<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2>
<h3>Yosépu</h3>
<div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-27.jpg" width-obs="381" height-obs="550" alt="THE WATER CARRIERS." title="" /> <span class="caption">THE WATER CARRIERS.</span></div>
<div class='cap'>NO description of the compound would be complete
without mention of Yosépu, friend of the babies.</div>
<p>This photograph shows the Indian equivalent of
pumps and water-pipes. We have neither; so all the water
required for a family of about a hundred has to be drawn
from the well and carried to the kitchens and nurseries. The
elder girls, who would otherwise help with the work, according
to South Indian custom, are already fully employed with the
babies. So at present the men do it all. They also buy
the grain and other food-stuffs, look after the cows and
vegetable garden—a necessity for those who dwell far from
markets—and in all other possible masculine ways are of
service to the family.</p>
<p>Chief of these men is Yosépu, whose seamed and wrinkled
and most expressive face I wish we had photographed, instead
of this not very interesting string of solemnities.</p>
<p>Yosépu is not like a man, he is more like a dear dog.
He has the ways of our dog-friends, their patience and
fidelity, their gratefulness for pats.</p>
<p>He came to us in a wrecked condition, thin and weak
and rather queer. He had been beaten by his Hindu
brother for becoming a Christian, and it had been too<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</SPAN></span>
much for him. The first time we saw him, a few minutes
after his arrival, he was standing leaning against a post
with folded hands and upturned eyes and a general expression
of resignation which went to our hearts. We found
afterwards he was not feeling resigned so much as hungry,
and he was better after food.</p>
<p>For a week he slept, ate, and meditated. Sometimes he
would hover round us, if such a verb is admissible for his
seriousness of gait. He would wait till we noticed him,
then sigh and extend his hand. He wanted us to feel his
pulse—both pulses. This ceremony always refreshed him,
and he would return to his corner of the verandah and
meditate till his next meal came.</p>
<p>Sometimes, however, more attention was required. He
would linger after his pulses were felt, and we knew he
was not satisfied. One day a happy thought struck us.
The Tamil loves scent. The very babies sniff our hands if
we happen to be using scented soap, and tell each other
rapturously what they think about that "chope." Scent is
the one thing they cannot resist. A tin of sweets on our
table may be untouched for days, few babies being wicked
enough to venture upon it in our absence; but a bottle of
scent is irresistible, and scented "chope" on our washing-stands
has a way of growing thin. The baby will emerge
from our bathrooms rubbing suspiciously clean hands, and
in her innocence will invite us to smell them. Then we
know why our "chope" disappears. So now that Yosépu
needed something to lift him over the trials of life, we
remembered the gift of a good Scottish friend, and tried
the effect of eau-de-Cologne. It worked most wonderfully.
Yosépu held out his two hands joined close lest a single
drop should spill, and then he stood and sniffed. It would
have made a perfect advertisement—the big brown man
with his hands folded over his nose, and an expression of<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</SPAN></span>
absolute bliss upon every visible feature. Now, when Yosépu
is down-hearted, we always try eau-de-Cologne.</p>
<div class="sidenote">Blessed be Drudgery</div>
<p>His first move towards being of use was when some of
our children had small-pox and were put up in a half-finished
room which was being built. "It has walls and it has a roof,
therefore it is suitable," was Yosépu's opinion; and he offered
to nurse the children. One evening we heard a terrible noise;
it was like three cracked violins gone mad, all playing different
tunes at the same time. It was only Yosépu singing
hymns to the children. "For spiritual instruction is a thing
to be desired, and there is nothing so edifying as music."</p>
<p>After this he announced his intention of becoming a
water-carrier. "Water is a pure thing and a necessity.
The young children demand much water if their bodies are
to be"—here followed Scriptural quotations meant in deepest
reverence. "I will be responsible for the baths of all the
babes." And from that time Yosépu has been responsible.
Solemnly from dawn to dusk, with breathing spaces for
meals and meditation, he stalks across from nurseries to
well and from well to nurseries. He is a man of few
smiles; but he is the cause of many, and we all feel
grateful to Yosépu for his goodness to us. Often on
melancholy days he comes and comforts us.</p>
<p>It was so one anxious day before we went to the hills,
when we were trying to plan for the safety of our family.
We can only take a limited number of converts with us, and
no babies; the difficulty is then which to take, which to hide,
and which to leave in the nurseries. We were in the midst
of this perplexity when Yosépu arrived. He stood in silence,
and then sighed, as his cheerful custom is. We made the
usual inquiries as to his health, physical and spiritual. Both
soul and body (his invariable order, never body and soul)
were well, he said; his pulse did not need to be felt to-day:
no, there was something weightier upon his mind. There are<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</SPAN></span>
times when it is like extracting a tooth to get a straight
answer from Yosépu, for he resents directness in speech;
he thinks it barbarous. At last it came. "Aiyo! Aiyo!"
(Alas! Alas!) "My sun has set; but who am I, that I should
complain or assault the decrees of Providence? But Amma!
remember the word of truth: 'Then shall ye bring down
my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.'" And he slowly
unwound his wisp of a turban, held it in his folded hands,
and shook down his lanky, jet-black locks with a pathos
that was almost sublime.</p>
<div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-28.jpg" width-obs="384" height-obs="550" alt="THE BELOVED TINGALU." title="" /> <span class="caption">THE BELOVED TINGALU.</span></div>
<p>It took time to pierce to the meaning of it: the children
were being scattered—the reason must be that we felt the
bath-water carrying too much for his powers through the hot
weeks. It was not so! He was strong to draw and to bear.
The babies should never be deprived of their baths! But
to-day as he went to the well he had heard what broke his
heart; and he laid his hand upon the injured organ, and
sighed with a sigh that assured us his lungs at least were
sound. "<i>Tingalu</i> is to go away! The apple of my eye! that
golden child who smiles upon me, and says, 'Oh, elder brother,
good morning!' You are not going to leave her with me!
Therefore spake I the word of truth concerning my grey
hairs." Then quoting the text again, he turned and walked
away.</p>
<p>Once the beloved Tingalu was slightly indisposed. She has
not often the privilege of being ill, and so, when the opportunity
offers, she does the invalid thoroughly; it would be
a pity, Tingalu thinks, to be anything but correct. But
Yosépu was much concerned. He appeared in the early
morning with his usual cough and sigh. "Amma! Tingalu
is ill!" "She will soon be better, Yosépu; she is having
medicine." "What sort of medicine, Amma?" and Yosépu
mentioned the kind he thought suitable. "That is exactly
what she has had; you will see her playing about to-morrow."<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</SPAN></span>
"But no smile is on her face to-day; I fear for the babe."
(Tingalu never smiles when ill. Invalids should not smile.)
Yosépu suggested another medicine to supplement the first,
and departed.</p>
<div class="sidenote">I will pay for it</div>
<p>Next morning he came again, anxious and cast down in
countenance. I had to keep him waiting; and when I came
out, he was standing beside my verandah steps, head on one
side, eyes shut, hands folded as if in prayer. "Well, Yosépu,
what is it?" "Amma! the light of your eyes revives me!"
"Well, tell me the trouble." "All yesterday I saw you not;
it was a starless night to me!" This is merely the preface.
"But, Yosépu, what is wrong?" "Tingalu, that golden child
with a voice like a bird, she lies on her mat. I am concerned
about the babe," (Tingalu, turned four, is as hardy as a gipsy),
"I fear for her delicate interior. Those ignorant children"
(the convert nurses would have been pleased if they had heard
him) "know nothing at all. It may be they will feed her
with curry and rice this morning. That would be dangerous.
Amma! Let her have bread and milk, <i>and I will pay
for it!</i>"</p>
<p>Yosépu came a few days ago with a request for a doll.
"Who for?" "For myself." "But are you going to play
with it?" Yosépu acknowledged he was, and he wished it
to have genuine hair, a pink silk frock, and eyes that would
open and shut. We had not anything so elaborate to give
him, and he had to be contented with a black china head and
painted eyes; but he was pleased, and took it away carefully
rolled up in his turban, which serves conveniently for head-gear,
towel, scarf, and duster. When and where he plays
with the doll no one knows, but he assures us he does; and
we have mentally reserved the first pink silk, with eyes that
will open and shut, that a benevolent public sends to us, for
Yosépu. . . . The words were hardly written when a shadow
fell across the paper, and the unconscious subject of this<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</SPAN></span>
chapter remarked as I looked up: "1 Corinthians vii. 31."
"Do you want anything, Yosépu?" "Amma! 1 Corinthians
vii. 31." "Well, Yosépu?" "As it is written in that chapter,
and that verse: 'The fashion of this world passeth away.'
Amma, if within the next two months a visitor comes to
Dohnavur carrying a picture-catching box, I desire that you
arrange for the catching of my picture. This, Amma, is my
desire."</p>
<p>The Western mind is very dense; and for a moment
I could not see the connection between the text and the
photograph. Yosépu is never impatient. He squatted down
beside me, dropped his turban round his neck, held his left
foot with his left hand, and emphasised his explanation with
his right.</p>
<p>"Amma, the wise know that life is uncertain. I am a
frail mortal. You, who are as mother and as father to this
unworthy worm, would feel an emptiness within you if I
were to depart." "But, Yosépu, I hope you are not going to
depart." This was exactly what Yosépu had anticipated. He
smiled, then he sighed. "Amma! did I not say it before?
1 Corinthians vii. 31: 'The fashion of this world passeth away.'
Therefore I said, Let me have my picture caught, so that
when I depart you may hang it on your wall and still
remember me."</p>
<div class="sidenote">Within me pulled the Strings of Love</div>
<p>Yosépu's latest freak has been to take a holiday. "My
internal arrangements are disturbed; composure of mind will
only be obtained by a month's respite from secularities."
Yosépu had once announced his intention of offering himself
to the National Missionary Society, and we thought
he now referred to becoming an ascetic for a month and
wandering round the country, begging-bowl in hand; for he
solemnly declared as he stroked his bony frame: "The Lord
will provide." But his intention was a real holiday. He
would go and see the brother who had beaten him, and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</SPAN></span>
forgive him. We suggested the brother might beat him
again. He smiled at our want of faith, and went for his
holiday. A month was the time agreed upon, but within
three days he was back. He could not stay away, he
explained, with a shame-faced air of affection. "Within me
pulled the strings of love; pulled, yea, pulled till I returned."
Faithful, quaint, and wholly original Yosépu! He calls
himself our servant, but we think of him as our friend.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</SPAN></span></p>
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