become decent-sized pot plants.

Nine years later the figs still grace the windowsill of my kitchen – the diffused light and the humidity seems to suit them reasonably well although scale insect is a perennial problem and I have to swab them with diluted washing-up liquid to keep the sap-sucking insects under control. Karin keeps her plant in her living room and it is now larger than either of mine, with larger, if fewer, leaves. Undaunted, I like to think that my little fig trees still have a touch more wildness about them, a little more ecological integrity. A stone temple in a warm sub-tropical climate is, of course, better suited to their natural requirements – they naturally desire to clamber over stone, to bake in stultifying heat, be seasonally soaked in monsoon rain. But they are, after all, strangler figs by nature – forest dwellers that germinate on the wood of other trees before eventually taking over their host — and even a Buddhist temple in India is not the species’ ideal habitat let alone a windowsill in northwest Europe. Whether either of these direct descendants of Buddha’s sacred tree will ever grow large enough for me to be able to sit and meditate beneath is unlikely but I like to think that their presence adds a little oriental wisdom to whatever I get up to in the kitchen.

In the event of my ever moving home – not something that is even vaguely on the horizon right now – I will be looking for a place with some sort of conservatory. It will probably be the plants that dictate such a move, rather than any motive of down-sizing or considerations whether or not I can still negotiate stairs in my dotage. In the meantime I will keep on re-potting and squishing scale insects. Enlightenment is mine for the taking but I must be patient.

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About East of Elveden

Hidden places, secret histories and unsung geography from the east of England and beyond
This entry was posted in Asia, Travel and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Sacred Fig

  1. I’ve visited the Fortingall Yew but alas never went near Bodh Gaya during my journey through India so much enjoyed this fascinating account. The Fortingall Yew suffered damage from bonfires lit to celebrate the festival of Beltane and vandalism from souvenir hunters and traders so I can understand why they have fenced it in, much as it may annoy distinguished visiting writers. At the other end of the valley to the Fortingall Yew is the oldest uninterrupted pagan ritual in Britain. http://www.celticcountries.com/traditions/297-the-shrine-of-the-cailleach-at-glen-lyon

    There’s clearly strange forces at work in Glen Lyon! Have been eyeing up exploring it for years.

    • Thanks for your comments Alex. I don’t think I ever visited the Fortingall Yew but I did spend some time around Glen Lyon a number of years ago. I fondly remember the tea room at Bridge of Balgie. I am also quite intrigued by Schiehallion, which lies not so far away from here.

  2. Dina says:

    I’m glad I looked you up, Laurence. For some reason unbeknown to me I have unfollowed you. Now I have some good reading in front of me. 🙂 Will get back to you, I’m in Norway taking care of things and my family is keeping me busy. 🙂
    Love to you and Jackie, hope to see you in Cley soon! Hanne

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