Malate Literary Folio tomo XXXIII bilang 2

MALATE LITERARY FOLIO

tomo xxxIII bilang 2

TOMO XXXIII BILANG 2 TATLONG DEKADA NG MALATE ikinolekta at inedit ni Harris Albert Guevarra

HULYO 2017

INTRODUKSYON

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MALATE LITERARY FOLIO Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2 Karapatang-ari © 2017

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ng Malate Literary Folio ang opisyal na publikasyon ng sining at panitikan ng Pamantasang De La Salle - Manila, sa ilalim ng awtoridad ng Student Media Office (SMO).

Ang mga komento at mungkahi ay maaaring ipahatid sa:

Rm. 160-MLF, St. La Salle Hall,

De La Salle University-Manila,

2401 Taft Avenue, Malate, Manila.

E-mail address: mlf@dlsu.edu.ph

Facebook: fb.com/malateliteraryfolio Twitter: @malatelitfolio Nananatili sa indibidwal na may-akda o may-dibuho ang karapatangari ng bawat piyesang ipinalimbag dito. Hindi maaaring ipalathala muli o gamitin sa anumang paraan ang alin man sa mga nilalaman nang walang karampatang pahintulot ng may-akda o may-dibuho Ang tomong ito ay hindi ipinagbibili.

Ang pabalat ay likha ni Maria Margarita Uy

alaking karangalan ang mabigyan ng pagkakataong mabasa ang mga akdang inilimbag ng Malate simula dekada nobenta hanggang ngayong taon. At ipinagpapasalamat kong nakadaupang-palad at nakilala nang mas malalim pa ang iba’t ibang mukha ng suliranin na hinaharap ng mga kabataang manunulat, noon at ngayon, ng Pamantasang De La Salle. Iba’t iba man ang paksang tinatalakay, isyung ipinipresenta, at pag-iral na inilalarawan, nananatili ang kanilang pagiging mapagmatyag, mapanghinala, mabusisi, maangas, at mausisang tila isang bata, na kung minsan pa nga ay nagbibigay ng solusyon na para bang alam na nila ang solusyon, habang ipinagkakasya ang saloobin sa mga tradisyunal na porma ng Panitikan at ang iba nama’y itinutulak ang sisidlan nang naaayon sa bigat at laki ng ibinabahaging karanasan.

Bagaman maraming bagay na kinonsidera kasama na siyempre ang usapin ng estetika, at karamihan ay naaayon naman sa personal na panlasa, lahat ng akdang kabilang dito ay kakikitaan ng mga nabanggit na katangian. Mahusay na binigyang-hubog ng mga manunulat ang samu’t saring tinig na humihingi ng kanlungan, nagpupumiglas upang makakawala sa paglimot, himihiyaw upang makita ng mas nakararami, at sa proseso, nalilikha ang mga tula at kwen-

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tong nagsisilbi nilang matibay na tahanan.

Kadalasan, malayo sa buhay sa loob ng pamantasan at sa sariling karanasan ang mga tinig na ito. Kailangan mong kumawala sa maaliwalas na berde at puti, airconditioned at konkretong gusali para matunton ang mga tinig na ito. Mahirap matunton ang tinig lalo na’t araw-araw kang hinuhubog ng pamantasan para maging matagumpay sa pamantayang ang panukat ay ang laman ng iyong bulsa. Mahirap matunton ang tinig lalo na’t alam mong hindi naman labis ang kung anumang kulang sa iyong buhay. Mahirap matunton ang tinig kung hindi mo alam kung paano ang dumamay sa buhay ng iba.

Kailangan nating lalo ngayon ng mga kabataang manunulat na katulad ng mga kasama sa antolohiyang ito, silang marunong kumilala sa karamdaman ng iba, silang may mapanuring pag-iisip at makabuluhang pagpapasya, kailangan natin ang malinaw nilang paningin sa lipunang laganap ang masasaklap na kabalintunaan, upang hindi na magtagal o maulit ang panahong ito, kung kailan pinahahalagahan nating labis ang kaligtasan ng isa’t isa habang inaalis natin ang karapatan ng iba para mabuhay.

Nawa’y makita ng mga mambabasa ang disiplinang inilaan ng mga manunulat para isalarawan ang mundong kanilang ginagalawan. Nawa’y ibalik ng mga mambabasa pagkatapos ang tingin sa kasalukuyan, at suriin nang mas malalim ang katotohanan. Nawa’y matagpuan nila ang mga sariling nakaharap sa mukha ng bagong kalaban.

Harris albert guevarra Punong Patnugot, 2003 - 2004

NILALAMAN Introduksyon

Harris Albert Guevarra

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I. Mga Tula

Miryenda sa McDo Camilo Villanueva, Jr.

Ikaw na Nakabibighaning Manunulat Rolito Mojica

Personalan

Dianna Cabote

Para sa Binatang Nakasabay sa Loob ng LRT Raymund Magno Garlitos

Something Akin to Love, or Michael Morco Why Asterisks: Footnotes to Something Akin to Love, or Michael Morco

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Sapin sa Talampakan Enrico John Torralba

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150/90 Jewel Castro

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Roof Rex Buen

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The Woman Who Ate Children Joshua Lim So

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The Remedy 105 Dustin Edward Celestino

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Ang Lihim

Donna Patricia Manio

Isang Hapon

Kate Ramil

Ang Nalalabi Rito Nikka Osorio

Growth

Vanessa Lou Guinto

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Inches Christa De La Cruz

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Errata Pasasalamat

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II. Mga Prosa

On Cursed Ground Vicente Garcia Groyon

Knitting Motherhood Christina Punla Mata

Pasintabi ni Inang Buwan Kay Sisa Anna Luz Jacinto

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Premonisyon Mary Rose Dela Cruz

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Prodigal Johannes Chua

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PATNUGUTAN Ira Katrina Mendez Punong Patnugot Patnugot ng Tula

MGA KASAPI Harris Albert Guevarra Patnugot ng Antolohiya

Arianne Puno Pangalawang Patnugot Maria Katrina Gindap Tagapamahalang Patnugot

Maria Gabrielle Galang Patnugot ng Prosa Julian Russel Noche Tagapamahala ng Marketing at mga Magaganap Patricia Louise Remoquillo Tagapangasiwa ng Dokumentasyon (oic) Jibril Mercado Tagapangasiwa ng Pagmamay-ari (oic)

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Alecsandra Denise Ongcal Frederick Ezekiel Pasco Kris Bernadine Samonte Alyson Toni Sibayan Juan Paolo Terrado Cessmarie Villones

MGA NASA ANTOLOHIYA

Precious Japheth Benablo Patnugot ng Sining Maria Margarita Uy Patnugot ng Retrato

Erika Zenn Ang Stephen Amiel Argente Fernando Belloza Katreena Dela Cruz Jacob Layug Nikky Necessario Juan Carlo Ona

MGA SENYOR NA PATNUGOT Pamela Justine Lite Francisco Gabriel NuĂąez Hannah Grace Villafuerte

Rex Buen Diana Cabote Jewel Castro Dustin Edward Celestino Johannes Chua Christa De La Cruz Mary Rose dela Cruz Anna Luz Jacinto Raymund Magno Garlitos Vanessa Lou Guinto

Vicente Garcia Groyon Donna Patricia Manio Christina Punla Mata Rolito Mojica Michael Morco Nikka Osorio Kate Ramil Enrico John Torralba Camillo Villanueva, Jr.

STUDENT MEDIA OFFICE TAGAPAYO

Patricia Baun Director (oic)

Ms. Erika Carreon

Ma. Manuela Agdeppa SECRETARY

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TATLONG DEKADA NG MALATE I. Mga Tula

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Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2

Camilo villanueva, jr.

Miryenda sa McDo

o nang maalala kong mahal ko ang kalikasan

Ang sarap-sarap talagang kumain walang iniisip kundi tiyay’y busugin: Di ba, “Good weather makes good eating?”

Malate Literary Folio

Hay! Kay sarap talagang mabusog (sabay pahid ng putingputing tissue, sabay tapon sa lamesa) “Very satisfying talaga,” sabay ngiti ng bata.

Habang kalikasa’y sa labas parang tira-tira: Kumukumpetensiya sa basura. “:Good thing mother nature loves me,” dagdag niya.

(1) French Fries – gumuguho parang munting puno

na tinigpas sa kanyang ugat

dumudugo parang pusong may ketsap:

di pala palabras ang pagbagsak nilang lahat.

(2) Orange juice – umaagos parang ilog

sa istrong pula’t puti (nasaan na nga pala

ang bughaw na kay buti?)

ngayo’y piga na’t mabuti kung may mahuhuli

pulp bits man lang kung hindi kitikiti.

(3) Chocolate sundae – kulay lupa na ang salamin ng langit

putikang imaheng dinadapaan sa pag-ani

ngayo’y anod na ng nagmamalinis na kutsara

tungo sa bibig ng mundong – Kapitalista?

(4) Cheeseburger – laman sa gitna ng tinapay

(batayan ng kabusugan?)

may dilaw may berde may pula: alaala

ng kalikasang unti-unting nauubos

sa kagat ng pag-unlad parang mundong

kinakain ng mga makasariling palad.

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Rolito mojica

Ikaw na Nakabibighaning Manunulat Maaga, bago punuin ng tinig ang lansangan mula sa mga guni-guning mapag-alinlangan, gumigising na at nagsasayaw sa saliw ng katutubong palakpak at langitngit ng kawayan ang mga bisitang walang ngalan.

Tuwing alas kuwatro at kahit mas maaga pa rito, ang tandang ay nagtatangkang tumilaok na bagama’t sa kalayua’y dagliang aabot; at taimtim na pupukaw ang mga titik ng kuwento sa madilim na kalbaryo.

Malate Literary Folio

ang talambuhay ng mga di isinilang.

Ang diwa, alaala, at lumbay sa naiwang bayan ay hubad na binihisan ng kalamnan at kaisipan ng mga kaulayaw.

Marahang-marahan sa indayog ng nagpapandanggong bangkang papel, ang munting maya ay lilipad at darating na namamayagpag sa bagwis ng agila.

Mamayang hapon, tulad ng mga lumipas na panahon, ang mga musmos ay mamamangha sa iyo o natatangi at nakabibighaning manunulat.

Isinulat para sa ika-80 na kaarawan ni Mang Ben

(Bienvenido N. Santos)

Gigising din si Celestino, si Pura, Alfredo at Filemon kasama ang ilang anino na sa liwanag ng namamaalam na buwan ay umahon. Iiwanan at sa iyo’y makikipaghuntahan.

Nakapagtataka’t maaga pa, nakapagtataka’t nag-iisa nakapagtataka’t nabubuo 4

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Diana cabote

Raymund magno Garlitos

Personalan

Para sa Binatang Nakasabay sa Loob ng LRT

Kapag tinatanong ko Kung nagdo-do kayo Sabi mo personal na iyon, Wala na ako doon.

Pero kung balat sa balat Lamang ang magdidikit Maghahaplusan ang singit-singit Wala naman ang puso, Isipan, kaluluwa Sasabihin mo bang ang pagdo-do ay personal pa?

Ang ibig kong sabihin Kung sakaling mag-do tayo Nang isip sa puso At sabayan ng hingahan ng buhay sa buhay Na sadyang kumukulo, Pampalipas sama-ng-loob, Pamparaos sabay ligo, Masasabi kong Sana wala nang ‘di personal Sa mundo.

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Ipinagkakanulo tayo ng asiwang panahon Sa loob ng hurnong ito na may gulong At tumatakbong mataas na mataas pa sa lupa At mga kabahayan ng kalakhang Maynila.

Prenteng-prente ako sa pagkakaupo Ikaw naman, kunsumido sa paglambitin sa estribo.

Pagod na pagod rin ang alikabok sa hangin At dama ko ang paglapot nitong pawis Na parang sukong-suko sa walang kasing-bagsik na Lunes.

Narining mo ba ang hinaing ni Manang Na walang sawang nakakapit sa bakal?

“Aru, Diyos ko, para akong piniprito!”

At sabay tayong mapapatawa kahit dinudumog tayo Ng init ng bawat pagsusumiksik.

Panaka-naka ang bugso ng lamig Na dumadapo sa mga balikat natin.

Nilililok ng pawis Ang katawang mong nahahagingan ng kamisetang manipis.

Humihihingal ang bawat balahibo Sa iyong dibdib at braso.

Umaalsa ang bawat kalamnan sa hita Na parang naghahanap-ginhawa.

Doon, sa kalugod-lugod mong pagod, Ko mapapansing ikaw pala’y guwapo.

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Napapansin ko ring di mo sinasagot Ang bawat taimtim na paglunok ko ng laway.

Sumisigid ang init at lamig sa mga matang Di ko matantiya kung ika’y natutuwa O nababastusan sa bawat dighay ko ng init.

Habang ako, Atubili sa pagpaypay ng abaniko, Ay walang imik.

Nang humantong sa Monumento, Naglaho kang parang pawis Na hinigop ng panyo kong bagong bili.

Kanina pa ako dapat bumaba sa Buendia Mula sa hurnong ito na de-gulong At tumatakbong mataas na mataas pa sa lupa.

Michael morco

Something akin to love, or It did occur to me when I was pure with desire to note it all down, say this enlarges me, this feeling deeply that is full of redemption like sentences and metaphors of a higher life, say beyond the bruise, decay and despair, this edifies me. * By enlargement I mean meetings into encounters into wars. Some mystery tore itself from the hinges of the world to stick like a mole on your temple, tunneling light into the dimness without the tropes of taste or the phraseology of desire. * But the wind is the downside too pure with desire, tearing pages off me into unstrung sentences, so that the dust you now step on could be me or not, something I could’ve told you then, or not. * Thus, pieces of my former self lying on the floor still gleaming

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with something akin to love, or why I can’t properly call myself simply debris.

Malate Literary Folio

Malate Literary Folio

Why Asterisks: Footnotes to Something akin to love, or Six points slicing through spaces of everywhere and nowhere in the hope that one stabbing tip will find you and pierce you where it matters, or where it bleeds most. * One center or the nowhere of a fatal thought in which I speak to you, speak of you and you do not know who you are. One which goes, so much of scouring the waters of wherever you are. * None of the grand designs of the now too late understanding. An aesthetic experience is one in which the red ship of me sails to your coast and you do not know what hits you because knowing, strictly speaking, happens during the wake. * So much easier to have an epigraph of my self walking around with talks of you, saying,

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“All that picnic that time spreads behind itself: life and sex and love and death-Kate Moses,� but poetry is not simply a matter of stains. * Or two words: How else?

enrico john torralba

Sapin sa Talampakan Parang kailan lang, binabasa mo Ang talinghaga ng gamu-gamo at ilawan, At nakilala mo ang iyong bayan Mula sa paghasik ng binhi sa umaga Hanggang sa paghalik ng butiki sa lupa.

Natanto mo, maraming kababayan Ang may subyang sa isip at talampakan Maraming ulo at balikat ang nakayuko Dahil sa bigat ng espada at gatilyo.

Maraming tuhod at siko ang may kalyo Dahil sa atas ng batingaw at pulpito Kaya pinaaanod mo ang iyong tsinelas sa ilog Na may pag-asang may musmo na makapupulot At isuot sa pagal na paa laban sa tibo at bato.

Ngunit batid mong maraming pagkati ang darating At maiipit sa batuhan at tinik ang iyong tsinelas Kaya ikaw ay naglakbay nang malayo upang ihatid Sa pampang ang ulan at kalingain muli ang ilog Kahit humihimig ang pangungulila sa pandinig.

Ngunit laging kumakapit sa iyong panaginip Ang suyuan ng apoy at pakpak Na may samyo ng tingga at itak.

At ikaw ay nagbalik na hitik ang lilim Sa lagas na ngipin.

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Nasaksihan mo, Niyayakap ng alikabok ang paa, Naulila sa haplos ng putik ang kalabaw, At nakikiapid ang labi sa adobe at rehas.

Parang kailan lang, binabasa mo Ang talinghaga ng gamugamo at ilawan Hanggang sa baasagin ng apoy mula sa punglo Ang iyong umaga.

Marami ang nakasaksi Sa pagkanlong ng usok-pulbura sa iyong katawan.

Hinarap mo silang lahat dahil batid mo Nandoon ang isang musmos na talampakan Nakapulot at ngayo’y suot-suot ang iyong tsinelas.

rex buen

Roof With this day growing old, You come to kick the stones in our garden.

Then the roof wanders in your thoughts What do you think is up there?

What do I think is up there?

Perhaps, dried leaves, aged Fruits, from the backyard tree We wanted to climb when Young, caterpillars that become Butterflies, whose ancestors we once chased in gardens, at conference, planning where to hang their cocoons; A commerce of dusts, piled by summer, undisturbed, since rain has not arrived yet; Is that all?

No. Maybe more: A doll’s or a robot’s, dismantled arms, legs, and head; shuttlecock lost in one of our ancient games; slippers, old books, chocolate wrappers left while going up to enjoy the sun set in the silhouettes of some higher house’s roof; a red

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hair band when you were seven that I flipped to see you cry; my cowboy hat, wrapped around a stone, that you threw in revenge and other things that have stories of our youth.

But there must be more!

There must be more, there must be more. You want to find out there must be more.

Why don’t we climb?

Yeah, why don’t we, if only my hands were still interested to climb.

kate ramil

Isang Hapon Nag-aabang ng dyip, Isang kanto mula Sa SM-City Hall.

Takip ang bibig At ilong. Tagaktak Sa noo ang pawis Na nanlalagkit Kwintas na suot Nangingitim na rin, Parang unipormeng Ngayo’y nagkulay abo.

Sa pagdaan ng humaharurot Na sasakyan Bahagyang tumaas Ang palda, napatagilid Sa iyong pagkahilig Napansin mo si BonifacioBolo’y matayog At ang mukha’y Nangingintab sa alikabok.

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Nikka Osorio

Ang Nalalabi Rito Mabibilang ang mga tulad ko Na tinitiis ang lamig Sa pamamalagi rito.

Hubad ang mga puno.

Ang mga tao hindi mapigilan ang pagmamadali Nanunuot sa laman ang lamig Ang niyebe Kumot na nagpatahimik Sa lahat ng ibang kulay, Itim at puti ang paligid.

Mukhang matingkad Ang itim ng mga puno Kapag ganitong naliligiran Ng namamayaning puti.

Malate Literary Folio

Kakaibang pagtingin sa kawalan “May mga bulaklak na natutulog dito�

Kakatuwang pagtingin Sa wala rito ngayon Sa hinihintay, Sa tiyak na darating.

Marahil paalala ito Sa mga tulad kong panandaliang naririto At maaaring hindi masaksihan Ang inaasahang pamumukadkad.

Mga tulad ko na aabot lamang Sa ganitong tila pag-aalay Na alaala ng

wala pa roon Sa alaala ng

wala na roon.

May tagak sa mga puno at albatross Malapit sa Danube.

Sa kalawakan ng parke May mga rebulto.

Sa ibaba ng mga ito, malawak na espasyo Na tinirikan ng isang pakiusap:

Bitte Vorsicht!

Hier schlafen Bluemenzwiebeln

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Vanessa lou guinto

Christa de la cruz

Growth

Inches

I found photographs of my mother’s insides taken during an operation three months before she died. I remember how the pictures surprised me: a thick piece of meat in a pool of blood.

It was liver.

Tumors invade it like maggots on pork, scabies infesting the skin, STD virus flashing on a class report, a kid’s artwork of red cheese with craters, bubble wrap covering wood furniture.

If blankets become shorter at night, then how much so after the turn of a year?

I hid the pictures in the cabinet, behind certificates and pension plans, beneath the collection of greeting cards. Sometimes, when father visits the farmhouse, or my brothers go to the movies, I would take them out, unfold the fabric covering, peer through them, and suppress a memory that remains malignant.

Like when you pulled ours over your head while watching a horror picture you swore you’d never see. All curled up beside me, my toes reached for yours as you waited for a change of scene, a scream or a hush, and then asked for the lights, which I did.

Like when your little niece tugged at the end, scared of monsters under her bed, convinced it’s better to take her in, tangled between our arms, my hand over yours.

Like when you tucked me between pillows, wrapped until my neck as I was coming down with a flu after we played in the rain outside the house we wished our own.

Like when you ran under the covers, pulling off a practical joke for April Fool’s, giggling after a surprise for my birthday, hiding gifts for December and February.

Like when I followed you in bed, clothed only in sheets with crisps I barely felt, forming creases only an iron can straighten out, leaving whiffs only soap suds can wash out.

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Like when you and I lied: backs facing the other, faces on opposite end, nothing between us. Both hauling the spread over our shoulders until you walked out with frayed corners alternating in every step.

TATLONG DEKADA NG MALATE II. Mga Prosa

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On Cursed Ground

city for school. It would really be our last weekend on the farm for a long time, although we didn’t know it then.

In those two days, everything around me was brought into acute focus for the first time, and I thought that it was a properly harsh way to end a summer that at the start had been so bright and happy.

Vicente garcia groyon

On Cursed Ground

On some nights, the smell brings it all back to me.

It is in the city now; it seems to have pursued me here. I can imagine it rising, like a cloud of locusts, from the sugarcane fields of our farm and travelling along the highways, seeking out the city where it knows I am staying. Hiding. In the rural areas to the south it is welcomed with joy, because it promises a period of rain after a hot spell and the uncertain humid days that follow. But for me, its odd blend of growth and decay brings back the image of undulating sugarcane fields, and the things that are hidden—can be hidden—in them. I remember the days before our departure from the farm—a time when everything was alive with the spontaneity and openness of a child. A time of believing. I was already getting far from childlike then, myself.

In a matter of months my body had shot up five inches, my voice had begun to develop a distinct bass quality, and the fuzz under my nose had started to grow coarse, all with the swiftness of a bird skimming over a grassland.

In contrast, the days moved slowly around the time of our last weekend on the farm. When it was over, we had to go back to the

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The night before was very hot and I could not sleep. I lay awake in the dark beside my sister and sweated.

All the windows in the room were open, but the curtains and the mosquito net were not moving. On some nights they would whip around, up to the ceiling, until we tied them down or closed the windows. I had pushed the blanket down hours ago, but it was still warm.

The air itself was warm.

Moonlight flooded the balcony outside and spilled into the room through the window. Little bits of dust floated up to the sill and settled there. I got up carefully so I would not wake my sister and replaced the mosquitero behind me. I opened the door that led to the balcony and stepped out. It ran all the way around the second floor of the house, sheltered by the overhangs of the roof, and all the rooms had doors that opened onto it. Nobody was out tonight. I looked out over our hacienda. The back lawn was a black expanse that threw back blue glitter from the blades of grass that caught the moonlight. To the left I could see the vegetable garden and the animal houses, and on the other side was the garage, where Lolo’s vintage Chevy was kept.

A row of trees separated the garden from the sugarcane fields, which sprawled over our land as far as you could see. The view from the balcony was magnificent. Standing there, looking out over the fields, I felt as though they could continue all the way up to the horizon, and beyond. On some days, the cane would talk in its rustling, hissing language, and you could see it change its expression as the wind rippled through the rows, making waves. Tonight the cane was quiet, and the moon shining on it made it look flat and lifeless.

I heard someone cough and saw a red pinpoint of light grow brighter among the trees, and fade away. I squinted and could just barely make out the shape of someone sitting in the shadows, holding 25

Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2

a rifle and smoking a cigarette. It was one of the guards. They were young obreros who, for some extra money and the privilege of carrying a gun, walked around at night and made sure that no Communists sneaked into the house and cut our throats while we slept.

I could not wait for the summer to be over, when I could go back to the city and my friends. My mother made it a ritual pilgrimage, this trip to the farm. I could not remember not spending all or part of my summers here, watching endless relations arrive, stay for a few nights, and then leave. Even the old house, with its large rooms and narrow passages and unused sections, was almost starting to lose its charm. There was a lawn, a large garden, a swimming pool fed by a natural spring, and even a tennis court, but days and days of lounging around them had made them unpleasant to me. I wanted to be back in the city—civilization—where there were cars and girls and parties and places and things to do. I wished my friends could come and spend a weekend here, but staying in an isolated place rumoured to be infested with Communist guerrillas was a no-no with their parents. The whole issue bored me.

Until we returned, I had to be content with staying here. But the farm had a way of taking you in, so that you felt welcome and at home. Safe. Being here comforted me in a way that the city never could. Here I seemed set apart from everything; it was as if I had conceived another universe to hide in—a place I could run to if I wanted to feel like a child again.

My sister was here, at least, and that always made things a little better. She was born a year after I was, and we had always been close. When we started school and found that we had to be separated we sulked for weeks and spent all other hours of the day with each other, even sharing beds. We continued to sleep together until we realized that our friends found it unnatural, and we both made a silent decision to stop. But on the farm, things were different. Here, things lost the brands and labels that the city gave them, and Karina and I could do as we pleased.

But this summer was too long and too hot, and both of us were running out of things to do. The family would be gathered on the verandah or around the pool, but we would be restlessly walk26

On Cursed Ground

ing around, chatting with the workers, taking pictures, or examining plants. Those last few days, we had taken to wandering through the campo, looking at things, or playing silly impromptu games of hideand-seek in the cane.

Despite the predictability of the things that we did on the farm, the summer felt rather unusual. The same house, the same people, the same heat, all felt unusual this year. It was not just the tension brought about by the “red” status of our area. We would have to stop coming here if they got too close to the farm; that we knew and were expecting. But there was something else, as if new and unfamiliar things were waiting, hidden in the routine of our vacation.

The figure under the tree had ground out his cigarette and was murmuring into his radio. It hissed once and someone spoke out of it, the words emerging out of static. A joke must have been told, because the figure laughed softly before signing off. He got up, hitched the rifle over his shoulder, and began to walk through the garden. His face was a moon-bleached smudge in the dark when he looked up and saw me, and he brought his rifle down into both hands.

He recognized me, though, when I waved to him.

“Is everything all right, señorito?”

“Yes. I just came out to cool off.”

He waved to me and went on walking. The night was so quiet and the air so still that we did not have to talk above conversation level to hear each other, even if I was twenty feet above him. I went back into the room and left the door open.

Karina stirred and opened her eyes when I got back into bed, and looked questioningly at the open door, but did not say anything.

We often understood things about each other without needing to talk.

She turned and went back to sleep. I took off my shirt and lay down.

It was still hot as before, but I was tired, and fell asleep perspiring.

When I woke up, it was still dark, but cooler. I got up and dressed without waking Karina. I slipped out of the room into the hall. It was quiet, like a church. I tiptoed across the dark brown floor, through the living room. I paused under the ornate wooden arch that led to the dining room and looked to see if there was light under any of the 27

Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2

doors to the bedrooms. Nothing. Everyone was still sleeping, and the generator had not been turned on yet.

I went down the large staircase that led to the foyer. No lights on in the servants’ quarters, either. I chose a jacket from the clump hanging on the wall and put it on.

The door groaned on its ancient iron hinges as I stepped out into the backyard. There was a light mist floating near the ground, glowing in the early sunlight that came from the horizon, past the canefields. For no general reason I headed for the avenue of acacias that was the driveway which led to the hacienda from the main road.

There were no guards in sight.

I enjoyed being alone like this, with the world asleep, at peace.

I imagined myself to be some epic figure striding gloomily across an expressionist landscape as the elements battered me. The house in this light, with the mist floating around it, took on the appearance of a medieval castle or fortress, sitting solidly on the land, as if rooted into it. Looking at it, I could sense its secretiveness, the way it hid and guarded things inside it with its many corners and doors. It was not hard for me to imagine enemy horsemen storming it at dawn, and Lolo standing on the balcony holding a rifle: the heroic patriarch defending his home. But of course Lolo was too old to defend anything, even his land, and Papa did not care enough for it to do anything.

Mama loved the farm, but she was so frail and delicate that she would not do a very good job of protecting it. I knew that before long I would have to take over, and the expectation excited me. I was young enough.

I sat on the stone fountain in the middle of the front yard. It was dry, and cracked in some places, but sometimes they would turn it on and water would flow from the hands of the nymphs that danced on top of it, like it did in the old days. Those were rare occasions.

From a distance I could hear faint creaking sounds from the cathedral. I climbed up to where the nymphs were frozen in their attitudes of contemplative undulation and saw the top of it bobbing from behind the fields to the south. It was a thick bamboo grove that stood proud and isolated near the end of the road that led to the next farm. Karina and I called it the cathedral because standing in it felt like 28

On Cursed Ground

we were in one, with its hush and the lazy straining sounds that the trunks made as they bent in the breeze, like they were doing now. I’ll have to visit it today, I thought.

A man with a gun slung over his shoulder rounded the corner of the house that I came from. It was Armando, another one of the guards. He was a nice man, and we talked with him often, my sister and I. I jerked my head in greeting, and he came towards me as I hopped down from the pedestal.

“Good morning, ‘ñorito.” His Visayan accent was thick like fresh molasses on the English words, but neither of us minded. We always spoke Ilonggo with each other. “You’re up very early today?”

“It was so hot. I didn’t feel like sleeping.”

“Ah. It won’t be hot for much longer. A cold spell is coming on. Look at the mist. In a few days it will start raining hard. Maybe even a typhoon.

“How can you tell?”

“By the way the ground smells. When it smells like this, you can be sure that all the water in the earth is going back to the sky, and soon the clouds will be heavy and it will rain.”

I sniffed the morning air. This was the smell that clung to the farm and to your clothes and stayed in your nostrils. It carried a suggestion of the fields—deep in the fields—where you were completely surrounded by fat purple stalks that towered above you and you could see only a small patch of sky when you looked up. It smelled like when I squatted there, hiding from Karina. When I did that, I could almost inhale the soil—its richness, its essence. I could sense the things that grew from the soil; the creatures that crawled on it, bored through it; the inaudible scurrying sounds in it, the stretching sounds of the growing roots. And under the scent of living, growing things, the other smell: a stink of the residue from last year’s harvest, of the manure and artificial fertilizer that they mixed with the earth, of the field rats that had died there. A gray, acrid stench which for all its sickening qualities meant that things were as they should be. Like the pungent odor of fermentation that pervades a sugar mill, or the formaldehyde in a funeral parlor.

“Uh-huh. I can smell it.”

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Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2

Just then, his radio barked out some static, and a voice came over on it. He responded, and they exchanged a few words. When they were finished, Armando thrust the radio into a pocket and held his rifle in a more ready position.

“Señorito, I think you’d better go back into the house. Rodolfo says they spotted someone running across the west field. He said there were more.”

I nodded, and with a twitch of his eyebrows he left me, jogging back to where he had come from when he found me. I shivered.

It was really dangerous to stay out here like this, with strange men creeping about the farm. I stood up and began to walk back to the house.

Then a tingle began to run down my back and arms. I whirled around.

Someone was watching me.

Behind the acacias, in the tall grass beyond them, or behind the fountain, even. I had a sense of rushing through a dim passage, as if I had died. Afraid, I turned and ran to the verandah and entered the house. The ground under me seemed to lurch, almost throwing me off my feet. When I had shut the side door behind me I stopped gasping, and the panicky feeling subsided.

Later, the morning began as it normally would. The sun rose, and everyone else woke up. The guards’ wives went about making breakfast for everyone, feeding the chicken and the pigs and the quails; my family and the visiting relatives rose and ate or went to play tennis or swim or read or cross-stitch. Slowly, the quiet of the early morning was broken by the sounds of people talking, the dogs barking, and the farm in general going about its business. At noon we had lunch on the front balcony, as always. After eating, Karina and I went to walk around the campo.

The day had suddenly turned cloudy and windy. It certainly was going to rain, as Armando had said. Perhaps by nightfall. The sky was stone gray, turning blue and purple near the skyline. Birds darted from tree to tree. The smell hung in the air like a great dirty sheet. And today the cane was talking to us in its nervous, whispering way, telling 30

On Cursed Ground

us secrets that we could not understand.

Karina and I walked to the fields. She was wearing a kind of sundress, and the wind whipped it every way around her legs fattened the thing fabric against her body. At that random moment I saw her as she was, as though I had never seen her before, and it surprised and upset me. I realized just how grown-up we had become—without any warning, and without my realizing it until now. I looked up, and as heavy swollen clouds spun and uncurled over the field I felt the earth shift again, just the tiniest bit.

Some dumaan, men, were walking along the side of the field with the foreman. They were examining the cane, taking note of its growth. We knew all of them by name, and we called out to them.

They waved to us in greeting, and walked on.

Karina walked ahead of me to the weedy field that had not been used this season. It was a wide flat place bordered by cane and the road that wound around the entire plantation. It would be a nice place to lie down in if not for the itchy and thorny weeds that had sprouted there. She stopped and stood there for a moment, then turned to look at me.

In the overcast light she appeared to have been painted into the scene, and she never looked more beautiful—or like Mama—with her dark hair floating around her face, her features softened, and the first onset of teen acne invisible for the moment. Her lips were curled into the half-smile that was all hers, and her eyes glimmered with the light of a secret.

Suddenly she turned with a light laugh and ran straight into the cane. The stalks bounced back into place after her. “Hey!” I yelled.

Not to be outdone, I ran after her. I could hear her crashing through the field in front of me, but I could not see her. Every now and then a giggle or squeal would fly back to me as we raced through the thick growth, but apart from that you could not tell that there was another person in the field with me, and not some kind of animal.

Laughing, I chased her deep into the canefield. Her voice flicked past me, first from in front, then from the side.

“Can’t find me! You can’t find me!”

I tried to guess where her voice was coming from, but the 31

Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2

cane made it too difficult—the stalks grew so thick and close together I couldn’t see beyond a few steps on all sides.

After a while, I stopped, grunting and gasping for air. She had always been a better runner than me. I saw a spider sitting in the center of a large web tangled between two plants. All around it, in a ragged circle, were the remains of its victims, encased in crusty shrouds of fine silk. I looked around me, trying to get my breath back, and decided which direction to go.

Something seemed to be wrong. The tingling feeling from this morning came back. I frowned, trying to isolate what was making me so uneasy. Then abruptly I identified it.

I could not hear her crashing anymore.

I straightened up. All I could hear was the wind moaning through the cane, making them wave and speak. All around me were purple-green stalks, weeds, and above, a small patch of angry gray.

The smell had turned offensive—its undercurrent of rot had began to dominate. A gust of wind brought a whiff of something sweet and acid.

“Karina!”

The cane hissed at me in reply. It sounded like She’s not here… she’s not here… Go away. I felt my body begin to rush through the dim passage again. Starting to panic, I started to push through the resisting rows in the direction from where I last heard her voice.

“Karina!”

Little itchy fibers from the stalks brushed off onto my skin. I stumbled like a fool in what I thought to be a straight line through the field. A leaf got caught in my mouth and I spat it out. I had scratched my hand somewhere, and it was bleeding. I stopped. I did not seem to have moved in any direction. Where is she? I was gasping harder than ever. I saw a flash of light and heard thunder rumble. Alarmed, I thought, it’s going to rain like Armando said and I can’t find Karina oh god help.

Numbly I began to claw my way through again. We had played hide and seek before, but it had never been like this. She had hidden herself too well this time. She seemed to have disappeared, as if the cane had devoured her. Where are you?

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On Cursed Ground

I found her when I broke into a tiny open space in the middle of the field. My nostrils flared at the smell. She was crouching near the edge of the clearing like an animal, pushing against the green and purple shafts of sugarcane that trapped her, shrinking away from the mangled carcass of a man that lay there.

She’s not here…she’s not here…

The world pitched sideways. Thunder rumbled above us, loud and ominous. I could only gape at the thing. It arched its back as if still in pain. Its naked body was coated with dried blood and earth. Its arms had been yanked behind it and knotted to a wooden bar with wire wrapped several times around its joints, almost in the manner of a crucifixion. Its head was thrown back, its mouth open and slack.

One eye bulged grotesquely in its socket, as though looking for something in the air above it. The other eyehole was empty. My sister had stopped trying to push through the cane and now just squatted there, whimpering, holding her fist to her mouth. She looked so white and clean beside the thing.

Karina raised her head slowly and looked in my direction.

Her eyes were wide open but glazed, dead. Her mouth was parted and her hollow breathing mingled with the wind that blew around us, urging us to leave, leave this place.

I walked toward Karina and knelt between her and the body.

She was still looking at me with that expression of mute shock. My hand reached out to touch the flesh and withdrew quickly. It was cold, so cold. And hard. Like stone.

The wind began to whine in my ears, as if my head were trapped in a giant seashell. White light flashed momentarily and was followed by a low vibration that built up to a bone-shaking crack and rumble. I looked around me blindly and saw the gap in the cane where it had been dragged before it was thrown here, in this clearing. Something like dull brown paint smeared the stalks there.

The keening in my ears became louder and louder. The cane began to talk, saying all sorts of things to me. It pressed me in— trapped me. Gone was the way it took me in and made me feel safe. It had become unkind and threatening. The thought stirred in me jumbled feelings of violation, of betrayal. I felt as though my mind, flying 33

Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2

through the dark void was being overwhelmed by some unfamiliar voice willing me to move, to take action. I looked about me and saw the cane, the sky, the body, the dry soil, and dead leaves and my sister still quivering in shock. Inside my head a dim image became clearer, and as the cane hissed into my ears and I felt myself proceed, directed by a power that knew what had to be done.

“Karina.”

I stood up and grasped one end of the wooden bar that was tied to the body’s arms. Karina turned to me.

“The cathedral,” I said.

There was the barest flicker of bewilderment in her eyes, but it was gone in a moment. She took the other end of the bar, and together, we began to drag the body through the field.

It was difficult walking with it between us. It felt compact and unyielding, like a sack of sugar, and weighed as much. With every step we took we jostled it, and at some points it seemed like we were going to rip its arms out of its sockets and leave it face down in the dust, stuck between two stalks of cane. The odor of rotting flesh threatened to make me vomit. Karina tripped once, her face falling within inches of the yawning visage. She jerked herself back to her feet with a low cry. I forced myself to concentrate on finding a path through the cane, trying not to think of the heaviness, of the weight of this dead thing, the strong pull of the earth calling the thing back to itself, to suck it back into its embrace.

Suddenly I felt sharp needles prick my skin. As I looked, more drops of water began to dot my arm. Karina realized what was happening and stopped short. We had not gotten halfway through the field. As we froze, the rain began to fall in diagonal sheets, getting stronger. I cursed. If we did not go into the house now, everyone would be worried, and the alarm would be raised.

Karina dropped her end of the bar. Before she could run I caught her arm. Behind her I could see the roof of the house rising above the waving leaves. It was so close. In the noise of the monsoon the cane’s hissing had become unintelligible, but I understood that it had turned against us. We would have to act on our own.

I pulled her back. “I know another place.” We changed direc34

On Cursed Ground

tion and began to pull again.

When we got to the edge of the field I motioned to Karina to stop first. I ran out of the cane and hid behind a tree. There was no one in the yard. Everyone had gone inside to avoid the downpour. It had grown much darker now, and the rain was coming down in a roar.

I saw the house outlined in the sky, looking more than ever a fortress.

I searched all along its base, looking for something I knew had to be there, but never cared about before.

Finally I found it: the hole set at the ground level that led to the storage space under the house. Used for harbouring sacks of rice and sugar until the warehouse was built, it was now empty, and no one went down there anymore. We would have to hide it there for now.

I returned to Karina and pointed to where we would take the body.

She nodded with that dazed look in her eyes. We both took up the bar again and pulled. Once we were in the open we began to run with the thing bouncing between us. It was prone, but its head was frozen into that hideous whiplash position, looking at the weeping clouds and flashes of lightning through one eye. Its feet dragged behind us in the wet dirt. I could hear a tiny pool of water sloshing in its open mouth.

We reached the hole and heaved the corpse as close to the opening as we could. I squeezed in first, and pulled the thing in after me. It fell to the ground, raising a cloud of dust. Karina followed. We dragged it past the stone and wood columns that held the house up.

Getting farther from the square of murky light that we had entered through.

Finally we came to a small niche in the wall. We pushed it in, making it sit up so it would fit, and stepped back.

We stood there in silence, numbed by the gravity of what we had done. Then Karina saw her hands, saw the dry blood worked into the creases and fingerprints, and made a gagging sound in her throat.

She stood up and ran off. I looked at the thing one last time, and followed her.

I found her at the water pump in the laundry shed, washing her hands. I pumped water for her. She continued to rub away the grime. She looked up at me, and the glaze look was gone. She finally began to cry.

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Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2

I put my arm around her. Her shoulders convulsed under my hand. She was crying for something else, as well.

She, too, had felt the upheaval, the disturbance. She knew that something had happened. Here, on the farm, between us, in ourselves, something had been altered. By hiding the corpse under the house, we had somehow stemmed the disorder; but we had also made an arrangement with the house and the fields, and being around these once-familiar things would be unbearable because of the knowledge of a secret that they kept. They had betrayed us. I looked out at the house, and at the fields. They did not evoke quite the same feelings they used to in me. They seemed—less grand, less puzzling, less mystical, less inviting—smaller. I know you a little better today. I understand your language now. I know your magic. The rushing inside me had stopped. I felt like I had arrived somewhere, and it was cold and black. It felt like death.

When the hammering of the rain on the roof grew softer I took her hand, and together we ran into the shelter and the safety of the house.

Dinner that evening was a quiet affair for Karina and me. After we went in, we spoke not one word to each other. She took a shower and lay in bed, pulling down the mosquito net even if the insects weren’t out yet. I lingered way over on a far corner of the balcony with a cigarette stolen from my father’s pack, keeping myself in the shadows lest someone should see me. After eating, we stayed in the living room with the family for the nightly after-dinner coffee and conversation.

As soon as we could, we left and went straight to bed. Very early the next morning I dreamed that the body lay between us in our bed, one eyeball glistening in the dark. Its open mouth wailed a long, terrifying note, and it seems to squeeze its blood-encrusted and grimy flesh nearer to me. I heard its crumbling voice sneer at me: Hello, boy. I’m here. I’ll always be here now. You brought me here. Remember me.

Remember me sitting here. Come visit me every once in a while. I’ll show you things. We’ll be great friends. When it moved to embrace me I screamed and woke up. Karina sat up in bed, frightened. She was a dark shape with tousled hair against the cobwebby fabric of the 36

On Cursed Ground

mosquitero.

“What is it?” I could barely hear her whisper above the drumming of the rain on the roof.

“Nothing—a bad dream.” She did not move, but I could sense that she knew.

I thought she wasn’t going to say anything more, but when she spoke it seemed loud and harsh in the room—so unlike her. She seemed to bark the words.

“What are we going to do with it?”

Her question seems to make no sense. The ordeal of yesterday was so far away as to be almost nonexistent. The stirring of the memory aroused only dejection, indifference in me. “I don’t know.”

“Are we going to leave it there?”

I nodded.

“Under the house?”

Her voice had begun to quiver. I could hear what she was not saying—that no, we wouldn’t dare keep it there and go on living in the house, pretending that we didn’t know what was sitting in the dark under our feet as we walked around trying to find something to do.

“We have to keep it there. Otherwise they’ll find it. And then—“ I trailed off, knowing that she understood. “We can’t do anything else. We have to let it stay there.”

I sat there for a while, listening to her breathe. I felt I had to do or say something, but I stayed where I was, quiet. I could not bring myself to touch her.

Her whisper broke the silence and hung in the air, affirming its truth and the appalling nature of what had happened.

“We don’t even know who he is.”

Karina looked at me in the dark for a long time. Her next words sounded to me like a surrender.

“I love our farm.” The statement was final, almost a dismissal. Then she turned and went to sleep. I let out the breath I had been holding.

If no one found it, things would appear to be the same, and the family could still come here, and Karina and I could still be as close as we used to be, for a few months. Our existence would not be 37

Malate Literary Folio

Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2

so disrupted by the intruder. Maybe the fields could speak to us and we would not understand again. But someone was sure to find out sooner or later. When that happened, it would be the end of everything.

Riding back to the city, Karina and I were quiet. We both looked out the windows during the whole trip. I studied the shifting landscape, watching it gradually get more and more urban as we neared the city, but in my mind all I could see was the house silhouetted against the sky, strong and solid as a fortress, and the fields changing their expression as the wind moved through them.

They found it almost two weeks later. When the smell of decay began to seep through the entire house, the workers thought that a pack of rats had crawled under the house and died there. They must have been surprised when they shone their light into the corner and saw it sitting there, leering at them through its one eye. Or probably the eye had dried up by that time, I don’t know. The body was taken out and brought to the nearest barrio where it was buried in an unmarked grave. I suppose it was too rotted for anyone to be able to identify it.

When Mama and Papa told us the news one morning, Karina and I just glanced at each other. We both knew what was coming.

Further trips to the farm would have to be cancelled until the area was stabilized. Breakfast was finished quickly, and the car came around front to take us to school. We never spoke about it again, and the long summer finally came to a close.

christina punla mata

Knitting Motherhood

THE MOTHER SITS beside the window, her forehead a collection

of creases. Her fingers move briskly, her knitting needles making small clicking sounds as the afghan she pores over slowly takes shape. She likes working in the sunshine, she believes that the sun infuses energy in every stitch she makes. She knits the afghan for her daughter, just as her mother knitted an afghan on her. In two decades or so, her daughter will be the one doing the knitting, this time for her own daughter. The mother has already finished a dozen or so pieces, the afghan being the thirteenth or fourteenth, she can’t really remember.

In her bureau drawer, is a collection of small knitted baby things, yellow booties, little white mittens, a pink bonnet, even a little pink and white cardigan, to keep the baby warm.

The phone rings and she drops her knitting in surprise. She quickly bundles up the afghan in her knitting basket, making sure no part of it is visible. She knows instinctively that it is her daughter on the line. She clenches and unclenches her fingers, grateful for the time away from knitting needles. She smooths her hair back, glancing at a

38

39

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hall mirror above the telephone check up on her appearance. On the fourth ring, she answers the phone.

“HI, MA,” I HEAR my daughter say. She knows that I live alone, so she doesn’t bother with the hellos. When she bothers calling at all.

“Hello. So, the darling daughter has finally decided to call up her dear old mother who incidentally, misses her awfully. You can call me to collect you know, if the expense is bothering you.”

“Ma, it’s not the money. I can pay for my phone calls, thank you,” she tells me in a teasing tone. Patronizing maybe? “It’s just that we’re busy. Between juggling my time for work, school, Bill and Zoe, I can hardly sit down and read anymore.”

“Why do you have to go back to school anyway? And work?

Bill makes enough for you and Zoe, with still quite a sum left over. It’s not like you’re going destitute or anything.”

“Ma, I like what I’m doing. If I don’t go to work, I’ll go crazy.

Besides, saving up never hurt anyone.”

I never did understand my daughter this way. She has enough to do at home, yet she claims that it’s boring. She was always this way, restless. In college, she rushed to finish her degree to work. Now, she’s working, she goes back to school to get a master’s degree. What do you need to get a master’s degree for? You’re not a teacher. And why study history? Those people, they’re all dead. Let them rest, I told her.

But she just smiled at me, and said something about liking old stories.

Old stories, hmph. I tell her how we were like in the past, she doesn’t listen. Not modern enough for her and her master’s degree. When she was six, she would never let go of my hand, listening to everything I said. Now, after twenty-three years, she grins condescendingly when I talk, never listening, just hearing.

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Knitting Motherhood

“Anyway, Ma. I’m calling about Saturday. I can’t have Bill pick you up to see Zoe. Bill’s boss has this thing about families and invited us over for a picnic. Bill’s angling for a promotion so we can’t---“

“You’re bringing Zoe along? Zoe can’t go. Shouldn’t go, she’s not yet baptized---“

“Ma, it’s just a superstition---“

“It’s not a superstition. What if something bad happens and Zoe---“ I do not bother finishing the statement, rather I end it with a sign of the cross, fearful of what might happen.

“Nothing’s going to happen, Ma. We’ll take good care of her, Bill practically sleeps with an eye open, just in case. There’s nothing to worry about. We’re just going to Tagaytay anyway and---“

I hear Zoe starting to cry in the background, signaling the end of our conversation.

“Uh, Ma. I have to go. Zoe just woke up, I think. I’ll call when I have more time. Bye.” She hangs the phone up, before I can even say goodbye. She is always like this, rushing and rushing. No time, even for her mother. How can she be a mother when she doesn’t talk to her mother? Who will teach her how to wipe Zoe down when she has a fever? Who will tell her that Zoe’s just teething and it’s nothing serious? Or how to tell if Zoe’s just having gas? She has her parenting books and all, makes time to read them, but she doesn’t bother asking her mother.

THE MOTHER GOES back to her window seat., immersed in her thoughts, thinking of her daughter, and her daughter’s daughter. She shakes her head, as if trying to clear it of thoughts, and then picks up her knitting basket. She pulls out the nearly finished afghan, the pinks and ivories of the threads blending prettily. Her fingers 41

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Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2

grasp the material, nimbly searching for her needles to resume her knitting. As she settles into her routine once more, her mind wanders back into the past, visiting times when her daughter was just growing up. She remembers how her daughter, when she was first learning to walk, stubbed her toe and tripped. She instinctively reached her hand out, but her daughter ignored it, using instead her fat baby fingers to push against the floor and stand up. She was proud of her daughter then, fiercely independent, even now. But she cannot help but be hurt.

She has grown up fast, her daughter, and she is now raising her own family. She doesn’t need her mother anymore and her mother knows it. So, she grasps at each little gesture to try and help, to make her daughter need her again, as she used to. So she knits, the steel needles making clicking noises as they bump against each other, frail fingers pulling rose and ivory yarns taut, and small tears occasionally dropping as the mother remembers.

“MA, I DON’T HAVE time for that,” she tells me, pulling out another disposable diaper from the package. We are in Zoe’s room.

Zoe is sprawled on her little crib, looking at us curiously. Perhaps my daughter’s resemblance to me startles her. Me, her mother with gray hairs.

“But pampers are so expensive. You can save more with cloth diapers. Besides, pampers will give Zoe rashes.” My granddaughter winces, as if agreeing to what I was saying.”

“It won’t give Zoe rashes. Rashes only happen when you don’t change the baby’s diapers. Even cloth diapers would give rashes, if left on for too long.” She deftly pulls the sticker tabs from the diapers and sticks the front part on. “Koochie koochie… does sweetie widdle Zoe feel okay now?” She nuzzles Zoe and hands her to me.

I hold my granddaughter and all argument is put aside while cuddling the frail little figure in my arms. She looks just like her moth-

42

er at three weeks, all bald and soft.

“Little Zoe, she looks like you, huh?” My daughter just nods, she isn’t really listening. She puts away the package of disposable diapers. “I still think you should keep this,” I tell her, gesturing to the small bundle of cloth diapers I brought. “you can still use it, you know. If you run out of pampers.”

“Uh, thanks, Ma.” She gingerly picks it up and eyes it warily.

Then, she slips it in one of her closet drawers, the lowest one on the right. I know this drawer because this is where she keeps things that she doesn’t find useful. Her storage drawer sorts. Where she places things Zoe doesn’t need, or at least, she doesn’t think Zoe needs. Like the cloth diapers. I pretend not to notice, and smile at har as I hand Zoe back to her. In my mind, I am already knitting, the yellow booties, the little white mittens, the little pink and white cardigan. I look up and see mother and daughter, Tessa and Zoe, like me and Tessa. They look so perfectly matched, like a baby product commercial, each one mirroring the other. And in my mind, I have Tessa’s afghan figured out. Rose and ivory, to match Zoe’s cardigan. I shall drop by the store later, on my way home, so I can buy the yarns in my mind. Tonight, I will start knitting.

SHE REMEMBERS CUDDLING Zoe, her little grandchild whose lightly sweet baby smell engulfs and wins people over. She remembers her little toes, curling as she yawned. She remembers her little baby wince, as if she swallowed something too sour, but can’t spit out. She remembers seeing her daughter and her daughter’s daughter, and deciding to keep the tradition — knitting. Knitting for her daughter as her mother knit for her. She keeps on working, rushing to finish the last piece, her daughter’s afghan. She cannot wait for the day when she presents this afghan to her daughter, maybe then, she would be her child again.

SHE IS IN THE KITCHEN when they come, her reverie 43

Knitting Motherhood

Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2

broken by the sound of a car horn. She turns the stove’s control knob to low and covers the pot of sinigang na hipon she has prepared for her daughter’s visit. She then wipes her hands on the rag resting beside the stove and hurries to the door. She passes by the hall mirror and smoothens out her hair before she opens the door.

“HELLO MA,” Tessa busses my cheek then pulls back to present Zoe. “Look, see how big your granddaughter has grown. And look, her hair has grown thicker.” Bill enters the room, his height a commanding presence. I used to think they looked funny, Tessa standing only an inch taller than my five feet. And here comes Bill at five ten, a full head taller than Tessa.

“Hi, Ma.” He kisses my cheek then presents me with a basket of fruit. I thank him and take the basket to the kitchen as he goes back out of their luggage. Tessa follows me, with Zoe still sleeping blissfully in her arms.

“How was the trip?” I ask her.

“Fine mmm hmm, smells good!” Tessa says appreciatively as I uncover the pot of sinigang. “What a coincidence, Ma. I was just eating at that new Filipino restaurant at the mall… the Barrio… whatsit...

I can’t remember. Anyway, I ordered for sinigang. It was good and all, but somehow, something didn’t feel right. So I was thinking, I had to taste your sinigang again---“

“It’s commercial.” I tell her, as I pick up my ladle and taste the soup. Not too sour, right amount of salt. Just as I expected.

“What, Ma?” She asks as she places Zoe in her baby carrier.

“I said that it was commercial. They probably used powdered tamarind to sour. Me, I use real tamarinds only.” I cover the pot again and turn the flame off.

44

“But using real tamarinds is such a hassle. Me, I use the cubes.

Gives a good flavor. Besides, real tamarinds leaves the gook.”

“No, even the cubes are not as good. To get real sinigang, you have to use real tamarinds. You cannot control the taste with cubes.

It’s all factory taste. If you use cubes, you get too lazy. Like with diapers, you use pampers, you get lazy.”

“But Ma,” Zoe stirs, putting our conversation to a halt as we both approach Zoe. She stretches a bit then sleeps again. I open the cupboard and take a deep bowl for the sinigang.

“What was that we were talking about?” I ask her as I ladle the soup into the bowl.

“Nothing. It was nothing.”

THE FAMILY SITS down to lunch and the mother beams as her daughter and son-in-law praise her cooking. She sighs happily and looks unto the couple, remembering her daughter as an eight-year-old.

I LOOK AT TESSA eating and I could not stop but see her as an eight-year-old again. I remember this one time when Gerry was teaching her to ride her bike. Just when she was starting to take off, she rode over a big stone, making her lose her balance. She skinned her knees then, and wounded her pride. She wouldn’t heed her father when he approached her to help her up. I told Gerry to let her be, let her get up on her own. Instead of giving up, she rode her bike again, this time with more determination and rode until she circled our street twice. She refused to let us tend to her wounds then, but I could see the tears trickle down her face when she thought we weren’t looking.

Only my cooking brought a smile back to her face that night. Now, she smiles all the time, as she eats with Bill of her side, as she coos baby talk to Zoe. She’s every bit a wife now. And more a mother. Yet, 45

Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2

I cannot stop and not see her as still my baby.

“That was great, Ma.” Tessa lifts the napkin to her mouth and burps softly.

“Yeah, Ma. You’re such a great cook.” Bill leans back and drapes his arm behind Tessa’s chair, very much satisfied. “You should open a restaurant, you know. A lot of my pals at the office would love some home cooking. Jeff was practically begging me to let him tag along. He even offered to baby sit Zoe for a week.”

“Uhm, speaking of Zoe, I have to feed her—“ Tessa stands up but I motion her to stop.

“I have some bananas in the fridge, just let me—“ I stand up to go to the kitchen but this time, Tessa stops me.

“Don’t worry Ma, I’ll take care of it. I brought some baby food for Zoe along. You just sit back and finish you meal, okay?” And with that, she heads for her old room where Zoe was sleeping. She comes back with a small jar, not even big enough for half a cup, a baby spoon and plate and a sleepy Zoe on the other arm.

“Why did you wake Zoe up? She’s still sleepy. You should’ve let her sleep on.” I look at my granddaughter and see the beginnings of a grimace. Everybody, especially babies, hate being woken up.

“It’s better this way.” She hands Zoe to Bill. Zoe squirms a bit, still trying to hold on to the fleeting threads of her baby dreams.

“I read in Dr. Katzerberg’s book that it’s good to make babies adjust to the family routines, in this case, lunch.”

“Hmp. And how many kids has this Dr. Katzenberg raised?

Me, I had you, Kim and CJ.”

46

“Ma. Let’s not start on this again. Dr. Katzenberg’s a doctor,

Knitting Motherhood

a pediatrician at that. He does this for a living.” She unscrews her little bottle and spoons out a small amount on Zoe’s bunny rabbit plate.

“Yes, he’s a doctor for a living, but I’m a mother for life.”

I reach for the bottle of baby food as Tessa and Bill try to feed a sleepy Zoe who was starting to get crankier by the minute. Squash and carrots the bottle says. I make small grimace and glance at Zoe. No wonder she refuses to eat. Squash and carrots? Why not mashed newspaper? I turn the bottle sideways and am shocked to find out Tessa paid this much for this teeny bottle of mashed veggies. I start to open my mouth to comment but I check myself in time. I forget.

This is what babies should eat, according to the great Dr. Katzenberg who incidentally, has successfully raised two German Shepherds to his credit.

ZOE GIGGLES as I tickle her little baby feet. Tessa is beside the kitchen counter, filling Zoe’s milk bottles with boiled distilled water for the long ride home. Bill is taking a quick shower. And I am tickling my granddaughter’s feet. She giggles and giggles and giggles.

“Ma, Zoe might get gas,” Tessa tells me and I stop tickling for a second.

“Hu, gas? What’s a little tickling? I used to tickle you to sleep and you never got gas. You would even beg me not to stop.” Zoe kicks at me a little, adamant that the tickling resume. I start tickling and she starts giggling again. My daughter could do nothing but shake her head and keep filling the baby bottles.

Bill enters the room and perches on a stool. “I’m done! Ready to go?”

“Just as soon as I finish this,” Tessa puckering her lips to point to the bottles.

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Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2

Just then, I remember my knitting. I finished them a week ago, even wrapped them in tissue paper, to be presented today. And I almost forgot! How silly of me. I hand Zoe to Bill. “Hold her a second. I almost forgot something.” Zoe squeals a bit, disappointed at the cessation of the afternoon tickling.

I rush to my room and pull open the cabinet doors. I pull out two packages, the big one with Zoe’s things and the smaller one containing Tessa’s afghan. I could hardly contain my excitement; after two and a half months, I finished them. I quickly rush out, excited to see my daughter’s face when she unwraps the afghan.

THE MOTHER HOLDS OUT the packages to her daughter who quickly opens it. She opens the larger one first and marvels at the knitted baby things.

“Ooh, Ma, they’re sooo cute. Look Bill, mini-booties! And mittens!” The mother beams as husband and wife ooh and ahh over the baby articles. She cannot contain her excitement at her daughter’s unwrapping of the afghan, the afghan so painstakingly knitted with little inlaid pink rosettes and violet-blue nosegays.

Knitting Motherhood

it used to be. Her husband taps her shoulder, indicating that they have to go.

“Uh, Ma, we have to go. Bill has an eight a.m. appointment tomorrow and I have a defense on Tuesday night. Thanks again.” The daughter and her husband gather their belongings together and carry them to the car. The mother follows, carrying her granddaughter.

She hands her granddaughter back to her daughter and hugs her again. They say their good-byes and her daughter promises to call.

She nods and smiles, but she has learned not to rely on her daughter’s promises. She waves one last time as her daughter rolls the car window up and she returns to her house and her solitary existence. She spies a tissue wrapped package on the kitchen table and realizes that it is the afghan. She grabs it and rushes to the street.

She raises the package in the air and shouts. “You forgot—“ Slowly, her arms drop and she clutches the package to her chest. She bites her lower lip and hugs the package tighter to her chest as the blue speck on the street that is her daughter’s car disappears.

“Here, this one. This one’s for you.” The mother pushes the smaller package to her daughter. The daughter opens it and sees the afghan. She looks at her mother questioningly.

“It’s an afghan.” The mother says, seeing that her daughter does not share the same enthusiasm. “It’s to keep you warm. When you’re up late studying or taking care of Zoe.” The mother hides the pain she feels as her daughter refolds the afghan and returns it to the box without even giving it a second glance.

“Thanks, Ma. I can’t believe you did that all. The afghan’s pretty. And the little booties are just sooo cute.” The daughter hugs her mother, not realizing that her mother’s embrace is not as tight as 48

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Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2

Pasinatabi ni Inang Buwan kay Sisa

Walang ano-ano’y tumigil ang pagdaloy ng iyong luha, hiniltak ko ang luha pabalik sa iyong mga mata, ang luha ay umabot sa iyong bumbunan, pumuno, at ang iyong isipan ay nagmistulang isang karagatan na hindi dinaraungan ng bapor ng katinuan.

AJ jose jacinto

Pasintabi ni Inang Buwan kay Sisa

AKALA KO ay tubig lamang sa karagatan ang maaari kong pagbuhusan ng kapangyarihan.

Hindi pala. Sapagkat ang luha sa iyong mga mata na hindi na pumatak simula pa kagabi nang kita’y makita ay nakuha kong pigilan.

Nakuha kong padaluyin sa iyong isipan.

At ibinalita sa akin ng aking asawang Araw na nakita ka niya kaninang umaga. Nanghuhuli ka raw ng mga paruparo sa malawak na kapatagan.

PATAWAD, anak kong Sisa. Hindi ko sinasadya.

AKALA KO ay tubig lamang sa karagatan ang maaari kong hilahin papalapit sa akin upang lumalim at itaboy papalayo upang bumabaw.

NASILAYAN kita na nakadungaw sa iyong bintana na yari sa capiz. Sinusuklay mo ang iyong buhok gamit ang isang payneta. May luhang pumapatak mula sa iyong mga mata habang inaaninag mo ang iyong sarili sa bilugan kong mukha na itinuturing mong salamin.

Ang iyong mga daliri ay waring putol-putol na baging na nakahawak sa payneta. Ang iyong buhok ay dumadaloy na tila tubig na nagmumula sa isang talon. Ang kahinhinan ng iyong ginagawang pagaayos sa sarili ay masining, makapigil-hininga, at umakit sa akin upang itutok ang aking liwanag sa iyong kariktan.

Iniibig kita. Naaakit ako ng luha na nagmumula sa iyong mga mata. Luhang tuloy-tuloy ang pagdaloy, tuloy-tuloy ang pagtahak sa pisngi, wari bang mga alon ng karagatan na humahalik sa dalampasigan.

Iniibig kita, anak na Sisa, at pinaliguan ng aking liwanag sa gabing madilim.

50

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Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2

Mary rose dela cruz

Premonisyon

I. Sumilip ang araw mula sa mala-bulak na ulap sa karagatan

nang bumaba ako mula sa jeep kahit di pa nakapagbayad. Kabado ako kaya nawala sa isip ko na magbayad. Ewan ko ba.

Wala pa ring pagbabago sa kalagayan ng Kalye Real. Naluklok na nga ang iba’t ibang Mayor, wala rin namang ginawa kundi magpasasa sa kayamanan ng bayan. Sa airport pa lang. Ganoon pa rin. Limang taon na pala tayong walang pag-uusap. Ni sulat di ka nagpadala.

Ni hindi ko nga alam kung ano ang naging trabaho mo. Kaya halos matawa ako kagabi sa iyo. Nag-atubili ka pa ngang sumagot ukol sa aking paanyaya. Alam kong nagulat ka. Alam ko yata iyan dahil kilala na kita.

Nasa dulo pa pala ng Kalye Real ang R&J Diner. Naaalala mo ba dati noong nagtalo tayo kung ano ang ibig sabihin ng R&J? Binilisan ko ang aking paglakad at baka nando’n ka na. Ewan ko ba sa espiritu ng Kalye Real—kung mayroon man. Sa tuwing nagpupunta ako rito ay ginigising niya ang mga alaalang ibinabaon ko na sa limot. Naalala mo ba? Dati? Pinagmamasdan tayo ng mga tao lalo

52

Premonisyon

na ng mga matatanda. Pero hindi natin sila pinapansin. Ngayon, gusto ko nang magsimula uli ng bagong kabanata ng buhay ko. Gusto ko nang magpaalam sa nakaraan. Gaya ng Kalye Real. Ang dating Alpha Theatre. Giniba na kaya’t may KFC at 7-11.

Natanaw ko na ang pasukan ng R&J Diner. Wala pa ring pagbabago sa mukha ng restawran. Pula pa rin ang kurtina at luma pa rin ang nakacardboard na nagsisilbing poster ng enter at exit.Naglakad ako papalapit sa pintuan na may salaming babasagin. Pinagbuksan ako ng guwardiya.

Naghanap ako ng mesa sa may gawing kaliwa at nilapitan agad ako ng waiter. Iniabot niya sa akin ang ganoon pa ring listahan ng mga ulam. Isang menung pinagtagpi-tagpi na lamang ng scotch tape. Ang mga desserts—nandoon pa rin ang leche flan na paborito mo. Maliban sa Fanta na binura sa listahan ng mga inumin, parang kahapon lang ako kumain sa restawrang ito.

Waiter, dalawang softdrinks nga. Anong softdrinks? Sarsaparilla. Meal? Mamaya na lang dahil may kasama pa ako.

Nang umalis sa harapan ko ang waiter, nakita kita. Papasok ka sa restawran. Pinagbuksan ka rin ng guwardiya.

Pula na pala ang buhok mo ngayon. Itinaas ko ang aking kanang kamay sa ere. Kumaway iyon at natanaw mo kung saan ako nakaupo. Pinagmasdan ko ang pagyugyog ng malusog mong dibdib sa iyong bawat hakbang. Ang iyong kamay naman ay unti-unting hinawi ang bangs na napunta sa iyong mga mata. Saglit kang luminga-linga upang tingnan kung mayroong salamin na madadaanan mo. At sa isa mo pang paghakbang ay nakatayo ka na, sa harapan ko.

O, upo ka, yaya ko sa iyo.

Hinila ko ang upuang monoblock. Umupo ka. Ngumiti at tumitig sa akin. Anong gusto mo? tanong ko. Lalo mo lang tinamisan ang iyong pagngiti.

Pansit? tanong ko sa pag-aakalang hindi na iyon ang paborito mo. Waiter, dalawang pansit nga.

Hindi mo yata ako narinig. O ayaw mo pa ba akong kausapin, kasi pagod ka pa. Marahan mong ibinaba ang zipper ng iyong bag at kinuha ang isang kaha ng sigarilyo. Marlboro Lights. Tinawag mo ang waiter.

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Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2

Waiter, posporo nga.

Inabot naman sa iyo ng waiter ang posporo na kinuha niya sa counter. Nagsimula kang magkuwento matapos ang tatlong ulit mong hithit-buga.

Talaga! Di naman gaanong lumaki ang tiyan ko. Katawan kamo? Malamig sa States at di ka gaanong pinapawisan. Bagay ba ang kulay ng buhok ko ngayon? Galing ako sa New York, pero Boston ang unang lugar na titirhan ko. Malapit siya doon sa unibersidad kung saan ako nag-aral ng Masters sa tinapos kong kurso sa Behavioral Science.

Malamig doon, kahit hindi ka nakikinig. Masarap ang apple pie kahit tulala ka. Ninanamnam mo ba ang bawat tuldok at kuwit ng mga sinasabi ko? Ano bang gusto mong sabihin ko? ‘Yung tungkol sa ating dalawa? Huwag naman iyon! Ngayon na nga lang tayo ulit nagkita, tapos yon na naman! Huwag iyon. Huwag ngayon.

Nagpumilit ka. pero tumahimik lang ako hanggang sa dumating ang inorder kong pansit. Waiter, pahingi ng kalamansi. Kalamansi juice ha. At saka, isang Pale Pilsen para sa akin.

“Let’s not talk about the happy moments because I need to say something very important to you,” sabi ko. Sana maintindihan mo ako, gaya ng pag-intindi ko sa iyo, kung bakit lumuluha ang langit o lumulubog ang araw o kung bakit masarap ang halik.

Patawarin mo ako subalit may pamilya na ako. Natawa ako subalit biglang gumuhit ang pinaghalong kaba at pagkabigla at galit sa mukha mo. “I have a family,” ulit ko.

Tumawa kang muli sa pag-aakalang niloloko kita, pero hindi, may asawa na ako’t mga anak. Subalit nag-order ka lang ng leche flan.

Bato na ang damdamin ko sa iyo. Di na kita mahal at wala na akong magagawa doon. Wala na rin akong magagawa sa iyo. Nandito ako upang tapusin ang dapat at kailangang tapusin.

“People change, please understand my situation and my needs.”

Dumating ang leche flan.

Ano ba ‘tong leche flan nila?! Lumiit na yata ang hugis tapos ang mahal-mahal! Ang tamis-tamis pa!

Bakit bigla kang tumayo? Umupo ka nga at pinagtitinginan tayo ng mga tao! Wala ka bang delicadeza?

54

Premonisyon

“I know you’ve waited and I’m here to say goodbye.”

Hindi ako bulag. Hindi ako manhid at lalong wag mo akong mumurahin! Iyan ang hirap kasi sa iyo! Intindihin natin ang nakaraan nang mabuti, paanong magiging tayo kung sa simula ay di naman naging tayo. Baka talagang walang gustong manligaw sa iyo. Malay mo?

Sa loob ng limang taon, trabaho ko ang magpaalipin sa mga Kano.

Kapalaran ko iyon. Tulad ng kapalaran natin—na hindi tayong dalawa.

Sinasayang ko lang ang oras ko sa walang kakuwenta-kuwentang usapang ito! Bakit ka nagpupumilit? Lasing ako nang sinabi ko na mahal kita!

Umupo ka na. Umupo ka na! Hindi ako nahihiyang malaman ng mga usisero’t usisera rito! Umupo ka. Kinuha mo ang tinidor at di ko alam kung ano ang ginagawa mo sa leche flan. Pagbigyan mo ako.

Ikaw lang ang tanging bestfriend ko sa mundong ito. Mahal kita, pero hindi mahal na mahal, hindi tayo puwede, e. Kaibigan lang talaga ang turing ko sa iyo. Intindihin mo naman, naiinis na ako. Bakit ba ang tigas ng ulo mo? Nakaraan na ang lahat ng iyon! Marami pang mga lalaki diyan na babagay sa iyo. Ito, dala ko pa ang unang regalo mo sa akin. Hinugot ko unang regalo mo sa akin. Hinugot ko mula sa jacket ang love poems. The Greatest Love Poems Collection. Regalo mo ito sa akin tanda ng pagkakaibigan natin.

Inabot ko sa iyo, eto, kunin mo.

Subalit bigla kang sumigaw. At sa isang iglap, bigla kong ibinato sa mukha mo ang libro. Tumahimik ka! Ano ba ang nangyayari sa iyo? May hinugot ka sa bag mo at nalaglag ang mga laman nito sa sahig. Ang pagbagsak ng salamin mo ay gumawa ng tinig na pinagmulan ng komosyon sa loob ng restawran.

Pulang-pula ang mukha mo. Huwag mong gagawin iyang binabalak mo. Huwag mong itutok ang baril sa akin. Huwag mong gawin iyang binabalak mo. Wala akong malaking kasalanan upang gawin mo sa akin ito! Pamilyado akong tao! Kaya ako bumalik dito dahil gusto kitang kausapin. Yun lang.

Lumuhod ako sa harap mo. Maawa ka. Kilala kita. Mapapalambot ko ang puso mo. Tumulo ang ilang butil ng luha sa aking mga mata. Gaano ba katagal akong hindi lumuha? Bigla akong natauhan. Hindi ko alam kung naging bato ako sa paglipas ng panahon.

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Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2

Maawa ka sa akin. Gulong-gulo na ako pero tahimik ang restawran.

Pasensiya na. Pasensiya ka na. Alam kong mahal mo ako. Tuloy-tuloy ang aking pag-iyak na parang bata. Alam ko na mahal mo ako. Tumayo ka at niyakap mo ako. Hinigpitan ko ang yakap sa iyo. Nakita ko ang mukha ng guwardiya na may hawak na baril. Umuusok ang bunganga ng baril niya. Bakit ninyo siya pinatay? Sino? Sino’ng pinatay?

II.

Mahirap maintindihan ang landasin ng buhay. Ang mga bagay na hinihintay ay hindi nagpapakita. Kung may makikita man, hindi na ito kakailanganin. At kung kailan na may importante akong lakad, saka pa umuulan. Mabuti sana kung may dala akong sasakyan e, nag-taxi lang ako papunta rito.

Habang nakasakay ako sa taxi, wala akong natatanaw sa labas maliban sa mga taong paroo’t parito. Tila karayom ang pagbagsak ng ulan mula sa langit at sinira nito ang tanawin sa Kalye Real.

Mabuti’t tinawagan mo ako kagabi. Tiyempo naman na wala akong gagwin ngayong araw kaya pumayag ako sa iyong paanyaya. At sa boses mo kagabi sa telepeno—kung may hugis man ang boses—di ko na alam kung tatsulok o kuwadrado o bilog na iyon dahil limang taon na tayong hindi nag-uusap.

Limang taon na rin akong naghihintay. Nagtiis rin ako nang walang mga sulat o pagpapaalala ng sulat-kamay mo. Lahat ng mga pagdududa ay isinilid ko na lang sa isip at ipinapaubaya ko na lang sa aking puso ang maghintay. Sinabi ko lang sa sarili na tinangka mong sulatan o tawagan ako, subalit marami kang ginagawa. Hindi ko maintindihan basta’t sabik ako na muli kang makita.

Dalawang daan ang ibinayad ko sa driver.

Pagkababa ko ay rumatsada ang taxi. Pinausukan ang itim kong slacks. Buti na lamang at biglang ngumiti ang araw. Umaninag ang liwanag mula sa kalaliman ng kahabaan ng Kalye Real. Mukhang bumalik ang dati nitong ganda. Gano’n pa rin pala ang Kalye Real.

Baku-bako at parang sungkaan ang daanan lalo na kung katatapos lamang umulan.

Sa muling pagbalik ko sa Kalye Real ay may mga alaalang dahan-dahang bumalik sa aking isip. Gaya ng paghahabulan natin mismo 56

Premonisyon

sa daanang ito. Naalala ko pa iyon. Sa kabilang kalye, nando’n pa rin ang barber shop ni Mang Rodi kung saan ka nagpapagupit. Naninilaw na ang poster ni Osang sa may pintuan ng barberya, pati ang mukha ni Mang Rodi, tumatanda na rin. Sa bandang kanan, may bagong KFC at katabi pa ng 7-11. May Video City na kasama ang ilan pang mga maliliit na tindahan sa tabi-tabi. Wala pa ring nagbabago sa Kalye Real lalo na ang R&J Diner kung saan ay muli tayong magtatagpo.

Ang dibdib ko ay sinisidlan ng kaba. Pero hindi dapat akong kabahan dahil may pangdepensa ako sa sarili. Naging mapanganib na nag Kalye Real mula n’ung natalo sa eleksiyon si Mayor Villafuerte.

Di bale na! Wala namang mangyayari sa akin dahil hindi ako ang nasa loob ng restawran. Wala pa ako. Ngunit, narito na ako. Naglalakad, papalapit sa pintuan na binuksan naman ng guwardiya.

Pula na ang buhok ko, mistulang binagyo. Malakas ang hanging nanggagaling mula sa electric fan na nakatapat sa mukha ng kung sino man ang dadaan doon.

Nakita na kita. Kumakaway ka pa. Hindi ako makatingin sa iyo nang diretso. Napalingon na lamang ako sa gawing kanan kung saan nakita ko ang sarili sa salamin. Manipis ang pagkakalagay ko ng foundation, pero okay lang. Kinapalan ko naman ang aking eyeliner at kilay para tumugma sa manipis kong blush-on.

Papalapit na ako sa iyo. Sabik na sabik na akong maupo sa tabi mo. Sa kalaunan ay tumambad sa paningin ko ang bilugan mong mukha, ang minsang nagpatibok ng aking puso hanggang ngayon.

Pagkalipas ng tatlong araw mula ng tuluyang maging helpless na ako sa iyo ay umalis ka, papuntang States nang wala man lang pasabi.

Hinila ko ang upuan at inilapat ang aking puwitan sa monoblock na silya. Alam kong ayaw mo akong naninigarilyo, ngunit sumige pa rin ako.

Alam mo ba, ang laki ng ipinagbago mo. Lumaki ang katawan mo. Pinabago mo pa ang kulay ng balat mo. Pero hindi na tulad ng dati ang mga mata mo. Bakit nawala na ang mga kislap nila?

Hindi pa nga kita kinukumusta, bumira ka na. Bigla yatang nabusog ang tainga ko sa pakikinig sa mga kuwento mo. New York.

Apple Pie. Boston, ha? Pati sa mga naging reaksyon mo, nakikiramay ako. Pati ang tuldok at kuwit ng mga sinasabi mo, ninanamnam ko.

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“Ang saya naman pala ng buhay mo sa Tate, e,” sabi ko. Pero sana tapusin mo na ang mga kuwento mo tungkol sa mga puti mong kaibigan. Ngayon na lang nga tayo muling nagkita kaya’t sa tingin ko naman ay naaalala mo pa, di ba?

Di ka sumagot. Bigla kang tumahimik. Sige na. Sabihin mo uli sa akin yung laman ng dibdib mo. Alam kong mahirap pero huwag na sana tayong dumaan pa sa inuman upang mailabas mo ang laman ng dibdib mo.

Hindi ko pa tinitikman ang pansit na inorder mo para sa akin.

Gusto ko muna kasi ng kalamansi, kalamansi juice. Pakisabi sa waiter, yung juice, gusto ko yung maraming yelo ha. Ikaw, di ba iced tea ang favorite mo? Pero bakit Pale Pilsen ang inorder mo? Hindi mo na ba iyon paborito?

“Happy moments bring smiles to our faces especially in a blue day like this,” sabi ko. Kanina pa akong naghihintay sa susunod mong ikukuwento o ipapaalala, kung meron man, at meron nga. Babalikan ko ang amoy ng pabango mo, ang mahigpit mong yakap, at tamis ng halik mo. Di mo lang alam kung gaano ko katagal hinintay ang pagbabalik mo.

Kinikilig pa ako hanggang ngayon sa mahigpit mong hawak sa mga kamay ko sa may CCP Complex. Lalo tayong bumagay sa isa’t isa n’ung naghalikan tayo, saksi ang papalubog na araw.

Ang ayos na sana ng usapan natin ano? Ano? Ano kamo?

You have a fa..fam...family? Siyempre may pamilya ka! “No, you have a wife? What?” Sigurado ka ba diyan? “How true? Kailan pa?” Hay naku! Binibiro mo nanaman ako e! Ha? Totoo? Talaga? Hindi! Hindi puwede! Letse!

“Waiter, two orders ng leche flan nga!”

Akala mo siguro, natuwa ako sa ibinalita mo. Nagpapatawa ka ba? Pakiramdam mo siguro, naiintindihan ko ang sinasabi mo!

“Okay, fine! Then what? I must understand your needs?!”

How about my needs?

O, kainin mo na ang leche flan na dala ng waiter. Oo nga eh!

Ang tamis ng leche flan sabi mo. Hindi. Mapait yata ang amibal ng leche flan.

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Premonisyon

Talagang-talaga lang ha? Putangina! Napatayo ako. Hindi mo alam na naghintay ako? Ba’t naman? How stupid can you get? Manhid ka ba? Tangina mo! Hindi ako nagpaligaw dahil hinihintay kita. Hayop ka! Hindi mo na makikita ang pamilyang sinasabi mo!

Ayan nanaman ang mga mata ng mga usisero. Mistulang naghahanap ng bagong mapagtsitsismisan. Aba! Pinauupo mo pa ako!

Baki? Nahihiya ka na malaman ng mga tsismoso’t tsismosa rito ang kataksilan mong hayop ka? Dapat lang ano! Sige, uupo na ako. Pagbibigyan na kita. Pansamantala.

Tumayo ako. Umupo uli ako. Kinuha ko ang tinidor at isinaksak ko iyon sa leche flan. Akala mo siguro, tutusukin kita ano? Pasalamat ka na lang sa leche flan dahil sinalo niya ang galit ko. Dinurog ko ang leche flan gaya ng pagdurog mo sa puso ko. Pero bakit? Mahal kita. Mahal mo ako. Kaya lang may asawa ka na? Paano na?

Kumunot ang noo mo. Anong sinabi mo? Nakaraan na tayo?

Kesyo maraming lalaki diyan na mas babagay sa akin? E ikaw nga ang gusto ko e! Naiintindihan mo ba? O, ano ‘yang kinakalikot mo? ‘Yan ‘yung librong ibinigay ko sa iyo ha. Love Poems. The Greatest Love Poems Collection. Second Edition pa kamo. Regalo ko sa iyo tanda ng aking pagmamahal.

Ano? Huwag mo namang ibato sa mukha ko! Binastos mo ako. Punung-puno na ako sa iyo! Gago! Gago ka! Sinira mo ang buhay ko. Di ko kayang pigilan ang sarili na magwala. Inudyukan mo akong bumunot ng baril mula sa aking bag. Nagkalansingan ang mga beauty aids ko sa semento. Pero okay lang. Baril na sana’y papatay sa magtatangka ng buhay ko—gaya mo na nagtangkang wasakin ako.

Biglang nagtakbuhan ang mga tao palabas ng restwaran.

Ano?! Ba’t namumutla ka diyan? Anong huwag-huwag mo diyan? Ba’t gamunggo na yata ang pawis na tumatagaktak mula sa iyo?

Anong sabi mo? Awa? Maawa ako sa iyo? Tangina ka? Naawa ka ba sa akin?

Nakaluhod ka na sa harapan ko. Sige! Magdasal ka, kapalit ng mga dasal na inusal ko para sa pagbalik mo. Iyak! Umiyak ka kapalit ng

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Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2

mga iyak ko para sa iyo.

Sa totoo lang, akala ko matatag ako. Pero hindi. Dumaloy ang luha sa aking mga mata dahil naaawa ako sa iyo. Napaupo ako.

Ipinatong ko ang baril sa ibabaw ng mesa. Ano? Anong gagawin ko?

Patayin na lang kaya kita?

Tumayo ka at niyakap mo ako. Ang higpit n’un. At pakirmdam ko, para bang wala nang wakasan. Tapos bumulong ka pa sa akin.

Ano? Mahal mo ako? Talaga?

“Aray!” May kung anong tumusok sa likod ko. Bigla kang lumayo sa akin. Nanlabo ang aking paningin nang bumagsak ako sa sahig. Natanaw ko ang umuusok na bunganga ng baril ng guwardiya.

Naramdaman ko ang masakit na lagutok ng aking likuran sa semento. Umalingawngaw sa akin ang putok ng baril.

Bang!!!

Bumagsak ang katawan ko sa sahig. ‘Di ko alam kung sinong tinamaan.

Johannes chua

Prodigal

W

hen he heard somebody call him Mr. Sy on that fourth day of the fourth month of the year, Ah Bing realized that at the age of twentyone, it was the first time that he was given the responsibility to look after his brother. There, in front of him, was the brown casket of Ah Huat, dead at twenty-five years. He was following it while carrying his brother’s portrait behind his back, as if he was cradling a precious gem and hiding it from anyone.

“Be careful,” said Auntie Aurora, his mother’s elder sister whose plump size matched well with her big deep womanly voice. She has a penchant for drama and repeating embarrassing stories of others which irritates Ah Bing. “Do it well. It’s for Ah Huat.”

He resented Auntie Aurora for ordering him around the past four days but Ah Bing had no choice, for his aunt knew by heart all the protocols of a proper Chinese funeral and is the elder figure of the family. He couldn’t even have a decent conversation with his parents after Monday, 11 in the morning, when Ah Huat, always the punctual one, was almost an hour late for his 9 a.m. meeting in the office.

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Like other third-generation Filipino-Chinese, the lannang, he has two first names, one legal English name and a traditional Chinese name: Washington and Hien Bing, the bright one. His elder brother was born four years earlier Hien Huat – the rich one – was Wellington. As they were growing up, they even had a third name, which was only used inside the home: he was called Tonton, and his brother was Jowel.

Tonton was ya giat, so playful that ends the day with bruises on his arms and legs that shake like bamboo or with grease smeared on his cheeks, putting creases in an otherwise flawless white face which looks like a porcelain figure. When he was growing up, he was increasingly reckless. His Parents, also with two names, Benson or Tien Kua and Lilt or Kui Giok, never believed that Ah Bing had a disorder, like what their US-trained pediatrician had revealed. For them, it was just the Western way of justifying unruly childish behavior. Ah Bing simply lacked a few whacks from a bamboo stick or a wooden ruler.

He was simply ya giat.

Then there was Jowel, born with darker skin, always referred though jokingly, as the huanna – the Filipino – even though his bespectacled eyes were shaped like almonds, that seem to turn into watermelon seeds when he smiles, although rarely, but most often whenever he reads a good book and realizes that the ending is not what he had anticipated.

At the Chinese Catholic school in Masangkay, where they were taught to become ‘schizophrenic’ – speak English in the morning till 2 p.m., then shift to Mandarin/Fookien from 2 to 5 p.m. – his friends called him Wash, while his brother was known as Wells. Ah Huat was their batch valedictorian, while he was the class clown. Often, it was his brother’s reputation – the medals from the Math Olympics, the Science Congress Best Invention, the Writing Competition Trophy – that saved Ah Bing from being expelled out of school.

Even though both of them were complete opposites, Ah Bing admired and respected his brother. On his part, Ah Huat always supported him, even finishing his high school English thesis project on Alzheimer’s which puzzled his teachers as to why someone–he knew it was Ah Huat’s – would want to discuss this disease. He finished high 62

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school, albeit too late for his 18 years, since that was the same age when his big brother already earned his degree in Economics, magna cum laude. Ah Bing, who was the life of a party, quietly resented the fact that he evolved from being ‘ya giat’ to ‘ya kap shiaw’, the stupid one, for how could he not believe it when everyone stamped that label on his head. When he accidentally bumped the vase, he was kap shiaw. When he flunked his Math subject, he was tsin kap shiaw. The superlatives just grew every time he made a mistake.

His name became a joke among Chinese teachers who suggested the brothers to switch names. When it was too ironic to call him Ah Bing, a terror teacher, who was nicknamed ‘Hitler’ by students, suddenly called him Kap Shiaw. That elicited a roaring laughter in the class. His face burned with humiliation, as red as the angpam envelops given during Chinese New Year. That incident spread like wildfire in school and reached Ah Huat. In an act of defiance, he barged in the teachers’ room which was usually off-limits to students, fuming like a dragon with raging fire in its belly.

“Stop calling him kap shiaw!” protested Ah Huat. “You don’t have the right to say that, even teachers have no authority to say that.

Di tua kian shiaw.” The last sentence rang of rebellion – an A student pointing his finger at an elder, shouting at the top of his voice for everyone to hear about the disgraceful act committed by a respected teacher. Ah Huat committed the ultimate taboo – a student publicly shaming a teacher.

He was not contented with the confrontation. Bringing the case further to the principal, Ah Huat defied the order of the establishment: “I’ll go if he’s not going. But I’ll stay if you kick the teacher out.” He even threatened to transfer not only to a different school but its fiercest rival which has been dangling benefits and scholarships to his parents’ face ever since – a Protestant Chinese school in Quezon City.

“I’ll beat your team in the Math Olympiad,” said Ah Huat.

It was no Sophie’s Choice for the principal. The school had to win the Math Olympiad no matter what ensure its reputation among the Filipino-Chinese community, which somehow translates to more enrollees in the coming school year. Mr. Chua, the Hitler, was immedi63

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ately relieved of his teaching post and returned only after Ah Huat graduated.

From that day on, nobody dared call Ah Bing ‘kap shiaw’ even among his classmates who used to toss that name for fun. His teachers tried to avoid him–and allowed him to pass his subjects–lest they incur the wrath of the “school’s precious asset”. Years later, the incident reached the level of an urban myth and the real story, like other shameful stories of the lannang, became shrouded with mystery and debased as a mere gossip.

It was a daily routine for Lily to see Ah Huat at 7:30 for breakfast, to hear his goodbye as ‘gua be khi lo’ at 8 and for him to reach his office in CGI, an investment company, at exactly 9. Ah Huat was never late, worked systematically, dressed smartly, and dealt with people and subordinates with respect. He was recently promoted to Investment Officer after being an assistant for years. It paid well but Lily would ask her son why he would not want to be involved in the family business.

“Look at all your cousins. Almost all of them are working in the family business. They have chauffeur-driven cars while you take the LRT or the MRT, something the jeep and tricycle pa. Are you not tired? It’s been ages since you have worked for that company,” Lily said a couple of times over breakfast of hot chicken noodles with slices of raw carrots topped with a generous serving of chopped spring onions, Ah Huat’s favorite.

“Ma, it’s not that I don’t want to be involved. I want to prove myself first and accomplish something. It’s different when you have experienced how it is to rise from the ranks,” Ah Huat said.

“Well, again, all your cousins don’t know that. And they’re having the time of their lives – touring Europe, watching Broadway plays, going to Disneyland…”

“–and wasting their parents’ cash!” Ah Huat blurted.

His parents found their son weird—for who turns away from a silver platter, from a life of comfort with secretaries, assistants, maids, drivers. But then again, how could they complain when their ‘golden child’ never gave them anything to complain or worry about, never asked for money, never went home drunk, and never surprised 64

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them with a lovechild. When he decided to work after graduation, he never asked for recommendations from his parents’ coterie of kumpares and kumares, business associates, or relatives.

Then the talk would transfer to Ah Bing and Lily would sigh and say: “Aya…Gua em chai iya bhe tsong sya lo… I don’t know what to do with him. He failed in all colleges he applied to, even the most substandard school. He doesn’t even want to do some errands for the factory, he’s either bored or too lazy. He always plays with the computer, I don’t even know what he’s doing. If all his computer time can be compensated, he would become a millionaire now, ya ho gia lo.”

Lily complained while remembering the numerous times when Ah Bing would arrive home drunk as the sun was beginning to rise with a face so beet red, as if all his blood rushed to his head and it was not because he had any shame on him.

Ah Huat would not agree: “Ma, don’t lose hope on Ah Bing.

There is this thing on multiple intelligence that I recently read. It just says that a person is capable to be efficient on certain aspects and tasks.

“Aya, those American stuff that justify mediocrity. For us lannang, its either you have it or you don’t. It is that simple. It’s up to you to believe it or not,” Lily said, then lowering her voice, in a whisperlike tone as if spilling a secret. “Look after Ah Bing after we’re gone in this earth. You are the brother—the Anhya—after all.”

“Ma, don’t say that,” Ah Huat dismissed it, like he had just heard from Auntie Aurora, who always drops by during the weekend to dish out juicy Binondo gossip while wolfing down her sister’s pork dumplings, bola-bola, and gohyong.

His dad, on the other hand, would regard his son’s initiative to find work as “Ah Huat’s phase” whenever his wife would raise the business succession issue. “Obviously we can’t pass it on to Ah Bing unless we want all out hard-earned money to go down the drain.”

“Ah Huat’s one of a kind, but someday he will be back to head the family business and expand it,” his dad always said with optimism, albeit an optimistic broken record, when asked by business associates why his eldest son would be absent during meetings. He was wrong the moment he heard his wife’s scream over the cellphone.

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He could not decipher at first what she was shouting about. Then the news of an unspeakable tragedy on that early Monday morning suddenly hit him, like a stray bullet from nowhere.

So when he was called Mr. Sy on that fourth day of the fourth month of the year, he thought that the lady was calling for his father. Ah Bing glanced around and remembered that his parents were left at home.

They could not come to Ah Huat’s funeral for it was forbidden. Auntie Aurora went home to rest and he was alone at the morgue. He had to pick up some papers and it puzzled him why he needed to sign so many documents. He did not even bother to read since everything was a blur. The morning’s tragic events went by so fast and it was already near midnight when Ah Huat was wheeled inside the room in the casket.

Nobody was there to welcome them. In front of him was the brown casket of Ah Huat, dead at twenty-five years. He stepped near it and looked at his brother’s face. Like every dead person, his face looked as if he was just sleeping and could spring back to life any moment, wiping the make-up caking his face, and making crazy faces, as if saying to everyone, “Halleloo! I’ve fooled all of you.” But then Ah Bing realized that it was only his imagination running wild, something that he seems to be doing every day of his twenty-one years.

He noticed that Ah Huat was wearing a suit.

“He hated that suit!” he said to himself. He remembered how his brother bought this gray suit yet opted to wear a short-sleeved barong during a college thesis defense even though all his male classmates wore sleek business attires with ties and cufflinks. He even despised wearing a tie around his neck, telling him how he can’t breathe properly, as if a snake was resting on his shoulders ready to suffocate him.

“He hated wearing that particular suit, Ah Bing repeated to himself, stressing the irony that his brother is now stuck with an ugly gray business suit, a blue-and white striped tie, a hairstyle that showed his emerging bald forehead, for eternity.

Ah Bing was waiting for his brother to complain—or to “stand up for what is right” in his brother’s words—but there was only the 66

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deafening air of silence, and a whiff of an unfamiliar synthetic scent emerging from the casket. In the early scenes of hysteria and commotion, Ah Bing remained calm and composed. He suddenly grew up from being a carefree boy to a serious man when he pulled his Mom away from crushing the lifeless body of Ah Huat, still warm yet stiff, joints semi-locked, lips turning into a shade of dark violet, mouth wide-open as if gasping for air. Ah Huat’s eyes were staring blankly at the emergency room ceiling and his father closed it gently. “It’s not a good day to look at the sky,” said Tien Kua, whose name means ‘to look at the sky’.

The first day of the fourth month of the year just ended, It was already past midnight. In that moment of silence, when he finally felt close to his brother, Ah Bing cried with tears to last a lifetime.

The paper house came. Three paper vehicles arrived too, a BMW, a Mercedes Benz, and a Lamborghini, which seemed to pop out from some glossy car magazine. Even a Boeing 747, made of carton, with a cut-out of a pilot in the cockpit, has landed. They were all placed at the entrance to the room, whose door has a black cloth draped over it. Soon, the house was adorned with Christmas lights and Ah Bing arrived at the funeral parlor witnessing how the workers scrambled to find the electric plug. He scratched his head at the sight of the gaudy and colorful Chinese mansion which was almost five feet tall.

He peeked at the living room and saw an ID-size photo of Ah Huat pasted on the wall.

“How could Ah Huat live here when he is a fan of minimalist architecture?” he asked himself. There’s even a paper-cut servant, maid, and driver and soon they would be out of work and helplessly burning in the conflagration doomed like slaves to a dead Pharaoh.

Ah Huat believed in a classless society that he argued with Auntie Aurora regularly about this issue. Auntie, with her prophetic voice and strong stage presence gave up. It seems that his brother was the only one who can argue with her.

“What’s this doing here?” Ah Bing asked to no one in particular, while holding up a box that resembles and iPad, complete with stickers representing the widgets. His brother hated Apple products 67

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so he picked it up and threw it in the trashcan.

He entered the room and saw Auntie Aurora already barking orders to her staff. One was busy setting up a table of food as offering for the dead. There was another one setting up the mini-buffet section where the drinks and snacks were for the living. Another one was folding paper money, arranged ornately like deli meat in a hotel breakfast buffet. Auntie lit two incense sticks and its smell later filled the room.

“Don’t forget to light a new incense stick once the old one is spent. Only two sticks for the dead. Remember that, mang kap shiaw,” Ah Bing heard it again, the dreaded words that his brother despised.

“And if you’re not doing anything, help Inday fold the paper money.

Gather it in a box, then give it to the boy to burn outside. There’s an area for that. The more money we burn, the richer Ah Huat will be in Heaven.”

He came back home after the second day to change clothes and gather Ah Huat’s things for burning. It was eerily quiet when he and Auntie Aurora stepped inside the living room. The lights were dimmed, the television was on yet it was muted, while the electric fan gave out a gurgling sound. Lily was preparing some noodles for dinner and dad was busy reading the Chinese newspaper while his feet were comfortably hoisted on another chair, like it was an ordinary day.

“Pa, Ma, we brought some food for dinner,” said Ah Bing.

His dad mumbled and had something else on his mind. “Who went last night?”

“Auntie Linda was there. His ninang also, Auntie Fely arrived.

Then there’s your friend, General Fidel, with five body guards in a row. He was asking why you’re not there,” he replied.

“What did you say?”

“I said it’s against our belief for parents to be present during their dead son’s wake.”

“Well, what did he say?”

“He asked if you have even visited. I said no, which he and I naturally found weird. Why wouldn’t you want to see your son for the last time?” Ah Bing knew he veered from the correct answer and had 68

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spoken something which should not even be whispered in the first place.

Auntie Aurora cut him short. “Haven’t I told you that it is our tradition that elders cannot pay their respects to the young ones? It defies the natural order of life. It is the children who must bury their parents, not the other way around.”

“Auntie, it’s not about respect, I just think it’s just normal for parents to be at the wake of their son. Why do Americans or Europeans do it? When Michael Jackson died, his parents were at the funeral service, haven’t you watched that on TV? When my huanna classmate died, her parents were at her funeral, even at the burial! And so far, nothing bad has happened to them! They’re still alive, for God’s sake!”

“Shut up, Ah Bing! Respect your Auntie!” It was his mom’s voice emerging from the kitchen.

Auntie Aurora suddenly emboldened by her sister’s defense of her, continued. “He is a prodigal son. Bwe chue dil. He defied the order of things.” It suddenly pained Ah Bing to hear the judgment. It was the greatest irony, for Ah Huat has always followed the rules in his life only to defy the order of life when he died.

“In fact, I watched a documentary on cable where a Taiwanese parent was whipping the coffin of their dead son with bamboo sticks for defying the order of life. It was an act to punish that disrespect.”

Ah Bing didn’t know what came into him but his temper flared. “Auntie, what channel was that? Animal Planet? Was that about the episode on animals eating their offspring?”

“Di bwe hiao phay she! Di yah kian shiaw!” His mother immediately entered the room and snapped at him. She scolded him for having no sense of shame for being so boldly opinionated and disrespectful in front of an elderly. “Go to your brother’s room. Gather things that will be burned this Thursday. Stop questioning our beliefs; it has been practiced for thousands of years. It’s for your own good!”

“It’s crazy, Ma,” Ah Bing faced his mother, her barren face showing frailty that it seemed another wrong word would totally shatter her. “Anhya has always been good to you, always followed your rules and now you’re treating him like he had committed a crime. Is it 69

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now a grave sin to die in an accident?”

He looked at the empty faces of the elders. In his sight, his parents aged in a matter of days. His mom just turned away, went to the kitchen and brought out five cups of noodles on a tray with one cup having more slices of raw carrots topped with a generous serving of chopped spring onions.

“Before I go, I just want to say something. Thursday is really just a weird day,” Ah Bing quipped to no one in particular to break the tension before he finally dragged his feet upstairs.

The lady monk just kept a serious face. She was mumbling something in Chinese very fast that Ah Bing had a hard time understanding what she was trying to say. She was flipping a thick book with worm-like characters printed on the pages.

Auntie Aurora told the lady monk that Ah Huat was born in the year of the Earth Sheep, in the morning, around 3 a.m.

“Chi ge pai si lo,” the lady monk said slowly, putting stress on each word. “Mang ke chap di tiam.” Like a Supreme Court judge, she commanded that Ah Huat should be buried on a Thursday, and his coffin must already be covered with earth before 12 noon.

“Thursday?!” Ah Bing raised his voice a bit, flip-flopping between surprise and protest. “Isn’t it obvious that his friends, classmates, or officemates have work on that day?”

Auntie Aurora just looked away, a pound of flesh turning around her neck. She began saying some things to the lady monk and their conversation suddenly turned to whispers. Auntie brought out a small notebook and jotted some line on its page. Her face absorbed each word, as if she was Fatima, receiving the Lord’s Prophecy.

The noise outside the Chinese temple was unbearable for Ah Bing. Tutuban and Divisoria are nearby with all forms of commerce—from shops selling drinks to stalls selling fruits and Chinamade goods—clustered around the temple. The tai diok ah—the mainland Chinese who have recently arrived in the country—have made profit selling various gems, ornaments, lucky charms especial during Chinese holidays. Ah Bing, a third-generation lannang, despised these tai diok ah, who were sometimes unruly, unkempt, and noisy. Their 70

Prodigal

halting Tagalog was always made fun. More than one, Filipinos talked to Ah Bing in that way: “Ikaw daan lito. Wak ikaw daan lito.”

“I was born in the Philippines. Marunong ako mag-Tagalog,” he replied this phrase a lot of times. Ang when he was not in a holly mood and it was some kanto-boy or vendor selling kastanyas along Ongpin who crossed him, he would add: “Ayusin mo ang pagsalita mo ah!”

“Your angkong was once like that vendor,” Auntie Aurora said after noticing Ah Bing grimacing in front of a tai diok ah. “He arrived in this country with nothing but the clothes he was wearing, he didn’t even know how to read and write. He bravely sold goods in the streets, he opened a small factory which expanded through the years. Look at what he had accomplished. His sons all graduated from college. His sons married decent ladies. We have pamangkins like you and Ah Huat.”

Auntie Aurora realized that she referred to Ah Huat as if he was still alive and corrected herself. “Gua u chaw mung kaw. Let’s get back home to discuss this with your parents.”

Chaw mung kaw – Auntie Aurora was dramatically portraying how her body hair raised and how she shivered from what the lady monk revealed. Ah Huat died at an inauspicious date. “Ghosts are hungry. You’re not diligent in making offerings to the dead that’s why this happened to Ah Huat. According to the monk, there was a story about one of your ancestors offending a powerful witch. The bad luck perpetuated, a lot of your family’s first born sons will die at a young age. Look at Andy, he died at 33 with leukemia. Erwin, first born of Linda, died in his sleep at 29 years. Chaw mung kaw!”

In his mind, if it was only allowed to laugh, he would now be rolling on the floor. “Auntie, it’s as simple as an accident. Anhya was at the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said while shaking his head.

Ah Bing remembered the shouting and the blaming game that ensued at the hospital. Mom was beating her chest, threatening to crush her own ribcage. She blamed her husband for not forcing Ah Huat to be driven to work since Tien Kua cited rising gasoline prices.

“It’s because of your stinginess that we lost our son! If he didn’t have to commute, he would not have been hit by a crazy taxi driver,” his mother shouted pointing her finger at his face, the only time she did that. Tears have already flowed liberally and there was only anger in the 71

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room. “You’re one hell of a stingy intsik!”

His father blamed her for failing to convince Ah Huat to join the family business. “If you have convinced him during the many breakfasts that he should have worked with us, then this accident would not have happened in the first place! You are a weak and useless mother!”

Then, they blamed everything—the balmy weather, the irresponsible traffic enforcer, the errant taxi driver, the bad Makati roads, even the feng shui of his bedroom. In the midst of hysteria, Auntie Aurora who was rushed to the hospital first suddenly remembered the face of a guy that met her at the E.R. The huanna guy, brown-skinned like Ah Huat, taller by a few inches, with a mole on his lower left jaw and a distraught look on his face, told her respectfully the words they dreaded to hear: “Pumanaw na po si Wellington.”

“And now, we have to blame the ghosts and our ancestors! I don’t know what to believe anymore.” Ah Bing’s protests just landed on deaf ears. Auntie Aurora then gave his mom some yellow papers with red Chinese words inscribed on it to repel the bad energy and spirit and some jade pendants to bring in luck and good fortune. Their attention was now focused on how to move forward.

Auntie continued her edict: “It should be on a Thursday morning. The casket should be loweed before 12 noon. He is an Earth Sheep, so people with the sign of the Ox should avoid going to the funeral march—it’s chiong for them.”

Chiong—clash—and Ah Bing remembered the Clash of the Titans movie where gods versus gods were fighting one another.

Chiong. Is it a clash between the tiger and the snake? Or is it between the rat and the horse? “What if Anhya’s friends or officemates are all chiong? Should they avoid him as if he’s a nuclear reactor?” he raised this rhetorical question.

“Sure, they can all go, throw a party and have some drinks at Ah Huat’s burial. Well, if they want to have bad luck for the rest of their lives, Auntie Aurora sarcastically said. “What to these huanna know? They have their own customs and we have our own. What’s the harm of following our customs if it will bring luck to you, your family, and the future generations of your family?”

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In that moment, his father’s stoic face peeked out of the newspaper he was reading. “We have to make sure that the death in the family will not be succeeded soon. We will stick to the rules. We can’t allow bad luck to descend on us.” Ah Bing connected with his father’s eyes for a second and saw it was a bundle of sorrow. It must have affected him much and he tried to conceal the pain with a piece of newspaper with red words. With those words, everyone became dead silent.

It was seven on a Thursday morning and there were still only a few people inside the room. The glass casing on the coffin was lifted. A white pearl was being inserted in Ah Huat’s mouth. Ah Bing, who was peering closely, touched his brother’s fingers and felt they were ice cold. He found it amusing that the gray suit and tie still didn’t look good on him.

“Di ya kap shiaw! I told you to remind me to put this inside your brother’s mouth during the first night and today’s last day,” Auntie Aurora mildly scolded him. “This pearl will light his way in the afterlife. He should now be able to walk in the right path.”

“Auntie, knowing Anhya, he always walks the right path.” He thought what he really wanted to say that Ah Huat may suddenly rise and strangle her for repeating the kap shiaw word over and over again during the entire wake.

Ah Bing suddenly remembered that he brought the shortsleeved polo barong. He instructed one of the helpers to pick it up from a box labeled ‘clothes’. Before the glass casing was returned back, Ah Bing placed the barong on top of his brother’s suit. At least he is ready for a costume change.

“Don’t forget to bite the piece of grass I gave you. It is to deflect bad spirits since they will think of you as an animal,” Auntie said that with a slight smirk on her face. She did not notice what Ah Bing had done.

Soon, people came in even if it was a Thursday morning.

Ah Bing recognized some faces who were present during the past few nights and some new mourners. He is the younger brother so he had the task of honoring Ah Huat. Three lady monks entered the room.

Soon, they started chanting some Chinese mantra, in a sing-song man73

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ner that started chanting some Chinese mantra, in a sing-song manner that soothes yet stifles at the same time. He was facing his brother’s portrait—his black-and-white graduation photo—and kowtowed several times, his knees now numb from clashing with the cold white marble floor. Ah Bing was alone—clad in a white T-shirt and white pants—but surprisingly, he felt calm. There was silence except from the unfamiliar Chinese prayers interspersed with the clicking of a minigong. He wondered if Ah Huat understood the words.

He glanced at the back and saw the faces of the mourners.

There were a few ones crying but there was no hysterical outburst like what Auntie Aurora did on the first night, as if she had lost her son, for she was childless. She did not only defy the ‘standards’ of what a beautiful Chinese lady shold be, she was barren.

“I would have wanted to have a son like Ah Huat,” Auntie Aurora said to Ah Bing. “But on second thought, I know many things about your family and your brother that you don’t know. That day in the E.R. confirmed my suspicions. I saw that huanna and your brother a couple of times in a Makati mall.”

“What do you mean by that?” Ah Bing felt cold, dead-cold, as his body felt numb but the drive of defiance took over him. “Auntie, let’s not disrespect Anhya…”

“I’m just saying that he’s paying not only for the sins of the past, but also for the sins of the present,” she said in her ‘moralpolice’ tone of voice.

“I don’t believe you Auntie. And if you would continue spreading these rumors about Ah Huat, I will ask him to visit you when you are in the shower!”

Auntie Aurora was visibly shocked and speechless at how his nephew has transformed. There was now conviction and maturity in Ah Bing’s voice that she hasn’t heard before. Watching him as he kowtowed several times, she was suddenly conscious of a sudden rush of admiration for the boy who everyone has assumed was doomed to fail. He became his brother’s defender.

As he kowtowed, Ah Bing tried to remember some fond memories of his brother, but couldn’t force himself to cry. Time went by so fast and the huge volume of paper money burned during four 74

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days will surely make Ah Huat seem like an instant lotto winner.

When the prayer was over, there was no eulogy or tribute for Ah Huat. The young ones, who have departed the earth so soon, have no right to earn the respect of the elders and the community. So when he was called Mr. Sy by the funeral coordinator to ask if the funeral procession will go on as planned at nine, he was now carrying Ah Huat’s portrait.

“Be careful,” said Auntie Aurora. “Do it well. It’s for Ah Huat.”

The funeral march started slowly and did not reach speed. After around 10 minutes, the mourners hopped on the rented coasters, buses, or their own vehicles. The convoy was long yet orderly and leading it was a small truck containing various earthly possessions of Ah Huat that will be burned so that he can use it in the afterlife. Ah Bing rummaged through his brother’s things the previous day and, in the truck were his clothes, his bed, his drawer, his computer table and some of his clothes. He kept items that were still unused or slightly used. His mom would have wanted to burn the computer since Ah Huat used it often.

“Ma, I don’t think he wants us to burn his computer. It’s so impractical. I can still even use this. I don’t think he even wanted us to burn his things or that paper mansion in the first place. Remember, he’s an environmentalist and he always wanted to recycle or reuse things,” said Ah Bing. “I’ll just erase all of his files and email his work files in the computer.”

He clicked the file folder named “Work” and there was some documents, contracts, proposals that he emailed to his assistant at work. In the “Work” folder, there was another subfolder entitled “Work” and another subfolder. When he clicked it, the computer screen showed hundreds of photos of Ah Huat with a brown-skinned guy, slightly taller than him and thinner, with short hair that’s groomed well, and a mole in the lower left jaw. The photos showed them together in the coffee shops, in a park, in malls, in the train station and they were walking side by side or holding hands, having a laugh or making faces, hugging tightly and kissing passionately. As Ah Bing browsed 75

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the folder, he saw scanned copies of hand-writted love letters, airline tickets, movie passes, etc. The evidences revealed they were lovers for more than five years.

Ah Bing was not shocked though he never realized that his brother could do that. He would have wanted to tease him and say that he had known it ever since especially the day when Ah Huat feigned fever to avoid his female JS Prom partner. He did not like sports, especially basketball of boxing, even when everyone was getting crazy during a Pacquiao fight. He did not even introduce even one girlfriend to their parents unlike him who was already clocked in eight girlfriends when he reached twenty years old. Ah Bing transferred all the photos in a USB and wanted to burn it on Thursday for it to reach his brother wherever he is. He got a confirmation after years of speculation. At last, Ah Bing felt closure as he erased the final files of his brother.

It was already 11 when they reached the memorial park in Parañaque.

The traffic at the SLEX on a Thursday morning was snail-paced they had to call for additional police escorts to keep the convoy moving.

Instead of a slow march, the mourners took a brisk walk when the funeral car entered the gates since the final resting place of Ah Huat was at the opposite end.

Auntie Aurora kept looking at her watch and made the ‘elbow sign’ frequently to signal the funeral coordinator to hasten the proceedings. The three lady monks continued their prayers. It was time for a final look. Ah Bing was handed a bunch of incense sticks whose smoke gave a sting to his eyes. He distributed two sticks each to close friends and relatives who bowed in front of the casket.

Amidst the organized chaos and rush to meet the ‘dead-line’, Ah Bing saw a familiar face. The guy, who was with Anhya when he died since his name was on top of his cellphone’s contact list, stood out for he came in black in a sea of white, holding a few stems of red roses. It was his way of mourning.

Ah Bing rushed towards him and handed him two sticks of incense, now slightly stouter for the wind blew softly that flamed the embers. He did not say a word but his face, full of pain, of love, or 76

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love-cut-short, of seeing his beloved die in his arms, suddenly pained Ah Bing too: “My Anhya is really gone.” Echoing what the nameless stranger must have seemed to convey in his eyes: “The love of my life is really gone.”

The stranger in black was the last to offer his respect to Ah Huat. He awkwardly bowed, as if recoiling from an aching stomach.

Ah Bing knew that the stranger wanted to stay near his brother, to have a last look, to touch his face for the last time, to offer the flowers and put it near his heart. But the stranger knew that it was forbidden, like their relationship, even if it was borne out of love. From the nod of the guy, the lowering of his eyes, to his quiet composure, it was a final act of love and respect. Contrary to what others have said about his brother not being able to live a full life, Ah Bing now disagreed for he knew his brother experienced how it was to love and be truly loved in return.

“Who’s that guy who dared to come in black!?” Auntie Aurora asked Ah Bing, echoing what others would not dare ask. “And why would he bring red roses? It’s a no-no! How dare he disrespect the dead!”

But Ah Bing did not want to hear anything about it and brushed her aside. “He’s a close friend of Anhya. Can we just leave it at that?”

“Oh, I see. It’s that guy,” Auntie muttered silently under her breath, suddenly losing dominance over Ah Bing.

Ah Bing approached the stranger and gave him the USB stick.

“I think this is for you.”

“Thank you. I’ll always pray for him.” It was all the guy said, letting the tiny device vanish inside his palm. He turned around and never looked back. On the horizon, Ah Bing saw black smoke rising and smearing the clear porcelain white sky. He heard the crumpling sound of Ah Huat’s things being ’cremated’ and imagined the burnt things suddenly popping in his Chinese mansion somewhere in the sky. He then wondered what his parents were now doing at home, what his mom would discover as she slowly erases traces of Ah Huat, what his dad would have done after he reads the last word of the newspaper, and how painful it must have been for them to be forbid77

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den to say their final goodbyes.

Suddenly, a loud alarm from Auntie’s cellphone broke the silence. It was like a rude morning wake-up call and everyone got a jolt of adrenaline. “It’s two minutes before 12! Where’s the duck? Where’s the duck? Who’s holding the duck?” the “unlucky” duck, being offered to the ghost and will absorb the “bad luck” of the family, will surely be feasted among the memorial park’s caretakers as it will be release in the open after the casket has been lowered.

The men rushed to close the casket and pushed buttons to start lowering it in a deep hole in the earth.

“Don’t look! I said don’t look! It’s bad luck to look at a casket going down. Kap Shiaw, turn around!” Ah Bing found it amusing that Auntie Aurora was shouting to no one in particular since her back was turned on him.

Ah Bing spat the roll of grass that was threatening to scatter in his mouth and black his throat. Even as the clock ran a few seconds after 12, he held on to his brother’s casket until he couldn’t reach it anymore.

Nakamit ng maikling kwentong ito and Ikatling Gantimpala sa Gawad Don Carlos Palanca para sa Panitikan noong taong 2011.

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M

insan, ang tao ay gusto lang manahimik. Sa kaligayahan o sa kalungkutan man, paminsan-minsan ay tumitigil sa pag-ikot ang mundo at tumutunganga na lang muna, nagninilay-nilay.

Tulad namin ngayong araw na ito. Wala isa man sa aming mag-iina ang gustong umimik.

Kung sa bagay, hindi ba’t nararapat lamang sa pamilyang namatayan ang manahimik? Kalilibing lang ni Lola. Kararating pa nga lang namin at nakagayak pa kami ni Inay ng puting blusa at itim na palda. Alangan naman, sabi ni Inay, kung magpatugtog kami ng musika sa radyo o manood ng TV na para bang tapos na ang pagluluksa.

Tiyak na magtataka ang mga kapitbahay na nakiramay sa amin sa isang linggong lamayan sa kalapit na punerarya, bitbit ang mga maiingay na mga batang tanging pinanggagalingan ng sigla sa maliit na silid na nangangamoy kandila at bulaklak na kunwari ay marikit at makulay, mabantot naman.

Kinurot ko nang bahagya ang ilong ko sa pagitan ng dalawa kong daliri. Hindi ko talaga maibigan kahit kailan ang pumunta sa mga lamay. Tila mulyong nakasiksik pa rin ang nakasusulasok na amoy ng

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Tiger Balm, krisantemum, deysi, kandila, at mga hiningang amoy butong pakwan at mani sa mga butas ng ilong ko. Nakakapit sa buhok ko. Sa damit ko. Sa mga singit-singit ng katawan ko.

Nakaupo ang Inay sa silya sa hapag-kainan, naninigarilyo. Nakaupo ako sa tabi niya, nilalanghap at pinanonood ang usok na tila mga kaluluwang ligaw at nananangis. Gusto ko nga sanang manigarilyo rin ngunit hinding-hindi ako papayagan ni Inay, kahit kadalasan ay maluwag naman siya sa amin. Mabuti na ang usok ng yosi, nais kong ipaliwanag sa kaniya. Matapang at unti-unting nakalalason, wala itong dalang mga alaala para sa akin.

Muling hinagkan ni Inay ang naninilaw na puwetan ng Winston at namumula ang baga sa dulo nito. Napaisip ako kung saan ba nagtutungo ang usok sa loob ng katawan, at kung ano kaya ang dalang alaala ng usok sa pang-amoy ni Inay. Bakit nais pa niya itong balikbalikan?

Ayon sa kuwento ng tiyahin kong nakatatandang kapatid ni Inay, hayskul si Inay nang nagsimula siyang manigarilyo. Tinuruan daw siya ng una niyang kasintahan na noon ay nasa kolehiyo at nag-aaral ng engineering sa Maynila. Palibhasa ay marikit ang hubog ng katawan, maraming nanligaw sa kaniya noon, ngunit itong lalaking ito ang kanyang sinagot. Nang tinanong ko ang tiyahin ko kung anong klaseng lalaki ba iyon, umasim ang maputi niyang mukha at sinabing “Ewan ko ba diyan sa nanay mo, ang sagwa-sagwa ng hitsura ng lalaking iyon, maitim ang balat – my God, lalo na iyong mukha! – at saka mahaba ang buhok. Marumi tingnan, mukhang squatter! Nakakahiya nga sa mga kapitbahay tuwing sinusundo ang Inay mo rito sa bahay nang demotorsiklo. Ay, galit na galit ang lola mo’t hiyang-hiya kami! Iniismiran nga namin iyon tuwing naroon sa may labas ng gate.” Umiling siya ng tila diring diri. “Mabuti na lang at hiniwalayan ng Inay mo. May pagkasuwail iyang Inay mo dati, pero napagsasabihan naman. Natauhan din siguro, may utak naman Inay mo, e. Ikaw din, dapat mapagsasabihan ka. Huwag kang padalos-dalos.”

Ngumiti lang ako at iniba ang takbo ng huntahan namin ni Tita.

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di pala kasi katanggap-tanggap iyon sa mga kapamilya at kapitbahay namin.

Ang katanggap-tanggap sa kanila ay isang lalaking tulad ni Itay. Noong dumating si Itay sa buhay ni Inay, naglaho na rito ang lalaking “ang sagwa-sagwa ng hitsura.” Ang Itay kasi, medyo maputi at laging naka-barong o di kaya ay polong may kurbata. Laging may pasalubong na ensaymada o di kaya ay siopao para kay Lolo at Lola. Laging may “po” at “opo” sa pananalita. Isa siyang accountant noon sa isang opisina sa Makati, samantalang ang Inay ay isang cashier sa bangko.

Samakatwid, mas malaki ang kinikita niya kaysa kay Inay. Gustunggusto siya nina Lolo at Lola para kay Inay. Pati nga mga kapitbahay namin ay naipakilala na sa kanya bago pa man sila maging mag-nobyo.

Isang buwan lang nanligaw si Itay, pagkatapos, kinasal sila sa huwes.

Masaya ang lahat ng mga mukha sa retrato ng kasalan. Oo, pati ang kay Inay, masaya.

Naupos na ang sigarilyo, ngunit hindi pa rin sunog ang maruming puwetan nitong nakahimlay sa ashtray. Habang nagsisindi ng panibagong yosi, napatingin si Mama sa akin na tila nagtataka kung bakit gayon ang pagkatitig ko sa kanya. Napakamot ako sa kilikili kong biglang nangati. Iniwas ko ang aking tingin at ibinaling ito sa aking nakababatang kapatid.

Nagbibisikleta si Junjun, paikot nang paikot sa bilugang hapag na kinauupuan namin. Hindi siya puwedeng magbisikleta sa labas. Katatapos lang ng ulan. Basa at madulas ang kalsada.

Ang kawawang bata, hindi pa marunong magbisikleta nang tama. May dalawang maliliit na gulong pa ring nakakabit sa gulong sa likuran ng bisikleta na tila mga taingang hindi nakaririnig. Kinukulit nga ni Lola noon si Junjun na magmadali nang matutong magbisikleta para maari na siyang sa labas magbisikleta kasama ng ibang mga bata, para hindi na naiistorbo ang paglalampaso niya. Lahat ng bata, aniya, marunong na, si Junjun hindi pa. Hindi tama. Hindi normal. Nakahihiya.

“Eh paano naman po, Lola,” isinagot ko noong minsang nangulit na naman siya, “lagi naman pong baha sa labas. At isa pa, baka mahulog pa siya sa kanal, hindi po ba?”

Tumahimik na lang si Lola at pumanhik sa ikalawang palapag.

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Doon naman siya naglampaso. Alam niyang tama ako. Ako ang una at pinakamatalino niyang apo. Kapag ako na ang humirit, kadalasan, tapos na ang usapan.

Mabuti nga iyon, kahit papaano ay napahihinahon ko si Lola.

Nakakainis kasi iyong laging may nagbubunganga sa bahay. Unanguna, istorbo kasi sa pagtulog o paggawa ng takdang aralin. Pangalawa, nakahihiya sa kapitbahay, dikit-dikit pa naman ang mga bahay dito.

Pangatlo, naririndi si Inay. Mas mahirap pa naman patigilin si Inay sa pagsasalita.

Sa aming dalawa ni Inay, naramdaman kong mas minahal ako ni Lola. Siguro ganoon lang talaga ang mga lola. Spoiled nga raw ako noong bata ako. Natatandaan ko pa nga, laging pinaniniwalaan ni Lola ang mga sinasabi ko noon tungkol kay Inay, pagkatapos, pagagalitan niya ito. Kapag may nagawa kasi akong pagkakamali, isinisisi ko lagi kay Inay para hindi ako ang mapagalitan. Naaalala ko pa noong bumisita si Lola sa dati naming bahay, tapos, napansin niyang nangangayayat na ako. Mahirap kasi akong pakainin noon, masyado kasi akong pihikan. Tinanong ako ni Lola, “Bakit ka nangangayayat? Hindi ka ba umiinom ng gatas, ha, apo?”

Sa murang edad, hindi ko na gusto ang lasa ng gatas. Alam ito ni Inay, kung kaya hindi niya ito ipinipilit sa akin. “Ayaw po kasi akong ipagtimpla ni Inay.”

Sumimangot si Lola. “Ayaw kang ipagtimpla? Anong ipinakakain sa iyo?”

Naisip ko ang paborito kong ulam, sabay ngiti. “Sardinas po.”

“Sardinas!” Nanlaki ang mata ni Lola. “Tawagin mo nga ang Inay mo at kakausapin ko siya.”

Pinanood ko ang away nila noon nang nakasilip mula sa awang ng pintuan sa aking silid, tahimik na nakangisi habang ipinagtatanggol ako ng mahal kong Lola. Sinungaling talaga ako noon. Pero hindi na ngayon. Wala nang makikinig o maniniwala sa akin.

Wala na rin naman akong maaring sabihin. Tulad noong lumipat kami rito. Hindi ko iyon kagustuhan, ngunit kailangan lang talaga. Nang natuklasan ni Inay na nambabae si Itay, nakipaghiwalay siya kaagad, kahit sanggol pa lamang noon ang kapatid ko. Simula

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noon, nakatira na kami rito sa bahay ni Lola. Kinailangan kasi ni Inay na magtrabaho dahil ayaw niyang maghintay lang ng grasya mula kay Itay, at walang maaaring mag-alaga kay Junjun kundi si Lola dahil may pasok ako sa eskwelahan at wala kaming pambayad ng katulong. Simula noong nandito na kami kasama siya, wala kaming masyadong gawaing bahay. Si Lola ang gumagawa ng lahat.

Paminsan-minsan, napipilitan akong maghugas ng pinggan, ngunit tuwing Linggo o bakasyon lang iyon. Utos kasi ni Inay, kawawa naman daw kasi si Lola, samantalang sigarilyo ang aatupagin niya pagkakain. Ang paglalaba, pamamalantsa, pagluluto at paglilinis ay gawain lahat ni Lola. Habang ginagawa niya ang mga ito, nakabusangot siya at madalas bumubulong sa sarili na tila ba may kagalit. Sinasabi niya madalas, lalo na tuwing nagkukusot ng damit, “Akala ko tapos na ako sa ganito… Gusto ko nang magretiro, iyong talagang retiro… Kung ‘di lang sa lecheng ‘yan, iyang lecheng ‘yan…”

Minsan, pinagtatawanan namin siya ni Mama, dahil para siyang isang malaking bubuyog na nakaupo sa may batsa na bubulongbulong. Ngunit kadalasan, talagang masakit siyang magsalita. Ang maliliit na bilin at paalala tulad ng “Wallet mo? Panyo? I.D.? Baon? Dala mo?” gayon din ang pagsasabi ng aming mga pagkakamali ay nasasabi sa tonong galit, pasigaw. Halimbawa, hindi ka lang gumamit ng serving spoon sa ulam, sisigawan ka ng “Tanga! Puro kababuyan ang alam ninyo!” Kapag maling tsinelas naman ang naipasok mo sa banyo, ganoon pa rin, kasama ng isang mahabang litanya ng pagtutuwid sa iba pang mga mali naming gawain. At kapag pagod na siya at mataas ang presyon, naibubulalas pa niya, bilang pandagdag sa pangkaraniwang bilin, “Ipakita ninyo sa kanila, ipamukha ninyo sa tatay ninyong lumaki kayo rito sa akin nang maayos!”

Lingid sa kaalaman ni Lola, nagpapanting ang tainga ko tuwing naririnig ko ang mga ganoong bagay mula sa kanya. Kahit mababaw lang ang dahilan ng kanyang pagkainis, lagi siyang may idinudugtong na katagang nanunuot sa mga lumang sugat. Kung may pera lang talagang pambayad sa katulong. Kung puwede lang sanang tumigil na muna ako sa pag-aaral para ako na lang ang gumawa sa bahay, para makapagretiro na si Lola. Para hindi na siya laging pagod at laging galit. Tumatahimik lang ako at pumapanhik sa aking silid tuwing nag83

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kakaganoon si Lola.

Si Inay, walang sawa namang sasagot sa kanya nang pabalang na tila galit din. “Bakit ka ba nagagalit? Bakit ka ba nakikialam? Pabayaan mo nga sila!” madalas niyang isagot sa mga komento ni Lola sa kung ano mang pagkakamali naming magkapatid.

Nang lumaon, pati si Junjun, sumasagot na rin, nakikisabay kay Inay sa pakikipagbulyawan kay Lola. “Pangit ka! Pangit!” sagot niya tuwing pinagagalitan siya, tapos, minsan ay papaluin pa niya sa braso si Lola.

Nasanay ako sa ganoong eksena tuwing umaga. Tumatahimik na lang ako, kahit buwisit na buwisit na ako sa kanilang lahat. Ayaw ko kasi ng gulo. Naisip kong baka lumala pa ang sitwasyong kung sasali pa ako. Tatahimik din naman sila kapag napagod na ang kanilang mga lalamunan, kapag naubusan na sila ng sasabihin sa isa’t isa.

Hindi naman daw ganoon si Inay noong bata, sabi ni Tita.

Minsan ay sumusuway, pero hindi pala-sagot. Napagsasabihan nga, e.

Kung kami naman ni Junjun ang paguusapan, hindi kami madalas pagsabihan ni Inay. Pinapabayaan niya kami sa kung anong gusto namin. Sila lang naman talaga ni Lola ang nag-aaway. Noong namimili nga ako ng kurso, hindi siya nakialam. Ako raw ang bahala.

Kung saan ko gusto. Si Junjun pinababayaan niyang pagpawisan nang husto sa paglalaro ng basketbol sa labas. Nang sinabi ng batang gusto niya ng alagang manok, inihingi siya ni Inay sa kapitbahay kahit ayaw ni Lola ng manok sa bahay dahil dagdag lang sa alalahanin.

Buhay pa nga ang dalawang manok na iyon hanggang ngayon, at kasalukuyan nilang tinutuka ang mga orkidyas na alaga ni Lola. Kapag ang tagapag-alaga nga naman ay umalis, ginugulo ang naiwan.

Parang kami. Maliban kay Tita, marami sa mga kamag-anak namin ay galit sa amin. Ang iba nga sa kanila ay nais kaming palayasin dito sa bahay ni Lola. Kung hindi raw dahil sa amin, buhay pa sana si Lola.

Maaring totoo, ngunit hindi naman naming pinuwersa si Lola na gawin ang lahat ng gawaing bahay. Sabi pa nga niya, ayaw niyang maging pabigat sa amin. Mas mabuti na raw na kami ang kunsumisyon at hindi siya. Naging mabuti naman iyon para sa amin. Nakapaghahanapbuhay si Inay, nakapag-aaral ako nang matiwasay.

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Naaalala ko noong minsang napapatigil ako sa aking gawain at pinanood ko siyang mag-floorwax. Ipinataas muna niya sa silya nang sandali ang aking mga paa. Sa paanan ng silya at mesa, nakaluhod siya suot ang kanyang nakalawlaw na bekwa at maikling salawal, habang madiin niyang hinahagod ng basahang may pulang likido ang kahot na sahig. Araw ng mga Ina noon at may hinahabol akong deadline kinabukasan. Marami akong ginagawa noon, maraming iniisip. Hindi ko siya nabati ng “Happy Mothers’ Day!” at hindi naman niya pinaalala sa akin. Tahimik lang siya buong araw.

Parang kami sa araw na ito.

KRIIING!

KRIIING!

KRIIING!

Sinagot ko ang telepono, “Hello?”

“Hello. Si Tita ito. Nakauwi na pala kayo. Kumusta na kayo diyan? Are you okay?” Ang tono ng kanyang pananalita ay pangkaraniwan, kagaya ng dati. Tulad ng isang pangkaraniwang pagbati sa isang pangkaraniwang araw.

“Ayos lang po, Tita. Ayos lang po.” Ayos naman parati.

“O sige, be good, ha? Pagbutihin ninyo ang pag-aaral sa iskul.

At saka, huwag mo naman sanang masamain, mag-aral na kayo ng gawaing bahay ngayong wala na ang lola ninyo, ha? Matuto na kayong maglaba. Mamalantsa. Maglinis. Maghugas ng pinggan—”

“Opo, Tita. Ayos lang po kami dito, huwag po kayong magalala. Gusto po ninyong kausapin si Inay? Hindi na po? Okey. Sige po.” Nagpaalam na ako at ibinaba ang telepono. Bumalik ako sa kinauupuan ko.

Marunong naman ako ng gawaing bahay, nais kong sabihin kay Tita. Ngunit noong buhay pa si Lola, isa lang ang pirmihan kong ginagawa sa bahay, ang pagkuha ng presyon ng dugo niya. “Apo, i-BP mo nga ako,” iniuutos niya sa akin tuwing gabi, mahina at malumanay, habang umiika-ika papunta sa aking kuwarto pagkatapos ng lahat ng kanyang mga gawain, bago siya matulog. Ang simangot na parating nakakabit sa kaniyang mukha ay nawawala tuwing gayong lumalapit siya sa akin. Kung titingnan nang mabuti, maari ring masabing bahagya siyang nakangiti, sapagkat may maliliit na tupi-tupi ang balat sa 85

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mga gilid ng kanyang mukha at pisngi.

Kukunin ko naman ang lumang sphygmomanometer at stethoscope na ako lang ang nakakaalam gumamit at kukunin ko ang presyon niya. Minsan mataas, umaabot pa sa critical level na mas mababa para sa mga may edad na. Pero ang lagi kong sinasabi sa kanya ay ang normal na presyon. 120/70. Ayoko kasing nerbyusin siya dahil pihadong lalong tataas ang presyon niya. Nangyari na iyon dati. Noong unang pagkakataon na 140/80 ang nabasa kong presyon ng dugo ni Lola, sinabi ko ito sa kanya.

“Napakataas naman,” ibinulong niya, at sinimulan niyang himasin ang kaniyang dibdib. Napansin kong bumilis ang kaniyang paghinga. Nanginginig ang kanyang mga kamay habang inililigpit niya ang sphygmomanometer at stethoscope na tila nais kong sisihin sa nangyari o kaya ay itapon dahil baka naman sira lang at mali ang sinasabi.

Ako na dapat ang nag-ayos ng mga iyon, ngunit hindi ako makakilos.

Hindi ko alam kung ano ang aking gagawin. Tumayo si Lola, itinago ang mga aparato sa aparador at tinawagan si Tita sa telepono. Dati kasing nagtrabaho si Tita bilang tagapangalaga ng matatanda sa Isteyts. Sa katunayan, siya pa nga ang nagregalo ng mga kagamitang panguha ng presyon ni Lola. Pamana ang mga ito sa kanya ng isa sa mga inalagaan niya. Sinabi ni Lola sa kanya ang sitwasyon.

“140 ober 80 raw e. Masakit ang dibdib ko, pati ulo ko, masakit… Nahihilo ako…” Humihingal ang tinig ni Lola. “Natatakot ako, anak, kamamatay lang kasi ni Mang Oscar sa kabila dahil sa istrok.

Baka sumunod na ‘ko sa kanya…”

Maya-maya, iniabot sa akin ni Lola ang telepono para makausap ako ni Tita. Tinanong ko si Tita kung anong maari kong gawin.

Tandang-tanda ko pa ang bilin ni Tita sa akin: “Sa susunod, huwag mo na lang sabihin. Alam mo ba ang normal blood pressure? Oo, 120/70.

Ito ang sasabihin mo kapag mataas. Lalo lang ninerbyusin ang Lola mo kapag nalaman niya, baka atakihin pa iyan sa puso.”

“Sigurado po kayo, Tita?”

“Oo, sige na, gabi na, maniwala ka sa akin, nurse ako dati…”

Pagkababa ko ng telepono, natunghayan kong nakatitig si Lola sa retrato ng yumao kong Lolo sa ibabaw ng kaniyang tukador. Kinilabutan ako. Inilapat ko ang aking kamay sa kanyang balikat at sinabi 86

150/90

ko sa kaniyang maaring nagkamali lang ako sa pagbasa ng B.P. niya at nagdahilan akong inaantok na kasi ako. Nagtungo kami sa aking silid. Inulit ko ang buong proseso. Ikinabit ko ang sphygmomanometer sa kaliwa niyang braso at inilapat naman niya ang kanyang kamay sa aking braso. Damang-dama ko ang kaniyang kaba na tila dumadaloy mula sa kanyang magaspang na palad papasok sa aking balat. Lampas nang kaunti sa 140 ang basa ko sa systole. Sandali akong nakalimot sa paghinga. Hindi maaari, sinabi ko sa sarili, baka namalikmata lang ako.

“Isa pa,” sinabi ko kay Lola, at tumango siya. Inulit ko. Ganoon pa rin.

Hindi maaari! Naisip kong baka dapat dalhin na si Lola sa pagamutan, ngunit baka kapag sinabi ko sa kaniya ang kaniyang kalagayan ay tuluyan na siyang atakihin sa puso. Naitanong ko tuloy sa sarili kung bakit ako pa ang kailangang maging sangkalan ng ganitong suliranin. Naisip kong gisingin si Inay, ngunit ano ang maiaambag niyang tulong?

“Anong basa?” tanong ni Lola.

Sa aking tahimik na pananaranta ay hindi ko napansing natulala na pala ako ay humigpit na ang hawak ng magaspang na kamay sa aking braso. Naalala ko ang bilin ni Tita. Hindi ako dapat mapaghalataan. Pinilit kong magpakita ng pagkatuwa at humingi ako ng paumanhin kay Lola. “Nagkamali lang po ako, sorry po, 120/70 lang pala… Tulog na po kayo… Opo, sigurado na po talaga. Sige po, good night.”

Natulog na nga si Lola. Nakatulog na rin ako, sa kabila ng pagpupumilit kong manatiling gising upang bantayan si Lola sa takot kong baka mamatay siya nang hindi oras.

Mabuti na lamang at nakabalik na sa normal ang kanyang presyon kinabukasan. Ikinatuwa ko ito nang labis. Tama si Tita.

Tama si Tita, kaya gayon ang nakasanayan kong gawin simula noon. Ako lamang ang tanging nakaaalam ng tunay na kalagayan ni Lola noong panahong iyon. Inisip kong hindi naman masama ang magsinungaling kung makapagliligtas ito ng buhay.

Ako, isang tagapagligtas. Dinampot ko ang lighter ni Inay at kumuha ako ng isang sigarilyo. Tumingin ako kay Inay. Umiling siya.

Binitawan ko ang lighter at ibinalik ko ang sigarilyo sa lalagyan nito.

Masakit sa ilong ang amoy ng Tiger Balm na nagmumula sa nangingintab na dibdib at noo ni Lola noong huling beses na sinukat 87

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ko ang kanyang presyon. Habang ibinibilot ko ang paha ng sphygmomanometer sa kanyang braso, sinimulan niyang ikuwento sa akin ang mga nangyari noong araw na iyon, habang nasa paaralan ako at si Junjun, habang nasa bangko si Inay. “Pumunta ako sa ospital kanina.”

Sandali akong napatigil sa aking ginagawa at tumingin sa kanyang mga matang nawawalan na ng itim dahil sa katandaan. “Bakit po? At paano po kayo nakapuntsa sa ospital?” Tinanganan ko ang pambombang nakakabit sa metro at sinara ang butas nito para hindi makalabas ang hangin. Isinuot ko ang stethoscope at itinapat ang dulo nito sa pulso sa gitna ng braso ng Lola ko.

“Parang masama kasi ang pakiramdam ko, e,” sagot niya.

“Masakit ang ulo ko, pati dibdib ko… Nagpahatid na lang ako sa traysikel.” Tumingin sa kanyang brasong sinasakal ng unti-unting lumolobong paha.

Piniga-piga ko ang pambomba ng hangin hanggang lumampas ang karayom ng metro sa 160. “Ganoon po ba? Ano raw po ang sabi ng duktor?”

“Ano ng aba yun? An… Ansay… hindi… Angina. Angina raw. Pinabili nga ako ng gamut para pag nagkaroon daw ako ng panic attack. Kulang ang pera ko kaya hindi pa ako nakabili. Bukas na lang ako bibili…”

Binuksan ko ang lagusan ng hangin. Bumaba ang karayom sa 150 at narinig ko kaagad sa stethoscope ang kabog. “Systole?” winika ko sa sarili ko. “Masyado naman yatang mataas!” Nangilabot ang aking balat at ipinagdasal kong hindi ito napansin ng kamay na nakalapat sa aking braso. Iyon ang unang pagkakataon na ganoon kataas ang nabasa kong presyon.”

“A… ganoon po ba…” Bug. Bug. Bug… Sa aking isipan, naghalo ang tunog na nagmumula sa stethoscope at ang tunog na nagmumula sa sarili kong dibdib. Nakaramdam ako ng kakaibang lamig sa aking buong katawan na unti-unting namuo sa aking brasong tangan ang aparato at tinatanganan ng aking Lola. Naalala ko ang sinabi ni Tita sa akin. Hindi niya maaaring malamang nasa peligro siya, ngunit may kutob akong kailangan na niya ng duktor.

Tumapat ang karayom sa 90. Tumigil ang tunog. Diastole.

150/90.

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“Ano?” tanong ni Lola, sabay tapik sa aking braso.

Sumikip ang aking dibdib. Ano ang aking sasabihin? Ano ang aking gagawin? Minadali ko ang aking sarili para sa kasagutang hinihintay ni Lola. “Lalo lang ninerbyusin ang Lola mo, baka atakihin pa iyan sa puso,” mariin ang naging babala ni Tita, at tiyak na mas may nalalaman siya kaysa sa akin. Baka atakihin pa si Lola sa puso kapag nalaman niya. Naalala ko ang gabi nang una kong sinabing okey naman siya. Naging okey naman siya, hindi ba? Sabi nga ni Tita dati, kapag inisip mong wala kang sakit, mawawala nga ang sakit mo. Tama.

Baka pagod lang talaga si Lola. Baka kailangan lang niya ng pahinga.

Ngunit kinabahan pa rin ako. Hindi doktor si Tita, at lalong hindi rin ako doktor. Naisip kong ulitin ang pagbasa.

“Hindi ko masyadong marinig yung tunog, Lola, baka mali, uulitin ko na lang…” sinabi ko.

“Sige,” wika niya, habang nakakunot ang kanyang noo. “Nabibingi ka na yata, apo…”

Inulit ko ang pagbasa ng presyon, habang patuloy na dumami ang naipong patak ng malamig na pawis sa aking noo, habang tahimik akong nagdasal na sana ay nagkamali lang ako.

Ngunit ganoon pa rin ang kinalabasan. Mataas talaga.

Baka atakihin pa iyan sa puso.

Huminga ako nang malalim at inilapag ko ang mabigat na sphygmomanometer sa ibabaw ng mesa. Bigla kong nadama ang buong bigat ng pagod na idinulot sa akin ng maghapon. Pagod din lang siguro si Lola. Lalo lang siyang ninerbyusing kapag sinabi ko sa kanya. Kailangan lang marahil niya ng pahinga.

Bukas, sinabi ko sa aking sarili. Kapag bukas ng umaga ay mataas pa rin, tatawag na ako ng ambulansya. Bukas, dadalhin na siya sa ospital. Hihingi ako ng pera kay Inay at bibili ako ng gamot.

Bukas. Medyo napanatag ang aking damdamin sa ginawa kong desisyon. Okey. Dating gawi.

“120 ober 70,” sinabi ko kay Lola, “Okey naman po a. Maniwala po kayo roon. Wala pong sakit na panic attack! Sus! Ako po ang tama, Lola, mas magaling po ako sa doktor!” Tumawa pa ako, para lalo siyang maniwala para matawa rin siya. “Pahinga lang po kayo, ha”

Ngumiti si Lola. Marahan siyang tumango at hinimas ang 89

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kanyang dibdib. Alam kong nararamdaman niya ang malakas na pagsikdo ng dugo sa mga dingding ng kanyang mga ugat, ang mabilis na pagpintig ng kaniyang puso, ang pagkirot ng kanyang dibdib at ulo, ngunit sinabi kong normal lang ang lahat at naniwala siya sa akin.

Itinabi ko na ang sphygmomanometer at ang stethoscope. Nahiga na si Lola sa kanyang kama.

Alam niyang tama ako. Ako ang una at pinakamatalino niyang apo. Kapag ako na ang humirit, kadalasan, tapos na ang usapan.

Walang nagising sa pag-ungol ni Lola habang natutulog. Hindi na siya nakarating sa ospital.

Diretso nang ibinubuga ni Mama ang usok sa aking mukha.

Hindi naman niya ito sinasadya, marahil napansin lang niyang umiiyak na ako at nanginginig ang aking mga balikat kung kaya napatingin siya sa akin. Marahil alam niyang kailangan kong magkubli sa usok, malunod sa lason upang kalimutan ang aking pagkakasala. Dinama ko ang paghaplos ng mga ligaw na kaluluwa sa aking mga pisngi at hinayaan kong himurin nila ang mga luha sa aking mga mata. Sumuot sila sa aking tainga at doon, nagsalita sila nang ako lang ang nakarinig.

“Minsan,” ibinulong nila sa akin, “ang katahimikan ay hindi sapat na kasagutan.”

Patuloy na lumilibot ang bisikleta ni Junjun paikot sa bilugang hapag-kainan. Pangatlong Winston na ni Inay. Mabaho pa rin ang nalalanghap kong hangin, hindi pa rin mapawi ng usok ng sigarilyo. Tiger Balm, tuyong bulaklak, kandila, mani, butong pakwan, kape, hininga, embalsamo, anghit, paa, panis na pansit, panis na puto, pabango ng matatanda, banal na tubig, ligaw na aso, ligaw na pusa… Sumisiksik sa ilong. Kumakapit sa blusa at palda. Naglalaro sa buhok at bumabaon sa anit. Sumusuot sa singit-singit ng katawan.

Ipinahid ko ang aking mamasa-masang mukha sa manggas ng aking blouse at mayroon akong naamoy. Tumayo ako, pumasok sa loob ng banyo, sinindihan ang ilaw at isinara ang pinto. Itinaas ko ang aking braso at sininghot ang aking kilikili. Tila pang-Biyernes Santo na pala ang amoy ng kilikili ko. Sinilip ko ang loob ng manggas. Nangingitim na ang kulu-kulubot na balat at nangagtayuan dito ang maliliit na balahibong itim. Nakahihiya. Naalala kong dalawang araw na pala akong hindi naliligo dahil sa lamay. Mabaho rin pala ako.

90

150/90

Maliligo na lang ako, tahimik na hihilurin ang libag at aahitin ang mga nakahihiyang balahibong itim. Ito lang ang kaya kong gawin.

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Joshua lim so

The Woman Who Ate Children

M

RS. MEDEA WAS OUR CIVICS TEACHER. She wore big glasses (the kind Lola wore with half moons at the bottom), and giant jade bracelets and big pearl earrings. Her face was white and powdery; her eyebrows were very thin, like pencil drawn lines; her hair was short and puffy and black-and-white. Above her lip was a large grayish black mole with hair sticking from it. Mrs. Medea also had these gigantic tutuy, almost reaching her big, big belly. Ms. Honey said teachers were our second parents, but Mrs. Medea was the largest and the most dreadful teacher in school. She seemed more like the giant who wanted to eat Jack. She never smiled or laughed, except this one time when Bugasun fell from his chair and he hit his pimply face on the metal dustpan, bleeding as he rushed to the clinic. Her smile was more of a frown, showing only her small lower teeth. When she laughed, her fat red tongue came out.

Mrs. Medea always came to class with her class record and a big copper ruler, and she would stand in front for several minutes and stare at us, her bulging eyes squinting like she was picking someone to salvage. For the rest of the period she would write the lesson on

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the blackboard in silence. Sometimes she’d clean the blackboard two or three times because there was so much to write. My best friend Totel and I raced to copy everything first. He usually won. Sometimes Mrs. Medea gave quizzes and exams that were harder than Math. Who discovered what? Who killed who? When and where was who born?

How were we supposed to memorize all those things she wrote on the blackboard? But that’s not it. The hardest thing she made us do was recitations. She would boom the question in class and wait for someone to raise their hand. No one ever did. We would all stare at the red flooring. Then she’d pick her class record and call someone. It was the most terrifying moment in our lives, waiting who she’s going to pick.

If we had the answers wrong, she’d ask us to come in front and we get a slap from her copper ruler, her flabby arm swinging with each slap. That is why I memorize everything in my Civics notebook (and the reason why I suck at Math). I guess it wasn’t such a surprise that it was from recitations that Bibi got eaten.

I didn’t know anything until Totel told me of the news the day after. We were inside the canteen when Totel pulled my sleeve.

Mrs. Medea was eating three hotdogs on a stick and was using a lot of ketchup. No one else was sitting near her.

“They say she was sexy before,” Totel said, “then slowly she turned into the monster teacher of Grade-III Civics.”

“You’re such a liar, Totel. Mrs. Medea can’t ever be sexy.”

“Trust me Agus, I know.”

Totel raised his head to see if Mrs. Medea was staring at us.

Then he put his hands on his skirt, leaned on the table, and whispered to me. “She was the one who ate Bibi.”

“What?”

“You know Bibi from next door. Grade-III Dahlia? The one who disappeared yesterday? I asked my father why he disappeared and Papa said Bibi went to the Guidance Council Office and his mother came to drop Bibi out of Central School. But I knew better.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Don’t you know anything? Everybody in school is talking about.” Totel raised his head again. “Mrs. Medea ate Bibi because she couldn’t get the answer right.”

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Mrs. Medea finished eating her last red hotdog and started drinking her Coke slowly; her giant jade bracelets and jeweled necklaces shining in the sun.

“Mrs. Medea can’t eat children.” I said. “The police would put her in jail.”

The rumor was true. Mrs. Medea did eat children. Well, at least one. Bibi was the skinniest and dumbest boy you’ll ever meet.

When Mrs. Medea asked Bibi who killed Ferdinand Magellan, Bibi said Ferdinand Marcos. Mrs. Medea asked Bibi to stand in front and slapped his hand. Mrs. Medea asked him again. Bibi was crying when he said Erap Estrada. PAK! The Aetas! PAKPAKPAK! Mrs. Medea asked him one more time and Bibi peed in his shorts. Before Mrs. Medea could do anything, the bell rang and Civics was over. Many pupils wondered why Mrs. Medea asked Bibi to stay inside instead of going out for lunch, but no one wanted to watch what would happen next. When the class came back for Ms. Honey’s Reading class, Bibi was nowhere to be seen.

Then Mrs. Medea entered the classroom, wiping her mouth and her pink flowery teacher uniform. There was blood on the corner of her lips, just below her one tutuy. Mrs. Medea started whispering to Ms. Honey and went out. They never saw Bibi again.

“His parents didn’t even do anything about it?” I asked.

“They can’t do anything! Mrs. Medea’s here to stay teaching Civics forever. And no one can do anything about that. She’s like— like Satan!”

“If she’s Satan then God can beat her up,” I said proudly.

“Mama said if I saw monsters I’d just have to say ‘In Jesus’ name and I rebuke you Satan!’ and He’ll make them disappear.”

“If God could destroy Satan, then we’d be eating chichirya and candies forever.” Totel finished off his banana cue.

Totel and I have been friends ever since Kindergarten. He was called Tina back then. He always wore a damp skirt because he only had one. His father was the school janitor named Edgar, who always thought his son was a girl. Don’t you have male friends? Mama asked one day. I said Totel is what my classmates call a tomboy, which means nobody knows he’s a boy. Besides, I can’t choose who my best 94

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friend would be. It just happens. Totel spends a lot of his time in the library (waiting for his father to finish cleaning the 1st floor bathrooms) and always had interesting stories to tell, from Pharaohs to Napoleon. He even got his nickname from this person called Aristotle. Totel said Aristotle was the smartest man who ever lived because he was the teacher of Alexander the Great. Alexander must have been that amazing to have The Great for a last name. Everyone calls me Agus from Augustus. I think Totel and I have the best nicknames.

Others weren’t so lucky. There was Unano (for the short kid), Utot (for the only kid who confessed he farted), Negrita (for the darkest girl in class), Bugasun (because he had more pimples than anyone on earth) and so on.

Mrs. Medea stood up. Her tutuy were bigger and hang lower than any woman I have ever seen, even my Mama’s. Totel said that her tutuy could actually transform into two snakelike blood-sucking devices that drilled holes in your necks and suck you dry before she eats you. Mrs. Medea wiped her mouth and didn’t seem to notice everyone in the canteen was looking at her. There was still ketchup all over her mouth. When she left, the canteen grew noisy again.

Last year, I remember when we were graduating from GradeII. The third graders were lined up in the field platform where flag ceremonies were held. They were trying not to smile because Mrs. Medea stood on the end. Director Wagwag, an almost dry raisin-skinned woman with sharp tutuy, was handing out rolled up bond paper tied with a red ribbon. Each third grader smiled so wide when Director Wagwag very slowly handed it to then. They have escaped from the jaws of Mrs. Medea and her killer tutuy, and even if the bond paper was as plain and as white as the school walls, they meant a lot. We, the second graders, knew our turn was next. We could almost hear the fourth-graders-to-be laughing at us.

Weeks later, the news of Bibi being gobbled up spread wider and wider. Stories started to pop up from every grade. There was one about Mrs. Medea being a special kind of Super Manananggal because she ate fully grown children instead of babies inside pregnant mommies. Another was bout Mrs. Medea being a witch, just like the one Hansel and Gretel escaped from. When Totel was in the faculty 95

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room (while Edgar swept the floor), he actually heard other teachers talk about Mrs. Medea. They said Mrs. Medea was married before, but Jason, her husband, left her for their Ilokana yaya because Mrs. Medea couldn’t get pregnant. That’s why she wears the same giant pieces of jewelry he gave her on their wedding day, hoping Jason would someday leave the girl and come home. They said Jason settled to Cagayan de Oro and had lots of children with the Ilokana and now Mrs. Medea lives in the squatter area around Agdao Market because she didn’t have any money.

Each time we saw Mrs. Medea, she acts as if nothing happened. I would look at her belly, imagining Bibi trying to get out of her gigantic stomach. After school, Totel comes to my house to play basketball when he’s not busy helping his mother put pork barbecue in sticks. I usually ask Totel to tutor me in Civics. Who was born when? Who did what? Who was who? But most of the time we talked about Mrs. Medea.

“Maybe that’s why she wants to eat us.” Totel stole the ball from me and made the shot. “She wants her husband back.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” I took a shot and the ball bounced against the board.

“What else is there?” Totel made another shot.

“I mean, Mrs. Medea could be a Super Manananggal for all we know. Or an evil child-eating witch.” I made a shot and it hit our trahscans.

“You’re so stupid Agus. Everyone knows there are no manananggals or witches. Have you seen her tutuy?” Totel tried a slamdunk and failed. The ball went through the basket anyway. “That proves that there are only monsters with tutuy so big and droopy it’s used to suck your blood!”

We were sitting on the concrete and sweating. Totel was wearing a pink Sailor moon shirt and red Voltes V shorts. He had his legs wrapped around the basketball. “We’ll just have to manage finishing Grade-III without getting eaten,” he said.

Totel stood up and started dribbling the ball. I still didn’t know how to do that. I just bounced it once and it fell back on the ground and bounced away. I wasn’t going to ask Totel how to do it.

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IT WAS VERY HOT in Friday, Flag Ceremony day. We were all in the field, lined up in rows. It was very hot that morning. We just sang the Bayang Magiliw led by a girl scout and a very fat high school person led the Panatang Makabayan. Totel looked around and didn’t see her.

He asked me if I saw Mrs. Medea and said I didn’t see her too. I said it’s impossible not to see her because she’s so big. I guess she doesn’t attend Flag Ceremonies. In fact, I never saw her in Flag Ceremonies.

“It’s because she hates prayer,” Totel said from the girls’ line.

Director Wagwag climbed up the platform with Ms. Tingting, the librarian, behind her. Ms. Tingting was carrying a lot of books. She constantly shifted the weight from one thin arm to another. Director Wagwag was talking about newly donated books. I didn’t understand much of it because she spoke in gurgling sound. Director Wagwag looked so old I always thought she’d drop dead any moment soon. Ms. Tingting handed her The Human Body book and Director Wagwag flipped through the pages and showed some pictures while we burned under the sun.

“I wonder what part Mrs. Medea ears first,” I whispered.

“Probably the hands,” Totel began, “remember Bibi and how Mrs. Medea slapped his hand? My mama does that to tenderize meat.”

Suddenly everyone started laughing. I turned my head and saw that Director Wagwag had accidentally turned to a page showing a picture of one big braless tutuy. I looked at Totel’s flat chest and then looked back at Director Wagwag who quickly turned the page.

“I never saw a tutuy without a bra before,” I said.

“You actually saw real tutuy with bra?”

I wouldn’t dare say I walked in the bathroom and saw Mama’s.

So I said I saw through the window my sexy neighbor’s tutuy.

“Wow! I never even saw actual tutuy with bra.”

Director Wagwag started the closing prayer. Then we all went back to our classrooms.

Grade-III Orchid was a colorful room. Cartolinas pasted all around, spelling put bible verses and school subjects. Our class adviser was Ms. Honey. She was a sweet sexy young woman who taught English Language and Reading. Our lesson for that day was Past, Present, and Future tense. The story we read was about this Greek woman.

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When lunchtime came, Totel disappeared. He said he had to go somewhere. I went to the canteen alone. It was the same as always: very hot and noisy and lots of people. I had to squeeze against other hungry people to buy watery spaghetti in styrofoam for fifteen pesos.

I was looking for a seat when I found Totel all alone on a bench, eating only banana cue.

“Agus,” Totel said with crushed bananas in his mouth. “I have something for you.”

Totel took a piece of paper from his skirt and unfolded it in front of me. I couldn’t believe it. I spilled some of the ketchup-tasting spaghetti sauce on his banana.

“Amao! Are you crazy?” But he didn’t seem to mind. Totel just folded the picture and placed it on my side of the table and continued eating. So I said, No Totel! I don’t want it! I didn’t say you should get the picture! You take that back!

“Don’t worry about it.” Totel bit the banana again. “Nobody reads those books anyway.”

I didn’t want the picture to be seen so I took it and hid it under the table. It was only one tutuy pictured on its side. It had a nipple like mine, only it was darker and the eraser head was much larger. The tutuy looked so big up close. Mama’s was smaller. I would imagine Mrs. Medea’s would be far more gigantic and the nipples would have sharp neck-drilling teeth.

The bell rang. It was time for our last subject, Civics. Totel left early because he has to go to the girl’s CR. Children were still screaming and playing outside, but Orchid class was completely silent and everyone (except Totel) was in their seats. When Totel finally came inside and sat beside me, he smelled really bad. He said he put stinky water on his skirt and sleeves.

“It’s to hide my child smell so Mrs. Medea wouldn’t eat me. I once read animals do that to avoid predators.”

Totel started doing that ever since Bibi got eaten. I used to do that until Mama punished me for playing at school’s CR.

“She’s coming.” Totel said. We could always tell. The children in the corridors would stop moving and screaming. They would freeze in their positions and face the same direction. Everyone in Grade98

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III Orchid would shake legs. The tables would tremble. Totel started smelling himself. I thought I saw birds flying away from her approach, but it was just my imagination.

“Ay,” Totel whispered, gripping his tummy. “I shouldn’t have eaten the banana.”

Mrs. Medea entered the classroom. Mrs. Medea placed her copper ruler on the table and sat down. Mrs. Medea opened her class record. Mrs. Medea’s tongue came out, swirling around her lips. It was the thickest and reddest tongue I have ever seen. Mrs. Medea opened her mouth and started licking her teeth too. Mrs. Medea—

“She’s picking someone to eat already,” Totel whispered.

Mrs. Medea laid the class record on the table. “Before anything else,” she boomed. “I want you all—” she paused and glared angrily at each and everyone, “I want you all to place your bags on top of your table.”

We looked at each other. She never did this before. Mrs. Medea took her copper ruler and stood up. She started walking in between our rows, tapping the ruler on her palm.

“The school librarian reported to the faculty that someone tore a picture from the brand new The Human Body book donated to our school. It was—” she stopped and faced us all, “—a picture of a private part.”

Totel gripped my hand. The image of the tutuy slammed into my face.

“Didn’t you hear me?! I said placed your bags on top of your tables!” My hand immediately placed my Ghostfighter stroller on the table. I glared at Totel.

“Yawa yawa yawa! I knew this was going to happen!”

“Hide it! Hide it!”

“Where Totel where?”

“I don’t know! Oh, I’m going to get in big trouble and my Papa will punish me and—”

“Open your bag!” Mrs. Medea commanded Unano from Row-1. She searched the bag and removed everything, even flipped through his books. She even shoved her hands in his pockets just to make sure. I didn’t even rop the picture off. I took the picture and 99

Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2

placed it on Totel’s lap. He didn’t notice. He was busy looking at Mrs. Medea. It was all Totel’s fault anyway. I wasn’t going to let myself get eaten up for something I didn’t do.

“What’s wrong with you?”

I opened my eyes and saw Mrs. Medea staring at me. I removed my hands from my ears. She was standing right next to Totel.

We were completely covered by her shadow. Then Mrs. Medea raised her head and started smelling the air. Her face turned sour. She looked down at Totel and smelled him, then noticed the piece of paper on his lap, then to Totel again. She leaned down and took the picture off Totel’s lap. I looked away and heard him gasp, but he never said a word.

The chair scratched the floor when Mrs. Medea pulled Totel up by the arm and dragged him in front.

“What are you doing with this?” Mrs. Medea slapped Totel across the face with the folded picture. “Only igat girls do this!” I could see her grinding her small teeth.

Totel turned white, biting his lip and shaking his head. His eyes started to water. Mrs. Medea took the copper ruler and stood beside him.

“Open your hands!”

Mrs. Medea smacked him with the picture again.

“Open them you godforsaken tomboy!”

“IN THE NAME OF JESUS I REBUKE YOU SATAN!”

There was a wave of gasps and my stomach fell and hit the floor. I stood and words blasted off my mouth. She slowly turned her head. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even put my finger down from pointing at Mrs. Medea. I was so sure I was going to wet myself.

“What did you say?”

Totel was right, even Jesus couldn’t destroy her. If I was going to die, I’d like to die like those heroes Totel always talked about.

“You’re just like that because your husband Jason left you because you couldn’t get pregnant and he moved to Cagayan de Oro with your Ilokana yaya and you moved to the squatter area because you became poor and you hate all children because you couldn’t have any and now you want to eat us all you big fat ugly monster!”

I immediately closed my eyes and covered my ears. This is it; 100

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she was going to wrap her fat fingers around my arm, let loose her snake like tutuy on me and suck my blood, then she’d eat me right in front of everyone. I knew I couldn’t fight her off. I started thinking of wonderful thoughts. But nothing came to mind except Civics lessons. The first race to come to the Philippines was the Aetas. The Edsa Revolution overthrew Ferdinand Marcos in February 1986. The Philippines became the colony of Spain, United States of America, and Japan. Magellan landed on March 16, 1521 at Homonhon Island.

Lapu-Lapu killed Ferdinand Magellan. Lapu-Lapu killed Ferdinand Magellan. Lapu-Lapu isa not our national fish…

Someone pulled my sleeve. I almost peed my pants. I felt a hand grab my shoulder and shake me. I opened my eyes. It was Totel. His mouth was wide open and his eyes were about to pop out. I looked around. Mrs. Medea was nowhere to be seen. Everyone was staring at me with the same expression as Totel’s.

“She left,” Totel said. “She was staring at you for a very long time and left.”

“What did she look like?”

“She just looked at you. I couldn’t tell if she was mad. After a while, she just fixed her hair and she took her things. And she left.”

I sat down. Totel sat beside me. I could hear him breathe. For the rest of the period nobody moved. Mrs. Medea didn’t come back.

THE NEWS QUICKLY SPREAD. As I sat on the lobby steps and waited for Mama and Papa, everyone was looking at me. Even the high school students knew of my triumph. I was the most popular person in school. No one has stood up against that monster until I came into the picture. Now they know Mrs. Medea isn’t such an invincible child-eating demon. I gathered all my bravery and gave it all and it paid off. Totel even said I was like a warrior named Hercules or something. I’m not sorry for what I did. She deserved it. She knew it was coming.

“I wonder where Mrs. Medea went,” I asked Totel who sat beside me.

“You are crazy.” Totel laughed.

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I saw our car just outside the gate. It was a beaten up red Mitsubishi. I said goodbye to Toyel and went away. I sat in the backseat.

Papa was driving and Mama was on the front. Mama asked me how my day was. I said it was fine. She said I don’t look happy about it, but I was really happy about it.

“Do you want to eat?” Mama looked at me and smiled. She had sunglasses on and her big diamond earrings twinkled. I said no.

Around the corner of the school, there was an old eatery called Pepeng’s. It was a cheap open-air place where they serve lugaw, noodle soups, and grilled hotdogs. Before we turned on the curve, Mama asked Papa to stop the car.

“You want to eat there?” Papa asked.

Mama raised her sunglasses to her hair. She was searching for someone in the eatery.

“Agus, doesn’t she teach in your school?”

I sat up and looked. Believe it because I didn’t, Mrs. Medea was standing outside the eatery finishing her grilled hotdog. Mrs. Medea was staring at the sign beside her: SERVING OLD FAVORITES OVER 20 YEARS. Mama had recognized Mrs. Medea’s uniform.

“Let’s ask her if she need a lift.” Mama rolled down the window. I jumped up and tried to stop her. Papa even said it was embarrassing to ask teachers a lift with our car. I said that was true. Mama just got mad. She always did this every chance she got. She said it was the Christian thing to do.

“Don’t do it, Ma. She doesn’t want a ride!”

“Agus, be quiet. I want to offer your good teacher a ride.

Don’t be such a nuisance.”

It was happening all over again. I didn’t feel like Hercules. I didn’t know how to escape from the car. I couldn’t say those things I said in front of my parents.

Mama leaned out the window and kept calling her Miss! Miss!

Mrs. Medea saw Mama and gulped down her hotdog. Mrs. Medea kept pointing at herself. Mrs. Medea drew nearer. I don’t know if I was more embarrassed or scared.

“Aren’t you from Central School?” Mama asked sweetly.

“Yes, Ma’am—” I never heard Mrs. Medea address someone 102

The Woman Who Ate Children

with a title before.

“My name is Mrs. Hera Bustamante and this is my husband.”

I hid in the back and Mama made me sit up. “This is my son Augustus.” I immediately sank bank.

“Maayong hapon,” she greeted. I don’t know I if I was included.

“Can we give you a lift?” Mama asked.

I heard Papa gave a loud sigh. Mrs. Medea politely said no.

She said she’d rather catch a jeepney and that she didn’t want to bother us. Mama insisted. Mama said it was no problem. Papa sighed again.

Mrs. Medea was never polite.

“Where do you live?”

“Just around Agdao, but there is no need—”

Papa glared at Mama and Mama just smiled at him.

“Get in, get in. It’s on our way. We’ll drop you off.”

Mrs. Medea searched behind Mama and Papa. I glanced at her and our eyes met, like two rocks hitting each other. I couldn’t look away.

“I don’t think—”

“Nonsense! Get in!” Mama rolled up the window before Mrs. Medea could say anything.

I couldn’t believe it. When I heard the door open, I pretended to look out the window. Even the backseat sunk a little when she sat down. I didn’t dare glance at Mrs. Medea. Papa fussed over the radio and turned it off.

“Agus, be respectful and greet,” Mama asked her name, “Corazon Medea, good afternoon.”

I greeted her but didn’t look. The left side of me got called. I never knew she had a first name. Papa sped on.

“What are you teaching again, Cory?” Mama asked, “May I call you Cory?”

“Grade-III Civics po, Ma’am.”

“Ay, so you’re teaching Agus here?”

I held my breath. I was done for.

“Yes. Third graders.”

Mama faced me from the rearview mirror, her eyes hidden 103

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behind dark glasses.

“And has Agus been a good boy?”

I quickly turn my head and faced her. Mrs. Medea smiled at me, her small lower teeth showing. I could even see the hardened ketchup stains crack on the corners of her mouth.

“Well,” Mrs. Medea began, “he’s very popular with the ladies…”

I cross my heart and hope to die: I saw her tutuy move.

dustin edward celestino

The Remedy

“Can I call you Lina?” John nervously asked the prostitute, as his

eyes remained focused on the road. The prostitute giggled.

“Honey, you can call me Darna if it pleases you.”

“Lina would be fine”

The prostitute had long black hair, a pale complexion, a prominent forehead, and a weak chin; features he had always noticed in his wife. It was these featured that made him pick her up as he was driving home from work.

“What do you want me to call you?” the prostitute asked teasingly.

Without looking at her, he immediately answers, with the intention of not letting her finish the question.

“Call me John.”

He began to sense the mild scent of formalin on himself. He worries that she too might smell it. He rapidly tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel.

The prostitute was amused at John’s nervousness.

“First time, John?” she laughed.

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John gave her a quick glance then looked back at the road.

He was annoyed and did not want to answer, but the little droplets of sweat on his forehead gave him away. Unfamiliar situations always made him uncomfortable.

“It’s okay.” She comforted him.

He cleared his throat.

“Where are we going?” She asked.

“We’re going home.”

John went inside the house. She followed him. Upon reaching the living room, they stood face to face. John had his hands in his pockets as he carefully observed her. The prostitute only looked around and gave him a puzzled look.

“Are we going to do it here?”

“No, we will do it in the bedroom.”

“I see. Where’s the bedroom.”

“It’s upstairs.”

“Let’s go then.”

“Don’t you want to eat first? I have some potato salad in the microwave”

“Sure.”

John led her to the dining table. He instructed the prostitute to set the table for him, and told her to give him a few minutes to get something upstairs. He meticulously asked the prostitute to place both glasses on the left-hand side. Lina was left-handed and always set the table with the glasses on the left hand side. The prostitute acceded.

John went upstairs and looked at an old portrait on top of his desk. Lina was wearing a light pink, short-sleeved blouse with dark pink floral patterns, and a pearl necklace. He began to browse through her clothes, hastily creating a pile of them on the floor. Finally, he found the blouse that resembled the one in the portrait. He spread the blouse on the bed and stood back to carefully examine it.

Just as he was about to fold it, he heard the microwave. He rushed to the pile of dressed and stuffed it inside the closet, leaving sleeves and clothing material protruding from the partially opened door. He took the blouse with both hands and examined its full length.

He neatly folded it afterwards before he went downstairs to attend to 106

The Remedy

the prostitute.

When he got to the dining room, he saw the table was set as he had instructed. He greeted the prostitute with a smile. He opened the microwave and as he did, a thick cloud of steam smothered his face. It had the slightly sour smell of mayonnaise. He used to make a dish almost twice a week and recalled how Lina used to love his potato salad. Every time he served potato salad to Lina, she would greedily consume it until all that was left were smears of mayonnaise on the plate. He was comforted by the idea that Lina’s new lover could not prepare potato salad this good.

John put some salad on the prostitute’s plate and sat across her. He watched as she took her first bite. She closed her eyes and let out a soft moan.

“This is very good! Who made it?”

“I did.” He replied proudly.

The prostitute continued on eating, but once in a while she would push a green pea to the side of her plate. At first, John didn’t mind, but as the green peas multiplied, he grew very irritated. Lina would never leave out anything. She liked every detail of ’ his potato salad.

John could no longer stand the sight of green peas clustered on a portion of the prostitute’s plate. The prostitute was about to give herself another serving when John spoke to her,

“Lina, can we go to bed now?”

She found it a bit rude, but said yes anyway.

John led her upstairs into a relatively large bedroom. It had dusty wooden flooring; it looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned for quite some time. The bedspread had a brown grassy pattern, which perfectly matched the curtains. On one corner there was an open bathroom, and from the entrance of the bedroom, one can see that there was a mirror inside, and a medicine cabinet beside it.

The prostitute noticed that there was an old-fashioned white blouse neatly folded on top of the bed. She watched John unfold it carefully and scale it on her body. He gave her the sum she required before coming with him and she stuffed it in her bag.

“Would you kindly go to the bathroom and try it on,” he re107

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quested.

The prostitute thought it was rather kinky and played along.

She took the dress and put her belongings clumsily on a small desk beside a half-opened closet. Her bag tumbled and fell over, almost knocking an old portrait of John and his wife off the desk. She ignored it and headed straight to the bathroom to change. John picked up her bag and placed it steadily on the desk. He opened a drawer beneath to take a pearl necklace and held it up to the light. With his other hand, he then got hold of the old portrait and followed her to the bathroom.

John sat cross-legged on the toilet seat with a closed lid to watch the prostitute put on his wife’s clothing. He looked much more comfortable now. He lit a cigarette and shielded the flame with the old portrait.

The prostitute excitedly put on the blouse. She held out the hem with both hands and playfully turned from side to side to see how it fit her. She saw John’s reflection keenly observing her and stood quietly for a while to return a fixed stare on his reflection.

John stood up and walked closer behind her until he could smell her hair. He put his hand on her shoulder and placed the old portrait in front of them. He drew his face near hers and alternately glanced on the portrait and on the mirror. He noticed how his hair had changed and slightly shifted his bangs to make up his receding hairline. The prostitute was thrilled when she noticed how she resembled his wife. John brought out the pearl necklace and tenderly placed it across her neck. She smiled as she slid her hand across the pearls.

Not many customers would put a pearl necklace on her.

John held her by her belly and whispered to her to wait for him in bed. She did as she was told and lay there with eager anticipation. John took a few balls of cotton and a bottle of formalin from the medicine cabinet.

About a month ago, before Lina left him, she was constantly complaining how John smelled of the dead. She refused to make love to him if she could sense even the slightest scent of formalin on him.

John worked in the morgue six days a week; Lina wouldn’t make love to him on these days. On Sundays they used to go to church. When 108

The Remedy

they got home, Lina would feign tiredness and go straight to sleep. On some nights, when John wanted her so badly, he resorted to multiple baths. He would scrub his skin, especially his arms until they were sore to rid him of the smell. Still, Lina would refuse saying that he still reeked of the dead. On nights like these John would lie stiffly at the edge of his side of the bed. He would hold the blanket up to his ears fearing that Lina would smell the formalin on him. Sometimes he couldn’t sleep; he would silently sniff himself for formalin. Other times he quietly cried himself to sleep.

John wanted the prostitute to complain as Lina did on more than several occasions. He wanted her to be annoyed. He wanted her to get mad. He took off all his clothes and left it lying on the floor. He put some formalin on the cotton and dabbed it behind his ears.

John stood at the foot of the bed completely naked. The prostitute, upon seeing this, began to undress until she was completely naked as well except for the pearl necklace.

John kneeled on the floor and started kissing her feet. He crawled on top of her and purposely moved his head to position his ears as near as possible to her nose. The prostitute was sickened by the strong nauseating stench of formalin. She jerked back.

“God! What is that smell!!!”

“It’s nothing Lina. It’s just me.”

She rolled off the bed and stood in one corner of the room.

“You smell terrible. Take a bath or something.”

“No, Lina. Not anymore. I’m not taking anymore baths for you.”

“Well, I cannot make love to you with that smell on.” John sat up on the bed.

“Then don’t. I don’t need you.”

The prostitute ran to the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. She hurriedly put on her clothes on. John calmly sat on the bed, lit a cigarette, and put both arms behind his head.

“You hear that? I DON’T NEED YOU, YOU SLUT!” He repeated.

She opened the door and threw the pearl necklace knocking 109

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off John’s cigarette. John simply put it back on his mouth and lit it again.

She grabbed her bag and stormed towards the door.

“I’m leaving, you bastard.” She screamed.

“No Lina, you’re not leaving me. I’m throwing you out!” John got up and threw the pile of clothes from his wife’s closet onto the sidewalk outside. He could hear the prostitute screaming for a taxi.

He heard the prostitute curse him, followed by the breaking of glass.

But he just lay in bed and cherished his quiet victory.

Donna patricia manio

Ang Lihim

H

indi matatawaran ang init sa nalalapit na tag-araw na iyon; ang mga dapit hapon sa sala ng bahay na pinupuntahan naming nina Papa, ang mga oras doon na naiiwan akong kumakain ng cookies at chocolates at nabubundat ang aking tiyan habang nanonood ako ng TV, ang katahimikan ng silid, at ang malagkit na hangin na talagang nakaka-irita sa pakiramdam – ang mahabang paghihintay sa araw-araw. Hindi ko na maalala kung kalian eksaktong nagbago ang pagtingin ko sa mga bagay-bagay. Marahil, nagsimula ito nang makita ko ang paglalaro ng anino at ilaw sa ilalim ng pinto ng silid nina Mama at Papa. O ang pagkakapalo sa akin ni sa akin ni yaya noong hindi ako nag-siesta isang araw at hindi ako sumunod sa kaniya. Siguro nagsimula iyon isang gabi, noong pauwi na ami ni Papa sa bahay at tanging katahamikan lang ang nag-uumapaw sa aming mga pandinig. O, baka naman, nanggaling iyon sa pagkatitig ko kay Mama sa kanyang pagkakapikit. Hindi ko na matukoy kung alin ang simula, ngunit naramdaman ko na bunga iyon ng maraming pagtatanong sa mga bagay na walang gusting sumagot.

Mainit sa ilalim ng kumot at nag-iinit din ang gilid ng aking

110

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mga mata nang dahil sa luha; nakakawala ng laas ang init sa tanghaling tapat, at mariing sinabi sa akin ni yaya na dapat akong mag siesta.

Noong hindi ako sumunod, agad niyang kinuha ang mga bagsak na test papers ko mula sa aking bag, at itinambad sa aking mukha. Manginig-nginig ako dahil ang nakikitang test papers lang ng aking mga magulang ay yung mga may tatak na star at “very good.” Hindi na ako nakapag-salita: alam ko na ang dapat kong gawin. Marahil, dahil sa awa, hindi na ako ipingtimpla ni yaya ng gatas. Sinigurado na lang niyang mahihiga ako sa aking silid. Dahan-dahan siyang lumabas ng kuwarto, at tahimik na isinara ang pinto. Nag-iinit pa rin ang gilid ng aking mga mata. Pinakinggan ko ang mga boses ni yaya at ang aming labandera. Hindi ko naintindihan ang mga sinasabi nila, pero bakas sa tono ng kanilang mga boses ang matining na pagkasabik. Paniguradong manonood sila ng T.V. Hindi patas, paulit-ulit kong sinasabi sa sarili: dati naman, hindi ganoon. Ni minsan, hindi ako natutulog sa hapon, lalo na kung Sabado.

Kasama sa mga patakaran ng bahay ang pag-siesiesta tuwing Sabado at Linngo, ang mga araw na nakatalag sana para sa paglilibang. Ako na lamang ang nasasakop ng patakaran na iyon; ang Ate at Kuya ko, puwede nang hindi na mag-siesta. Si Mama ang madalas na magtakda ng mga dapat at hindi dapat gawin sa bahay. Bawal maglaro pag hindi pa natatapos ang mga takdang aralin, bawal kumain ng mga matatamis, bawal magtelebabad, bawal umuwi ng gabi, bawal makigamit ng appliances pag wala sa oras—— ang bawat patakaran ay tila nilikha para sa isang spesipikong pangangailangan at tao. Hindi ko pa maintindihan noon ang kahalagahan ng pagtulong sa hapon at ang pag-inom ng isang basong gatas. Hindi ko lang nagustuhan ang mga iyon. Ayoko lang.

May pagkakataong nahuhuli ko ang mga tao sa bahay na hindi sinusunod ang mga patakaran, tulad ng paggamit ni Ate ng telepono sa kalagitnaan ng gabi, ng pagtakas ni Kuya tuwing dapat kami’y magsisimba, ang panonood ng T.V. ni yaya nang wala sa oras— at sa kuwarto pa ng aking mga magulang. Hindi nakapagsalita agad si yaya noong sinabi kong “Yaya, bawal po makigamit ng appliances ditto.”

Tinanong lang niya ako kung bakit hindi ako natutulog. Sinabi ko lang na ayoko. Niyaya ako ni yaya na samahan siya sa panonood ng T.V. 112

Ang Lihim

Hindi ko na daw kailangan matulog sa hapon at uminom pa ng gatas muli kung hindi ko siya isusumbong. Mula noon, nauubos ang aming mga Sabado nang hapon sa panonood ng mga cartoons at soap opera.

Bumangon ako at tinitigan ang shelf sa aking paanan. Nandoon ang koleksyon ko ng Happy Meal. Hindi katulad ni Mama na ni minsan ay hindi pinagbigyan ang aking mga kapritso, madalas naman ibigay ni Papa ang kahit anong hilingin ko. Mabuti pa si Papa, mas panatag ang loob kop ag kasama ko siya. Araw-araw, pagkagaling sa eskwela, magdadaan kami sa Mcdo para bumili ng Happy Meal. Doon din kami nagdiriwang ni Papa tuwing ipinapakita ko sa kanya ang mga test paper kong may tatak na star o kaya “very good.” Dahilan din ng pagkasaya ang mga tatak ko sa kamay na star sa tuwing mataas ang nakukuha kong recitation grade. Kung minsan, kahit hindi ako humingi at magtanong, magtutungo kami ni Papa sa Mcdo bago kami magpunta sa isang bahay. Mabuti pa si papa, naisip ko habang pinagmamasadan kong mabuti ang mga laruan sa shelf. Ibang iba si Mama.

Noong araw na iyon, nagiging katulad na ni Mama si yaya– pati siya, nagtatakda na rin ng mga patakaran; inilagay ako sa mga sitwasyong napipilitan lang akong sumunod. Pero ayokong magpagapi; naisipan kong lumabas sa kuwarto.

Walang tao sa bahay noong Sabado na iyon, tulad ng iba pang mga Sabado. Marahil, umalis sina Ate at Kuya kasama ng kanilang mga kaibigan. Wala rin si Papa—kahit kasi Sabado may trabaho siya.

Si Mama naman, kasama siguro ng mga tita ko, kung saan man sila nagpunta.

Sumalubong sa akin ang matinding init sa pagbukas ko ng aking pinto. Nakakalunod ang makapal na hangin. Para akong naglalakad sa ilalim ng tubig habang papunta ako sa silid nina Mama at Papa.

Pagdating ko sa pinto ng masters bedroom, napatingin ako sa awang sa ibaba ng pinto. Naglalaro ang liwanag at anino sa aking paanan. May naririnig din akong mga tunog. Hindi pamilyar sa akin ang mga tunog na naririnig ko. Inilapat ko ang tainga ko sa pinto.

Mahina at malabo ang aking mga narinig. Kinapa ko ang door knob at dahan-dahang binuksan ang pinto. Tila may kuryente na dumadaloy sa aking kamay noong mga sandaling iyon.

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na sana, katulad ng dati, isasama ako ni yaya sa panonood niya ng T.V. Sa halip, nanlaki ang mga mata ni yaya at dali-daling tinakpan ang aking mga mata. “Bakit hindi ka natutulog?” bulong ni yaya sa aking tainga. Hindi ito isang pangkaraniwang bulong; galit ang tinig ni yaya, at lumabas ang kanyang boses mula sa pagitan ng kanyang mga ngipin.

Hindi natanggal ang tingin ko sa T.V. Nanlaki ang mga mata ko. Nanigas ang katawan ko, at may kakaiba akong nararamdaman na hindi ko alam kung ano. Tumayo ang mga balahibo ko sa braso. Hindi ko talaga maiwas yung tingin ko sa T.V. at sa mga hubad na lalake at babae na may ginagawang kakaiba. Mamawis-mawis ang mga kamay ni yaya sa aking mukha—pilit man niyang takpan ang aking mga mata, nakabuka naman ang mga daliri ng kamay niya.

Kinuha ng labandera naming ang remote ng T.V. at pinindot ito nang pinindot: walang nangyari; nakikita ko pa rin ang pinanggagalingan ng kakaibang mga tunog na para bang impit na boses ng aso o pusang ngumangalngal. Binitiwan ako ni yaya at tinakpan yung T.V. Inalis niya yung plug. Tumahimik ang silid.

Lumapit sa akin si yaya. Ngayon ko lang napansin kung gaano siya katangkad. Sa pagkakatingala ko, nakita ko ang katalasan ng kaniyang mga mata, ang malalaking butil ng pawis sa kanyang noo. Hinatak niya ako sa braso palabras ng kuwarto. Bumaon ang mga kuko niya sa braso ko. “Pilya,” sambit niya. Dinala ako ni yaya sa banyo at kinuskos ng bimpo ang aking mukha, braso at katawan. Magaspang ang pakiramdam ngtela sa aking balat, kaya nagpupumiglas ako—napaka-diin kasi ng pagkakuskos niya. Isang bagay na hindi ko maintindihan, dahil wala naming dapat kuskusin. Mahigpit ang pagkahawal sa akin ni yaya, at ang bawat paghawak niya sa aking balikat ay tila mga utos. Nangilid muli sa mga mata ko ang luha. Sumilip ang aming labandera sa pinto ng banyo. Nagtagpo ang aming tingin pero pinabayaan niya lang ako.

Umalis siya sa may pinto at naiwan uli kami nina yaya. “Pag sinabi kong matulog ka, matulog ka.

Pumiglas ako. Naramdaman ko pa rin sa aking brasoang pagkakakapit ni yaya sa akin. Tinanong ko si yaya kung bakit niya ako pinapatulog. Tinanong ko rin siya kung ano ang aming napanood.

Nawala ang kulay sa mukha ni yaya, ngunit nanatili pa rin ang galit sa kanyang ekspresyon. “Cartoons. Cartoons lang yun.” Marahil, nakita 114

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ni yaya ang ekspresyon ng aking mukha na nagsabing hindi ako naniniwala sa kanya. Hinawakan niya ulit ako sa braso at bumalik sa masters bedroom. Pinindot ni yaya ang eject button ng Betamax player. Kinuha ni yaya ang bala at inilapit sa aking mukha. “Basahin mo.” “Alice in Wonderland” ang nakita kong mga salita sa label, ngunit hindi ako naniwala. “Bakit ba ang kulit mo?” Naubos na ang pasyensya ni yaya.

Pumunta kami ni yaya sa silid ko. Kinuha niyang muli ang mga bagsak na test papers ko na matagal kong itinago sa aking mga magulang, lalo na sa Mama ko. Itinapat niya ito sa aking mukha, naunawaan ko agad kung bakita niya iyon ginawa. “Secret lang yun. Huwag mong ipagsasabi sa iba.” Seryoso ang tinig ni yaya. “Ngayon, matulog ka na.

Matulog ka muna. Sa susunod, manonood tayo ng T.V. Manonood tayo ulit ng cartoons.” Pinahiga ako ni yaya at tinakpan ng kumot.

Kahit kapupunas pa lang niya sa’kin ng bimpo, nanglalagkit pa rin ang katawan ko. Lumabas na siya ng kuwarto. Narinig ko ang mahihinang boses nina yaya at nung labandera. Hindi ko narinig ang pinag-usapan nila.

Hindi ako mapakali; hindi ko maintindihan kung bakit ako pinatutulog ni yaya noong hapong iyon. Tinakot pa nga niya ako. Maliban sa pagpapakita sa akin ng mga ebidensya na ako’y nanganganib sa Math, sinabi niya rin sa akin na kukunin ako ng Bumbay. Hindi ako naniwala, at along napaigting ang desisyon ko na hindi ako matulog.

Dati pa naman ako hindi nag-siesiesta sa hapon, hindi naman ako dinudukot ng Bumbay. At siya na rin mismo ang nagsabi sa akin noon na hindi titoong nandurukot ng bata ang mga Bumbay. Hindi maalis sa isip ko ang mga tunog na narinig ko, kasama ng mga bagay na nakita ko. Takang-taka ako sa mga nangyari noong araw na iyon, ngunit nawalan na ako ng lakas para mag-reklamo o mag-isip man lang. Nanlabo ang paningin ko, at naubos ang lakas ko nang dahil sa init. Malagkit ang pakiramdam ng kumot na kumakapit sa aking balat. Nakatulog din ako.

Pinagmasdan ko ang shelf sa aking paanan noong gabi; noon naman ako hindi makatulog. Hindi pa rin naaalis sa aking isipan ang panlalamang na nangyari sa akin noong hapon. Ganon ang trato sa akin nina Ate at Kuya—lagi akong nagsisilbing dahilan o panakip butas, at nalalagay ako sa alanganin. Paulit-ulit kong sinasabi sa sarili ko 115

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na hindi patas, at sa tuwing iniisip ko na ako nagigipit sa pagiging ‘hindi patas’ ng mga bagay, naaalala ko si Mama. Lahat ng mga patakaran sa bahay na pumipigil sa akin, o nagiging dahilan ng aking pagdurusa at labis na pagka-inis, tulad ng pagtulog sa hapon, pag-inom ng gatas, pagbabawal na manood ng T.V. at pagkain na matatamis ay sa kanya nagmumula. Bukod pa roon, madalas buklatin ni Mama ang mga gamit ko sa eskwela. Ultimo bolang papel na basura, binubulatlat pa niya. FLAMES o kaya ITALY o minsan naman, JAPAN lang naman ang nakasulat doon, at wala na siyang ibang makikita pa. Pag may nahanap si Mama na hind umaayon sa kanya, nagagalit siya. At kung minsan, kahit wala siyang makita ay magagalit pa rin siya. Iniisip niya palagi na may tinatago ako—may tinatago kami sa kanya. Si Mama ang umiipit sa akin. Hindi lang sa akin; napapansin ko rin ang malamig na pagtrato ng aking mga kapatid kay Mama, ang pagpapakita nila ng apeksyon na mukhang obligado lamang sila at mekanikal. Gayon din si Papa. Ibang-iba siya sa bahay, lalo na pag kasama si Mama. Hindi siya masiyahin. At kung mukhang na-oobliga lang aking mga kapatid na mag-mano o humalik kay Mama, kahit bahid ng pagpapakita ng mekanikal na apeksyon, hindi ko nakikita kay Papa. Kung nagsasama man sila, away ang pinupuntahan ng lahat, hindi ko naiintindihan ang ugat ng mga iyon. Isang beses pinatigil ko sila sa pag-aaway, sinampal ako ni Mama. Hindi ako dapat nakikialam dahil hindi ko naiintindihan ang mga pinag-aawayan nila. Nag-sori sa’kin si Mama pagkatapos. Mainit lang daw ang ulo niya—hindi niya sinasadya. Pero kahit anong sabihin niya, hindi na nagbaago ang pakiramdam ko tungo sa kanya.

Nagiging mabait lang si Papa kay Mama sa tuwing may ibang tao, pag may bisita. Kapwa sila nakangiti. Kapansin-pansin rin kay yaya ang pagkainis niya kay Mama; halata ito sa pag-itap niya sa bawat pagutos ni Mama, ngunit wala siyang magawa kung ‘di sumunod. Wala rin akong magawa kung ‘di sumunod. Madaling mainitindihan kung bakit iniiwasan o kinaiinisan si Mama. Siguro, nararamdaman niya rin iyon, kaya madalas siyang nagkukulong sa kuwarto o kaya naman umaalis sa bahay kasama ng mga tita ko.

NGAYONG ARAW, walang pinagkaiba si yaya kay Mama. Pinatunayan iyon ng pananakit ng aking braso at ng pagkamugto sa aking 116

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mga mata.

Nakangiti ang mga laruan sa shelf. Iba-iba ng kulay, laki, at korte ang mga Happy Meal. Habang pinagmasdan ko ang mga ito, gumaan ang aking paraan kahit papaano. Para hindi na tuluyang sumama ang aking loob, inisip ko na lang na bibili pa ako ng maraming Happy Meal. Ibibili ako ni Papa. Sa aking pagpikit, hiniling ko na sana Lunes na, para masundo na ako ni Papa sa school at makadaan kami sa Mcdo. Nangamba rin ako. Malapit na ang bakasyon—mababakante ako sa bahay, at ibig sabihin, hindi ako papasok sa eskwela—hindi na ako susunduin ni Papa mula sa school, at hindi na kamimakakadaan sa Mcdo para makabili ng Happy Meal. Iyon ang prinoblema ko noong gabing iyon hanggang sa ako’y makatulog.

Tila wala si Mama sa bahay, unti-unti kong napansin. Hindi naman sa bigla siyang nawala; hindi ko lang ito napansin dahil hindi koi to iniisip. Ganon pa rin ang takbo ng pamamamahay—ganoon pa rin ang pagkilos naming, ngunit hindi katulad ng dati, hindi na kami nangangamba; nakakagamit na ng telepono si Ate kahit kailan niyang gustuhin, nakaka-alis na si Kuya ng bahay nang hindi nagpapaalam, nakakapanood na ng T.V. si yaya sa kahit saang silid pag walang tao, at naging mas madalas ang pangungupit niya sa aming pantry. Hindi na lumalabas ng bahay si Mama katulad ng dati, at bihira ko na siyang Makita sa labas ng master’s bedroom. Nakatigil lang siya doon, natutulog, at kung hindi man, nananatili lang siyang nakapikit.

Napuno ang table sa tabi ng kanyang kama ng maraming bote ng gamut. May sakit daw si Mama, sabi ng mga tita ko. Nagtaka ako dahil hindi naman siya nilalagnat. Napailing ang aking mga tita at sinabi sa akin na hindi ibig sabihing hindi nilalagnat ay hindi na maaring magkasakit. Iyon ang isa sa mga bihirang pagkakataon na kausapin ako ng mga tita ko. Marahan ang kanilang pananalita, at may kakaibang kagaangan sa kanilang mga tinig. Bilin nila na lagi kong kausapin si Mama, magkuwento ako sa kanya ng kahit ano. Noong una, hindi ako mapalagay. Hindi kasi ako nagkukuwento kay Mama. Nahalata siguro ng aking mga tita ang aking pag-aalinlangan. Kinuha ng sa kanila ang kamay ko. Binigyan niya ako ng chocolate bar. Paborito ko ang ganung klaseng chocolate bar, kaya hindi na ako tumanggi. Umalis na sa silid ang mga tita ko. Masasayang bagay lang dapat ang ikukuwento ko kay 117

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Mama, pahabol nila bago nila isinara ang pinto. Dahan-dahan akong lumapit sa tabi ng kama. Pinagmasdan ko ang mukha ni Mama. Nakapikit siya, at salubong ang mga kilay na para bang may malalim siyang iniisip or meron siyang inaalala.

Ganon ang naging normal na takbo ng mga bagay. Ako ang lagging kasama ni Mama. Kung dati, si Papa ang natutulog sa masters bedroom, lumipat naman siya sa silid ni Kuya. Naiwang nag-iisa si Mama. Ako lang ang nagpupunta doon para kuwentuhan siya. Tahimik lang sa kuwarto at ang boses ko lang ang pumuputol sa mahinang tunog na nagmumula sa aircon. Madilim doon, at maninipis lang na linya na tumatagos sa venetian blinds nakakapasok sa silid. Kung bubuksan man ang side table lamp, malulunod naman ang kuwarto sa mamula-mulang ilaw, at naisip ko na parang dumudugo ang mga dingding. Amoy gamut sa kuwarto. Hindi ko maipaliwanag, pero bumibigat ang pakiramdam kop ag nandun ako. Para mawala ang pakiramdam na iyon, madalas kong ikuwento sa kanya ang mga nangyayari sa arak o. Ang mga pagkapanalo ko sa patimpalak, ang papuri ng aking mga titser, ang mga sticker na star, ang mga tatak na “very good,” at ang mga test paper na “one mistake” lang. Tulad ng ibinilin ng aking mga tita, masasayang bagay lang kinukuwento ko kay Mama, kaya hindi na niya dapat malaman pa ang tungkol sa mga namumula kong test paper sa Math. Pero hindi ko alam kung nakikinig ng aba siya o kung naririnig nga niya ako. Nakapikit lang siya lagi, at nakakunot ang noo. Lubha akong nagtataka, dahil puro magagandang bagay lang ang ikinukuwento ko sa kanya.

Kinukuwento ko kay Mama ang koleksyon ko ng Happy Meal. Inilalarawan ko sa kanya ang pagkaka-ayos nila sa aking shelf.

Pati ang kakintaban ng salamin sa shelf, kinukuwento ko rin sa kanya.

Inilalarawan ko ang mga kulay, hugis, at anyo ng mga ito, kasama ng dahilan sa pagkakabili naming ni Papa sa mga iyon. Kinukuwento ko rin kay Mama na madalas kami magtungo sa isang bahay pagkatapos naming magdaan ni Papa sa Mcdo para bumili ng Happy Meal. Masaya akong nanonood ng cartoons doon dahil may cable. Kung hindi naman ako nanonood ng cable, nag-cocolor naman ako sa coloring book. Marami na akong nakulayan, paubos na nga yung mga pahinang wala pang kulay. Kinukuwento ko rin sa kanya ang babae na nakatira 118

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doon na lagging may dalang pagkarami-raming chocolates at cookies para sa akin, pero siyempre, agad kong sinasabi na nag-totoothbrush ako agad pag-uwi.

Maganda at mukhang artista ang babaeng nakatira sa bahay.

Lagi kaming nagtatagal doon, pero ayos lang sa akin. Mga alas-seis kami darating, at uuwi naman kami ng mga alas-nueve. Pag naroon kami sa bahay, naiiwan ako sa sala. Umaalis si Papa at yung babae.

Hindi ko alam kung saan sila nagpupunta. Nanonood lang ako ng cable o kaya nag-cocolor ng coloring book habang kumakain ng cookies at chocolate. Gustong-gusto ko doon dahil maliban sa pagkakaroon ng cable, nakakakain ako ng cookies at chocolate kahit gaano karami ko gusto, at hindi ko kinakailangang gawin ang aking mga homework bago makapanood ng T.V. Bago kami umalis ni Papa, lagi akong pinagbabaunan ng babae ng malaking cookie. Mabait sa’kin ang babae.

Minsan, naisip ko pa nga n asana siya na lang Mama ko. Pero siyempre hindi koi yon puwede sabihin kay Mama.

Isang Sabado, ako lang, yung labandera naming, at si yaya ang naiwan sa bahay. Katulad ng dati, umalis ang aking mga kapatid. Si Papa, may trabaho. Isa yun sa mga bihirang pagkakataon na umalis si Mama sa masters bedroom at sa bahay. Sinundo siya ng mga tita ko; pupunta daw sila sa psychiatrist niya. Hindi ko pa alam kung ano ang psychiatrist noon. Tinanong ko pa sa mga tita ko. Sabi nila sa’kin noon, ibang klaseng doctor daw yun. Pero hindi nila ipinaliwanag sa’kin ang kaibhan ng psychiatrist sa ibang doctor. Tumango lang ako.

Magiliw ang pakikitungo sa akin ni yaya noong araw na iyon.

Bumalik na siya sa dati. Inisip kona bumalik na rin sa dati ang lahat.

Ni pagbabadya na patutulugin niya ako o ipagtitimpla ng gatas, hindi ko Nakita o naramdaman. May kakaiba sa pagkilos ni yaya noong araw na iyon, pero hindi ko matukoy ang dahilan nito. Mabilis ang kaniyang paggalaw, na nagpaalala sa akin ng kilos ng mga gulat o ng mga natataranta. Niyaya niya akong manood ng T.V. sa master’s bedroom. Naupo ako sa dulo ng kama.

Nilabas ni yaya ang isang bala ng Betamax at ipinakita niya ito sa akin. “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” ang nakasulat sa label. Isinalang na niya ito sa Betamax. Napuno ang pandinig ko ng mga pag-ungol habang naririnig kong nag-tatalo sina yaya at yung 119

Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2

labandera naming: “Ipaliwanag ba natin?” “Bahala ka” “Baka madulas yan sa pagkukuwento niyan kay ma’am. Patay tayo kina sir n’yan.” Iniwas ko ang tingin ko sa T.V. at tumitig sa kanila. Natigilan ang dalawa.

Lumapit sa akin si yaya at hininaan ang volume ng T.V. “Secret lang ito ha?” Tumango ako.

Hindi nabali ang pagkatitig ko kay yaya habang ipinaliliwanag niya sa akin na hindi talaga cartoons yung napanood ko noon, at yung pinanonood naming sa pagkakataon na iyon. “Porno” daw ang tawag doon, at kung gusto kong hindi mapagalitan ng mga matatanda, ay hindi ko sasabihin nang malakas. Bastos daw iyon, sabi ni yaya, kaya hindi dapat iyon lumabas sa bibig ko, dahil hindi lang siya ang magpapakain sa akin ng sabo. Pang matanda lang daw iyon. Ang ginagawa naman ng mga babae at lalake na hubad ay salitang nagsisimula sa letter “k.” Lalong hindi ko daw iyon puwedeng sabihin nang malakas, dahil malilintikan ako sa mga makakarinig. Ang salitang iyon na nagsisimula sa letter “k” ang ginagawa ng mag-asawa para magkaroon sila ng anak. Ayokong maniwala. Naalala ko tuloy noong nagkaroon ng forum sa school. Forum ito para samga grade 5 at grade 6, pero dahil absent ang guro naming noong araw na iyon, at wala kaming substitute teacher, doon na lang nagpunta ang buong klase naming.

Tahimik lang kami doon, pero napakaingay ng mga estudyante mula ika-5 at ika-6 na baiting. Sa panonood ko sa kanila, napansin ko na ang mga lalake ay nakangisi, tumatawa, at nagbubulungan, habang ang mga babaeng mag-aaral ay nananahimik lang. Kung hindi man, nagbubulungan sila, tapos tatawa nang bahagya. Nagsisipagpulahan ang mga pisngi nila. Kakaiba rin ang pagkilos ng mga estudyanteng grade 5 at 6. May naghihiwayan, nagpapalakpakan, at gumagawa ng tunog sa pamamagitan ng mga kamay nila na para bang tunog ng natatanggal na “suction cups.” Tatawa sila nang pagkalakas-lakas pagkatapos.

Nanahimik lamang sila noong nagsimula nang magpaliwanag ang isang guro. “The Reproductive System” ang nakatakda nilang talakayin sa forum na iyon. Lumabas sa projector ang mga diagram ng hibad na lalake at babae. Hindi nawala sa mga labi ang mga estudyanteng naroon ang mahaharot na ngiti.

Ayoko pa ring maniwala. “Kailangan po ba yun?” tanong ko kay yaya at sa labandera. Kapwa sila namula at tumango. “Edi… tat120

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long beses na nag k— sina Mama at Papa? Kasi tatlo kaming magkakapatid? Si Ate, si Kuya, at ako?” tumango muli sina yaya, at Nakita ko sa mga labi nila ang mahaharot na mga ngiti na nakita ko samga estudyante sa ika-5 at ika-6 na baiting. Tinitigan ko ang mga kamay ko. Pilit kong ginuhit sa aking isipan ang mga diagram na nakita ko sa forum ng “The Reproductive System,” nginit ang mga imahe na lumalabas sa isip ko ay ang mga eksena sa “Alice in Wonderland” at “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” Sunod naman na lumabas sa isip ko ang larawan ng aking mga magulang nag anon din ang ginagawa.

Umiling ako; pilit ko itong inalis sa isip ko, pero dinig na dinig ko ang mga ungol mula sa T.V. kahit mahinang-mahina na lang ang volume nito.

Pinindot ni yaya ang eject button, at nanood kami ng T.V. Naubos ang maghapon naming sa panonood ng cartoons at telenovela, at natapos lang iyon noong may anrinig na kaming busina. Sa buong maghapong iyon, hanggang sa matapos ang araw, hindi ko naialis sa isip ko ang mga nakita ko, at ang mga nakikita ko sa isip ko.

Naramdaman ko ulit ang pakiramdam na hindi ko matukoy kung ano; ang pakiramdam na una kong naramdaman noong napanood ko ang “Alice in Wonderland.”

Tulad ng napag-usapan, hindi ko ipinagkalat ang mga nakita ko. Hindi ko rin iyon nabanggit kay Mama kahit minsan sa tuwing magkukuwnto ako sa kanya. Ikinukuwento ko pa rin kay mama ang tungkol sa mga Happy Meal ko. Sinabi ko na puno na ang shelf ko at kinakailangan ko ng isa pang shelf dahil puno na ng laruan yung isa.

Napakarami ko nan gang Happy Meal, dumoble na nga yung iba, mga laruang walang katapusan ang pagkangiti sa akin.

Ganon pa rin ang reaksyon ni Mama pag nagkukuwento ako sa kanya. Salubong ang kaniyang mga kilay. Napansin ko rin ang pagkawala ng laman sa kanyang mga pisngi. Parang lalo siyang tumanda.

Sa tuwing magkukuwento ako, lalo pang nagsasalubong ang kanyang mga kilay. Nanatiling madilim sa silid. Nagtaka ako kung bakit parang hindi nagbabago ang kondisyon ni Mama, gayong sinusunod ko naman ang bilin sa akin ng mga tita ko, at nauubos na ang mga gamut sa side table drawer. Hindi na lang ako nabahala, at patuloy akong nagkukuwento tungkol sa mga nangyayari sa akin sa araw-araw. Nabanggit ko 121

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rin na malapit nang magbakasyon, at hindi na ako susunduin ni Papa sa school. Tinanong ko si Mama kung puwede akong bumili ng Happy Meal kahit bakasyon, kahit alam kong hindi niya ako sasagutin. Hindi nawala ang pagkakunot ng kanyang noo at ang pagkakasalubong ng kanyang mga kilay. Sa kanyang pagkakapikit, may tumulong luha mula sa isa niyang mata. Pinunasan ko ito. Nagpatuloy ako sa pagkuwento.

Nagkuwento pa rin ako tungkol sa mga Happy Meal, at sa pagkain ko ng cookies at chocolate sa bahay na pinupuntahan naming nina Papa.

LAGI PA RIN KAMING DUMADAAN ni Papa doon sa bahay ng babae. Naiiwan pa rin ako lagi sa sala, kasama ng cookies at chocolate. Nagkukulay pa rin ako ng coloring book, tulad ng dati kong nakagawian.

Isang araw, hindi ko na napigilan ang pagka-inip. Ang tagaltagal kasi ni Papa, at pinapapak na ako ng lamok sa sala. Pudpod na ang Crayola ko, at ubos na ang mga pahinang kokoloran sa coloring book. Naisipan kong hanapin si Papa.

Inikot ko ang bahay. Wala si Papa sa kusina. Wala sa banyo. Wala sa garden. Noong hindi ko siya nahanap, ay umakyat ako sa ikalawang palapag ng bahay. Pag-akyat ko ng hagdan, nakakita ako ng pinto. Walang anino at ilaw na naglalaro sa ilalim ng awang sa pinto.

Dahan-dahan akong lumapit sa pinto. Inilapat ko ang aking tainga sa pinto. Pamilyar ang tunog sa akin. Agad, pumasok sa isip ko ang mga eksena mula sa “Alice in Wonderland” at “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” Pilit kong inalis ang mga ito sa aking isip. Hindi ko sinasadya, ngunit napuno naman ang aking ulo ng mga imahe nina Mama at Papa na ganun din ang ginagawa. Muli, inalis ko ito sa aking utak. Ayokong isipin.

Kinapa ko ang door knob, at nalamang hindi pala ito nakalock. Pinihit ko ito at bumukas ito nang bahagya. Sa maliit na espasyo, nakita ko sina Papa at yung babae. Naalala ko ang magiliw na pagngiti sa akin ng babae tuwing binibigyan niya ako ng chocolate at cookies. Naalala ko ang kaniyang mga kamay na kumakaway pag pauwi na kami ni Papa. Sumingaw ang malamig na hangin mula sa awang ng pinto at naramdaman ko ang pagbalot ng lamig sa aking paa, tuhod, at buong katawan. Bumilis nang bumilis ang paghinga ko, ang pagpintig 122

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ng puso ko.

Dahan-dahan akong umatras mula sa pinto. Hindi nawala ang mga mahihinang tunog na tila bumubulong-bulong sa aking tainga.

Sa pagbaba ko ng hagdan, pilit kong inalis ang mga tunog sa utak ko.

Parang walang katapusan ang mga hakbang ko sa pagbaba ng hagdan.

Pinapak ako mga lamok noong nakabalik na ako sa sala. Bumubulong buong sila sa tainga ko. Naramdaman ko na tila may bumara sa aking lalamunan. Hindi ko napigilan ang sarili ko at naisigaw ko na gusto ko nang umuwi, kahit na alam ko nab aka walang nakakarinig sa’kin.

Kinabukasan, naghihintay lang ako sa eskwela. Naglaro lang ako sa playground habang naghihintay. Kasama ko ang mga kaklase kong babae at lalake na kapwa wala pa ring sundo. Inisip ko kung nasaan ang mga sundo nila.

Sa paglalaro naming, sinubukan kong huwag isipin kung nasaan ang sarili kong sundo. Pero lagpas alas singko na, wala pa rin si Papa. Inisip ko na lang na siguro traffic. Siguro may overtime. Lumubog na ang araw at unti-unti nang naubos ang mga tao sa playground, pero hindi pa rin dumarating si Papa. Dati, pag nalalate si Papa sa pagsundo sa’kin, agad akong umiiyak. Iniisip ko kasi noon na baka hindi na ako makauwi pag hindi siya dumating.

“Babay!” Sigaw ng ilan kong kalaro. Kumaway ako “Hoy! Bukas zipper mo!” natatawang sigaw naman ng isa ko pang kalaro sa isa naming kaklase. Tumawa rin lang ang iba pang mga bata na natira sa playground, pati na ang batang bukas ang zipper. Mamula-mula ang kanyang mukha, at basing-basa ito ng pawis. Tumingin ako papalayo.

Sa aking paghihintay, naalala ko ang mga nangyari noong nakaraang araw—nung nasa kotse na kami ni Papa, pauwi. Narinig ko ulit ang mga tunog sa aking ulo.

Tinanong niya kung nainip ba daw ako. Sinabi ko na lang na hindi pero alam ko na hindi naman talaga iyon ang gusto niyang itanong sa akin. Alam naming pareho. Kapwa kami nagkukunwari na hindi namin alam.

Sumagi sa isip ko si Mama. Naalala ko ang pagka-kunot ng kanyang noo, ang ekspresyon ng kanyang mukha. Gusto kong kuskusin ng bimpo ang aking buong katawan.

Nag-sori si Papa. Dahil daw baka nainip ako. Dumaan kami 123

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sa Mcdo at binili niya ako ng Happy Meal. Noong sandaling iyon, hindi ko alam kung bakit hindi ako natuwa. Binuksan ko ang kahon ng Happy Meal, at kinuha ang laruan na nakabalot sa plastic. Tinitigan ako ng Happy Meal. Isang tingin na tumatagos sa balot ng plastic. Tila naka-ngit ito sa akin ng isang mapaglarong ngiti. Agad ko itong ibinalik sa looob ng kahon.

“I love you, anak.� Hinaplos ako ni Papa sa ulo. Kinalibutan ako.

May dumapong lamok sa braso ko, hindi ko na napansin.

Gabing gabi na, at wala pa rin ang sundo ko. Naka-alis na sa eskwela pati ang mga guro ko. Bakit pa raw ako nasa school. Para daw ang ata ko daw pumasok sa school para sa susunod na araw. Na atat akong mag-aral. Matuto. Umiling ako.

Sabi ko, hindi. Ayoko.

Nagtaka sila at naglakad papalayo.

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Malate Literary Folio

PASASALAMAT ERRATA

Nais pasasalamatan ng Malate Literary Folio ang mga sumusunodmga kaibigan, kapwa manunulat, at mga mangingibig ng sining.

Ms. Erika Carreon; Dr. Ernesto Carandang II at ang Departamento ng Filipino; Dr. Jazmin B. Llana at ang Departmento ng Literatura; ang Bienvenido Santos Creative Writing Center; College Editors Guild of the Philippines; Mr. Enrique Leopoldo Cruz; Mr. Juan Viktor Calanoc; Ms. Gabriela Krista Dalena; Mr. Paolo Enrique Rosero; Ms. Cori Franchesca Co; Ms. Faye Johanna Cura; Mr. Emmanuel Barrameda; Mr. Joel Pablo Salud; Mr. Mariano Kilates; The staff of Hotel Benilde Maison De La Salle; Mr. Bonifacio Ilagan; Mga kasapi ng Panday Sining; Mr. Joven Laura; Ms. Dominique Dimaano; Mr. Harris Albert Guevarra; Ms. Joelyn R. Alerta at ang Student Discipline Formation Office; La Casita; Ms. Amelia M. Galang at ang Office of Student Affairs; Legal Council; Ms. Alma Corpuz at ang Security Office; DLSU Bookstore; Ang Pahayagang Plaridel, The LaSallian, Green & White, Green Giant FM, Archers Network, at ang Student Media Council; Mrs. Anna Loraine Balita-Centeno, Ms. Patricia W. Baun, Mrs. Ma. Manuela S. Agdeppa, at ang Student Media Office; Mr Mon Mojica, Mrs. Myrna Mojica, at ang MJC Press Corporation.

N

ais iwasto ng Malate Literary Folio ang sumusunod na pagkakamali sa Tomo XXXIII Bilang 2: Ang pangalan ni Alyson Toni Sibayan ay maling nailathala sa talaan ng nilalaman.

Ang pangalan ni Kevin Mercado ay maling nailathala sa Pasasalamat.

Ibig naming humingi ng paumanhin sa mga naapektuhan ng mga nasabing pagkakamali.

At higit sa lahat, sa mga kasapi’t kaibigan ng Malate Literary Folio, noon at ngayon.

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