17. Thulsi

I like to spend the evenings at the Assi Ghat. It is a beautiful place. Beneath the large tree sit the old men, on the stairs the youngsters. The children of the ferrymen try to sell candle lights - small banana leaf cups with small candles, decorated with tagetes blossoms. They keep asking me every time if I would please buy one, and I keep explaining that I would only buy one if I feel that wish, and that I would not wish for one every time. Aarti spots me and walks up to me. She seems happy. Her wounds have healed well, and she gestures with her arm that she feels strong.
    Tomorrow the Assi ghat, and in particular the Thulsi Ghat, would be hosting a festival. Tulsi means basil, and so it is a festival in honour of the holy basil herb. My son's name is Basil. Was it a coincidence, that I had chosen Thulsi Ghat to be my favourite spot in Varanasi? Or did the name sound familiar, awaiting revelation of its true meaning?
    At her shelter entrance, Aarti had built, together with others, a life-size reclining sculpture for the festival, which she was determined to show me this evening. The festival would start early next morning, before sunrise.

As I arrive towards 6 a.m., women have already filled the stairs. They sit in groups, and in their midst they have spread all the items they brought: copper pots with water, malas, bananas, coconuts, red powder, clay and tulsi – basil. Some of the groups knead miniature figurines from the clay and place them in the centre. Others sing mantras and move lights in tiny clay pots in circular gestures - aartis. This is how these devotional lights are called, and this is where Aarti has her name from.

Aarti approaches me on Thulsi Ghat, full of enthusiasm. We first visit her sculpture, which is already covered with malas, flowers, fruits and small lamps. Women touch it and circle it in an endless procession.

Aarti guides me up the stairs to the building's terrace, to the entrance niche of her abode, and shows me the breathtaking view over the Ganges with the rising sun. She indicated that I should take a picture, as always when something seems significant to her.

In a corner of the terrace, someone has dumped wet clothes on one of the small shrines. She removes them, grumbling, and asks me to photograph the shrine as well. I take a picture of her as she approaches the shrine god, and as one of the owners of the wet clothes approaches her.

Through a narrow lane at the top of the Ghat it is possible to enter the building, right above her shelter. An empty corridor leads around a cube at the centre. This room opens towards all sides and contains statues covered with malas and colours. Everywhere people pay attention to these statues and shower them with blessings.

In spite of the fact that they are innumerable in this city, my impression is that they are better off than many humans. To understand this, I probably lack the proper piety.
    Towards the Ganges, a wide corridor opens, covered with a maze wall – an amazing room that allows a view to the outside world as if in a transformed perception. Seen from this perspective, the river radiates a tranquil holiness, illuminated by the morning sun, loosing its factual status as a sewer.

We leave the temple, and just across the stairs she points to a shrine and urges me to take a picture. At the next temple, she rings the bell. I remove my shoes and both of us step over the threshold. We are circling the inner building, when suddenly a Sadhu, who seems to be in charge, rudely tries to make it clear that I am not allowed inside. Aarti comes to my defence, and we complete our round. The main feature of this temple is its pond. Three stairs of about thirty steps lead down to the water. Actually, the stairs are fenced, the gates are closed. For Aarti, this is an important place in her neighbourhood, so she knows which gate to open, and how. She leads me down the stairs to the water. She takes a sip, and she sprinkles my head with it. For me, this walk is one more encounter with Aarti, this slim, short woman who opens up her world to me.

She then guides me to a busy road, parallel to the Ghats, where we drink Chai. Adjoining the tea shop is an ashram. Its numerous inhabitants are Sadhu who make their short daily pilgrimage down to the Ganges in their orange robes.

Sadhus are sitting on the floor. Most are elderly, often rough guys, who have found a home here and will probably stay for the rest of their lives. Aarti wants to introduce me to her Babaji. She leads me to an elevated area, where thirty men sit on chairs. This causes a wave of protest, which irritates me and makes me want to leave, but Aarti insists I should follow her. However, the men signal in a policeman, who appears within seconds and makes it quite clear to me that I should leave. This is an obvious hint to Aarti as well, and she gives in, without having greeted her Babaji.
    Out again, she walks into another Sadhu in front of another tea shop, with whom she shares her sad Thulsi story for half an hour. She shows me the hospital across the road, where she was treated after the incident. In her narration I can feel her hurt, her anger.

In the ashram's court, about hundred On the way back we buy a bag of apples and she guides me to the next temple. To enter, we have to force ourselves through a low opening, and we suddenly emerge into a perfectly silent court, where another one of her Babajis sits. We sit down at a distance. Young men are polishing metal tools. This Babaji makes a friendly impression. Aarti speaks to him for a while, knees in front of him and touches his feet.

I wait at a distance. She is a strong woman, mastering her life with close to nothing, and then she kneels on the floor to touch someone's feet. Would I have to be a devotee myself to grasp the significance? Aarti visits all her Babajis regularly, touches their feet, and in return she is accepted in a community that gives her safety as a Sadhu.
We visit yet another court with a huge Bodhi tree and a small shrine. However, the guardian of this place detests my presence and grabs my arm with a threatening gesture. We rush out.
    Back at Thulsi Ghat, the procession around the clay statue continues, the crowd is still large. An old woman sits in front of Aarti's home – she has obviously been waiting for her.
    Aarti has taken the whole morning to show me her world, a world I grasp with difficulty, a world she lives in with difficulty.

For my installation, which I had been imagining for a while, I had chosen Thulsi Ghat without knowing its secrets. Unfortunately, I could not continue my work on the video recordings, since my hard disk had crashed due to constant power failures, but this is another story. Once I return to Switzerland, I intend to work on them in my studio. They will be a window to Thulsi Ghat. I take a decision to record Aarti on video, as an answer to the recordings of my performance. We do not speak the same language, and we do not lead the same life, but a bond has grown between us for which I find no words.