The Banyan Tree That Accepts Offerings

A Folklore-Based Indian Horror Story

In the eastern stretch of the Deccan plateau, where red soil stained the feet of anyone who walked barefoot and the wind always smelled faintly of tamarind and ash, there lay a village called Kharpada. It did not appear on most maps. Buses did not stop there unless someone waved them down with desperate insistence. Even then, drivers hesitated, muttering excuses about timing, fuel, or fate.

Kharpada was old—older than the nearby highway, older than the railway line that sliced the district in two. The village existed in a kind of stubborn isolation, bound not by fences or forests but by belief.

At the center of Kharpada stood a banyan tree.

Not near the center—at the center. Every road curved toward it. Every argument eventually referenced it. Every prayer, whether whispered or screamed, found its way there.

The banyan was massive, ancient beyond counting. Its trunk was thick as a small house, its bark dark and furrowed like the skin of an elephant. Aerial roots descended from its branches like petrified rain, digging into the soil and thickening into pillars that made the tree look less like a plant and more like a living pavilion.

No one knew who planted it.

No one dared ask what lived inside it.

The villagers called it Ayyana Maram—the Tree That Listens.

And sometimes, the Tree That Takes.

1. The Rule No One Broke

There was a rule in Kharpada that every child learned before they learned multiplication.

“Never touch the roots after sunset.”

The rule was spoken casually, like advice about hot stoves or deep wells. But unlike other warnings, this one carried weight. Mothers did not laugh it off. Fathers did not argue. Even drunk men crossing the square at night took wide, unsteady detours around the banyan.

The tree’s roots rose above the ground in thick, knotted arcs, forming hollows beneath them. These hollows were dark even at noon. Dry leaves collected there. So did offerings.

Coconuts split cleanly in two. Lemons pierced with turmeric-stained nails. Red threads tied around clumps of soil. Sometimes, metal bowls filled with rice, milk, or toddy.

And sometimes—rarely, carefully—something living.

A chicken with its legs bound. A black goat, eyes rolling white. Once, long ago, a snake in a clay pot.

The offerings were never discussed openly. They were simply done.

Because the banyan tree granted wishes.

2. When the Tree First Answered

The story of the first wish was told in fragments, never in full. Elders changed details depending on mood, listener, or season.

Some said it happened during a drought so severe that wells coughed dust instead of water. Others insisted it was during a fever outbreak, when children burned with heat and doctors refused to visit.

But all versions agreed on three things.

There was a man named Raghava.

He was desperate.

And the tree answered him.

Raghava had been a cattle herder. When the drought came, his cows collapsed one by one, ribs pressing against skin like fingers trying to escape. His wife died soon after—some said from hunger, others from grief. His infant son followed within days.

Raghava walked into the village square one night, carrying the only living thing he had left: a mangy calf that could barely stand.

He tied the calf to a banyan root.

He did not chant. He did not pray.

He only said, “Take this. Give me back what was taken.”

The next morning, rain fell.

Not a drizzle. Not a teasing sprinkle.

Rain that split the sky open.

Water flooded the wells, soaked the fields, and revived the village. The cattle that remained grew fat again. The sick recovered. Kharpada survived.

Raghava was found hanging from the banyan tree three days later, his feet just brushing the roots.

No one could explain why.

No one tried.

From that day on, the villagers understood the bargain.

The banyan tree could grant anything.

But it always decided the price.

3. I Return to Kharpada

I returned to Kharpada after twelve years.

I told myself it was nostalgia. A need to reconnect with my roots, both literal and metaphorical. That was the excuse I used with my wife, my editor, and myself.

The truth was simpler and uglier.

I had run out of stories.

As a writer who made a living retelling folklore and rural myths, I had always known that the best stories came from places people avoided. Kharpada was one such place—and I had grown up there.

I had left at eighteen, swearing never to return. The banyan tree, the whispers, the constant sense of being watched—it had all felt suffocating.

But success dries inspiration faster than failure ever could.

So I packed my bags and came back.

The village looked smaller than I remembered. The houses leaned inward, as if sharing secrets. Electric poles had arrived, but the wires sagged uncertainly, like they didn’t trust the place.

The banyan tree was unchanged.

If anything, it looked bigger.

Its shadow stretched across the square, swallowing the tea stall, the abandoned temple, and half the road. Even at noon, standing beneath it felt like stepping into a different hour.

I felt it then—a pressure behind my eyes, a tightening in my chest.

The tree remembered me.

4. The Offerings Are Not Symbolic

On my second night in the village, the power went out.

This was expected. What was not expected was the silence that followed.

No insects. No dogs. No wind.

Just the banyan tree, outlined against the moon, its roots casting twisted shadows on the ground.

I was staying at my uncle’s old house, barely fifty meters from the square. Sleep would not come. Every time I closed my eyes, I imagined roots creeping toward me, dragging soil and bone.

I heard footsteps.

Soft. Careful.

I moved to the window and peered out.

Three figures approached the tree—two men and a woman. They carried a sack that writhed gently, emitting muffled bleats.

A goat.

They tied it to a root, hands shaking. The woman pressed her forehead against the bark, whispering something I could not hear. Then they left, walking backward, eyes never leaving the tree.

The goat bleated once.

Then stopped.

In the morning, there was no blood. No body.

Only fresh leaves scattered around the roots.

I asked my uncle about it over breakfast.

He did not look surprised.

“Someone must be sick,” he said, stirring his coffee. “Or someone wants something badly.”

“What happens to the animals?” I asked.

“They are accepted,” he replied. “Or they are not.”

He refused to elaborate.

5. What the Tree Wants

The banyan tree does not accept everything.

This is another rule of Kharpada.

Dead things rot at its roots. Offerings of meat attract flies. Money disappears but brings nothing in return.

Only living offerings work.

And even then, only some.

A chicken might grant a good harvest. A goat might cure a disease. Bigger wishes demand bigger lives.

The tree does not speak.

It responds.

A sudden recovery. An unexpected promotion letter. A child born after years of infertility.

And then—always, without exception—balance.

Sometimes the balance is immediate. Sometimes it takes years.

A cured man loses his mind. A wealthy family loses their eldest son. A woman blessed with fertility dies in childbirth.

The villagers do not call it cruelty.

They call it nyayam—justice.

The banyan tree does not give. It exchanges.

6. The Girl Who Wanted to Leave

Her name was Meera.

She was nineteen, sharp-eyed, restless, and suffocating in Kharpada. She reminded me painfully of myself at that age.

We met near the well. She recognized me immediately.

“You’re the writer,” she said. “The one who escaped.”

“I didn’t escape,” I replied. “I just left.”

She laughed—a sound too loud for the village. “Same thing.”

Meera wanted to go to the city. She wanted college, independence, a life not measured by harvest cycles and whispered rules.

Her father disagreed.

He had already promised her to a man twice her age, a widower with land and debts.

“I can’t live here,” she told me one evening, eyes darting toward the banyan tree. “I can’t breathe.”

I knew what she was thinking even before she said it.

“I could ask it,” she whispered. “Just once.”

The banyan tree loomed behind her, roots half-buried, patient.

“Don’t,” I said quickly. “It’s not worth it.”

She smiled sadly. “Everything is worth something.”

7. When Wishes Become Habits

People assume desperation drives offerings.

They are wrong.

In Kharpada, offerings become habits.

Once someone sees the tree answer, restraint dissolves. Why struggle when the banyan listens? Why accept loss when something else can be given instead?

A man starts with a chicken. Then a goat. Then a stray dog no one will miss.

The tree does not judge intent. It only measures life.

Over time, the village learned to rationalize.

Animals are lesser lives.
Strays are already cursed.
The tree chooses, not us.

But there are limits.

And when those limits are crossed, the village pays.

8. The Night Meera Made Her Choice

I did not know Meera had gone to the banyan tree that night.

I was awake, scribbling notes, when a scream tore through the silence.

Not fear.

Rage.

I ran outside. So did half the village.

Meera stood near the tree, her dupatta tangled in the roots. Her father lay on the ground, clutching his chest, eyes wide and unseeing.

She was crying, shouting, incoherent.

Between sobs, the truth emerged.

She had gone to the tree with a stray dog she had been feeding for months. She tied it to the roots and begged.

“Let me leave. Let me live.”

The tree answered immediately.

Her father, who had followed her, collapsed. Dead before he hit the ground.

The dog was gone.

Meera’s wish was granted.

Her price was collected.

9. The Village Decides

By morning, Meera was locked inside her house.

Not by force.

By agreement.

The elders gathered beneath the banyan tree, murmuring angrily. This was not how things were done. Offerings were meant to be controlled, communal, supervised.

Meera had acted alone.

Worse, she had offered a dog.

Dogs were borderline. Intelligent. Emotional. Too close.

And the tree had responded too eagerly.

“The balance is broken,” an old man said. “It has tasted something new.”

They decided Meera had to leave.

Immediately.

Before the tree asked for more.

I watched as she boarded a bus at dawn, eyes hollow, hands trembling. She did not look back.

The banyan tree rustled softly in the breeze.

Satisfied.

10. The Tree Notices Me

That night, I dreamed of roots.

They crept through my bed, wrapped around my wrists, my throat. I woke gasping, heart pounding.

When I stepped outside, the ground beneath the banyan tree was disturbed.

Fresh soil.

No offering bowl. No fruit.

Just a shallow pit.

Waiting.

I realized then what I had been avoiding.

The tree knew why I had returned.

It knew I wanted a story.

And it was ready to bargain.

11. The Last Offering

I tried to leave.

My car wouldn’t start.

The bus didn’t come.

Phones had no signal.

The village seemed to shrink, walls closing in, paths looping back toward the banyan tree.

My uncle found me sitting in the square, staring at the roots.

“You should have stayed away,” he said gently.

“What does it want?” I asked.

He hesitated. Then spoke the truth I had been dreading.

“It wants you,” he said. “But not your body.”

The banyan tree did not want animals anymore.

It wanted witnesses.

Carriers.

Storytellers.

It fed on belief, on fear carried beyond the village.

I understood then why Raghava had died. Why people who benefited most always paid later.

The tree didn’t just accept offerings.

It planted itself inside people.

I am writing this because it let me.

I gave it what it wanted.

This story.

And somewhere, someone reading this will remember a banyan tree near their village. They will wonder. They will look at its roots with new curiosity.

And one day, when they are desperate enough, they will offer something living.

The banyan tree will listen.

And it will accept.

Final Note for the Reader

In many Indian villages, banyan trees are worshipped, feared, and respected. Folklore often warns that not all gods are merciful—and not all blessings are free.

If you ever see offerings at the roots of an old tree, do not ask questions.

And whatever you do—

Do not touch the roots after sunset.