Balisang nagising si Jack, malakas ang kabog ng dibdib. Uminom siya ng isang basong tubig. Kay samang panaginip! Nagkaroon ng malaking sunog sa bundok ng Halcon, umabot sa pinakatuktok. Natupok lahat ang mga puno at damo. Paghupa ng apoy ay siya namang pagdilim ng mga ulap, na sinundan ng ilang araw na bagyo at bugso ng ulan.

Nalusaw ang lupa at bato sa bundok ng Halcon, at unti-unti itong dumausdos patungong kapatagan, tangay ang lahat ng naiwang buhay na mga tao at iba pang nilalang. Nagtatangisan ang mga Mangyan sa pagkagunaw ng kanilang daigdig – habang siya ay walang puknat ang takbo. Hindi niya malaman kung nasaan na ang kaniyang Ate Anne at mga magulang…

Umaga na pala. Pagbangon ni Jack ay dumungaw siya agad sa bintana. May tilamsik ng liwanag sa ituktok ng Halcon. Ang bundok ay parang isang tahimik na tanod, luntian at matayog. Bihira niyang makita itong walang suklob na ulap, tulad ngayon.

“Balang araw, Jack,” sabi sa kaniya ni Ambo noong nakaraang araw, “aakyatin natin iyan, hanggang doon sa ituktok, hanggang doon sa mga ulap!”

Lumukso ang kaniyang puso sa sinabing iyon ni Ambo. “Hoy, di maaaring di ako kasama!” sabad ni Anne, ang matandang kapatid ni Jack.

“Tayong lahat, aakyatin natin ang mga ulap sa Halcon!” wika ni Ambo. Si Ambo ay isang batang Mangyan. Siya ang matalik na kaibigan ng dalawang taga- Maynilang si Jack at si Anne. Ngayong umagang ito, parang mabigat ang dibdib ni Jack. Hindi mapawi sa isipan ang kaniyang napanaginipan.

“Naku, daddy, mommy, para pong totoong-totoo! Para nga akong humihingal pa sa
pagod paggising ko….,” bulalas ni Jack nang sila’y nag-aagahan na.
“Para namang disaster movie ang panaginip mo!” tudyo ni Anne. “’Yan kasi, palibhasa’y walang mapagpuyatang video dito sa Mindoro, midnight snack naman ang napagtripan, naimpatso tuloy, at muntik nang bangungutin!” “Dati-rati, panay namang masasaya ang mga panaginip ko,” sabi ni Jack.
Napatingin siya kay Pete, ang kaniyang ama. Tahimik itong kumakain, tila nag-iisip nang malalim.

Iniisip ni Pete ang nangyari kahapon. Silang apat ay dumalo sa pagbibinyag ng isang batang Mangyan. Ang pagbibinyag ay ginawa ng isang dayuhang misyonerong Kristiyano, na ilang taon nang nakikipamuhay sa mga katutubo ng bundok, at sa pag-uugali, pananamit at pananalita’y aakalain mong isa na ring Mangyan.
Maraming Mangyan ang dumalo sa binyag, ngunit hindi sila lubos na masaya, kahit pa man umaapaw ang hapag na kawayan sa dami ng pagkaing-gubat na pinag-ambagambagan ng maraming kamag-anak at kakilala. Ilan sa kanila ang naglakas-loob na magsalaysay ng kanilang mga karanasan nitong nakaraang mga araw.

Isang matandang Mangyan ang huling nagsalita. “Saan pa po kami pupunta? Itinataboy kami ng mga nagmimina at nagtotroso mula sa aming tinitirhan. Itinataboy kami ng mga nang-aagaw ng lupa mula sa burol. Kami pong mga katutubo ay ipit na ipit na, paatras kami nang paatras paakyat sa bundok, at nalalayo kami sa aming pinagkukunan ng ikabubuhay. Para nang bulkang sasabog ang aming mga dibdib sa sama ng loob!”

Nasaksihan nina Pete at Tet at ng dalawa nilang anak ang paghihimagsik ng look at ang pagtulo ng luha ng mga Manyan. Nang umiyak si Ambo ay nangilid din ang luha ng magkapatid. Si Jack at si Anne, na kapuwa tubong-Amerika ngunit laking-Maynila at nakapaglakbay na sa ibayong dagat, ay dinala sa Mindoro ng kanilang mga magulang upang magkaroon ng “kakaibang karanasan” at “katutubong kaalaman”.

Si Pete ay isang doktor. Si Tet ay isang guro, manunulat at mananaliksik. Ilang taon din silang naglagi at nagpakadalubhasa sa Amerika, bago naisipang umuwi sa Pilipinas upang doon palakihin ang dalawa nilang anak. Nanaig sa kanila ang hangaring makatulong sa anumang paraan para sa kanilang mga kababayan, matapos silang dumalo sa isang “solidarity congress” na idinaos sa San Francisco, California, noong panahon ng Batas Militar, ilang taon na ang nakararaan.

Isang delegasyon ng mga aktibista at mga pinuno ng katutubong Pilipino ang nagbigay ng iba’t ibang uri ng pagtatanghal – mga dula at tula, mga sayaw, mga video ng mga pangyayari sa Pilipinas sa ilalim ng diktadura, lalo na ang kalunos-lunos na kalagayan ng mga katutubong Pilipino. Ang karaniwang tawag sa kanila ay “mga minorya”, o “mga taong-bundok”, o kaya’y “mga pagano”.

Naantig ang damdamin ng mag-asawa, at sila’y nagtanong kung paano makatutulong ang mga Pilipino sa ibayong dagat upang mapabuti ang kalagayan ng mga katutubo sa Pilipinas.

“Maaari kayong magpadala ng mga pangkat na magsasagawa ng imbestigasyon sa aming tunay na kalagayan,” wika ng isang kinatawan ng mga Lumad sa Mindanao.

“Maaari kayong sumulat at magsiwalat ng kasamaang dulot ng mga proyektong nakasisira sa kalikasan, at sumasakop sa aming lupaing ninuno,” wika naman ng isang pinuno ng tribung taga-Kordilyera.

“Maaari rin kayong magpadala ng mga manggagamot at mga guro sa aming pook upang bigyan ng lunas ang aming mga karamdaman, at turuan kaming bumasa at sumulat, upang maipaglaban namin ang aming mga karapatan,” payo naman ng isang tagapagsalita ng mga Mangyan.

Ilang buwan pagkatapos nilang dumalo sa kongresong iyon, pabalik na sa Pilipinas ang mag-asawang Pete at Tet, kasama ang kanilang dalawang anak. Sa Maynila na nila papag-aaralin sina Anne at Jack, habang sila’y lalahok sa mga proyektong may kinalaman sa pagtulong sa mga katutubong Pilipino.

Maraming nagtaka kung bakit nagpasiyang umuwi ang mag-asawa, samantalang maaliwalas ang kanilang kinabukasan sa Amerika. At lalo silang nagtaka kung bakit madalas na dumalaw sina Pete at si Tet sa mga katutubo, na nasa malalayong bulubundukin ng Luzon, Kabisayaan at Mindanao.

Sari-saring palagay at payo ang narinig ng mag-asawa mula sa mga kamag-anak – kabilang na ang kanilang mga magulang – mga kaibigan, at mga dating kamag-aral.

“Bumalik na lang kayo sa Isteyts, alang-alang sa mga anak n’yo! Tutal, sa Amerika kayo nag-aral at nagkaanak, kaya sanay na kayo sa buhay-isteytsayd!”

“Naku, kailangan daw ngayon ang mga doktor at titser sa US, Saudi at Canada! Aplay na kayo! Sabay-sabay na tayong umalis! Wala na yatang pag-asa itong bayan natin!”

“Ano? Medical mission na naman sa mga tribu? Mapagkamalan ka pang isang rebelde, kasi gusto mong tumulong sa mahihirap! Tingnan mo ang nangyari kay Dr. Bobby de la Paz, at Dr. Johnny Escandor!”

Alam ni Pete kung sino ang tinutukoy nila. Mga bayaning doktor na nangasawi habang nanggagamot sa mahihirap sa kanayunan. Pinagbintangan silang mga kasapi ng kilusang rebelde.

“Ano’ng mapapala n’yo sa bundok? Malarya. At ano’ng ibabayad sa iyong paggagamot? Manok, gulay, o kaya’y Diyos-na-lang-po-ang-bahalang-gumanti-sa-inyo!

Kelan mo pa mababawi ang daan-libong ginastos mo sa pag-aaral ng medisina?”

“Ha? Ipinagpalit mo ang pagiging propesor sa UP sa pagtuturo sa mga taong nasa bundok, at wala ka pang suweldo?”

Ngunit nangingiti na lamang ang mag-asawa. Malalim ang pagnanais nilang dumamay sa mga kababayan at kalahi nilang wika nga’y tinalikdan na ng panahon at pinabayaan na ng pamahalaan. Sa kaunting panahong nakipamuhay sila sa mga katutubong ito, nagkaroon ng bagong kahulugan ang kanilang buhay bilang
manggagamot at guro.

Matuling lumipas ang panahon, at nang malaki-laki na sina Anne at jack, isinasama na sila ng kanilang mga magulang, tuwing bakasyon, sa kanilang medical mission at educational outreach sa iba’t ibang tribu sa Pilipinas. At ngayon ngang taong ito, naisipan ng mag-asawa na bumalik sa Mindoro upang muling dalawin ang kanilang mga kaibigang Mangyan.

Dalawang buwan silang maninirahan sa bayan ng Pinagkamalayan, sa Silangang Mindoro. Ang bayang ito ay nasa mga burol sa paanan ng kabundukang kinaroonan ng matayog na Halcon. Hindi makita halos ang ituktok nito, na tinawag ng mga Mangyan na ‘lagpas-ulap’.

Masigla ang magkapatid habang umaakyat sa kabundukan ang kanilang sasakyan. Ilang kilometro sa Pinagkamalayan, pataas na ang lupa. Dito nagsisimula ang gubat na laging maulap at maulan. Nasa ilang at liblib na pook na iyon ang Bagong Nayon, na siyang kinaroroonan ng mga Mangyang matagal nang kakilala ng kanilang mga magulang.

Dito rin nila unang nakilala si Ambo. Halos magkasinggulang si Ambo at si Jack. Payat at may kaliitan si Ambo, samantalang si Jack ay mabulas na bata.

“Bakit hindi ka na nag-aaral?” naitanong minsan ni Jack kay Ambo. Si Jack ay nasa ikaanim na baytang ng elementarya sa Maynila.

“Greyd Tu na ako nang kami’y pinalayas sa aming nayon. Malapit kami noon sa iskul. Dito, kailangan pang maglakad nang napakalayo… kaya tumigil na lang ako… pati ‘yung ibang mga bata, nahinto na rin…”
Malungkot si Ambo tuwing magkukuwento siya.

“Isang araw, may dumating na mga tao, galing sa Maynila. May dala silang… ano ba ‘yun?… papeles yata ang tawag. Magmimina raw sila ng karbon, o kaya’y ginto, sa aming lugar. Sila na nga ang nagpapaalis, sila pa ang galit…”

Marami rin namang tanong si Ambo sa magkapatid. “Nagtataka ‘yung ibang Mangyan dito. Bakit daw ‘Merkano yata ang mga pangalan n’yo, pati na ang mga magulang n’yo?” Natawa ang magkapatid.

“Kasi,” paliwanag ni Jack, “sa Amerika kami pareho ipinanganak. Doon nagtapos ng pag-aaral ang mommy at ang daddy…”

“Ang totoo,” wika naman ni Anne, “si Jack ay Santiago at ako’y Anna Maria. Ito ang mga pangalang pinili ng aming lolo’t lola, na may lahi raw Kastila!”

“At ang buong pangalan ng aming mga magulang ay Pedrito at Teresita,” paliwanag ni Anne. Di malaman ni Ambo kung siya’y mapapatango o mapapailing. Lalo lamang siyang nalito sa paliwanag ng magkapatid.
Ilang linggong nanirahan ang mag-anak sa Bagong Nayon. Masayang-masaya si Jack at si Anne. Marami na silang natututuhan dito, na hindi itinuturo sa paaralan! Ang kabataan ay mahusay humilis ng katutubong biyolin, at kumalanting ng gitara. Tumututugtog din sila ng agung kasabay ng matatanda.

Bihasa rin silang humabi ng damit at maglala ng basket. Nakabubuo rin sila ng mga kuwintas mula sa mga butil at manik, at ng mga pulseras, sinturon at iba pang kagamitan mula sa halamang ang tawag ay níto. Marami rin sa kabataan ang sanay magpatunog ng hihip na kawayan, at gumamit ng sibat sa pangangaso. Si Ambo nga raw ay nakapag-uwi na ng isang maliit na baboy-damo!

At itong si Ambo, gayong napakabata, ay may pambihirang galing sa ambahan. Ito’y isang uri ng tula na binibigkas ng mga Mangyan. May iisang tugma o rima, at bawat linya o taludtod ay pito ang pantig. O kaya’y itinititik ito sa buho ng kawayan sa pamamagitan ng pag-ukit, at gumagamit ng sinaunang alpabetong Mangyan.

“Ang gagaling pala nilang tumula, mommy!” sambit ni Jack sa kaniyang ina.

“Mayaman ang katutubong kultura, anak, at malungkot isiping baka ito’y tuluyan nang mawala dahil sa pagpasok ng mga dayuhang nais lamang pagkakitaan ang yaman ng lupa…” Nag-alay si Ambo ng ambahan sa magkapatid. Si Tet ang nagsalin para sa kanila:

Kaibigang dumayo
sa malayo kong kubo
masanay kaya kayo
sa hirap ng buhay ko
walang aliwan dito
kundi awit ng tao
kundi ang pangangaso
kundi kislap sa damo
pagkalipas ng bagyo.

Isang araw, isinama ni Ambo si Jack at si Anne sa loob ng gubat. Dala nito ang kaniyang sibat, sakali’t makasabat sila ng baboy-damo sa kanilang paglalakad. Tahimik na tahimik ang gubat, maliban sa huni ng ibon, kaluskos ng dahon, at anas ng banayad na hangin.

Payat man ay malakas at maliksi si Ambo. Si Jack at si Anne pa nga ang patigil-tigil, habol ang paghinga. Natatawa lamang si Ambo, at matiyaga niyang inantay ang mga kaibigan. Wala silang imikan halos. Ilang oras na silang naglalakad sa gubat. Wala pang natutudla ang sibat ni Ambo. Ngunit siyang-siya naman ang magkapatid sa namamalas nilang tanawin. Anong yamang pala ng gubat sa luntiang halaman, mga ligaw na bulaklak na matingkad ang kulay, maiilap na hayop, at mga ibong umaawit!

Nakarating sila sa isang mabatong gulod. Mula rito’y tanaw nila ang malayong dagat. Maya-maya’y nagdilim ang langit. Gumuhit ang matalim na kidlat. Nayanig ang bundoksa lakas ng kulog. Bumuhos ang ulan.

Sumilong ang tatlo sa isang yungib. Doon na sila inabot ng ginaw at gutom. Di naglaon ay humupa ang unos sa bundok. “Bumalik na tayo,” sabi ni Ambo. “Mukhang sasama pa ang panahon.”

Maingat silang bumaba sa nagputik na dalisdis ng bundok. Nang bigla, nakarinig sila ng ingay, parang hinahawing mga dawag. Papalapit sa kanila ang ingay na iyon. “Kubli!” anas ni Ambo.

Nagtago sila sa ilalim ng isang nakayungyong, mayabong na pako, sa likod ng matatayog na puno. Nag-antay sila. Inihanda ni Ambo ang kaniyang sibat. “Baka baboy-damo na!” usal ni Jack, na bagama’t nananabik ay nanginginig naman at kinakabahan.

Sa halip, ang lumitaw ay isang pangkat ng mga lalaki at babae. May dalang baril
ang mga ito, at may pasang mga knapsack sa likod. Masaya silang nag-uusap, bagama’t mukhang hapo. Ang iba sa kanila ay Mangyan.

“Kilala ko sila,” bulong ni Ambo sa magkapatid. Hindi sila nagpakita. Malakas pa rin ang kabog ng dibdib ni Jack at ni Anne nang sila’y muling lumakad. Pagkaraan ng mga isang oras ng maingat na pagbaba sa kabundukan, sumigaw muli
si Ambo. “Kubli!”

Nagsumiksik sa ilalim ng isang punong ibinuwal ng bagyo. Sa pagitan ng mga nagusling ugat, makikita nila kung anuman iyon na lumilikha ng mga nag-usling ugat, makikita nila kung anuman iyon na lumilikha ng bagong ingay. Papalakas ang mga yabag at mga tinig. Lumitaw mula sa makapal na dawag at kakahuyan ang isang pangkat ng kalalakihan.

Nakasuot sila ng unipormeng batik-batik at kulay-berde, nakagora ng itim, at sandatahan. Nakapulupot sa kanilang katawan ang tila ahas na lalagyan ng kanilang mga bala. Mabalasik ang kanilang anyo, palinga-lingang anaki’y may hinahanap o tinutugis na kaaway o tulisan.

Parang pinitpit na luya ang tatlong bata. Wala silang katinag-tinag. At wala silang imikan nang magpatuloy sila sa pagbaba ng bundok. Lumakas uli ang ulan. Sala-salabat ang kidlat. Dumagundong ang kulog. Sa pagitan
ng malalakas na kulog ay parang may narinig silang sunod-sunod na maliliit na kulog sa di-kalayuan. Mga putok ng sandata.

Matuling lumipas ang dalawang buwan, at natapos ang bakasyon ng magkapatid. Malungkot silang nagpaalam sa mga taga-Bagong Nayon, lalo na kay Ambo. Babalik kami sa isang taon, pangako ‘yan!” sabi ni Anne.

“Aakyat uli tayo sa bundok!” nakatawang sabi ni Jack.

“Kung… narito pa kami…,” mahinang tugon ni Ambo.

Nagkaroon ng simpleng seremonya ang Bagong Nayon bilang pasasalamat kina Pete at Tet sa kanilang pagtulong. Maraming nagamot si Pete. Marami rin siyang natutuhan tungkol sa mga likas na panlunas na matatagpuan sa kagubatan. Marami naming naturuan si Tet sa pagsulat at pagbasa. Marami rin siyang natutuhang mga ambahan, awit at mga alamat mula sa mga kaibigang Mangyan.

“Dapat din kaming magpasalamat sa inyo,” tugon ng mag-asawa sa kanilang pamamaalam. “Marami kaming natutuhan sa inyong lahat, at maging ang dalawa naming anak ay namulat sa napakaraming kaalaman ng mga katutubo!”

Bago sila umalis, bumigkas uli si Ambo ng isang ambahan para sa kanila:

Paalam, kaibigan
salamat sa pagdalaw
sana’y di malimutan
malayong kabundukan
ay laging naghihintay
nananabik ang buhay
sa ating katuwaan
hindi ito paalam
masayang paglalakbay!

Binigyan tayo ng Diyos ng bibig para makapagsalita at utak para makapag-isip. Iyan ang paulit-ulit na dayalogo sa akin ni Mama sa tuwing nalalaman niyang hindi na naman ako nagsalita upang ipagtanggol ang aking sarili. Ako kasi yaong tipo ng taong
hindi nagsasabi ng tunay na nararamdaman at hinaing. Napag-isip-isip kong may punto naman siya doon. Tama naman talaga siya. Ginagamit natin ang ating mga bibig para maisalita kung ano ang ating mga saloobin kaagapay ang utak upang iproseso ang mga napapansin at kapansin-pansing mga bagay-bagay na nangyari sa ating paligid.

Ngunit, naisip ko, habang sinasabi na naman niya sa akin ang paborito niyang linya, paano naman kaya ang mga piping hindi naisasalita ang kanilang mga saloobin? O kaya, ang mga taong katulad ko na nahihiya o kung minsan ay natatakot isalita ang mga saloobin? Paano kaya nila sasabihin sa mga tao sa paligid nila ang kanilang mga hinaing? Paano kaya nila maipararating ang kanilang mga nasasaisip. Paano kaya nila
maipagtatanggol ang kanilang mga sarili laban sa iba? Hindi naman sa lahat ng oras ay nariyan ang mga taong nakauunawa sa bawat pagkumpas ng kanilang mga kamay at pagbabago ng ekspresyon ng kanilang mga mukha o ang mga simpleng pananahimik nila sa sulok ng bahay. Nagtataka ako. Paano kaya nila sasabihin ang mga gusto nilang sabihin
kung ipinagkait sa kanila ang kakayahan at karapatang makapagsalita?
Ang lahat naman ay magagawan ng paraan, ang motto nga ni Mama.

Salamat sa internet! Ito ang nagsilbing tulay ko upang maipahayag sa aking mga kausap ang ilang mga bagay na hindi ko kayang maiparating nang tuwiran. Hindi ko man maisatinig palagi ang mga nais kong sabihin, maaari ko namang maisulat ang mga ito. Gamit ito, naipaparating ko sa aking mga kaibigan ang aking kasalukuyang kalagayan, opinyon, pananaw at mungkahi ukol sa ilang mga isyung personal at panlipunan.

Minsan nga ay nabasa ko ang ipinost ng isa kong kaibigan sa Facebook. Nanghihingi siya ng mga mungkahi sa kung anong magandang gawin ngayong bakasyon. Marami ang nagbigay ng kanilang mga opinyon. May mga nagsabing magbabad na lamang sa pagfe- Facebook. May mga nagsabing maglaro na lamang daw sila ng mga computer games. Alam ko na mag-aaksaya lang sila ng panahon, pati na rin ng kuryente na nagbabadyang tumaas na naman ang halaga. Hindi ako sumang-ayon sa mga mungkahi nila. Sa una’y nag-aalinlangan akong magbigay ng opinyon pero nag-aalala ako na baka hindi nila magugustuhan ang sasabihin ko o baka hindi maganda ang magiging reaksiyon ng mga makakapansin sa aking isusulat. Ngunit, maya-maya ay napagpasyahan ko na magbigay na rin ng aking opinyon. Naisip ko, wala namang masama kung susubukan kong magtipa ng mga nais kong sabihin. Iyon ang unang pagkakataong nagbigay ako ng opinyon maliban sa mga madalas kong iminumungkahi na ”hahaha,” ”tama,” at kung ano-anong
mga pangkaraniwang ekspresyon.

“Sulitin mo ang summer, kumain ka ng sorbetes o ’di kaya’y mag-swimming ka para ma-enjoy mo ang init ng panahon. Kung gusto mo’y pwede ka ring mag-exercise,
magiging fit ka pa niyan. Sumulat ng blogs tungkol sa iyong sarili o ilang mga tula tungkol
sa iyong mga nararamdaman ngayong tag-init.”

Iba-iba ang naging reaksyon ng mga nakapansin sa sinulat ko. Marami ang naglike ngunit may ilan-ilang ding umalma. Gayunpaman, natuwa pa rin ako dahil marami ang nagsabing maganda ang mungkahi kong iyon. Kahit papaano’y naibahagi ko ang mga ideyang maaaring makatulong sa iba, hindi ba? Kaya simula noon ay ganap nang natanggal ang mga pag-aalinlangan kong magkomento o magpahayag ng aking mga opinyon, pati ang mga nais kong sabihin ay madalas ko na ring ipinopost sa Facebook
at Twitter.

Hindi dapat magkaroon ng diskriminasyon sa pagsasalita, isa na naman iyan sa mga pahayag ni Mama.

Ang pahayag na iyon ni Mama ang nagpapaalala sa akin kung bakit hindi ako nagaalangang maghayag ng aking saloobin sa internet sapagkat ito ay hindi namimili ng tao. Sa madaling salita walang diskriminasyong nagaganap sa mundong ito. Lahat ay puwedeng gumamit nito. Bukas kasi sa publiko. Walang pinipiling taong gagamit.

Mapabata, estudyante, mangangalakal, guro, doktor, mga kawani ng gobyerno, mga tagapag-ulat, manunulat, mga lolo’t lola, maging ang mga may kapansanan – sinuman ay mamamangha sa dami ng pakinabang nito. Siyempre, hindi magpapatalo ang mga kabataang tulad ko. Ito ngayon ang paraan ko at ng iba pang kabataan para ipaalam sa lahat ang reaksiyon, opinyon, at saloobin namin tungkol sa mga nangyayari sa aming paligid – pamilya, pamayanan, lipunan at
mundo. Ang bawat titik na itinitipa namin sa kompyuter ay may mahalagang mensahe.
Umaasa kami na mapapansin ang mga ipinopost naming mga blogs sa internet, na kahit
sa mundo ng cyberspace ay puwede naming baguhin ang realidad, na maaari naming
gawing tama ang ilang mga maling napapansin namin sa paligid, at hindi lang kami bastabasta
nagpapalipas ng oras gamit ito. Alam kong mapatutunayan namin ito.
Napag-isip-isip ko na kahit sa lipunan ay makatutulong kaming mga kabataan sa
pamamagitan ng internet, hindi ba’t kami rin naman ang sinasabing kinabukasan ng ating bayan? Ang mga raliyista sa Mendiola ay nahihirapan na iparating ang kanilang mga hinaing sa pamahalaan. Nakapagsasalita man sila, hindi naman sila pinakikinggan ng
gobyerno. Nakatitiyak ako na gumagamit din ng internet ang pamahalaan at siguradong mababasa rin nila ang mga blogs na naka-post doon. Isa ako sa mga sumusuporta sa kanila kung alam kong tama ang ipinaglalaban nila. Lahat tayo’y umaasa na sa oras na mabasa ng may kapangyarihan ang mga reaksiyon at opinyon na inilalagay natin sa internet ay malalaman nila at babaguhin ang kanilang mga pagkakamali. Ang internet ang nagsisilbing Mendiola ko at naming mga kabataan ngayon.

Ito na ang malayang kalsada na kung saan kami ay nagpapalitan ng iba’t iba naming reaksiyon at kuro-kuro sa mga maiinit na isyu at pangkasalukuyang kaganapan ng ating lipunan. Dito na namin ipino-post ang mga naglalakihan naming plakards ng reaksiyon at hinaing. Dito na namin ipinapakalat ang mga nalilikha naming mga tula, sanaysay, at
artikulong magbubukas ng isip sa kapwa-kabataan namin.
Hindi naman kasi totoong puro kompyuter at pagfe-Facebook na lang ang inaatupag ng lahat ng mga kabataan ngayon. Siguro nga’y napapansin na halos ‘di kami matinag sa harap ng kompyuter pero hindi naman sa lahat ng oras ay naglilibang lang kami.

Dala na rin siguro ng modernisasyon kaya nakasanayan na naming gumamit ng internet para maipahayag namin ang aming mga sarili – ang aming mga saloobin, mga pananaw, reaksiyon, at mga opinyon. Alam kong may pagkakatong hindi na rin namin makontrol ang aming mga sarili sa paggamit ng internet, at inaamin ko na nagkakamali kami, pero sana’y maunawaan ninyo na sa mga edad naming ito ay masyado kaming sensitibo, mausisa, at mapaglakbay sa totoong mundo at sa mundo ng cyberspace. Nais naming ilabas ang aming mga saloobin sa pamamagitan ng internet.

Tuwing kinakausap ako ni Mama noon ay nakikinig lamang ako sa kanya. Para akong piping hindi nagsasalita kapag tinatanong niya ako kung ano ang opinyon at pananaw ko sa isang bagay. Hindi ko alam kung nag-aalala ako na baka mali ang masasabi ko o natatakot ako sa magiging reaksiyon niya. Pero ngayon, panatag ko nang nailalahad ang aking mga opinyon, pananaw, at mga nararamdaman kay Mama, at pati na rin sa mga taong malalapit sa aking buhay. Para akong piping natutong magsalita. Salamat kay Mama sapagkat natuklasan kong maging Mendiola ang internet na naging dahilan sa pagsasatinig at pagsasatitik ng aking mga saloobin. Malaking bagay na natuto akong ibahagi ang aking nararamdaman, ideya, at karanasan dahil alam kong makatutulong din ang mga ito sa ibang tao. Ewan ko ba! Gumagaan ang pakiramdam ko sa tuwing naipahahayag ko ang aking nararamdaman dito.

Madalas ka ba sa Katipunan?

Siguro’y nakita mo na ang Frankie’s Steaks and Burgers, sa tabi ng bagong Cravings, malapit sa Lily of the Valley Beauty & Grooming Salon. Kung nakita mo na iyon, nakita mo na rin siguro si Bototoy.

Lunes hanggang Sabado, inaakyat ni Bototoy ang liku-likong landas mula Barangka hanggang service gate sa likod ng Ateneo Grade School, kasama ng tatay niyang maintenance engineer sa paaralan at ng mga kalaro niyang sina Nono, Itoc, at Radny. Karamihan sa mga batang umaakyat doo’y humihimpil sa malawak na covered
court ng College, sa tabi ng Our School, malapit sa Obesrvatory, kung saan sila nagaabang ng magba badminton at tennis na tatawag ng pulot boy. Si Bototoy naman ay hindi humihimpil doon. Lalakarin niya ang malayu-layo pang Gate 2, at doon ay tatawid siya sa Katipunan, upang maupo sa sentadong island sa harap ng Frankie’s Steaks and Burgers.

Natatandaan mo na ba siya?

Anim na taong gulang si Bototoy. Ahit ang kaniyang ulo maliban sa tumpok na buhok sa ibabaw ng kaniyang noo. Mabilog at masigla ang kaniyang mga mata. Mabilog din ang kaniyang pisngi, lagi siyang nakangiti, at mayroon siyang mga ngipingkuneho. Suot-suot niya’y kamiseta’t shorts at sandals na Happy Feet na laging kupas at maluwang, pagkat pinaglakhan ng kaniyang mga kapatid. Maliit si Bototoy, kaya’t di siya humihimpil sa covered court. Doon ay lagi siyang nauunahan sa pagpulot ng bola nina Nono at Itoc at Radny at ipa pang batang

Barangkang higit na maliksi at higit na malaki sa kaniya. Kaya nga’t isang araw ay napadpad siya sa harap ng Frankie’s Steaks and Burgers, at doon ay nagkusa siyang mag-watch-your-car. Kaniya-kaniya ang lugar na iyon, pagkat ang ibang bata’y nasa harap ng Shakey’s at ng Jollibee at ng McDonald’s at ng Kentucky’s, sa iba pang mga bahagi ng Katipunan, kung saan marami at sunud-sunod ang pumaparadang sasakyan. Bagamat mangilan-ngilan nga lamang ang tumitigil sa harap ng Frankie’s ay kuntento na
si Bototoy – kahit kung minsan ay hindi siya inaabutan ng kahit singko, at kung minsan ay hindi siya pinapansin, at kung minsan ay binubulyawan pa siya ng may-ari ng sasakyan.

Kung mahina ang raket ay magdamag siyang nauupo sa sementadong island sa harap ng Steaks and Burgers, na parihaba niyang trono, maalikabok tuwing tag-init at tuwing tagulan ay maputik. Ngayon – naaala’la mo na ba siya?

Labing-isa ang kapatid ni Bototoy – ang apat na panganay ay nagsipagasawa’t mayroon nang pamilya. Ang sumunod pang apat ay nagtapos ng hay iskul at kasalukuyang iginagapang ang pag-aaral ng tatay nilang maintenance engineer at ng nanay nilang hilot. Ang sumunod na dalawa’y nasa elemetari pa. Si Bototoy at ang bunsong si Nining ay pinagpasiyahang huwag munang pag-aralin, pagkat libre man ang matrikula’y sakit ng ulo ang pambili ng gamit at kasangkapan sa mga prodyek. Paboritong kapatid ni Bototoy si Nining.

Tuwing papanaog sa Barangkang kasakasama ng tatay at mga kalaro, bago umuwi’y nagdaraan siya sa tindahan ni Aling Rory: sa gaano mang kaliit na kinita sa pagwa-watch-your-car ay ibinibili niya ang bunso ng kahit na anong munting pasalubong: isang supot na Oishi o Ding Dong o Tomi, o dalawang balot na Choc-Nut o Kripy Bar o Cloud 9, o tatlong pirasong White Rabbot o Snow Bear o Judge. Saka lamang siya papasok at susuot sa pasikut-sikot na looban, tungo sa kanilang tinitirhan. Sa may poso pa lamang ay tanaw na niya ang malinggit na si Nining, nakaupo sa may pintuan, naghihintay, nakadamit at sadals na Happy Feet na kupas at maluwag din, ang mga mata’y mabilog at masigla rin, ang mga pisngi’y mabilog din. Nakangiti. At tulad niya’y mayroong mga ngiping-kuneho.

Pagkatapos maghapunan ng patis at kangkong, o kung minsa’y bagoong, sina Bototoy at Nining ay tumutulong sa nanay sa pagtitiklop ng sinampay, pagkatapos ay nakikipanood ng telebisyon sa kapitbahayna sina Aling Mela. Bago mag-alas-otso’y pinapapanhik na sila, kaya’t naglalaro’t naghuhuntahan na lamang sa magkabila ng maliit nilang kahon ng mga laruang plastik.

“Bukas, Kuya, ano’ ’uuwi mo?” laging tanong ni Nining.

“’Di ko sasabihin, sorpresa,” lagi namang sagot ni Bototoy.

“Marami’ klase’ kendi?”

“Maraming-marami. ’Pag marami’ ’ko’ makuha’ pera, mas marami’ ’ko’ mabibili.”

“Kuya, sa’n ka ku’kuha’ pera?”

“Sa Katipunan. Don ako nagtatrabaho.”

“Do’n sa trabaho ni Tatay?”

“Hindi, mas malayo pa. Tatawid ka pa. Mi’san, kung gusto mo, ‘sasama kita.”

“Gusto ko, Kuya.”

At tulad ng dati, magbibida si Bototoy tungkol sa kaniyang pagwa-watch-yourcar
sa harap ng Frankie’s. Tungkol sa mga taong nagagawi roon. Tungkol sa kanilang mga
kasuotan. Tungkol sa kanilang mga sasakyan. Tungkol sa minsa’y nag-abot sa kaniya ng
limang piso.

Si Nining ay mangangarap ng kendi at damit at laruan. At si Bototoy naman ay
mangangarap nng pagbabantay ng pagkarami-raming sasakyan, sa harap ng Frankie’s
Steaks and Burgers, sa Katipunan.

Madalas ka ba roon?

Siguro’y narinig mong tunay na masarap ang pagkain doon. Taga-Mabalacat
ang may-ari at ubod ng linamnam ang kaniyang tenderloin at t-bone at spare ribs at
Hawaiian at Salisbury at a la pobre at beef teriyaki at tocino at skinless at tapa at arroz
a la Cubana, na laging hanap-hanap ng nagsisidayo roon. Maliit at makitid ang puwesto,
ngunit malinis at naka-aircon. Nakagigiliw sa paningin ang mga ilaw na pendiyente sa
ibabaw ng mga mesa, at laging may masayang tugtugin. Sa tabi ng kaha, may lata-latang
turrones de casuy at basket-basket na petit fortunes at gara-garapong yemas at balotbalot
na espasol at bote-botelyang garlic peanuts.
Pero iisa ang pambato ng Frankie’s Steaks and Burger – di lamang sa mga regular
na parokyano kundi sa lahat ng nagsisidaan, pagkat sa tabi ng pintuang salamin ay may
aluminyum na bintanang pan-take-home, at sa ilalim ng bintana’y may makulay na
paskil na tinitikan ng pentel pen na pula at asul sa isang parisukat na pirasong dilaw na
kartolina:
FRANKIE’S ESPECIAL
PORK EMPANADA
P 10.50
Nakakain ka nab a ng pork empanadang iyon?
Uma-umaga, tangha-tanghali’t hapon-hapon, di iilan ang nagsadya sa Katipunan
at tumigil sa harap ng Frankie’s at kumatok sa bintana at nag-order ng pork empanadang
iyon: isa-isa, dose-dosena, grosa-grosa – pambaon, pangmeryenda, panregalo, panghain
sa bisita. Di rin iilan ang nag-order at doon mismo kumain, kung hindi sa tapat ng
bintana’y sa harap o gilid ng munting restawran, at kung hindi sa harap o gilid noon
ay sa nakatigil nilang sasakyan. Lagi silang pinanonood ni Bototoy, nakatuntong sa
sementadong island, tahimik at nag-iisa.

Minsa’y isang binata at isang dalaga ang nagparada ng Galant, at nag-order ng pork empanada at Coke, at doon nagpalamig sa loob ng sasakyan.

“Bos, watsyorkar,” magalang na mungkahi ni Bototy, na winalang-bahala lamang ng dalawa, palibsahang may masayang biro silang pinagtatawanan. Muling naupo si Bototoy sa sementadong island. Pagkat bukas ang bintana ng Galant, dinig ni Bototy ang kanilang usapan habang sila’y kumakain, maging sa kaniyang kinauupan:

“I always buy this, it’s so ‘sarap,” sabi ng dalaga.

“’Galing the crust,” sabi ng binata.

“Yeah, it’s so manipis and it’s so malutong, ‘di ba?”

“When you bite it, it’s like manamis-namis.”

“This one’s really, really, really may Tita’s favorite. She’ll go out and make lakad just to buy. It has giniling with no taba, and bacon bits, and chips, and raisins, and water chestnuts, and chopped onions and carrots, and grated cheese. So diff’rent from the commercial ones you buy in other places, how harang, it’s all potatoes and it’s so maalat and it tastes like flour.”

Matapos magmirindal ay hinagis nila sa labas ang mga basyong plastik, na matapos inuma’y kinuyumos muna’t pinilasan, at ang mga pirasong wax paper na pinagbalutan ng empanda, at ang manipis na sorbelyeta.

Sabi ni Bototoy sa kaniyang sarili, “Pag yumaman ako, kakain ako no’n.”

Pinagmasdan niya ang dilaw na paskil, at ang aluminyum na bintana, at ang weytres na naroo’t nag-aayos ng bunton-buntong pork empanadang nangagkabalot ng wax paper sa mga plastik na bandeha.

Sinuksuk ni Bototoy ang isa niyang kamay sa kaliwang bulsa ng maluwang niyang shorts: doo’y may dalawang beinte-singkong bagol. Sinuksik ang kabila sa kanang bulsa: isang diyes, tatlong singkol, dalawang mamera. Matagal-tagal pa, at marami pang sasakyang babantayan, bago si makabili ng kahit isang pork empanada.

Kung sana’y malaki-laki lamang siya, nang makapag-pulot-boy sa covered court, o kaya’y makapangagaw ng iwa-watch-your-car sa harap ng Shakey’s at ng Jollibee at ng McDonald’s at ng Kentucky’s!

Tatlong piso at kuwarenta sentimos lamang ang kinita niya sa buong maghapon. Nang sunduin niya ang tatay niysa sa Maintenance Department ay tahimik siya’t malayo ang tingin. Kagyat na naisip ng tatay niya’t mga kalaro kung siya’y nadapuan ng sakit, ngunit dahilan niya’y napagod lamang siya sa kawa-watch-your-car sa harap ng Frankie’s. Sa tindahan ni Aling Rory ’y matagal niyang pinagmunimunihan ang ipapasalubong sa bunsong kapatid. Nakuntento siyang bumili ng isa balot na ruweda.

May dalawang piso’t labimpitong sentimo siyang natitira – imbes ibili ng lastiko o holen o teks o ihulog sa alkansiya ng nanay ay maitatabi niya. Bilang simula ng kaniyang pagiipon. Noong gabing iyon, bago ganap na makatulog ay nanagimpan siya ng masarap na buhay na walang takot at walang pagod at walang sakit at walang kakulangan sa pera at walang problema, at sa pinilakang tabing ng kaniyang diwa’y kasama niya si Nining, at sila’y nagbibiruan, at sila’y nakasakay sa isang (maliit, mangyari’y panagimpang-bata) Galant, at sila’y nagparada sa harap ng Frankie’s, at sila’y nag-order ng pork empanada at Coke, at doon sila nagpalamig sa loob ng sasakyan.

Pagdilat niya’y maliwanag na sa labas, at yinuyugyog siya sa balikat ng tatay niya.

“Toy – sasama ka ba?” dinig niyang bulong ng tatay niya.

“Opo,” tugon niya, bagamat talos niya na sa umagang iyon ay manghuhuli sina Nono at Itoc at Radny ng alupihang-dagat sa San Roque, at noong makalawa lamang ay naghanap siya ng malinis na basyo ng Ligong paglalagyan, at nagpaalam siya sa nanay.

Dalawang piso lamang ang kinita niya noong araw na iyon, kayat sa tindahan ni Aling Rory ’y higit pa siyang nagmunimuni bago nagpasiyang bumili ng apat na pirasong Tootsie Roll, na siyang pinasalubong niya kay Nining. Ang basyo ng Ligong ginawa niyang sisidlan ng sinsilyo’y kaniyang nadagdagan – nang kaunti lamang, gayunpama’y nadagdagan. Inalog niya iyon at pinagmasdan. At inisip na sa loob ng sanlinggo’y maaaring mangalahati na ang laman niyon. At inisip din na sa loob ng isang buwan ay makabibili na siya ng pork empanada. At muli niyang inalog at pinagmasdan.

“Nag-iipon ako, Nining,” pagtatapat niya sa bunsong kapatid, bago niya ibinaon ang basyo sa ilalim ng maliit nilang kahon ng mga plastik na laruan. “’Pag marami na ’ko’ pera, bibili tayo’ empanada. Masarap iyon.”

“Parang litson, Kuya?” usisa ni Nining.

“Mas masarap. Mayayaman ang kumakain no’n.”

“Sa bertdey ko, Kuya?” usisang muli.

“Oo. ’Pag marami na ’ko’ pera. Kakain tayo do’n.”
At sandaling nagliwanag sa isip ni Nining ang larawan ng sari-saring maririkit na
kainan, na madalas nilang matanaw ng nanay mula sa mga dyipni at bus na kanilang
nasasakyan.
Tulad ng maraming kainan sa Katipunan, hindi ba?
Tulad ng mga kainan doon na hinihimpilan ng mga batang watch-your-car. Sa harap ng Shakey’s, at ng Jollibee, at ng McDonald’s at ng Kentucky’s at ng Frankie’s Steaks and Burgers.

At Isa si Bototy sa mga batang iyon, kaya’t siguro’y nakita mo na siya. Pagkat kinabukasa’y naroroon na naman si Bototoy, naghihintay at nagbabantay. Uma-umaga, tangha-tanghali, hapon-hapon. Nakilala niya ang mukha ng pagtitiyaga at ng pagtitiis, at ng pagsisikap, at ng pag-aasam, at ng pagbabakasakali. Ng ginhawa ng pagpanhik sa bahay na may bulsang puno ng sinsilyong kumakalansing. Ng lungkot ng pagkaalat, ng paghiga sa banig na malakas ang pagnanasang makabawi kinabukasan. At kinabukasan pa. At kinabukasan na naman. At kinabukasang muli. Datapuwat sa pagdaan ng mga araw, ang sisidlang basyo ng Ligo’y nangalahati rin, at dumami ang nilalaman. Nang bilangin ni Bototoy ang sinsilyo’y umabot na sa
beite-uno, at maibibili na niya ng pork empanada para sa kanilang dalawa ng bunsong
kapatid.

“Bukas tayo bibili,” malapad na ngiti ni Bototoy. Naghagikgikan sila at nanggigil sa tuwa, at nagsilitaw ang kanilang mga ngiping-kuneho.

Madaling-araw pa lamang ay gising na gising na ang magkapatid. Nagbihis si Nining ng kaisa-isa niyang barong panlakad – kulay-koton kendi at may kuwelyong maypalibot na kulay-sapin-sapin at malaking lasong kulay-koton kendi rin – na binibihisan lamang tuwing may binyag o kasal o pistang-bayann o simbang gabi o dalaw-aginaldo.

Nagpulbos siya’t nagsuot ng hikaw niyang plastik at hugis-bituin. Si Bototoy naman, pagkat walang sariling maayos na panlakad ay nagsuot pa rin ng maluwang niyang shorts, at ng kamisetang may dibuhong kupas na oso at mga titik na “so happy summer day be many friends”, na hiram sa nakatatandang kapatid.

“Papasyal ang dalawa, ha,” biro ng nanay nang sila’y paalis na.

“’Be-bertdey parti kami Kuya,” masayang bitiw ni Ninging, at humawak siya nang
mahigpit sa kamay ni Bototoy.

Inakyat nila ang liku-likong landas mula Barangka hanggang service gate sa likod ng paaralan, kasama ng tatay nila at nina Nono, Itoc, at Radny. Nagdaan sila sa covered
court, at nilakad ang malayu-layo pang Gate 2, at doon ay tumawid sila sa Katipunan,
patungong Frankie’s Steaks and Burgers.

Samatala’y malihis muna tayo. Kung madalas ka nga sa Katipunan, at kung nakita mo na nga ang Frankie’s Steaks and Burgers, at kung nakakain ka na nga ng Frankie’s Especial Pork Empanada, nakita mo
na rin siguro ang weytres na madalas matoka sa aluminyum na bintana roon.

Noong umagang iyon ay muling gumising nang may toyo sa utak ang weytres. Noong kasing nakaraang linggo at nagsara sila ng kainan, nang magbilangan ng pera’y natuklasang kulang ng beinte-uno ang kabuuang bayad sa empanada. Sinabunan ng may-ari ang weytres sa pagiging burara, at pinaghinalaan pang nangupit ng dalawang empanada. Bagamat di siya inawasan ng sahod, labis na dinamdam ng weytres ang
pangyayaring iyon. Totoo ngang siya’y burara – bukod sa suplada at masungit at laging
nakaismid – ngunit sa pangungupit ng empanada’y wala siyang kasalanan.

Noong umagang iyon, nang ipasok ng nagdedeliber ang mga kahon ng sariwang empanada, isa-isa yaong binuklat ng weytres, at ang nilalaman ay maingat niyang binilang. Inayos niyang bunton-bunton sa mga plastic na bandeha. Dinala’t pinatong sa pasemano ng aluminyum na bintana. At hinugot ang drower sa ilalim ng bintana, upang ilabas ang librito ng mga resibong puti at rosas at pirasong carbon paper at bolpen na matagal nang nawawala ang takip (at bunga ng kaniyang pagiging burara).

Noong umagang iyon – bago dumating sina Bototoy at Nining – ang nalalabing mga resibong puti sa librito’y naubos. Muling hinugot ng weytres ang drower sa ilalim ng bintana – sa sulok kasi niyon ay may nakasalansang mga buong librito. Nang humila siya ng librito, dalawang empanada ang nasagi ng kaniyang kamay. Nangakabalot pa ng wax paper, ngunit papanis na – noong nakaraang linggo’y nahulog sa drower at natulak sa loob (na bunga rin ng kaniyang pagiging burara).

Nakaramdam ng inis ang weytres. Naalala niya ang masasakit na salitang bitiw ng may-ari ng kainan, at ang paghihinala nitong nangupit siya ng empanada. Nakaramdam din siya ng itim na gala – galak ng paghihiganti, at galak ng pagwawagi.

Napaisip ang weytres. Hawak-hawak niya ang mga empanada sa kaniyang mga kamay: parang dalawang shoulder pads ng blusang dapat niyang tubusin sa mananahi mamayang gabi. Parang dalawang malalaking kwei, mga pulang kahoy na pinahagis sa kaniya sa templong Tsino, minsang samahan siya ng kaibigan upang magpahula ng magandang hanapbuhay.

Nang sandaling iyon ay may kumatok sa aluminyum na bintana, at pagsungaw ng weytres ay may dalawang maliit na batang naroroon, nakatingala sa kaniya, mabibilog at masisigla ang mga mata, mabibilog din ang mga pisngi, nakangiti, at may mga ngipingkuneho.

“Pabili po ng dalawa’ empanada,” bati ng batang lalaki.

At bilang kaganapan ng itim niyang galak ay kinuha ng weytres ang beinte-unong abot-abot ng bata, at iyon ay lihim niyang binulsa, iniabot naman niya ang dalawang lumang empanada.

“’Upo tayo, Nining,” ngiti ni Bototoy, dala-dala ang kanilang kakanin. Upang di marumhan ang damit ng kapatid ay pinagpagan niya ng alikabok ang isang bahagi ng sementadong island. Naupo silang magkasiping, nagngingitian, naghahagikgikan at nanggigigil sa tuwa.

“Dito ‘ko nagtatrabaho,” pagmamalaki ni Bototoy, at pinagmasdan ni Nining nang buong pagmamangha ang kanilang kapaligiran. Maingat nilang binuklat ang wax paper, at masayang tiningna ang mga
empanada, at masaya yaong sinubo, at kinain nang marahan upang namnamin ang lasa’t
di nila agad maubos.

“Kaka’nin mo’ balat, Nining, kasi malutong,” bilin ni Bototoy,
“Masarap, Kuya.”
“Masarap.”
Sa Katipunan, patuloy na nagdaan ang mga sasakyan, mabilis at mabagal

Sa halip ang sinabi niya, “No, Jojo, you don’t understand. Bata ka pa kasi. Balang araw, kapag naging magulang ka na, maiintindihan mo rin ang sinasabi ko.” Ayaw ko ng logic niya, pirming siya ang matanda. Pirming siya ang tama. Pirming ako ang bata, kaya pirming ako ang mali, at pirming ako lang ang dapat matuto. Pero nakapagtatakang kami na kulang sa isip ang pirming hinahanapang maging tama. Bakit kaming kulang sa isip ang kailangang umunawa sa husto raw ang pag-iisip?

Sa pag-iisa, sa aming uri ng insecurity, bakit walang makaalalang magtanong kung ano ang iniisip namin? Kung sa paghahanap ng solusyon sa problema ay mali ang makuhang paraan, nagagalit sila. Paano naman ang gagawin namin sa mundo? Tumigil na lang basta sa paghinga? A, kay hirap mabuhay sa mundo na panay bawal, wala namang magturo ng tama. Kung sa pagtanda ko’y magiging kamukha ko rin sila, hindi bale na lang. Ayaw kong tumanda. Bawal maging pilyo. Mas lalong bawal maging seryoso. (Mag-i-idiot na lang ako.) Kamukha ngayon, daig ko pa ang napagkaisahan. Nagtatanong lang naman, pero nakakagalitan. Umiiwas sa kaguluhang hindi naman ako ang may kagagawan. Para na rin akong daga na tulirong nangangapa sa lungga. Ano ang gagawin ko sa aking sarili? Para rin akong may sakit na nakakahawa na hindi basta puwedeng lumapit sa kapwa.

Saan ba ako pwedeng magpasiya? ‘Yong kaluluwa ko, kargo ng pari. ‘Yong marka ko sa eskuwelahan, nakasalalay sa dulo ng pulang ballpen ng titser ko. ‘Yong gusto kong kurso, nakatali sa dulo ng bulsa ng tatay ko. ‘Yong kalayaan ko, kahit bahagya ko pa lang nagagamit ay pinutol na nila. Sila na rin ang nagbibigay ng bagong kahulugan noon, kahit hindi kami kinonsulta. Ano nga ba ang pakialam nila sa kapalaran ng mga hamak na estudyante. Kapirasong pangalang wala namang katuturan ang naiwan sa amin. Ni
hindi magamit dahil hindi naman galing sa malaking tatak. Pamilyang walang sinabi, batang walang silbi. Ay naku. Gusto ko lang magtanong, gusto ko lang matuto, kasalanan na pala iyon at ang ayaw maniwala sa kanila’y nakakaligtaan. Hindi galit ng ama sa anak o ng Diyos sa tao; galit ng maligno, kahit saan ka magtago, hindi ka makakatakas.

Bugbog –sarado pag nahuli.Torture kapag ayaw umamin, firing squad kapag nakunan ng ebidensiya. Salvage kapag nakagalitgan, salvage rin kapag nakatuwaan. Kung magrereklamo pati kaluluwa mo, pati ito buburahan ng anino. Saan na ako pupunta, ano na’ng gagawin ko sa sarili ko?

Magbabad na lang kaya ako sa disco? Sayaw na lang kaya ang problemahin ko? Pero Iglesia ni Kristo naman ang mga paa ko, hindi marunong kahit na pandanggo. Tumambay na lang kaya ako sa mga kanto tulad ng ginagawa ng mga propesyonal na taong kanto? Ano naman ang gagawin ko roon, mag-abang sa pamumulaklak ng poste?

Ay naku ulit, pinipilit ko lang maging matino sa sarili kong paraan, wala pang kaubrahan. Hindi naman siguro ako ginawa ng sino mang gumawa para sa lang maging basta yagit. Wala rin akong balak maging kontrabida sa buhay. Marami lang talagang tanong ang isip ko na naghahanap ng kahit na kapirasong sagot. At sa lipunan, bago man o luma, maraming pikon.

Silang punot’t dulo ng problema ko ngayon, silang namamahala, kung totoong parang tatay at nanay sila, tulad nina Malakas at Maganda, bakit ibang klase silang magpatupad ng disiplina? Bakit hindi magkasya sa pangaral? Bakit hindi nila maintindihan na ang ginagawa lang naman naming mga kabataan ay bilang pagsasanay sa paghahanda sa aming kinabukasan? Kung dadaanin kami sa bugbog, di lalaki kaming mga tuliro. Kung kami na ang mga pinuno, paano magpapasiya ang isang hilo?

Akala mo’y hindi sila marunong mamatay. Kung sila nang sila, at kung wala na sila, paano naman kami? Kung mamana namin ang ugali nila, di kawawa ang susunod na henerasyon, kami na matanda na ang siya namang mambubugbog sa kanila. Bakit ayaw nilang matuto kaming makialam, makisangkot? Habang buhay bang tagapalakpak na lang kami sa mga talumpati nilang hindi naman sila ang gumawa? Dapat bang maging utak-sakristan lang kami na amen lang ang bokadurang lumalabas sa bibig kapag kinausap? Saka kung itinuturing kaming parang anak, bakit kami sinisiraan? Tatatawaging misguided elements, adventurists, communists, terrorists. Basta masama, kami. Basta tama, sila? Kung ganoon silang klaseng magulang, hindi na lang baleng maging ulila, ayaw kong sumali sa kanilang pamilya. Hindi baleng mabobo, tulad ng tingin nila sa aming mga aktibista, huwag lang maging baliw na tulad nila.

Bakit ba ganito, kapag makikinig ka sa usapan ng matatanda parang parating panahon lang nila ang mahalaga. Mahusay na estudyante, baka noong panahon ni Quezon. Mahusay na sundalo, baka noong panahon ng Hapon. Walang naaalala kung hindi “noong araw” (Parang sila ang una at huling Pilipino.) Saka idagdag din kung gaano kaganda ang kanilang panahon na hindi katulad ngayon, panay kahulugan. Parang kami ang umimbento ng salitang kahirapan at problema. At kami na bunga nito, na dapat unawain ang siyang nakagagalitan kapag napag-uusapan ang kamalasan. Sagana noong araw, pero bakit tayo utang ng utang sa mga dayuhan? Saka bakit kami ang tagabayad nito balang araw? Pakikinig ba sa matatanda sa Ilog Pasig ang solusyon sa mga problema? Baka kaya sila ay isang malaking problema? Parati silang tama, ang mga Mam at Sir at mga Gardonet , sila lamang ang tanging nakakaalam sa pagpapatakbo ng mga bagay-bagay sa mundo. Sila lamang ang may monopoly ng talino. Saka nila pilit palalakihin ang papel nila sa lipunan. Ipagpipilitan ang kanila, bakit hindi sila ang pakinggan at pamarisan? Sabagay, lahat naman yata ng matanda ay ganoon, ang kilala

lamang ay ang sarili. Kahit saan mapunta ang usapan, ang halimbawa nila ay ‘yong tungkol sa sarili. Kahit saan mapunta ang usapan, ang halimbawa nila ay ‘yong tungkol sa sarili. Kung doktor ang kausap, sasabihin nitong iyon ang pinakamahusay na kurso ngayon. Ganoon din ang sasabihin kung mga titser o inhinyero ang tatanungin. Pero paano kaya makikinig kung ang kausap ay isang pulitiko o armado? E, kung armadong pulitiko? Di pangako ng baril, argumento ng bala, halakhak ng kanyon, ano pa? Lahat
yata ng matanda, sarili lamang ang nakikitang mainam. ‘Yon lang kasing karansan nila ang kabisadong ikuwento. Pag iba na ang usapan, tulad ng halimbawa ng buntonghininga ng mga katulad ko sa mundo, hindi na sila interesado. Parang kami ang nag-uso ng salitang rebolusyon. Pag narinig ito, tumataas ang lahat ng buhok nila, pati sa kilikili, kaya bumabaho tuloy ang usapan. Saka magtatatalak, kami ang makakagalitan. Luma na ‘yon, tanungin mo si Bonifacio. Kung ayaw mong maniwala, e bakit nakikiselebrasyon ka sa araw ng mga bayani? Saka ba’t mo siya tinitingnan sa mga pera?

Ayaw ko nang makinig sa mga usapang “noong araw” na hindi ko makita ang kabuluhan sa kasalukuyan. Ayaw kong maging ulyaning paulit-ulit ang sinasabi. Ayaw kong maging (mas) makulit. Ayaw kong maging inutil. Kay hirap ng maraming tanong sa buhay. Kay hirap ipanganak na “erehe” at “pilibustero” sa mundo. Kay hirap mapagsabihang bandido at terorista. Kay hirap maghanap ng kahulugan ng pangalan. Wala akong balak malagay sa pera ang retrato ko. Gusto ko lang may sumagot at makinig sa tanong ko.

Importanteng makita nang sinumang gumagamit ng Taglish na limited and gamit nito. Dahil
sa binubuo ito ng mga salitang galing sa dalawang wikang not of the same family, makitid
ang range of expressiveness nito. Ang sensibiliteng ni-reflect nito ay pag-aari ng isang maliit
na segment ng ating lupinan, at ang karanasang karaniwang nilalaman nito ay may pagkasuperficial.
Isang makatang malimit banggitin kapag pinag-uusapan ang paggamit sa Taglish ay si
Rolando S. Tinio. Sa kaniyang koleksyon ng tulang tinawag na Sitsit sa Kuliglig, may ilang mga
tula na pinaghalong English na sulatin. Effective lamang ang Taglish, gaya ng pinatutunayan
na rin ng mga tula ni Tinio, kapag Americanized intellectual ang speaker, at ang tone ng
tula ay medyo tongue-in-check or sarcastic. At kahit na sa ranks ng Americanized Filipino
intellectual, and profounder aspects of cultural alienation ay hindi kayang lamanin nang
buong-buo ng Taglish.

Better described marahil and Taglish as a “manner of expression.” Ibig sabihin, sa mga
informal occasions, mas natural sa isang English-speaking Filipino na sa Taglish magsalita.
Sa light conversation, halimbawa. Pero para sa mga okasyong nangangailangan ng sustained
thought, Taglish simply won’t do. Walang predictive patterns ang paghahalo ng vocabulary
at syntax ng dalawang lengguwaheng magkaiba ng pamilya. Dahil dito, maraming stylistic
and logical gaps na nag-iinterfere sa pag-uunawaan ng manunulat at mambabasa.

Kailangan sa Taglish ang spontaneaous interaction ng nagsasalita at ng nakikinig. Sa
pamamagitan ng physical gestures, facial expressions, o tonal inflection, nagagawa ang
filling-in na siyang remedyo sa mga stylistic at logical gaps. Maaari namang sa pagtatanong
linawin ng nakikinig ang anumang ambiguity sa sinasabi ng kausap.

Samakatuwid, ang pagsusulat sa Taglish, cannot be a permanent arrangement. Kung
talagang nais ng manunulat na magcommunicate sa nakararaming mambabasa, haharapin
niya ang pagpapahusay sa kaniyang command ng Filipino. Para sa manunulat, isang
transitional “language” lamang ang Taglish. Kung tunay na nirerecognize niya na napakaliit
at lalo pang lumiit ang audience for English writing, hindi siya makapananatiling Taglish
lamang ang kaniyang ginagamit. Maliit pa rin ang audience na nakauunawa sa Taglish pagkat
nagdedemand ito ng adequate control of English. Magbalik sa English. O tuluyang lumapit sa
Filipino. Ito ang alternatives para sa Taglish users ngayon na hangad pa ring magpatuloy sa
pagsusulat.

THE evening before he killed himself, Virgilio Serrano gave a dinner party. He invited five guests—friends and classmates in university— myself included. Since we lived on campus in barracks built by the U.S. Army, he sent his Packard to fetch us.

Virgilio lived alone in a pre-war chalet that belonged to his family. Four servants and a driver waited on him hand and foot. The chalet, partly damaged, was one of the few buildings in Ermita that survived the bombardment and street fighting to liberate Manila.

It had been skillfully restored; the broken lattices, fretwork, shell windows and wrought iron fence had been repaired or replaced at considerable expense. A hedge of bandera española had been planted and the scorched frangipani and hibiscus shrubs had been pruned carefully. Thus, Virgilio’s house was an ironic presence in the violated neighborhood.

He was on the porch when the car came to a crunching halt on the graveled driveway. He shook our hands solemnly, then ushered us into the living room. In the half-light, everything in the room glowed, shimmered or shone. The old ferruginous narra floor glowed. The pier glass coruscated. The bentwood furniture from the house in Jaen looked as if they had been burnished. In a corner, surrounded by bookcases, a black Steinway piano sparkled like glass.

Virgilio was immaculate in white de hilo pants and cotton shirt. I felt ill at ease in my surplus khakis and combat boots.

We were all in our second year. Soon we will be on different academic paths—Victor in philosophy; Zacarias in physics and chemistry; Enrique in electrical engineering; and Apolonio, law. Virgilio and I have both decided to make a career in English literature. Virgilio was also enrolled in the Conservatory and in courses in the philosophy of science.

We were all in awe of Virgilio. He seemed to know everything. He also did everything without any effort. He had not been seen studying or cramming for an exam in any subject, be it history, anthropology or calculus. Yet the grades that he won were only a shade off perfection.

HE and I were from the same province where our families owned rice farms except that ours was tiny, a hundred hectares, compared to the Serrano’s, a well-watered hacienda that covered 2,000 hectares of land as flat as a table.

The hacienda had been parceled out to eleven inquilinos who together controlled about a thousand tenants. The Serranos had a large stone house with a tile roof that dated back to the 17th century that they used during the summer months. The inquilinos dealt with Don Pepe’s spinster sister, the formidable Clara, who knew their share of the harvest to the last chupa. She was furthermore in residence all days of the year.

Virgilio was the only child. His mother was killed in a motor accident when he was nine. Don Pepe never remarried. He became more and more dependent on Clara as he devoted himself to books, music and conversation. His house in Cabildo was a salon during the years of the Commonwealth. At night, spirited debates on art, religion language, politics and world affairs would last until the first light of dawn. The guests who lived in the suburbs were served breakfasts before they drove off in their runabouts to Sta. Cruz, Ermita or San Miguel. The others stumbled on cobblestones on their way back to their own mansions within the cincture of Intramuros.

In October, Quezon himself came for merienda. He had just appointed General MacArthur field marshal of the Philippine Army because of disturbing news from Nanking and Chosun. Quezon cursed the Americans for not taking him in their confidence. But like most gifted politicians, he had a preternatural sense of danger.

“The Japanese will go to war against the Americans before this year is out, Pepe,” Quezon rasped, looking him straight in the eye.

This was the reason the Serranos prepared to move out of Manila. As discreetly as possible, Don Pepe had all his personal things packed and sent by train to Jaen. He stopped inviting his friends. But when the Steinway was crated and loaded on a large truck that blocked the street completely, the neighbors became curious. Don Pepe dissembled, saying that he had decided to live in the province for reasons of health, “at least until after Christmas.”

Two weeks later, he suffered a massive stroke and died. The whole town went into mourning. His remains were interred, along with his forebears, in the south wall of the parish church. A month later, before the period of mourning had ended, Japanese planes bombed and strafed Clark Field.

Except for about three months in their hunting lodge in the forests of Bongabong (to escape the rumored rapine that was expected to be visited on the country by the yellow horde. Virgilio and Clara spent the war years in peace and comfort in their ancestral house in Jaen.

Clara hired the best teachers for Virgilio. When food became scare in the big towns and cities, Clara put up their families in the granaries and bodegas of the hacienda so that they would go on tutoring Virgilio in science, history, literature, mathematics, philosophy and English. After his lessons, he read and practiced on the piano. He even learned to box and to fence although he was always nauseated by the ammoniac smell of the gloves and mask. Despite Clara’s best effort, she could not find new boxing gloves and fencing equipment. Until she met Honesto Garcia.

Honesto Garcia was a petty trader in rice who had mastered the intricate mechanics of the black market. He dealt in anything that could be moved but he became rich by buying and selling commodities such as soap, matches, cloth and quinine pills.

Garcia maintained a network of informers to help him align supply and demand—and at the same time collect intelligence for both the Japanese Army and the Hukbalahap.

One of his informers told him about Clara Serrano’s need for a pair of new boxing gloves and protective gear for escrima. He found these items. He personally drove in his amazing old car to Jaen to present them to Clara, throwing in a French epée that was still in its original case for good measure. He refused payment but asked to be allowed to visit.

Honesto Garcia was the son of a kasama of the Villavicencios of Cabanatuan. By hard work and numerous acts of fealty, his father became an inquilino. Honesto, the second of six children, however made up his mind very early that he would break loose from farming. He reached the seventh grade and although his father at that time had enough money to send him to high school, he decided to apprentice himself to a Chinese rice trader in Gapan. His wage was a few centavos a day, hardly enough for his meals, but after two years, he knew enough about the business to ask his father for a loan of P60 to set himself up as a rice dealer. And then the war broke out.

Honesto was handsome in a rough-hewn way. He tended to fat but because he was tall he was an imposing figure. He was unschooled in the social graces; he preferred to eat, squatting before a dulang, with his fingers. Despite these deficiencies, he exuded an aura of arrogance and self-confidence.

It was this trait that attracted Clara to him. Clara had never known strong-willed men, having grown up with effete persons like Don Pepe and compliant men like the inquilinos who were always silent in her presence.

When Clara told Virgilio that Honesto had proposed and that she was inclined to accept, Virgilio was not surprised. He also had grown to like Honesto who always came with unusual gifts. Once, Honesto gave him a mynah that Virgilio was able to teach within a few days to say “Good morning. How are you today?”

The wedding took place in June of the second year of the war. It was a grand affair. The church and the house were decked in flowers. The inquilinos fell over each other to, supply the wedding feast. Carts and sleds laden with squealing pigs, earthen water jars filled with squirming river fish, pullets bound at the shank like posies, fragrant rice that had been husked in wooden mortars with pestles, the freshest eggs and demijohns of carabao milk for leche flan and slews of vegetables and fruit that had been picked at exactly the right time descended on the big house. The wives and daughters of the tenants cooked the food in huge vats while their menfolk roasted the suckling pigs on spluttering coals. The quests were served on bamboo tables spread with banana leaves. The war was forgotten, a rondalla played the whole day, the children fought each other for the bladders of the pigs which they blew up into balloons and for the ears and tails of the lechon as they were lifted on their spits from the fire.

The bride wore the traje de boda of Virgilio’s mother, a masterpiece confected in Madrid of Belgian lace and seed pearls. The prettiest daughters of the inquilinos, dressed in organza and ribbons, held the long, embroidered train of the wedding gown.

Honesto’s family were awe-struck by this display of wealth and power. They cringed and cowered in the sala of the big house and all of them were too frightened to go to the comedor for the wedding lunch.

Not very long after the wedding, Honesto was running the hacienda. The inquilinos found him more congenial and understanding. At this time, the Huks were already making demands on them for food and other necessities. The fall in the Serrano share would have been impossible to explain to Clara. In fact, the Huks had established themselves on Carlos Valdefuerza’s parcel because his male children had joined the guerilla group.

Honesto learned for the first time that the Huks were primarily a political and not a resistance organization. They were spreading a foreign idea called scientific socialism that predicted the takeover of all lands by the workers. Ricardo Valdefuerza, who had taken instruction from Luis Taruc, was holding classes for the children of the other tenants.

Honesto was alarmed enough to take it up with Clara who merely shrugged him off. “How can illiterate farmers understand a complex idea like scientific socialism?” she asked.

“But they seem to understand it,” Honesto expostulated “because it promises to give them the land that they farm.”

“How is that possible? Quezon and the Americans will not allow it. They don’t have the Torrens Title,” Clara said with finality.

“Carding Valdefuerza has been saying that all value comes from work. What we get as our share is surplus that we do not deserve because we did nothing to it. It rightly belongs to the workers, according to him. I myself don’t understand this idea too clearly but that is how it is being explained to the tenants.”

“They are idle now. After the war, all this talk will vanish,” Clara said.

When American troops landed in Leyte, Clara was four months with child.

THE table had been cleared. Little glasses of a pale sweetish wine were passed around. Victor pushed back his chair to slouch.

“The war has given us the opportunity to change this country. The feudal order is being challenged all over the world. Mao Tse Tung has triumphed in China. Soon the revolution will be here. We have to help prepare the people for it.” Victor declared.

“Why change?” Virgilio asked. “The pre-war order had brought prosperity and democracy. What you call feudalism is necessary to rebuild the country. Who will lead? The Huks? The young turks of the Liberal Party? All they have are ideas; they have no capital, no power.”

The university was alive with talk of imminent revolutionary change. Young men and women, most of them from the upper classes, spoke earnestly of redistributing wealth.

“Nothing will come of it” Virgilio said, sipping his wine.

“Of all of us, you have the most to lose in a revolution,” Apolonio said. “What we should aim for is orderly lawful change. You might lose your hacienda but you must be paid for it. So in the end, you will still have the capital to live on in style.”

“You don’t understand,” Virgilio said. “It is not only a question of capital or compensation. I am talking of a way of life, of emotional bonds, of relationships that are immutable. In any case, we can do nothing one way or the other so let us change the subject.”

“Don’t be too sure,” I said. “We can influence these events one way or another.”

“You talk as it you have joined the Communist Party,” Virgilio said. “Have you?”

But before I could answer, he was off on another tack.

“You know I have just been reading about black holes,” Virgilio said addressing himself to Zacarias. “Oppenheimer and Snyder solved Einstein’s equations on what happens when a sun or star had used up its supply of nuclear energy. The star collapses gravitationally, disappears from view and remains in a state of permanent free fall, collapsing endlessly inward into a gravitational pit without end.

“What a marvelous idea! Such ideas are art in the highest sense but at the same time, the decisive proof of relativity,” Virgilio enthused.

“Do you know that Einstein is embarrassed by these black holes? He considers them a diversion from his search for a unified theory,” Zacarias said.

“Ah! The impulse towards simplicity, towards reduction. The need to explain all knowledge with a few, elegant equations. Don’t you think that his reductionism is the ultimate arrogance? Even if it is Einstein’s. In any case, he is not succeeding,” Virgilio said.

“But isn’t reductionism the human tendency? This is what Communism is all about, the reduction of human relationships to a set of unproven economic theorems,” I interjected.

“But the reductionist approach can also lead to astounding results. Take the Schröedinger and Dirac equations that reduced previous mysterious atomic physics to elegant order,” Enrique said.

“What is missing in all this is the effect on men of reductionism. It can very well lead to totalitarian control in the name of progress and social order,” Apolonio ventured.

“Let me resolve our debate by playing for you a piece that builds intuitively on three seemingly separate movements. This is Beethoven’s Sonata, Opus 27, No. 2.” Virgilio rose and walked gravely to the piano while we distributed ourselves on the bentwood furniture in the living room.

He played the opening Adagio with sensitive authority, escalating note to note until it resolved into the fragile D-flat major which in turn disappeared in the powerful rush of the concluding Presto, the movement that crystallized the disparate emotional resonances of the first two movements into an assured and balanced relationship.

When the last note had faded, we broke into cheers. But at that moment, I felt a deep sadness for Virgilio. As the Presto flooded the Allegretto, I knew that he was not of this world.

Outside, through the shell windows, moonlight softened the jagged ruins of battle.

2. THE INVESTIGATION

ON July 14, 1950, in the evening, Virgilio killed himself in his bedroom by slitting his wrists with a straight razor and thrusting them into a pail of warm water.

His body was not found until the next morning.

He did not appear for breakfast at eight. At eight-thirty, Josefa, the housemaid, knocked on the door of Virgilio’s bedroom. Getting no response, she asked Arturo, the driver, to climb up the window to look inside.

The three maids panicked. Arturo drove off at once in the Packard to get me. After leaving a note for the Dean of the College of Liberal Arts, we stopped at the police station near General Luna to report the suicide.

Two police officers were immediately assigned to investigate. They came with us in the car to the house in Ermita.

They started interrogating me in the car.

“Who are you?” Police Officer No. 1 asked.

“Why are you involved?”, Police Officer No. 2 demanded.

I was somewhat nervous but as calmly as I could be, I answered.

“My name is Nestor Gallego. I am a second-year student at University of the Philippines. Virgilio Serrano, the deceased, and I come from the same town, Jaen, in Nueva Ecija. I have known Virgilio since 1942 and I think he considers me his closest friend in university. That is the reason the driver came to me.”

The policemen brought together the household staff. “Did you touch, move or remove anything in the bedroom? Did any of you go out of the house after the driver left for the university?”

To both questions, the maids answered, No, whereupon they were told to stay within the premises for separate interviews later in the morning.

Police Officer No. 1 went out to the yard presumably to look for clues. Police Officer No. 2 made a sketch of the scene and then searched the bedroom systematically. He opened the drawers of the tallboy carefully, he felt around the linen and underwear. The wardrobe and the aparador were also examined. But it was on the contents of the rolltop desk that No. 1 concentrated. The notebooks, a diary, and address book were all neatly arranged around a Remington typewriter.

He was looking for a letter, a note even, to give him a clue or lead to the motive for the suicide.

On the first page of one of the notebooks were the “Down There” and then “To my friend and confidant, Nestor Gallego, with affection.” Although unsigned, it was in Virgilio’s spidery hand.

“You know anything about this?” No. 1 said in a low, threatening voice. He handed it to me.

I leafed through the pages. It looked like a long poem that had been broken down into thirteen cantos.

“No,” I said. “I have not seen this before.”

“But it is for you. What does it say?”

“I don’t know, I have to read it first,” cuttingly.

My sarcasm rolled off him like water on a duck. “Well then—read,” he ordered, motioning me to the wooden swivel chair.

A frisson ran up my spine. My hands trembled as I opened the notebook and scanned the poem. There were recognizable names, places and events. There were references to his professors in university and his tutors in Jaen. The names of some of his inquilinos appeared again and again. But the longest sections were about Honesto and Clara Garcia and Ricardo Valdefuerza.

From the tone and the words, it was a satire patterned closely after Dante’s Inferno. Virgilio, like Dante, had assigned or consigned people to different circles “down there.” It ended with a line from Valery, “A l’extrême de toute pensée est un soupir.”

“I cannot say truthfully that I understand it. I know some of the people and places referred to but not why they appear in this poem.”

“I will have to bring this back for analysis,” No. 1 said, giving it to No. 2 who put it carelessly in a plastic carryall.

“When you are done with it, can I have it back? I have a right to it since it was dedicated to me.” I wanted desperately to read it because I felt that it concealed the reason for Virgilio’s suicide.

They spent another hour talking to the household help and scribbling in grimy notebooks.

Before they left past one o’clock, No. 1 said: “It is clearly a suicide. There was no struggle. In fact, it was a very neat suicide.” He made it sound as if it was a remarkable piece of craftsmanship. I hated him.

I went with Arturo to the post office to send a telegram to Jaen. “Virgilio dead stop please come at once.”

The undertaker took charge thereafter, informing us that by six o’clock, the remains would be ready for viewing. He asked me to select the clothes for the dead. I chose the white de hilo pants and the white cotton shirt that Virgilio wore the other day.

“It is wrinkled,” the undertaker said. “Don’t you want to choose something else.”

“No,” I shouted at him. “Put him in these.”

3. THE FUNERAL

FATHER Sean O’Donovan, S.J., refused to say Mass or to bless the corpse. “Those who die by their own hand are beyond the pale of the Church,” he said firmly.

“Let us take him home,” Clara said. She asked me to make all the arrangements and not to mind the cost.

The rent for the hearse was clearly exorbitant. I bargained feebly and then agreed. Victor, Zacarias, Enrique, Apolonio and myself were to travel in the Packard. Honesto and Clara had driven to Manila in a new Buick.

The hearse moved at a stately 30 kilometers per hour while a scratchy dirge poured out of it at full volume. The Garcias followed in their Buick and we brought up the rear.

The rains of July had transformed the brown, dusty fields of Bulacan and Nueva Ecija into muddy fields. We passed small, nut-brown men, following a beast and a stick that scored the wet earth; dithering birds swooped down to pluck the crickets and worms that were turned up by the plow.

The beat of sprung pebbles against the fender of the car marked our passage.

The yard of the big house was already full of people. In the sala, a bier had been prepared. The wives of inquilinos were all in black. Large yellow tapers gave off a warm, oily smell that commingled with the attar of the flowers, producing an odor that the barrio folk called the smell of death.

Then the local worthies arrived, led by the congressman of the district, the governor of the province, the mayor of Jaen, the commander of the Scout Rangers who was leading a campaign against the Huks, with their wives and retainers. They were all on intimate teams with Honesto and Clara. Except for the colonel who was in full combat uniform, they were dressed in sharkskin and two-toned shoes. They wore their hair tightly sculpted with pomade against their skulls and on their wrists and fingers gold watches and jeweled rings glistened.

They all knew that Honesto had political ambition. It was not clear yet which position he had his sights on.

With the death of Virgilio, the immense wealth of the Serranos devolved on Clara and on Honesto and on their 5-year old son, Jose Jr. Both the Nacionalista and Liberal Parties have been dangling all manner of bait before Honesto. Now, there will be a scramble.

Honesto shook hands with everyone, murmuring acknowledgments of their expressions of grief but secretly assessing their separate motives. Clara was surrounded by the simpering wives of the politicians; like birds they postured to show their jewels to best advantage.

They only fell silent when Father Francisco Santander, the parish priest, came to say the prayer for the dead and to lead the procession to the Church where Virgilio’s mortal remains would be displayed on a catafalque before the altar before interment in the south wall side by side with Don Pepe’s.

I left the sala to join the crowd in the yard. My parents were there with the Serranos’ and our tenants.

There was a palpable tension in the air. A number of the kasamas had been seized by the Scout Rangers, detained and tortured, so that they may reveal the whereabouts of Carding. They were frightened. From what I heard from my parents, most of the tenants distrusted Honesto who they felt was using the campaign against the Huks to remove those he did not like. The inquilinos were helpless because Clara was now completely under the sway of Honesto.

I walked home. When I got there, Restituto, our caretaker, very agitated, took me aside and whispered. “Carding is in the house. He has been waiting for you since early morning. I kept him from view in your bedroom.” He looked at me, uncertain and obviously frightened. “What shall we do?

“Leave it to me. But do not tell anyone—not even my parents. He shall be gone by the time they return.” I put my arm around Restituto’s shoulder to reassure him.

Carding wheeled when I walked in, pistol at the ready. He was dressed in army fatigues and combat boots. A pair of Ray-Ban glasses dangled on his shirt. He put the pistol back in its holster.

“You shouldn’t be here. There are soldiers all around.”

“They will not come here. They are too busy in the hacienda,” Carding said.

The shy, spindly boy that I knew during the war had grown into a broad muscular man. His eyes were hooded and cunning.

“I have to talk to you. Did Virgilio leave a last will and testament?”

“Not that I know of. He left a notebook of poems.”

“What is that?” Carding demanded, startled.

“A notebook of verses with the title ‘Down There.’ You are mentioned in the poem. But the police has it,” I answered.

“Did it say anything about the disposition of the hacienda in case of his death?”

“I did not have a chance to read it closely but I doubt it. Aren’t such things always done up in legal language? There certainly is nothing like that in the notebook. What are you leading up to?”

Carding sighed. “In 1943; Virgilio came to see me. He had heard from Honesto that I have been talking to the tenants about their rights. Virgilio wanted to know himself the bases of my claims. We had a long talk. I told him about the inevitability of the triumph of the peasant class. Despite his wide reading, he had not heard of Marx, Lenin, or Mao Tse Tung. He was visibly shaken. But when I told him of the coming calamity that will bring down his class, he asked ‘What can I do?’ and I said: ‘Give up. Give up your land, your privilege and your power. That is the only way to avoid the coming calamity’.

“He apparently did not have any grasp of social forces. He kept talking of individual persons—tenants that he had known since he was a child, inquilinos who had been faithful to his father until their old age, and all that nonsense. ‘The individual does not matter,’ I yelled at him. ‘Only the class called the proletariat.’

“But even without understanding, he said that he will leave the hacienda to the tenants because it was probably the right thing to do. But Clara should not be completely deprived of her means of support. It was exasperating, talking to him, but he did promise that in his will the tenants would get all.

“Obviously, he changed his mind.” Carding said in a low voice. “That is too bad because now we have to take his land by force.”

I was speechless. In university, talk of revolution was all the rage but this was my first encounter with a man who could or would try to make it happen.

“When I get back the notebook, I will study it to see if there is any statement that will legally transfer the Serrano hacienda to you and the other tenants,” I said weakly.

“I will be in touch,” Carding said. He walked out the door.

The day of the funeral was clear and hot. Dust devils rose from the road. In the shadow of the acacia trees in the churchyard, hundreds of people of all ages crowded to get away from the sun. Inside the church, even the aisles were packed.

“Introibo ad altare Dei” Father Santander intoned.

“Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam,” I answered.

The mass for the dead began.

My heart was racing because I knew the reason for Virgilio’s suicide. But nobody would care, save me. Ω

©2002 by Rony V. Diaz
More from this author:
The Centipede

(1) Isinulat ko ang una kong tula “Isn’t It?” noong high school. Labing-isang taong gulang ako noon. Nakakatuwa iyon, ang saya ko. Nakasulat sa malayang taludturan, nakilala ko na mayroon pala akong indayog. Nang mabasa ng mga kaibigan ko, sinabi nila na walang katuturang tula daw iyon at tinawag ko nga na tula ng kawalang katuturan.
(2) Katawa-tawa ang panahong kinalakhan ng henerasyon ko sa Tsina. Hindi naapektuhan ng Rebolusyong Pangkultura ang tadhana namin. Wala noong consumerismo na tutukso sa aming mga hangarin, ni hahamon na paninindigan namin sa Sosyalismo. Dapat kaming maging Spartan. Dapat makakuha kami ng mataas na grade para makapasok sa magandang eskuwela.
(3) Alam naming lahat na ang mga senior student sa eskuwela namin na nakatira sa dorm ay lumalabas sa kalsada kapag oras nang patayin ang mga ilaw para makapagaral sa ilalim ng poste. Marami kang hahangaan doon. May isa akong kaklase na makapagrerecite nang paabante at paatras sa buong nobelang Water Margin. Marunong magkaligrapiya at magpiano ang isa kong pinakamatalik na kaibigan sa klase, kaya kung maglalakad siya at maramdamang hindi tama ang lakad niya, babalik siya sa pinanggalingan sa paniniwalang “practice makes perfect”.
(4) Pagkatapos ng klase, magkasama kaming maglalakad papuntang bus stop; at ang tagal-tagal naming makarating sa bus. Paulit-ulit naming iwinawasiwas pataas ang aming kanang kamay dahil baka mahulog ang iniimagine naming relo. Noon nadevelop ang ilang kakatwang manerismong dala ko pa hanggang ngayon. Ang maganda nito, hindi ako ngayon nahihirapan sa ginagawang rebisyon ng mga sulat dahil sa munting ehersisyo ng pagpapabalik-balik-lakad na ginagawa ko noon sa Beijing.
(5) Marami akong isinusulat at binabasa habang nagkaklase – sa ilalim ng desk. Pag-uwi, sumasakay ako sa swing sa laguwerta namin. Ganoon ko pinananatili ang nararamdamang indayog para sa aking malayang taludturan. Noon ako nag-umpisang mangarap na maging makata at pintor balang araw.
(6) Nang matapos sa junior high school, na halos kasunod ng EDSA Revolution sa Filipinas, bumalik na kaming mag-anak sa eskuwela. Hanggang kunin ako ng ICM sisters ng St. Theresa’s College. Nailathala naman ako sa student page ng World News, pahayagang broadsheet ng komunidad Tsino sa Filipinas. Pagkatapos, nagtrabaho ako bilang isa sa mga translator ng balita sa diyaryong iyon, nag-atubili, at huminto. Pero nalatha pa rin ako; nagkaroon ng promoter ng mga trabaho o sa literary page, sa katauhan ng isang makata-photographer-businessman, si G. James Na.

(7) Nag-umpisa akong dumalo sa workshop ng tula sa Filipino, na ginaganap sa Adarna House, tagapaglathala ng mga aklat pambata. Pagkatapos sa Rio Alma Poetry Clinic, natanggap akong kasapi ng LIRA, isang grupo ng mga kabataang makata sa Filipino. Ako ang pinakabata noon. Iniindex ko pa ang mga salita noon sa diksyunaryong Tagalog para makapagtugma, dahil wala naman akong makitang rhyming dictionary sa Filipino. Kadalasan ay nagsusukat ako ng pantig para mabawasan ang mga mali ko sa wika.
(8) Nang panahong iyon, nagsusulat pa ako sa Tsino habang nag-aaral ng Filipino. Samantala, binabasa ko sa pagitan ng mga linya ang mga liham na natatanggap ko mula Tsina.
(9) Katagalan, matagal na matagal, pagkatapos ng crackdown sa Tian An Men, ipinadala sa akin ng kaklase ko sa high school ang librong Tuanang Singsing na Luntian na inilathala ng Palimbagan ng Beijing. Kalipunan iyon ng mga sanaysay na isinulat ng mga freshman ng Unibersidad ng Peking noong magtraining military sila sa Kampo Shijachuang bago pasimulan ang kanilang regular na klase sa kampus.
(10) Isinulat sa akin ng kaibigan kong may artikulo sa libro: “Ipinakikita ng librong ito, sa
napakatanging punto de bista, ang buhay namin noong mismong taong iyon, at mararanansan
mo dito ang pagsasama ng paglikhang pampanitikan at propagandang
pampolitika, lalo na sa military.”
(11) Naniniwala ako na nalampasan nang maluwalhati ng lahat ng kaibigan ko sa Tsina
ang 1989. Freshman ako sa kolehiyo sa UP Baguio nang maganap ang crackdown.
Huminto ako ng pagpapalathala sa World News matapos makitunggali sa isang huling
sanaysay at ilang tula sa Tsino. Pagkatapos, ipinasiya kong hindi na ako taga-Tsina, hindi
ko na wika ang Tsino.
(12) Doon natapos ang isang panahon.

If I put my cheek near your little lips I’m kissed
By the gentlest, sweetest breath. I sing
Because your laughter is a song whose chords
Play in my heart. Your smile, pure miracle

Blossoming before me, makes me sing.
And I’m warmed to my soul by your gentle eyes
Whose depths cradle sparks of sweet days coming,
And I sing for the perfectness of things.

ONE evening in August 1941, I came out of a late movie to a silent, cold night. I shivered a little as I stood for a moment in the narrow street, looking up at the distant sky, alive with stars. I stood there, letting the night wind seep through me, and listening. The street was empty, the houses on the street dim—with the kind of ghostly dimness that seems to embrace sleeping houses. I had always liked empty streets in the night; I had always stopped for a while in these streets listening for something I did not quite know what. Perhaps for low, soft cries that empty streets and sleeping houses seem to share in the night.

I lived in an old, nearly crumbling apartment house just across the street from the moviehouse. From the street, I could see into the open courtyard, around which rooms for the tenants, mostly a whole family to a single room, were ranged.

My room, like all the other rooms on the groundfloor, opened on this court. Three other boys, my cousins, shared the room with me. As I turned into the courtyard from the street, I noticed that the light over our study-table, which stood on the corridor outside our room, was still burning. Earlier in the evening after supper, I had taken out my books to study, but I went to a movie instead. I must have forgotten to turn off the light; apparently, the boys had forgotten, too.

I went around the low screen that partitioned off our “study” and there was a girl reading at the table. We looked at each other, startled. I had never seen her before. She was about eleven years old, and she wore a faded blue dress. She had long, straight hair falling to her shoulders. She was reading my copy of Greek Myths.

The eyes she had turned to me were wide, darkened a little by apprehension. For a long time neither of us said anything. She was a delicately pretty girl with a fine, smooth. pale olive skin that shone richly in the yellow light. Her nose was straight, small and finely molded. Her lips, full and red, were fixed and tense. And there was something else about her. Something lonely? something lost?

“I know,” I said, “I like stories, too. I read anything good I find lying around. Have you been reading long?”
“Yes,” she said. not looking at me now. She got up slowly, closing the book. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you want to read anymore? I asked her, trying to smile, trying to make her feel that everything was all right.
“No.” she said, “thank you.”

“Oh, yes,” I said, picking up the book. “It’s late. You ought to be in bed. But, you can take this along.”
She hesitated, hanging back, then shyly she took the book, brought it to her side. She looked down at her feet uncertain as to where to turn.

“You live here?” I asked her.

“Yes.”

“What room?”

She turned her face and nodded towards the far corner, across the courtyard, to a little room near the communal kitchen. It was the room occupied by the janitor: a small square room with no windows except for a transom above the door.
“You live with Mang Lucio?”

“He’s my uncle.”

“How long have you been here? I haven’t seen you before, have I?”

“I’ve always been here. I’ve seen you.”

“Oh. Well, good night—your name?”

“Maria.”

“Good night, Maria.”

She turned quickly, ran across the courtyard, straight to her room, and closed the door without looking back.

I undressed, turned off the light and lay in bed dreaming of far-away things. I was twenty-one and had a job for the first time. The salary was not much and I lived in a house that was slowly coming apart, but life seemed good. And in the evening when the noise of living had died down and you lay safe in bed, you could dream of better times, look back and ahead, and find that life could be gentle—even with the hardness. And afterwards, when the night had grown colder, and suddenly you felt alone in the world, adrift, caught in a current of mystery that came in the hour between sleep and waking, the vaguely frightening loneliness only brought you closer to everything, to the walls and the shadows on the walls, to the other sleeping people in the room, to everything within and beyond this house, this street, this city, everywhere.

I met Maria again one early evening, a week later, as I was coming home from the office. I saw her walking ahead of me, slowly, as if she could not be too careful, and with a kind of grownup poise that was somehow touching. But I did not know it was Maria until she stopped and I overtook her.

She was wearing a white dress that had been old many months ago. She wore a pair of brown sneakers that had been white once. She had stopped to look at the posters of pictures advertised as “Coming” to our neighborhood theater.
“Hello,” I said, trying to sound casual.

She smiled at me and looked away quickly. She did not say anything nor did she step away. I felt her shyness, but there was no self-consciousness, none of the tenseness and restraint of the night we first met. I stood beside her, looked at the pictures tacked to a tilted board, and tried whistling a tune.

She turned to go, hesitated, and looked at me full in the eyes. There was again that wide-eyed—and sad? —stare. I smiled, feeling a remote desire to comfort her, as if it would do any good, as if it was comfort she needed.
“I’ll return your book now,” she said.

“You’ve finished it?”

“Yes.”

We walked down the shadowed street. Magallanes Street in Intramuros, like all the other streets there, was not wide enough, hemmed in by old, mostly unpainted houses, clumsy and unlovely, even in the darkening light of the fading day.
We went into the apartment house and I followed her across the court. I stood outside the door which she closed carefully after her. She came out almost immediately and put in my hands the book of Greek myths. She did not look at me as she stood straight and remote.

“My name is Felix,” I said.

She smiled suddenly. It was a little smile, almost an unfinished smile. But, somehow, it felt special, something given from way deep inside in sincere friendship.

I walked away whistling. At the door of my room, I stopped and looked back. Maria was not in sight. Her door was firmly closed.

August, 1941, was a warm month. The hangover of summer still permeated the air, specially in Intramuros. But, like some of the days of late summer, there were afternoons when the weather was soft and clear, the sky a watery green, with a shell-like quality to it that almost made you see through and beyond, so that, watching it made you lightheaded.

I walked out of the office one day into just such an afternoon. The day had been full of grinding work—like all the other days past. I was tired. I walked slowly, towards the far side of the old city, where traffic was not heavy. On the street there were old trees, as old as the walls that enclosed the city. Half-way towards school, I changed my mind and headed for the gate that led out to Bonifacio Drive. I needed stiffer winds, wider skies. I needed all of the afternoon to myself.
Maria was sitting on the first bench, as you went up the sloping drive that curved away from the western gate. She saw me before I saw her. When I looked her way, she was already smiling that half-smile of hers, which even so told you all the truth she knew, without your asking.

“Hello,” I said. “It’s a small world.”

“What?”

“I said it’s nice running into you. Do you always come here?”

“As often as I can. I go to many places.”

“Doesn’t your uncle disapprove?”

“No. He’s never around. Besides, he doesn’t mind anything.”

“Where do you go?”

“Oh, up on the walls. In the gardens up there, near Victoria gate. D’you know?”

“I think so. What do you do up there?”

“Sit down and—”

“And what?”

“Nothing. Just sit down.”

She fell silent. Something seemed to come between us. She was suddenly far-away. It was like the first night again. I decided to change the subject.

“Look,” I said, carefully, “where are your folks?”

“You mean, my mother and father?”

“Yes. And your brothers and sisters, if any.”

“My mother and father are dead. My elder sister is married. She’s in the province. There isn’t anybody else.”

“Did you grow up with your uncle?”

“I think so.”

We were silent again. Maria had answered my questions without embarrassment. almost without emotion, in a cool light voice that had no tone.
“Are you in school, Maria?”

“Yes.”

“What grade?”

“Six.”

“How d’you like it?”

“Oh, I like it.”

“I know you like reading.”

She had no comment. The afternoon had waned. The breeze from the sea had died down. The last lingering warmth of the sun was now edged with cold. The trees and buildings in the distance seemed to flounder in a red-gold mist. It was a time of day that never failed to carry an enchantment for me. Maria and I sat still together, caught in some spell that made the silence between us right, that made our being together on a bench in the boulevard, man and girl, stranger and stranger, a thing not to be wondered at, as natural and inevitable as the lengthening shadows before the setting sun.

Other days came, and soon it was the season of the rain. The city grew dim and gray at the first onslaught of the monsoon. There were no more walks in the sun. I caught a cold.

Maria and I had become friends now, though we saw each other infrequently. I became engrossed in my studies. You could not do anything else in a city caught in the rains. September came and went.

In November, the sun broke through the now ever present clouds, and for three or four days we had bright clear weather. Then, my mind once again began flitting from my desk, to the walls outside the office, to the gardens on the walls and the benches under the trees in the boulevards. Once, while working on a particularly bad copy on the news desk, my mind scattered, the way it sometimes does and, coming together again, went back to that first meeting with Maria. And the remembrance came clear, coming into sharper focus—the electric light, the shadows around us, the stillness. And Maria, with her wide-eyed stare, the lost look in her eyes…

IN December, I had a little fever. On sick leave, I went home to the province. I stayed three days. I felt restless, as if I had strayed and lost contact with myself. I suppose you got that way from being sick,
A pouring rain followed our train all the way back to Manila. Outside my window, the landscape was a series of dissolved hills and fields. What is it in the click of the wheels of a train that makes you feel gray inside? What is it in being sick, in lying abed that makes you feel you are awake in a dream, and that you are just an occurrence in the crying grief of streets and houses and people?
In December, we had our first air-raid practice.
I came home one night through darkened streets, peopled by shadows. There was a ragged look to everything, as if no one and nothing cared any more for appearances.
I reached my room just as the siren shrilled. I undressed and got into my old clothes. It was dark, darker than the moment after moon-set. I went out on the corridor and sat in a chair. All around me were movements and voices. anonymous and hushed, even when they laughed.
I sat still, afraid and cold.
“Is that you. Felix?”
“Yes. Maria.”
She was standing beside my chair, close to the wall. Her voice was small and disembodied in the darkness. A chill went through me, She said nothing more for a long time.
“I don’t like the darkness,” she said.
“Oh, come now. When you sleep, you turn the lights off, don’t you?”
“It’s not like this darkness,” she said, softly. “It’s all over the world.”
We did not speak again until the lights went on. Then she was gone.
The war happened not long after.
At first, everything was unreal. It was like living on a motion picture screen, with yourself as actor and audience. But the sounds of bombs exploding were real enough, thudding dully against the unready ear.
In Intramuros, the people left their homes the first night of the war. Many of them slept in the niches of the old walls the first time they heard the sirens scream in earnest. That evening, I returned home to find the apartment house empty. The janitor was there. My cousin who worked in the army was there. But the rest of the tenants were gone.
I asked Mang Lucio, “Maria?”
“She’s gone with your aunt to the walls.” he told me. “They will sleep there tonight.”
My cousin told me that in the morning we would transfer to Singalong. There was a house available. The only reason he was staying, he said, was because they were unable to move our things. Tomorrow that would be taken care of immediately.
“And you, Mang Lucio?”
“I don’t know where I could go.”
We ate canned pork and beans and bread. We slept on the floor, with the lights swathed in black cloth. The house creaked in the night and sent off hollow echoes. We slept uneasily.
I woke up early. It was disquieting to wake up to stillness in that house which rang with children’s voices and laughter the whole day everyday. In the kitchen, there were sounds and smells of cooking.
“Hello,” I said.
It was Maria, frying rice. She turned from the stove and looked at me for a long time. Then, without a word, she turned back to her cooking.
“Are you and your uncle going away?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Did he not tell you?”
“No.”
“We’re moving to Singalong.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, anyway, I’ll come back tonight. Maybe this afternoon. We’ll not have to say goodbye till then.”
She did not say anything. I finished washing and went back to my room. I dressed and went out.
At noon, I went to Singalong to eat. All our things were there already, and the folks were busy putting the house in order. As soon as I finished lunch, I went back to the office. There were few vehicles about. Air-raid alerts were frequent. The brightness of the day seemed glaring. The faces of people were all pale and drawn.
In the evening, I went back down the familiar street. I was stopped many times by air-raid volunteers. The house was dark. I walked back to the street. I stood for a long time before the house. Something did not want me to go away just yet. A light burst in my face. It was a volunteer.

“Do you live here?”

“I used to. Up to yesterday. I’m looking for the janitor.”

“Why, did you leave something behind?”

“Yes, I did. But I think I’ve lost it now.”

“Well, you better get along, son. This place, the whole area. has been ordered evacuated. Nobody lives here anymore.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “Nobody.”