Tales that Trees Tell

Renowned for its sporting excellence and international academic standing, Loughborough University in the UK is also a hub for interdisciplinary research and global intellectual exchange. Its Institute of Advanced Studies (IAS), established in 1965, brings together scholars from across the world through collaborative research and public lectures that connect academic ideas with wider audiences.
As part of this initiative, I was invited by Professor Michael Wilson, Professor of Drama and UNESCO Chair on Storytelling Education for Sustainability, to deliver a public lecture titled “Tales that Trees Tell: A Khasi Ecocritical Perspective.” The lecture, designated as a UNESCO Dual Seminar, was held alongside a presentation by Professor Saini Yang of Beijing Normal University on climate change and transportation infrastructure risks in Southeast Asia. The invitation also reflected the growing international interest in storytelling as a way of exploring cultural identity, ecological knowledge and interdisciplinary perspectives.
The lecture Tales that Trees Tell explores the discourse of Animistic Intelligence, which attributes personhood to things ordinarily considered non-human, inanimate and inert. This is an emerging field of study within Traditional Knowledge Systems at universities worldwide. Drawing on folklore, cultural memory and folk ecological epistemologies, I reproduce here excerpts from the lecture.
In June 2019, I trekked down the trail of 6,000 steps to Nongblai, a small village on the precipitous southern slopes of the Khasi Hills, to reconnect with Bah Nohkot Khriam, whom I had known since 2004. He passed away in 2021, leaving behind an unparalleled legacy of knowledge about the diengjri or Ficus khasiana. These trees are planted and nurtured because they embody aspects of the religious and cultural lives of local communities. Their roots are also used to grow bridges. His work continues through his son, Longsyun, and cousin, Bnoh.
My work with these individuals has helped me understand relationality and mutuality, and how our sense of self develops through recognising the other. Working in these rainforests has also deepened my understanding of the Khasi practice of attributing personhood to non-human beings and objects considered inanimate.
The southern slopes of the Khasi and Jaintia Hills in Meghalaya, Northeast India, form a labyrinth of canyons, gorges and deep valleys drained by rivers and streams flowing into the Indo-Gangetic plains of Bangladesh. Small villages nestle within these ranges, surrounded by dense subtropical rainforests. Among the trees that flourish here are Ficus elastica, including Indian rubber trees, banyans and the locally named Ficus khasiana, after the Khasis, Meghalaya’s largest ethnic group.
While these trees grow abundantly in the wild, people also nurture them for several reasons. A tree may be planted to mark a child’s naming ceremony, with its growth becoming a measure of the individual’s life. Trees are also believed to protect villages from plague, storms and flash floods, frequent occurrences in a region that experiences some of the world’s heaviest rainfall. They are cherished, too, because their roots can be grown into bridges, providing one of the safest and most reliable means of communication.
In a Khasi charter myth, the root bridge is known as Tang Jri Tang Nup, or the Sacred Rubber and the Sacred Vine. This bridge of ficus and liana is believed to have existed atop Sohpetbneng Peak, connecting the realms of sky and earth. It enabled people to visit their kindred, exchange information and maintain communication.
Through the ceremonies, beliefs and rituals associated with it, the bridge is also known as Ka Jingkieng Ksiar, or the Golden Bridge. This mythical structure remains central to Khasi philosophy and religion, particularly among adherents of the indigenous faith.
A story narrated to me by Rani Maring, a traditional musician from the Bhoi area of the northern Khasi Hills, explains the enormous size and abundance of these trees. Ka Lei Synshar, the Goddess, had commanded four tree species to keep away from humans if they wished to grow large and thrive. Ka Jri and Ka Kya, the Indian rubber and banyan trees, obeyed and grew enormous. Ka Lakhiat and Ka Sakhar, however, chose to remain near villages and human dwellings. Exposed to human depredation and felling, they never attain the same height and size. Working with community storytellers and artists in their own localities has taught me that trees are regarded as moral subjects.
Some trees are believed to pass judgement and enforce corrective measures when another tree causes harm to humans or animals. Dr Pynjanai Mallai, an independent researcher and President of the Meghalaya Society for Culture and Folklore, once recounted an incident from his childhood in Umden. While collecting firewood with a friend, he came across a Sohbala tree bearing luscious fruit. After eating one, his face swelled and his skin began to peel, causing considerable pain.
His parents advised him to approach a gooseberry tree at the bottom of the paddy field near their home. He fashioned a rope from grass and tied it to a branch, performing a symbolic act of seeking friendship known as ka teh myrlem. Through this culturally recognised ritual, the gooseberry tree became his myrlem, or friend, bound by a code of honour. The gooseberry tree is considered the uncle of the Sohbala tree and is believed to reprimand its “nephew” for harming his friend. Within a day, Pynjanai recovered from his allergic reaction.
Another example concerns two tree species, Ka Diengkain (Schima wallichii) and Ka Diengngan (Rhus succedanea), which are unrelated but believed to be inimical to each other. The bark of the former causes severe skin irritation, while the latter exudes a secretion that produces sores.
I remember afternoons when my grandmother would enter a copse near our house to gather wild herbs for supper. She would address the Diengkain tree, saying, “Lada Siat, ka kain, ngan iathuh haka Ngan”—if the Kain tree attacks me, I shall tell the Ngan tree, and vice versa. This invocation sought the help of one species should the other cause harm.
In the mid-1970s, a road roller veered off a road under construction and partially uprooted the Kain tree. I remember the excitement the incident generated, which reached a fever pitch the following day as we watched a tractor tow the roller away from the bottom of the field.
But let me return to the root bridges. Spanning streams and rivers from 17 to 250 feet, these structures are grown and nurtured by local communities over two decades or more and can last for several hundred years. Made from locally available biological materials, they are thoroughly eco-friendly and support the surrounding soil, water and air systems.
The bridges embody human-plant interdependence, sustained by knowledge developed over generations and transmitted through oral tradition and material culture. While Ficus elastica provides the principal material, bamboo, cane and liana are also used, making the bridges important ecological habitats for local flora and fauna.
Their practical value is vital to villages on the precipitous slopes of the southern Khasi Hills, facilitating the movement of people, animals and goods. Yet their significance extends beyond utility. Their conception, planning, choice of location and materials, community deliberations, collective labour, ceremonies, feasts and performances bring together construction, creativity and cultural cohesion.
These bridges are living expressions of indigenous art, forming part of a wider tradition reflected in oral literature, material culture, folk customs and performing arts. They may be read as narratives of an entire way of life, while their settings, ecological relationships and evolving forms invite us to see them as sculptures that undergo a continuing process of installation.
Songs, stories and anecdotes associated with the bridges further enrich their cultural significance, deepening collective understandings of communication, responsibility, conservation and indigenous technologies. Bridges also belong to the realm of the living in Khasi folklore, which speaks of human, animal and spirit bridges with religious and spiritual significance. These structures reveal a remarkable interdependence between humans, animals and plants, embodied in knowledge systems that have endured for centuries.
A central belief concerning the trees used to grow these bridges relates to life force. A profound bond exists between the planter and the tree, lasting until one of them ceases to exist. Their relationship is governed by a shared code of dialogue, respect for physical existence and an understanding of genealogy.
Ownership is another important aspect of the tradition. A root bridge spanning a stream or river belongs to the clans that control its banks. The middle stretch of the river, however, is considered to belong to the root bridge itself.
The root-bridge represents a network of communication that goes beyond the ordinary and the obvious. It connotes a complex plasma of individual and collective memory, tradition, beliefs and practices which are integrated with the ecology and landscape of the War area.