ALA TILAD-KANIGUAN

TILAD KANIGUAN

ATENEO LITERARY ASSOCIATION TILAD VOLUME 1, 2012-2013

KANIGUAN KATAL KASAGKORAN KAABTAN KAMOOT

TABLE OF CONTENTS KATAL, 2 Banshee (Rea Robles), 4 Hinghing (Ahj Eufracio), 6 Trahedya de Boda (Ken Brian Esperanza), 9 Im-im-impyerno (K.M. Esperanza), 10 Maldisyon (Pen Prestado), 11 An Panambitan (Rea Robles), 18 Untitled (John Leir Castro), 20

KASAGKORAN, 21 Snowglobe (Rea Robles), 22 Kasagkudan (Jerome Hipolito), 24 Dusk; Rain (Jay Salvosa), 27 Elegy of a Thirteen Year Old on the Grave of Her Beloved (C.M. Mariano), 28 An Mga Makinito (Irmina Volante-Torres), 32 Sukat (Pen Prestado), 36 Sundang (Ken Brian Esperanza), 42

KAABTAN, 43 Inches (Ahj Eufracio), 44 Panuga (Jovi Cadores), 45 Esperanza (John Leir Castro), 46 Campfires (Rea Robles), 54 Paper Boats (Ken Brian Esperanza), 56 Chat (Pen Prestado), 58 Sshh (K.M. Esperanza), 59

KAMOOT, 60 Pandulsi (Leonor Bregala), 62 Macarons (Frank Calma), 64 Butterflies (Tyrone Pangan), 66 Untitled (Jusan Misolas), 67 They aren’t as Sour as they Used to Be (John Leir Castro), 68 Bitter Sweet (Pauline Mae Zenit and Olivia Marie Peùero), 76 The Recipe (Pen Prestado), 80

Hilingun mo ang dalan kun tanus, Hilingun mo kun tukadon, Saka mo luway-luway na lakawun.

Kun Saaga Matukad Ka Janessa Savilla

Wari’y sa isyung ito ng Tilad ay marahan naming tinahak ang landas. Maraming salamat sa mga gumabay, sumuporta at nakisama sa una naming paglalakbay.

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Allan Rey Camata

KATAL November 2012

Banshee Rea Robles

There is a banshee in our house.

It cries almost every night.

It bangs our pots and pans leaving echoes of clanging and wailing when we’re sleeping.

There is a banshee in our house.

It cries almost every hour.

It rattles our grills and gates leaving rust on the floor and paint flakes by the door.

There is a banshee in our house.

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Ken Brian Esperanza, K.M. Esperanza

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Hinghing Ahj Eufracio

Nakahiling sako ngonyan, an bulan na sinaksakan nin pako.

Ay, bako.

Si payo palan kan pako, an nakahiling sako.

Nagbukas an ngabil mo.

“Ika sana an padangat ko.”

Alagad, an g

a p o sa daghan ko …

Dangan saimo na pig-utro, “Ika sana an padangat ko.”

Pighiling ko si bulan na sinaksakan nin pako Igot ako na naghalat, na ini magkimat.

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Alagad …

Tuninong sana ini na nakabuklat.

Aban-aban, nag-uran.

“Madya, luwas kita!”

Tugiron, marhay man.

Marhay man.

Ta dai mo dapat madangog An hinghing …

“Kun muyo mo akong kastiguhon Dai ako maagrangay, Linigan mo sanang marhay, An saiyang lawas, Na nagtuog na, Sa lumay.”

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Don Ramos

Trahedya de Boda Ken Brian Esperanza

Alam kong dis oras na ng gabi.

May unti lang tayong aayusin sa damit mo.

Tingin ko’y maikli, puputulan ko muna ang paa mo.

May kaluwangan sa baywang, tatanggalan muna kita ng apdo.

Masikip siguro sa dibdib, ano?

Tatapyasin ko muna ang iyong suso.

Mahirap sigurong makakita sa kapal ng iyong belo, itatahi na muna ang talukap ng mga mata mo.

O, ayan.

Bagay naman pala sayo ang traje de bodang gawa ko.

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Im-im-impyerno K.M. Esperanza

Natalo na ng lakas ng pusong kumakawala ang ritmo ng paghinga, sigaw na kulob ng sariling kutob, naiwang nginig ng malamig nilang titig.

Umaakyat mula binti ang tanglay, pag-aaway ng lamig at mga kamay.

Sa dilim, ‘di makita ang takip-silim.

Tinakbuhan, pinagtaguan ang mga kalarong nilalaro ang imahinasyon ng kaba,

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mapula nilang mga mata hinihintay ang pagbaba, paglabas mo upang madakip ka nila.

Asaan ang langit?

Wala ng buhay sa lupa.

Sila’y naghihintay sa impyerno.

Sa impyerno tumulo ang dugo.

Patay. Patay.

Umalis ka na riyan sa pwesto mo.

Maldisyon Pen Prestado

“Mga hayop kamo! Tano nindo ininagibo sako?!”

Nagsusuriyaw si Mama kansubago kan nahiling niyang nakapatong si Papa ki Gina. Pagsugod niya sa kwarto, kapot niya si sundang na pigtais-tais ni Papa suudma pagkatapos kan sultada. Ginutgutan subanggi si sambot, ngunyan bayag ni Papa an gusto niyang gutguton sa kaanggutan.

Dai man talaga nagsuriyaw si Mama subago, nahiling ko siyang luway-luway na duministansya parayo sa kwarto ninda pasiring kusina na garo mayong nangyayari. Haloy ko nang aram an nangyayari ki Gina saka ki Papa. Kan nag-abot palang yan si Gina digdi duwang taon nang nakaagi, tigsigay-sigayan na siya ni tatay. Gurang na si Papa pero kasigkat niya pa an mga ataman niyang texas, si Mama losyang na kaya, garo na bangkatars an itsura. Napapagal na akong pagparadalanon sinda, nagpundo na akong makiaram sainda, haloy na man akong inbisibol sainda.

Daing girong si Mama. Natuninong an guna mantang nagmamanada an lalong nin ibang guna. Gusto ko siyang mahiling magsuriyaw, sugudon niya sinda sa kwarto, kaso mala baga ini ta pa-martir an drama.

Si sundang na tigtais ni Papa suudma, yaon man giraray sa puluan. Kun ako kaidto, wara nang bayag si Papa. Dai man kaya kayang gutgutan ni Mama si Papa, takot sana niya.

“Pssst, anong panira ta ngunyan na banggi?” nakigkig si Mama.

“May tada pa si lalong kansubanggi.Yaon diyan sa freezer, initon ko na sana.”

“Bulay! Mayo nin iba? Magkakabalukag na ako sa manok.”

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“Sardinas.”

“Sige na, manok na lang giraray. Mas marhay na yan sa kaliskis.”

Nagluwas nin kwarto si Gina na may darang mga labahan. “Tiya, hain po si sabon sa washing machine? Labahan ko na po an mga bado nindo.”

“Yaon pa sa plastic bag ne, kuanon mo na sana, dai ko pa kaya naasikaso si sinaudan ko subago.”

Kun siguro ginibo ini ni Papa kan yaon pa si Kuya Nono igdi sa harong, subago pa nagburulyada. May pa-boxing na naman kuta. Kaso kan nag-agom si Kuya asin kami an natada digdi, mayong naglalaban ki Papa. Kaya ko sana sindang dalanon, habo kong makiaram. Pareho kami ni Mama na takot. Maisog si Papa.

Si Gina, pinsan ko iyan. Aki siya kan tugang ni Mama na taga Colacling sa Lupi. Pinapaeskwela niya si duwa niyang tugang kaya nagpasweldo muna samuya. Dai man kami mayaman, pero sa mga sadiring tawo ni Mama, medyo angat-angat naman kami. Igwa kaming mga dagang pinapaumahan sa Lupi. Kala ko daw diyan kaidto ki Gina, inosentehon pero dai palan. Dai ko aram kun gusto niya an ginigibo saiya ni Papa. Dai man siya nagrereklamo. Binabayadan siya. *** Nagsimba kami ni Mama subago. First time ko itong nahiling si Padreng angguton. Pagkatapos kaya kan misa, nahiling mi pigsapak niya si sakristan mayor.

Si Kiko baga an sakristan mayor, itong aki ni Tiyong Puling saka Tiya Baby. Naaraman kaya ni Padre na sigeng kawat sa videocarera si Kiko. An istorya, bago daa magpuon si misa, sinugod ni Father si Manoy Dencio ta maribokon an mga nagkakarawat videokarera, nakakadistorbo sa mga masirimba. Pwerte si diskusyon kan duwa na iligal saka nakakaraot an videoke. An sabi man ni Manoy Dencio, sa simbahan ngaya kun magtao ka nin piso o maski sanggatos dai ka manggagana sa videocarera pag nagtaya ka may tsansa ka manggana maski parupapano.

Napikon na si padre asin nagkua nin martilyo ta popokpokon na kuta ni Padre si videokarera kaso sinabi ni Manoy Dencio na si inaaraataman 12

na orig ni Kiko sa likod kan kumbento ginanahan sa sugal. Nagkauuli si Kiko sainda na guyod-guyod si orig na limang bulanon na. *** Minsan nagtutubod akong may sa mangkukulam man ako. Nangyayari kaya minsan an iniisip ko. Kun gusto kong magkulog tulak mo, pwede ko iyan gibuhon saimo. Si nurse kan sarong aldaw dai nagtutubod sako, pinakulog ko si ngipon niya.

Pero itong nangyari kaitong Biyernes. Si Mama, si Mama may gibo kaito. Aram ko yan. Naistorya niya sako kaidto kun pano gibuhon an maldisyon. Sabi niya magduman sa luwas kan simbahan, para magsulo nin tiwarik na kandilang itom. Tapos may uusalon kang pangadyion.

May sa mangkukulam talaga an lahi mi.

Si mama ni Mama may sa mangkukulam man ito. Pag maanihan na inaapod kaidto si matuang tugang na lalaki ni Mama para maggibo nin ritwal. Si Tiyo Berting an nagpupuon kan pag-ani, may inuusal na pangadyion na Latin si Lola ko para daa marhay an ani. Istorya man sana ini ni Mama.

Kaya si Tiyo Berting an nagguno nin dakul-dakul na swerte sa saindang magturugang pero makuri baga an ugali kaidto. Nagpakatabang si Mama para mapaklase ito, kaso kan nag-angat-angat, nawara baga. Dai na nagpahiling-hiling, lingaw na kan pamilya.

Si Mama an nagmana ki Lola. Dakul yan oru-orasyon sa lawas. Dakul lahid-lahid sa lawas na lana. Pag nagkakahilang ngani kami ni kuya, dai kami nagduduman sa albularyo, si Mama na an “Mang Kepweng� mi sa harong. May itatapal lang yan samong mga dahon saka orasyon. *** Pista kasuudma igdi sa baranggay mi. Huring Biernes nin Enero an pista ni Hesukristong Nakapako. Yaraon si mga barkada ni Papa. Dai ako paraluwas kwarto, habo ko man pating makipag-ulay sainda. Mga parabulang man sinda arog ni Papa, pero mga bigtime.Todo asikaso sinda Gina saka si Mama, tigluwas si mga kubyertos na haloy na nakatago sa

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iskaparate.

Dating auditor si Papa sa munisipyo sa Sipocot, close sinda kan si dating Mayor. Tolong taon na kan nagretire si Papa. Si lumpsum niya ginamit na pagpairahay kaining harong saka nagbakal siya nin sampulong texas.

Si Mama ko man, dai nakatuntong college. Arog ni Gina, nagpaklase man siyang mga tugang kaya nagpakatabang kina Papa. Panduwang pamilya na kami ni Papa, kan nagadan si enot na agom ni Papa, inagom niya si Mama. Maataman si Mama kaya ngani siya nagustuhan ni Papa.

May mga tugang kami ki Papa pero dai sinda nag-uuruli digdi.

Haloy na sindang mayo digdi sa Sipocot kan nagdakula ako.Yaon sinda kina Lola sa Pampanga. Lingaw ko na ngani mga lawgon ninda. Si Kuya Nono sana an kuya ko, kaso naghali pa. Tidudulag na ito sa harong ta pirmi sindang nagsasaltikan ni Papa, kaya kan nakagraduate saka nagkatrabaho uto, nag-agom para makarayo igdi sa harong mi.

Nag-uruli na si mga bisita. Ginirilid na ninda Mama saka ni Gina si mga bote asin sinigid si mga apos nin sigarilyo sa sala. Malinig na ngunyan an harong. Balik na sa normal an buhay mi. Turog pa si Papa, dai baya nariribukan kan turaok kan mga manok niya.

Nag-iisis si Mama saka si Gina nin mga kaldero sa likod. Nadangog ko ulay nindang duwa.

“Kansuarin pa iyan?” hapot ni Mama.

“Tolong semana na po.”

“Aram na ini ni Bitoy?”

“Dai pa po.”

Haloy na daing girungan an duwa.

“Pwede pa iyan.” sabi ni Mama.

“Habo ko Tiya. Dai ko kayang gibuhon yan.”

“Pano kita kainiyo? Pano ta ini sasabihon ki Cora?”

“Dai ko po aram.”

“Kaya mo yan Gina. Pwede pa iyan.” *** Biernes Santo. Nagdadangog si Mama nin siete palabras sa radyo. Si 14

Papa sibot sa mga texas niya, si iba hinahalak ngunyan ta mainiton. Garo si Papa duktor ngunyan.

May daradara siyang pang-ineksyon pero mayong dagom saka itong pantiki-tiki bagang dropper.

Mayo si Gina, nag-uli sainda sa Colacling. Sarong semana lang daa siya duman. Sa Lunes mabalik na ito.Tulala si mama kan mga nakaaging aldaw o pirmi man. May iba akong pagmati, basta.

Alas Dos na tirik na tirik an saldang, nagbulos si mama nin panlakaw, dai man lang pati naglabar o nagkarigos, dai pa man alas tres, pwede pang magkarigos. Masain daw? Makaskasong nagluwas harong, dara pati si bag niyang pirming bitbit kun nagpapa-simbahan. Gusto ko kutang mag-iba kaso mainiton na marhay.

Hiniling ko na sana an pagbulong ni Papa kan si mga manok niya hali sa balkonahe. Habo niyang kinakaputan mi an mga texas, takot ngani akong magrani sa mga manok. Namamati kong kakamruton ninda ako o tutukaon.

Napagal ako kakadalan kaya nagturog muna ako sa sala mi. Dai ko aram kun pangiturog lang ini, pero nadangog ko na may ibang taong nag-uurulay sa natad mi.

“Ano Padi? Dalihon ta na ini?” hapot kan saro.

“Aro-atchan lang, dai pa binababa an sugo.” simbag kan si saro.

“Mabulong man ito kun iyo na.”

“Dali na!” sabat kan saro pa na sinundan nin iba pang boses na nagkukurahaw man na “sige na. Iyo na yan. Sugod na!”

“Hoy! Sako an mata!” kurahaw kan saro.

“Baranga kita sa isaw… hahahaha!”

Haluyon sindang nag-urulay na garo may pigbabarangaan. Baad mga tambay tigringgawan an mga manok ni Papa. Naman na trip ninda ini, texas pa an gustong burunuon, makunaton man bagang kakanon yan, kun anu-anong bulong an iniinom kan mga iyan.

Napagmata ako kan ribok nin mga manok, sarabay-sabay sindang nagtutururaok. Alas kwatro nin hapon pero kun makaturaok sinda daog pa kun aga. Ano daw ta mariribok? Pagluwas ko sa natad, nahiling ko sindang paratos-patos nin dugo mantang nakatukro ki Papa.

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*** Magaya-gayang nag-uli si Gina sa harong pagkatapos niyang magpuli sainda pagkatapos kan pista. Ipinaaram man ito ni Mama na may kaipuhan lakawon sainda sa Colacling. Hinatod pa ngani ito ni Mama sa centro, haluyon si Mama sa centro, banggi na kan nag-uli.

Sabi sako kan mga boses, nadangog ninda si Mama nangangadyi sa mahal na birhen, naghahagad tawad sa ginibo niya ki Gina. Sabi ko sainda, ayos man baga si Gina, maugmahon nganing nag-abot. May daradarang mga gulayon saka prutas hali sainda. Nahiling ko pa ngani sindang nag-iistoryahan ni Mama sa libod.

Sabi kan salming, nahiling niyangnagkikiribigkibig an mga muro ni Mama. Tapos biglang nagkirimaw an kamot ni Mama kaya nabutsan kaini an imahen kan mahal na birhen na napasa sa pamitisan niya. Nagkaturumakan mga pasang pidaso kan imahen. Nagdudurugo an bitis ni Mama kan nagpurbar siyang maglakaw parayo sa altar, kaso nadarinas si Mama asin tuminama anpayo niya sa salog.

Sabi kan mga paril, yaon si Gina sa laog kan harong dinadalan sana si Mama. Kaya niyang mangkulog maski sa isip sana. *** An dai paggirong garo man sana daa pagrirong kaya dai nakakapagpugol an mga paril, kisame asin mga salming na mag-istorya. Dakul na mga hilom an nagsasarumsom sainda, nadadangog ninda maski an mga hinihinghing na agrangay asin mga nguyngoy, nahihiling an kada hiro, napaparong an mga tinatago-tagong aruansod asin hinihimate an mga agi-agi.

Nakakaulay ko sinda asin araram ko an sikreto kan gabos na nakaistar sa harong na ini. Ining tinutukawan ko, biristado ko an nagturukaw digdi. Sinabi na niya sako kun sirisay. Dai sinda nag-uutik, arog ko, o baad iyo.

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Pen Prestado

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An Panambitan Rea Robles

Bilog, bilog, bilugan. Assignment, assignment, suruntukan...

Sabi ni nanay, dai daa magparakawat sa luwas ta may nangsasako daang aki. Dai ako natubod. Mayo pa man nawawara sa mga kakawat ko dawa na inaabutan sindang bulan sa dalan kaka-pogs. Ugwa man akong tirador sa shorts. Padulagon ko iyan na parasakong iyan.

Bilog, bilog, bilugan. Assignment, assignment, suruntukan...

Nagluwas sa nanay ngunyan, kaiba si tatay, paduman daa kina Mading Uling. Si nene, na mabantay kuta sako, yaon sa itaas, kaibanan an kailusyon, nagkukulong-kulong. Maliwanag an bulan asin nasa dalan utro an mga kaakian samo. Nahiling ko si John Lloyd, uto, nakatukro sa may kabatagan, garong nanggagana na naman ning mamiriso.

Bilog, bilog, bilugan. Assignment, assignment, suruntukan...

“Madya, taraguan!” Nagbali ako kina Sunshine dawa dai pa rahay an lugad ko. Nadapla kaya ako kan sarong aldaw. Narahay naman nin sinapang dahon nin bayawas kaya madali na ining magkagan, tibaad saaga.

Ako an natada sa umpiyang, ako an taya. Digdi daa ang base sa batag na tinukruan ni John Lloyd.

“Sampulo!” Kinurahaw kong kusog tanganing maaraman ninda na

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mapuon na ako maghanap. Atyan kayan, mag time-out pa sinda. Nagduman ako sa may santan, duman kaya sinda pirmi nagtatarago-tago. Atyan, maduman ako sa inutan, sa may kabatagan ta garo may bilog-bilugan duman na kawat. Maluya sana an pagkanta ninda, alagad nadadangog ko.

Si Sunshine na sana an dai ko nakukua. Nagduman ako sa may mga langka, duman sa may aninipot. Gustuhon man pano ni Sunshine nin aninipot, baka nagtatago-tago siya duman mantang nagdadakop-dakop. “Sunshine! Base!� Huna ko si Sunshine.

Ayan si palaka, walang kaawa-awa, abukaka, abukaka, siya’ng palaka!

Mapution man palan an parasakong aki. Sagkod ung gayon-gayon pa an halabang buhok

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John Leir Castro

What is poetry but prose denied of its limbs; when in place of its arms there are sticks?

What is poetry but prose beheaded and run on with spikes; arteries left hanging without words spilling out?

What is poetry but prose without a tongue; of prose with no feet to go against the whims of time?

What is poetry, then but a premeditated murder that did not go as planned?

Of prose slaughtered ruthlessly in cold-blood?

Ah, this might be so— for poetry is but prose with no more hands, and one more soul.

Ken Brian Esperanza

KASAGKORAN December 2012

Snowglobe Rea Robles

Kun mayo an kamot na mapahiro sa kinaban, tundag na sana an abuton, mawawalat na nag-aabang.

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Vina Pe単aserada

Dusk; Rain Jay Salvosa

The drumming sound inflicted by droplets against the old yellow parchments echoes the faint heartbeat of day dying as he is consumed by night— Vidal shovels his papers away from the tired floor to save Bartelby Bagnet, Jambalaya Le Lobo, Signor Ketrovsky, Gonzo Brillantes, Frida, Poncanto, Cyrus Decasso, Villa de Guzman Cervantelatorra, Maggie Mae, Grandmother June, Dicta Quezanellie, Bork Berchman, Lucy, Mignon, and Chevalle from untimely drowning.

And as the water slowly caresses the ground, as she reaches her way to the core of his soul, Vidal climbs on his lonely

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boat of a bed, adjusts his sextant to spot the invisible stars, and starts charting his way through a dream of sea, saving his people, chanting to the tune of es, oh, es, oh, es, oh, es, oh, es, oh, es, oh—

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Vina Pe単aserada

Kasagkudan Jerome Hipolito

Kun ini na an kasagkudan kan gabos na sagkod ngunyan hasta pa sana sa sagkod kun an kasag kudan na ini iyo an tapos kan gabos na katapusan na satong nilalangkag Lalangkagon ko kaya kun igdi ako nababangkag Ano an sakong

mga tatapuson sa mga dai pa pinupuonan arin sa mga dai ko mabutasan na girumdom an kaya ko nang butasan o bayaan an sarong tataramon o hiro o gibo kun baga iyo ini an kasagkudan dai ko iuusip dawa kiisay kun tano kun napano ta ini na an kasagkudan.

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Elegy of a Thirteen Year Old on the Grave of Her Beloved C.M. Mariano

You, with your bamboo gait and cheeks that cultivate pimples like mushrooms after a rain, with your hair like trimmed broomstick, eyes like flashlights with overused batteries, an under-grown squash for a nose and puffy, red-violet lips. Ah, we meet at last.

Weren’t you the one who knocked on my door one bright sunny day, offering a covered picnic basket, beautiful, chequered cloth that cover is but lo! You almost choked my heart with grief when I unfurled the cloth and found a pie, shaped by your brash hands and sprinkled with green ipil-ipil leaves and pretty santan flowers, ah, that dark, dark pie of carabao feces.

I asked you for chocolates but you gave me this?

Weren’t you there last full moon too, perched on a guava tree whistling a “Teach me How to Dougie” while the dogs in our backyard howl with pissed-off clarity because they thought you were forcing them to teach you something that even they know nothing about?

They’re just dogs for god’s sake.

But of course, you don’t understand.

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You came again last fortnight. Knock! Knock! “Who’s there?,” I asked. “Me,” you said.

“What sour monsoon brought you to this part of the earth?,” I shot back. “Me who,” you yelled and laughed at my mistake. I slammed the door and hit your funny nose, squashing it a little flatter.You bawled and bawled, threatening to call the police, the Armed Forces of the Philippines, the China’s armada, even Adolf Hitler from the grave. I turned on the DVD and played “I Don’t Care” by 2NE1.

“I don’t care eh eh eh eh eh.

“I don’t care eh eh eh eh eh.

“Boy I don’t care.”

You left.

The last time, you visited me in my dreams. You were showing me something—a bat, a broken plate, an empty sardine can with dried sauce (or was it blood?) at the edges, a bottle of half-spent gin and a thousand other things, most shapeless and indecipherable and freaky and...meaningful.

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Armando Sales III, Monique Cabais

Yes, that too. That something which I couldn’t describe and couldn’t assign a name because you were the only one feeling it at that time.

The last you conjured is a spaceship, a funny thing it is, round and multicolored and sparkling and looking every bit an invention that only someone with the ingenuity of a toad can build.

You asked me to fly with you and may we scout the world and chase eagles and pluck their wings so that they can be less frightening and vulnerable and may we land on the moon and build our house there(an antigravity house, you said laughingly) with mosaic windows that capture the light of stars and roofs that store the sun’s energy so that we wouldn’t worry about electricity and could you wed me there, with the attendance of the Martians and the Star Trek crew and you begin offering a ring studded with Kryptonite crystals.

I shouted No! And I woke.

The night after, I visited your wake but missed (intentionally) the funeral. . . . . .

Frankly, when you died, it was not the end of my world; but that doesn’t make me the happiest girl either.

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An Mga Makinito Irmina Volante-Torres

Paulo Papa Subago pang pabirik-birik si Pay Ebyo sa saiyang payag na erokan. Minatuwad nin tuda, minatanos na arog sa segundo sa pamayuhan, kapot an piad. Aban-aban mataririk na garo may pighahanap sa mga tambak na mga karton sa may kanto. Iduduta an palad sa angog, nagiisip. An pagpilingpiling kan payo ako an kamugtakan dara kan edad.

Napako an hiling sa mga palad. Saro-saro na naman na pinipildit an mga kubal, kukurukitkiton kan kuko. Daing pagbasul sa kalipungawan sa mga dating urag kan hawak. May pagkasutil na minapaibabaw sa isip an parating surubahan kan mga pagiriba. “Igwa pa!�, an parati niyang nagigirumduman, dangan, naghiling sa biroli. An sabi, “Maputulan man

daa nin sarong bitis an amamatak malakaw ta malakaw ini basta may tada pang kamandag.”

Dagos nang nagpaturotaghoy dangan pinuropakarhay an natatadang buhok sa palibot kan payo.

Nagin daing pakilabot si Pay Ebyo kun an sangaw na turutaghoy o an ragsip kan dikit pang mapano na pig-ooroataman na plastik an nagpurisaw sa kino na nahiling niyang buminutwa sa irarom kan katre.

Nakipagturuhukan na naman ini saiya asin nagrani sa puting supot na garo gustong ukudan an nakasurat puon sa pulang M dangan sa maludas na ry. Dali-daling ibinikyaw ni Pay Ebyo an kamot, kuyom an subagong nakausling ngudoy. Nagin dayupot na siya sa laganan orog pa ta nakalaag digdi an rektanggulong balunan kun sain nakahutad sa ibabaw kan maluto an pritos na sapsap, pinamahawan an saro tanganing pangudtuhan man an saro. Dagdag pa an duwang nakaburibod na lastiko, gakod na sa pagkamidbid saiya kan mga amigo.

Kan kinapkap an mga butones kan “Trobinays” sa atubangan kan salming, matador na nagpatara-tagilid, nagsarasalingoy saka binukasan an biroli tanganing isuksok an laylayan. Napa-Tsa! kan batonon an pantalon ta nalingawan na naman bakalun an paha na haloy nang pinaplano.

Dai niya masiguro kun kasoudma ito o kan sarong aldaw pa sana an pagtangro saiya kan paratindang Muslim bitbit an mga “leather” daang pitaka, paha, laganan nin cellphone. Kan panahon kayang ito dai naglaog sa isip niya an pangangaipo kaya an bergitas na madali pang makaabot sa tikab pigtiyagaan na puropakarhayon tanganing dai mahiling sa irarom kan laylayan na panitaas.

Risa an kaogmahan sa mata kan agihan nin sarong hiling an sadiri puon sa may daghan paibaba. Kaagid sa pantalon an garo bagong rirrihon na baybay na Crocks. “Sabagay, pariho an bitis mi ni Onyok.”napataas an abagang pirit na nagkirikintid. Pagmati niya, siya si Don Pedro. Ay, si Don Pedro, an pigkakautangan niyang maray. Utang niya ki Don Pedro an “urag” niya, sabi ninda, sa mga pagdisenyo kan mga muwebles, kan dakul pa an mga kahoy na nakukua sa itaas. Makwarta siya, sinda, kan mga panahon, hasta nagdikit-dikit na an naghahatod kan mga

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kahoy, nagin mahal pa dawa dakul an “orders”. Kaya kan manambitan ni Don Pedro an manungod sa pagretiro sa negosyo, dagos nang napara sa mga negosyo ni Don Pedro an Pedring Furnitures. Nagin dahilan man ini sa dikit-dikit na pagkawara kan saiyang mga dating amigo.

Sa arog kaining sitwasyon, namumungnan si Pay Ebyo. Napaturuhok sa kwadro na nakalaag sa ibabaw kan pag-ultanan kan duwang iskaparate. Mandikit na poropakarhayon an mga saradit na kwadro kairiba kan iba pang durudakulang kwadro, kan Verbina, mga lumang sensilyo, sadit na Johnson’s Baby oil, Petrolium Jelly, labaha, mga nakarolyong kalindaryo. Dai niya nalingawan na hilot-hiluton an mga kanto kan mga ribon, mga sertipiko na may kataid na mga ritrato kan aking lalaki, an darag na diploma. “Kagawaran ng Edukasyon at Kultura, Ateneo de Naga College, Katunayan”. Inagihan kan saiyang mata an mapalaborlabor na mga letra, saka binalikan an nakalaag na pangaran, “Eusebio Vargas Jr.” - 1996. Inagihan man kan saiyang mata an babayi sa ritrato, an saiyang si Salvacion saka hiniling an tsinelas, dangan nabutasan an garo hinghing na, “Onyok!”, “Basyon!”. Dakul an gusto niyang ipasabot ki Onyok, sa saiyang si Basyon - “Dai na sana mahahaloy.”, an sabi sa sadiri.

Dai nadangog ni Pay Ebyo an pag-aragi kan mga tawo sa luwas kan harong kun bako sa pagbatok kan mga ido. Kan kinapkap an pitaka sa likod kan pontalon asin isinuksok an mapanas na sukray dagos an saiyang pagluwas bitbit an maragsip na plastik, bitbit an mga lalawgon na nasa kwadro. Mabuot an saiyang aki ta kinuyog an paghagad niya kan “Trobinays” mala ngani ta igwa pang kaibang Crocks imbes na sapatos, ta iyo daa ini an uso, sabi sa surat na nakalaag sa plastik na may LBC. Arog ki Pay Ebyo, poon na man na nag-arabutan an mga tawong pigkokonsiderar niyang natatadang amigo.

Marhay an mga postura dawa igwang nagkikiay-kiay alagad mabaskog pa an pagmati. An nakasugkod matabil pa man giraray dawa likay na dai magtalsik an pustiso. An sid-sid, yaon an pagmawot na mayong mapalihis sa orolay. An kada magdangadang, dai mapara an mga kaogmahan. Mapoon sa pagkurumustahan alagad matatapos an orolay sa kaosmakan. “Daog pa nindo an mga kalinturadong ikos sa atop sa kausmakan!” - an sabi kan mga nakakamidbid sa mga surubahan kan magaramigo alagad yaon an konswelo sa tono. “Bayai na Manay ta “oral sex” 34

na man daa sana yan. Abot sa taram na man sana ngani!� - madadangog an simbag sa kun siisay dangan masurunod an garo mayo nang katapusan na surubahan.

Ining napunan na gawi dai natatapos sa aroaldaw na paghirilingan. Ini daing ontok na madadangog na makusog sa laog kan payag-payag ni padi nindang Elix. Magkaaratubangan na may igot na mamansayan an metros tanganing tama an sukol, kan laba. Igwa man an naghihilot dawa garatok na an ugat sa takyag tanganing magtanos. Igwa man nagkakaros tanganing malinig alagad likay na maipreserbar an kolor. Yaon man an nagpapatagas kan gibo. Igwa man nagtatarabang-tabang maghimas-himas tanganing maging pusog an tindog. An kada paglaog na tama sa mga labot dawa ngani nagkikibig-kibig na an kamot, habo akuon na palyado na an mata. An patuwadtuwad na pagpili kan mga marhay na klase nagtao nin kosog boot na sinda may pakinabang pa man.

Makonswelong paghilingon an mga mag-aramigong siribot-sibut na pigsasaboot an ginigiribo. Nawawara an nagkakapirang kagul-kol sa dedikasyon na makagibo nin mga pandekorasyon, kan mga muwebles na gibo sa nito bago pa abuton kan pagtugak kan isip, sabi ninda, siring kan dagosdagos nang pagwara kan paggibo kaini.

Siisay baya an mahuna na an mga duyan na nakalaag sa inotan gibo sa nito. Sa tuo yaon man an mga pinapabakal na mga nitong tukawan, mga butaka, kun sain an makuapo ni Pading Elix nagtutungka. An ragitnit, pampanaoknok sa nagpoponga-pongang payo.

Maugma si Pay Ebyo sa pagiriba, mga maki-nito daa sinda.

Tibaad lamang dagos-dagos na ining kaugmahan, kaiba an pagpatawad saiya ni Onyok, ini an naglaog sa isip ni Pay Ebyo. Aminado siya na dai niya na maibabalik an mga naka-agi: an baskog kan saiyang bulsa na dai niya namangnuhan kun kasuarin nagpuon an paghimpis sa wala-tuong babayi, arak, sugal. Hay! Patawad Basyon. Patawad ta dai mo ako nahalat.

Dai nagpamalisya sa mga amigo si Pay Ebyo sa garo ponsadang nagdalagan kun sain sa saiyang daghan, kan pagrumdum sa surat, na arog kan mga nakaagi dai na niya hinuhuna, kaiba an Crocks. “Dai na nanggad mahahaloy pagkatapos kan sampulo? Kinse?, aaaa, dai na siya labot kun pirang taon na paghalat, sa aga, maabot an saiyang si Onyok.� - an sabi ni Pay Ebyo sa sadiri, na igot an paghigot kan nagtutugak na nito.

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Sukat Pen Prestado

Hindi ko alam kung anong naganap kagabi. Pero nang nagising ako ngayong umaga, nandito na ako sa napakalaking kwartong hindi ko makita ang dulo. May liwanag mula sa taas at sa palibot makikita ang libu-libong pintuan. Ang weird. Di ko alam kung anong natira ko, bakit ganito ang nakikita ko.

Kakaiba ang mga pintong nakikita ko kasi nakatayo sila na para bang nakadikit sa mga imbisibol na bahay o building. May samu’t sari silang mga kulay, laki, disenyo at materyales. Ang iba’y inukit mula sa nara at imported na kahoy, yung iba nama’y may halong metal at plastik. Ang iba’y may doorbell o kaya’y may intercom.Yung isa nama’y may CCTV camera habang ang iba nama’y may butas na sinisilipan mula sa loob.

Natawa ako dun sa pangkatok na ukit ng isang lalaking nakabuyangyang ang dalawang naglalakihang bayag. Yung isang pinto paranoid; sa pinakalabas kasi may barandilyang bakal laban sa magnanakaw, tapos sunod yung screen door laban naman sa lamok bago mo makita yung pinakapinto na tadtad naman ng mga kandado.Yung isa naman pinalamutian ng mga inukit na santo mula sa langit, may istatwa ng Santo Trinidad at may mga anghel na nagsisitrumpeta sa mga ulap. Kung ibebenta ang pintong iyon sa antique shop, aabutin ito ng milyon o higit pa. Mahal na kaya ang gold leaf ngayon. Sa may kalayuan may pintuan na tila pinapasukan lamang ng mga bossing sa mga multinational corporation, may salamin sila na maaaninag mo ang nasa kabila pero ‘di mo makikita. Kung bakit ko nasabi na sa kanila lamang yung pinto, may pangalan kasi nila ito kasama ang pagkahaba-habang mga titulo.

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May dalawa o tatlong pinto na parang gas chamber, mabigat ang bakal na ginamit sa kanila paniguradong walang lalabas na hangin mula sa kabilang pinto.

Naisip kong isa sa pagkarami-raming pintong ito ang daanan-palabas.

Walang makausap sa lugar na ito kaya naaliw ako sa pagbubusisi sa mga disenyo ng libu-libung mga pinto, hanggang sa biglang nagsalita ang isa sa kanila.

“Psst. Gusto mo bang pumasok sa’kin?” sabi ng pinto na puno ng pataysinding Christmas light sa palibot. “Bibigyan kita ng daang palabas dito.”

“Holy shit!” Anong tinira ko? “Bakit nagsasalita ka” tanong ko sa pinto.

“Wag ka nang magulat. Ganito talaga kami.” Si Bangs Garcia pala sa kalendaryo ng Tanduay na nakadikit sa pinto ang nagsasalita. Medyo kupas na ang kulay niya, medyo bluish na ang kanyang mga alindog.

Siyempre year 2008 pa ang kalendaryo, ilang mga bagyo na rin ang humampas at bumasa sa kanya. “Ano na? Gusto mo bang pumasok? May daan dito palabas.”

“Wag kang maniwala sa kanya, masama iyan,” sabi ng lalaki sa berdeng tarpaulin na nakasabit sa pinto ng isa. “Marami nang napahamak diyan, dito ka sa akin. Nandito ang hinahanap mo.” Pumupungay ang kanyang mga mata sa ilalim ng salamin habang sumasayaw ang kanyang mga kilay. Umaayon rin ang kanyang bigoteng nakaupo sa maliksi

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niyang bibig. Kung titilamsik lang ang laway sa labas ng tarpaulin, iisipin niyang binibendisyunan niya na ako. Hindi ko masyadong napakinggan ang kanyang mga sinabi, isang pangungusap lang ang tumatak sa akin mula sa mga sinabi niya, “Bibigyan kita ng buhay na walang hanggan.”

“Maniwala ako sa’yo, peke kang pinto, gaya-gaya,” panunuya ng kerubin mula sa gintong pintuan na puno ng ukit.

“Marami nang pumasok sa pintuang ito. Ito ang piliin mo, ako ang magbibigay sa iyo ng buhay na walang hanggan,” sabay-sabay na sambit ng Santo Trinidad.

“Suriin mong maigi ang iyong pipiliin,” sabi ng pintong may intercom at CCTV camera.

Kung probability ang pagbabatayan ko, ang bawat pinto ay may dalawang posibilidad—true or false. Kung dalawang pinto lang ang pagpipilian, meron akong apat na posibleng sagot. Ayon kay Ma’am Laguerta, yung posibility na tama yung papasukan ko ay 2 raised to the number of pinto na meron. So kung may sampung pinto, so multiply 2 to the 10th power, meron 1024 na posibilidad. Kasali na dun yung posibilidad na lahat ng pintong ito ay ang tamang pinto at lahat mali. Sampu palang yun. Haist! Aabutin ako ng siyamsiyam sa paghula kung alin ang tama sa kanila.

Mahirap pumasok sa isang pintuan at hindi na makalabas, kaya kailangang swak ito sa sukat ko, kasi kung masyadong malaki ang pinto, mabigat ito, at hindi ko makayang itulak papalabas. Kung masyado namang maliit ang pintuan baka hindi ako magkasya dito. Kaya kumuha ako ng papel, lapis at ruler at nagsimula akong magsukat. Maliban sa sukat, kailangang maayos rin ang itsura nito—detalyado ang disenyo, kapitapitagan na walang halong pambobola o panloloko. Kaya gumawa ako ng criteria for judging: 50% aesthetic appeal, 20% reliability and honesty, 20% originality and 10% audience impact na ako rin lang naman.

“Bakit mo sinusukat ang mga pinto?” tanong ng isang boses. Lumingon ako pero wala akong nakitang nagsalita sa mga pinto.

“Pinto ka rin ba?” tanong ko.

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Pen Prestado

“Ewan.”

“Eh ano ka? Konsensya?” tanong ko.

Walang sagot. Baka nga konsensya ko siya.

“Magpakita ka. Bigyan mo ako ng safeguard.”

“Andito ako,” Lumabas siya likod ng pinto sa harap ko. Punyemas!

Hindi ikaw ang ang aking konsensya. Nakasuot ka ng spandex na bakat na bakat lahat ng bilbil mo sa katawan. Mukha kang galon ng mineral water! Nakasuot ka pa ng salamin na ninenok mo kay Boy Abunda.

Halos kaedad ko lang si Boy Spandex.Yan na ang tawag ko sa kanya.

Para siyang sealion na naligaw rin tulad ko sa kalawakang ito. Ano kayang natira nito at ganyan kung manamit?

“Matagal na kitang pinagmasdan at nahihiwagaan ako sa ginagawa mo. Kanina ka pa nagsusukat at naglilista diyan. Bakit?” tanong niya.

“Kasi gusto kong makasigurado,” sagot ko.

“Makasigurado na ano?” Ang kulit ni kuya.

“Na tama ang mapapasukan ko.”

“Ano naman ang batayan mo sa pagsusukat? Sigurado ka bang tama yang ruler mo?”

“Naman! May English at Metric system kaya ito.”

“Napakabias naman ng ruler mo! Masyadong western.”

“Eh bakit ka nakikialam? Ito’ng gusto ko eh.”

“Okay. Ikaw naman ang nagsusukat diyan.” Lumayu-layo siya at tumahimik nang nahalata niyang naiirita na ako sa kanya.

Pero agad naman siyang bumalik at nagtanong muli. “Ano bang gusto mong pasukan?”

“Gusto kong mapasukan yung pinakamatuwid at pinakamaganda.”

Bigla siyang tumawa ng napakalakas. “Hindi naman kaya kabaong ang hinahanap mo?”

“Hindi, ah!” inis kong sagot, “naniniwala lang kasi ako na isa sa mga pintong ito ang magdadala sa akin sa buhay na walang hanggan.

Nang gumising ako sa kalawakang ito, wala akong ibang ginawa kundi maghanap ng labasan. Hanggang sa inalok nila ako ng buhay na iyon.”

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Medyo sumeryoso ang mukha niya. Nagmuni-muni siya ng konti at nagtanong. “Bakit mo hinahanap ang tamang pinto sa pagsusukat ng mga pinto at pintuan? Ayaw mo bang pumasok muna sa mga pintuan para malaman mo kung yun nga ang hinahanap mong pinto?”

“Ayoko. Takot akong baka masarahan ng tuluyan sa loob ng isang pinto at dun na abutan ni kamatayan.”

Natahimik si Boy Spandex. Matagal niya akong pinagmasdan. Bumalik ako sa aking pagsusukat.

Maya-maya lumapit siya sakin at nagtanong, “P’ano ba sabihin sa wika ninyo ang salitang hello?”

Pen Prestado

Sundang Ken Brian Esperanza

1 Kan aki pa kita pigpakapot mo sako ining sadit na siyo na sabi mo pagdakula itatao mo sako

5 Nawili ka garo kakabulang aroaldaw maduman dara an saimong lalong mapuli kan matanga parong arak, halo-halong ansod

2 Sa pagdaraga ko pigusyo mo akong magin bata mo pinahiling mo ning lalong nagdakula na si siyo

6 Bako na arog kadto dai ko na nananamitan an tinolang luto mo mapuli kang pagal pagal mamata kang anggot

3 Kinasal ako saimo kinasal ako sa manukan nindo kinasal ako sa luto mo aga, udto, banggi, madaling aga iyo an hinahaon mo 4 Kan magkahilang an aki ta kan naubos an kwarta ta sabi mo mabulang ka naparahay ta si Junior sabi mo nanggana ka

7 Dai na ako maugma sa trabaho, sa bisyo mo kun dati maogma ako sa saimo, sa lalong mo habo ko na. habo ko na 8 Nagtais akong sundang ta atchan pagturog mo para sako, para saimo an saimong lalong gigiritan ko nin payo

KAABTAN January 2013

Inches Ahj Eufracio

Every day, inches expand, between two people saying hello.

For what comes after hello— are blank journals, clean palettes, noteless staves, vacant lots, vast fields, calm seas, cloudless skies, and chances.

More often than not, chances.

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Panuga Jovi Cadores

nagrilibaka na an panuga. magatol. kaya kinagaw ko. nagkarulugad na an pakiulay. mahaldat. kaya pinabayaan ko. nagrara na an mga kahambugan. naggatok. kaya binulong ko. nagkakagan na an piggibo. makanos. kaya kinitkit ko. ay! dae na kuta kinitkit-nagbalik an lanit.

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Esperanza John Leir Castro

Little waves of water mixed with grime, debris, and more of the inexplicable pushes me to the darkest part of the city’s underground sewer system. Eventually I will sink and be carried away in tatters, to the ocean, or perhaps lie on the bottom of this decrepit Nirvana. A rat with the size of an adult cat swims past, a twitch of recognition in its whiskers.

There is no light ahead of this tunnel. Not that I’ll ever need that again. *** It was 1994, the year of the dog. It couldn’t have been more appropriate: the cocks were late that morning and the dogs took over as wake-up patrol. For that particular breakfast, I was greeted with a visit by a very young couple. I predicted, almost in repulsion and partly in amusement, that a familiar ritual was about to commence.

The boy, Peter (named not by choice), had a maintenance man for a father and a homely corpse for a mother (the first few seconds of his life notwithstanding—she died while giving birth to him). Like most children devoid of maternal love, Peter took her Oedipal affections and converted it into a swirling desire to find a mother-figure.

The girl—Elena was her name—was a timid daughter to two successful businesspeople. She met him one day entirely by accident, fate as they called it, when Peter’s father applied for a gardening job in Elena’s well-to-do family (Peter had tagged along). Fortunately for Peter, she also had a good-natured one so there was little obstacle to their relationship which would last for almost a year until that day when Peter carved on my chest the usual grammatically-incorrect sentiment proliferated by the abundance of soap operas in local television.

PETER LOVE ELENA “How do you like that, El?”

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“It’s okay,” Elena sat by my crooked feet and stared at the opposite direction from where her partner was standing. “Just okay.”

“Peter?”

“Yes?” “I’m going away.”

“To where?”

“My dad wants me to study in the city. We leave tomorrow at the earliest.”

“Oh, but—” By “oh, but—” I knew that the poor boy meant to follow, “what about us?” I had seen too many of these situations that if I had a heart, it would have broken, no shattered, into a million tiny hearts, and those hearts would split into another million tiny hearts, and so on until they become so tiny they would pass up as sand. They would then create a sandstorm and take vengeance for me.

Peter and Elena were only one of the many who gave me an unwelcome scar. Before them, there were also Rosa and Jonathan, Felix and Karen, Anna and Lemuel—relationships that also ended up in Fate’s sandbox. But then, the two had a succinct difference from the rest that left such a mark in me, both literally and figuratively: Peter and Elena’s parting was sudden, too sudden—as subtly violent as the line cuts of an all-too-emotional poetry. *** Years had passed without good accident, but I knew full well that expectation is a breeding ground for disappointment. My age caused me to grow sturdier and imposing. Perhaps it was for this reason that the rampant vandalism I received had been in considerable decline, or the times merely had changed (it did). I reminisced about how they

48

used to hack off a couple of my branches to allow sunlight to seep into the neighborhood, though I wondered why, since I thought that shade was more convenient. There was a shift in preference: from the usual name-scribbling to anything dastardly obscene, oftentimes revolting images. The generation started to look younger and haughtier.

Gone were most of the love-hormonal teenagers, replaced by frequent truancy practitioners and snot-nosed children who would throw slippers at me one after the other. I did well, however, in standing ground even though I was also especially susceptible to lightning due to being mostly taller than anything around me. *** Imagine my surprise—and relative relief—when during the year 2003 I was forcibly cut off from my roots, stripped naked, and made to travel into a factory of gears churning and chainsaws buzzing. There I died a discordant death.

Through a series of sawing, shaving, carving, and varnishing, my disembodied trunk was reincarnated to what was commonly known as a study desk, equipped with a single drawer and a rather smooth surface.

It took me quite a bit of time to get used to my new body—with the considerable loss of limbs I could utilize and the functions that allowed me minimal but ample movement, it was pretty much a given. In any case, to move about proved unnecessary since my next home was merely a single-storey house given to the sole child of a rich married couple who, at that time, were traveling overseas. It was difficult to adjust to indoor life, but I appreciated my luck of being placed in a corner of the only bedroom instead of the dismal dining and living rooms.

My caretaker’s name was Irene, a college student and an aspiring short story writer. There I found my purpose: every night she would come up with a staggering amount of narratives, countless paragraphs,

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a few brainstorming scrawls, even fewer social essays under table lamplight. She would refuse to publish any of them, however, and would only place her papers in my drawer. I would learn later on that she had not a hint of intention to take her writings out again. It was no matter, for I assumed myself her personal confidante and archivist.

Within the grueling hours of daytime when my caretaker couldn’t grace me with her presence because of school and in due course her job, I would read her pieces, and sometimes would help her isolate the good from the bad by allowing a rogue rat I befriended to make quick snips on the more appalling of her works. For almost four years I stayed unperturbed and satisfied with observing her growth, remaining loyal to her even when for weeks she started to alternately stay somewhere else after graduation, in occasion, disappearing even for months.

One drafty night late in 2007, I had the privilege to be directly addressed by my caretaker. She might’ve have been drunk. I strained myself to hear her soft, slightly slurred words over the slush of rain on the roof over our heads.

“It’s kind of lonely here, isn’t it? Maybe I should adopt a cat.”

I entered a state of dejection when she stopped re-visiting entirely after the 14th of February, 2008.

I spent one more year collecting dust.The snobby spiders took their territorial dispute up a notch just a few weeks after noticing that noone would broom them soon. I let them be. Physically I had grown weary but I was resolute. Irene’s papers inside me had already turned yellow. My rat friend would have no business with me anymore, which I deeply regretted, though I was quite thankful for my last re-varnish which effectively discouraged termites.

Irene’s room was as silent as a Catholic cathedral on Mondays.

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Stale it might’ve seemed to be left at peace, circumstances took a turn for the unexpected when, in September 2009, Irene (by then already a young woman of 23) finally returned with a noticeable bulge on her stomach. I knew at once that she had begun to store her papers somewhere else and abandoned her fiction for a reality even stranger and incomprehensible to me. I also understood that she, as I once was, had started to let someone else fill her insides with ideas—papers on identity and genetics—during her absence.

But most perplexing, perhaps, was that she unwittingly brought someone I already had the chance to be acquainted with during my previous life.

“You like it?”

“Oh, yes. It’s more than enough.”

“Mhm.You think, Peter,” she pointed at me, “that we could set aside this table and place the crib here instead?” *** If I had a heart, it would have broken, no shattered, into a million tiny hearts, and those hearts would split into another million tiny hearts, and so on until they become so tiny they would pass up as sand. As it happened I haven’t one, or they would’ve stung my caretaker’s eye and made her cry. *** I felt betrayed, if only at first. I wasn’t given a chance to beat myself up to the point of severe depression—the arrival of Peter and his papers concluded my stay within the walls of Irene’s bedroom. My death sentence was signed. To the next factory I went.

I started to think that I have an affinity to dust. My next life was 51

uneventful, put away for more years of solemn retreat on a shelf in a quaint store, even smaller than before—more compact, pressed into a bare minimum. I hadn’t doubted my identity prior to that, but through industrial processing I was meshed into a pulp, ground, divided— cloned, yes, into hundreds of sheets of white paper—glossy ones— that it wasn’t the least surprising. I wondered if my compatriots were thinking of the same thing. We didn’t talk. I thought it wasn’t polite. *** It was a month past summer, year 2014. I was picked up by stubby little fingers when I fell off my quarters after a strong gust intruded the paper shop. The storekeeper closed the door (I stole a glance outside, slight drizzle, a mighty downpour soon).

“Daddy, paper?”

“Don’t you have plenty at home?”

“Want more.”

Time did a good job catching up with Peter, “Daddy” to a little girl who has her Mom’s eyes. His hair was thinner and grayish, and he seemed to have grown shorter—or was it? He took me to the cashier: worth a few bills. (I realized why I was so unpopular.) The desire to return to my former dwelling burned in me that I was afraid I would burst into flames. I longed to see Irene’s bedroom again, the spiders would weave their webs in protest, but my rat friend would come out from his hole and apologize for his absence, and I would forgive him since I did the same. Even more so I wanted to see Irene, was she still writing, did she buy a new desk?

Expectation bred disappointment. I was carried with a tight grip to a nursery school instead, and as mini-Irene bid farewell to her father I flapped my edges along with the wind to do the same. The girl sat in her chair. The other children were singing, row, row, row your boat, gently 52

down the stream… but she didn’t go along. I was spread face-forward on her desk. She pulled a worn pencil off her bag and carved on me, with the intensity of most five-year-olds, the usual grammatically-incorrect sentiment proliferated by the abundance of soap operas in local television— I LOVE DADDY She then folded me into a sloppy, tiny boat and threw me out the window, where I was washed away by the rain into the nearest street drainage. Before I fell, I heard the little girl’s teacher’s voice, just in time to catch her name as murky oblivion swallowed me into Fate’s sandbox.

“Elena, stay away from the window, please.”

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Campfires Rea Robles

Bako man arog ka’yan.

On nights like these do I remember you. Your hands have always been my guide when pitching tents and strumming the guitar by the beach side. Your voice has been thunder against the moaning wind, disturbing the stillness that always accompanies us, sending chills to my skin.

Oh, paypayan mo ngani.

I regret being too quiet when I’m with you. I should have said more than I should, poured out thoughts like you do. I guess it’s just the way I am- too careful, too afraid to get burned. I haven’t noticed that the distance I drew between us, that one for privacy and respect, has gotten too big, too big that it had entirely lost its purpose and have been something else.

Señorito ka man kaya.

Yes, I have always been demanding attention and I may have taken more than what I have given. I’ve been stubborn that I thought I can be my same self with you, forgetting the word “compromise” the moment I needed it the most.

Ini sana ngani intindihon mo.

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You were always telling me that my dreams were too big for a small man- a province man like me. You would always click your tongue whenever I breathe against your ear my dreams of going out, of exploring new places and changing the world. I didn’t listen. I was too ambitious and on the ripe age of idealism and all that. I thought I was destined to be great or famous.

But you were always included in everything that I have been planning and I’m sorry I haven’t told you that. I was too shy, doubtful, because you always disapprove.

Oh, mapapalsok na.

I remember seeing you the other day. I missed your warm smile. It has always been too cold from where I’ve been. I thought I’ll never feel you again. You haven’t changed a bit- skillful, witty, and charming. I wanted to walk towards you, to tell you that I now know how to cook.

I have made a few tents by now and pitched a few campfires too.

Sa sunod dapat tatao ka na, iyo?

I see myself nodding. Indeed. I am better. I am stronger. I have learned.

I imagine your voice, hopeful.

Makurab pa ‘yan.

I decided to tend the coals again. … … …

“Tara? Tanda mo pa ako?” … … …

I felt warmth.

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Paperboats Ken Brian Esperanza

One high noon in the middle of the sea, all the decks were silent except for the sound of small talks and cutlery. I was on a journey with at least a thousand faces living on the promise of a safe voyage. The lady of the sea, a product of modern technology, made of the strongest materials, no one has to worry. I wish I could have believed that promise while I looked at my captain’s face.

When holes ripped out to form scars, the sound of bells stirred the chaos. Light quakes amplified by loud screams and stomping. Everyone was racing for their lives in the gradually intensifying panic. I could not find the captain, but I found a kid down the lowest deck, stuck inside a room while looking out the circular window.

The noise in the lower deck subsided; he was the only person on that level. His father I couldn’t find anywhere, I was sure he was with his father in that trip. I wanted to shout for his life, but the engineering just won’t allow that. I wanted to tell him to find a way out, find someone who would save him.

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The boy grabbed his bag from the lower bed of the double deck then climbed up. He took out sheets of paper then started folding paper boats.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the tip of his toe pointing to the floor.

He dropped three boats and folded some more while humming a familiar theme song some kids used to sing, something about life as a dream.

He stopped on the twelfth sheet of paper, when a boat touched his toe.

The light from the window slowly faded. There was no one else on the ship, no one I could hope would save the young boy. There were just the drowned, the dead, the boy, and my body slowly sinking to the darkness.

The boy continued humming while hugging his knees, waiting while the paper boats sailed around him.

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Chat Pen Prestado

Hi ndi ito ang simula.

Ito ay kapu tol lamang ng mga pantig na tumatalon sa mga tiklado ng keyboard. ang kabog. ng meron. ng wala. ng oo. ng hindi. ng mga hindi. ng mga oo. ng mga espasyo ng pag-aabang.

ng mga sandali ng kaligayahan. ng mga oras na ika’y online. ng kemikal na itinuturok sa usapang binibigti. k.

Sshh

K.M. Esperanza

Sshh...

Ibig na tangayin ng dagat Ang buhangin.

Sshh.

Sagot sa Nakabibiglang Sigaw! Sshh.

Sshh... Sshh...

Bulong ng bagyo sa bintanang mahigpit na nakasara.

Sshh...

Tama na.

Sshh...

Tunog ng radyo Bago sumapit Ang umaga.

Sshh...

Tulog na

Sshh...

Pagsuko ng isda sa mainit na mantika.

Sshh.

Sampal ng tubig Sa baldeng Uhaw.

KAMOOT February 2013

Pandulsi Leonor Bregala

Rumdum ko Kadtong panahon Kan kita mag ilusyon pa, sinudya ta ka “ Bareta ko, mas muya mo daang pandulsi An batag kaysa sa mani…”

An sabi mo “ ay dae yan totoo; maski hapoton mo pa si Nang Mia Ta sya midbid akong intero.”

Dae na ako naghapot; Nagtubod ako saimo.

Kaya sarong aldaw Matapos an engrandeng fiesta sato Iniluwas kong panhimagas an espesyal na dulsing maning pinahamis kan natural na tangguli.

Sinaray ko ini Para saimo sana---Dae nungkang pina namit sa iba…

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Magpuon kaidto Pirmi ko nang tinatagama An saray saray na dulsing mani Sa kada pag abot mo Pagka tapos magkakan pamanggui Alagad ano daw ta sa paglipas kan panahon garo baga nagbago an saimong pagnamit‌

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Macarons Frank Calma

Tinadaan taka ning macarons ta aram kong suno mo ‘to pero, hinabuan mo ta basog basog ka na sa Ferrero na tinao saimo kan amigo mo na nasabatan mo sa Centro

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Butterflies Tyrone Pangan

I long hoped for butterflies That would crowd my insides again.

They scatter then flutter To every part of your soul, To the brain where they confuse, To the stomach where they fly freely, And to the heart that they tackle like a drum every now and then.

But then and again, i saw them beside a bar, on the curb, wingless, smelling of booze and regret.

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Jusan Misolas

Nang gabing iyon, Natuklasan niya na walang ibig Sabihin ang pagsindi ng pataySindi na ilaw ng poste,

Na wala itong ibig At walang pag-ibig.

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They aren’t as Sour as they Used to Be John Leir Castro

Tramp kicked dirt around the scrounged, sun-tanned backyard soil before we left the house. It was the first I saw him dirty his paws that much. I would’ve cleaned them off, but we were in a hurry to get into the Mazda—Mom was shouting, double time! Double time? The heat probably made her cranky. I imagined her with military boots, marching back and forth in front of the van while my Dad watches her in amusement.

“You won’t be getting any bone under here,” I thought out loud while picking Tramp up, “it’s not like there’s something buried in.” He wagged his tail and barked once.

“I wasn’t talking to you, silly.” *** I kept on wondering why my parents chose to brave the harshest tropic winds, if at all, and the mad aridity for a four-hour drive that particular summer (I felt extreme appreciation towards the inventor of air-conditioning). Why did they decide to pay my grandparents a visit?

They only got an apparently urgent phone call the previous night from Dad’s Dad and then we were off to Whatever-land.

It was five years ago, when I was eight, since I last saw Dad’s parents.

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Even though Dad was supposed to be the only son they had, they were mentioned very sparingly inside our household. It wasn’t that I had anything against them though, but they were so immaterial to my daily life that other times I thought the old couple didn’t even exist—my parents were adults from scratch, never experienced childhood (that makes sense), and definitely had no parents of their own to shout, double time!

“You’re awfully quiet, Adam.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“I know you’ve got questions.”

I stayed silent. A hot and slightly damp breeze kissed my right cheek.

Tramp, stop breathing on my face!

“Your grandpa’s sick. He wants to see us.”

Ah, that explains it.

Mom looked ahead, wanting to say more. I caught her taking a glance up the rear-view mirror for a second. I stretched my legs. Sitting on the backseat have its advantages, I thought, all alone.

And as if he knew what I was thinking, Tramp barked twice in disagreement. *** I leaned my head on the window pane to my left. For a moment, eyes half-closed, I took in the images of reality’s fast-forwarded film reel.

All in a blur as our van drove past them, but I could guess— houses, apartments, shacks orange rust and brown roof and the occasional green

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going up then there’s nothing but blue ah! it’s an overhead pass downward slope a walled-up gray, white-washed posters next are reeds, a farmland a patch of gray, I dunno, a carabao? then coconut trees, or perhaps palm ones there are different trees now they all look like mango trees, the ones I used to climb then The rumble of the fiber glass went drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr— fade to black *** drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr I stepped out of the Mazda after Tramp leaped, bounded, leaving a trail of dust towards the girl my age smiling at us a few hundred meters away. She was sitting on the wooden stairs of my grandparents’ similarly furnished wooden house, her hand beckoning me to come closer. Her white dress complimented the blackness of her long hair, way past her shoulder blades and hanging closely just above the hips. I succumbed.

“Hey.” Hello, Adam. She tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear before asking, how was your trip? I found the gesture appealing to a sense not included in the five taught in elementary.

“Wait, we know each other?”

Well, we used to. We played together, here. You taught me how to kill flies

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and climb trees.

“Uh, right.”

I racked my mental cupboard.The memory of the girl was there, but somehow I sent it careening and crashing, a broken china. Irreparable.

Or just vaguely, perhaps, like a photograph pulled off an album you collected yourself—you knew what it looked like, generally, but couldn’t tell any important detail if a friend asked.

Follow me, Adam.

She led me into the house. She wasn’t wearing any footwear, as she walked the soles of her feet alternately hid themselves as if embarrassed by my presence yet curious enough to peer again. From the room I could smell a familiar aroma—sour mangoes? Just a hint. I couldn’t see my pet anywhere, I noticed his tracks missing.

The girl stood on halt in front of a looming picture, sepia, nailed on the northern wall. She didn’t look back. I didn’t know if she was simply staring at the picture or suddenly fell asleep, as if it was possible. I dared to hit a key.

“What’s your name again?” drrrrrrrrrrrrr—screeeeeeeech With a jolt and a whimper (that was Tramp of course, not me) I was pulled back from the trenches of my subconscious. It was too sudden I could almost hear countless chinaware shattering inside my brain.

“Sorry about that,” Dad tapped the wheel twice as if sending me a coded message, “tricky curve.” I waited for Mom to say something motherly reprimanding, but as things were she was busy driving her way through her own tricky curves, only with eyes firmly shut.

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“It’s okay.” I decided not to lean on the fiber glass again. *** From the two I could remember Grandpa the most. He was already old then, definitely—a lanky frame, an almost toothless grin, and a wrinkled forehead, but we still got along nicely. He would teach me how to kill flies using the stick broom. I would pose like a samurai and strike not a single one, but Grandpa could hit tens with just a swipe.

He would carry me on his shoulders until he was tired (he would start hunching and Dad would take over). He also taught me how to climb trees. They had more than a dozen mango trees planted just around their house and I’d always pick the green ones. For some reason I didn’t eat any and would instead place them in the living room. *** “We’re here.”

I stepped out of the Mazda after Tramp leaped, bounded, leaving a trail of dust towards the back of my grandparents’ wooden house. I scrunched my shoes, feeling the grit of the uneven soil while I survey the area of what seemed to be familiar land, but I wasn’t sure. It was barren. The mango trees were gone. Two of them wilted away, driedup branches forming sinister, bony hands. Most were stumps. One in particular left an irregular pit on the ground, shaped like a star. It was uprooted, the crackly trunk and its tentacled bottom lying helpless, forgotten.

Hello Adam.

She was sitting on one of the stumps. Her white dress complimented the blackness of her long hair, which flowed way past her shoulder

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blades and hanging closely just above the hips.

I blinked.

“You.” How was your trip?

“Who—?”

Her teeth flashed on a grin, white pillars guarding every secret she would tell me, she wouldn’t, she would—You already forgot about me?

That’s not very nice.

“Uh, right. Sorry. I should go though, Grandpa’s waiting.”

Here, let me tell you something. Her hand beckoned me to come closer and I did. I leaned my ear in her direction. Faintly, I heard fiber glass whirring—drrrrrrrrrrrrrrr— Her lips touched my cheek—her breath was hot, damp, but unlike Tramp’s it smelled like young, sour mangoes. That was the secret she would tell me, but wouldn’t. I flared up, and without saying goodbye I moved like a comet out of orbit towards my grandparents’ wooden house. *** Some flies were loitering around the stairs—conniving, hatching diabolical plans. I tried stomping on them but was merely mocked by their swift escape. Overwhelmed by their sheer number, I realized the strength of the opposition. I couldn’t see any broom stick.

The door to the wooden house—I wonder if this is made of mango wood, hardly surprising if it is—was half-opened. I pushed it to swallow me whole, my clammy hands leaving a mark on the varnish. Our baggage was left strewn all over the floor of the living room. I heard my 73

parents’ hushed whispers, like flies conniving, in one of the two rooms to the left. The floorboards creaked— drrk, drrk, drrrrrrrrrrrrrrr A picture washed in sepia stared at me from the northern wall. I wanted to take a closer look, but a voice— “Adam, is that you, son?”— led me to take a detour.

In one of the rooms lied a piece of wasteland, placed on top of a woven mat. I hardly recognized Grandpa’s voice. He was so wrinkly and brown and shrunk, he reminded me of dried mangoes. I sat beside him on the floor, legs locked on an awkward indian position. Flies were taking their stroll on the valley of his forehead and his bare feet, undeterred, a sign that the samurai was indeed gone.

“What’s up, Grandpa?”

He wasn’t staring at me—his eyes were fixed to the door of his room behind me, or even past that—but he assured me of his capable hearing by giving me the familiar toothless grin.

“Good, good.” I wonder. “Never better.” You’re not.

My mouth entered drought. Words trickled as ungraciously as amber, but sweat spilled like mountain spring. From just in front of the house, I could hear Tramp barking, growling, barking, growling again… arf! grrrr arf! arf! grrrrrrrr ARF! drrrrrrrrrrrrrr

“Can you fetch your Grandma for me, son?” *** Are you looking for your dog? He’s here.

She had been waiting for me on the same stump. Tramp bared his fangs at her, drrrrr! “Down, boy!” But he couldn’t be quelled so I quickly chased him away. And to her I said, “No, I’m looking for my Grandma.”

Her fragrance attracted my nostrils (or the other way around?), and so were the flies, which were hovering not too far from the edges of her dress. It was as if she was soaked in sour mango puree, or born from the mango trees herself!

Her smile turned upside down. The world, too—Have you tried the living room yet?—and the plates and the cups and every silverware were put back to their rightful place. *** From the two I could remember Grandma the least. She was always that old woman with gray hair in the background. Dead strands of keratin past her shoulders, just above the hips. A little shorter than Grandpa, I think, and a little fatter still, she would only stay close to the northern wall of the living room. Or rather, she never moved from her wooden frame. But she was nice. She had to be, because she was always smiling and she smelled like young, green mangoes.

Bittersweet Pauline Mae Zenit Olivia Marie Peñero

I hate him. I hate everything about him—his snorty laugh that abnormally hitches a pitch higher, his crooked teeth when he smiles, his hairy arms and beast like hands that send unwanted goose bumps all over my body.

Have you ever had that dreadful feeling when you meet a person for the very first time, and you just know that you’re going to hate everything about that person before even knowing them?

It’s that gut feeling. It’s completely, and absolutely dreadful.

You single him out from the rest.You can’t help it. He’s like that highlighted text in a droning non-illustrated school book. Your peripheral vision automatically zooms in, and you magnify every single fault he makes. It’s unavoidable.

You. Just. Hate. Him. That. Much.

“Oh hey, morning!” he greets you.You force yourself to look up so that he won’t suspect your ardent dislike for him.

“Morning,” you greet him back, but your eyes betray you when you suddenly find the floor a lot more attractive than his unfortunately alive physical body.

You. Just. Hate. Him. That. Much.

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The way he talks. The way he moves. The way he walks, laughs, and smiles.

The way he ignorantly touches the wall to check if the paint is wet. The way he pathetically pinches his nose when he’s uncomfortable.

He just gets in to your nerves. Never bothering to say what he needs to say.

Never having courage. Never fights back even after making up a song of him and his pile of mistakes.

A weakling. A coward.

You hate him.

Yes.You do.You should. Why shouldn’t you? He never bothers to help anyone. Doesn’t have the guts to speak up when you expect him to. Never looks at you. Never pays attention to anything you say or do. He’s disrespectful. Never gives a damn about anything. Never gives a damn about you.

You hate him. He doesn’t care, but you do. It’s unfair. He doesn’t care if you hate him. He just smiles and goes on with his life. He doesn’t care about how you feel about him.

I see now. I hate him because he doesn’t care if I hate him. And I know he most probably wouldn’t care if I love him.

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*** I love him. I love every single thing about him—the way his adorable, snorty laugh caresses my ears, and his arms and hands perfectly shows off his masculinity. I love how his adorable crooked teeth do wonders to his smile, and the way his boyish voice entices me out of my small, comfortable shell.

His voice is like a perfect trio of toast, butter, and strawberry jam, slowly sending my body into sweet ecstasy.

Have you ever had that transcendent downpour of knowledge that when you meet someone for the first time, you are instantly certain that you’re going to love everything about him? It’s that gut feeling. It’s absolutely, definitely breathtaking. You single him out above the rest, putting him up on an unreachable pedestal.You can’t help it! Your eyes suddenly acquire an autofocus feature with an optical zoom of 20x, and you are aware of everything he says and does. It’s inevitable.

You. Just. Love. Him. That. Much.

“Oh, hey! Morning!” He greets with that unmistakable endearing voice of his.

“Morning to you too!” You greet him back, your face quickly getting crimson in a period of 2.4 seconds - as fast as a Bugatti Veyron reaches 60kph on startup.Your inner girl reaches for the handkerchief and covers your mouth.You don’t even notice the beautiful flowers in his presence.

You. Just. Love. Him. That. Much.

The way he talks. The way he moves. The way he walks, laughs, and

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smiles. The way he innocently touches the wall to check if the paint is wet.

The way he pinches his nose when shy.

I love him.

He just gets to you. Always keeps quiet when he knows there’s nothing good to say. Always patient and never rash. Never sees the good in biting back petty bullies.

So gentle. So calm.

You love him.

Yes. You do. You should. Why shouldn’t you? He doesn’t help people for self-satisfaction. Doesn’t bite back even if you hit him below the belt. Looks out for everyone. He loves everyone. He respects every person’s personal space. Never gives a damn about those who hate him. He’s that person you want to push off a bridge so that you could catch him afterwards.

You love him. You know he doesn’t care, but it’s okay. It’s fine. He knows you love him, but doesn’t take advantage of it. He just smiles and goes on with his life.

I see now. I love him because I don’t mind if he doesn’t care that I love him.

You realize there truly is nothing at all for you to hate, in him, there’s a million other things for you to love.

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The Recipe Pen Prestado

I’m a self-declared food blogger, but please do not mistake me for those hipsters who photograph their meals at KFC with their iPhones and post them on Instagram. I’m more of an Anthony Bourdain romantic padawan: I explore the world of guilty pleasures without any reservation. One thing I learned from reading hundreds of food blogs is that gastronomy is about a never-ending search of what pleases you, so I submissively indulge myself to the holy order of Bacchus. Forget the additional adipose, forget the guilt trips, let honey drip, it’s a feast.

My story will begin with my obsession—the comfort food of the place I come from, Naga City. Kinalas, as my previous entries described, is a soup dish with noodles, scraped meat, skin from pig’s or cow’s head, and a special sauce that only the cook knows.

There’s no standard recipe for this meal so it has been an adventure for me to pick from the variety of tastes available the best and the ones I should frequent most.

My adventures with kinalas do not end with just tasting its varieties. It is also a blessing that I have this special gift of deciphering the ingredients of the food I eat. With kinalas, I always have this temptation of doing a Julie & Julia stunt, had I only a big cauldron to cook a pig’s head. So what I do is list down the probable ingredients and their measurements and collect them in a book I call the “kinalas bible”. I have no way of determining

whether my assumptions are correct, but I trust in this gift from Bacchus’s brother, the god of culinary (who I just invented), aside from the fact that my discriminating ability of food is due to my genetic predisposition. Bragging aside, I come from a family of cooks; all my seven siblings cook; and my mother traces her roots from Pampanga, the country’s culinary capital.

With strong faith on my gift, my kinalas hopping began. I started bouncing from one kinalasan to another, decoding the recipes to achieve such tastes, taking note of the plus and minus factors like doing a review for Rotten Tomatoes, and ranking them like lists of the best of the bests in the Rolling Stones. According to my taste, the honorable mentions were Bolofer’s and the eatery beside the river bank in Camaligan. The runners-up were Cely’s, Goto Best, Kinalas Twins and Cha Ced’s. The rock stars who top billed my list were – drumrolls please – Tiya Kamot’s and Enteng’s. This whole line up has been in my long-forgotten Kinalas Bible (which you can read in the older entries of this blog) of my afternoon food trips, until I tasted Tiya Belen’s mysterious kinalas. It’s kinalas, but “mysterious”.

I call her kinalas “mysterious” because unlike the ones in my bible whose ingredients and processes I have easily deciphered, there was something in Tiya Belen’s kinalas that always escaped my palate—the elusive taste that I only realized the second time I ate in her kinalasan. The flavor made possible the clichéd appearance of angels singing above my head, aside from the fact that the girl (her name by the way is Carla, and she’s Tiya Belen’s daughter) who served the kinalas made a ten-second eye contact saying, “Come, eat my mama’s cooking”. My obsession narrowed down to this unexplainable phenomena of liking something because I cannot fully understand what’s in it or what it is. It was like having Jake’s logic of wanting to marry his bed (See Adventure Time for the context), or the closer but vomit-inducing comparison of

Edward liking Bella because he could not fully understand what was in the tasty food in front of him.

For seven weeks, I piously returned to Queborac, where Tiya Belen’s kinalasan stood strongly on the ground (which also serves as the floor) with just nipa, bamboo, and tarpaulins taken from the billboards last fiesta. I discovered the kinalasan from a friend who lives in Calabanga. It was his rave reviews of the mysterious kinalas that encouraged me. I knew he was not an expert like me but I still gave his suggestion a try, and I fell in love with Tiya Belen’s kinalas. Now after the long weeks of deciphering the taste, I have at least written most of the ingredients present: Pork’s head. The slight mushy texture in the soup is due to the skin and brain of the pig, but this saturated fat was somehow reduced to its present amount of 5% only because they removed the oil with a ladle from the top of the large boiling cauldron of pork bouillon.The tender and tasty meat is actually the pig’s tongue boiled for four hours in medium or slow fire.They are also using wood or charcoal in cooking, which explains the smoky flavor of the broth.

The noodles are freshly made. It is not the egg noodles from Chinese restaurants in the downtown, it is the wet ones sold in the supermarket. But this particular noodle Tiya Belen is using is a premium noodle that contains less ammonia as preservative.

The secret sauce remains to be a full mystery. All I know it has ground pork liver, extract from shrimps’ ground heads and shells, fish sauce, soy sauce, usual spices like garlic and pepper, and corn starch to achieve a gravy consistency. But there’s a missing ingredient that I cannot really determine, I cannot even describe the exact taste I get every time I play the gravy with my tongue.

In a parallel circumstance, my continued presence deepened my relationship to the people preparing and serving my beloved food.

Tiya Belen boils the pigs head and the noodles, and her unica hija, Carla, prepares the mysterious sauce. I cannot say that this mother and daughter tandem are good-looking, but they are not also bad looking. They are more on the average type of people. They are more of the crowd than the standouts. In our conversations, Carla, seventeen years old, stopped schooling during second year high school after her father died in a motorcycle accident two years ago.

Tatay Pidyo, as Carla called him, started their kinalas business in 1986. It was a humble start, but years later the small store attracted loyal patrons from all walks of life. Tatay Pidyo’s death left Carla and her mom in debts and bad lucks in business; luckily, they have the secret ingredient with them, and their business boomed back.

In my obsession with the secret ingredient, a plot hatched in my head. Call me evil but I really needed to learn the recipe from the horse’s mouth. I needed to make Carla fall in love with me.

Yeah, you heard it right. Chefs would pay a high price just to learn another man’s trade or get the best ingredient. The next day, I asked for her number, and we started texting each other. After a week, the “chups-chups” and the “mwuah-mwuahs” appeared in her text messages. She was already into me. It was time to move.

I started visiting her in the morning. We would usually meet outside the third gate of Ateneo and we would walk until we reach the gates of UNC. On lucky days, she would allow me to accompany her to the market to purchase the ingredients for the mysterious dish. My assumptions were confirmed except for the missing ingredient in the secret sauce. So I finally asked her, “What’s the ‘secret recipe’ of the secret sauce?” She just told me “Secret”, and then she laughed, snorted, and wrinkled her nose. I smiled and just pretended that I was so pleased with her.

Weeks passed and I was still in the limbo of my Operation: Secret Ingredient. Carla wanted too much attention, I was starting to get annoyed by her mushy j3jEm0n text messages. I wanted to give her the cold treatment, but I just let her be because I can’t help but return to their kinalasan almost every day. She may have also noticed my overly delayed replies and the sudden decline of my morning visits, so she initiated a way to patch up our shaky budding relationship. She texted me one morning that she was going to tell me something about the kinalas.

And she finally gave in. Woohoo! So we met again at the third gate. She seemed unusually brightly dressed that morning. She took my hand, and we walked the Queborac road towards the trees in Progress Village. She was retelling the stories I’ve heard before about her childhood, blah, blah, and blah, while my mind was fixed with the secret ingredient. We stopped by the mango tree near the creek, she was asking for something, and then I just said “yes”. She faced me with her eyes dilated—tears started forming around them, her cheeks turning pink (I would say maroon), and her voice becomes croaky repeating her question, “Do you love me too?”

For the love of kinalas, I said “yes” again. And to seal the love story, a kiss was very important — it would make her believe my lies more. The more attachment she would develop with me, the more vulnerable she would be to revealing her family secrets including that damn ingredient. Then I asked the most “kilig-ever” favor I have to ask from a woman, “Can I kiss you?” She submissively agreed. I hold her nape and gave her the most passionate kiss I can ever give. People, tongues were involved.

Then the most unbelievable thing happened in the middle of

the kiss. The god of culinary suddenly appeared and whacked my head with his thyrsus ladle. Blam! There was no doubt, the secret ingredient must come from this rainbow colored unicorn I was kissing. Drooling with absolute awesomeness, I never wished to wake from the trance. And I never did.

I married my kinalas maker Carla, and we lived happily ever after.

Period.

Jorge Jonathan Botor

They teach us that. a word. an idea. ends here.

Sense. completes itself. here.

Freedom. is killed. here.

But...

It. does. nought.

EDITORIAL STAFF K.M. ESPERANZA Editor-in-Chief

REA ROBLES Associate Editor

JOVI CADORES KEN BRIAN ESPERANZA Managing Editors

PEN PRESTADO Art Director

DON RAMOS OLIVIA MARIE PEÑERO Layout Artists

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