Yosepu
[Illustration: THE WATER CARRIERS.]
NO description of the compound would be complete without mention of
Yosepu, friend of the babies.
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.
Chief of these men is Yosepu, whose seamed and wrinkled and most
expressive face I wish we had photographed, instead of this not very
interesting string of solemnities.
Yosepu 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.
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 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.
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.
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 Yosepu 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. Yosepu 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 absolute
bliss upon every visible feature. Now, when Yosepu is down-hearted, we
always try eau-de-Cologne.
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 Yosepu'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 Yosepu singing hymns to
the children. "For spiritual instruction is a thing to be desired, and
there is nothing so edifying as music."
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 Yosepu 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 Yosepu for his goodness to us. Often on melancholy days he comes and
comforts us.
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 Yosepu 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 times when it is like extracting a tooth to get a
straight answer from Yosepu, 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.
[Illustration: THE BELOVED TINGALU.]
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. "_Tingalu_ 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.
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 Yosepu was much concerned. He appeared in the
early morning with his usual cough and sigh. "Amma! Tingalu is ill!"
"She will soon be better, Yosepu; she is having medicine." "What sort of
medicine, Amma?" and Yosepu mentioned the kind he thought suitable.
"That is exactly what she has had; you will see her playing about
to-morrow." "But no smile is on her face to-day; I fear for the
babe." (Tingalu never smiles when ill. Invalids should not smile.)
Yosepu suggested another medicine to supplement the first, and departed.
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, Yosepu, 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,
Yosepu, 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, _and I will pay for it_!"
Yosepu came a few days ago with a request for a doll. "Who for?" "For
myself." "But are you going to play with it?" Yosepu 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 Yosepu. . . .
The words were hardly written when a shadow fell across the paper, and
the unconscious subject of this chapter remarked as I looked up: "1
Corinthians vii. 31." "Do you want anything, Yosepu?" "Amma! 1
Corinthians vii. 31." "Well, Yosepu?" "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."
The Western mind is very dense; and for a moment I could not see the
connection between the text and the photograph. Yosepu 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.
"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, Yosepu, I hope you are
not going to depart." This was exactly what Yosepu 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."
Yosepu'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." Yosepu 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
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 Yosepu! He calls himself our servant, but we think
of him as our friend.