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Likhaan 10

The Journal
of Contemporary
Philippine Literature

The University of the Philippines Press


Diliman, Quezon City
LIKHAAN 10
The Journal of Contemporary Philippine Literature
©2016 by UP Institute of Creative Writing
All rights reserved.
No copies can be made in part or in whole without prior
written permission from the author and the publisher.

ISSN: 1908-8795

ISSUE EDITOR
J. Neil C. Garcia

ASSOCIATE EDITOR
Charlson Ong

MANAGING EDITOR
Gabriela Lee

COPY EDITORS
Arvin Abejo Mangohig
Grace Bengco

COVER DESIGN
R. Jordan S. Santos

COVER ILLUSTRATION
Bheng Densing

LAYOUT ARTIST
Zenaida N. Ebalan
Table of Contents

vii Revaluing Value: An Introduction


J. Neil C. Garcia

SHORT STORY
3 Zoetrope
Richard Calayeg Cornelio

25 Creek
Israfel Fagela

34 White
Ana Margarita R. Nuñez

48 Wash and Wear


Jenette Ethel N. Vizcocho

POETRY
65 Manifest and Other Poems
Rodrigo Dela Peña Jr.

71 Arborescence
Paul Maravillas Jerusalem

77 Elemental
Jose Luis Pablo

ESSAY
85 How a Brain Surgeon Learned How to Ride a Bike
Ronnie E. Baticulon

98 Shoes from My Father


Jan Kevin Rivera

106 Homoeroticism as the Poetry of the In-Between:


The Self-Translations of Nicolas Pichay
Thomas David Chaves

iii
MAIKLING KUWENTO
133 Babala sa Balang-Araw
Tilde Acuña

144 Kabanalan sa Panahon ng Digmâ


Rogelio Braga

167 Ahas
Perry C. Mangilaya

183 Ang Mga Nawawalang Mukha


Chuckberry J. Pascual

TULA
209 Pitong Tula sa Filipino
Buboy Aguay

213 Kinalas mo na pala ang galeon


Dennis Andrew S. Aguinaldo

218 Di lang Laláng


Mark Angeles

226 Estranghero at Iba Pang Mga Tula


Allan Popa

SANAYSAY
233 Pugon na De-Gulong
Christopher S. Rosales

249 Salvacion
Jose Dennis C. Teodosio

FORUM
265 Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in
Philippine Fiction
303 Literary Calendar
Literary Bibliography
341 English
349 Filipino
353 Notes on the Contributors
359 About the Cover Artists
361 Notes on the Forum Panelists
363 About the Editors
iv Likhaan 10
Dedicated to the memory of Franz Arcellana.
Revaluing Value: An Introduction

A t an important public lecture in the University of the Philippines


Diliman campus last August, one of the policy recommendations made
by the speaker was the continued and intensified support not only of STEM
(Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics) but also of the Social
Sciences.
The speaker did not recognize the Humanities, which occurred nowhere in
his painstakingly assembled survey, that correlated the generally disappointing
figures of UP Diliman’s science PhD programs with their respective research
outputs. The College of Social Sciences and Philosophy was accounted for,
as was the Philippine Studies program, with which he conflated it. This part
of his survey was misleading, because Philippine Studies in our university,
from its inception, has always drawn as much from the Humanities as from
the Social Sciences, being co-administered by the CSSP with two other
colleges—both of which profess avowedly humanistic orientations.
Nonetheless, the oversight is a familiar one: it simply attests to the
secondary and even epiphenomenal position occupied by the disciplines of
the arts and humanities in a national education system that has come to
see progress and development as being the privileged province and exclusive
responsibility of the scientific—as opposed to the creative—persuasions.
And yet progress and development, even when they are understood in
strictly economic terms, cannot be equated with the promotion and growth
of the sciences alone. At the first system-wide UP Knowledge Festival, held
in Tagaytay last April, the participants from UP’s different constituent
universities heard from two plenary speakers inventories of hard data that
showed just how supporting the arts—and the creative industries that they
generate—makes sound economic sense, especially in the knowledge regimes
of this new century.
The clarion call was sounded: there really is no reason why the University
of the Philippines should not promote the growth and welfare of its
humanities programs, as well as their resident artists and scholars, because

vii
the creative industries—whose components are already in evidence across its
campuses—may well hold the key to improving the lives of the vast majority
of our people, who continue to be uneducated and poor.
It’s easily apparent that the University of the Philippines hosts the
country’s highest density of resident writers, visual and digital artists,
musicians, performers, content providers, animators, cultural critics, curators,
filmmakers, theorists, directors, designers, and architects, all of whose
intellectual properties can be harnessed and cultivated to contribute even
more significantly to our country’s economy, as the works of creatives already
unmistakably do, in many other parts of the world. These artistic products
and processes collectively constitute our national culture, which migratory
technologies and populations offer the opportunity of becoming globally
disseminated and consumed, especially through the agency of diasporic
Filipinos located in every other corner of the planet.
Among other things, the mission of artists is to promote forms of
embodied, “imaginal,” and creative literacy, that serve to complement as well
as provide a solid foundation for the other more abstract and propositional
forms of literacy (for example, the numerate and the experimental). As
such, they bridge the historical, cognitive, and ontological gaps between our
enduring orality on one hand and our uneven and precarious literacy on the
other, bringing into the durable media of the contemporary arts the stories,
insights, and rituals of our country’s copious and immemorial cultures, whose
deepest intuition recognizes the dualisms of our world, even as in the same
breath it seeks to transcend them, by yearning into the radiance of the unity
that underlies all forms.
On the other hand, we perhaps also need to remember the truth that
value—a crucial buzzword in that selfsame Knowledge Festival—cannot be
reduced to the merely monetary or the monetizable. Because humans are
symbol-making creatures capable of inwardness and sublime vision, for our
species value can also be and is, in many important ways, intangible. Despite
the convincing purchase of the “creative industries” argument, we need to ask
ourselves, precisely in regard to this issue: Should the arts or the humanities
be justified only because they can be said to constitute their own “economy”?
What is happiness? Why do we crave “connectedness” and love? What is
gratitude? Why must we strive for empathy? What constitutes fulfillment?
Where do rapture and awe come from? What makes a fully human or even
just a “livable” life? Given the socioeconomic pressures that higher education

viii Likhaan 10
in our country is increasingly needing to bear, we need to believe that there
remains institutional room, especially in this esteemed university, for the
short story, poem, or play that cannot be remotely instrumentalized, and yet
insists on raising these and other similar questions— whose most likely value,
in turn, is that they can be raised at all …
I am reminded of a high school classmate and friend—an accomplished
scientist who has been living overseas for a couple of decades now. He
visited me in my tiny and unkempt office in the ill-lit (and ill-fated) Faculty
Center a couple of years ago, and after I toured him around the spanking
new buildings of the science and engineering complexes, he calmly told me
(obviously meaning to commiserate): “It is you, in the humanities, who make
life meaningful; while it is we—the scientists—who make life possible.” Even
now, the second part of his sentence still gives me pause. Isn’t everything
named—that dawns in our consciousness—meaning? Who gave scientists
their idea of possibility, when before anything can be engineered or assembled
it first has to be imagined? The “we” in his sentence: where might he have
gotten it? How are intuitions of collective life acquired? And what of life
itself? Surely it’s not just about protoplasm, the convergence of physical
and biochemical processes, or the replication of genetic material. Finally,
“making” is something artists do all the time. We who study and produce
literature sometimes call it poiesis: artistic creativity is (as Aristotle once put
it) the bringing into being of something new in the world.
One of the simplest and truest “lessons” in that wonderful Knowledge
Festival wasn’t entirely unforeseen; indeed, the abundant folklore and
mythology of our peoples, and the paradoxical procedure of most artists,
have always attested to it: there is a rudimentary “oneness” in Nature that
defies both analytical decomposition and disciplinal boundaries. The contact
zones between the arts and the sciences are multiple and fascinating and in
constant flux, and they bid us to see that both “realms” of experience are
important—trafficking mutually as they do in analogical modes of thinking
and perceiving. Thus, they should not be made to compete with one another.
We dignify our world—and ourselves—by recognizing wholeness. We parse
and hierarchize knowledge to our own peril. In the words of National Artist
Edith Lopez Tiempo, “Truth is the world believed: / only what the eye sees, /
and the heart approves.”
While UP has certainly made great and admirable strides in equalizing
incentives and opportunities among its constituents, a paradigm shift is

Revaluing Value: An Introduction ix


necessary, still and all, in view of recent global trends toward unbridled
materialist scientism, and given the way priorities in the education system
have been planned and operationalized, across the decades, in our country.
For instance, it would be nice if arts high schools could be set up as
a complement to the science high schools. And then, within the different
campuses of the University of the Philippines—our country’s one and only
national university—efforts might be undertaken to renovate and build
physical infrastructure that would function as creativity hubs, with the
requisite studios, workshops, ateliers, “thinking spaces,” and performance
venues, in which resident and visiting creatives might get to work, in a variety
of solitary and collaborative arrangements.
In accounting for the University’s “suprastructure” of intellectual workers,
the input of cultural practitioners and creatives might likewise be included,
their productions catalogued and celebrated alongside the scholarly articles
and books that have thus far enjoyed the exclusive attention of the various
survey-takers, with their cumbersome diagrams and number-laden charts.
The much-repeated lament over the University’s dismal research profile can
perhaps be palliated when the many excellent theatrical productions, concerts,
recitals, films, books of short stories, literary journals, novels, poems, memoirs,
biographies, essays, plays, painting and sculpture exhibits, design projects,
videos, installations, “happenings” and performances, curatorial practices,
and countless other instances of creative productivity are incorporated into
a more holistic picture of our University’s overall literacy agenda. There may
be no local or global precedents for this kind of metric, but seeing as how
ranking systems are pretty much a matter of product branding, it’s about
time we consider originating our own brand of academic analytics—one that
takes cognizance of the specificities of our situation as a residually oral (and
unevenly literate) nation, whose painful transitions it is its artists’ ardent duty
to document, direct, and inspire.
These same creativity hubs could be the site where Complexity Studies
might finally take root in our beloved University, bringing the various
academic knowledges to converse with one another. Here the University’s
many researchers and creatives may get to envision—and subsequently, fashion
or construct—solutions to our country’s manifold problems, whose difficult
nature requires the ethical and inspiriting consolations (and pleasures) of the
imaginative disciplines, as well as the practicality, rigor, and ingenuity of the
hard sciences.

x Likhaan 10
This is the tenth outing of the Likhaan Journal, the most prestigious literary
journal in our country, and UP’s hard-won and incontrovertible contribution
to the promotion and growth of creative—as well as, to a certain extent,
critical—writing in our country. This journal is externally peer-reviewed,
and offers a monetary reward that is comparable to that given by the most
important national literary contests.
This time around, and as an additional endorsement of its quality, there
are four pieces in this current issue that were subsequently accorded top prizes
in the recently concluded Palanca Awards. Sourcing the funds for this journal
has been an annual source of anxiety for the UP Institute of Creative Writing
precisely because, given the obtaining scientistic ethos in our country’s higher
educational system in general, and the UP Diliman campus in particular,
successfully arguing for the long-term and intangible value of this endeavor—
along with the activities of the other arts—is proving to be no mean feat.
Thanks to the lifeline thrown by the UP System—in particular, the Office of
the Vice-President for Academic Affairs—the UPICW has been able to secure
the financial resources for this as well as all its other regular projects (and then
some), for at least the next couple of years.
I decided to dispense with the usual interview piece in this issue of the
Likhaan Journal, and instead to feature a panel discussion of a selection of
nationally acclaimed authors whose recent fictional works were published by
the UP Press. The topic of this discussion is the practice of realism in our
literature—its affordances as well as its limitations. It’s a propitious but also
deliberate choice, given precisely the institutional reduction of all social value
to the materially instrumental, which has resulted in an unspoken but entirely
virulent animus against the artistic and creative fields in the university, most
clearly apparent in the aboveboard assault on the principles of the liberal arts
and the dilution, diminishment, if not downright obliteration of the ideals of
General Education.
Needless to say, real-world issues—reality itself—are, as with the
scientists and engineers, our writers’ and artists’ foremost concern, only that
unlike their materialist counterparts they understand them contextually and
holistically on one hand, and self-reflexively (as inalienably perspectival and a
function of verbal and cognitive schemas), on the other.
A cursory survey of the topics covered by the writers in the prose section
of this issue should provide a quick glimpse into the mimetic concerns of
our young writers, across our two official national languages. It’s immensely

Revaluing Value: An Introduction xi


interesting to note, for example, that the four stories in Filipino are non-
realist or speculative in their approach, unlike the four stories in English,
which are resolutely mimetic in style (and worldview).
The Filipino stories talk about a variety of marvelous and dissonant
“realities”: an indigent and provincial couple facing a marital crisis after
the wife gives birth to a (thankfully, stillborn) snake fetus; a harassed and
practically enslaved bakla receptionist working for a local government unit
beholding and understandably identifying with a faceless mermaid during
their outing on a destitute and nondescript island; a futuristic Metro Manila
(and Philippines) caught in the middle of a proverbial and protracted
imperialist war between East and West, its bedraggled residents reduced to
engaging in outlandish rituals in order to make sense of their situation, that
daily include the sight (and the use) of certain remaindered bodies drifting on
the Pasig River on their way to the watery graveyard of Manila Bay; and a long-
winded, second-person stream-of-consciousness narration that is really an
angry and rambling harangue against the deluded and practically ineffectual
lives of contemporary and armchair academics who engage in cultural and
identity politics fully aware of the fact that, in the real world, the real struggle
is and has always been class-based, as can be seen in the plight of our country’s
indigenous peoples whose ancestral domains are being despoiled and mined
by avaricious state-supported corporations, and whose oral culture may yet
survive (in the tokenist forms of transcribed and institutionally co-opted
folklore), but whose actual societies and lives may not.
The anglophone pieces are, by contrast, about more mundane
experiences, narrated almost matter-of-factly, or at least, referentially (that
is to say, realistically): a mother who must confront the impending loss of
her strange and preternaturally intelligent millennial child to a particularly
vicious and “old-world” illness; a period “misalliance” piece about a poor
native woman in the southern Philippines who lusts after an upper-class
mestizo man, and out of sheer determination and culinary cleverness
(bordering on the grossly grotesque) manages to seduce him, become his
mistress, bear his mostly unfortunate children, and finally approximate and
deserve him, “chromatically” clothed in the pallor of death; an oscillating
split-screen narrative about two kinds of present-day Filipino women, whose
difference in class backgrounds barely has any effect on their similarly fated
expat-involved love lives; and a ghastly childhood secret that involves being a
silent accomplice to the gruesome murder of a toddler by a slightly older and
palpably “different” playmate.

xii Likhaan 10
Going by this sampling of our contemporary fiction, it’s clear that our
literature remains entirely committed to evoking and making sense of our
present-day problems and realities. These stories all powerfully address
collectively real and pressing social concerns, a persistent preoccupation
that may therefore be said to unify our fictional traditions, despite linguistic
differences as well as divergent narrative strategies: the moral love that binds
families and communities against adversity; the continuing conflict between
reason and superstition; the vexed and vexing question of gender inequality;
the pressures of national and international geopolitics; our society’s enduring
class and cultural inequities; and finally, the confluence between erotic desires
and neo/colonial fantasies, especially as concerns our culture’s unspoken but
persistent social doctrine that holds up the ideal of upward racial mobility (in
Hispanic times, this doctrine was known as para mejorar la raza).
This interest in social questions also resonates across the essays in this
issue, whose topics are personal but also reflective and “processual” (or even
information-giving): the travails of a haggard and perpetually harassed train
commuter; the unconditional and selfless love of parents for their children
(even or especially when they are queer); and the personal and professional
rewards of patience and unstinting dedication in the learning of a skill (of
the bike-riding or the neurosurgical sort). Implicit or explicit in all these
dramatized prose articulations of these issues is an impassioned commentary
or critique—an arguably “didactic” quality that links them up to a long and
continuous tradition in our literatures, that perhaps constitutes an important
part of their “Filipinoness.”
On the other hand, the lone critical essay is an interesting elucidation
of the inner workings of the lyrical self-translations of a Filipino gay poet.
As a linguistic process self-translation invokes and yet brings into crisis
the “equivalency” paradigm that still dominates translation practice in our
world today—a strange thing given that this very same world is becoming
increasingly multilingual and culturally hybrid, and therefore incontrovertibly
self-translational. As the analysis of these specific poems shows, when it comes
to self-translation, the otherwise easy and self-evident distinction between
“source” and “target” gets fundamentally and productively confounded and
blurred—especially where the texts in question bear some form of dissidence
or other—precisely because the translator, being herself the author, has
complete access to the original text’s (which is to say, her own) innermost
intentions. While this makes for an inherently interesting (and potentially
aporetic) hermeneutic situation, what this activity does invariably reveal is the

Revaluing Value: An Introduction xiii


asymmetry of semantic transpositions—meaning, the cultural domination,
mostly unprofessed, within the self-translator herself, of one medium (or
language) over another.
Because it’s a heresy to paraphrase poetry (whose form and content
are effectively and finally indistinguishable), I will not even attempt to try
to summarize the pieces in this issue’s poetry section. At this point I can
only flag or “indicate” them by way of their general projects: the ekphrastic,
the historical, the visionary, and the political, with the meditative and the
confessional registers running more or less consistently through most of the
pieces. Like the short stories, the featured poems in this issue are resolutely
mimetic in their commitments, even as their representational burdens, being
lyric-specific, do not—indeed, need not—always result in the kinds of inner
visualization that descriptive prose passages commonly induce. In poetry,
after all, tone is itself capable of generating its own “reality effects,” its own
manner of referentiality—in regard not to the objective world necessarily, but
rather to the question of personality: a kind of “psychic mimesis,” ordinarily
evoked by idiolectical turns of phrase in the poem itself, that betoken the
presence of a unique or even (if we are lucky) a singular voice.
As in most of the fiction and essay pieces, the poems in this batch are
culturally invested on one hand, and on the other (lyrically) bear varying
measures of social commentary and critique—against (and this is just one
way of reading what is really figural and therefore hypersemantic expression)
social indifference, intolerance, vulgarity, as well as the shame and impunity
of forgetting.
To my mind the ekphrastic and “art-inspired” poems in both languages
are the most memorable, not the least because in drawing from, adapting,
or verbally recasting existing artistic works (usually, of painting, sculpture,
or even literature itself ), they redouble and clarify their endorsement of
the transfigurative and world-making power of the creative arts, that indeed
possess the unique ability to permeate and transform consciousness, and in
the process to inspire and promote their own bright—and intertextual—
continuance.
It will perhaps be fitting to end this introduction with the complete text
of one of them.
This is “Alinsunod Kay Victor Hugo” by Allan Popa, one of our best
poets writing in Filipino and English today.

xiv Likhaan 10
Sa kabila ng karahasan na nagawa natin
sa isa’t isa, sa kabila ng mga kasinungalingan
na pinaniniwalaan upang makapahinga,
sa kabila ng mga pagdurusang pinipiling hindi makita,
sa kabila ng mga nalimot na,
magsusulat ako,
gamit ang mga kamay
na marami na ring nagawang pagkakasala,
ngunit naniwalang may mababago pa,
kahit munti, kahit kaunti, dito sa pahina.
ibig sabihin, dito sa lupa.

J. NEIL C. GARCIA
September 29, 2016
Uno Restaurant, Scout Fuentebella
Quezon City

Revaluing Value: An Introduction xv


Short Story
Zoetrope
RICHARD CALAYEG CORNELIO

J oaquin reasoned that it had to do with the linguistic excess that kids in
their formative years had to compensate for with imaginary narratives,
which were, more often than not, simply outrageously outlandish and silly.
And, of course, he would say that. He was the sort of person who would be
sure to trot out some theory of evolution or quote Darwin after watching
a herd of elephants fly like flummoxed chickens. He was an escort-cum-
pornographer, but he thought with his big head—no pun intended—and
had always valued a sound explanation for stuff that challenged empirical
evidence. This time, though, I had to disagree, because it was coincidentally
sometime after Joaquin and I had decided to separate for good that Clay
began talking about his imaginary brother named Buddy.
You’d think it would’ve pleased him to have a brother at long last, even
an imaginary one, but apparently Buddy was a little bad hat and annoyed
Clay round the clock. One morning, he said to me, in such a concertedly
solemn tone I’d thought only the mailman could master: “Buddy sings like a
pig about to be gutted.” His obviously discomfitingly violent flights of fancy
bothered me less than the laundry list of things he later said he hated about
his imaginary brother. For one thing, Buddy reeked of “grilled cheese stuffed
in a two-week-old unwashed, crusty sock.” This he told me, I think, that day
I bawled out Joaquin for overflowing the clothes hamper with his soiled socks
and briefs and, good grief, even a quarter of a moldy grilled cheese sandwich.
Buddy also hated taking a bath, unsurprisingly, and so all the dirt had rolled
up and formed on his skin a thick purple fur, which resembled, I later realized,
very much that of the cutesy stuffed dinosaur who ingratiatingly professed his
all-encompassing love, to every biped infantile enough to believe him, on TV.
The fact that my son had cooked up a friendly reptile whose species
had been wiped out eons ago to be his brother was, in some twisted sense,
endearing. It was amazing, Joaquin said, the way Clay constructed these run-
on stories that he was processing vicariously through his imaginary brother,

3
in order to try out the words he soaked up every day from around him like
a sponge. But things got suddenly weird when, the morning I told him his
father would have to travel back to LA, again, Clay looked at me from under
his thick fringe and asked if what Buddy had told him was true: that Joaquin
and I were planning on a legal separation. And I remember thinking I must’ve
had left some of the documents lying around, or that he must’ve overheard
one of our conversations, and right then, in a moment of frighteningly perfect
clarity, I saw happy Christmases going down the tubes, replaced by lengthy
arguments over at whose place Clay would spend the holidays and unwrap
ridiculously expensive gifts he’d ruin or outgrow anyway, but which I’d slave
for through the coming years by donning rags and selling my kidneys, just
because I’d spend the rest of my life feeling guilty of being a bad, bad mother
for asking for my singlehood back.
“You must have mentioned something, Fran,” Joaquin said, on the
phone, when I told him.
I said, after a beat, “Buddy thinks it sucks that there’s no divorce here, in
the Philippines.”
“Tell Buddy,” he said, “he’s damn right.”
Just when I thought things couldn’t get more weird, one day Clay’s
teacher called to make an appointment, and naturally I figured it was about
our situation. Mrs. Gonzalo’s voice was breathless in a sexy way, the kind I’d
squandered many minutes of my young life trying to imitate, though they
would’ve been better spent on piano lessons or eyebrow threading. “Nothing
serious, of course,” she said, “but we have Clayton’s best interests at heart
and it is our job to discuss issues that might hinder him from achieving his
full potential.” Was she reading this from some brochure? I told her Clay’s
father couldn’t come because he’d gone back abroad, and in the silence that
followed I could almost hear the cogs of her brain working, making teacherly
tut-tutting sounds, could almost see my dream of bagging the Parent of the
Year Award flushed down the drain.
It turned out Mrs. Gonzalo was a supremely glacial woman in her sixties
who seemed to have lived her entire life in tapered trousers, with a pair of
tortoiseshell glasses and her silver hair pulled into the harshest bun known to
mankind. We’d arranged for a meeting right around pickup time, and she sat
me down on an uncomfortably tiny wooden chair from across her, in a wide,
windowless office that looked impossibly immaculate and impersonal. The
air-conditioning was gracefully benign, though, and after a long moment I

4 Short Story
began to feel like we were equals here, just two grownups wanting the best
for my son, never mind that Mrs. Gonzalo was looking at me with a wirelike
smile that kept horrendously twitching at the sides, like infinitesimal isolated
seizures.
“Those are really wonderful art works you’ve tacked on the bulletin
outside,” I said, trying to be bright and breezy and evasive. Her expression
was one of both amused indifference and tight-lipped indignation, just fixing
me with her steely gaze, and for a moment I was forced to study her back,
in particular the way her face seemed doughy and medicated when looked at
straight on.
“I’m sorry to ask something so personal—” Mrs. Gonzalo began, and I
was glad I had my whole we-are-going-through-some-family-crisis-but-we-
are-holding-up-perfectly spiel down pat, “—but has Clayton been diagnosed
with cancer?”
I stared at her blankly, then blinked at her, nonplussed. “I’m sorry?”
There was silence, and Mrs. Gonzalo’s face fell. “I did wonder. Clayton
has a very vivid imagination, I daresay, and he’s been telling all sorts of stories
to his peers, some of which are, quite frankly, far-fetched.” She smiled with
relief, as though telling me my son was a total fantasist had lifted a huge
load off her chest. It was all I could do to nod along and smile politely, like
a lunatic.
“I’ll have a word with him as soon as we get home,” I said.
“Tread lightly,” she said. “It is not unusual for kids of his age to fabricate
tales and fibs when they’re going through rough times, such as parents’
separation. I suppose you know about Buddy?”
I winced inwardly as I realized his imaginary brother existed even outside
the home. “We’ve even set aside an extra place for Buddy at the dinner table!”
I chimed in with a hearty laugh.
“His imaginary brother,” she said neutrally, the corners of her thin mouth
almost in spasm.
“Buddy is such a lovely, lovely creature,” I said, not knowing what else
to say.
“I’m sure he is,” she said. “But I’m concerned about what Buddy has been
telling Clayton lately. For example, well, Clayton said Buddy had told him
their father was an adult filmmaker.”

Richard Calayeg Cornelio 5


I was so gobsmacked I didn’t know what to say. “That’s really interesting.”
My voice was a nervous squawk. I searched my mind for further acceptable
adjectives. “That’s preposterous. Exceptionally flabbergasting and … unmistakably
fictitious. That one surely takes the biscuit.”
We’d explained to Clay that his father was a filmmaker based in California,
and we were very careful not to specify what kind of films he was actually
making, because it wasn’t exactly the sort of thing you’d go around boasting to
other bratty four-year-olds in a Jesuit school. “Where on earth could he have
gotten that absurd idea?” I said, with only the teeniest quiver in my voice.
“I wouldn’t make a big deal about it,” she said. “But it wouldn’t hurt to
be mindful of what we say, or do, or leave behind for them to see …” Was
this woman seriously insinuating I’d been so irresponsible as to let my child
get ahold of whatever it was she thought I had?—which I didn’t, of course,
just for the record. She went on, “The mind of a child absorbs all manners
of things.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said rather too cheerily. She stood up as if to
indicate she wanted nothing else to do with me, and retrieved from a pile
in the corner of her table a sheaf of papers which she handed me. I browsed
through them, beaming, proud in the way only mothers could be proud for a
fleeting minute of their child’s messy finger paintings and ghastly watercolor
sketches.
“He’s been doing well in other respects,” she said. “In fact, he was the
only one to spell ecclesiasticism correctly, although, I must say, he really didn’t
have to discuss apophatism in class.”
You had to hand it to Clay for turning a spelling quiz into an opportunity
to share in class what his father, a devout atheist, had probably told him
during one of their nightly ten-minute talks, before picture books, bath,
toothbrushing, and peeing one last time. A tiny part of me was proud, and
this I felt more profoundly when I walked down the hallway to the playground
and saw Clay sitting on the bottom step of the rubberized stairs, his head
buried intently in a book of knowledge he always carried around with him.
He lifted his head and saw me, flashed me a wide smile, then trotted on his
broomstick legs to meet me and launch his jelly-smudged face at my pencil
skirt.
“Frannie!” he yelled in delighted shock. All heads turned toward us, the
mothers throwing daggers my way. One of the teachers wrenching a squalling

6 Short Story
boy away from the monkey bars stopped to flick an antagonistic look at me,
suddenly bristling all over, like a tormented cat.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I said, ruffling his thick mop of ringletty hair. “How’s
school?”
“Stupendous!” he said, and went on in a monologue about his day’s rip-
roaring adventures.
I drew him away and bent down. “Clay, have you said anything about,
um—having cancer?”
“I think so, but not exactly,” he said. “I said I had ‘atypical teratoid/
rhabtoid tumor.’”
I was poleaxed. What he just said sounded Russian and rather demonic,
something you’d want to hear before killing yourself with a bludgeon to the
neck. I wanted to coax more information out of him, reiterate to him the
ethical boundaries of fictionalizing, but before I could he’d already toddled off
toward the sandbox, pouring handfuls of sand into his unwitting classmate’s
blueberry milkshake, chuckling, the golden sluggishness of the day glinting
off his hair like a wispy halo.
The disconcerting upshot of my meeting with Clay’s teacher was to
send me down memory lane to the first time Joaquin and I were called into
Clay’s teacher’s office, in the kindergarten where he’d been enrolled before
transferring to the hoity-toity Jesuit school. It happened around the time
Clay started to become interested in Jesus, having watched The Passion of the
Christ in what was supposed to be a nonsectarian classroom. I was willing to
concede that I wasn’t literate in Jesus and had my well-entrenched doubts
and discomfitures as regards the subject, but Joaquin, despite privileging
intellect, self-determination, and skepticism, was tolerant enough to educate
Clay about the history of Jesus, his philosophy and proselytism—not his
purported divinity, but rather his awing humanity.
During playdates on weekend mornings, after rollicking spurts of
enviable energy, Clay and his curious gang of waggish nippers gathered
around Joaquin to listen to every ugly detail of Jesus’s death, how he was
flogged and beaten, abased, denied by his most trusted disciple, crowned
with thorns, nailed to a wooden cross alive, and suffered the death throes a
good while. The crayons and rubber dinosaurs and train sets lay forgotten
the entire time, tiny sticky hands gripping the edge of wing chairs as the kids
waited for the awesome part, which was that Jesus was believed to have risen

Richard Calayeg Cornelio 7


from the dead and ascended to heaven—whereupon the small beasts around
Joaquin would shriek their wonder and run off at the mouth about how
supercool Jesus was, like Superman.
Only Clay would stay seated, his forehead prematurely furrowed. Later
in the night he asked in a too-earnest voice, “Why did Jesus’s mommy let
those people be mean to him?” I was pretty sure she didn’t, that she elbowed
her way through the milling crowd to get to her son, except that, well, I
wasn’t totally sure she was around when Jesus was being flagellated. Was she
perhaps in Nazareth? Maybe Mary was someplace praying for the Holy Spirit
who’d impregnated her to fix this freaking clusterfuck, and fast. I couldn’t
even recall if I’d seen her near the end of the movie Mel Gibson had directed,
but, then again, I’d been probably distracted by Jim Caviezel’s body—if that
doesn’t sound like too strange a thing to say about the guy who’d played
Jesus. Anyhow, I somehow wandered off course and explained how Mary
loved Jesus, so much so that she didn’t mind giving birth to him in a manger
stinking of horse dung, practically away from civilization, how she wasn’t
spooked out about getting knocked up by a ghost, in the first place. This
I told him in theatrically upbeat tones, with funny faces to boot, and, of
course, not exactly in those words.
“But I thought Jesus’s daddy was God,” Clay said, baffled. “And Mary’s
husband was Joseph.”
I decided I had to be careful not to make Mary out to be a loose woman. I
said, “Well, you see, that’s the wonderful thing about Mary. She was preserved
from any stain of original sin—”
“Original sin?” he practically hissed, his eyes bulging.
For a second I was glad Joaquin had already covered the basics, including
the whole Adam and Eve bit. “Remember when Adam and Eve ate the
forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden?” I said, floundering miserably. “Even
though God specifically, emphatically asked them not to?”
He said, appearing to think about it, “Like you forbid me to eat cookies
before going to bed?”
“Precisely!” I said. “Only, in their case, disobeying God meant carrying a
sin—the original sin, a real bad, bad sin—which they have since passed down
to generation after generation.”

8 Short Story
That was when, to my astonishment, Clay dissolved in a flurry of tears
and snot and barely managed to squeak out between sobs, “I promise I won’t
eat cookies again before bedtime!”
It took a good twenty minutes of rocking him back and forth, and making
more funny faces to get him to quiet down. And I thought I was off the hook
until Clay asked me again about Mary and how baby Jesus had gotten into
her tummy, at which point I dropped the ball by mentioning immaculate
conception, and then spent the next six minutes mentally berating myself all
the while smattering about “magic,” without going into excruciating detail
about, well, the bees and the birds. I thought I did a decent enough job then,
even forcing cheeriness in my voice that enthralled and disarmed Clay. But
not a week had passed when his teacher called, concerned about a “slightly
disturbing incident” in which Clay, she recounted apologetically, had told a
three-year-old girl in his mixed-age class, a sturdy-bodied kid named Lea, that
she could be carrying Jesus in her tummy.
One of the nice things about Joaquin was that he was always able to
charm his way out of a tight spot, though it did help that a lot of people fell
for guys who could pull off donning a jute sack and still looked like primed
for the runway. He had a way, too, of speaking exclusively to the person
he was conversing with, making you feel like you were the prettiest woman
or the coolest guy on the face of the Earth—something he did with Clay’s
teacher, a chirpy fresh grad, no doubt, who’d just stared the whole while at
his cheekbones, which you could imagine yourself rappelling down. In the
meantime, I found myself upping my smile volume by the beat, not that
anyone had noticed. By the end of the meeting, Joaquin had successfully
done major damage control on our son’s future and, meanwhile, I’d strained
my facial muscles so hard I felt as if I’d just had Botox.
On our way home, Clay had tired of scrunching his face up against the
window to look for space aliens and soon just dozed off with his face buried
in Joaquin’s lap. The sounds of homebound traffic had already died almost to
a hum when I pulled in to the driveway, and inside the car I knew Joaquin
would in a moment break the silence he’d maintained all through the drive
home.
“I think that went well,” he said, watching me from the backseat. “You
know, considering …”

Richard Calayeg Cornelio 9


“People never finish their sentences anymore,” I said. He shook his head,
scowling, cracked his knuckles, and looked out at the drowsy street drinking
in its last fill of the sun. For the briefest second, I struggled to remember what
it was about him that made me fall for him to begin with.
When it was clear that silence was the order of the day, I reached over to
gently prod Clay to wakefulness. Then Joaquin took Clay’s tender frame into
one arm and deftly opened the car door with the other, while I stayed in the
car another moment and looked in the side mirror to watch them walk up
the doorsteps, a small head cradled against a giant’s chest, like something in
perfect contrast with all the things I knew not a squat about, all the questions
I didn’t have the answers to.
In the end, it was Buddy, after long insistent messages delivered through
Clay, that convinced us to phone the clinic at the children’s hospital.
Somehow—without exactly telling the pharmaceutically calm woman on the
other end that my son’s imaginary brother was, for some reason or other, under
the impression that Clay had a malignant, diabolic-sounding tumor—I was
told to head straight away to the ER to have Clay CT-scanned. The attending
physician and all the importantly white-coated personnel found it curious at
first that I took him there not as a referral from his pediatrician, but merely
out of, as I’d mentioned to them, a cryptically gnawing mother’s intuition.
The CT scan required that Clay fall asleep, which he did, without so
much as a fuss. I stayed in the cafeteria, one of the most brightly lit and
darkest places I’d ever been, and there listened to a girl at the next table supply
the words to an unsuitably perky tune coming over the speakers, as one grim-
faced parent after another got up for another coffee refill. It wasn’t long
before I was called up to the ER and told by Dr. Yu, the head of the pediatric
neurosurgery, that Clay’s brain was enlarged, and the first thing I thought of
then was something I’d read that correlated the size of one’s brain to one’s IQ,
so surely, I told myself, that must be something good, right? The next thing
to do, Dr. Yu said, was to send Clay for an MRI, and that was when I knew
for sure, terrifying as it was, that it wasn’t to prove his precociousness that my
son would need images of his brain.
It amazed me that Clay had so far held his own through this, not bursting
into tears as the anesthetics were administered, but only sitting anxiously and
peering up at me every now and then. The MRI took about an hour and a
half, during which time I roamed the hospital hallways in something of a
daze, my eyes peering into other people’s rooms as I passed their open doors,

10 Short Story
as if rubbernecking a car crash, and glimpsed faces pinched with pain or with
unsettling resignation. In the waiting room, there was a woman in sweatpants
who looked overcaffeinated and couldn’t stop rocking a cute, bald girl in
her cavernous lap. Back in medical imaging, Dr. Yu nodded gravely at me
before showing me the MRI images on his computer. “What we have here is a
tumor,” he said, pointing at a round something that looked to me innocuous
enough, “which is very actively growing.” I had hoped until then to hear the
words very actively growing used to describe my son, not a nasty tumor that
had lodged itself in his head because of some unknown pathological anomaly.
Those three words marched through my head like an odd, silent prayer
as I watched over Clay sleeping in a small, fluorescently ablaze room, the
rhythmic rise and fall of his chest lulling me almost to sleep. Each time I
caught myself drifting off, though, those three words would dart into my
thoughts, like a swinging bitch slap. A growing tumor was hard enough to
wrap my head around, more so an actively growing tumor, and much more
so a very actively growing tumor. Besides, on what earth would a doctor
diagnose a child to have a tumor? Which was, as I saw it, equivalent to using
Johnny Depp’s photo as an anti-drug poster: an unpardonable crime. “But
he’s only four,” I’d said, when the reality of those three words finally hit me,
as if I could talk the doctor out of his diagnosis. “He eats Brussels sprouts and
broccoli,” I’d countered, “and even slimy okra!”
I couldn’t let myself give in to the facts staring me in the face and also go
on thinking things would work out, couldn’t for the life of me imagine going
through the motions of interminable days here in the hospital, where I could
see the white ceiling weighing oppressively and feel the imperturbably blank
walls hedging me in, squeezing my being into something shapeless like oil.
And so I let myself believe other things instead. Such as that if I covered his
face, his crown, and his forehead with just the right number of kisses, then
perhaps I could magically suck the darned tumor out of his system, or else
suck it into mine, where it could very actively grow to its heart’s content—
which would then be, I realized as I quietly rained upon him my tears, just
as well.
I could tell you that I lost my virginity an hour shy of my twenty-sixth
birthday and that I went to an abortion clinic five months after, like they
were the beginning and the end of a tired storyline whose interim you
could confidently guess at. The former involved me and a man who I wasn’t
committed to at the time, while the latter featured only me, a woman who

Richard Calayeg Cornelio 11


had until then been inoculated against hurt and wavering that came with
infuriating indecision. Although both were my choices, one made me feel
potent and the other left me prostrate, paralyzed with ambivalence.
The first one was a product of both the fantastical belief that I had to save
myself for Prince Charming, who’d come along on a white stallion and swoop
me off my feet, with whom I’d ride into the sunset, and the more practical,
though equally ludicrous, belief that sex was something particularly tricky for
women, especially for someone like myself who couldn’t even wear a leather
bustier on account of not having the chest to hold it up. The words of de
Beauvoir and Friedan faltered in the face of the question of whether to Do It
or not to Do It, which I believed not many men found themselves pondering
heavily as much as women did, because men just Do It. Like Nike.
When I finally decided that I’d Do It, it wasn’t with the man I was going
with at the time, someone who I was drawn to intellectually and emotionally
and physically, but who believed, to my chagrin and alarm, that the exercise
of his sexual will was fundamental to any relationship he had had with a
woman. You’d have thought that with a man like that, who always had his
hand up my thigh unbelievably immediately when no one was watching, I’d
get laid faster than you could say sex. During some tonsil hockey or tongue
fencing, for example, he’d pause to brush his squishy-looking lips against my
ear and whisper, while groping my boob rather distressingly, “You know you
like it.” And of course I didn’t like it all that much, but somehow blood clots
could form in your mildly mashed breasts and then travel to your brain and
make you kind of grunt and purr, which your sexually repressed boyfriend
would interpret as a throaty moan of assent and so he’d squash your knockers
even more, whereupon you’d slap his hand away, thus ruining his mood.
The man I did Do It with was my best friend whom I genuinely cared for
and who cared for me. The sex was awkward and singular and depressingly
slow, like getting your master’s degree. The morning I saw the cross on the
stick, two weeks after, I called him and we spent the afternoon wandering the
tree-lined avenues at the state university we’d hailed from, the sun-dappled,
bowery branches providing welcome shade. Then we talked about what we
were going to do. It turned out there was nothing he was going to do about
it, because it couldn’t be possibly his after all. He told me a story that involved
laboratory tests and spermicidal count and an abortive operation abroad, a
story so remote from mine that I didn’t understand until after a vital minute
of silence, into which you could’ve poured all the ironies of life, that what it

12 Short Story
all meant was that he couldn’t have knocked me up, or any woman for that
matter. I remember not knowing what to say, not knowing what to feel. I
remember thinking absurdly that there must be hidden cameras around then,
at the Sunken Garden, filming this travesty of a melodrama. I remember
instinctively lifting a hand to my tummy.
Afterwards, he called me the Virgin Mary twice, and the first time he said
it I laughed like my life depended on it, a hysterical horselaugh that was more
just air out my nose, till tears welled up and smarted my eyes, and in a minute
we were laughing again, then I was both crying and laughing into his palm,
and he said, matter-of-factly, “I can’t help you.” The second time he said it, I
could no longer trust myself to laugh as though I’d just lost it upstairs without
hearing my voice crack.
“You’re the Virgin Mary,” he said, not glancing my way. “Maybe the
second coming of Christ will be through your womb, and we’ll all be saved.”
When I thought he had nothing more to say, he answered a question I didn’t
want to ask him: “Maybe it’s the right thing to do, keeping it.”
The trick was to deny the dread I felt, and the helplessness. Nearly a
month in the hospital allowed for a routine: at around noon, I’d duck out
of Clay’s room and walk into the restroom, where I’d shut myself in a stall,
feel the door shudder as I slumped against it in a fury of tears and anguish.
There was a minute or even just a fleeting second, during this cathartic flare-
up, when I’d look back on the days folded away forever before the word
cancer began to define our lives, trying to recall what it was—what seemingly
inconsequential, inoffensive evidence—that I ought to have caught earlier.
In my mind’s eye, I stayed in that stall until the moments and leap seconds
extended into lifetimes, but I knew it took only a few fast breaths, pulling
myself together, gathering enough wits to soldier on for the rest of the day,
before going back out to resume the life I’d put on pause.
A sort of shunt had had to be implanted in Clay’s head, to serve as a
drainage pipe for the removal of the accumulated cerebrospinal fluid, and it
was around this time, in the second week of the ordeal, that Joaquin came
home and was quickly filled in on the latest developments by Dr. Yu and his
neurosurgical team. He was as gripped and unmoored by sorrow as I was,
but the only way he knew to set about the emotional acrobatics required of
us in this situation was to wield the ungainly language of medicine. Despite
thoughtful cautions from the professionals, Joaquin looked up anything even
remotely related to Clay’s case on the Internet. He printed out whatever

Richard Calayeg Cornelio 13


journal articles he could find and pored over them, highlighter poised in
midair, his black-rimmed glasses slipping a fraction down his nose. He had
such heartbreaking faith in these impeccably robed, masked strangers and in
their unflinching stoicism that he always came up to them with questions,
which I sometimes suspected even the doctors didn’t have the answers to. And
in time, he began to speak in polysyllables and talked the names of drugs that
I couldn’t even begin to pronounce.
Joaquin was the one who’d informed me that “atypical rhabtoid/teratoid
tumors” (ATRTs), the kind Clay had, represented only about 3 percent of
pediatric cancers of the central nervous system, and this, I thought, was the
sort of probabilistic luck that I’d always dreamed of to have a shot at the
sweepstakes. This was not what I’d bargained for, I told myself, not the series
of scans and antibiotics and checkups and emergency surgeries that I’d only
watched in movies before, and which now took on a more catastrophically
nightmarish form in a reality I didn’t feel we deserved.
This was also a reality no child deserved. Days and nights in giddy
succession zipped past us and were marked only by the growing pile of
newspapers on Clay’s night stand, each one bearing headlines already exiting
into oblivion, disorientingly offset by the idle rhythm of hospital time that
never had a humming machine, a blinking monitor, or a wheezing respirator
ceased to remind us of. In Clay’s troubled face I saw the paradoxical march of
time and its almost palpable linger.
The world, as I’d last known it, still unruffledly went about its business.
For a short while, two days to be exact, we were allowed to reconnect with
human civilization and pretend to be the functional, unscathed, unburdened
carbon life forms that we’d been before. It was a Wednesday, I remember,
and after frivolously lunching on vanilla-flavored ice cream, Clay surprised
Joaquin and I by requesting we go talk to Jesus, in the Catholic chapel we’d
never before set foot on. The four of us, including Clay’s insurmountable
imaginary brother, Buddy, walked in and sat down on one of the front pews.
It somewhat pained me to think that, back in the hospital, we’d specifically
told the hospital chaplain and those other Jesus people, to their openmouthed
dismay, to be sure to make themselves scarce around us. Sympathetic though
they were, we preferred to be comforted by the secure knowledge of science
and shunned the formless solace the supernatural offered. That day, before
we left, Clay said that Buddy was sad that they had to go back to the hospital
that night.

14 Short Story
And it was indeed true: Clay’s tumor was hemorrhaging and so we had
to drive back in the bitter evening cold to the hospital to have it removed.
Joaquin and I, we alternately sighed and wept and wept and sighed, the
pauses between an exhaled breath and the next measured by our tears, which
seemed to us inexhaustible and criminally useless. Like the only survivors of
a plane crash, we clutched each other, rocked by sobs and the jitters of our
overcaffeinated bodies, and it was so clearly the only time in a long, long
time that I felt I wasn’t alone in my monstrous grief, that the two of us were
in it together. When the oncologist walked into the room, we sprung apart
like teenagers doing something particularly lewd under the gum-studded
bleachers in the school gym. He informed us, not meeting our eyes, that the
tumor might spread to Clay’s meninges.
“You mean, the cancer could metastasize within the CNS?” I asked, in
the back of my mind surprised at how foreign yet matter-of-factly these words
rolled off my tongue, wondering whether I’d become that type of person who
threw around acronyms as if everyone knew what they meant.
By this time we’d learned to read in the faces of the people who delivered
the news, in the shifting of their eyes and in the pitch of their voices, all the
words they didn’t speak and the things they didn’t have to say. It was the skill
I taught my students at the state university, that of reading between the lines
and tearing apart and stripping to the bones a poem or an essay or a short
story, until they got to the bottom of things and found answers in the face of
only a smattering of words. It was the skill I hadn’t known until then would
come in handy in predicting the fate of my child.
Four hours later I’d polished off a chunk of pistachio halvah that Joaquin
had two weeks ago bought at a Greek store in LA. Now, that seemed like a
century ago. Rightfully oblivious of anything else, Joaquin typed away at his
laptop and read up on even more discouraging statistics available for him
to chew over. Then Dr. Yu’s laconic, ratlike assistant came in to tell us that
Clay had “pulled through,” and these words, not for the first time, seemed
to me wrongfully descriptive of a child’s condition, like a big cosmic joke, so
convinced was I that a four-year-old’s only purpose in life was to play and
be a babbling beast. In the ICU where he’d been taken, post-op, Clay was
nestled in an intricate tangle of tubes, wires, and IVs, peacefully drugged.
Occasionally, he clutched at the air as if for an invisible hand reaching out. It
was the universe’s miserable excuse for a prank, I’d come to believe, to watch
your child gingerly slip into nothingness when, by natural design, he was
supposed to outlast you by decades; when it was you whose every dip of heart

Richard Calayeg Cornelio 15


rate, every change in blood pressure, every ragged breath he was supposed to
register, to weep over.
I didn’t know I’d fallen asleep until I awoke to a sort of commotion in the
room. A gang of masked strangers surrounded Clay’s bed and moved in their
annoyingly brisk, censorious manner. Through angry tears, Joaquin told me
Clay’s blood pressure had plummeted and he’d had to beep the nurse. Clay
was whisked out of the room, and just like that we were again left balanced
on the fulcrum between helplessness and terror. My eyes flitted to the giant,
dumb clock on the far wall. It was four-ten in the morning. Joaquin took my
hand and led me to the cafeteria, where we both ate a slice of a bricklike peach
pie in companionable silence. There was a familiar-looking girl at the next
table, humming along to an upbeat tune coming over the speakers, and under
her eyes were deep purple hollows, like kohl. Then I almost saw myself—my
pudgy face, my messy hair, my slovenly clothing—through her eyes and gave
an involuntary simper. We practically leapt as though jolted awake when,
after a long while, we heard our names being called over the intercom.
He was sleeping. While the oncologists and Joaquin talked about the
schedule of his chemo, I sat by Clay’s bed and kissed the fingers of his tiny,
limp hand over and over, not caring in the least that he always pulled it away.
I reached through the tubes to feel every assuring thump of his chest.
The decision to keep it, after that day of walking around the university
campus, was one I initially felt so sure about. The prospect of single
motherhood became an exciting, challenging thing overnight, one I was
willing to take on, like a solo-flight science project. Two months after nary
a conversation with me, though, the man I did Do It with decided, in a fit
of unexplained dementedness, to move in with me. At the drop of a hat, he
left his job in LA and stuffed my apartment to the gills with books and a
roomful of filming equipment he never really got around to use anyway. In
the afternoons, we both reclined on matching ratty divans lining the opposite
walls, for hours on end, reading silently to ourselves and sometimes aloud to
each other. Often, we didn’t bother with breakfast. We went weeks without
washing dishes and doing laundry. At night, after he made love to me, I’d lie
still and weep because I knew he loved me and I him, but it was the kind of
love that I wasn’t ready for and couldn’t take as I knew that either it somehow
wasn’t enough or it was so bigger than myself, I feared it had a looming expiry
date that would leave me all high and dry.

16 Short Story
To my colleagues and friends from college, who had begun sending me
wedding invitations, I often referred to him as what I’d had for the past several
months instead of a serious relationship. He turned down all the invitations,
tortured as he was by the politics of marriage, the central role this archaic act
played in sustaining patriarchy, and all sorts of heteronormative things that
smart people like him steered clear of. His staunch allegiance to his principles
was no small reason why I fell for him, but now, somehow, I found myself
passing up a few wedding invitations myself, in case he thought my attending
such a ceremony would be the height of antifeminism. Our LGBTQ friends
lauded our decision, and even I had to admit that I enjoyed talking about our
progressive politics, with the airs of self-abnegation you typically hear from
owners of rescue dogs, more than I actually liked living it. It sickened me to
realize how much of a big self-interested fraud I was.
Being with him felt like walking on a bed of hot coals with one leg tied
up behind my back. It became apparent to me, in spite of myself, that wearing
a fluffy white dress and sharing a sinfully sweet multitiered cake with a
gentleman in a tuxedo was the stuff of my dreams. I knew it sounded silly and
certainly paled in comparison to the earnest political and social stances where
he stood, but I liked to think that this was where my feminism proved to be
not as shatterproof as I’d thought. That we were never going to be married,
however, was a fact so apparent it seemed to me beside the point to convince
him otherwise. The two of us were held only by a tenuous thread stirring in
the pit of my stomach, reminding me of its reality with a constricting rhythm
in my throat, like one pulsing fist. But it was an intimation of life, I realized
one night, that I didn’t think I really wanted.
All of a sudden, all of my original misgivings about motherhood came
rushing back and my once unswerving determination to become a mother
turned into an amorphous ball of ambivalence. The reservations I harbored ran
the gamut from Don’t want to turn into a cow after pregnancy to Don’t want to
be compelled to make decisions for someone else’s interest. I didn’t consider myself
vain or proud, but was it evidence to the contrary to say that I feared having
a child would curtail my freedom to travel, my fondness for mortifyingly
expensive cocktail, my sex life? To say that I was afraid to transform into
the archetypal woman in the doorway, who called out to a small departing
figure, “Take care!” in that hasty peck-at-the-door spirit before turning
away and confronting the screaming silence of the house? And I thought I
didn’t have the makings of a mother, that wherever this type of women were

Richard Calayeg Cornelio 17


manufactured was surely not where I’d come from. Once, I had read a story
submitted to the college journal, of which I was one of the content editors,
was about a guilt-ridden mother who’d stuffed her baby in a dumpster, and,
to my horror, I’d identified with her and her fear, her deranged motive for
offing her daughter: that she’d bungle motherhood irredeemably.
Meanwhile, much to my plain surprise, he’d gone on such full daddy
mode that one morning he surprised me even more by buying a glamorous,
overpriced house in the suburbs. Jobless though he was, the inheritance left
by his late father could tide him over for well more than forty years. The
thought of being a suburban couple with a baby on the way was, however, a
cliché I’d thought he’d never cotton onto. He became so exponentially excited
that he bought playthings and sippy cups. A couple of times he visited me
in my office and brought with him books on pregnancy that he’d checked
out from the college library. He enrolled both of us in a Lamaze class that
wouldn’t start until after seven months and asked me what I felt about the
name Nikolai Vasilievich, his favorite author’s. “Revulsion,” I wanted to say.
Instead, I just went, “I like Sojourner Truth if it’s a girl.”
I had no delusions about making a stand for women everywhere, like one
of my female friends accused me of upon hearing my story, when I decided
to get an abortion. The clinic, if it could be called that, was in a nondescript
concrete building from the sixties. The room was well air-conditioned, and
tacked on a wall the color of excellent margarine, seeming so out of context,
was a poster of a provocative teenage Britney Spears. A friend of mine who
referred me to this place had said that the abortionist was someone you
could trust with your life, and I’d found this description funny, if not ironic.
The receptionist was unflatteringly dressed in a blue shirtwaist. I’d put on
a coatdress and matched it with a pair of biggish, bumblebee-esque black
shades, the kind celebrities wore to avoid the paparazzi. I comforted myself by
thinking this child would turn out an axe murderer or a terrorist or a psycho,
and relief laced with perpetual doubt rippled through me. The feeling was
physical, though, for right then and there, on a couch tattered in all the right
places, I threw up. The receptionist gasped, and I sprinted to the door with
bile spilled right down the front of my dress. I hailed a taxi and spent the ride
staring at a plastic rosary hanging from the rearview mirror.
Bushed but almost mechanically activated, Joaquin and I talked with
the doctors and signed off on papers and divided our calendar into weeks
that corresponded with cycles of chemotherapy that Clay had to undergo.

18 Short Story
The oncologists advised against radiation therapy, although Clay was already
four and the risks of long-term complications due to brain irradiation were
lower, and decided instead on an intensified induction chemotherapy at first,
which involved a regimen of vincristine, etoposide, and cisplatin. Each cycle,
we were told, used chemo at doses toxic enough to completely deplete the
bone marrow, which would have to be regrown through stem cell rescue. In
between cycles, we arranged visits from relatives and friends who crammed
the hospital room with every imaginable stuffed and balloon animal on the
planet and many chocolates that Joaquin and I were forced to eat, since the
nurses had hung up a bag of intravenous liquid food for Clay. All sorts of
drugs were dispensed at regular intervals. Fairly soon, visits to the ER had
become commonplace.
Most days, Clay awoke as if in a mild psychic fever, his movements
uncoordinated and feeble. Often visibly afraid, he mumbled strange half-
words that sounded nothing you could find in the dictionary. On days he was
awake, if groggy, we filled the room with our laughter and songs, and people
passing in the corridor saw us and smiled. Clay, more than several times,
insisted we listen to Buddy sing and for five minutes Joaquin and I stared into
space, quiet, smiles plastered on our faces. He regaled us with stories about
his travels with Buddy, to places chillingly resembling gold-paved, cloud-
covered heavens in drawings I knew all too well from pamphlets handed out
by proselytizers. His long, jagged squawks of delight at jokes only he could
understand tapered off into wheezes, or roaring coughs, or dry heaves. We
were careful not to hug him too hard or hold his hand for too long, afraid that
he might crumble like a dry cracker even at our slightest touch.
“That’s normal,” one of the sweatpanted mothers on the oncology ward
told me over a lunch of congealed soup. “Some days I can’t even bear to look
at my baby like that, all undone, ailing.”
The rustling of magazine pages, the occasional blare of a ringing phone,
and the snivels and sobs punctuated the sotto voce dialogue among parents
whose children were also beset by cancer. Here, we were all enlisted in a battle
that we would’ve bowed out of, if only we’d had our druthers. Joaquin and I,
we listened to one unbearable story after another which we took as we would
a fistful of change, perfunctorily and emotionlessly, and after a while one sad
story didn’t seem an especially sad one as the whole place was so suffused with
sadness anyway that a shared portion of someone else’s grief didn’t really add
anything additional. Both of us understood, too, without saying so, that we

Richard Calayeg Cornelio 19


were to insulate these strangers from our misery and the loneliness we now
wore like a mourning coat hanging off of us in big, drooping folds. We were
too insular in this regard, not letting anyone in on what we felt was ours,
though one thrust upon us against our best defenses.
It seemed like another lifetime when Joaquin and I had decided to
separate. I remember the night we were lying awake on the same bed, with
a third party, a ghoulish, unmistakable presence, bridging our two bodies. I
remember shifting a little, in the tentative way one would stir beside a bedfast
patient, and Joaquin, after a beat, pressing himself against my back and
spooning me closer into his robust frame, his lips on the nape of my neck and
his eyes wetting the tendrils of my hair.
“I’m sorry,” he said, in a voice as thick as chocolate fudge. “Please, Fran,
say you still love me.”
Here I turned over and faced him, held his head close against my chest
until he stopped shaking, crying. I could feel his shuddery breath hot on my
skin and I held him closer. I said, “I’m sorry.”
And it was at that very moment that I understood finally how two people
could say the same thing and mean differently, or not really differently at all.
I knew the urgency of a shared confession, how you could simply feel the
truth singing out of your bones, sometimes in the most unlikely place and the
most unlikely time, and how clarity could still lend itself to you, marvelous
and momentary. I knew, despite my emotional protestations, that the end
of something good could be the beginning of something worse than you’d
bargained for, or of something better that could come only of losing things
you’d once held dear and sworn you couldn’t live without, along the way.
It was a feeling that splintered your thoughts in its first onrush and
twisted you as if rung like a wet towel in the next. And, indeed, I felt as if I
were about to give birth to not just one, but a whole generation of babies, plus
the rest of my intestines and bladder. Through it all, he held my hand as I was
being wheeled to the ER, rubbing the web of skin between my forefinger and
thumb as if that was where the baby would come out. He cooed, mumbled,
patted my eyebrow with a washrag.
I could say that was the beginning of it, the rather infantile rage I felt
toward him, who kept telling me that everything would be all right, as if
he had a way of knowing. It was the kind of certainty that approximated
impartiality and thus sounded believable. But lying in that bed, then, with

20 Short Story
strangers unlaughably peeking their heads in between my canted knees, I only
knew that every time I screamed his name I was cursing him in my head and
ready to jump out of my skin in contempt. The worst part was perhaps to
see him smile so excitedly, like a puppy, with that everlastingly encouraging
expression on his face; to know that he thought I was screaming his name
because we were all in this together and all that sickeningly happy preggers
stuff I’d been told by well-meaning friends to think about during labor, but
which, alas, melted away in the face of pain.
And it was true, because pain, unlike what the Lamaze teacher had spieled
a gazillion times, was not good. Pain was having to push a creature the size
of a pumpkin through an orifice that had only previously admitted nothing
larger than an eggplant, which had once upon a time convinced me that if I
could let something that large in, then delivering a human being would be
easy as rolling off a log. It was easy, of course, for him to say those anodyne
words and make those pesky, little coaxing sounds when he wasn’t the one
made to feel guilty for having a coochie as small and inelastic and ornamental
and only occasionally utilitarian as a peephole; when he wasn’t the one spread
open like one sorry gobbet of meat, with huge helpless haunches and tears
exposed; when he hadn’t been the one in some kind of discomfort pretty
much the entire nine months, and who would now be ripped to ribbons
as a crazy, unholy storm shivered through her entire being; when he wasn’t
the one who had to wonder why no squalling pinch-faced spawn was being
shoved to his chest. To be told by some stranger that the baby had “expired,”
like a canned good gone sour.
He had no right to tell me it would all be okay, the storm had passed,
we’d get through this.
For there wasn’t an end to it, really, only a prelude to days rolling away
forever—the fluid passage of time I could only mark by the mounting mess
of balled and bloodied panties and thick tampons in the wicker trash in the
bathroom, by the increasing rock-hard heaviness of my breasts, which every
day I’d had to pump of their souring milk that sprayed like blood from a
nicked artery, and by the laconic messages accumulated on the answering
machine from him, the vanished lover, who’d turned tail, quick on the draw,
“to figure things out.” One morning, the courier had to bring a scowling
barangay tanod with him and knocked on my door, worried something had
happened to me when he’d realized the mail could no longer fit through the
slot. Something had happened to me, all right, but explaining it, I feared,

Richard Calayeg Cornelio 21


might wind up in tears and awkward consoling that went beyond a thoughtful
messenger’s job description. And before I knew it, my baby would’ve turned a
week old. I went to the vanished lover’s room and sat on the foot of the bed,
watching the sun spill through and lick at all the stuff I’d spent a sleepless
month’s wage on, and which I’d weeks later start giving away, all the pretty
little things awaiting the pretty little child that never came.
“Could you buy Buddy and me a new toy?” Clay asked, in an
uncharacteristically small voice.
“What kind of toy do you want?” I saw a little puzzled look of worry
spread over his face.
He said, after a long moment. “Buddy said you should buy something to
remember me by.”
He appeared to me too bright at that moment, lighting up from within,
though still visibly pale, withered with fatigue and welted with bruises. But
the longer I gazed at Clay’s ashen face the more he resembled a leftover
afterimage from staring at a recently screwed-on, bare bulb for too long,
fugacious and fading away right before my eyes. When I kissed him goodbye,
the last sunlight had already painted the streets in the warmth and thickness
of honey, needlepoint glimmers winking through the windswept trees and
the sky unfurling itself dark and wide open. How unremarkable that day was,
how my leave-taking felt to me so very temporary that, though I tried to be
stern with myself, I couldn’t help a sigh of relief from hissing out of me at the
thought of leaving the hospital, to come up for air, knowing that I would so
soon be returning to that place and see my child again.
Thoughts fly at me like so many trapped sparrows in my head. I’d rolled
through not one but three red lights and still I found myself now ensnared
in a space-time continuum that I’d operated within, once in another lifetime.
Somehow I’d forgotten how this world worked, with everyone oblivious
of everyone else, bumper-to-bumper traffic being the pinnacle of such
anthropologic indifference. When at last the road congestion had slackened,
I flew through the throughways with my heart clenched in my throat. Then I
entertained a filmic imagination of the moment of my own death, filled with
the graphic and sound effects of a Hollywood action movie, with a stunning
glare of headlights, a screeching of tires, a panicky loss of control of the car,
an explosion of the windshield, and an enormous crash of metal against
metal that would leave my body bloody and mangled and crushed beyond
recognition. It reassured me, even for a minute, this compulsively morbid

22 Short Story
imagination of my mortality, which was in itself a bargain I’d be more than
willing to make. A block away from the hospital, my breath caught in my
throat like a darned seed, I stopped to cry.
Aware of the every tick of the clock, I ran through the semi-darkened
hallways with my blue shopping bag in hand. The few people I passed in
the corridor, some of whom were nurses who’d come in hourly to check on
Clay, regarded me with a terrified look. A morose pack of the ICU staff had
crowded the door to Clay’s room, and I barged through them with all the
muscular strength I’d somehow miraculously mustered. I heard only the
relentless buzzing machines, or maybe the buzzing came from some monster
inside me, I didn’t know, a sound that flicked in me like bees in a hive. I
felt half-scared of the doctors and nurses standing around Clay’s bed, talking
urgently yet monotonously, but also half-connected with them in our prayers
to keep my son alive, his life literally in their hands. Then finally I saw Clay,
bloated and beautifully misshapen, needles stabbed into his little hands
like an acupuncturist’s nightmare. And in one corner, Joaquin was alone in
his preemptive grief, crying like I’d never seen an adult cry before. I let the
shopping bag in my hand fall to the floor with a dull thud. From behind
his horn-rimmed glasses the oncologist looked to me helplessly and all of a
sudden a loud beeping pierced the rubbery silence. I told them to stop.
It was at this point that my memory failed me. Part of me still believed I
was the mother just three hours before, who’d been asked by her son to buy
a new toy for his imaginary brother, who’d promised she would, and walked
out the door in utter naiveté, secure in the knowledge she’d come back to
this room in no time. Now, head throbbing, my tongue sickly furred, I was
staring at Clay, who’d not moved, and realized I’d do anything just so I could
tell that woman that she was making the worst decision in her life, which was
saying a lot for someone who’d time and again stumbled through the most
unfortunate choices. I recalled wandering the mall and lighting upon just
the right toy: a cylindrical something with slits in its circumference through
which to view stars passing through a series of their natural motions, twinkling
and blinking. It was something I’d like Clay to hold on to, for him to revel
in its steady merry-go-round movement and its comforting familiarity, but
which now felt in my hands like a wet bag of cement, like a cumbersome,
purposeless thing.
A semblance of bemused calm belied how I feel emptied right then and
at the same time stuffed as if with lead shot, my body too weighty for me to
move, my breathing stilled, for I started to feel that every exhale I made was

Richard Calayeg Cornelio 23


one breath more than the room that contained our grief could handle. Then
I felt an even thumping anguish rolling off Joaquin in waves, and prayed, at
that moment, to whatever god Clay had believed in but which I couldn’t find
or identify, for the welling in my eyes to stay at the corners and not become
actual tears, because then I’d have to face that this was real and that somehow
I was one to blame, that, as though by comeuppance, my initial uneasiness
about motherhood had set his death off. In the end, I faltered and heard a
wail roaring through my ears.
There was another lifetime, of course, in which these tears were shed,
though the notion of our child’s death seemed as faraway and far-fetched
as the idea of dead stars twinkling down at us forever. It was the night, four
years ago, when for the second time in my life I was peeled open to the pulp.
I had been wheeled down the hall to a parchment-white room, where I lay
on a cot with white rubberized sheets, staring at harsh fluorescent panels that
gawked at me overhead. Joaquin, after vanishing and tearing up the town,
had returned like a wave you could always trust to surge back ashore but
which you also knew would ebb away, yet again, sometime. He held my hand
as my body rattled so hard like keys jingling in your pocket, let me hold his
hand as strangers’ faces pressed in and talked in hushed tones. I remember it
was almost Valentine’s, and somewhere, in a nice, cozy hotel room, I knew
the man who I’d had a brief dalliance with couldn’t care less that his son was
being delivered to the world. I remember being pulled down into abysmal
darkness, an insidious sense of free fall, then being pulled back up into a blaze
of something like new life, like something that would last. I felt the weight of
it on my chest, its unsullied perfect possibilities, and tenderly I kissed its tiny
fists reaching up into the air and promised to hold on to it, forever.

24 Short Story
Creek
ISRAFEL FAGELA

T here was something in the news a while back about a boy from the slums
who had drowned in the Pasig River. It had been raining hard the day
before and the boy was playing with his friends when he slipped and fell
into the water. His body was found hours later in a garbage pile along the
riverbank, quite a distance from where he must have drowned. I remember
thinking how everyone must be blaming the boy’s parents. The reporter
interviewed the mother. She says she was asleep when it happened, exhausted
from a ten-hour shift at the nearby brassiere factory. I guess I could see how
everyone watching the news might think it was her fault, that she did not
do enough to keep her child safe. I felt bad for the mother. She was crying
and wailing while being interviewed, clutching a framed photo of her son,
beaming in his brown preschool uniform.
I would have cried too, if it had happened to me. If you don’t cry, if
you don’t show how distraught you are, people will think there is something
wrong with you.
When I was a little girl growing up in the province, children were less
coddled, allowed (more or less) to play without adult supervision. We lived
in Laguna, in a sprawling subdivision intended as a housing project for
government employees during the Marcos years. My father, an engineer at the
provincial public works department, knew all the homeowners, not only as
neighbors but as coworkers since all of them worked at the Provincial Capitol.
It started out as a closely-knit community, at least until the developer pulled
out in the middle of the project because of some legal dispute, leaving almost
half of the project unfinished. The undeveloped area was still largely forested
and a creek ran through it. There was no cable TV back then, or Internet, or
other things that kept children at home, so we were mostly outdoors climbing
trees, playing in the streets, riding our bicycles.

25
It was the creek that drew most of the children, especially on those long
summers. The water ran clear and cool from the adjoining property—also a
large, vacant tract of forest land—and branched out into riffles where you
could stand on the creek bed and watch the water part around your feet
then meander downstream to a natural pool where you could sometimes go
swimming.
Although I was tall for my age, the water in the pool went up as high
as my chest and I had to hold on to the large, sharp stones to make sure I
did not lose my footing. During the rainy season, water overflowed along
the banks and made it impossible to swim. Some of the kids, perhaps out
of boredom more than adventurousness, would still go anyway even in the
middle of a typhoon, which would worry their parents to no end. Neighbors
would organize themselves haphazardly into search parties and look for their
kids along the creek then spank them all the way home. As with many other
things back then, you were allowed a broader leeway for mischief but go too
far and the consequences were often severe.
I was eleven when the province decided to build the new government
center which would end up displacing many families living in the center of the
capital city. To convince these families and households—hundreds of people,
including children—to consent to the development, they were promised
relocation in our subdivision. Photographs of our erstwhile paradise, a row
of tiny, low-cost houses with proudly well-kept lawns, were passed around
during public consultations, next to a consent and waiver form awaiting their
signatures.
I still remember clearly the day they all moved into the subdivision. They
had to be bused in by shifts since there were so many of them. Several families,
including some from our street, decided to move out of the subdivision weeks
before. We all felt betrayed that our idyllic community was about to turn into
a “squatter relocation site.” When the first wave of families moved into our
street—with their pots and pans and straw sleeping mats—and occupied the
once-loved houses of our former neighbors, my father could not help but
shake his head in disgust. His deep disappointment was later on exacerbated
when we found that the government had let many more families into the
subdivision even after all the houses had been filled. They were assigned
undeveloped plots of land, given nipa and other light materials, and told
to build their own makeshift homes. My father had three daughters, and it

26 Short Story
seemed more and more like a good idea to establish a home somewhere else.
However, he felt that a move on our part would reflect poorly on the new
government center project and embarrass the governor so we stayed on.
It was the same year that I met Celso and Manny. Manny was twelve
years old, the son of a woodcarver and the middle child of a brood of five.
Celso was two years older. I knew very little of Celso’s family, other than that
his family occupied the house left by Engr. Manaloto, my father’s former
colleague. Celso had an intense, brooding demeanor and looked unusually
strong and tall for his age. A scar ran down his right cheekbone, which Celso
said he got from a street fight, but Manny confided was from a smack on the
face with a bottle during one of his father’s drunken episodes.
Manny had known Celso even before they moved into the subdivision.
They used to live on the same plot of government land from which they
were evicted to give way to the provincial hospital. Manny was often bullied
because of his height so he stuck close to Celso for protection. In return,
Manny would give Celso cigarettes which he pilfered from his mother’s sari-
sari store.
We spent a whole summer together hanging out at their storefront, sitting
under the eaves to get away from the sun. Sometimes Manny’s mother would
see me—“Engr. Fernando’s pretty little girl”—and offer me a cold Coca-Cola.
She was a nice lady, always smiling at me and asking about my parents, but
the look in her eyes would turn into a mix of concern and disappointment
every time she saw Celso. “Manny used to be such a good son until he started
running with that boy,” she told me one time when Celso was not around.
She warned me to stay away from Celso or she would tell my father the kind
of company I had been keeping. “You are just a baby, and Celso is almost a
grown man,” she said. “It would be a pity if something happened to you.”
I indignantly told her to shut up and mind her own business. I was sitting
on the small wooden bench she kept for customers, and she was standing
in right front of me. She put her hand on her chest and wore a pained and
surprised look—like she had been shot by someone she cared about. “My
father would never believe you,” I shouted at her. “He has a lot of important
friends. If you keep meddling in my life I’ll make sure that they throw your
whole family out on the street!” I would always hear my parents complaining
about our refugee neighbors—how unclean they were, how they let their
garbage pile up in front of their houses, how the subdivision had no security

Israfel Fagela 27
guards and lampposts because they would not pay the monthly dues. I knew
how the original homeowners hated them, all the bad names they were called
behind their backs: thieves, deadbeats, squatters.
At the same time, I knew, even then, that there was something inherently
immoral in the words that just came out of my mouth, the same way I
knew that stealing and cruelty were wrong, but I only had a child’s meager
understanding of the dynamics of class and of the devastating power of
words. What felt clear at the time was that I could not allow Manny’s mother
to dictate upon my life more than I could our housemaid. Her face turned
red and she opened her mouth as if wanting to speak but, instead, she slunk
back inside the store, defeated. Needless to say, she stopped offering me free
Cokes, but she also stopped pestering me about Celso.
Manny never knew about my encounter with his mother although I
doubted that things would have changed between us if he did. After all, I
was the daughter of a government official. My family owned a house and the
piece of land on which it stood. They were mere “guests” of our community,
subject to expulsion at a moment’s notice. So Celso and Manny continued to
be my cheery playmates and bodyguards who, in turn, treated me like their
spoiled little sister.
We started going back to the creek at the end of May when the first rains
came. Just a few weeks before, the creek bed was almost dried up; the spots
where water used to pool now looked more like muddy puddles. After a few
days of continuous rain, however, the creek started to flow again.
Nothing attracts children like water: the shimmering relief of it, dark
and languid beneath the surface, boisterous and frantic above. I liked to
walk around the shallow portions and feel the cool water and the small,
smooth pebbles under my bare feet while the boys raced paper boats or
went swimming. Many times at the creek there would be other children,
dark-skinned and gaunt, most of whom I had never seen before. They were
the children of transients or new settlers who had come to live at the “tent
community” on the undeveloped portions of the subdivision and who used
the creek for bathing or for washing their clothes.
It was drizzling the morning the incident happened, the tail end of a
typhoon that battered the entire island of Luzon for almost a week. The
wind had knocked down the power lines so there was no electricity in the
neighborhood. My father forbade us from playing outside. The night before,

28 Short Story
I just stayed at home playing with my sisters amid the steady hiss of our
Coleman gas lantern while we rode out the worst of the storm.
I awoke that morning and saw Celso waving at me excitedly from outside
our wrought iron gate. I slipped out of my sleep clothes and put on a shirt
and a pair of shorts and sneaked out of my room, careful not to wake my
sisters, then out the back door. Celso held his umbrella for me and he began
walking quickly in the direction of the creek, as I tried to keep pace with him.
“Listen,” Celso said. “Manny and I … there’s something we found in the
creek that we want you to see.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Is Manny there right now?”
Celso explained how he and Manny had been up very early picking up
mangoes that had fallen from the trees during the storm the night before.
“Manny had the idea of washing the mangoes in the creek since it was nearby,”
Celso said as he helped me down the muddy, slippery trail that led down to
the creek. “When we got down we saw something that looked like a bundle
of rags washed up along the side. We walked up closer to see what it was.”
By this time, Celso and I were already walking along the creek. In the
distance, I could see Manny squatting over something. As we drew closer,
I saw what it was and I screamed. It was the body of a small child, around
three, four years old: a girl. She was probably playing in the creek the day
before when she got caught in the current and drowned.
Celso shushed me. “It’s alright, Luisa,” Celso said. “I just want to show it
to you. So we can decide what to do with it together.”
The body was face down in the mud. Manny stood and backed off so I
could get a better view. Manny’s face looked very pale. I looked to the side,
and I saw that he had already lost his breakfast. I trembled as I approached
the body, and I started crying.
“What are we going to do with it?” I asked Celso.
“Celso said we should bury it,” Manny answered. “I already told Celso
how crazy that was. Somebody’s going to be looking for this kid. If they find
out …”
“Shut up, Manny!” Celso shouted as he grabbed Manny by his shirt and
shook him with his big, strong arms. Manny lost his balance and fell into the
mud.
“Celso,” I said through my tears. “I want to go home.”

Israfel Fagela 29
“You will, Luisa,” Celso said. “I just need you and Manny to help me with
this one thing. Look, nobody’s died here at the creek before. Once people get
wind of this our parents will never let us back here.”
I was looking at Manny. He was sitting where he had fallen, hugging his
knees and crying. Neither of us was convinced by Celso’s explanation but we
went along with it anyway. Celso approached the dead body and knelt beside
it. He turned it over and washed the mud and grit off its face. Then he started
praying while swaying from side to side. It was a weird prayer that sounded
foreign and vaguely Arabic, but I had the feeling it was all just gibberish,
some kind of glossolalic chant he must have picked up from one of those
spirit-possession movies.
My heart jumped when he snapped out of it and looked right at me with
his intense, deep-set eyes. Celso had been growing a mustache and, in his
sleeveless shirt that showed his muscular arms as he sat in the light rain, he
seemed like a full-grown man. “Will you help me, Luisa?” he asked. I nodded
my head nervously. Celso turned his head to Manny and ordered him to get
a fallen tree branch and dig a hole up at the embankment, behind the bushes.
Manny, now dazed and emotionless, did as he was told.
It took only a few minutes for Manny to dig out the loose, wet earth.
Celso carried the body and gently lowered it into the hole. All three of us
shoveled dirt over the body with our hands, our clothes drenched with rain
and sweat. I was exhausted. We all sat around the grave we had made, silent
and motionless.
Celso made us promise not to tell anyone as he worked to conceal
the grave by placing rocks and leaves over it and erasing our footprints. If
somebody were to find out about it, he said he would know it was us.
My parents and sisters were about to take their lunch when I got home.
My mother was fuming mad to see me in my soiled, wet clothes especially
after my father had specifically told me not to play outside. They had been
looking for me all morning. I went to my room to change and while I was
changing I could hear her and my father fighting about what to do with me.
I decided I was not in the mood to eat and spent the day in bed.
A week later, I was back in school. I kept myself busy with schoolwork,
even taking up special classes in the afternoon to make the time pass faster.
It was an exclusive private school and after that strange incident with Celso
and Manny, I was glad to be hanging out with girls again, especially those
my age. Months passed without me seeing Celso or Manny. I never returned

30 Short Story
to the creek. The fact that the squatter problem in our subdivision worsened
exponentially had something to do with it. Some of the new settlers had
begun putting up their shanties near the creek. Not only were they using it
to wash clothes and dishes—they had turned it into an all-purpose sewage
system. For the most part I could not return because of what we had left
there. But I discovered that I had a talent for keeping secrets, and the longer I
held this particular secret the more distance I could create between it and me.
The day after we buried the girl, a search party went around the creek
and the wooded area of the subdivision to look for her. I peeked at them from
our window, deathly afraid that they would make a sudden turn to our house
bearing proof that I was somehow involved in her disappearance. But nothing
happened. We had gotten away with it cleanly.
Months later, my father had had enough of the squatter problem and we
moved out of the subdivision. We held out for as long as we could, but all our
old neighbors had already left so my father simply gave up and found a house
for us in a private, gated community. The day we left I did not even bother
saying goodbye to Celso and Manny.
It was after we had settled into our new home that I first encountered
the sense of reality “branching out” from that morning at the creek into two
distinct versions. As certain as I was that the search party came up empty,
that the disappearance was just chalked up to the usual suspects (such as the
legend of the criminal syndicate in the area that kidnapped children, deformed
them, and brought them to Manila to beg in the streets), I was experiencing,
simultaneously and as a passive observer, an alternate life where the search
party did find the body. Maybe the hole Manny dug was too shallow. Maybe
the police used a scent-tracking dog which led them to the spot, I don’t know.
What I do remember clearly is an image in my mind of a newspaper
report about the police finding the dead girl and how it was suspected that
other children living in the subdivision were responsible. In that other reality
the trail of evidence would eventually lead to Manny (an article of clothing
he had left in the hole he dug, I imagined) and he would have given up Celso
and me. I remember, mostly, only vague details. I saw myself in a hospital
somewhere or locked up in an old house, my hands and arms strapped to the
bed.
But that is not this reality.
Here, I grew up like any normal teenager. I was sent to Manila to study.
I took up accountancy in college and worked at a large accounting firm for

Israfel Fagela 31
a year before transferring to a shipping company. I met Greg there. He was
the manager of our finance department. We got married, had three children.
Greg asked me to quit my job and stay home to take care of our boys so I did.
Sometimes I look back on the twenty plus years we have been married and
I can honestly say that many of them had been happy and fulfilling. I admit
that I was not always easy to deal with (especially with my “episodes”) and
I’m lucky that Greg had always been very patient with me. So when the boys
grew up, had their own lives, I let Greg alone to do whatever he wanted. He
could play golf all day, keep a mistress, have children with another woman if
he wanted to start his life over. I suppose he deserved as much.
The “episodes” stopped when I was thirty-nine years old. Before that, I
would have visions, on a more or less regular basis, of myself under some kind
of hospice care, tended by strangers in white uniforms. The visions worsened
and turned violent after I had children. I would sometimes be watching my
sons sleep then see, in another world, myself pressing a pillow over a child’s
face, smothering it, long enough until the writhing and the kicking stops.
The horror of it was so much that I resorted to self-medicating with sedatives,
just to fight off the anxiety that the violence and suffering I knew I was
responsible for—that I knew I was capable of—would spill over into this life.
Sometimes the visions would be of me, surrounded by doctors and other
patients. I could smell the bleach on the white linen sheets, sense the bitter
aftertaste of medicine in the back of my throat. It was another life, another
world overlapping with the one I was occupying. I could only imagine the
humiliation that Greg had to endure all these years, bringing me in and out
of the hospital to see all sorts of specialists, all while we were trying to raise
our sons.
Then one day I awoke and knew for certain that my troubles were over.
I lay down in bed night after night trying to bring it back, to conjure that
other, terrifying world I had grown so accustomed to but I drew a blank. I
realized that, in that other branch of that morning by the creek, I was dead at
the age of thirty-nine.
My youngest, Darren, had been a sickly baby and he almost died of
pneumonia when he was three months old. By the doctors’ account, Darren’s
heart stopped for a full minute before they were able to revive him. I felt
Darren was special, that although he would never remember how it felt like
to leave this world for another, he had been touched, like his mother. And so,
of all my boys, I loved him the most.

32 Short Story
I thought I could someday talk to Darren about the things I had seen,
about what happened there at the creek, that he and I would come to some
special understanding, but Darren grew up closer to Greg than to me. He
loved sports and adored his older brothers. He goes to college now, and I only
see him on Wednesdays when he comes home to have his laundry done.
Then yesterday I see this thing on the news, about a man named Rodney
Gulanan arrested for the murder of three people—two teenage boys and
a woman in her twenties. The victims were found wrapped in plastic and
buried in his backyard in Santa Fe, Nueva Vizcaya, where Gulanan was an
incumbent municipal councilor. The only reason it made the news in Manila
was that the killer happened to be a local politician. When they showed a
photo of the man, the first thing I noticed was the scar on the right side of
his face, faded but still quite prominent. His face was onscreen only for a few
seconds but it was enough for me to get a clear sense of his face, his eyes. I
knew it was Celso.
So I change into my jeans, leave the house, and get on a bus to Vizcaya. I
don’t know what I’m going to do exactly. The evening news said the police are
expecting many more bodies to surface since Gulanan had admitted to killing
at least fifteen more. The headlines today screamed “First Filipino Serial Killer
Detained in NV Jail!” My initial plan had been to go there and pretend to be
his lawyer just to gain access to him. I knew I would not be able to hold the
charade for very long but I just wanted to be close to him for a few moments,
just enough for me to look him in the eye and see that glint of recognition.
Something happened that day in the creek, some mystery of time and space,
some great horror unlocked. I need Celso to acknowledge his part in this.
The bus stops at a canteen in Santa Fe where all the passengers get off
the bus to have instant coffee and goto. I go down as well to stretch and use
the toilet. The air is cold. I had slept most of the way, and it is only now that
I notice we are on top of a mountain. I open my shoulder bag, fish out my
shawl, and put it around my shoulders. The canteen is poorly lit. I see a little
boy, around three years old (you get good at guessing children’s ages after you
have three of your own) walking around, looking for his mother. I see that he
is straying perilously close to the highway, oblivious to the trucks and buses
making their way through the light fog. As I approach the boy, I realize I am
a complete stranger here, that I have all the freedom to do anything I want.
But that is another person in another world, and she is gone.

Israfel Fagela 33
White
ANA MARGARITA R. NUÑEZ

W hen the neighborhood children—brown, grubby, and insatiably


curious—peered into the casket, they gaped. Inside it was the most
beautiful woman they had ever seen. According to popular rumor she was
more than a hundred years old, and she was white, all marvelously white:
Her lashes and her brows, her hair beneath a coronet of plastic pearls shining
dully in contrast to the dead, paper-like skin, her handkerchief and rosary
beads in hands clasped over the concave breast of a stiff lace terno. Years had
pared away the flesh and fat, leaving her features reposing in the cleanest and
sparest of lines. In contrast to her whiteness, and that of the freshly-painted
and satin-lined casket, the whitewashed walls of the barangay chapel looked
dingier than usual in the daytime. At night the lighted candles softened the
tableau; the white casket and the woman inside were eerie but gorgeous. Then,
the children cowered behind their mothers’ skirts as the grownups repeated
time-worn prayers, peppered with Latin and half-sung by the neighborhood
manalabtan.
At around eight o’clock the manalabtan got off her knees and collected
her wages for the day. The mourners dropped their long faces. Gas lanterns
were lit for the benefit of the living, and the big wooden cross on the wall
receded into the shadows. The women tucked their prayer books away and
turned to one another to gossip; the old men gathered to pour the tuba, and
the younger ones twisted the caps off Tanduay bottles. The first drops were
tossed on the earth to appease the spirits. The children wandered out into the
moonlight to play.
It was the first time many of them, young or old, had seen Remedios
Caliso up close. She was the stuff of nightmares and of fable, living in a
wooden hut in the middle of a small lot overgrown with weeds. Dead center
in that square-shaped plot, the dwelling was situated to be as far as possible
from the borders that marked where other people’s lives began. There was no
fence except a half-hearted length of chicken wire attached to worm-eaten

34
planks, but the grass grew so high on the old woman’s land that it discouraged
even the most adventurous of the young ones. Mothers hushed crying babies
and exacted obedience from wayward brats with the threat: “If you don’t do
as I say, the old woman will get you! The old woman with the white hair will
take you to her house and tie you up like she tied up her own children!” If the
mother in question was particularly inventive, she might add, “She will cook
you and feed you to her dog,” or “She will make soup out of your bones.”
All the powers of witchcraft were ascribed to the crone, and there was some
truth—very little, but some—to them: She did have children, and she did
keep them tied up. A boy who had ventured close to the hut in search of a lost
ball claimed that he had come face to face with a sad, gaunt creature fastened
by a chain to a house post, but that he had been chased away by a dog before
he could investigate further. He had been discredited by his playmates because
he could not tell them if it had been a male or a female, even as he protested
that he had been so scared he never noticed. Level-headed grownups could
attest that a sour-faced man who looked to be in his seventies and called
himself her son did venture out of the house on a regular basis to do the
marketing. Now and then, he was spotted making repairs or making a bonfire
out of trash and fallen leaves. The woman herself never went out to speak to
the neighbors, accompany her son, or even go to church.
She was so ancient that it was a wonder any one knew her name, that
anyone remembered it so as to write it down on a mass card or tomb-stone.
And even then it could have taken many forms—Remidios, Remedyos,
Kaliso, Kaleso, Calisu—for she had been born in the faraway days before the
war, when memory was more powerful than writing, in that idyllic period
called Peace Time. For those who live in our less optimistically named era,
there is no remembering, or record of remembering beyond that time, which
exists in the consciousness like a drawn-out pastoral. Remedios had been
born in a Golden Age, when the wealthy were beautiful and kind, when men
were brave and strong and the women tender and lovely. Children grew up
in the fear of the Lord, and all the land was governed by wise white men and,
closer to home, the most gifted of the feudal elite. During Peace Time, the
farmers worked hard and the earth was bountiful. The Maranaos lived beside
the Lake and fought among themselves, brandishing their picturesque krises.
Down in the plains, the young men sang serenades and the girls were chaste;
they loved and courted beneath the soft light of the moon.
In this era Remedios grew up strong and vigorous and healthy. An
orphan, she lived in the house of a prosperous widowed aunt with a daughter

Ana Margarita R. Nuñez 35


the same age as Remedios. There was nothing exceptional about her. She was,
to all appearances, a perfect specimen of a girl who navigated her position as
a poor relation with relative ease. Upon leaving school at the age of twelve,
she could read and write, but she could also sew a straight seam and boil
a perfect pot of fluffy white rice. Clean and wholesome, she had a gift for
keeping everything about her person—including any rooms, closets, or linens
under her care—neat and tidy. Her slim, strong hands were forever patting,
pushing, or pulling things into place: a stray lock of hair, a book on a shelf,
the window curtains. At eighteen years old, burdened with the responsibilities
of a glorified yet unpaid housemaid, she earned a small income of her own
peddling snacks in a discreet fashion to the neighbors. She made the native
cakes called biko to sell every afternoon, molding the sweet, sticky rice into
neat little disks with the help of a metal jar lid, arranging them on their little
banana-leaf wrappings and placing them in faultless, concentric rows in her
basket. Her inner landscape was equally tidy, or so it seemed. There was a
self-sufficiency about her, an air of having all that she needed.
Even in those fabled days, the rain did not fall but it poured. One
afternoon Remedios was walking home without an umbrella, with nothing
but a basket on her arm when the sky quickly grew dark; lightning crackled
and thunder rolled, sonorous across the heavens. Rain fell in large, fat, warm
drops, threatening to soak her as she ran for the shelter of a large mango
tree. It was a monster of a tree, with a thick trunk that a man could just
barely encompass. It wore its crown low. Remedios felt safe beneath the dense
foliage. With her back close to the trunk, she could almost stay dry, as long
as the thunderstorm did not last. The air was warm, heavy with moisture; she
edged around the circumference of the tree, her feet feeling their way across
the large roots. She made a misstep, and nearly fell to her knees. Clawing at
the bark for support, Remedios found herself halfway on the other side of the
tree and discovered that she was not alone.
Behind the tree stood Carlos De Asis, who also had sought shelter from
the rain. Carlos was handsome, and he was rich. At twenty-three, he had
the face of an angel. Remedios thought she had never seen anyone, male or
female, so utterly beautiful. He looked like the statue of the patron, Senor San
Miguel, in the Cathedral: He had curly brown hair worn long, rosy cheeks,
an effeminate mouth with Cupid’s-bow lips, a short, high-bridged nose. He
wore a light summer suit of linen, which at the moment was marked in damp
spots by the rain. He only looked at her in surprise. At precisely this moment,

36 Short Story
Remedios’s lifelong calm deserted her. She gave him a curt, almost uncivil
nod, and hurried out of the shelter of the tree and into the rain.
She tramped home, the merciless mud sucking at each step and
threatening to pull the slippers off her feet each time she tried to put one in
front of the other. The effort made her calves ache. The road seemed long,
and it was all the more annoying because she felt she absolutely had to be
alone. She had to be alone at once. At the doorstep of her aunt’s house, she
left the slippers behind and entered barefoot, hurrying to the small, curtained
space beside the kitchen that served as her room.
There was a mirror there. Remedios picked it up and peered into it.
What did she see? A face dull, and damp, and broad by comparison—the
cheekbones were square, and the nose was unremarkable. The mouth was
full of white, healthy teeth, but the eyes were native eyes, bright and black
and lacking the honeyed light of a mestiza’s. A melancholy mood fell upon
her, and she thought, “This is what it means to be in love.” And the worst
part of this melancholy was that it did not allow her to be still. She lay awake
that night, and for several nights thereafter, thinking of angels with porcelain
skin and marble bodies. At intervals she did consciously allow the angels to
become Carlos De Asis, but not for very long because she felt that she might
go mad.
And as all this happened very long ago, it was Remedios’s misfortune that
there were as yet thousands rather than tens of thousands of people in her
town. The number of well-born, eligible young men, for instance, could be
counted on a girl’s fingers and toes. The number of unmarried society belles
was correspondingly low, and her cousin Deling was one of them. Deling
was only a year older than Remedios—barely twenty—and she was extremely
pretty. She was dainty, her skin was light, and her eyebrows were shaped
like the wings of a bird in flight. Taking the odds into account, it was only a
matter of time before young Mr. De Asis came visiting.
In American fashion Deling and Carlos were allowed to be alone together
in the living room, although Remedios’s aunt was always within earshot in
the adjacent room. It was Remedios who swept the floor, plumped the sofa
cushions, and set out the ashtrays and the cups of coffee for the guest’s arrival.
She came to the sala even before Deling did, and she was the last to leave “the
lovebirds” when the visit began. She left with the opening lines of flirtation
ringing in her ears. She knew their pet names: Carlos’s resemblance to St.

Ana Margarita R. Nuñez 37


Michael was not lost on Deling, and she called him Patron. He called her the
Princess of Light, which was actually a play on Lucifer, who before his Fall
and subsequent defeat by the heavenly hosts was so glorious that he was called
the “Prince of Light.” Deling rather delighted in her impish role. Clearly, the
question was not if, but when, the Patron would complete his conquest and
make all the heavens rejoice.
On the nights Carlos came to visit, Remedios sat in the kitchen preparing
wrapping for the next day’s biko. She passed the broad, dark green banana
leaves over a candle flame until they toughened and acquired the requisite
sheen, then cut them into little squares with a pair of scissors. The repetitive
work used to be a soothing end to a busy day, but there seemed to be no
soothing her now. She thought of the lovers with their hands intertwined,
Carlos’s rosy lips on Deling’s graceful neck. It was not fair, she thought, that
for her there would be only this. Sturdy and serviceable, broad and neat, there
would be no handsome archangel for her. Only a lifetime of peddling biko,
keeping house, or, God forbid, playing nursemaid to their children. Little
golden cherubs, boys and girls. How many would there be? Ah! Remedios was
not a stranger to the ways of life. She had seen cattle and horses in the fields,
field hands and their sweethearts behind bushes, and oh, as a child, her own
parents loving each other on the mat adjacent to hers. If Carlos were mine,
she thought, I would make with him six, no, eight, ten children, and I would
not be satisfied.
She was in such agony that one night she deliberately walked into the sala
while Carlos was visiting. The pair guiltily sprang apart, leaving the required
space between them “for the Holy Spirit to pass through” that decorum
demanded. Deling was surprised, but not unduly concerned.
“Oh Remedios!” she exclaimed, “I did not call for you yet.”
“I’m sorry; I thought I heard you calling,” Remedios said.
Deling turned to her suitor. “Remedios here is a distant cousin of mine.”
Carlos nodded, but did not rise or extend his hand. “She makes the most
delicious biko,” Deling continued.
“Someday she must allow us to taste some,” he murmured politely. Of
course, he did not even glance at her.
It was not remarkable that he should not have met her eyes, though
Remedios felt betrayed. But what did she expect? Should he have said, I saw
her once, under a mango tree, one afternoon when it rained? There was a chance
he did not even remember.

38 Short Story
Remedios vowed then that he should remember her. Among the neighbors
who bought her wares was an old wise woman, the local hilot who dispensed
herbal medicine to those who were sick. She brewed teas for women who
missed their monthlies, and taught distraught mothers which leaves to plaster
on the backs and chests of children with chronic coughs. Remedios liked her;
her home was small and impeccably clean. It was a two-storey wooden house
with jar-lined shelves and an altar that was always fragrant with flowers and
burning incense and candles. For a fee, one could buy from her dry grass and
a pinch of incense to burn in a coconut shell to purify a haunted house, or
to dispel bad vapors brought about by the occasional buyag that one incurred
from displeased elementals. The next time Remedios came with her basket,
the hilot inquired after her health.
“You do not look well,” the old woman said. “You are always so healthy.
But now you look like you do not sleep. Fever? Bad dreams?”
“No, Manang. Not bad ones.”
“There is only one other kind of dream that makes a girl look like you
do.”
Remedios sat on the floor, Indian-fashion, her basket in her lap. “Can
you help me?”
“You girls know all the charms I know, and probably some I do not know.
Write his name on a piece of paper and stick it on a white candle, and burn it
while you think of him. Light pink candles in church. Take a basin and fill it
with water and pink rose petals, and keep it under your bed while you sleep.
Then you will dream of him.”
“I do not need more dreams! I don’t want dreams. I want him for real.”
“In your bed, for real?” the hilot asked, a naughty glint in her eyes. “You
girls know how to do that too.”
“But I do not know, Manang.”
“Yes you do! Paint your face, brush against him, touch his arm, walk with
him in the dark.”
“I can’t.”
“If you can’t manage that, girl, then you don’t deserve him.”
“The man is Carlos De Asis, and he is engaged to my cousin Deling. I
need a charm to make him love me—a real one.”

Ana Margarita R. Nuñez 39


“Oh, you aim high. Do you really want him badly? Because, as I keep
telling you young people, there is no power on Earth or even heaven to make
someone love you.”
“But there are charms to bring a man to you, and charms to keep him.”
“To bring him and keep him, yes.”
“Then give me one of them.”
“I have a very simple one. Just take a little of your, you know, womanly
juices,” said the hilot, gesturing toward the part of her body that Remedios
had covered with the basket of cakes. “Then find a way for him to swallow
them. Mix them in his food, in his cerveza or his Coca-Cola.”
Remedios blushed. “But how do I get them?”
The old woman laughed. “Now, if you can’t do that, you have no business
having a man in your bed at all. And,” she added, “if you do this, do not tell
anyone about it.”

That night Remedios came to know for the first time the difficulty of being
truly a woman. That is, of mingling sex with clinical, even scientific intent—a
woman must frequently plan and count and measure even as she goes through
the bodily rituals of love. She tried to sort the problem out. How was she to
collect the juices of her desire, enough of them to fill a small container and
even add, like an ingredient, to food? How did they taste and smell? Would
the food or drink have to mask their presence—or was their savor the magic of
the charm? Could she collect them all at once, or make several tries? Did they
need to be fresh, or would they keep? Was the power in the idea and intent
of the thing, or in its actual, physical composition? Was she to add them
before or after cooking the food? Sugar, for instance, and caramel, were quite
different. Raw sugar was sweet, but it was the toasted nature of caramel that
made it heavenly. Would the juices then be transfigured by heat, or destroyed?
In the end, practicality determined the method as it so often does. To
cook an entire batch of biko with the extra ingredient would be wasteful,
as she could not sell the rest and have the entire neighborhood lusting after
her in case the charm did work. To cook a single serving was impossible. She
would have to add it last, and only to Carlos’s portion.
Remedios began her preparations by obtaining a receptacle. A small,
clean glass jar was necessary. She had heard somewhere that implements used

40 Short Story
in magic had to be cleansed in oil by the light of the moon. Coconut oil
was good, preferably if an incantation had been said over it. In any case,
coconut oil would not hurt because the food she planned to use was cooked
in coconut cream already. She was not a witch, really, so for an incantation
she only said Carlos’s name over and over as she anointed the jar inside and
outside with the oil. Next she took and anointed a small silver spoon and
a cloth to position under her hips. Her habit of tidiness suggested it was
necessary.
The next step was to create and collect the secretions. To do this, she had
to slip at will into the realm of wakeful dream. There were two opportunities
in a day to do so: at noon, after the midday meal when it was hot and
humid. Remedios found the latter ideal, if only because the heat allowed
her to be both aroused and wakeful enough to complete the experiment.
She tried several ways to bring herself into the necessary state. At first, like a
girl-child, she would squeeze her thighs tightly together to stimulate herself
as she summoned beautiful visions: the glorious archangel with a flaming
sword in his hand descending upon her, triumphant. The effort tired her
out; she sweated and occasionally got cramps in her legs. Very little liquid
was produced this way. Then, she tried the opposite: the angel with his limbs
bound by strong ropes to the earth as his wings beating the air in futile efforts
to escape. In these dreams she herself took a sword to cut him free. But it was
only when, in the languorous aftermath of one such attempt, she used her
hands upon herself that she met with sufficient success. This time, she found
herself in mortal struggle with the angel. Her fingers dug into his white flesh;
he fought her off and pinned her to the earth. Then she felt almost as if she
could not breathe, and the liquid poured from her. She caught some of it
in the palm of one hand, some of it trickling through her fingers, almost as
though to elude her. There was nothing else for it then. She rose and went
into the kitchen. With her damp hand, she took a handful of sticky brown
rice and squeezed it, mingling the salt of her body with the soft grains and
the sweet, syrupy oil.
When she served two saucers of biko to the lovers in the sala that night,
she pressed a small indentation in this portion intended for Carlos to help her
tell it apart from the other. Deling giggled when she received her rice cake.
“Thank you. You’re sure these are still good, Remedios? They’re not
leftovers? We can’t feed the Patron something that’s been riding around in
your basket all afternoon,” she said.

Ana Margarita R. Nuñez 41


“Oh no,” Remedios said. “I set these aside earlier and covered them with
banana leaves. They’re fresh still.”
The biko was moist and tempting, gleaming with coconut oil and brown
sugar. It was very dark and very sweet. Remedios had not stinted as she made
it. She watched with her heart beating fast as Carlos took a bite, and then
another, nodding with approval. Would he suddenly turn to her with eyes
of love? Perhaps he would turn suddenly brusque toward Deling and cut the
visit short. But nothing happened. It became awkward when she stayed a few
seconds too long watching the pair eat. She retreated to the kitchen.
As a matter of fact, nothing happened for a very long time. Carlos and
Deling were engaged, then married. A photograph was taken of them on their
wedding day that survived the vicissitudes of the war and martial law eras,
remaining in a place of honor on the walls of the handsome home that Carlos
eventually inherited from his parents. It was a lovely, though typical image:
their faces were serious as befitted the momentous occasion and the strain of
staying still through the rather lengthy film exposure that the cameras of the
time required. The bride was as pretty as the flowers she wore in her hair, and
the groom’s patrician features and bearing were evident.
During the betrothal and the festivities that followed, Remedios was only
thankful that no one knew what she had done, or tried to do. She wondered
whether the secrecy to which those who cast spells are enjoined is meant to
ensure the efficacy of the magic, or merely to prevent them from looking like
fools.
But after all, there was some power to the old hilot’s charm. The couple
returned from their honeymoon and took over Deling’s girlhood home; her
mother was only too glad to have her son-in-law play the role of “the man
of the house.” When Deling, who was a modern girl, fell pregnant, she had
a medical doctor, not a hilot or a midwife, to consult. And while all the old
wives knew that a healthy woman could safely continue with her conjugal
relations, the doctor deemed it necessary to prescribe abstinence. So Deling
fanned herself restlessly in the hot afternoons and slept fitfully at night, while
Carlos was left to his own devices to look for a way to soothe his nerves.
One night, he went to the kitchen where Remedios still slept in the little
room behind a drawn curtain. The sound of someone stirring in the kitchen
woke her; she pulled the curtain back and saw the man outside. She wore
nothing but a chemise and a tapis, and Carlos went to her.

42 Short Story
She was surprised at how indolent the man was once in her bed. The
bamboo lantay creaked when they sat on it together, so Remedios quickly
spread a blanket on the floor and pulled him down on top of her. His skin
seemed to glow in the faint light from the window. She felt like a thief in the
night, poised to steal the ivory head and hands of a revered idol. The thrill
that rose in her blood, however, was tempered by the man’s stillness. Was
he waiting, she wondered, to be worshipped? It was awkward, to be lying
beneath him yet feeling as though it was she who had to act. She remained
unmoving. He passed his hand tentatively over her shoulders and her breasts,
then stopped. At this point, Remedios screwed up her courage, gently pushing
him off and changing places so that she was on top.
From above, his beauty was even more of a marvel to her. His body was
pale and lovely in the shadows, and it was a miracle that it should be joined,
fine as it was, to her dark and fleshy form. Her thighs were cumbersome
things as they straddled him, but they were powerful, with a power that came
from the heart that thudded in her breast. She was strong enough to steel
herself, then to impale herself upon him. Carlos sighed, his absorption and
his pleasure sealed within him. Later, when he left her aching and warm, she
felt that perhaps, that was her deserved lot.
Remedios’s child was born, then, half a year after Deling’s. No one had
any idea who the father was, and Remedios calmly refused to divulge her
secret. It was a quiet little girl with large eyes and pasty skin. It hardly ever
cried. Remedios called her “Segunda” without explaining who or what it was
the second to, and nursed it herself. This was no mean feat. Segunda was
a stupid baby who did not know how to take her own nourishment. The
mother’s breasts were painful and full, leaking milk and staining her blouses.
Yet the little one would not latch properly. She either clamped down hard
and drew blood or nuzzled ineffectually at the tips of her large brown nipples
without relieving Remedios’s pain. There were many sleepless, lonely nights
for her that she bore like a Spartan, living one day after another because there
was no other alternative.
At two years old Segunda still would not speak. Her body was strong
enough, but she had a vacant gaze. Remedios waited in vain to hear herself
called “Mama,” and be rewarded for her pains, but that day never came.
Instead, one day the child threw the household into an uproar by biting
Deling’s boy—a cherub as predicted, and everyone’s darling—hard enough to
draw blood. Remedios’s aunt was horrified. Carlos then suggested kindly that

Ana Margarita R. Nuñez 43


mother and child could be housed in a hut on one of his father’s properties
on the other side of town. There, the fierce, odd little Segunda would be
kept out of the way while Remedios could play the role of caretaker and even
supplement her income by keeping a garden or continuing to peddle her rice
cakes as she wished.
It was an equitable arrangement. In the course of five years Deling
became pregnant two more times, and so did Remedios in her exile. The one-
to-one correspondence might have been remarkable to anyone who bothered
to count the weeks and the months. Presumably Deling and her mother did.
Perhaps they even spoke about it to each other. But it was hardly a reason
to lose composure, not when Deling was still so lovely, Carlos still so rich,
and their children the picture of happiness and well-being. From Deling’s
perspective, perhaps, the panorama of life was so wide that it could scarcely
be marred by the ripples of her husband’s unproven indiscretions.
It was rather different for Remedios, whose daughter Segunda did
not improve with age. The girl never learned to talk. At first she was only
angry and sullen, but with time it became apparent that she was an idiot.
Remedios was caught in a period that unbearably lengthened the travails of
early motherhood. All her children, it turned out, were idiots. Her days were
spent washing and feeding for her helpless brood. Fortunately only Segunda
was difficult and sullen; the other two, still girls, were more tractable. They
were stupid but gentle, laughing and babbling to themselves, willing to be
left on the bed or on the floor while she did her chores. For safety, she tied
them up or penned them in a wooden crib while she sold vegetables and
biko in the neighborhood. She took the moody Segunda with her, and the
sour little child managed to arouse pity for her mother so that the neighbors
kindly patronized Remedios’s wares and allowed her to make a simple living.
Remedios attributed the relatively sweet temper of her two other children to
the manner in which they had been conceived. Having become more accepting
of Carlos’s laziness, she had learned to appease her desires by unquestioningly
taking the lead when he came to her. She kissed his red lips and cheeks, his
hands and his feet, submitting to the now oddly humiliating role of climbing
on top of him and doing all the hard work to bring them both to fulfillment.
Yet, all idylls must come to an end, even the one that their town—nay,
the entire country—enjoyed with its white masters. One day in May 1942,
the most ordinary of days, Carlos came to her. It was quite early in the
morning, at the time when the dew on the grass was all but dry. The sun

44 Short Story
had crept into the windows of her hut, and the air was warm. The sleepy
vapors of the night were beginning to grow stale. Remedios led Carlos to the
inner room where her children were sleeping in a row on a single mat on the
floor, their legs tangled in the blankets. In this state it was almost impossible
to tell that they were different from other children. Their bodies were well-
formed. The two oldest had lost the plumpness of babyhood, and stretched
out as they were, it was possible to see how long their limbs had become.
Anyone would have thought them almost beautiful in their sleep. With the
petty, unreasonable passions of the waking hours erased temporarily from
their faces, it was possible to appreciate the way the shadows of their lashes
fell upon their cheeks and the perfection of their small, half-open mouths,
exquisite as the mouths of all children who have yet to lose their baby teeth.
Carlos sat wearily down on the bed, his eyes on the sleepers.
“And these ones also, even these I will have to take care of,” he sighed.
“I am taking good care of them,” said Remedios, wondering at this
sudden mood. Man-like, he had not bothered himself too much about her
children. When they were born he was never there. When he saw them a few
weeks later, he would be too afraid to pick them up lest he hurt them, and by
the time they were older and less fragile he was afraid that they would make
a mess on his clothes.
“But did you know, Remedios, that war is coming to us? The Americans
have left. We will wake up one day to find the Japanese on our doorsteps.”
Remedios had heard talk of war, but it had seemed unreal to her, so
preoccupied was she with getting through the days that were so full of the
work she had to do. War was guns and marching men, and it had nothing to
do with her tomato plants and the vines of squash and okra, with the pail full
of soiled diapers soaking in soapy water that she had to scrub and rinse and
hang out to dry before the midday meal.
“Well, perhaps not on your doorstep,” Carlos continued, “but maybe on
mine. I am afraid. I am afraid of what happens in war to men like me. There
are so many who depend on me. I have a wife and children, a big house, and
enough money to attract attention. Remedios, what should I do?”
“Do what I do. You see how I have lived all these years. Be quiet, keep
your head down, and don’t make any trouble.”
“I, make trouble! I have never made any trouble for anyone. But now the
trouble will come to me.”

Ana Margarita R. Nuñez 45


Remedios looked at him and saw him as he was then: in the bright
daylight his face was so young and so anxious. The forearms, on which some
light brown hair curled, were so slight. Her own were more muscular and
sturdy. His thin-skinned hands had never wielded a weapon. Why, the strong
soap she used with her laundry would probably make them scratch and bleed.
Suddenly she was thankful for the distance that had always separated them.
“Listen, Carlos. Years ago I fell in love with you. But you had eyes only
for Deling. I watched the two of you together—all the time—and I realized if
I did not want things to be done to me, I had to do something myself. I went
to the hilot and asked her to for a charm, and I used it on you.”
“Remedios!” he exclaimed. “Those things are not real.”
“Aren’t they? But you came to me. Don’t worry though. Now that I have
told you about it, it is not a secret anymore. It is broken.”
“Is it really broken now?” Carlos asked sadly. “Don’t you want to try and
see?”
They came together again, but now it was he who was the supplicant,
clinging to her flesh, moving slowly and deliberately. Remedios lay in bed
obligingly enough, still generous with the offer of her body but not with her
will. Her mind wandered beyond the hot room filled with the exhalations of
five human beings, beyond the confines of the cottage and to the mansion
where he would return: that mansion that seemed in contrast so dim and vast
and cool. And beyond its walls, beyond the narrow streets of the town, there
were forests and fields and the infinite sky.

For Remedios, it was the last time she would ever be with a man. Another
child was born, a boy this time, but Carlos never saw it. After he left her,
he had entrusted his family to relatives in the Japanese-occupied city and
gone into the mountains with the guerillas. Maybe his hands had grown
hard and callused there, maybe steel had finally entered his soul. Remedios
did not know. She heard that he had been killed during an air raid. When
the Japanese planes droned overhead, the people in the countryside left the
open fields and hid themselves in makeshift underground shelters or in the
forests. Carlos and three other men had found themselves in a clearing, and
had hidden under a big acacia tree. A bomb had dropped squarely on the
tree. When it exploded, he and his companions had been blown sky-high.
Body parts had rained down on the ground. Later, the legs, arms, trunks, and
severed heads had been hastily buried in a common grave.

46 Short Story
The boy was the only one of Remedios’s children who turned out to be
fully human. He grew up strong, like his mother, with a dogged sense of duty,
yet always half-resentful that his mother never told him a true word about his
father. Sometimes she told him that the man had drowned in a bowl of soup;
occasionally, she said that one day he had just forgotten to breathe. There
were times when the boy thought she was as crazy as her idiot daughters. It
was with his help that Remedios lived out the many years of her life in the
madhouse of her own making. She stayed brown and sturdy through her
middle years, seeming ageless until she suddenly began to shrivel and turn
arthritic in her sixtieth year. And yet she lived on, and time worked its magic:
the thick flesh was pared from her cheeks, the unrelenting blackness of her
eyes turned light and bluish as cataracts filmed them over. Unable to walk
properly, she stayed indoors until her skin lightened from lack of the sun and
collapsed into a thousand little wrinkles, and the color in her hair washed out
from its roots. In the end she was purified, cleansed of the offending earth
tones that colored her human clay, taking on the whiteness of a graven image
fashioned of ivory, wax, and pearl.

Ana Margarita R. Nuñez 47


Wash and Wear
JENETTE ETHEL N. VIZCOCHO

E very morning as she rushes out of her apartment at Adriatico corner


Nakpil, he is there, holding a cab door open, always a nice, new car
model, from a reputable taxi franchise. When she has a lot of things with her,
he helps her stow these into the back seat, shutting the door for her, but not
before telling the cab driver to drop her off at Ninoy Aquino International
Airport, to pass through Macapagal and not Coastal Road, the traffic buildup
already horrible even without the recent repaving of Roxas Boulevard. He
would mouth, ingat, Samantha, through the window and smile, gesturing for
her to check the locks.
She used to wonder how he knew these small details about her, but then
realized her ID and blazer bore the logo of the Bureau of Customs. Now
when he helps her in or out of cabs, she barely acknowledges him, settling
into her seat and adjusting the volume of her headphones, or catching up on
her mail and messages. For a taxi and jeepney barker, he never asked her for
a tip, seemingly happy to just hang out and talk with the taxi drivers waiting
in line for the next passenger. Sometimes at night, when she arrived from
work, she would see him from the corner of her eye, incessantly waving as
she climbed up the steps to her apartment lobby. But he is there the next day,
polite and smiling, a taxi waiting for her.
Every other Wednesday, Samantha would be seen lugging a huge bag of
clothes. Sometimes the barker would carry the load for her. She would step
into the waiting cab, instructing the driver to double back toward Remedios
Circle and make for Malvar, where Wash And Wear Laundry is. She had
been sending her laundry there for three years now, and the girl working the
counter already knew her, knew the specifics of her laundry; gentle wash and
drip dry for her blouses and dresses, no fabric softener for her gym clothes,
her jeans and slacks to be washed inside out, her underwear to be placed
in the lingerie laundry bag she provided. She liked their service, liked the
smell of their detergent, never had any clothes mixed in with hers, never

48
had clothes come back with stains, snags, or tears. Once she phoned the
laundromat when she thought they had misplaced her new skirt, and she
was read a detailed list of items she had sent to be laundered, the number of
clothing, the sizes and labels of each piece. She felt mortified when later that
night, she found the slippery silk knee-length skirt wedged between her bed
and the wall.
At the counter of Wash And Wear Laundromat sits Josie, who after
announcing to her mother that she had flunked out of college, was told to
either go back to school or start working for a living. Josie didn’t mind her
job at all. Most of the time clothes were sent for pick up and delivery, and
she rarely had to stand up from her perch, only had to count out change or
list down items on the receipts. She loved to watch cars pass by, wondering
who was driving the black Escalade, and why so heavily tinted, musing which
bar it would make a stop at, who, what gender, and how many people were
going for a short ride to the nearest motel. She had her noontime soaps, the
horoscope book she faithfully read, and when all else failed, her Facebook
profile that she refreshed every minute, counting just how many likes she
received for her newly uploaded bikini photo, or what people thought of her
latest love quote, her newest post musing on who so-and-so’s baby daddy was.
The delivery boys, Matt and Dave, she knew, were desperately in love
with her. She barely spoke to or mingled with them, but every morning, she
would douse herself in cologne, would choose among her skimpiest shorts
and low cut blouses, line her lids heavily with dark blue eyeliner. She enjoyed
watching them squirm whenever she would call out to them to come out from
the back room where they were always busy unloading, washing, folding, and
sealing warm, freshly-laundered clothes into thin plastic bags. Ma’am, they
would address her, even though she couldn’t be more than four years older
than either of them.
She would send them out on pick-ups and deliveries, would ask them to
buy her a banana cue, or a Coke litro, not even the slightest bit ashamed to
get Dave, the cuter of the two, to run out for some sanitary napkins when she
realized she had gotten her period once. Not batting an eyelash as she handed
him her soiled jean skirt and lace underwear, having tucked her shirt into
some customer’s towel she had wrapped around her waist, ordering him to
include her clothing in someone else’s load of washing, who’s gonna find out,
anyway? She would dismiss them with a nod of her head and turn back to
whatever she busied herself with. Dave had sent her a Facebook request over
six months ago, but she didn’t plan on ever accepting it.

Jenette Ethel N. Vizcocho 49


Samantha, she referred to as 14F Adriatico Heights. 14F with the mint-
colored cigarette pants, wash inside out. 14F with the delicate silk blouse
with pearl buttons. Please hand wash, drip dry. Real pearls, too, she knew,
because she once ran a button against her teeth, felt the grittiness in texture
that manufactured pearls never could duplicate. 14F with the Nike hot pink,
moisture-wick sports bra and matching black, slim-fit leggings with a hot
pink band running down the side. No fabric softener, please. 14F with a
25-inch waistline, the Marks and Spencer B cup bras with matching panties,
wash in bag. 14F with the very same Forever 21 Aztec dress she saw Anne
Curtis wearing in last month’s Preview magazine. Gentle cycle.
Once, when 14F’s clothes were ready for delivery, Josie spied the dress at
the top of the pile, newly pressed, neatly folded. She asked Dave to go out
and buy more detergent before he made his deliveries, we’re running low on
soap, do it now! She snatched the dress and stuffed it into her bag, yelling at
Matt to man the counter for a while. Squeezed inside the small bathroom of
the laundry mat, she removed her clothes and threw the dress over her head,
smiling at herself, not caring that the XS dress pinched a little at the armpits,
or that it stretched at the chest, making the breasts she was so proud of appear
to have morphed into one odd lump. She had a date at Malate that night,
a guy she met online who agreed to take her dancing at Coco Bananas. She
decided to hold onto the dress for a while, knowing that 14F had so many
clothes she would hardly miss one, knowing she could slip it back into her
next batch of laundry.
Samantha’s view was something to be desired. When the ad for her
apartment came out, it mentioned a spacious balcony with a view of the
Manila Bay. In reality, the balcony was a small space of about two-by-five feet,
receiving barely enough sun for the small herb garden she was once ambitious
enough to think she could sustain. She did have some view of the bay, if she
moved to the right-most corner and peered around the side of her building.
What she had full view of, instead, was the five-floor covered parking
lot of the mall located in front of her building. The spiraling driveway was
always busy with family vans and pickup trucks and sports cars wheeling in
and out of the mall. On the top floor was a row of heavy-duty central air
conditioners, the rusted blades constantly whirring during mall hours, a pool
of water gathering at the base of each leaking unit, the cement mossy from
the constant dampness. Two cylindrical water tanks propped up on steel legs
were adjacent to these, some rope, bags of cement, and plastic tubes littered
beneath. Pigeons were a common sight, swooping in and out, pecking at

50 Short Story
the cement floor, and roosting under a couple of rotten boards during the
hot midday hours. One morning, as Samantha was having coffee, her eye
was drawn to smoke rising from some charred wood set at one corner of
the parking lot, realizing that what she had thought was a pile of junk was
actually an outdoor kitchen.
She peered closer and saw among the clutter a rope hammock strung
beneath one of the water tanks, a man in a sando and shorts reclined within.
He would stand up and trudge toward the kitchen to lift lids and stir, pour
himself a drink, and shoo some of the more stubborn birds away. Samantha
ducked down when she felt eyes staring up at her, realizing that he had noticed
her watching him.
Josie loved it when all eyes were on her as she danced. Mike, who
remained seated nursing a Red Horse, was all right, she guessed. She had
met him at the I Love The Philippines Facebook group. His profile picture
showed a clean-shaven blonde standing in front of a tall building. When they
met up at Coco Bananas, she barely recognized him. He was one of those
backpacker types who traveled ten months of the year, sunburned from going
around most of Southeast Asia, his hair and beard overgrown and unkempt.
He talked about his trip through Cambodia, Vietnam, and Thailand, telling
her about the people he met and the places he visited, how he avoided the
tourist traps because, that’s just not real traveling, man.
He was a carpenter back in the States, and once he found out he could
save his wages for a couple of months and afford to tour Asia, packed his
belongings into his 32-liter Northface Yavapai and set off. Around his wrist
he wore a thick stack of cord, beads, and shells he had gathered from locals
and fellow-backpackers. He handed her a pink bracelet he had made, thinking
especially of her, said the bright pink with the hints of orange and yellow
somehow matched her aura, told her how he learned to weave thread and
waxen fiber into souvenir necklaces, bracelets, and anklets at Vietnam, selling
them once in a while when he ran out of money. She tuned out most of their
conversation, never really caring about how he helped build an elementary
school made entirely out of natural resources in Malaysia, or how he had a
mushroom trip that lasted for three days wherein he locked himself up in his
cheap motel room thinking that he was talking a remorseful Saddam Hussein
into surrendering to the American troops, or how he was now here in the
Philippines because he planned on volunteering at rebuilding homes in Leyte
or Tacloban, I dunno, man, wherever I’m most needed.

Jenette Ethel N. Vizcocho 51


When she sat back down at their table, out of breath and sweating
profusely through the polyester of her Aztec dress, he asked her if she wanted
to go to this beach he had read about, he was set to go in a few days. Boracay,
she asked, her voice rising in excitement. No, man, I don’t like the scene
there. My friend went there last year and has stayed ever since. He met this
chick who lives there and, basically, let’s just say she’s holding his money
hostage now. No offense meant to you and your race, I really think you’re all
lovely people!
She rolled her eyes as he told her of this virgin island that you had to travel
two hours via boat from Batangas Pier to get to its city proper, after which a
four-hour van ride would take you to the southernmost tip of the province,
where another forty-five minute ride in a boat so small it gets swallowed up
by the waves finally took you to the island. How there were no hotels, just
cottages, a couple of hammocks and tents for rent. How you could line fish
for your meals. How the corals were rich with marine life. How sometimes
you could spend a week there and hardly run into another human being. I dig
that, peace and quiet. I like the idea of catching your own food, you know,
realizing you have everything you need, Adam and Eve style!
She agreed to go with him, thinking he was lucky he was kind of cute,
that he didn’t smell too awful, that she realized she liked his facial hair, how
he made Matt and Dave look like such virgins. And he kept paying for her
beer, liked to watch her dance, told her she looked great. She set aside any
misgivings and thoughts of how much of a snooze-fest the weekend would
be, without any bars or parties or music, hoping 14F or some other customer
had a bikini amongst their stash that she could borrow, something with an
animal print, perhaps.
The guy at 14H moved in a few months ago. Once, while riding the
elevator, he turned to her and smiled, having turned away before she had the
chance to smile back. She noticed that he would be waiting for the elevator at
almost the same time as her every morning, an umbrella in one hand and his
bag and jacket in another, things always with him regardless of the weather.
He would say hi or good morning, a stilted conversation worth fourteen
flights down carried out over a series of rides. What’s your name? Samantha.
Ben. His hand was warm when he shook hers. You’re with the customs
bureau, after he spied her ID. Yes. Any contraband shit come through your
way? Mostly, no. Bagoong. Some plants. Some rare shells. Once we had to
confiscate three tubs of homemade ube jam, because it was too dense for the
X-ray. Cool! My workmates fought over who would bring the ube home.

52 Short Story
He would usually ask the questions, and she would answer them, curious
about him but never gathering the courage to ask. She noticed he wore a
company lanyard and realized he worked for Unilever. His umbrella was
black and beaten up, the faded letters spelling Subic Clark Bay barely visible,
causing her to wonder if he lived there at one point, or if he just visited, or
if it was a gift from someone from there. She noticed, once, that his right
foot was bound in micropore tape when the back of his pants leg hitched up
as he picked up his bag, and she wondered if he got injured while playing
basketball. If he liked sports. She didn’t know why she couldn’t just ask
questions, how he could do so casually when everything she wanted to say
seemed to get caught in her throat.
One Sunday, she ran into him waiting for the elevator as she carried a
week’s worth of garbage outside. She almost turned back to her apartment
with everything in her hands when he looked up and noticed her. Hey! Hi.
That’s a lot of garbage! She reddened and wondered if he noticed that she did
not segregate her waste, or just how much takeout food containers she had,
or how the rotten mango that sat in her refrigerator for a month had all but
liquefied, and now dripped steadily through a tear in the garbage bag. He
helped her with the door to the garbage chute, getting back to the hallway
just as the elevator doors closed. They waited for the next available car, I
was actually on my way out to have dinner. Oh, okay, have a good night.
Samantha walked back to her apartment, feeling foolish when she realized
that maybe he was asking her to join him.
Once Ben snuck up on Samantha just as she was taking a huge bite off
her ice cream cone. Hi, I just watched the latest Avengers movie, have you
seen it? She struggled through a mouthful of vanilla chocolate chip, trying
to swallow in one gulp while wiping at the cold cream that was running
down her chin. They started walking to the direction of the exit. He had
his umbrella in hand, which she found funny, the front entrance of the mall
directly across their apartment, that even in the holiest of storms, would leave
them vulnerable to the elements perhaps no more than five or so seconds.
Alone? Yes, alone, why have you never done that? Just at home. So you
haven’t, then. Well, it was just a lot of muscle, anyway. What kind of movies
are you into? I like foreign films. Avengers is a foreign film last I checked,
hahaha. No, not like that. I like the film Lost in Translation. Oh, the one
where that chick Black Widow is in her underwear the whole time, yeah I
think I saw 1/8th of it. Well, yes, but also where she found communication
and understanding in an older, equally lonely man, how she did not realize

Jenette Ethel N. Vizcocho 53


that she and her husband had nothing to talk about until they went to a place
like Japan that made it glaringly obvious. Huh, I guess that makes sense. Do
you feel that way? What way? Like no one understands you, is that why you
like the movie so much? I never thought of it that way, I guess I like how you
could feel just how sad she was. Yeah, she spent a lot of time looking out of
windows. Well, I do that too.
They entered the elevator and she smiled when he leaned over and
pushed the button for the 14th floor. So what do you see outside of your
window? I see the rain coming in. I see a thin layer of clean air beneath the
thicker layer of smog. I see this guy. I never pegged you as a voyeur. She said
nothing until she saw he was smirking, barely ever serious. Not like that, she
blushed. He lives on top of the mall parking lot. Sometimes I see him in the
morning and he is lying in his hammock. And when I come home from work
he is still there. I like to think he does nothing unless I check on him. He
smiled. They were standing in front of her door, and he leaned over. You have
ice cream right here, I’ve been meaning to tell you but you seemed so intent
on convincing me that that chick Black Widow’s Japan movie is good. He
rubbed the left corner of her mouth, just beside the crease where her top and
bottom lip met, roughly passing his thumb several times across it until he said
ah in victory. You know, you don’t have to feel alone that way. You can tell me
stories about the things you think of. I like it. I would never notice the things
you do. Okay. I’ll see you, Samantha. Goodnight, Ben.
Ben was leaning against the wall just outside her unit when Samantha
walked out the next morning. Hi! She dropped her keys as she locked her
door, picking them up and then fumbling with the knob, feeling his gaze on
her. I’m going away for a few days. Oh, she noticed the duffel bag at his feet.
Can you do me a favor? Sure! Can you check on my pets while I’m gone?
Okay. He motioned for her to follow him. They stepped inside his apartment
and from the entrance, she saw a large, cloudy tank with about six small,
silvery fish. She didn’t notice their rows of sharp, interlocking teeth until they
drew closer.
He smiled apologetically at her. I know, I know, whoops, illegal! My
cousin used to own them; they were about thirty in this small pond at their
place in Marikina. Well, it was typhoon season, and the pond overflowed, and
this is all that is left of them, my aunt begged me to take care of them. She
imagined the rest of the piranha swimming in Marikina River, maybe even
making their way as far as Manila Bay, or perhaps somewhere beneath them

54 Short Story
in the sewers. She remembered Facebook posts that went viral, about rats and
snakes swimming up toilet bowls, and wondered if it were possible piranhas
could survive the same journey. What do you feed them? Sometimes chicken,
most of the time, these, he picked up a Tupperware at the foot of the table
where the tank was set up, the see-through container showing white mice
feeding on rice grains, stepping over each other, or dozing at a corner. The
top was perforated, and had a smaller panel that swung open without having
to peel off the entire lid, ideal for picking out one mouse at a time. I feed the
fish vegetables every now and then, I like to give them a balanced diet. They
only need to eat once a day, usually in the morning. I haven’t fed them yet.
You wanna watch? I guess.
He opened the side panel to the plastic container and scooped up one of
the more energetic mice, setting it into the tank. Initially, the piranha ignored
it as it swam and bobbed around, its feet and tail thrashing in the water.
One of the fish swam up to take a nip from its toes and the mouse struggled,
making the fish dart away. Soon, another had a go at it, taking a bite from
its tail this time. As more and more blood seeped into the water, more and
more fish took notice, and soon the attacks came, one after the other, one
fish dragging the mouse down and the others feeding, the mouse kicking free
and making for the surface, only to be pulled down again, until there was no
more struggle, only a group of fish picking at the carcass. And then calm, the
piranha separating, each going to their own corner of the tank.
When he turned to her, she forced a smile. You know, they’re actually not
as lethal as their reputation makes them out to be. They’re pretty tame, except
when there is a lack of food, when that happens, the weakest of their kind get
picked off. Nature, huh? They left his apartment and stood waiting for the
elevator. He asked her would she mind if they shared a ride to the airport?
Outside, the barker had a cab waiting, as usual, but he was quiet this
time, did not greet her nor give instructions to the driver, which she was too
distracted to notice, anyway. On their way to the airport, Ben did most of
the talking. Don’t worry if the tank gets cloudier than usual, I can handle
that when I come back next week. Okay. Thank you so much! All the while,
her hand was inside her purse, her fingers playing with the set of keys he had
given her, their weight on her palm, making her both excited and nervous.
Josie told Mike to fetch her at the lobby of Adriatico Heights, letting
on the first time they met that she lived in an apartment with her younger
siblings, and so no, he could never spend the night, they’re busy studying and

Jenette Ethel N. Vizcocho 55


cannot be distracted, but we can hang out at your hostel, instead. She was
quite surprised that once they entered Friendly’s Backpacker Inn, he did not
make any move to touch her. Instead, he took out the rolled up sleeping bag
that was attached to his pack and set it on the floor. She had been laid out on
his small cot, had arranged herself in a pose that she hoped looked enticing.
When he bent over and kissed her cheek good night before turning in, she
lay awake in bed, puzzled. She knew that foreigners who came to Malate
expected something out of the women they met, that’s what her friend who
worked at the perfume department of the mall told her, anyway. Get a new
wardrobe but expect to spend the night with your clothes off. She thought the
amount of food and drinks she had cost him would be at least worth a blowy.
Their succeeding dates since Coco Bananas revolved around cafes tucked
in small, dirty alleyways; museums with several floors dedicated to old
paintings that Josie could not stand to stare at for more than ten seconds,
casting dirty looks at Mike who stood their with his mouth open as he shook
his head. Check out the strokes, look at the contrasts, man, this shit is heavy.
I used to paint a bit, you know? Nope. He knew Philippine politics, asked her
take on current events. She wanted to talk about Taylor Swift and Katy Perry.
She wanted to know how many celebrities he had as friends. He would smile
and play with her hair, oh, Josie!
The guard glanced at her when she entered Adriatico Heights, watched
her sit down, then turned back to the newspaper set in front of him. She sat
on one of the sofas arranged at the lobby, nervously looking around, fixing
her skirt, adjusting her position on the leather that stuck to the sweat of her
thighs, looking up then away every time the elevator doors opened.
In her bag, nestled between her towel and toiletries, was 14F’s tribal two-
piece, something she filched off the freshly laundered pile when Matt and
Dave were not looking. Topshop, hand wash, do not wring, drip dry. The suit
looked new, even had the plastic barbs from the clothes tags still attached to
it. She knew 14F had the habit of sending for her laundry during Mondays,
confident she had plenty of time to clean the suit up before delivery. She was
more worried about 1952 Mabini Street, a relatively newer customer whose
schedule she was not familiar with, but whose backless leopard and zebra
print maxi dress she could not resist.
Mike went up to the lobby entrance, and she hastily grabbed her things
and met him as he was walking in. He hugged her at the doorway, and she
was surprised at how pleasant it felt. Can we take a jeep to the bus station?

56 Short Story
I’ve always wanted to try them out! Dreams of cabs with the air conditioning
at full blast died at his words and she shrugged, pulling away, sure. She came
face to face with 14F, who was walking with a man. 14F’s eyes flickered in
recognition, she nodded hello to Josie before following her companion into a
waiting taxi. The man was carrying a large duffel bag, and Josie guessed they
were going somewhere romantic, Boracay or Baguio or someplace that had
people and restaurants and music and fancy hotels. Mike smiled at her. Are
you ready?
Samantha fought the urge to enter his apartment when she got home
from work that day, not really knowing why, perhaps as a test on self-restraint.
The first morning that she ventured in alone, she had a hard time picking up
a mouse and feeding it to the fish, something she did not anticipate when
he had asked the favor off her, maybe because she was too overwhelmed
with being inside his house for the first time, maybe because of the piranhas
themselves, or maybe a bit of both. She fretted for a few minutes, pacing
around the kitchen and living room, opening doors and cupboards, before
deciding on donning the rubber gloves she found underneath the kitchen
sink. She grabbed at the body of the nearest mouse, felt it wriggle, the warmth
and its quick heartbeat even through the thick rubber barrier, and she threw
it into the tank, closing the lights and locking up without staying to watch.
The next morning, she stayed a little longer, and even longer the following
day, getting up earlier, crossing the hall in her pajamas, and opening the door
with her key. She looked at the framed pictures in the living room, mostly
mountains she mused Ben had climbed. He looked liked a climber, like
someone used to nature. There was a photograph that stood out to her, one of
a theme park at night, this particular one located above a boardwalk, the water
below reflecting the lights coming from the Ferris wheel, the rollercoaster,
and various other rides. She wondered who had taken the picture, if it were
Ben, or his companion. It seemed to have been taken in another country, and
she wondered if he had been abroad at one time, whom he had visited, who
sat beside him at the rides. She thought theme parks were always romantic,
and the fact that this photo was blown up, framed, and now hanging on his
wall surely meant something.
She rummaged through his pantry and refrigerator, making herself some
coffee, cooking eggs, and buttering some bread before putting them into the
toaster. She fed the fish and sat down to eat breakfast, choosing a seat she
assumed would be opposite the one he usually occupied, smiling, liking how
everyone, even the mice in the small Tupperware box, was busy eating.

Jenette Ethel N. Vizcocho 57


That night, when she could not sleep, she padded over to Ben’s apartment,
locking up behind her, trying the door to his bedroom, mildly surprised to
find it unlocked, wondering how if the situation were reversed and she had
left her house keys to him, if she would be so careless as to do so without
locking the door to her bedroom. After all, she had no business in there, she
knew that. She was just supposed to feed his fish.
His room was clean, the furniture sparse. He had a bed off to one corner,
a small television mounted on the wall, a study table with a desktop computer
opposite it. His closet was neat, the polo shirts, jackets, and pants all hung
up, the rest folded by color and kind. She picked up one of his pajamas and
as a joke tried it on. She walked to his bathroom, looking for a mirror, and
had to laugh at her reflection. She picked up his comb and ran it through
her hair, smelled his perfume, accidentally putting her nose too close to the
small opening that the liquid lingering at the mouth of the bottle stuck to her
flesh, making her sneeze. She washed her face, using the facial wash sitting
next to the razor. She hesitated when she picked up his toothbrush, shook her
head and set it down. She wiped the sink and the counter dry, rearranging
everything as best as she could from memory.
She walked back into his bedroom and stared at the bed, the covers neatly
tucked in, the pillows fluffed. Hers, back at her own apartment, was and
always is unmade. She didn’t have a systematic schedule as to when to change
the sheets, most of the time only doing so when stains became too apparent.
She sat at one corner and liked the spring to the mattress, checked the clock
and decided it was still early, just 10 PM, and her favorite talk show was
about to go on. She switched the television on, propped the pillows up, and
settled in, pulling the blanket up to her chin. The next thing she knew, it was
morning. But it was okay, it was almost time to feed the fish, anyway.
She walked into the kitchen, remembering that she spied some cereal in
one of his cupboards; smiling as the pants legs of Ben’s pajamas swished with
her every step.
The trip, as Josie had predicted, was a disaster. Mike seemed to get excited
by just about anything, kept taking photographs, standing from his seat and
crossing the aisle to shoot the trees, mountains, churches, traffic jams, even
the people; the vendors carrying puppets, toy helicopters with rotors that
operated by tightening and releasing a wound piece of rubber band, cheap
knock-off shades, candies, nuts, iced drinks, and cigarettes; the jay walkers;
the idle traffic enforcers with their uniform shirts stretched tight across their

58 Short Story
protuberant stomachs. He kept saying check that out, man, his eyes wide,
his face flushed. He tried everything, boiled quail eggs that sold for ten
pesos, chicharon drowning in spicy vinegar, macapuno candy, hotdogs sliced
to resemble telephone cords coiled around a barbecue stick, soggy with oil.
He talked to everyone, the conductor, the driver, the people seated opposite
them, hi, I’m Mike, it’s my first time here! Where should we eat when we get
to Batangas? Is Tagaytay something we should visit or should we just skip it?
I saw this video of children swimming in the flooded streets of Quiapo after
a storm, wild! My flight to Tacloban is in two weeks; I plan on staying there
maybe two months.
She didn’t like the way people looked at her when Mike spoke to them,
would force a smile, would turn up her music. She wrinkled her nose at all
the food he was eating, saying she wasn’t hungry, the bag of chips the couple
across them so nacho cheesy she could almost taste it.
The van ride was no better, people squeezed together four to a row, with
an air conditioner that barely did anything for the heat. She was feeling
sticky, and every time Mike shifted in his seat, every time the van turned
a sharp corner, she could feel his sweat on her skin, the hair on his arm
warm and moist. Mike was laughing the whole way. This is wild, he kept
shaking his head, wild! By the time they were in the small, motored boat
headed to Tambaron Island, Josie had been sitting beside him for eight hours.
She had stopped pretending she was having fun and ignored him when he
pointed out tiny islands they passed, driftwood, and schools of fish that swam
beneath them in the clear water. Mike seemed perfectly all right conversing
with TonTon, their hired boatman and tour guide for the next few days.
As soon as they had checked into their cottage, she changed into her
bathing suit and told Mike he can go island hopping all he wanted, she was
going to work on her tan.
Ben had called her up twice since he had left, asking her how things were,
and were his fish eating? I’ll be back on Saturday. Sitting in his living room, or
answering his call as she was in his bed, she felt a little guilty. She surveyed his
house, at how quickly she had nested, at how sleeping and waking and eating
and moving around in it easily came to her. She wondered how she was going
to clean it all up and go back to her apartment when everywhere she looked,
she already saw a bit of herself in it.
She slowly started straightening things out, somehow feeling sad with
every plate she washed, every pillow she righted, with every crumb, lint, and

Jenette Ethel N. Vizcocho 59


piece of hair that she swept up, feeling as though she were erasing every trace
of herself and her imagined week with Ben.
She went to the mall to replace the groceries that she had depleted,
passing a Mr. Quickie on her way back. She stood outside the store for a few
minutes before walking in to have Ben’s keys duplicated. The grooves of the
metal dug into her thumb as she fit the newly-made keys in among the rest
of her set.
Josie and Mike were in TonTon’s boat, Mike in complete diving gear, I
hear they have underwater caves here, want to go diving with me? Josie waved
the gossip magazines she had brought along in his face and muttered she
would rather read in the boat. The hike she had to endure the day before was
already enough torture to last throughout the trip, her thong plastic slippers
with their three-inch wedges sinking into the mud, her feet making sucking
noises with every step she took. He gently reminded her she should have
brought hiking footwear when she slipped on a patch of wet grass, and it was
all that she could do not to throw her slippers at him. TonTon was silent the
entire trip; he guided them through the mountains, helped them catch and
grill fish for dinner, slept in his boat during nights. He didn’t address her, only
spoke to Mike quietly about plans and updates, always looking up at the sky
and commenting on the expected weather for the day.
Josie was not amused. Here she was, dressed and fully made up, huge
hoop earrings swinging with each step she huffily took, and Mike was too
distracted to notice, and if ever TonTon did, he was too quiet to let it on. At
the top of the mountain was a pool of water that TonTon said came from a
hot spring. Mike immediately jumped in, shoes and cap still on, and Josie
watched as he kicked and splashed and stirred up dirt from the bottom.
TonTon, she observed, was slower, his movements more calculated. He peeled
his sweat-stained shirt off, and Josie could not help but notice that although
Mike was just as lean, TonTon’s body appealed to her as more manly, the dents
and curves more pronounced. He dove cleanly into the water, barely making
the surface ripple. She removed her maxi dress, the bottom caked with drying
mud, a small snag where she caught it in some thorny bushes, and gingerly
stepped into the water, Mike swimming over to join her, scooping her up in
his arms and guiding her to the middle of the pool. She felt TonTon’s eyes on
her, even in his silence she thought she caught him watching.
As soon as Mike disappeared into the ocean, Josie turned to TonTon,
who was looking far off into the distance. She sidled over to him, making

60 Short Story
such a show of looking left and right to make sure they were alone, before
loosening her bikini top and letting it carelessly drop onto the boat floor. By
then her flesh was so brown that the tiny triangles of her unexposed breasts
were a glaring contrast, her dark nipples framed in pale pyramids of flesh,
screaming for attention. She applied suntan oil on her skin, slathering more
and more as she hummed, concentrating on her neck, her chest, shifting her
weight over to each leg as she raised the other to work the slippery liquid all
the way to her toes. She sighed, arching her back and thrusting her body up
to the sun. Hay salamat, pagod na pagod na ako mag-English. Josie opened
one eye and then another, first sneaking a look then turning her whole body
toward TonTon. But he was still facing the ocean, his gaze steady. Bubbles
from beneath created slight ripples on the otherwise calm surface of the
water. She could already imagine the stories Mike would share of what he saw
underwater. He had hinted at her coming along to Tacloban, how he held her
hands in his tight grip as he mentioned the idea to her. All she could think
about was how she was running out of clothes. How Dave and Matt were
probably subject to hot accusations of mixing and misplacing clothes. How
14F or 1952 Mabini Street were complaining. Josie sat upright and fitted her
bikini top back on, wishing she were back at Wash and Wear, anywhere else,
really. She wanted to upload the photo album she was putting together, the
coy captions as to who Mike and TonTon were already solid in her head. But
there was no cellular signal in Tambaron Island.
On Saturday, Samantha stayed in her apartment, nervously playing
with Ben’s keys as she waited for his arrival. Her work had ended at seven.
Throughout the day, she kept checking his flight to see if any delays or
changes have been made, knowing that no matter how long she took
finishing her paperwork or readying her tasks for the next day, his 9:30PM
flight from Davao was still a long way away. When she alighted from her cab,
she distractedly waved away the barker who repeatedly offered to help carry
her things.
Ben was at her door just after midnight, and she pounced at it the
moment she heard him knocking. Hi! Hi, this is for you. He thrust a plant
into her hands. It was squat, with several branches extending out into long,
thin, leaves. Among the leaves drooped two small, perfectly-forming mangoes.
Ben laughed, it’s a bonsai! I met this guy at Davao who turns everything you
can imagine into a bonsai plant. He even had a tiny durian tree! You got this
through Customs? I placed it in one of the empty Golden Fruits pomelo
boxes I bought. They barely even checked my things. Are you mad? When

Jenette Ethel N. Vizcocho 61


she didn’t speak he continued rapidly, I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have minded one
but if they told me I couldn’t bring the plant on the plane, but nobody even
really cared. I guess you won’t understand, but, seeing as it affects your job, I
thought maybe you would find it funny, or at least informative. He reached
for the plant, but she held onto it. No, I think I understand. He smiled, it’s
going to need a lot of sunlight and frequent watering. Oh, my balcony doesn’t
really get enough sun. Really? Maybe I could check it out. It’s too dark out
now. Oh, hahaha, I meant tomorrow morning. Thanks, she imagined the
both of them standing at her balcony early the next day, maybe having some
coffee, shoulder-to-shoulder as they bent low, the two of them spying on the
man who lived under the water tanks at the mall parking lot.
She realized his house keys were still in her palm and she shifted the plant
to hand it to him, but he shook his head. It’s a duplicate. I actually had one
made for you before my trip. When she reddened, he smiled, stooping down
and handing her the bag of groceries she had carelessly forgotten to shelf in
her worry at making certain his apartment was exactly the way he had left it,
the receipt and credit card slip with her signature still stapled to the plastic.

62 Short Story
Poetry
Manifest and Other Poems
RODRIGO DELA PEÑA JR.

La Parisienne

Because the truth could not be stated


plainly, Juan Luna paints her worn-
looking and askew, as though the world
had tired of her and she had nowhere
else to go but be here on the canvas.
Scarlet and ochre, deep color of rust,
fading gold: the scene suggests no joy
in the realm of la belle epoque. Instead,
a woman whose disquieting gaze
dares you to look at her without flinching,
her downturned lips on the edge of what might be
a confession. What secret is hidden
beneath the folds of her dress, what story?
He tells her to stay still, hold the pose, el trabajo
no está terminado. Years later, he would aim
a revolver and in a jealous rage,
kill his wife and mother-in-law at their home
in Paris. The French court would acquit him
on grounds of temporary insanity.
By then, his work would be finished, sold

65
to the highest bidder. And the woman
in the painting stares longingly, fumbling
for words, help, au secours, aidez-moi,
s’il vous plait, but no one is listening.

Manifest
On May 3, 1882, José Rizal boarded the SS Salvadora and headed to Europe for the first
time.

1. A pair of steamer trunks with iron locks, filled with clothes to be used
for years before you would be able to go home.
2. In your pocket, a silver watch whose crown had to be wound up each
day.
3. Talismans worn smooth: tarnished medallion inscribed in Latin,
green quartz egg, crocodile’s tooth.
4. Names that weigh heavy on the tongue; names that would remain
unspoken for time to come.
5. Sheaves of paper, a set of quills, India ink. The lengths we go to skirt
around that which cannot be said.
6. Memory and its many ruses, wavering, like the flicker of shadows cast
by the ship on the water.
7. A crucifix on the crook of your clavicle, pendant of what you struggle
to believe in.
8. Cities not yet seen, letters that have yet to be written, already vivid
and pulsing in your mind.
9. Hands clasped and eyes looking ahead, that seem to hold all the sea
contains.
10. The horizon shifting as you move along, the world’s edge never to be
reached.

66 Poetry
Summer Ghazal

Each morning, the sun commands attention.


In my country, it is always summer.
This heat like a blowtorch: arrays of windows
open, unfurl to the fullness of summer.
Rizal felt and thought about it too, bones
turning indolent in the face of summer.
Bales of tobacco leaves scorched by the sun,
a scent I remember from many summers.
I crave for green mangoes dipped in rock salt
and vinegar, a childhood taste of summer.
Swish and flick of a carabao’s tail; grass
left to wither in the languor of summer—
details of a scene that Rizal must have missed
as he cursed another winter. Where is summer?
Count how many hours until evening comes.
Days seem longer in the torpor of summer.
Drink, says the sky to the earth as rain
falls. Welcome the brief respite from summer.

Ukiyo-e as O Sei San

How quick the season


turns, winter’s chill giving way
to green buds of spring
in the hushed gardens
of Azabu. Nothing here
in a path of stones

Rodrigo Dela Peña Jr. 67


conceals the secret
names I have of you: little
dragonfly, azure-
winged magpie, dear kite
unmoored in a floating world.
What you see reveals
what must eventually
be lost, so here is my face
pressed on rice paper.
From my lips, a song.
Who else but you will hear each
lilting note? My eyes
give me away. Soon,
days will be lit by summer.
Then comes the changing
air, the leaves of fall.
See how inch by inch I crane
my head and look back,
meet your gaze, the point
where everything converges,
everything vanishes.

Blood Compact
After Juan Luna’s Pacto de Sangre

In this painting, our gaze is drawn to the light-


skinned figure against the ink-dark background:
Miguel López de Legazpi, the Basque
conquistador sent to the other side
of the world in service of the empire.
Half of his face is hidden in shadow,

68 Poetry
deep in thought about the word of God
and how it must translate, without question,
into the work of faith. His breastplate gleams
and behind him, a coterie awaits
at the ready. A priest in his cassocks
stands ponderous beside soldiers in full
battle regalia, halberds sharpened, red
pennants raised, foreshadowing skirmishes
that will be sparked, the knifepoint of bondage.
And what of the local chieftain Sikatuna,
rendered at the edge of the frame, almost
like an afterthought? He sits opposite
his equal, his back turned to us, frozen
in a gesture he will endure for the rest
of his life. His tattooed right arm clutches
a dagger, which must have punctured flesh,
extracting blood to mix with wine for the pact
they now toast to. How the drink must be bitter
down his throat, with an aftertaste of iron.
How faceless he has become to us,
like so many natives who will die
fighting to reclaim their share of light.

Photograph of Teodora Alonso Holding the Skull of Her Son

Consider this tableau


of mother and child,
or what remains
of her son years after
his death. Unassumed
and unassuming

Rodrigo Dela Peña Jr. 69


facts of a life, recorded
as evidence through
an aperture of light.
Here is the skull
laid bare for everyone
to see, osseus profile
cradled in her palms,
given and received.
Bones that emerged
from her flesh, the nomad
who has come at last
to his resting place.
What answers
are to be found
in this thread of story?
This is all she can
bestow: composure
of grief in stippled gray,
her face a palimpsest
of years she had to bear.
To be so diminished
as the camera clicks.
To be done, to be
finished, to be over.

70 Poetry
Arborescence
PAUL MARAVILLAS JERUSALEM

Fake Accent

… I remember my tongue
shedding its skin like a snake, my voice
in the classroom sounding just like the rest. Do I only think
I lost a river, culture, speech, sense of first space
and the right place?
— Carol Ann Duffy, “Originally”

At times I have to rehearse


my assimilation, checking
that my voice is placed not too far
front at my teeth—
the way I’ve been raised
to convey my thoughts
is only constructive in singing
someone else’s songs.
Otherwise, to be too nasal
is evidence of bumpkin.
To twirl your arse and elles
is proof of roots that have
betrayed themselves, writhing—
the soil, its poetry of erosion:
first by rewriting one’s name
from Baybayin to Latin; a month later
choosing surnames that mean something
only in another land. I’ve done well,

71
well to the point that the only time
my singing voice is liberated from
the guttural drain is when I’m drunk,
witnessing my tongue, a serpent
shedding Singapore seasoned skin.

Discreet Looking for Same

I can only offer: saccharine


thoughts dashed by pepper
and salt so no one can know
what we really taste like;
an arm’s length apart,
as if on a tactical mission
but in broad daylight at the mall,
two discreet people camouflaged,
happening to be walking in formation,
the same way to the same place for the same.
It’s fine: you must be such a fan
of Oscar Wilde
you want a love that dares
not speak its name;
I’ll make do with cinema touches,
popcorn spilling, knee bumps prolonged
in my mind; my left hand, sweating claws open
upwards on my knee to test your discretion;
me, not making space for your arms that
overflow into my seat.

72 Poetry
I now understand: a movie with you is but an attempt
to catch up, live my own
fantasies on the wrong side of the screen,
a decade too late for teenage dreams;
why Filipinos call closet cases paminta—
the person who coined that
euphemism must have accidentally bitten
into a stray peppercorn
betraying its desire to be mild and unseen.
Is this discreet enough for you?

Not in Baybayin

i to find my to force me to tolerate. in exchange, i’ll get


want land, occupy to adapt your all my vowels wrong. it’s hard,
you: me, invent made-up tongue. you use the same writing for
the idea of never mind that i languages that have nothing
territory, and already have my in common, but the need to
claim it for own script. force be used, on a nightstand that
yours; it into oblivion. holds up the tethers of your
amend the ways colony. i won’t retaliate. i shall
i have always call you master (even after you
stitched every have long gone), meticulously
thread—tangling, pronouncing every letter
or tending toward down to each last consonant.
no return—in my all shortcuts and unspoken
head; rules do not exist when one
overcompensates, longing for
your skin, even centuries later.

Paul Maravillas Jerusalem 73


Arborescence
noun

1. finding out that the tree that shits


every morning in the parade square
its seeds, the objects of your undivided
attention at first parade when you sedia
and senang diri, is an angsana tree.
2. noting the futility of unleashing one’s seeds
onto gravel, trying to poeticize your daily
duty with their nightly emissions, as you
sweep away its crinkling pods, thinking of yourself
as superior to prosaic platoon mates.
3. realizing that angsana is just another name
for narra, the philippine national tree,
finding actual poetry in nomenclature,
storing it away to get you further.
4. learning that there’s only so far its seeds can reach,
so much that you can milk out of it, comforting
yourself with it when you fail to reach; only money
can buy some things.
5. at least in the process you learnt the exciting fact
that your identity can be romanticized into a tree,
airborne seeds to reach unknown territory, itinerant, or
6. imported to singapore to be manicured into
a garden city. perhaps the original narra tree
had hoped too that it would witness
7. the bildungsroman of its offspring. perhaps it too knew that
some people are only stepping stones. some
8. people will meet the fate of trees standing on future
condominium space. but some will be there through
9. the pruning, the finding of branches in places they shouldn’t be,
10. if you stick long enough.

74 Poetry
Ghazal of Deracination

The way Hokkien always sounds whiny is nothing to write


home about; be less self-conscious of that tongue of yours.
All your country is good for, they say, is the miraculous conversion
of diplomas and degrees into domestic worker permits.
They, whose beaches are adorned by litter and a reliance on
migrant flotsam, will learn how beautiful those once yours are.
When you’re twenty, someone will say “You look not bad, for a Pinoy.”
Reply “Thanks, wish I had your flat nose, slant eyes.”
You spent twenty years washing yourself, until rocks crumble
into sand. With sand you’ll try to reclaim land no longer yours.
When you’re six, you try to sing the National Anthem, dubbing
the words of “Majulah Singapura” over the tune of “Lupang Hinirang.”
If you could turn back time, realize that “Lupang Hinirang” means
chosen land, Paul. Unlearn neither the lyrics nor the language.

Let the Healing Begin

But, as always, like flapping battle scars,


scabs ajar on a hinge, hanging on
a single nerve: campaign posters,
after all, attract tourists too
inadvertently, layers that end
on a blank slate. Somewhere dementia
is a child painting on the wrong wall
the figure of its birthmark in the bedroom

Paul Maravillas Jerusalem 75


of history. Somewhere
a housewife prays, telling herself
that Christ will wrest power from the Devil
and not into dirty dictators. Yet
somewhere far away, someone writes poems
that rhyme Erap and corrupt, instead
of his Southeast Asian Studies paper.
His grandmother traces—her fingers
embalming amnesia—
forehead, diaphragm, right shoulder, left,
forgetting to touch her lips before she leaves.

76 Poetry
Elemental
JOSE LUIS PABLO

Flames in the Highway

It is true that the Red Dust has its joys, but they are evanescent and
illusory.

—Cao Xueqin, Dream of the Red Chamber

i.
A break of color signals
for the years of waiting
to march on inexorably,
a crowd of crimson banners.
ii.
The shrub of a late summer
bloom is a blinding fire,
the twilight flowers drop
a vision on bobbing heads:
Petals in a downstream pilgrimage
get home sooner.
iii.
Under breath, words of passion
folded like kisses to keep prying
eyes sober, distracted from the
friction of two bodies using up
all the kindling possible.

77
iv.
Headlights can seem like sirens
in the yawn of this grey desert.
We know what they are wailing for
as they fall into a familiar pattern;
red lanterns stranded, from a storm
roaring uninvited at this festival.
v.
Like a naked grain of wheat, each
layer stripped from me as raw meat
blinking untouched in the gashing
whiteness of a stinking sanitation.
vi.
Sea of flame, sea of wine
ballads to the color ought to be
remembered. Lest you forget,
think of the blood of life.

Suspension

Take the memory as a fin would


brace the salt
when the dawn begins to hurry.
I commit it to
the ocean in my mind
swelling as large as
the milky rib of a whale
protruding, the muted bay
we test gently with our feet.
A home cannot be built
on sand. It is a teaching
older than the birth of this beach,
when what was washed
on shore hewed the remains
of understanding, mollusc shells,

78 Poetry
the knowledge of things that
end.
An image hails the monotony
of ripples, frees the final
form lingering—
a palm letting go
of a breath of dark sand,
the promise is
swaying, limp in the
stale water.

Spirit of the Season

I pray that these hollow caverns


would keep the quiet absent from
steady echoes of voices and faces,
buried in a boneyard of decades
that have flown around
like geese migrating or escaping the
turning of the harshest season—
a coat of second skin from the humidity,
lightning splits the sky into three,
the taste of a swarm of bees,
all slivers past the threshold
presenting selves
as a suggestion into this
room yet to be filled.
How a disappearance must
fall flat before a
dousing sound.
A drop of rain splatters
across a car window and
calls me to the breaking
of small things—

Jose Luis Pablo 79


anger,
a word said or otherwise,
the worry of the past or future,
me.
How severely
does the body lie floating.

Gardening Alone

We were born as thorns when we lived


together in marshes concealed in
darkened bark where
you left a seed in a plot of clay,
shallow as the bed you dug.
I lay my roots down in loam
you’ve long sifted through
with the edge of your spade.
I hear the crunch beneath your boots,
of stones we arranged,
slipping by each water’s reach,
slipping like the rosary beads
you held up uttering all my first names
in novena.
When space encroached on our landfills,
I thought you would lift the latch on the gate
but I watched the evening clouds
take the tails of your shirt;
you had drowned in that chalice-colored sea
as you wanted.
Look for me sometimes, no plant of guilt
has ever dared sprout in your place.
After all,
the pages lining the book you read every night
are children of the home
you surrendered the keys to me.

80 Poetry
Petrichor

Your hand curls around what isn’t there—


perhaps it is the air you’ve been saving to exhale
on a day you wanted to close your eyes to,
or was it the space that carved its way
inside your belly,
the salt-and-rice that could not sate the hunger
you did not know you had—
a taste for the pictures
beyond your worn out school book
or a visceral itch
that could only be scratched with the promise
that your children (merely seeds in your mind)
would not know your pangs;
but your thirst was not ignored
and your open but unspeaking mouth
was a cup for the rainwater
that had not spared even an inch of your untouched skin,
brown as the dirt you used to till with your father.
You will sleep now
and your dreams will leave the weight of your body,
carried by the sighing wind,
with the petrichor from the ruptured veins of your land.
The mud baptizes you in its own Name,
and if long ago you burst from the soil
crying your first tears,
then tonight the tears have been shed for you
so you can recline
to coalesce into the puddles
shattering the flatness of the earth.

Jose Luis Pablo 81


Essay
How a Brain Surgeon Learned to
Ride a Bike
RONNIE E. BATICULON

M any years from now, I will remember today as the day I learned to ride
a bike. At the age of thirty, after working for five years in Philippine
General Hospital (PGH), I have performed close to 500 operations on
the human brain and spinal cord. And yet, despite having taken out brain
tumors, clipped ruptured blood vessels, repaired inborn malformations, and
saved motorists from life-threatening head injuries day in and day out, I have
not been able to acquire the elementary skill of balancing oneself and moving
forward on a two-wheeled vehicle.
When revealed to my colleagues, this seemingly trivial ineptitude is
always a source of both amusement and bewilderment. To their incredulous
stares, I would respond with a matter-of-fact but sheepish grin, “Eh hindi ako
marunong, eh” (I just don’t know how to). If cycling were a prerequisite for
graduation, I would not have been able to finish my training as a neurosurgeon.
Melbourne weather is being its usual temperamental self this afternoon.
When I left my flat in Brunswick West just forty-five minutes ago, the sun
was up, its dry summer heat searing to skin accustomed to tropical humidity.
Getting off at my tram stop at Saint Kilda Road, I noticed that the warmth
had given way to intermittent gusts of cold winds with dark clouds overhead.
Eleven months earlier, on my final year as a resident physician in PGH,
I received news that I had been accepted for fellowship training in one of
Australia’s leading pediatric hospitals. The hospital being in Melbourne, I
decided at the outset that I would not allow myself to spend a year in the city
without learning to ride a bicycle. Melbourne has a strong cycling culture,
with designated bike lanes on the city’s thoroughfares and bike trails that run
along its parks and gardens.

85
All it took was a quick Google search the other night (“adult learn to ride
a bike Melbourne”) and I had found myself a teacher. Immediately I booked
two sessions.
Thus, here I am, a two-week-old Overseas Filipino Worker, helplessly
shivering in my knee-length shorts and short-sleeved, single layer t-shirt.
“Get used to four seasons in one day,” I was told several times by kababayans
I have met so far. While I already have a template answer to their question,
“Ano, Dok, dito ka na ba titira?” (Are you staying here for good, Doc?), I have
yet to acquire their habit of checking the day’s weather forecast and hourly
temperature.
I hear a ding from my mobile phone. It is an apologetic message from my
would-be instructor Michelle, advising that she will be a few minutes late. I
type “No worries, take your time!” and press send, but only after convincing
myself that this is how a polite local would reply.
Standing at the corner of Kings Way and St. Kilda Road, I am at one
of Melbourne’s bike share stations. There is a glass-covered map of the city
that shows bike routes (“Share from Here to There”) and an automated self-
service kiosk where one can pay for bike rental using a credit card. Beside
these is a row of the city’s trademark royal blue bicycles docked next to one
another. To me, it is a barricade of soldiers waiting for the enemy to attack,
every single one refusing to be conquered. I stare intently at the army of
bicycles and reiterate as I have told myself with utmost conviction all day: I
will not be intimidated.
I continue to wait, blowing warm air into my palms every five minutes
or so, lest they become too numb to hold the handlebars later. I should get
warmer once I start riding.

Growing up, I spent most of my bike-less childhood indoors. While the


rest of my peers played games on the street or basketball in the village court
after class, I would go straight home to work on my assignments and school
projects. I was a typical diligent honor student—a geek even.
I preferred to spend my free time lying on our living room couch to read
fiction or science books. In first year high school, I amazed our librarian by
consuming four library cards in a period of ten months. I read every single
issue of Reader’s Digest and every book in the Hardy Boys series that was in
the shelves. I would save my allowance so that I could buy secondhand John
Grisham novels. Reading was cheap and exciting, and it also took me places.
There was no need to learn to ride a bike.

86 Essay
Besides, my parents would not have been able to afford a bicycle then. I
am the eldest of five children. My engineer father’s income was just enough
for our family’s living expenses. The sole reason I could enroll in a private
high school was that I obtained an academic scholarship, which required
maintaining my First Honor status year after year. Books and school supplies
were on top of the priority list, toys way below. The only way I would have
gotten a bike, which fell under the category of toys, was if a godparent
miraculously decided to give me one for Christmas.
I suppose I could have befriended other kids in the neighborhood. One
or two of them might have a bike that I could borrow. That would have
worked, except I did not make friends easily and my same-age cousins were
either abroad or living in the province. Peer pressure was virtually nonexistent.
The yearning began in college, after meeting like-minded individuals from
all walks of life, from all over the country: valedictorians, athletes, musicians,
writers, and activists—my class of forty students had them all. I realized that
my inability put me in a very small minority, but then again, I was studying
at the national university. Everyone’s background and individuality had to
be respected; nobody cared about what one could or could not do outside of
academic work.
The medical student’s desire to become an excellent physician was more
pressing than the inner child’s wish to pedal without training wheels or a
sidecar. I had exams I needed to pass, patients who needed to be examined,
hospital paperwork that needed to be completed, and a home tutorial job
that I needed to find time for, so that I would have extra money for medical
school expenses.
It was quite easy to justify things from my perspective.

A middle-aged, caucasian woman on a bicycle is waving her arm from across


the intersection. This must be Michelle.
She whizzes past me and stops just beyond the bike share station. She
gets off and walks to where I am. She introduces herself with a smile and a
handshake. Once more, she offers her profuse apologies; her son is getting
a motor vehicle license and needed to log driving hours with parental
supervision. I tell her not to worry about it. I have already waited over two
decades for this bike lesson. Fifteen minutes more hardly mattered.
We walk back to the kiosk, and she explains how the city’s bike share
system works. She undocks one of the blue bikes and inspects its gears and
wheels. Her lithe physique allows for elegant, deliberate movements. Her

Ronnie E. Baticulon 87
brown-blonde hair has been pulled back in a ponytail. She demonstrates how
the bike is docked properly to avoid paying penalty charges, before finally
handing the bike to me, with such force I almost topple to the ground, just
now realizing how heavy these blue bikes are. To get a bruise even before
starting, that would have been embarrassing.
Michelle unstraps a helmet from her bike’s rear rack and attempts to
fit it securely onto my head. Its blue color matches the city bicycles’, and
Melbourne is printed on either side.
“Helmets are required in the city. You can get these ones for just five
dollars from any 7-Eleven store. Just remember that you are a large, darling.”
She tightens the straps. I feel no different from a grade one pupil being
readied by his mother for first day of school.
“How’s your balance?” she asks.
“To be quite honest, I think it’s not good at all. That’s probably why I
never learned in the first place.”
“I see. Have you tried riding a bike before?”
As a matter of fact, I have. On my final year as a resident physician, I
purchased a mountain bike intending to learn during my free time. Twice, I
practiced with a friend in a parking lot, but the frequent falls and the difficulty
of dodging cars entering and leaving made me abandon the sessions. For a
year, my bike remained stationary inside my apartment unit, never to be used
on an actual road. After my graduation from the hospital, I had to bring it
home where it is now stored, accumulating dust and rust, waiting for my
return to the Philippines.
“In that case we might have a problem. It’s important that from the
beginning, we set expectations on what you can learn from me in two sessions.
In cycling, balance is key.”
Did she just doubt my ability to learn at my age?
I want to interrupt her and say that I do not believe in the word
impossible, but I remind myself that I am not a surgeon inside his operating
room anymore. This afternoon, I am the student. I do not want to antagonize
my teacher early on, so instead I continue to nod and listen.
“This is how you walk a bike. Put one hand on the handlebar and hold
the seat with the other. Yes, that’s it. If you could just follow me, darling, we
will do your lessons in Fawkner Park. It’s just across the road two blocks from

88 Essay
here. Remember that in Melbourne, if it’s called a garden, you are not allowed
to ride your bike inside. But if it’s called a park, then you may practice there.”
While walking, Michelle explains what she plans to do for the next sixty
minutes. She also starts to give advice on riding a bicycle safely in the city.
“Always ride one car door away from traffic. And I don’t understand why
anyone would wear black when cycling.”
My chest is pounding, making it difficult to listen to every detail. After a
while, elm and oak trees come into view straight ahead.
“Here we go,” I mutter to no one in particular.

Since elementary, I had always known that I wanted to become a doctor.


Being the eldest child in a lower middle class family, however, I was not
certain if this lifelong dream was remotely possible.
During my final year in high school, relatives repeatedly tried to convince
me to take up any course related to engineering or computer science. This was
year 2000 and information technology was the popular and pragmatic choice.
After graduation, getting a high-paying job abroad was almost guaranteed; it
would allow me to help my parents financially in the soonest possible time. It
was not illogical either; I had always excelled in mathematics, qualifying for
interschool competitions at the regional and national levels.
It was a good thing my parents gave me the freehand when I was filling
out my college application forms. I remained adamant about my decision to
pursue medicine.
Armed only with an indomitable spirit, I got admitted into the Integrated
Liberal Arts Medicine (INTARMED) program of the University of the
Philippines (UP). The accelerated program would allow me to become a
doctor in just seven years after high school. Fortuitously, I was also awarded
the Oblation scholarship for exceptional performance in UP’s entrance exam.
Over 64,000 took the test, and I belonged to the top 50. In 2008, I graduated
from the College of Medicine with honors.
Experience has taught me that if you work hard enough, the only thing
left to do is to believe in the impossible. That was what I wanted to tell my
bike teacher.

Forty-five minutes have passed since Michelle and I started our bicycle
drills. I am exasperated and nothing seems to be working.

Ronnie E. Baticulon 89
We have tried all permutations possible: level ground or slightly downhill,
soft grass or pebbled surface, start in motion and then stop, or begin stationary
and then move. I just could not go beyond one revolution of the wheels.
Inevitably, I would fall sideways and Michelle would have to run to catch me.
At one point, an elderly gentleman who had been observing us from a
park bench said, “Even kids can do that easily.”
“Well, everybody learns at a different pace,” Michelle retorted, her
maternal instincts kicking in.
I am otherwise oblivious to the stares of the people passing through the
park to jog or walk their dogs. I am a stranger in a free country, and I could
not care less about what they think. I just want to prove to myself that I can
do this.
Whenever Michelle lets go of my bicycle, I sense from her a trepidation
that amplifies with every inch that separates us. Toward the end of the hour,
she says, “I’m wondering what is making it difficult for you. Let me try to
think about it later.”
“That’s okay, I really appreciate your patience with me, Michelle.”
I ask when she would be available for our next session, but she cannot
commit to a schedule. I want to pay in advance to guarantee that there will
be a second opportunity for me to learn, but she refuses to take the money.
Walking back to the tram stop in defeat, I listen to her advice on what I
can do at home to attain balance. Her parting words are practice, practice,
practice.
The winds remain cold and indifferent. I hop on my tram dejected. I
have never thought an hour of bicycle lessons could feel more arduous than
a whole day of operating. I try to recall my arm and leg movements earlier,
and visualize the resulting motion of the bicycle. It is no different from the
introspection that invariably follows a failed surgical procedure, when a
surgeon scrutinizes every stage of the operation to identify the misstep that
led to the unfavorable outcome.
I could not find an answer.
As soon as I get home, I turn on my computer and look for another
teacher on Google.

Many years from now, I will remember today as the day I learned to ride a
bike, I tell myself a second time.

90 Essay
I am seated on a bench at the edge of Albert Park Lake, not far from
where I took my first cycling lesson. It’s quarter to nine in the morning.
Almost time. The sun is up on clear skies and a gentle steady breeze cools the
surroundings.
Out on the lake, there is a group of primary school kids learning how
to sail. Their male teacher has just signaled to everyone that the day’s lesson
has come to an end. Boys and girls in their neon lifejackets start docking
their sailboats. In groups of two or three, they take down their red, blue, and
yellow sails, and carry their respective boats to the shed behind me.
Perhaps after learning to cycle, I can learn to swim next.
My prospective teacher Rick was quick to reply to my messages when
I was finalizing the schedule yesterday. He asked for my height and weight
because he wanted to bring the optimal bicycle.
“I really would like to learn how to ride a bike, but I’m afraid I might be
a difficult student. Is that all right?”
“Trust me, mate, I’ve plenty of experience with adults like you. I think
you will be riding in no time.”
Thinking things over, I realize that I am actually not afraid of falling
off my bike. As a neurosurgeon, I have had to deal with fears more real than
superficial scuffmarks or broken bones. I have always had to confront life and
death head on. So no, it is not falling.
It is failing that I dread more.

“I am sorry, sir. I think I am going to lose this patient.”


I had long feared having to say these words in the operating room, long
wished I would never have to say them. When the inevitable mistake did
happen, I spoke in a voice that was flat and unhurried, devoid of any emotion,
almost inappropriately calm in an attempt to shove panic to the side. I could
have been reading the classifieds to my consultant at the other end of the line.
My patient’s brain was mushrooming out of her skull, and it was bleeding
from all corners. I stood frozen, overcome by the realization that she was on
the verge of dying on the operating table. In my head, I ran through all the
options I had left as I gave my consultant a quick narrative of my surgery over
the phone. There was simply no room to feel anything.
“My patient’s blood pressure is dropping, sir. I might just have to close
this and talk to her family. Sorry po.”

Ronnie E. Baticulon 91
A pause. From the corner of my eye, I could see the anesthesiologist
injecting medications and hooking intravenous fluid for resuscitation. Then,
after a few seconds that seemed to linger for an eternity, instructions:
“Try to control the bleeding first. Open the neck and clamp the carotid.
Take out the swollen brain, more frontal than temporal. Wait for me.”
“Okay po, sir. Thank you po.”
I gestured to the nurse holding the mobile phone next to my ear that our
conversation had ended, and I proceeded with the surgery as I was told.
Just fifteen minutes earlier, I gave myself a pat on the back for an elegant
bone opening in record time. I sat at ease on the cushioned chair, with both
eyes fixed on the operating microscope as I navigated through the webs inside
my patient’s brain and identified her blood vessels, suction tip on the left
hand and dissecting instrument on the other. My patient had an aneurysm,
a condition in which a vessel that delivers blood and oxygen to the brain
develops a sac-like outpouching, in her case likely due to smoking and
uncontrolled high blood pressure. This focal point of weakness in the vessel
wall had already ruptured once, and the goal of the surgery was to apply a clip
on the aneurysm’s neck to keep it from re-bleeding.
It was my fourth operation of this kind. Though my hand movements
still wavered between tentative and definitive, I had already acquired some
dexterity during my first month as senior resident physician.
At the start, I was leisurely pointing anatomic structures to my junior
resident, alongside casual conversation with the anesthesiologist and nurses
about my plans after finishing residency training in December and my recent
trip to attend a pediatric course in Singapore. Alternative music resonated
within the operating room from my iPad. It was the perfect morning to save
a life.
Until, with a single flick of my right hand probing aimlessly where it
shouldn’t, a rookie mistake, my operating field filled with blood. Since I had
not yet completely dissected the source of bleeding, one of the largest vessels
of the brain, I knew outright my patient was in danger.
I turned to the anesthesiologist and said, “I ruptured the aneurysm,” and
to the nurse, “Pakitawag si James, please” (Kindly call James). He was my
fellow senior resident, assisting a tumor case at that time in another operating
room. There was no shouting. No clanging of surgical instruments being
propelled in the air and falling to the floor. Only the cardiac monitor was

92 Essay
bold enough to beep with arrogance, announcing the passing of time as one
life slowly slipped past my trembling, stubby fingers.
That life belonged to Ofelia Reyes,* a 38-year-old beautician and single
mother from Cavite. When I first talked to her in the intensive care unit
(ICU), she was proud to say that she could do everything in the salon where
she worked: hair cut, hair style, manicure, pedicure, and all else that would
make her clients feel pampered and fabulous. Her hair was dyed auburn,
and both eyebrows, trimmed to a gentle curve, complementing the sharp
angulation of her cheekbones. Her salary from the beauty parlor was barely
enough to raise three kids. I never asked about her husband and neither did
she volunteer any information about him.
Two weeks earlier, as she was about to finish applying hair color on a client,
she suddenly felt lightheaded. She excused herself to go to the restroom, only
to be found unconscious on the floor a few minutes later by her coworkers.
She awoke with severe headache and was taken to PGH, admitted as a charity
patient under the neurosurgery service. Imaging of her brain and its blood
vessels confirmed the presence of an aneurysm that had just bled. She was still
fortunate; as many as 15 percent of patients with a ruptured aneurysm die
even before they reach the hospital.
As a charity patient, Ofelia would not have to pay for doctors’ fees or the
daily rate for ward admission. Treatment would not be entirely subsidized,
however. Her family would still need to shoulder the cost of laboratory tests,
medications, brain scans, and the clip to be used for surgery. In a private
hospital, a total treatment cost of half a million pesos would not be unheard
of.
Charity operations are decked among residents. James and I took turns
clipping aneurysms, and Ofelia’s was my turn.
On the day before her surgery, I explained to Ofelia that there was a
risk of developing complications such as bleeding, infection, or difficulty
speaking. Foremost of all, because I would be working on the right side of
her brain, she could develop weakness of her left arm and leg. At worst, there
was a small possibility of complete, permanent paralysis of the left side of her
body.
“Kahit saan po kayong ospital magpunta, wala pong doktor na magsasabi sa
inyo na 100 percent sure, walang magiging problema sa operasyon.” (No matter

*Not her real name

Ronnie E. Baticulon 93
which hospital you go to, no doctor will give you a 100 percent assurance that
no complications will arise during the operation.)
Because the risk of her aneurysm bleeding again and potentially causing
instantaneous death without treatment was much greater than the possible
risks of surgery, Ofelia gave informed consent, but only after expressing her
greatest concern: she was left-handed.
“Itong kaliwang kamay lang ang ipinanghahanapbuhay ko, Dok.” (This left
hand is my only means of earning a living, Doc.)
I put my right palm over the back of her left hand and promised that I
would do my best, knowing that I needed to, and that in truth, she did not
have much of a choice. She was stuck with me because she would not be able
to afford the cost of treatment elsewhere.
“Kayo na po ang bahala, Dok. Maliliit pa po ang mga anak ko.” (I leave
everything up to you, Doc. My children are still very young.)
And so, as I tried to apply and reapply clips on Ofelia’s blood vessels in
a continued attempt to close off the point where I inadvertently ruptured
her aneurysm, I kept thinking about the three kids. And the brown, slender
fingers that worked six days a week to be able to give them a decent life. Still,
the bleeding in Ofelia’s brain would not stop. I was not ready to lose her. Not
this day. Not this single mother of three children.
What an immense relief it was to see my consultant walk into the
operating room. I had been expecting either criticism or sarcasm, perhaps
both, but instead we proceeded directly to the task at hand.
My consultant deftly continued to dissect where I left off, pointing out
the idiosyncrasies that made the case difficult. After several tries, he applied
the final clip that would secure the aneurysm. All bleeding came to a halt.
Ofelia’s blood pressure and heart rate began to normalize.
“Never give up,” said my boss, before handing back to me the surgical
instruments.

“Never Give Up,” I say under my breath as soon as I see Rick’s utility vehicle
pull up on the lakeside driveway.
My new teacher is a cheerful bearded fellow, your typical Aussie bloke,
someone who would join you for a beer at the end of a busy workday. He
gets off his truck and brings down two bikes from the rear, one for each of us.

94 Essay
“I am that confident we will both be riding around the lake before the
hour is up.”
I have to say, his optimism is contagious.
My new bike is still blue, but with a frame that is noticeably lighter than
the city bike. I climb onto it and try the seat at the lowest possible position.
My toes cannot reach the ground.
Rick is not pleased. He goes to his truck and returns with a handy saw.
He pulls out the seat post and cuts off two inches from the distal end, right in
front of me. A bike has just been irreversibly mutilated just so I could learn.
I surmise the theatrics was my teacher’s way of implying, There is no turning
back, Doctor. He asks me to try again.
“That’s better.”
We walk to a nearby track and field practice court. He removes my bike’s
pedals and tells me to roam around, momentarily lifting both feet off the
ground every few seconds or so, for progressively longer periods each time.
“If you feel that you are going to fall sideways, just turn the handlebars
to that side. Most beginners end up tracing figures of eight, but you will soon
be able to go straight once you get the hang of it.”
I do as I was instructed, and he watches from afar.

Right after ofelia’s surgery, I spoke to her father in the waiting room. It
was he who took care of the menial tasks of bringing blood and urine to the
laboratory, scheduling procedures in radiology, and buying medications from
the pharmacy day after day. He smelled of old clothes on a rainy afternoon,
and his gentle manner belied the strength of his age.
I was physically and mentally exhausted but I owed him an explanation:
where I failed, why I had to call my consultant, and what to expect from
hereon. I told him that most likely, Ofelia would wake up in the ICU unable to
speak and with significant weakness on the left side of her body. I apologized.
Throughout our conversation, he remained calm and understanding.
“Salamat pa rin po, Dok,” (Thank you still, Doc) he said at the end. He
was somber, but that did not inundate the sincerity of his gratitude, and I
wondered how he did that.
The harrowing surgery would cripple me for days, Ofelia’s lifeless left
arm and leg being a daily reminder of my near-fatal mistake. Inasmuch as I

Ronnie E. Baticulon 95
wanted to cry from anger and remorse, there was hardly any time for that. A
pause button did not exist. Charity patients who needed brain surgery kept
coming to PGH, and I was duty-bound to serve them in all earnestness.
The last time I would see Ofelia and her father was several weeks after
her discharge from the hospital. The two turned up at the neurosurgical ward,
requesting for her skin staples to be removed. After missing their scheduled
follow-up appointment, her father had to borrow money for jeepney fare to
PGH on this day, only because Ofelia’s wound had already begun to itch.
My patient wore a rosary conspicuously around her neck. Her behavior
regressed to that of a child’s. She was unable to comprehend commands, but
she could utter simple phrases. The weakness on the left side of her body was
decreasing steadily; she was now able to grasp objects and walk on her own.
Her father told me that they had recently started selling handmade rugs to
earn a living.
Seeing Ofelia again, I was just thankful she did not die on my operating
table.

Twenty minutes have elapsed and I am cruising with ease. Rick is satisfied
with what he is seeing.
“What do you think about putting the pedals back on?”
He does not wait for my reply. He pulls me over and attaches the pedals
to my bike.
“Don’t think about it. Just keep doing what you were doing a while ago.”
To my astonishment, pedaling has become instinctive. I am moving
forward. Wobbly still, but moving nonetheless. Rick brings out his mobile
phone and takes a video of me cycling for the first time.
“I bet you didn’t think you’d be riding this quickly!”
My heart is racing, ecstatic at the prospect of biking along the Yarra River
and exploring a city that will be my home for a year. I look up and feel
the congratulatory warmth of the sun against the onrushing wind. I have
the grin of a hundred children combined. This is how it feels to achieve the
impossible.

The joy of neurosurgery comes from lives saved and lives improved, be it
from the simplest or most complicated of operations. At the other end of
the spectrum, when a brain surgeon fails, one is eternally burdened by self-

96 Essay
hatred, frustration, and regret, knowing that the slightest of errors may lead
to prolonged suffering, permanent disability, or worse, even death. Trying to
find the balance may seem futile; the only way to move forward is to learn
from one’s mistakes, and to bear in mind that as a doctor, one only acts with
the best of intentions.
I am a Filipino neurosurgeon, and today, I learned to ride a bike.

Ronnie E. Baticulon 97
Shoes from My Father
JAN KEVIN RIVERA

T he first shoes my father ever bought for me were a pair of blue Patrick
Ewings—high-cut, heavy-duty rubber shoes with Velcro straps. They
were from Seoul, where he worked odd jobs during the cusp of a technological
boom. The Ewings were meant to be worn on my first birthday.
Family pictures told a different story. My one-year-old version was about
to blow a candle, wearing shoddy pambahay and barefoot. Mom told me that
I had refused to wear decent clothing during my birthday. I had stomped and
shrieked my way out of a crisp polo, little khakis, and the shoes.
Dad never failed to remind me, whenever the photo albums were pulled
out, that he had shelled out hard-earned won for the complete set. He would
emphasize that the shoes were the most expensive.
Along with my birthday pictures were of my father, then a twenty-four-
year-old overseas worker. One picture stood out. He was standing in the
middle of a snow-covered neighborhood street. The whiteness of everything
matched his complexion. He was smiling, his long floppy hair whipped by
the winter wind. His distinguishing features—bushy eyebrows, protruding
lips, lanky frame—would remind me of my own in my twenties. Our close
resemblance was uncanny, relatives would say. The subtext was always clear:
For someone who looked alike, we fought too much about our differences.
His return to Manila spelled out these differences through the years. Our
relationship was tenuous and uncomfortable, like trying to walk with two left
pairs of shoes.
My father’s presence was at its most palpable in shoe shopping, a middle-
class rite of passage in personal responsibility. I am giving you something of
value, he seemed to say. Look after it. Dad would take me to the department
store, testing pairs of Tretorns that could serve many purposes. Occasionally
thrown in to the mix were durable buckled sandals as substitutes. We
went through the same ritual for school shoes. He was more decisive with
those—time-tested black Walk-Overs. Other brands were subpar. After every

98
purchase, he would make me sit beside him, shoe-shining kit in hand. He
would pick up one shoe, smear wax all over it with a sock over his hand, then
shine it vigorously with a brush. He would go through the process carefully,
stating the instructions for me. The shoes should last at least two school
years, he would throw as a parting shot. Our garage was proof of this kind of
maintenance. On long wooden shelves, plastic cases and carton shoe boxes
were stacked on top of each other. Labels were scribbled on boxes: name of
the owner, brand, color. If shoes were not placed in boxes, they were lined
side by side on the floor, being aired out before keeping them in storage.
I had been the bane of my father’s well-kept ritual. My rarely-shined
leather shoes in grade school lasted only a year; six months in fourth grade
when I used them to play patintero after school. They were strewn on the
doormat whenever I arrived home. My other shoes, though well-worn for a
couple of years, were so unusable that they had to be thrown out.
Dad used to shout at me over those misuses. The frat man’s large voice
boomed as he barraged me with questions: Bakit nakakalat? Why do you
use them to run on pavement? Bakit ba kasi ginagamit sa patintero? I would
shake my head, not daring to say out loud what I had thought: They were
just shoes; what was the big deal? While I tried to shine and arrange them
whenever he ordered me to, I never picked up his habits. No amount of
shouting made me.
Being Dad’s antithesis in shoe maintenance stuck as I grew up. But I did
develop his appreciation for footwear and how they tied up a look. I was in
high school when leather flip-flops inched their way into the market. Dad
kept his imported black-and-brown pair in their original plastic case. At the
time we were the same height. Our shoe sizes were not far from each other.
I made the mistake of borrowing his leather flip-flops for a summer org
meeting, determined to impress a group mate with my grown-up style. I
made the bigger mistake of dropping by his office in the university out of
habit. What followed were pointed reminders on personal belongings and an
order to go home.
“I can’t,” I stammered, defiant but scared at fifteen. He made me clarify
why I could not. My reason involved Burger King and a boy.
Something must have clicked in his head that day. He took it all in:
dressy pants, well-pressed white polo, overpowering cologne. My toes curled
in his borrowed sandals, aware of the scrutiny.
“Go home,” he ordered for a second time. I did not.

Jan Kevin Rivera 99


I got home that day much later than Dad did. He was working on his
computer, but I knew he heard me walking toward our apartment. Before
entering, I grabbed the sandals, briskly rubbed their soles together, and
clapped them many times to shake off the dirt. I made sure that he heard
what I was doing.
“Tama na!” he bellowed over my ruckus. He looked at me: silent appraisal
with a hint of anger. He would give me that look in more instances—in a
house that would become too small for us, circling around our landmine of
an issue.
Our old unit was at the end of a long apartment block. My steps had
become lithe when I started arriving past my curfew during senior year.
The shoes helped: black loafers bought by my maternal grandfather. They
were my favorite pair, made of light Italian leather with breathable soles. All
the others my father bought before had been relegated to their dusty, well-
arranged boxes. They made too much noise to walk in, too much effort to put
on before my classmate’s house help could suspect anything.
Most times, I would open the door into the dark living room, mindful
of the creak. Some unlucky nights, the fluorescent light spilled out into the
small patio. I would try to enter unnoticed, never forgetting to wipe my shoes
on the door mat. Dad would comment on how late it was, slurring his words.
Alcohol always fueled whatever we were set to fight about. That night, it was
about breaking curfew. The week before, it was about my broken laptop.
Months ago, it was about a missing software installer. I would keep my words
in check—at the start. I came from a meeting for the school paper that night.
He scoffed at that. No high school meeting would last that long, he spewed
out.
Dad would give me that look: thick eyebrows bunched in the middle, lips
set in a straight line, eyes squinted and bloodshot. It was unnerving, but I had
learned how to tamp down any feeling of intimidation. The moment would
not last long. We would trade arguments but always sidestepping around
our issue. Months ago, the fight was not about the installer; it was about the
boy who accompanied me to borrow it from his office. The week before, our
argument had little to do about the broken laptop, more about what I used
it for late at night, with no eyes to check what kind of websites I had been
visiting.
That night, we both knew that we were not talking about a broken
curfew, but about what I did after school. And with whom.

100 Essay
I had heard then of parents wanting to talk it out with their kids,
about “being different.” I had been asked by high school teachers what my
parents—“your dad,” they would specify—thought about me. I would shrug,
which summarized our progress in that conversation.
My father made his points across in the most combative of expressions. He
had gotten involved in college frat rumbles, confronting boys with knuckles
about petty slights. He complained to Mom about her salty, oily adobo. He
shouted at me for sleeping too late, slipping from the honor roll, destroying
my shoes. But Dad continued to sidestep with me until we were tired, until
we just ignored each other. Like all the shoes that he bought for me, we kept
our issue on the dusty shelf throughout my teenage years.
I chose the state university for college, away from the Catholic one where
my father’s footsteps echoed. The transfer meant more well-meaning relatives
gave in to my requests for new shoes. I used the excuse of not having to wear
a uniform on campus. Chuck Taylors came my way and became a staple when
I was in college. They were easy to match, easy to wear in a new, sprawling
school.
My Chucks became a silent witness to the things college kids were wont
to do. My black no-lace disintegrated from overuse, wearing them from class
straight to a late night of driving around Manila. My gray double-tongue
had smudges of vomit—mine or someone else’s—during a house party that
got out of hand. The blue ones had been frayed on the side from too much
walking, with male classmates who were as nervous as I was.
The silence between my father and me grew larger. He had become busy
in his new supervisory job, while I had become preoccupied with a newfound
freedom. The few times that we shared a breakfast table, our dearth of topics
became more glaring. I would ask him about work. He would respond with
a one-sentence rant about sloppy work and missed deadlines. On my end, I
would assure him that I was working to graduate with honors despite staying
out late.
We knew our roles. I had to do well in school, eager for academic
performance not to become another issue. He learned not to ask questions
about what kept me late. Shrugs and excuses protected everything that I was
not willing to reveal.
My curfew progressed from late to later to nonexistent. After midnight,
I would leave my Chucks scattered by the door. Every morning I would find
them arranged on the side of the mat. Running late for class, I would shoot

Jan Kevin Rivera 101


a quick apology to my mom before jetting out of the gate. She told me once
that it was Dad who had been placing my shoes aside every morning.
Later when I was a junior in college, Dad flew to Australia to visit my
uncle for a month. The day he returned home, Mom greeted him at the door
with a tight hug. My brother followed suit, taking my father’s hand to his
forehead. I stood behind, saying a weak “Hello.”
He glanced at my direction and said he had something for me. Things,
actually: shirts, pants, and a pair of white lace-up Chucks. I found out later
that he scrimped on his own pocket money so he could afford all of those. I
noticed that I had more stuff than my brother.
The Chucks were two inches too big, but nothing thick socks could not
solve. Once, I offered to lend them to Dad. He reminded me that we no
longer had the same shoe size.
I had to wonder if pride kept us from sitting down and talking about it.
There had been times when I knew that he knew. It was easy to overhear a
man’s voice during my long phone conversations. There had been times when
he would take me back to square one, like asking if the girl he kept hearing
from me was my girlfriend. Sometimes the tone would be different: irritated
comments about a shirt one size too small or the point of folded shorts. But
we kept to ourselves most of the time.
Maybe we had made our relationship work. Maybe our problem solved
itself on the overhead shelf. I decided to risk proving myself on Christmas
Eve.
I planned to introduce my then boyfriend. He had met my parents during
one dinner, but I knew that taking him to noche buena was a statement.
As I stood by the door, my feet were sweating in my brown boat shoes. I
forgot to put on socks in haste. My father took one look at him. After a quick
scrutiny, Dad extended a hand to him—a firm handshake from the look of it.
What happened next was a pleasant blur. He and Dad were exchanging
stories over beer and sisig. He grew up in the same neighborhood Dad was
brought up in. My father asked him about school, impressed that he was
majoring in the hard sciences. The stories came fast and easy between them.
He appeared bright and unassuming as my father regarded him.
I was putting on my shoes at the door when Dad called out to say that he
was welcome to drop by any time. Walking away from our house, he told me
that I had scared him for nothing.

102 Essay
“Your dad is nice,” he said, his breath giving off the strong scent of Pale
Pilsen. I chose not to reply. In our dark, deserted street, I took his hand, my
steps echoing in the quiet hours before Christmas.
The years with my first boyfriend were easy, too comfortable even. Dad
would see him—“your best friend,” as he referred to the boyfriend—in and
out of the house. Dad had seen him drunk, sprawled on my bed as I tried to
nurse him back to sobriety. He had seen gifts from him, including pressed
flowers on frame. He commented how artistic he was. Dad had seen two pairs
of slippers in front of my locked door. He knew he had to knock.
When we had finally broken up, Dad started seeing him less in the
house. Drinking by himself, he asked me where my best friend was, his old
kainuman.
“We’re not friends anymore,” I replied. I made sure to look at him in the
eye. Dad was appraising me again, that time without the anger. He nodded
and continued to sip his beer for the rest of the night. In our quiet world of
sidestepping, I was unsure of what he felt about his son breaking up with
another man.
There was that one time, after I graduated from college, when I was
sure of what he felt about me. I had just received an offer from a top-ranked
advertising firm. I welcomed him home with the news. The reaction was
something that I had not seen before: a hearty smile and a hug.
He asked me to sit down with him that night, without the shoe-shining
kit. He talked to me about the campaigns that he created in a small-time
agency during the nineties. He enjoyed the work, though the pay was too
dismal for our family. In time, he had to move to a higher paying industry as
our needs grew bigger.
After another late-night slog at a campaign for canned goods, I came
home to find a pair of running shoes from him. He was worried about the
overtime work that I was logging in. He wanted me to take up jogging in
between writing scripts and television commercials. The shoes were a limited
edition, top-of-the-line Adidas pair with reinforced mesh. They were gray,
with streaks of pink.
“That’s pink,” I had pointed out, letting the implication speak for itself.
“Suits you,” he had replied, his voice laced with mirth. His statement was
acceptance wrapped in slight judgment. I felt good enjoying small victories.

Jan Kevin Rivera 103


The victory did not last long. I was found underperforming after six
months, citing a lack of passion for the job fresh graduates would kill for.
Dad and I never talked about it, other than his short text message saying that
I should beg the creative director for my job back, then a second text saying
that I did not know what I wanted in a job. I stopped using the shoes after
being let go.
I dusted my leather shoes off and transitioned to another job, another
industry. A month after I got fired again, I found myself in a start-up non-
profit. I was tasked to find government funding at a time when a woman stole
billions of taxpayers’ money through nongovernment organizations.
Dad saw me shining my heavy, black brogues four months into the job.
He asked me what the occasion was. I told him about the next day’s meeting
with a government official, a potential funder. In my best clothes and shiny
shoes, I said goodbye to him the next morning. I did not miss the “Good
luck!” and the pat on the back.
In a few months, Dad realized why I chose to work in an unstable
company that had given itself a tall order. He heard the way that I talked on
the phone to senior technocrats, projecting a much deeper voice so my youth
would not betray me. He felt my absence on weekends when I had to do
more work in the office. He saw the leather shoes that I shined for meetings.
But the stress and commute took a toll. After arranging to rent a place with
friends, I told my parents that I was moving out to the business district. There
were questions, but they agreed. Dad was more reluctant than Mom.
Dad watched me zoom around the house, stuffing things into my bag,
ticking off tasks on my list. He had little help to offer. I knew which clothes to
bring, what boxes contained which shoes, how to pack them in the suitcase.
On the day that I was set to move out, I recalled out loud all the shoes that I
needed to bring.
“Your running shoes,” Dad piped in. I told him that my running shoes
were the first ones that I had moved in to the condo. I had started jogging
again.
He offered to help me move in.
“Paul will drive me,” I said, expecting a reaction from him. He just
looked at me and nodded.
Paul was the third name that he has heard from me. In passing, I described
Paul as a young financial analyst who attended the same high school he did

104 Essay
and the same university he has been working in. Like the man before Paul,
I would introduce him to Dad. Maybe during dinner at home, maybe in
another country where they allow a different kind of union. Maybe, if I dared
to hope, even here in Manila, when we no longer have to fight for our place.
One day, maybe society would hand the right to us in a shiny box, just
like how Dad gave me my first running shoes.
My phone beeped. The message was from Paul, letting me know that his
car was parked outside.
I started slinging on bags. Dad grabbed the ones filled with shoeboxes.
None of those shoes inside were from him anymore. Two were from well-
meaning relatives, the rest I had bought myself. He saw me wear them on
occasion: leather sneakers for casual Fridays, vulcanized high-cuts for the
rainy season, sturdy tri-colored rubber shoes for field work.
He approved of them.

Jan Kevin Rivera 105


Homoeroticism as the Poetry of the
In-Between: The Self-Translations
of Nicolas Pichay
Thomas David Chaves

W hat drives certain poets to translate themselves? In moving between two


different sign systems and audiences to create a text in two languages,
what are “lost and found” to and from the original and the translated texts?
Because such texts defeat standard literary critical and translation theory,
analysis can be quite tricky. Jan Walsh Hokenson and Marcella Munson
ask in their landmark 2007/2014 The Bilingual Text: History and Theory of
Literary Self-Translation, “Beyond the literary functions of the bilingual text,
why have theorists in translation studies and linguistics paid so little attention
to this age-old practice of self-translators recreating their own word?”
(2014, 3). Hokenson and Munson propose two reasons. The first is that the
keepers of the canon have historically insisted on “the linguistic purity” of the
foundational figures (such as Chaucer and Dante) in building up a national
canon, although both writers regularly translated their own works for various
audiences and purposes. The second is that the future gatekeepers routinely
ignored the translation as an awkward appendage of some sort. This, in turn,
then influenced the thinking on self-translation as a marginal or esoteric task
historically, starting from around the Renaissance onwards and up until very
recently. Indeed, one can think of the long legacy of self-translation among
such writers as, chronologically, Francis Bacon, Rabindranath Tagore, Stephen
Benet, Samuel Beckett, Vladimir Nabokov, and Joseph Brodsky whose works
have been analyzed predominantly as monolingual texts. The deliberate self-
translation of the latter two writers, however, eventually changed the thinking
on this remarkable aspect of literary practice.
The second reason for the neglect or indifference in studying literary
self-translation is the conceptual complexity of the task itself. In the words
of Hokenson and Munson, “Since the bilingual text exists in two language

106
systems, how do the monolingual categories of author and original apply?”
(2014, 2). They then posit corollary questions: “Are the two texts both
original creations? Is either text complete? Is self-translation a separate genre?
Can either version belong within a single language or literary tradition?
How can two linguistic versions of a text be commensurable?” On the other
hand, contemporary translation scholar Susan Bassnett questions whether
self-translation practices are, in fact, a form of translation at all. When
she says that, “The problems of defining what is or is not a translation are
further complicated when we consider self-translation and texts that claim
to be translated from a non-existent source” (1998, 38), Bassnett virtually
relegates self-translation as one of those problematic types. Then, too, when
Christopher Whyte insists that self-translation is “an activity without content,
voided of all the rich echoes and interchanges … attributed to the practice
of translation” (2002, 70), he is virtually saying that self-translation is not
translation at all in the ordinary or accepted sense of the word.
Poets who self-translate do so for various reasons, although such reasons
may ultimately be idiosyncratic. Even though self-translation is generally
considered as “something marginal, a sort of cultural or literary oddity”
(Wilson 2009, 186), there appears to be a strong impulse among bilingual
(and for some, multilingual) writers to explore the potentials of meaning and
resonance in the process of recreating their own words in another language.
Because self-translation is closely associated with bilingualism per se, the
process problematizes certain aspects of literary and translation theory with
regard to identity, equivalence, authorship and readership, and of textuality
itself. Ghenadie Râbacov, who sees self-translation as cross-cultural mediation
(2013, 66), traces two factors that encourage self-translation. The first involves
the writer or author, a perfect or near-perfect bilingual, taking it upon himself
to weigh the issues between two cultural systems by bringing them together
in the self-translated text. In George Steiner’s famous 1998 work After Babel:
Aspects of Language and Translation, he implies that as the perfect translator,
the bilingual is one who does not “see the difficulties, the frontier between the
two languages is not sharp enough in his mind” (1998, 125).
The second factor, Râbacov advances, is society itself, what he calls “the
translated society,” by which he means the sociolinguistic factors that come
into play in places where bi- or multilingualism is a fact of life. “Living is a
translated society, (self )-translation brings into play some social issues” (2013,
68), whereby the cultural dominance of one language may assert itself in the
process. This is similar to what Rainier Grutman labels as “finding symmetry

Thomas David Chaves 107


in an asymmetrical world” (1998, 196). Grutman, who wrote the entry on
“Autotranslation” (another word for self-translation) for the 1998/2009
Routledge Encyclopedia of Translation Studies edited by Mona Baker, remarks
on the prestige of one language over another when it comes to where the self-
translated text is published and read. Here we might borrow Pierre Bourdieu’s
idea of “symbolic capital” as a way of explaining why, for example, Samuel
Beckett, relocating in France in 1937, consciously became bilingual in his
writing. At that time, Grutman notes, literary English had not yet taken off
as the linguistic currency du jour, “whose shares on linguistic world markets,”
as Grutman puts it would increase only after the Second World War. Thus,
there is an unspoken power differential between the languages of self-
translators, an asymmetry, which some poets may challenge today, writing
in two languages precisely because self-translation may provide a voice to the
other, less dominant language.
Which brings us to the 1993 poetry collection Ang Lunes na Mahirap
Bunuin/The Intransigence of Mondays by Nicolas Pichay, which is also his first
book of poetry. While Ang Lunes/The Intransigence (abbreviated henceforth)
is not wholly self-translated, the four poems that Pichay elects to self-translate
also happen to explore homoerotic themes, with some explicit ones at that.
Three professional translators, Rosemarie King, Joey Baquiran, and Jerry
Torres, tackle the rest of the various poems in the volume. This observation
leads us to examine certain aspects of poetic self-translation as they impinge
upon (1) commensurability, (2) authorship/readership, and (3) textuality/
intertextuality itself, the three elements explored in this paper.
Because the four poems we review here deal frankly with the homoerotic,
a few questions immediately pique our interest, the first of which is, why did
Nicolas Pichay choose for himself these poems to self-translate, and then leave
the others to professional translators? Taking the first stanza of “Maselang
Bagay ang Sumuso ng Burat/This is a Delicate Matter, Sucking Cock,”
This is a delicate matter, sucking cock Maselang bagay ang sumuso ng burat
You might not like it right away. Baka hindi mo magugustuhan kaagad,
Remember not to pounce indiscriminately in the dark Huwag kang basta mandadakma sa dilim
Lest you gag with foot in your mouth. Kung ayaw mong masubo sa alanganin.
Nevertheless, do not deprive yourself blind Huwag rin naman sanang magsisinungaling
To the call of truth in thyself Sa sariling nakakaalam ng hilig
Nor accept as gospel truth society’s O gumamit ng sukatang panlipunan
Definition of what it is to be a man. Nang hindi iniisip ang pinagmulan.
This is a delicate matter, sucking cock Maselang bagay ang sumuso ng burat
You might not like it right away. Hindi parang kaning madaling iluwat

108 Essay
we immediately sense a close and thoughtful rendition of the original. Having
said that, we note that the English translation appears on the left page and the
original Filipino on the right (113). We assume this to be the original. This
is quite unusual. In standard bilingual or translated poetic texts, the original
normally assumes a position of importance by being positioned verso, while
the translation following, on the right, the recto. This brings to mind the case
of Samuel Beckett as the primary exemplum of literary self-translation, whose
works, since his immigrating to France at age thirty-one, became decidedly
diptych. Grutman then says that after this, “Beckett ended up blurring the
boundaries between original and replica, creation and copy” (2013, 196).
It might be that Ang Lunes/The Intransigence, being a first publication,
was produced bilingually as a career strategy on Pichay’s part, or as a stepping-
stone, so to speak, to mark him off as a distinct new voice. The Zamboanga-
born lawyer, while known today primarily for his dramatic productions
and his translations and adaptations of canonical plays, grew up in Quiapo,
Manila’s rambunctious commercial district, and the impetus for writing the
city in many of his poems in Ang Lunes/The Intransigence maybe sourced from
there. Pichay attended the prestigious University of the Philippines (where
he studied theater and law) Writers Workshop in 1982 and has become since
then, a multi-awarded dramatist, scriptwriter, and translator of various works.
When Pichay remarks to “think like a Houdini; a box is something to escape
from. You can do anything you want” (Guerrero 2013), he may have grafted
a trope for his own self-translational poetics, the blurring of boundaries
between original and copy or the cipher, unraveling the myth of poetry’s
untranslatability.
In order to study the merits of a diptych literary publication, both from
literary critical and translation theory perspectives, a typology of bilingual
texts has been proposed by Eva Gentes (2013, 275) so that “further empirical
research and theory development” may be advanced. She says there are four
types:

a. En face editions
• Corresponding facing editions
• Non-corresponding facing pages
b. Split-page editions
• Divided vertically
• Divided horizontally

Thomas David Chaves 109


c. Successive versions
d. Reversible editions (tête-bêche)

Most en face editions are published with corresponding facing pages, allowing
the reader to compare and switch between both versions conveniently. This,
of course, presumes bilingual fluency, or at least reading proficiency in both
languages. A result of this arrangement is the creation of a double reading or
a combined meaning which is greater than each of the meanings contained
in the text, if examined individually (Danby 2003, 84). The reader is then
encouraged for “double reading” (Gentes 2013, 276). In reviewing Pichay’s
first stanza above, we might ponder on the incommensurability (while
apparently retaining equivalence) of the third and fourth lines,
Remember not to pounce indiscriminately in the dark Huwag kang basta mandadakma sa dilim
Lest you gag with foot in your mouth. Kung ayaw mong masubo sa alanganin.

where dakma is rendered as “to pounce indiscriminately” and the idiomatic


expression masubo sa alanganin as “gag with foot in your mouth,” in both
cases employing what I call rough-and-ready correspondences, but whose
independent meanings are totally separate in the cultural worlds of the
imagined English reader from that of the independent Filipino reader.
We might make a case for the untranslatability of specific culture-bound
words such as the often-anthropologically-remarked-upon vocabulary of
“carry” with the use of one’s hands or other body parts: kipkip (in or under
the arms), pasan (on the shoulders), pangko (with the arms bent at the elbows
to carry whole), sakbibi (with both arms), bitbit (with the fingers of one
arm), baba (on the back), sunong (on the head), tangay (between one’s set of
teeth), pingga (using a pole over the shoulder), balagwit (with a lever or pole),
and so forth. The seeming untranslatability of dakma, subo, and alanganin
as culture-specific terms are given some kind of equivalence that makes us
experience, as proficient bilinguals, Gentes’s double reading with the added
dimension of meaning in Danby’s indefinable space of the in-between when
the poems are read together.

The Concept of Commensurability


In translation theory, the concept of commensurability is ultimately allied
with the idea of linguistic equivalence, that venerable translation standard
which compares the Source Text (ST) with that of the Target Text (TT)
by way of semantic, syntactic, and structural correspondence. Equivalence

110 Essay
becomes nowhere as dramatic as when it comes to studying bilingual texts
precisely because the authors themselves are the translators. If fidelity is the
rule against which equivalence is measured, then we cannot really question
any degree of faithfulness (or lack thereof ) in the self-translated text any more
than we can question the asymmetry behind Pichay’s lines 5 to 8,
Nevertheless, do not deprive yourself blind Huwag rin naman sanang magsisinungaling
To the call of truth in thyself Sa sariling nakakaalam ng hilig
Nor accept as gospel truth society’s O gumamit ng sukatang panlipunan
Definition of what it is to be a man. Nang hindi iniisip ang pinagmulan,

where fidelity now plays second fiddle to fluency and resonance in the English
translation. Pichay has noticeably taken liberties in the non-translation of
sana, magsinungaling, hilig, sukatang panlipunan, iniisip, and pinagmulan
and added what was not there in the original, expressions like deprive, blind,
call of truth, gospel truth, definition, and man. In other words, the system of
significations has fundamentally been altered from source to target.
The idea of equivalence, however, is much contested in translation studies
today. While many theorists continue to uphold it for discursive and academic
purposes, other theorists like Lawrence Venuti have effectively challenged
its basic assumptions, calling it outworn, and had never been an ethical
ideal, properly measured only by ingesting the foreign into the domestic
so completely that the original is effaced. In Venuti’s view, some degree of
“foreignization” is purposeful in that the TT is precisely that, a translation.
Still others like Peter Fawcett, tired and fed up by the interminable search
for equivalence in what are clearly two different texts, would like to set aside
the notion altogether or put it to rest, and yet Fawcett himself recognizes
equivalence’s indelible part in discursive analysis and heuristics for translation
theory (1997, 52–63).
If commensurability in and for itself remains a benchmark even in self-
translation, then it is difficult to see how we can tease out any analytical
framework for poetic projects such as Pichay’s. In the second stanza of the
poem, the translational asymmetry becomes even more apparent than the
first
The mouth must be perfectly shaped Dapat tama ang pagkakahugis ng bibig
Incisors are not permitted to claw. At walang tulis ng ngiping sumasabit
The larynx must also be open Bukas din dapat ang daang-lalamunan
So that everything may be taken all the way. Para kung sumagad ay di mabubulunan.
If by these, he still does not groan in pleasure Pag hindi pa siya mapaungol sa sarap
Look again, your bedmate may be a fish. Baka naman ang pinapaltos mo’y sapsap.
Go look for someone else Maghanap ka na lang ng ibang maturingan

Thomas David Chaves 111


Our community is full of mermaids. Hitik ng sirena ang ating lipunan.
This is a delicate matter, sucking cock. Maselang bagay ang sumuso ng burat
You might not like it right away. Hindi dapat inaalok sa lahat.

Linguistic non-equivalence may be seen in such cases as dapat tama and


“perfectly shaped,” “incisors” and ngiping sumasabit, “larynx” and daang-
lalamunan, and so forth. More so, as we move several lines down, “your
bedmate” becomes ang pinapaltos mo and in that line “a fish” is proposed as the
equivalence of sapsap, a particular variety of fish (the pony fish, Leiognathus
equulus), where hypernomy is the translation strategy proposed. Notice that
the rhyme scheme in Filipino for such pairs as lalamunan/mabubulunan,
sarap/sapsap, and maturingan/lipunan cannot be rendered in English, a case
where symmetry or correspondence is decided on the basis of the particular
language’s literary sensibilities. In other words, because much of traditional
Filipino poetics enshrines a regular rhyme scheme while current English
poetic standards do not, Pichay’s self-translation fully recognizes that source
and target have different traditions and imaginably different audiences as
well.
The point here again is what Venuti has famously proposed, that
translation theory must cultivate a praxis that goes beyond equivalence, since
such parameters denigrate the social value of the source and target texts,
privileges one over the other and perpetuates the questionable concept of the
translated text as degraded, corrupt, or of less value than the original. This
is especially true of literary translation where, because equivalence remains
the gold standard against which a translation is assessed, a translated text will
always be seen, in Hokenson and Munson’s reckoning, “a diminution and
a loss, a falling away” (2011, 2). For Pichay to force himself to translate his
own work against purely semantic and structural likeness without respecting
the sensibility and history of the languages in which he works may be sheer
folly, and truncates the genre of poetry as simply something mechanical, or
worse, a mere academic exercise such as found in a second language learning
class. This brings us back to Walter Benjamin’s 1923 essay “The Task of the
Translator” where he remarks, “No translation would be possible if in its
ultimate essence it strove for likeness to the original” (1923, 73).
In Self-Translation: Brokering Originality in Hybrid Culture, Anthony
Cordingley and others underscore the significance of self-translation as a
project to explore multilingualism and hybridity, especially as it relates to the
processes and effects of globalization as we know it today. Cordingley says in
the Introduction that literary self-translation occurs in a world “where every

112 Essay
day, millions of individuals, out of choice or necessity, translate themselves
into different cultures and languages” (2013, 6). As such, self-translation in
our times can be understood as a means through which writers embrace and
give voice to identities that span more than one place, space, culture, and
context. The contemporary Australian cultural critic and poet Paul Venzo,
speaking of his own practice, writes, “The truly bilingual writer-translator
cannot necessarily be said to be more or less original or authentic in one
language or another. Rather, his or his skill lies in the ability to move back and
forth between languages and cultural identities. In effect the bilingual writer-
translator produces two different but interrelated texts-in-translation, rather
than separate source and target texts” (2013, 5). In effect, Venzo repeats what
Cordingley, Hokenson, and Munson have proposed all along in their studies.
Because many of these bilingual writers come mostly from backgrounds
with a colonial history or have otherwise been raised bilingually/ biculturally
in immigrant family settings, it does not come as a total surprise that they
challenge the traditional concepts of originality and authorship of their own
literary texts. By extension, we might state as well that, in their freedom to
experiment with hybridity and expression, or to cross cultural bridges, or
otherwise to establish new literary spaces for their works, self-translating
writers offer a new template for looking at translational equivalence that goes
beyond mere correspondence or commensurability. Moreover, these writers
extend the idea of translation as a form of negotiation, a concept artfully
advanced by Umberto Eco in Mouse or Rat? Translation as Negotiation: “It
is the decision to believe that translation is possible, it is our engagement in
isolating what is for us a deep sense of the text, and it is the goodwill that
prods us to negotiate the best solution for every line” (2003, 192). In Eco’s
reckoning, a text contains a “deep story,” that which is to be discovered and
respected in translation because it contains a reasonably fixed and believable
shared meaning, “even though knowing that one never says the same thing,
one may say almost the same thing.”
In reading Pichay’s fourth and final stanza of the poem, the self-translation
becomes even more dissimilar, this again, if linguistic equivalence were the
sole measure of translational worth.
But my leave I give you word Mag-iiiwan sana ng munting habilin
A simple advice, do not take offence Payo lang naman, huwag sanang dibdibin
The severe and mindless trade Ang marubdob at itim na paninira
Of pontificating men “holier than thou.” Gawa ng santo-santong paniniwala.
Because the true mettle of a man Sapagkat ang sukatang ng pagkatao
In not found in his color, intellect, orientation or looks Wala sa kulay, dunong or astang pabo.

Thomas David Chaves 113


It is in the purity and sincerity Nasa pagkabusilak, pagkadakila
Of his dealings with other men. Ng tunay na pagmamahal sa kapuwa.
This is a delicate matter sucking cock Maselang bagay ang sumuso ng burat
A fact that everyone must be made aware of, Iyan ang kailangang malaman ng lahat,
No reason to hide in shame Walang dahilang itago’t pandirihan
Emerge from the dark, my friends! Bumangon sa dilim, aking kaibigan!

Without tracing further some of the semantic losses and gains in


translation, it should become apparent by now that Pichay’s self-translation
project deliberately opens up a new space the independent but related texts
provide, a space that is at once liminal and revelatory. Liminal because both
texts mirror each other not in the optically correct reflection of the other’s
image, but because of the vague, fuzzy way of looking back or putting it
metaphorically, a funhouse mirror of one another. The liminality arises
because one cannot really state categorically which one is the original, which
the copy. One does not hasten readily to conclude that some distortion in
the reflection has happened precisely because there is still some measure of
commensurability, no matter how hard-pressed we are to point out what,
where and why. This especially arises when one reads the texts line by line,
the English first and then the Filipino equivalent (or vice versa), rather than
reading the poem monolingually all the way through and then reading the
other text.
This in-between space is also revelatory because a recognition of
simultaneous similarity and difference emerges in the reader’s mind. I take
this to be what Venzo means when he says “self-translation may result in a new
kind of textual territory, a labyrinthe but interconnected space in which the
hybridity of texts-in-translation reflects the hybrid, inter- and transcultural
identities of those who produce them” (2013, 6). This revelation may be
also be related to Rita Wilson’s concept of “the double” in self-translation.
In analyzing the self-translated fiction of contemporary Italian novelist
Francesca Duranti’s works, Wilson proposes that the self “is not pre-existent,
but is constituted in the act of translation. There is a double articulation:
knowing and not knowing ‘the other’. To translate is to install oneself in the
space of divergence and to accept the divergence of the two subjects” (2009,
196). In effect, the doubling of the self in translation illuminates or reveals
self-knowledge more than if the text were left alone in the hands of a bilingual
writer. If such a double operates psychically in Duranti’s fiction, it stands
to reason that Pichay may also likewise generate such revelation, if not for
himself, then at least for his interacting texts, and maybe as such even extend
the revealed liminal spaces of the self and of the text to the readers themselves.

114 Essay
Authorship and Readership
As we have seen, self-translation lays down a paradigm that allows for
dissimilarities within orders of correspondence. It challenges the binary
theoretical models of “gaps” (Hokenson and Munson 2014, 4) from one of
opposition to another of textual continuity where two cultures are placed
side by side to produce a mid-zone of overlaps and intersections. This notion
recalls Anthony Pym’s idea of translation as a practice of sociolinguistic
“interculture” (1998, 181). Pym explains that translators live and work in a
hypothetical gap between languages and cultures but that in the process of
translation, they reorder such a gap and allow active engagement between
two texts. This then allows for a “stereoscopic reading” of translated texts, a
phrase proposed by Mary Ann Gaddis in her book Translation and Literary
Criticism: Translation as Analysis. Gaddis says that “stereoscopic reading makes
it possible to intuit and reason out the interliminal” (1997, 90) and “it is this
‘interliminality’ which is a gift translation gives to readers of literature” (1997,
7). While neither Pym nor Gaddis is dealing with self-translation per se, their
thinking brings to the fore the fascinating role authors and readers play in the
writing and reading of bilingual literary texts. This observation is especially
pertinent to en face or side-by-side editions of poetic translations such as in
the case of Filipino readers reading Ang Lunes/The Intransigence.
Assuming full bilingual competence on the readers’ part, why read
both texts in the first place when either original or translation would have
sufficed? What psychic, cultural, and social needs are addressed, needs that
are hypothetically different than those that reside in a monolingual text? As
savvy readers to these texts, how do they deal with or respond to the double
reading, one that is marked by opposition in some places and congruence
in others? What insights are offered them in the liminal space between
the texts? These are difficult questions to answer, in part because these are
underexplored in the literature on translation theory, in part because such
readers and reading depart from mainstream practice in largely monolingual
cultures of dominance such as English, Spanish or French, and in part because
they defy facile literary classifications of originality, form (or genre) and the
valuation of literature as translated text. At the root of these questions is
the audience, and as Hokenson and Munson unerringly ask, “How does one
delimit, define, and not the least, interrelate the social groups being addressed
by the bilingual text?” (2014, 12).
When Pichay or his poetic persona describes a religious procession of
the famed Black Nazarene in “Biyernes Santo sa Quiapo/Good Friday in

Thomas David Chaves 115


Quiapo,” he mixes politico-religious commentary with a “sadomasochistic”
and homoerotic reading of himself.
Behind them Sa kanilang likod,
are barking guards kumakahol ng mga orden
pretend soldiers ng mga bantay.
from an old testament movie Sunda-sundalo
sprocketted in my mind. sa lumang pelikula
The armed centurions are ng aking isipan.
brandishing whips, wearing sandal laces Mga senturyong nakakutamaya,
wound into X’s, de-haplit, nakasandalyas
and matching short skirts na itinaling paekis,
that reach the crotch, never a hair beyond it. at ternong paldang,
gayong maigsi, ay di masilip-silipan,
that ends one long stanza later with

My candle is lit May kandila ako, ngunit hindi ako sasama diyan.
but not for joining. Walang nakakabuo ng prusisyon.
No one finishes this procession Maliban sa pinapasan.
other than the Ones being borne.

The poetic persona comes to the procession not as a penitent or devotee,


or at least a member of the faithful, but for another reason: he comes to gaze at
the male actors (only males join the procession) playing Roman centurions in
their provocative costumes and actions. When, in the last stanza, the persona
finally reveals himself as one of another inclination (religious persuasion?
sexual orientation?), the inferred reader is torn between reading the English
(“My candle is lit”) and the Filipino (May kandila ako) which translates
simply as “I have a candle” to decide for him- or herself what meaning must
occupy the liminal or in-between space of the texts. The English may read as
one of religious persuasion, or the lack of it, and the Filipino as one of gender
or sexuality, since the candle easily hints at phallic symbolism in the poem’s
context. In other words, this is what Pichay is saying all along and is truly
reflected in several other poems in the collection: I am gay, I am different, and
you must respect me for it.
This, in turn, brings us to the concept of inferred or implied readership.
In the literature, there is a minor debate regarding the “correct” use of the
term to represent the author’s imagined reader: implied, inferred, ideal,
imagined, assumed. However, we will not get into that little war since all of
these arguments speak in general terms of readers (of literature), not specific
to bilingual readers who read bilingual poetic texts. If bilingual authors,
consciously or otherwise, address bilingual readers, would the concept of
originality matter if in the first place, they gathered a shifting hermeneutic

116 Essay
or a variable reading each text provided? That each text stood on its own,
separate but related, within its own merits? I have a feeling that this is what
exactly happens in the reader’s mind, judging, for example, from the middle
lines of the long stanza we skipped altogether above.
Fast prayer is mechanized Mabilis ang dasal, magmamadaling kabalbalan tulad ng:
like a McDonald’s greeting “Welkam to McDonald’s,
of hello and thank you for buying, Tenk yu por kaming!”
in a tone as shrill Sa tonong kasingtinis
as the swigs of a cat-o-nine. Ng haplit-bubog ng mga nagpapasan.

Here the reader no longer minds the skewed parallel between the texts,
with the Filipino version poking fun at the putative manner in which
Philippine English is spoken, and with the English remaining uncommitted
except at the level of social critique of piety or religious practice. What does
the bilingual reader profit from this? The answer, I speculate, is pleasure.
Pleasure because the way Pichay has brought the two texts together produces
a cunning or craftiness in the poetic observation. This not only applies to
language as social observation or translation as technique, but also to the
very theme he projects in his poetry: that in the undefined social space that
he occupies as a gay man, he asks whether in the heteronormative world the
members or citizens (such as the devotees of the Black Nazarene) there suffer
from no doubts of identity. He’s not quite sure; he thinks not. Pichay implies
that we (ng mga nagpapasan) all carry the same burdens, identity-wise, gay or
straight or bisexual.
Such a reading brings us to advance whom Pichay would possibly have
imagined for target readership. We propose a very specific and select audience:
a group of Filipino readers proficient in both languages, keen in the nuances
of translation or translated texts, find pleasure in or appreciate the wit that
both texts have wrought alongside the other, find fascinating the divergences
and congruencies of the translation, respect the importance of the liminal
space that projects as a result of the bilateral placements, and finally the most
important of all, that translation itself is a creative form of rewriting that
merits its own sense and aura of “originality.” We might posit further that
beyond the pragmatic goal of reaching a wider audience (a putative foreign
readership, for example), the readers identify with the theme or themes of
Pichay’s poetry in a way where a marginalized or long-silenced voice is given
its turn to speak. It does not matter here what group of or from society the
voice represents—a minority, the oppressed, women in general, the LGBT
community, migrant workers, the poor, etc. And this, not only speaking

Thomas David Chaves 117


it once, but amplifying it double-fold: in the “translation” and in the in-
between space that arises between them.
Finally, as we see in “One Villanelle for the Road/Isang Tagay Ng
Villanelle,” written in strict poetic form, while ostensibly about gay lovemaking
and how potentially dangerous or transgressive it can turn out, this poem
proposes a postcolonial reading of translation; that bilingual writers who
come from a postcolonial background symbolically invest in the minority or
colonized language a form of equality with the “master” language.
The tug of preliminary echoes Namalayan ko ang tunog ng kasluskos
Nantatabig, nagpapalilis ng kumot,
Like a tikbalang’s silence before the kill. Tulad ng tikbalang kung nanghihilakbot.

I thought the sea had sedated us all Akala ko’y napahimbing ang lahat
In the dark, my embraces yearn for a port, Sa dilim, nangangampit ang aking yapos
Namalayan ko ang tunog ng kasluskos.

Contemplating the tarot on my friend’s face, Binaybay ko ang alon sa kanyang mukha
It prodded me to dream secret waves Nagbalak sumisid sa sikretong laot
Like a tikbalang’s silence before the kill. Tulad ng tikbalang kung nanghihilakbot.

Native wine spills from two glasses Nataob ang mga baso ng lambanog
Overturned by the winds from an impending storm, Pinagkiskis ng parating na unos
The tug of preliminary echoes. Namalayan ko ang tunog ng kasluskos.

The grappling bears nothing but thorns Nagbubunga ng tinik ang aking panimdim
Prodding, piercing at my loins Nanunusok, namimilas, nangangalmot
Like a tikbalang’s silence before the kill. Tulad ng tikbalang kung nanghihilakbot.

In the hour of the ocean’s changing and secret urging Sa hatinggabi ng lihim na paghahangos
Drowning in firewater and brine Sa alimpuyo ng alak at sigalot
The tug of preliminary echoes Namalayan ko ang tunog ng kaluskos,
Like a tikbalang’s silence before the kill. Tulad ng tikabalang kung nanghihilakbot.

Appropriating the unitalicized tikbalang, a supreme motif in local


folklore and left untranslated in the English text, is an act of translational
triumph for itself. With the head of a horse and the body of a tall, thin man
living high up in trees, the tikbalang’s raison d’etre is leading people astray. A
person who is trampled upon by a tikbalang turns blind or sickens violently
to the point of death (cf. Damiana Eugenio 2002). An imagined foreign
reader will have to construct a meaning for himself the kind of creature that
a tikbalang is and will probably appropriate some mythic monster, beast or
werewolf like the Minotaur in his imagination. It is this very malleability
of tikbalang that, while ironically is believed to be protean himself as he
takes on varied appearances, lends a potency to the reading. The tikbalang

118 Essay
is a prime example of “the Untranslated,” Emily Apter’s phrase for ideas or
notions in the study of World Literature as a form of literary comparatism
where, because different languages and traditions view the World differently,
resist any form of translation were World Literature equated exclusively an
English, German, or French project. In a globalizing world, including the
academe’s tendency to homogenize the World’s plural and irreducible goals
and voices, Apter takes the kindred ideas of “non-translation, mistranslation,
incomparability, and untranslatability” as forms of resistance (2013, 4) not
amenable to fluent or domesticated translation so required in constructing a
world literature in any of these hegemonic tongues.
The English text of this villanelle, while remaining “cryptohomosexual”—
J. Neil Garcia’s term for the densely metaphoric character of our earlier poetry
in English tackling homosexual themes because of the inimical exigencies of the
time among such poets as Jose Garcia Villa, Nick Joaquin, and Rolando Tinio
(192), places a specific cultural consciousness in the deployment of the poetic
situation. Beyond the tikbalang, the rendition of lambanog as “native wine,”
lilis as “stealthily lifts up,” kaluskos as “echoes,” binaybay as “contemplating,”
among others—all “untranslatables”—and the very appropriation of ‘native’
as a signification of the local or indigenous, serve to redeploy the English for
its own ends as a Filipino text, amplifying the original, rather than one meant
for a foreign or international readership. Garcia adds that our Anglophone
poetry is postcolonial not only because it is written in the colonizer’s tongue,
but also because of its “historical reality as an ideological consequence of
American colonialism on one hand, and on the other its ironic potentiality to
secrete and promote forms of ‘anti-colonial signification’—its ability to move
beyond, critique, or ‘post’ the colonialism that made it possible, to begin
with” (2014, 12).
In his analysis of Rolando Tinio’s homosexually-themed poem “A
Parable,” Garcia proceeds beyond the tendency of Philippine poetry in
English to universalize, to deepen it with the interpretation that because
this is a marginal or marginalized voice, the act of writing in the colonizer’s
tongue is what precisely enables him (the Filipino Anglophone poet) to
express what would not have been possible without colonialism. The tongue
that so pathologized Tinio’s homosexual condition by “sexologically naming
him” (2014, 193) is equally ironic as it is postcolonial in the projection. The
very act of translating oneself is a process that inheres in the postcolonial
condition, where, without the history of colonialism, translation, and self-

Thomas David Chaves 119


translation would not have not been as significant. If, in Pichay’s villanelle we
see an amplification of the marginalized voice—because it has taken certain
freedoms to expand itself beyond mere linguistic equivalence and a reframing
of the sign—then the reader is bound to explore the space of the in-between.
Pichay assumes that the prospective act of two men making love is
terrifying (nanghihilakbot) not only to the Self but also to the Other, equally
as it is fulfilling and ecstatic, “drowning in firewater and brine” (paghangos sa
alimpuyo ng alak at sigalot), Pichay is making a pitch for homoerotic desire
as valid or legitimate and equal as any that transpires in society. Because
the villanelle cannot be read in a traditional approach as “original” and
“translation,” the double voicing that resides in the text, that in-between space,
then we can speculate that Pichay’s project in deploying Filipino and English
simultaneously is reflective of the postcolonial condition of the Philippines,
one where many sectors are continually silenced and marginalized, including
that of the gay community. In taking up the cudgels against heteronormativity
and homophobia in a seemingly “hypermasculinized” nation as a result of
colonialism, Pichay’s homoerotic self-translations remind us once more of
Garcia’s cogent understanding of how gender is deeply imbricated in nation:
“The materiality of the sexual and gender questions necessitates both an
engagement with the material reality of the nation-state” (2014, 111).

Self-Translation and Intertextuality


All texts fundamentally relate to other texts in order to derive meaning,
value, and purpose. The relationship can be direct such as those found in
allusions, references, or quotations, but more commonly, the relationship
is more subtle, implied, or general. A speech act, for example, can be said
to refer to a previous utterance or language use, or that a literary work can
refer to other works of a similar genre to define its structural function. All
these constitute and is constituted by intertextuality, the basic idea that texts
are relational and inform upon another and thus, ultimately lay down a
continuity of forms and practices to establish tradition, purpose, and style
(see Allen 2000). Furthermore, the intertextual relationship also forms and
informs writers and readers toward a tacit understanding of shared literary
and cultural knowledge. This requires that readers themselves possess a
critical faculty to assess the significance of an intertextual relation when it
appears and locate the tradition in which the text assumes its reason for being.
Because intertextuality points to the particular cultural and social conditions
in which reading and writing take place, intertextuality imposes a certain

120 Essay
level of competence for reception to become meaningful, or in its absence, a
provision for alternative ways of reception, such as those found in explanatory
footnotes, definitions, or amplification.
When Venuti explains that “translation represents a unique case of
intertextuality,” he presupposes that three sets of intertextual relations are
involved: (1) those between the foreign text and other texts, (2) those between
the foreign text and the translation, and (3) those between the translation
and other texts (2009, 158). These relations are not always neat and clear-
cut, and in fact are frequently complex and uneven so much so that in the
plurality of losses and gains in translation, the intertextual relations bear such
an imprint to produce lay discourses as “lost in translation,” “true fidelity,”
or “word for word translation.” Because it is the translator’s chief mission
to hew equivalence, he is tasked with the impossible goal of establishing an
intertextual relation in the translation while at the same time running “the
risk of increasing the disjunction between the foreign and translated texts
by replacing a relation to a foreign tradition with a relation to a tradition
in the translating culture” (2009, 158). Venuti’s fine observations, however,
may need some qualification when it comes to self-translated texts, and in
particular of Pichay’s poems, in several respects.
The first refers to distinction between the foreign and translated texts. As
we have already seen, the poems’ imagined readers largely address educated
bilingual Filipinos rather than foreigners appreciating his work via translation.
As evidence to this, Ang Lunes na Mahirap Bunuin was sold out completely
within the first year of publication (personal communication with Pichay,
May 2016), a remarkable feat in itself for local publishing. This, in turn,
relates directly to English as a language in the Philippines, where not only
is it recognized officially, but more importantly, considered not as a “foreign
language” by any means in the national imaginary. While to a lesser extent
Spanish and Chinese may share this cachet of “non-foreignness,” a “foreign
language” refers only to such languages as German or Russian, languages that
played no direct role in the Philippine historical colonial experience. It may
be that because Pichay has written in Philippine English, or that which has
evolved to be the local variety of English, he has realized what writer and
critic Gémino Abad has famously remarked, that “we had to colonize English”
(1999, 16). On the other hand, Pichay’s self-translations may also reflect
“writing in Tagalog using English words” (attributed to NVM Gonzales) or
“in Capampangan using English words” of Bienvenido Santos (qtd. from
Patke and Holden 2010, 101). These all amount to the same thing: that the

Thomas David Chaves 121


“translation” into English of Pichay’s works is not a matter of working it along
the lines of a foreign language, but into another variant Philippine language.
Consider the sensibility in which the English texts we have read thus
far exhibit. Traditional Philippine writing in general is occasioned by three
characteristic strains: universalizing, romanticizing, and moralizing. While
it is not the place here to elaborate on them, various scholars and critics
have consistently remarked on our literature’s tendency to project “universal
truth” or validity of the human experience, inhere values of idealism to the
point of sentimentality using effusive language and/or dramatic situation and
finally, to invest a form of didacticism or moral prerogative as part of its
reason for being. These tendencies rest on three major themes: God, nation,
and romantic love. While we have largely departed from these strains in
our writing in English today (and to some extent our writing in the various
vernaculars), they have surreptitious ways of encroaching upon modernity,
such as in the case of Pichay’s
Nevertheless, do not deprive yourself blind Huwag rin naman sanang magsisinungaling
To the call of truth in thyself Sa sariling nakakaalam ng hilig
Nor accept as gospel truth society’s O gumamit ng sukatang panlipunan
Definition of what it is to be a man. Nang hindi iniisip ang pinagmulan,

where the moral prerogative is apparent equally as it pleads for understanding


of gay love in a poetic discourse that inheres culture-bound concepts such
as awa (pity) and loob (interiority) in the Filipino text while maintaining a
critical “modern” stance toward unexamined piety/religiosity in the English
one. While both awa and loob do not appear in the text, they are written into
it and understood intuitively by Filipino readers.
It is interesting to note that in critic and writer Eugene Evasco’s reading of
this poem, he focuses his analysis on the Filipino text, conveniently forgetting
that the opposite page is a self-translation by Pichay himself. Evasco advances
the notion that in contemporary panulaang bakla (gay poetry/poetics), three
tendencies can be gleaned: (1) “ang tuwirang pagpamukha sa kaakuhan ng
kultura ng bakla” (2003, 333), (2) “ang pagkubli ng makata sa kasarian ng
kanyang tula” (2003, 335), and (3) “ang paggiit ng makata sa mainstream
na hindi gumamit ng tiyak na wika ng subkultura kundi ng sentimyento at
damdaming bakla” (2003, 336). Evasco uses “Maselang Bagay ang Sumuso
ng Burat” as an example of the third tendency, where we are to assume that
Pichay is “mainstream” and that the language he uses doesn’t show any trace
of camp (flaming or screaming), unlike in the first tendency where “hindi

122 Essay
iniinda ang mga pamantayan ng ‘mabuti’ at ‘dalisay’ na pagtula” (2003,
333). What Evasco wants to show is that Pichay’s style tends to be formal, if
subdued, in proclaiming gay identity in comparison with the first (which uses
gay language itself ) or the second (which avoids it), and which, in Evasco’s
phrasing, is “may kaduwagan.” This may help explain what Virgilio Almario
expresses in the Introduction to the volume that “Hindi isang sensasyonalista
si Nick Pichay” (1993, xiii). Because, if he were so, the title of his collection
would have been Maselang Bagay ang Sumuso ng Burat rather than Mahirap
Bunuin ang Lunes. One line later, Almario adds, “Bongga ang dating nito,
walang kiyeme, at tumatawag agad ng pansin” almost facetiously, naughtily,
appropriating local “gayspeak.”
Evasco observes that in the matter of form Pichay is experimenting,
or “nag-eksperimento sa pagtutugma sa bawat dalawang taludtod, at may
labindalawang pantig sa bawat taludtod” (2003, 36). “Experiment” is the
appropriate word here in three respects: (1) inasmuch as there is both respect
for and departure from Tagalog poetic tradition, viz., in the syllabic count,
Pichay’s duodecasyllabics has a homolog in traditional octosyllabics (see, for
example, Lumbera 1986); (2) the “consistent” end-rhyme scheme for couplets,
is not, however, consistently employed because there are several cases of slant
or near-rhyme in the first two stanzas (dilim/alanganin; magsisinungaling/hilig;
bibig/sumasabit, etc.); and (3) Pichay is, in fact appropriating the classical
hexameter (double hemiepes, or twelve syllables), of the Latin and Greek
elegiac couplet, but with the use of end rhyme, whereas the classical does not
(Halporn et al. 1963, 71). The English translation, however, fails to conform
to the original form, and may simply be characterized as vers libre. What
Evasco does not expound, however, is why Pichay uses this particular form is
relation to the homoerotic theme (e.g., gay coupling as “tugma”), and simply
explains away how the difference in Filipino gay poetry/poetics (compared
to tradition) is a form of “umuusbong” and “mapagmalaya,” whatever these
may mean.
The formal register of the English (as marked by such words as nevertheless,
deprive, call of truth, thyself, etc.) is perhaps induced by the text’s earnestness
from the Filipino as oratory, but more likely reflects the classroom domain
where English is first picked up. Note that while the translation is “written
in English words,” the sensibility remains local. This is true as well in the
last poem we examine here, “Summer in Our Village/Tag-araw sa Aming
Nayon,” a poem about circumcision.

Thomas David Chaves 123


The new arrivals Nasa lihim ng tabing ilog
Stand under the shade by the river Ang mga bagong dating.
They wait for the knife-lick, the moan of gongs Naghihintay ng tasa ng patalim, gangsa.

In two’s, three’s, the cell-mates approach Dalawahan, tatluhan, magkakakosang lumapit


Bearing on their palms Dala-dala sa kanilang mga palad,
Shrunken beaks. Mga nanguluntoy na lawit.

Perspiring, naked, groaning Pawis, hubad, umaalulong


Arm manacled to arm, weaving a rough circle Nagkawing, naghabi ng magaspang bilog
Around the old Fire. Sa palibot ng matandang Apoy.

A sliver of moon silently scythes Tahimik ang karit ng pingas ng buwan


The scampering crabs Sa mga nagtatakbuhang alimasag
Face puckered at the taste of leaf sap. Mukha nila’y kulubot sa lasa ng dagta.

Loincloth, blowgun sting. Bahag, kurot ng bagong sumpit.


The troop re-groups around a plate Nagbalik ang pulutong sa isang platitong mane.
And the tongue-searing dip of freshly-cut foreskin. At sa sawsawang sili na kapuputol na lambi.

While we might read the poem as a critique of circumcision as a


gratuitous cultural practice, one that clearly marks the site of gender as
performance because boys turn expressly into men, the dramatization of the
narrative and the linguistic flourish it employs make it distinctly Filipino
in its approach to the subject. The poem, both in the English and Filipino
texts, is clearly modern in the sense of imagery, directness, use of sensory
language and symbolism, yet it betrays the very modernity it inheres because
in exoticizing the alterity of circumcision as a heteronormative project, the
poem waxes maudlin sentiment and oratory in the end. We can almost
imagine Kurtz’s self-delusion in Conrad’s The Heart of Darkness in Pichay’s
“weaving a rough circle / Around the old Fire,” or in the “scampering crabs/
face puckered” an echoic resonance of T. S. Eliot’s synecdochic crab “as a pair
of rugged claws / Scuttling across the floors.” If, as nationalist critic and poet
E. San Juan Jr. says that “The Filipino poet has always been the figure of the
verbal magician, priest of town-fiestas and crowning of queens; himself at the
center of the crowd, moved by it and moving it” (1965, 396), then Pichay
is actually performing his culturally-circumscribed role of the poet as social
commentator.
The local sensibility of the English texts derive from what Almario
calls “apat na sangkap ng tradisyonal na tula: ang tugma, sukat, talinghaga,
at kariktan o kasiningan” (1984, 89). Firstly, while “tugma” is not readily
apparent, there are internal rhymes like wait, shade, cell-mates, naked or Fire,
silently, scythes. As a “modern” poem in English, Pichay eschews convenient
rhyming that might impart a sense of artifice. Secondly, “sukat,” while

124 Essay
apparently irregular, creates its own metrical rhythm by combining anapestic
( for the knife-, lick the moan, and the tongue) and dactylic (bearing on,
manacled, silently) feet. Thirdly, “talinghaga” (which I take to be figuration
or metaphorization in general) is clearly marked in the allegorical treatment
of circumcision for poetic theme and effect. Finally, the artfulness or lyricism
(kariktan/kasiningan) in the whole stream of poetic utterance, while not
imaginatively “appealing” because of the subject, takes on a particular kind
of charm for itself as a result of combining the first three elements. In other
words, “Summer in Our Village,” an apparent English text, hews its poetic
character from local poetic tradition, rather than from any English school
such as Romanticism or Imagism or even Postmoderntism.
Because the pastoral quality of the title harkens back to the old folksong
“Doon Po sa Aming Bayan ng San Roque” where the cripple danced, the
deaf listened, the blind man watched, and the mute one sang, Pichay uses
his poem to question the “manliness” that results from circumcision. Does
circumcision make a man and his virility, or does it, like the four beggars of
San Roque, disable him in the end in a comic/pathetic sort of way? What
Pichay seems to be attempting here is not question circumcision per se, but
that as a practice that repeats itself summer after summer, the performance
of manhood is reified, an idea that Judith Butler so incisively develops in
Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (1990). The Filipino
summer rituals that perform manhood in tuli (circumcision) and liga
(organized basketball competitions among village teams) and womanhood
in Santacruzan and Flores de Mayo, leave no place for gay men except as the
parodic and spectral exercise of their own gay beauty pageants and volleyball
competitions.
Pichay’s ethnological interest in the approach to his poetry (and
competently carried over in the ‘translation’) brings us to the conceptualization
of “translation as thick description,” Theo Hermans’s rephrasing of Clifford
Geertz’s 1973 anthropological proposal (Hermans 2003, 386). Geertz
countered structural anthropology’s reductiveness in formulating complex
lifeworlds of a given culture as universal schemas and binary oppositions
(Geertz 1973, 5–6). He emphasized the interpretive and constructivist nature
of the ethnologist’s project, and therefore allowing us to appreciate both
similarity and difference, instead of not being self-conscious about how we
employ modes of representation in writing down a culture. The point here
is that ethnology is an interpretive task, a translation, one among potentially
numerous interpretations of the microhistories of particular cultural

Thomas David Chaves 125


situations. This, in turn, counters (then) anthropological theory’s urge to
universalize and essentialize, thick description being a task that prides itself
in “the delicacy of its distinctions, not the sweep of its abstractions” (1973,
25). While “Summer in Our Village/Tag-araw sa Aming Nayon” estranges
or exoticizes the familiar to give circumcision fresh meaning, it nevertheless
employs particular details, thick description if you will, of the ritual’s iconic
aspects: the knife, the queueing, the groans of pain, the leaf (presumably of
the guava as antiseptic), and the rite itself performed as a collective.
The relationship between the Filipino and English texts is one, to
borrow Venuti’s term, of interrogation (1995, 159), where the intertextual
relation is built up to negotiate the linguistic and cultural correspondence in
“the significance that derives from the recognition of a connection between
the foreign text and another text” (emphasis mine). This recognition is
collaboratively worked out not only between the original and translation,
but also between the author and the reader precisely because no fixed or
essential meaning can be made in the translational act. Because translation is
largely provisional, that is, dependent on the context and purpose in which
it is carried out, any form of literary translation must account for the in-
between, the third space generated between the texts that results not from
language alone, but, to use Spivak’s memorable phrase, also “beside language,
around language” (2004, 389). She alludes to translation as an activity “where
meaning hops into the spacey emptiness between two named historical
languages” (2004, 389). In Gender and Translation (1996), on the other hand,
Sherry Simon speaks of “the blurred edge where original and copy, first and
second languages come to meet. The space ‘between’ becomes a powerful
and difficult place for the writer to occupy” (1996, 162). Furthermore,
Doris Bachmann-Medick argues that “the notion of culture needs to be
pushed towards more openness and dynamism, for the ‘third space’ is by no
means simply a place or condition between cultures, but is also a strategy of
proliferating non-homogenous layers within a particular culture” (2009, 34).
While not anyone among these observers situate their analysis in the
context of self-translation, their thoughts furnish proof that translation itself
is an encounter of alterity, and that in the case of self-translation, the space
and position the bilingual writer occupies is a self-reflexive questioning of
the vexed conditions of the postcolonial self in dialogue with the other.
When Bachmann-Medick argues about the in-between space as a strategy of
addressing the non-homogenous layers within, she may be speaking about

126 Essay
how, in the case of Nicolas Pichay’s homoerotic poetry, the marginalized
position of gay men in Filipino culture is not only given voice, but amplifying
it to question the heteronormativity that arbitrarily sets the standard against
which all discourses of gender are measured. Pichay’s strategies in self-
translation—the decided commensurability/incommensurability between
texts, the implied address to bilingual Filipino readers (rather than “English
speakers”), the intertextuality of original and copy that pushes the edge of
translation as cross-cultural mediation—make his project a worthwhile effort
in creatively expanding the ways in which contemporary Philippine literature
is written. Because the vast majority of Filipino writers today are bilingual or
trilingual anyway (even if most prefer to write only monolingually), there is
potential and actual value in self-translation, difficult it may seem initially.
After all, our long (if intermittent) tradition in it, the ladino catechisms and
poetry of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; the works of Jose Rizal,
Graciano Lopez Jaena, Isabelo de los Reyes of the late nineteenth; and the
more recent works of Genoveva Matute, Federico Licsi Espino Jr., or Marne
Kilates; to name a few, place us all in good hands.

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130 Essay
Maikling Kuwento
Babala ng Balang-Araw
TILDE ACUÑA

B awal tumigil sa pagkakatutok dito sa iniisip mo, o binabasa mo, o iniisip


mo at binabasa mo, kung ayaw mong malagutan ng hininga, hahabulin
mo lang nga ang iyong hininga kung haharapin mo ang suliranin at
ihahakbang ang sunod na mga hakbang at tugon na mga hakbang upang
makapagpatuloy ang existence mo sa tekstong ito, alam mo namang titigil
ang pag-iral mo kung hihinto ka sa pagbabasa at pag-iisip, kaya tutok lang sa
internal, pokus lang at sasabay ang external ayon sa dikta ng iyong isip sa
kagyat na dapat gawin sa sitwasyong ito, kung saan naririto ka sa teksto at
kaharap mo ang matalik na kaibigang pinagmamasdan mong nakatalikod
subalit napansin mong nadukot na nito ang kanyang kuwarenta y singko at
nasa gatilyo na ng baril ang hintuturo niya, samantala, dinikta ng kutob at
reflexes mo ang sunod mong ginawa, nadakot mo na ang lupa sa harapan mo
at mahigpit na ang kapit sa tangan mong sibat, nakaposisyon na ang sandata
mo nang pahiga pero hindi nagpapahinga itong sibat mo, pahalang, alalay
lang, naka-parallel sa horizon, o panginorin o guhit-tagpuan tulad sa naaalala
mong dagat sa dapithapon, kalmado ito tulad ng inaakala mo pero may
bigwas ng mga alon mamaya, kumindat ang palubog na araw, nakarinig ka ng
ingay ng static, parang white noise sa sirang telebisyon, pero nawala rin ang
ugong at muli kang bumalik sa layon mo at pakay, ang makabigwas nang
malakas, at para magawa ito, dapat ayusin ang pahalang na latag ng sibat,
matikas ang tindig, ang dulo nito, matalim, sintalim ng titig mo, sibat at sipat
mong nakaumang sa kaaway-kaibigan, naalala mo pa nang ipakilala ka ng
mahusay na si pinagpipitaganang Tata Rico, Bunsong Baoy, pamangkin ko,
sabay abot ng bata ng kamay, Buboy na lang, boss, maangas na siya noon, pero
mukha namang mabait, pero nakakubli madalas sa likod ang kamay, tulad
kanina, pero napansin mong may inapuhap siya, baril, kaya ikaw, nakahanda
ang sibat, ang talim, nasa likod mo ang bisig, nakabuwelo, nakaasinta ang
panudla na parang maaaring iitsa anumang oras, parang tirador, o katapulto,
pero siyempre hindi bato ang bala nitong ang nais lamang ay makagalos o
makatama nang hindi nakapagpapatumba o nakapagpaparalisa sa kalaban

133
upang maantala ang balak nito at makabili ka ng sapat na oras para kumaripas,
handa nang kumawala ang projectile, pero kailangan pa ng mahabang
pagpaplano ng opensiba sa nanosegundong ito kahit kailangan ng kagyat na
pagpapasiya, naisip mo, Handa na akong sampolan ang kaibigan ko ng
Dumalapdap moves, si Duma ang paborito mong anak nina Alunsina at
Paubari mula sa epikong Hinilawod na narinig mong inawit mismo ni Lola
Sinag, narinig mo sa alaala kung saan nagmamalaki si Buboy, Lola ko, chanter,
ayos ano, mula sila sa angkan ng mga Kawal, ito ang apelyido nila, sana lang
ginagamit nila sa pagtatanggol sa kapuwa, hindi mo mawari kung paanong
bumilis ang pag-iisip mo at nagkaroon ka pa talaga ng ganito kahabang
panahon para makaalala ng kuwento ng mga bayani, ng epiko ng inyong lahi
na inakala mong nabaon na sa limot, panahon na kasi ng pagbabago, pag-
angkop, pakikibagay, tatlong bagay na bukambibig ni Buboy, at, madalas
niyang dinaragdag na hindi na bagay sa pag-usad ng kasaysayan, kasaysayan
ng kapital, itong luma ninyong kuwentong pagkahabahabahaba at kailangan
kabisaduhin, at ngayon ipinalimot dahil sa radikal nitong potensiyal, magulo
si Buboy dahil kapag aayon sa nanaisin niya ang pamana ng Lola niya,
pinagmamalaki niya ito, pero minamaliit niya ito sa ilang panahon, itong
mga epikong hindi naman daw orihinal, at kung may bersiyon mang
nakararating sa patag, na sa inyo dumaraan dahil kayo ang kabataang
Tumanduk, ito ’yong epikong nahaluan na, Wala namang masama rito, naisip
mo, dahil hindi naman kayang makipagsabayan at makipagtagisan ng lakas sa
mga hayok na makapangyarihang mga imperyalismong siyang may hawak sa
pinakamalalakas na makinang pampolitika at pangkultura, nakuha mo ang
gayong pananalita mo sa kolehiyo, dagdag pa, alam mong hindi lakas ang
pangunahing sandata ni Duma, kundi ang pagiging tuso nito lalo at dehado
siya palagi pagdating sa pisikal na pakikihamok, iyon bang purong lakas ang
gamit, tuso kayo dahil kayo ang api, nauunawaan ito noon ni Buboy noong
kabataan ninyo, may narinig kang abalang white noise, static, nawala na
naman, balik sa flashback, ito ang masasayang panahong magkapatid ang
turing ninyo sa isa’t isa dahil, sa patag, sino pa ba ang tutulong at sasalo sa isa’t
isa kundi ang kapuwa Tumanduk, lalo at kayo lamang mula sa inyong lahi
ang nabigyang-pagkakataon para tumawid ng pitong bundok at ilog makalipas
ang pitong dekada, mas mahaba pa ang biyahe ninyo kaysa inilagi ninyo sa
sanlibutan ano, bakit ganoon, marami kang tanong, at, matapos ang
nakahahapong pakikipagsapalaran sa kalikasan, susuko lang ba kayo sa
bullying ng mga daratnang kaklase ninyong kung tutuusi’y mga lampa dahil
hinahatid ng kotse, dagdag pa, ang palagay nitong mga konyong ito sa

134 Maikling Kuwento


pagpasok sa public school ay field trip sa pagharap sa “reality” gayong pawang
kaginhawaan lamang ang realidad na kahahantungan ng yayamaning mga
batang itong anak ng mga tagapamahala at mga kakutsaba ng mga
dumadayong korporasyong nagmimina at nagtatayo ng kung ano-anong
estrukturang pangnegosyo na kung tutuusi’y laong magpapaginhawa ng
maginhawa na ngang buhay nitong pamilya ng mga batang ito, pero ang
press release ng mga komprador na ito, serbisyo raw sa publiko ang hangad
nila, kaginhawahan daw ng lahat, pawang kaginhawahan nilang nakatindig sa
kahirapan ng iba o “other,” isa sa alam mong other ay ang kinasisindakang
kaluluwang dumadayo ayon sa tradisyong maaram ninyo, pero walang
kaluluwa at kung mayroon ma’y halang ang kaluluwa nitong mga may-ari at
komprador ng kapital, tulad ng “imperyalista” at “komprador” natutuhan din
ninyo itong “other” sa kolehiyo, ang problema nga lang, nalulong sa pagkapit
sa imperyalista, sa pagiging komprador, at pang-a-other itong si Buboy at
nauwi sa identity politics, na noong una’y nadadaan sa debate at healthy kuno
na paintelektuwal na diskusyon, pero nagbunga ng sitwasyong kinalalagyan
ninyo ngayon, nasa magkabilang panig kayo ng digmaan ng uri, sa moment
na itong nakasukbit ang hintuturo niya sa gatilyo at nakabalot ang palad
mong ngayo’y kamao nang tangan ang sibat na handang ihagis anumang
oras, nagdadalawang-isip ka pa at maaari din namang puwingin mo lang siya
gamit ang dakot na lupa, maalalaman lang niya na rito sa lupang sumaboy sa
mata niya, dito galing ang lahat at hindi ito maaari lamang ng iilan, paano mo
mao-own ang mag-a-outlive sa iyo, wika ni Macliing Dulag, Ingles na version
na lang ang naalala mo, hanggang, heto na naman ang static, white noise,
balik sa stream of consciousness mong nagkasiya sa pitong segundo pero ilang
kilometro ang haba kapag naka-transcribe, narito ka na, sa sitwasyong
sinimulan kaninang hapon sa maboteng usapan at sinundan ng panunuhol
para tanggapin mo ang ibinebenta niyang identity politics na hindi walang
muwang, hindi inosente, hindi dalisay lang na paghahanap ng sarili o
pagkatao o pagkalahi, kaya bagama’t natutuhan din niya ang isinasabuhay
mong Dumalapdap moves—o paglaban sa mas nakapangyayari gamit ang
utak, at, marahil, gamit ang bilang, dami ng kakampi, at siyempre hindi
maaaring walang taktika, gerilyang taktika, alangan namang tiradorin mo ang
tangke nila, puwingin at saka itumba, Dumalapdap moves, isinasantabi na ni
Buboy ang tunay na diwa ni Dumalapdap dahil maaari namang maging ang
kalaban nito, ang bampirang si Uyutang, o ang halimaw na si Balanakon,
sampu ang ulo ng kumag na higanteng ito, kapuwa ito tinalo ni Dumalapdap
sa epiko, at sa pakiwari ni Buboy, bagong era na, maaari na ngayong

Tilde Acuña 135


mapangibabawan nitong mga kontrabida si Dumalapdap dahil postmodern,
puwedeng ang bida ang kontrabida ang bida o walang bida, puwedeng
unawain ang mga halimaw, baka may humanity pa rin kay Hitler, sa dulo,
wala nang grand narrative, wala na ang epiko ng bayan dahil maaari tayong
magkaroon ng sarili nating pagbasa ng epiko dahil malaya na tayo sa gapos
nito at bago na ang panahon at puwede na ang kahit ano dahil nakapag-aral
na tayo, sabi niya sa iyo o sabi mo sa sarili mo, hindi mo matiyak dahil
minsan ka na ring nagduda sa tinahak mong landas na maghangad sa utopia
kung saan malayang nakakapamuhay ang mga Tumanduk, pero matapos
nito, nagsusuri ka at nakababalik sa huwisyo at nakapagsusuri batay sa
materyal na kondisyon, obhetibong kalagayan, imbestigasyong panlipunan,
tulad ng natutuhan mo sa pamantasan dahil bagama’t nasasalo ninyo ni
Buboy ang isa’t isa noong hay iskul, iba na ang pinasukan niyang kolehiyo
pagkatapos maghay iskul at tiyak na hindi niya natutunan at wala rin naman
yata siyang interes sa mga natutuhan mo, baka natutunan niya at ipinagkibit-
balikat, walang gaanong alingasngas sa inyong mga paniniwala mula noong
sanggol pa kayo hanggang hay iskul, o kung may alingasngas man, hindi
buhay at kamatayan ang kapalit nito, dahil naniniwala pa kayo noon na lahat
ng bagay ay madadaan sa mabuti at maboteng usapan, at magkakaunawaan
din nang walang nasasaktan, usap lang, malulutas, hanggang nagkahiwalay
kayo nang tuluyan ng landas sa kolehiyo, hindi naman gaanong malayo ang
distansiyang literal kasi isang kalsada lang ang pagitan, isang tawid lang,
walking distance lang, o isang jeep mo lang at isang taxi niya o grabcar o di
magtatagal isang drayb niya lang dahil binilhan na siya ng kotse ni Amang
Baoy, tatay niyang hepe na ng Sandatahan, pinanindigan ang apelyido nilang
Kawal, iba rin ang paninindigan, malapit lang talaga kayo sa aktuwal, ganoon
lang kayo kalapit sa isa’t isa, nasa magkabilang tipak ng lupa lang kayo ng
Katipunan, kahanay na nga ng eskuwela niya ang Town Center na pinauupahan
nang mura ng unibersidad ninyo, mura lang sa mga Ayala, mga tinatawag
ninyong burgesya komprador o aristokrata, mahal sa maninindang may
makeshift stall o aristocart, siyempre, bagama’t alam mong dapat murahin
ang uring tulad ng sa mga Ayala at dapat mahalin ang tulad ng sa mga
manininda, static na naman, nabalutan ng angal ng mga sasakyan ang ingay,
natahimik, nakalanghap ka ng usok habang tumatakbo nang mabilis ang
utak, at naroroon na ang kamalayan mo sa Katipunan, ayun, tuloy, bagama’t
magkalapit ang kinalalagyang lugar, nagkakalayo ang mga damdamin,
nakakubli ito sa hiritan, halimbawa, biro ni Buboy, na hindi naman
nakakatawa pero kailangan mong pakisamahan, Mas malapit ako sa ating

136 Maikling Kuwento


kultura dahil banog ang simbolo ng pamantasan ko, na sinagot mo naman ng
maikling pakli, Ulul, at kapuwa kayong hahalakhak sa gasgas nang hiritang
palagiang ganoon, na parang ito ang shake hands o high five o fist bump
ninyo tuwing nagkikita o ewan, kung anuman, pero biruan lang ang mga
itong nakaugalian nang sambitin kasabay ng kaugaliang pag-inom ng pangasi,
o rice wine, na dinala ninyong gawi hanggang sa siyudad, itong pangasi rin
ang tagay ninyo sa bawat sasalusalong dinaluhan, bawat tagumpay at
kabiguang kailangang ibahagi sa isa’t isa, kabilang dito ang pagtatatag ng
paaralan at pagbubuo ng kurikulum tulad ng yumayabong noong Duyan
Turun-an, isang mobile na eskuwelahang dinadala sa kung saan-saang lupalop
ng mga bundok ng Panay, nagkakampo pansamantala at maaari nang mag-
aral depende sa antas ng kamulatan at kahandaan ang mga nais lumahok
hanggang, di nagtagal, nagkaroon ito ng sentruhan sa Antemasque, dating
nasasakupan ng Hamtic, lahat ng papeles tulad ng mga rekord at iba pang
mahahalagang dokumento ay dito tinitipon kaya madali ring nabura, naupos,
naabo ang pamana ng Duyan Turun-an, dahil nang salakayin ito ng mga
militar, sa tulong na rin ng ama ni Buboy, natunton ang di-gaanong tagong
lokasyon nito, dahil bakit nga ba magtatago, dapat nga lantad at madaling
mapuntahan kung nais maging accessible ang education sa lahat ng nagnanais,
matapos itong panununog, nagkaroon ng ilang pagsasampa ng kaso, na
sinabayan ng ilang kilos protesta dahil sa bagal ng daloy ng kaso, hanggang
nakialam ang tiyuhing nakatatanda ni Buboy, ang Tata Rico na diumano’y
lumapit sa munisipalidad, maging sa ilang matataas na opisyal ng pambansang
pamahalaan upang humingi ng pondo para tulungan siyang magtatag ng
paaralang magtuturo ng kulturang inaayawan na raw ng mga kababayan
niyang hindi edukado, iyak pa nito, Paano na kung ganito ang ating mga
kabataan, halimbawa nga, ang epiko ng kanyang inang si Lola Sinag, kaya
pagpasensiyahan na raw, sabi sa iyo ni Buboy, at kailangan daw ang ganito at
iba pang paninikluhod na kailanma’y hindi naman ninyo mapagpapasensiyahan
dahil ang pagiging tuso ay ginagamit sa mas malalakas na kaaway hindi sa
mas mahihinang kapuwa mo Tumanduk, kapuwa kayo Tumanduk, pero iba
na ang katapatan ng angkan ni Buboy, tila nasa kultura, hindi ba dapat tao
muna ang pahalagahan bago kalikasan o kultura o kapital, anong klaseng
adbokasiya ang para sa kultura pero kontra sa tao, itong si Buboy na, bilang
matalik mong kaibigan, naalala mong agad itong lumapit sa iyo noon, at
madalas itong mauulit, noong pagkakataong iyon, na iyong naaalala ngayon
mismo dahil kanina lang naulit itong mga eksenang ito, humingi ng dispensa
sa ngalan ng kanyang pamilya, pero agad mo itong tinabla, agad mo ring

Tilde Acuña 137


tinabla kanina, kaya nga humantong sa ambahan, hindi ’yong sinaunang
pormang pampanitikan ng mga Mangyan, kundi ambahang bantaan sa
buhay ng isa’t isa, na hindi masama, kailangan talaga ng opensiba at depensa
sa sarili sa ganitong mga panahon, kinailangan mo ring tanungin nang
retorikal si Buboy, Ang magkapatid bang nakatatandang Kawal ay mga
huklubang nagtatago sa ngalan ng kultura para ipagbunyi ang pasismo ng
neoliberalismo, ang mga Tata mo ba, sila ba ay mga mersenaryong bayaran, ang
isa’y tuta ng gobyernong naggawad dito ng parangal at ang isa’y tuta at deputado
pa ng militar, ipinagpatuloy mo ang nakaka-offend na nakapagpatahimik kay
Buboy na ngumingisi-ngisi at iniisip na puro kahardkoran katibakan
kakomonestahan na naman ang pinagsasabi mo, pinanindigan mo ito at
hinambalos siya nang hardcore, Nasa dugo ba ninyo ang pagtataksil sa kapuwa
Tumanduk, sumimangot ang kaninang ngiti, at hindi tumugon ang kausap,
nagsalubong ang kilay nito, nagdilim ang paningin, tumalikod, hinablot ang
envelope at iba pang gamit, nagpasiyang umuwi na lamang, nagpasiya ka ring
umuwi pero hindi mo napanindigan nang nagpasiya kang sabayan ang lakad
niya upang, sa huli nang pagkakataon tulad ng maraming huling pagkakataon,
muli mong maipaliwanag sa kababata na higit sa pagkakaibigan, mahalaga
ang buong lahi ng mga Tumanduk, higit sa pagpreserba ng kultura at
pangangarap na romantiko at sentimental para sa sining, mga tao ang
nagbibigay-saysay sa kultura at sining, tinanong mo sa kanya, Hindi ba
malinaw na taumbayan ang nagpapasiya sa kulturang nakasandig sa ekonomikong
kalagayan ng lahi, ano ba ang hindi mo maintindihan, mawawalang-saysay ang
lahat kung mawawalan ng panirahan ang mga Tumanduk, kapag nalason na
tayo ng mga basura ng minahan, kapag nalunod tayo ng baha at lupang rumagasa
dahil sa raket na dam at iba pang kunwaring kaunlaran, agad niyang pinutol
ang pananalita mo, sumagot ito, Kayo ang hindi makaintindi dahil ginagawa
ng ama at tiyuhin ko ang lahat para mapadali ang lahat para sa atin dahil para
sa ikabubuti nating lahat itong pakikipaglarong mala-dunganon at mala-
Dumalapdap, agad mong binasag, Hindi ganyan ang pamamaraan ng mga
bayani nating minsan mo nang sinabing wala nang katuturan sa postmodernong
panahon, paano mo maipapaintindi kung bakit humantong sa panununog ng
sentrong Duyan Turun-an ang kampanya ninyong kontra-insurhensiya, dahil ba
nawawalan ng estudyante ang pribadong mga pamantasan ng mga kasosyo
ninyong mataas kung sumingil sa edukasyong mga multinasyonal na korporasyon
naman ang makikinabang, at hindi niya sinagot ang tanong mong retorikal,
at kung mapapansin mo, mas mahaba palagi ang linya mo rito sa palitan
ninyo ng diyalogo, Tagalog pa, o Filipino, nakuha mo ang kasanayan sa wika

138 Maikling Kuwento


sa kolehiyo, mas mahaba talaga ang mga linya mo, malamang, ikaw kasi ang
bida pero nahihirapan kang tanggaping kontrabida ang kaibigan mo,
tunggalian ito ng uri, naroon siya sa kabila, istatik na naman, tunog ng dial-
up Internet na hindi makakonekta, tumahimik, saglit lang at nagka-static, at
natural na ang tunog ng paligid, parang lumang panahon, ’yong silver screen
na nakikita mong parang abuhing sanga, biglang naging sepia o kulay ng
tuyong dahon, bakal na nagkulay-kalawang, nakita mo ang sarili mo nang
nabalitaan mo na makalipas ang isa, dalawa, tatlong taon, biglang kinilala na
ng Sentrong Pangkultura ng Pilipinas ang pagsasarili ng mga Tumanduk sa
pagtuturo sa sarili, lahat ng ito salamat sa Balay Turun-an ni Tata Rico, nasa
telebisyon siya, pinapanood ng pamilya mo, nasa kompyuter ka at siya rin, si
Tata Rico, ang nasa balita sa newsfeed, malalaman mo na lang, na makalipas
ang apat, lima, anim, pitong buwan ay ginawaran na bilang Manlilikha at
Kulturati ng Sulod—ang tawag sa inyo ng mga tagapatag—at nagkaroon pa
ng kasunduan sa isang palimbagan ng pambansang pamantasan, ang oral
ninyong panitikan, maitatala na, magiging nasusulat na tulad ng Bibliya, may
book deal, ilan ba, sampu, siyam na libro sa tulong ng isang iskolar sa Visayas
branch ng pamantasan, pero ang mga manlilinlang na nang-uuto ng kapuwa
Tumanduk ang co-awtor, may kontak kasi sa militar itong mga Kawal,
tinatakot nila ang nabanggit na iskolar, hindi ang buhay niya ang direktang
pinagbabantaan, tinatakot, dinedemonyo, wika nila sa mga tulad ng iskolar
na napapadpad kung saan deployed silang mga sundalo, NPA ka ba, hindi,
mabuti, aswang ang mga NPA kung mandahas, ilan na ang nadukot ng mga
iyan dito, kung hindi ka NPA, dito ka sa mga Kawal mag-riserts, safe ka rito,
sagot ka namin, kami bahala sa iyo, itong NPA, o Bagong Hukbong Bayan,
sinisiraan ng mga militar, paramilitar at mga kakutsabang Tumanduk sa
pangunguna ng mga Kawal na kontra-karahasan daw ng Kaliwa, pero
kaibigan ng Kanan, tapos may book deal pang tumulay sa iskolar na nais lang
namang manaliksik, Iba na ito, sabi mo sa sarili, nakakita ka na ng mga NPA,
ito ’yong umaatake sa mga minahan at dam, sinisira ang mga makina para
hindi na makapaminsala, sumasamsam ng mga armas ng sandatahang interes
ng mga korporasyon ang ipinagtatanggol, mga minahan at dam na madalas
tinututulan ninyong mga Tumanduk dahil nanghihimasok na nga sa ancestral
domain ninyo, nandurukot pa, sa tulong ng mga militar, hindi lang tao ang
dinurukot nitong mga korporasyon kundi mineral resources, nambubulabog
na ng bahay ng may bahay, nagpapahirap at nananapos na ng buhay,
nandarambong pa ng mga pinakaiingatang yaman, kapag nagalit ka, sila pa
ang galit, sila pa ang tagapagligtas sila pa ang provider ng trabaho sila pa ang

Tilde Acuña 139


anak ng diyos sila pa ang mabuting mamamayan sila pa ang nagkakawanggawa,
pero sino ba ang nagkakatrabaho at magkano ang pasuweldo at gaano ang
damage sa kalikasan, itong mga Kawal, ito ang maraming trabaho at tiba-tiba
tubo, kumakamal ng pera, akala mo iba si Buboy, wala naman talaga sa
angkan o dugo iyan, depende lang talaga sa kamalayang madedevelop sa iyo,
pero dahil may pinagsamahan kayo, wala munang basagan ng trip, ito ang
akala mo, kaya magpupursigi ka na lamang sa pinili mong landas, at
magsisipag at magtitiyaga siya sa kanila at sa pamilya niya, at abangan na lang
ang susunod na kabanata, may mga pag-uusap pa naman, talakayan, hamigan,
sa kakaabang mo ng susunod na kabanata, may patalastas ng white noise,
static, may kulay na ulit ang lahat, hindi na kulay yero o kalawang, ano ba
itong paningin o pangitain mo o deliryo mo sa pitong segundong time frame
ng kuwentong ito, at ito na nga ang kasunod na kabanata, anupaman at
magtatagpo rin at inasahan mo rin naman itong pagtututukan ninyo, tagisan
hindi na lang ng titig o yabang o alaskahan o payamanan, kundi tagisang
armado ng pagtingin sa lipunan at pagtangan sa aktuwal na armas—itong
huling tagisan ang hindi mo lubos maisip, dahil kapuwa kayong nasanay na
sa ututang dila, hiwaang dila, ratratang dila, bla bla bla balitaktakan sa
pamantasang nag-a-agree diumano ang mga tao to disagree at wala pa ring
lamat ang pagsasamahan ng isa’t isa, walang samaan ng loob, diskurso lang,
hindi mo inakalang darating itong panahong kailangan ninyong pagpasiyahan
kung sasampolan ninyo ang isa’t isa para lang mapatunayan kung sino ang
tama, ano nga ba ang tama, sinuhulan ka na, inoferan ka na ng mataas na
posisyon, sinuhulan na rin ang iba ninyong kaibigang nakikibaka, hindi ka pa
bumigay, wala pa sa inyong tumiklop, walang natinag, walang nasuhulan,
para ano, para ano ba, para payagan ang dam at makipagtulungan sa mga
korporasyon at kumbinsihin ang mayorya na tanggapin na ang offer ng
kompanya dahil sa ganito lang sila makakaganansiya dahil kung tatanggihan
pa nila ito, tingga na at hindi na pera ang ihahain sa kanila, tangkang
pangongonsiyensiya ni Buboy, Alam mo bang dadanak ang dugo kapag hindi
tayo nakipag-usap nang maayos sa mga tinatawag ninyong imperyalista, ilang
Tumanduk ang gusto mong mamatay at magdusa, humantong sa pagiging
bangkay imbes na barya, barya man, pera pa rin, akala mo, lulubayan ka na
niya pero alam mo ring hindi basta-basta susuko ang kaibigan mo, kailangan
ka nila sa kanilang panig, pati ang pamilya mo, mabuti na lang normal sa
kanayunan ang may bitbit na sandata, malamang, dalawa ang gobyerno sa
kanayunan, hindi lang alam ng mga nasa lungsod, o hindi nila pinaniniwalaan,
kaya may mga militar at rebolusyonaryong umiikot dito, rumoronda pareho,

140 Maikling Kuwento


pero sino sa palagay natin ang nauubos kapag may engkuwentro, ’yong
walang suporta ng masa at ng Tumanduk, naririto ang magkabilang armadong
puwersa kaya walang magagawa ang mga Tumanduk kundi pumili kung sino
ang tutulungan at kung paano pakikisamahan ang nagtatagisang puwersa, at
hindi nahirapang pumili ang mamamayan sa hanay ninyo dahil mas magalang
ang mga gerilya kompara sa mga sundalo, nakikisama ang mga NPA, para
saan pa at kasama ang tawagan nila, nagdadala ng makakain minsan,
sumasama sa pagsasaka nang madalas, tumutulong sa pagresponde sa mga
pangangailangan ng mga Tumanduk, minsan, matindi ang pangangailangan
ng mga katutubong ito, ninyo, ng kalakhan sa inyong natuto na ring makibaka
sa anumang paraang maiaambag, minsan umaabot ang pangangailangan sa
puntong dapat mapatigil na ang mga proyektong pangkaunlaran ng
gobyernong ibang bayan ang pinauunlad, pauunlarin ng pamahalaan ang
ibang bayan dahil makakakubra ang matataas na opisyal, ang kubrang itong
dinambong sa kalikasan at sa katutubo ay may trickle-down effect sa mga
Filipinong nasa kapangyarihan, nasa posisyon sa estado, na nagiging ganap
lang naman ang kapangyarihan dahil may sandatahang lakas sila ng Pilipinas,
sandatahang lakas ng Pilipinas sa pangalan pero sandatahan ng puhunang
dayuhan sa katotohanan, sandata lang ang maipanlalaban sa sandata, walang
magagawa ang awit ng epiko, ang mga bayani nito, at ang sining ni Tata Rico
para mapaginhawa ang mga Tumanduk na pinahihirapan ng mga militar, ang
katauhan o pagiging tao ng mga gerilya tulad ng ilang tiyuhin at ng mismong
nanay mo kontra sa kahayupan o pagiging halimaw ng mga sundalo tulad ng
ama ni Buboy, si Amang Baoy na hindi pa nakontento sa pagiging military
informant, humantong pa ito sa pagiging paramilitar, hanggang opisyal na
sumanib sa sandatahan at naging mataas na opisyal sa Army na siyang
pinagkukunan ng pamilya Kawal ng pagkain, bahay, bala at baril na hawak
ngayon nitong kaibigan mong matapos sumablay sa pagkumbinsi sa iyo
tungo sa kanilang panig, panunuhol para makipagtulungan ka na lang, ay
nagpasiyang tutuluyan o uutasin ka na lang, dahil ano na nga ba naman ang
silbi mo, ni hindi ka mapakinabangan para sa kaayusang hinahangad ng
angkang Kawal na ang nais lang naman ay ma-preserve ang heritage, okey
nang ma-preserve ang heritage, kahit huwag na ang mga tao, cultural heritage
ang mahalaga, umiiral ito sa vacuum, maayos ang lahat basta sila ang may
hawak ng prehistory, oral history ng mga Tumanduk kaya sila ang magpapasiya
ng makabubuti para sa lahi, tunay ngang mga kawal, kawal ng kaunlarang
nagsusulong ng ekonomiya dahil pabor sa Jalaur River Multipurpose Project
Phase II (JRMP2), noong una, nakumbinsi ka nang kaunti ng kaibigan mo,

Tilde Acuña 141


kahit pa sinabihan ka na noon ni Cynthia na layuan si Buboy, dahil sa halang
ang kaluluwa nito at ilang ulit nang nawalan ng dungan pero nakatatayo pa
rin, ayon rin sa grupong Dagsaw, mga kaalyado ninyong gumawa ng
masinsing pag-aaral, malapit sa aktibong fault line ang site ng JRMP2, prone
sa landslide ang erya kapag bumuhos ang ulan at sakaling pakawalan ang
tubig dahil hindi kakayanin ng wall ng dam ang dami ng tubig, magdudulot
ito ng pagbaha at pagkawasak sa mga karatig-pook na tahanan ng mga
Tumanduk, matapos mapagsabihan ng kasama, agad kang pumunta sa
kaibigan, kalmado pero tensiyonado, tinanong mo, Dahil ba hindi kabilang
ang pamilya Kawal na may miyembrong National Living Treasure, the Tata Rico,
the Great, the Author, published Author, co-author sa premyadong pamantasan,
dahil konektado sa henyo ang mga Kawal, kaya maraming perks tulad ng
pagkakaroon ng tahanang ligtas at maaliwalas at malayo sa JRMP2, kaya
lolokohin na ng pamilya mo ang ibang pamilyang Tumanduk, tugon ni Buboy,
Kaunting sakripisyo lang naman, dagdag pa, nakikita namin ang potensiyal mo
at ng pamilya Karit sa pagiging matulungin sa adhikaing ito, dagdag ng kausap
mo, Alam naming mga Kawal na maaasahan kayong alyado, agad kang pumalag
at nagtanong, Sino’ng may sabi, kailan pa, sinalo agad ang banat ng kaibigan
sabay abot ng naka-envelope na kung ano, Para naman tayong walang
pinagsamahan, mukhang makapal ang nasa loob, umiling ka at naalala mo
ang pag-iling mo nang lapitan ka ni Buboy para tumakbo sa partidong
kakulay ng banog ng kanyang eskuwela sa kabila ng Katipunan, bughaw, mga
dugong bughaw na posturang aktibista rin at progresibo, ganito rin ang
galawan, inoferan ka ng kung magkano, malakas daw ang tambalan ninyo
kung sakali, tiyak na mananalo dahil maalam ang mga buwitre, este, banog,
este batang ito na lumaro sa totoong politika, bahagi ba ng totoong politika
ang bribery, umiling ka at nag-walkout, binawi ni Buboy ang offer at sinabing
biro lang ito, lingguhan kayong nagkita nang hindi nag-uusap hinggil sa
politika, hanggang tumutok na kayo sa kani-kaniyang pinagkakaabalahan,
umaasa na mahihila, hamig, hatak, kaladkad ang kabila sa inyong panig,
hanggang naririto na sa hantungan, kapag nagkasibatan at nagkabarilan,
handa na ang propaganda ng sandatahan, tribal war ito, hindi class war, pero
hindi naman nila kailanman babanggitin ang tunggalian ng uri, ang gawain
lang nila ay mapalabo nang mapalabo ang isyu, iiwas sa usaping pandarambong
ng mga proyektong pangkaunlaran ng Emperyo, static na naman, masakit sa
tainga, pero nawawala rin, bawal tumigil sa pag-iisip, bawal tumigil sa
pagbabasa, bawal tumigil sa pagsusulat ng mga naiisip at nababasa, bawal
tumigil sa pag-alala, kapag tumigil ka, mawawala ka sa rito sa kinabukasan,

142 Maikling Kuwento


babalik ka sa nakaraan, ano na ang gagawin mo sa moment na ito, maglalaho
ka kapag natapos itong naratibo, may white noise na naman, naririnig mo,
hindi, bakit, bakit ka natigilan, tuluyan lang dapat sa talaan, sisibatin ba o
sisipatin lang, bakit ka titigil, bawal tumigil, ano ang gagawin mo, isipin lang
huwag gawin, ito ang dapat, may nangangamoy kasi, naputol ang kable ng
koryente ng kapitbahay o natutupok na paaralan o sumisingaw na pulbura,
may pumutok pero hindi galing sa kuwarenta y singko ni Buboy, may
bumulagta pero hindi mo tiyak dahil ngayon, nakaupo ka na sa upuan mo,
ibinalik ka na sa nakaraan, burado ka na sa kasalukuyan, bawal tumigil doon
sa kakaalala at kakaproseso, hindi ka na makababalik dito, sinabihan ka
namang bawal tumigil, pero hindi mo sinunod ang batas, magigising ka na sa
malayong nakaraan ngayon

Tilde Acuña 143


Kabanalan sa Panahon ng Digmâ
ROGELIO BRAGA

K itang-kita ni Imo ang pagsungkit sa mga lumulutang na bangkay


gamit ang mahahabang kawayan. May mga bangkay na naman kasing
lumulutang sa Ilog Pasig na sinusungkit ng mga taga-Kuta. Mula sa baybayin
ng ilog hinihila nila ang mga lumulutang na bangkay. Sa araw na iyon, dahil
nagkaroon na naman ng labanan sa bahagi ng distrito ng Li na nakasasakop
sa mga lugar sa palibot ng Laguna de Bay, laksang bangkay ang nakitang
inaanod sa ilog. Nakakubli pa sila ni Wanda sa isang tolda na pag-aari ng isa
sa kanilang mga kapitbahay sa Kuta habang pinanonood ang pagsungkit sa
mga basyo ng buhay.
“Imo, siguradong dadalhin na naman ’yang mga bangkay sa Sanctuario,
ano?”
“Sigurado! Kagabi may nakita na naman akong inaahon na mga bangkay
mula ilog. Napansin mo ba na ang pinipili lang nilang mga bangkay para
dalhin sa Sanctuario ay iyong hindi pa malalaki ang tiyan dahil sa dami ng
tubig na pumasok sa katawan o inuuod na. Ang kinukuha lang nila ay iyong
mga bangkay na may dugo-dugo pa ang mga sugat.” Mas matanda nang
dalawang taon si Imo kay Wanda; halos hanggang balikat lang ni Imo ang
taas ni Wanda. Hindi sila magkapatid pero palagi silang nakikita ng mga
taga-Kuta na magkasama at palaging naglalaro. Mula raw sa distrito ng Li ang
pamilya ni Wanda. At si Imo at ang kanyang pamilya, mula naman sa distrito
ng Xiamen, sa bunganga ng ilog na nakaharap sa Manila Bay. Tulad ng mga
naninirahan sa Kuta, sina Wanda at Imo ay salta rin sa loob ng kampo.
Nakatayo ang Kuta sa dating Fort Santiago, na bago ang digmaan ay parke
ng distrito ng Xiamen dahil sa malalabay na puno at mga lumang gusali na
naitayo ilang daang taon bago maging probinsiya ng Beijing government ng
arkipelago, noong “Panahon ng Isang Siglong Pananakop” ng imperyo ng
Estados Unidos. At sa loob ng tatlong taon, sa limang taon nang digmaan na
nagaganap, dito na sa Kuta naglalagi si Imo at ang kanyang pamilya. Ulila
naman at pagala-gala lang sa loob ng Kuta si Wanda.

144
“Hindi ko napansin ’yon a!” ang bulalas ni Wanda sa paghanga sa
kaibigan. “Ang galing mo naman. Nagkukuwento rin ba sa iyo ang mama at
papa mo kung ano ang nangyayari sa mga bangkay sa loob ng Sanctuario?”
Aktibo kasi ang mga magulang ni Imo sa mga gawain sa loob ng
Sanctuario. Sila ang nagpapasok sa mga bangkay pagkatapos mahango ang
mga katawan sa ilog.
“Sa tuwing may bombahan o labanan, o may lulubog na sasakyang
pandigma ang imperyo ng Estados Unidos o ang Beijing government,
sigurado, abangan mo may hahanguin na namang mga bangkay ang mga
taga-Sanctuario sa Ilog Pasig.”
Limang taon na kasing nagtatagal ang digmaan sa pagitan ng imperyo
ng Estados Unidos at ng Beijing government. Walong dekada nang nasa
ilalim ng Beijing government ang Pilipinas at lipas na ang kondisyon sa
pananatili nila sa arkipelago. Bago dumating ang Beijing government, isang
siglo naman sa ilalim ng imperyo ng Estados Unidos ang Pilipinas. Nang
matalo sa digmaan ang imperyo ng Estados Unidos walong dekada na ang
nakararaan, nagkaroon ng tratado noon ang dalawang makapangyarihang
bansa na ibabalik ng Beijing government sa imperyo ng Estados Unidos ang
arkipelago—kapalit ng walong dekadang kapayapaan sa Pilipinas at upang
hindi masira ng digmaan ang mga likas-yaman ng mga isla. Limang taon na ang
nakararaan nang tumanggi ang Beijing government na ibalik ang arkipelago
sa imperyo ng Estados Unidos. At sa loob ng limang taon, pilit na pinaaalis
ng sandatahan ng imperyo ng Estados Unidos ang Beijing government sa
isa sa mga kolonya nito sa Timog Silangang Asya, ang Pilipinas. At sa loob
ng limang taon na ito, walang katapusang digmaan sa kapuluan at ang mga
mamamayan, nailipat, naitapon sa ibang mga lugar upang makaligtas, upang
maipagpatuloy ang kanilang mga buhay. Ang Kuta ang isa mga lugar na ito
kung saan nagsama-sama ang mga mamamayan na tumatakas sa gulo.
Nagugulat si Wanda sa mga nalalaman ni Imo sa mga inaahon na bangkay
mula sa ilog at dinadala sa Sanctuario pagkatapos. Ang Sanctuario kasi ang
pinakamalaking tolda sa loob ng Kuta. Nagtataka si Wanda sa mga nalalaman
ni Imo dahil paano siya nagkaroon ng mas maraming nalalaman kaysa sa akin
e palagi naman kaming magkasama—namumulot ng mga lumang gulong
sa Pasay sa distrito ng Xiamen, pinapasok ang mga abandonadong gusali sa
Makati sa paghahanap ng makakain, sa paglalakad sa baybayin ng Pasig, sa
pagsakay sa motorsiklo ni Merdeka para mamasyal sa Maynila, manood ng
labanan kung may encounter ang mga sundalo ng magkabilang panig. Iniisip

Rogelio Braga 145


na lamang ni Wanda na maaaring nakukuha ni Imo ang mga nalalaman niya
sa mga magulang niya. Mahigpit ang batas ng Sanctuario—ang nagaganap
sa loob ay marapat lamang na nananatili sa loob ng malaking tolda. Ang
mga magulang kasi ni Imo ang madalas na nakikita ng mga taga-Kuta na
pumapasok at lumalabas ng Sanctuario at ang nanay palagi ni Imo ang may
dala-dalang bungkos ng telang puti; minsan kahit bandilang puti ay dinadala
ng ina niya sa loob ng malaking tolda.
“Imo, hindi mo naitatanong sa nanay at tatay mo kung ano ang ginagawa
sa mga bangkay sa loob ng Sanctuario? Kung sino ang nandoon at kung bakit
bawal ang mga bata at iilang tao lang sa Kuta ang puwedeng pumasok?”
“Ay! Sinubukan ko ngang tanungin si Tatay, kinagalitan lang ako. Huwag
daw akong makikialam sa gawain ng mga matatanda. Sabi pa nga niya,
‘Huwag mo akong subukan, Imo, isang pindutan lang sa buton ibabalik kita
sa central government!’”
Si Imo kasi ay ibinigay ng central government sa mga magulang niya
labintatlong taon na ang nakalilipas. Ang mga anak naman na bunga
na pagsasama ng kanyang mga magulang ay kinuha naman ng central
government para ibigay sa ibang pamilya sa iba’t ibang bahagi ng kapuluan na
kasama sa Comprehensive Family Planning Program ng Beijing government
sa kanyang mga probinsiya.
“E di ba wala nang gobyerno dahil digmaan?” ang sangga naman ni
Wanda. Hindi pa mahanapan ng mga bagong magulang si Wanda dahil
suspendido ang lahat ng ahensiya ng Beijing government at mga serbisyo ng
gobyerno dahil nga sa digmaan.
“Oo! Wala muna tayong gobyerno dahil hindi pa nalalaman kung sino
ang nagwagi.”
“E, luko-luko pala ’yang tatay mo pati ikaw niloloko!”
“Ingatan mo ’yang bunganga mo, Wanda, tatay ko pa rin ’yon ayon sa
batas. Palibhasa wala pang ibinibigay na pamilya sa iyo ang gobyerno,” matabil
na sangga ni Imo. “At isa pa, para rin naman sa atin—sa mga kabataan—ang
mga bangkay na ipinapasok sa Sanctuario sabi ni Nanay!”
Palaging nasasapul ng lungkot si Wanda sa tuwing kakantiin ni Imo
ang kaibigan tungkol sa kawalan niya ng mga magulang. Nang magkaroon
kasi ng encounter noon sa kanilang distrito, nagkagulo ang buong complex,
nasunog ang mga kabahayan, at nagkataon noon na nasa paaralan si Wanda.
Nang bumalik siya sa kanila abo na ang kanilang tahanan at wala na rin doon

146 Maikling Kuwento


ang kanyang mga magulang; ang mga magulang niya noon ay ibinigay din
sa kanya ng Beijing government. Simula noon sumasama na si Wanda kung
kani-kanino, pagala-gala sa iba’t ibang Kuta sa iba’t ibang distrito hanggang
sa may nakapulot sa kanyang isang matandang babae at dinala siya sa Kuta
na malapit sa Ilog Pasig. Sa gitna ng digmaan, ang matandang babae ang
nag-alaga kay Wanda hanggang sa tuluyan silang kupkupin ng Kuta na bukás
naman sa lahat ng mga nagsilikas mula sa iba’t ibang bahagi ng arkipelago.
Mag-isa lang na nabubuhay si Wanda at palakad-lakad sa Kuta at gilid ng Ilog
Pasig kung hindi kasama si Imo.
Dito niya sa Kuta nakilala si Imo, minsang napadaan si Wanda sa
Jones Bridge at patawid sa Escolta. Nakaupo si Imo sa barandilya ng tulay
at nakatunghay sa ilog at pinagmamasdan ang mga bagay na inaanod sa
daluyong—mga gulong, bubong, mga sirang sasakyan na tila nabagsakan ng
bomba dahil kung hindi butas ang gitnang bahagi ay nahati sa dalawa, at
mga bangkay ng mga napatay sa iba’t ibang encounter sa iba’t ibang bahagi
ng dalawang distrito. Dahan-dahang lumapit si Wanda sa likuran ni Imo at
balak niyang itulak ang lalaki. Nais niyang pagtripan si Imo at ihulog sa Ilog
Pasig. Nang itutulak na niya si Imo ay nagkataon namang may bombang
bumagsak sa isang giba nang gusali sa Escolta. Sumabog ang gusali, gumuho,
at nagtalsikan ang mga tipak ng bato sa harapan nilang dalawa. Biglang
napalingon si Imo sa likuran niya. Nahuli niya sa akto si Wanda na naka-
amba nang itutulak siya sa ilog. At dahil nauuso noon sa mga kabataan ang
pagtutulak ng kapuwa nila bata sa ilog, nahinuha kaagad ni Imo ang balak
ni Wanda. Sinuntok niya nang sinuntok sa mukha si Wanda hanggang sa
sumirit ang dugo nito sa ilong. Matapos iyon, palagi na silang nakikita sa
Jones Bridge o tumatakbo sa kung saan at pinapasok ang mga abandonadong
gusali sa Escolta hanggang sa makarating sila sa Ongpin para maghanap ng
anumang maiuuwi sa Kuta.
Mas lalong lumalim ang pagkakaibigan ng dalawa nang pumanaw ang
matandang babae na nag-aalaga kay Wanda. Sa Kuta na rin kasi pumanaw
ang matanda. Ayon sa mga bulung-bulungan sa Kuta, nakikita raw kasing
umiinom ng tubig mula sa ilog ang matanda kahit lumulutang na rito ang
mga bangkay na basyo ng nagaganap na digmaan. Kolera ang ikinamatay
ng matanda. Tandang-tanda pa ni Wanda kung ano ang kinahinatnan ng
matandang nag-alaga sa kanya: ipinasok din sa Sanctuario ang bangkay ng
matanda. Umiiyak siya noon at nasa tabi pa niya si Imo habang inaangat ang
bangkay ng matanda mula sa higaan nila na gawa sa mga pinagpatong-patong
na sako at karton. Naririnig pa niya ang paulit-ulit na paalala ng ina ni Imo

Rogelio Braga 147


na siyang kasama ng mga nagbubuhat sa bangkay, “Bilisan niyo habang hindi
pa matigas ang katawan!”
Habang humihikbi noon si Wanda may lumapit pa sa kanya na isang
matandang babae mula sa Sanctuario at niyakap siya, nakikisimpatya sa
pagdadalamhati niya. “Hay, Wanda, tahan na … huwag kang mag-alala, para
sa iyo rin ang kamatayan ng iyong matanda. Balang-araw, maiintindihan mo
rin ang lahat … hindi nila makukuha sa atin ang ating mga kasaysayan dahil
ang kamatayan ng isa … ay ang pananatili ng ating mga alaala.” Bagaman
hindi niya naiintindihan ang mga salitang binitiwan ng matandang babae,
nararamdaman niyang mahigpit ang pagkakayakap nito sa kanya, at mainit
ang mga braso nitong nakapulupot sa kanyang katawan. Nais na kumawala ni
Wanda sa mga braso ng matanda, magkaroon ng isang espasyo ang kanyang
katawan. Simula noon, palagi nang pinangangalagaan ni Wanda ang espasyo
sa pagitan ng katawan niya at sa katawan ng ibang mga tao, kahit na ang kay
Imo.
“E, iyon din ang sinabi sa akin ng matandang babae nang kunin nila ang
katawan ng matanda ko.”
“Hindi na ’yon katawan, bangkay na iyon. Ewan ko. Basta ang palaging
sinasabi lang sa amin ni nanay ‘para rin daw ’yon sa amin’—ang mga
bangkay—para sa aming magkakapatid, sa aming mga bata …” At niyaya na
ni Imo si Wanda na umalis at sumakay na muli sa motorsiklo. Nahiram na
naman kasi ni Imo ang motorsiklo kay Merdeka.
Ipinagbabawal na ang paggamit muna ng mga motorsiklo sa arkipelago
o kahit ang pagsakay ng anumang sasakyang panghimpapawid dahil na rin
sa marami nang insidente na napagkakamalang sasakyang pandigma ang mga
sasakyang panghimpapawid at gayon din ang ingay na gawa ng mga makina
ng motorsiklo na tila imbitasyon ng paninibasib ng mga tagalabas, ng kaaway.
Marami nang napapatay dahil sa pag-aakala na ang motorsiklo ay mula sa
kabilang panig at pinasasabog ito kaagad at napapatay ang lahat ng sakay
na pasahero. Isang linggo lang ang nakararaan nang paulanan ng bala ng
mga sundalo ng Beijing government ang isang motorsiklo na minamaneho
ng dalawang binatilyong taga-Kuta. Parehong patay ang dalawang binatilyo.
Laking panlulumo ng mga taga-Kuta dahil dalawang buhay na naman ang
nalagas sa kanila. Mas lalong nanlumo ang mga tao nang malaman nilang
halos maprito ang mga bangkay dahil sumabog din ang tangke ng gasolina
ng motorsiklo at nagliyab ang sasakyan. Hindi na raw nila mapakikinabangan
ang mga bangkay at madadala sa loob ng Sanctuario.

148 Maikling Kuwento


“Aba! High end kaya itong motorsiklo ko!” pagyayabang ni Imo kay
Wanda. Nakasakay na silang dalawa sa motorsiklo at mabilis na pinatatakbo
ni Imo; patungo ang dalawa sa Makati. May naghulog daw ng relief goods sa
rooftop ng mga mga lumang gusali sa Makati at kukuha ang dalawa ng kung
anuman ang nalalabi pa sa relief goods. Tiyak ang dalawa na marami na ang
nagtungo sa mga rooftop upang makakuha ng relief. Galing sa Red Cross ang
mga pagkain, mga kagamitan sa bahay at emergency kit, mga nakabotelyang
inumin, at mga kumot. Ang kumot na puti ang talagang habol nina Imo at
Wanda.
“E, hindi naman sa iyo ito. Ang yabang mo naman …” sangga ni Wanda.
Kay Merdeka ang motorsiklo. Nakatatandang pinsan ni Imo si Merdeka.
Ang totoo, hindi nagpaalam kay Merdeka si Imo na gagamitin niya ang
motorsiklo ng pinsan. “Hindi a. Pamana na raw ito sa akin ni Merdeka sabi
niya sa akin. Kaya sa akin na ito!” Ang pagyayabang ni Imo habang mabilis
na pinatatakbo ang motorsiklo. Hinihipan ng amoy pulburang hangin at
nasusunog na mga kahoy, laman ng tao, at sangsang ng mga naagnas na mga
bangkay ang dalawa na sakay ng humaharurot na sasakyan. Nasa huling taon
na marahil ang digmaan, o akala ng marami na nalalapit na ang pagtatapos
nito dahil nagkaroon na ng kasunduan ang Beijing government at imperyo ng
Estados Unidos na hahatiin na lamang ang arkipelago para sa ikatatahimik ng
dalawang bansa at maibalik ang inaasam na kapayapaan. Nagkakaroon lang ng
pagkabalam ang tuluyang pagtatapos ng digmaan dahil hindi matapos-tapos
ang pagbibilang ng mga isla sa Bisayas at kung kanino mapupunta ang mga
isla ayon sa napagkasunduan. Naririnig pa rin nina Imo at Wanda ang mga
pagsabog, pagputok ng mga baril mula sa malayo. Madilim naman ang langit
dahil naiipon sa himpapawid ang mga usok na mula sa mga nasusunog na
gusali dahil sa mga labanan. Malapit na ang dalawa sa Makati at binabaybay
na nila ang EDSA.
“Sabi ni Merdeka may bago raw baterya ang motorsiklo na ito. Totoo
ba?” tanong ni Wanda. “Ayos talaga ’yang si Merdeka; mabubuhay ’yan sa
digmaan kasi magaling dumiskarte mag-isa. Marunong mag-isa, Imo.”
At narinig na naman ni Imo ang paborito ni Wandang “Marunong mag-
isa.”
Ang mga baterya kasi ng mga sasakyan ay nirarasyon na lamang ng
Beijing government dahil sa digmaan. May mga black market sa mga distrito
ng Li at Xiamen kung saan naman nabibili ang mga baterya ng mga sasakyan
o naipagpapalit ito sa pagkain, damit, o tolda.

Rogelio Braga 149


“Oo, bagong-bago. Tatagal daw ito nang dalawampung taon.”
“Ikaw ha, saan mo naman nakuha ang bagong baterya? Nagnakaw kayo
ni Merdeka ano?”
“Sa digmaan,” mabilis na tugon ni Imo. “Sabi ni Tatay sa digmaan wala
namang nagmamay-ari ng kahit na ano. Lahat pag-aari mo sa digmaan.”
“Hindi totoo ’yan,” sangga ni Wanda. “Siyempre mayroon din nagma-
may-ari ng digmaan.”
“Ha? E, sino?”
“Iyong marunong mag-isa—iyong mas malakas!” at humalakhak si
Wanda dahil alam niyang hindi ito naunawaan ng kaibigan.
“Tarantado ka, Wanda, akala mo kung sino kang matalino. Narinig mo
lang ’yan kay Merdeka!”
Ninakaw nina Imo at Merdeka ang bagong baterya ng kanilang motorsiklo.
Tatlong araw na ang nakararaan nang pasukin nila ang isang abandonadong
bahay sa isang purok sa hilaga ng distrito ng Xiamen. Malaking bahay. At
nahinuha nina Imo at Merdeka na marahil bahay ito ng isang opisyal ng
pamahalaan. Bagaman tuklap na ang bubong ng mansiyon at giba na ang gate
naroroon pa rin sa loob ng bakuran ng bahay ang mga sasakyan, maraming
sasakyang panlupa at panghimpapawid. At naisip ng dalawa na baka sakali
at may mga baterya pang laman ang mga sasakyan. At tulad ng inaasahan,
wala nang mga baterya ang mga sasakyan. Ngunit pinasok ng dalawa ang
bahay. Wala na ang mga gamit sa loob. Marahil tumakas na patungo sa
Mainland ang pamilya ng may-ari ng bahay. Pero alam ni Merdeka na ang
mga bahay ng mayayaman ng Beijing government ay karaniwang mayroong
basement at doon sa basement nakatago ang mga motorsiklo, computer, at
maging mga armas. Malimit na kubli ang mga basement na ito. Si Merdeka
ang nakahanap ng kubling lagusan patungo sa basement. At doon nga nila
nakita sa basement, kasama ng mga armas at mga computer, ang motorsiklo
ng pamilya at naroroon pa rin ang baterya. Dalawang baterya ang nakuha
nina Imo at Merdeka. Aariin ni Merdeka ang motorsiklo at ibibigay niya
naman ang luma niyang motorsiklo kay Imo. Hindi lang maibigay ni
Merdeka kaagad ang motorsiklo dahil ipinatatanggal pa niya ang nakakabit
na monitoring device sa motorsiklo; ang device na ito kasi ay nakakabit pa sa
Central Computer ng Beijing government. Isang linggo pa bago matanggal sa
isang junk shop sa Makati ang device.

150 Maikling Kuwento


Nang marating ng dalawa ang Makati humimpil muna sila sa tapat ng
isang gusali. Napakarami nang tao at alam nilang ubos na ang mga relief na
ipinamimigay. Naghintay sila nang isa pang oras bago unti-unting mawala ang
mga tao. Matapos ang isang oras, mag-isang nagtungo si Wanda sa rooftop
ng gusali. Walang nang tao. Wala na rin ang mga relief. Ngunit naroroon at
iniwanan ng balana ang kinakailangan nila ni Imo. Isa lang ang paalala ni Imo
bago niya pinaakyat si Wanda sa itaas: “Ang pinakamahalaga, at kailangan
nating maiuwi sa Kuta, ay ang mga puting kumot.” Naroroon nga’t iniwanan
ang daan-daang puting kumot na gawa sa katsa na iuuwi nila ni Imo.

Nang magbalik ang dalawa sa Kuta bitbit nila ang halos isandaang puting
kumot. Sinalubong sila ni Merdeka sa bukana ang komunidad. Si Merdeka ay
anak ng nakatatandang kapatid ng ina ni Imo. Tatlong taon na ang nakararaan
nang pumanaw ang lahat ng kasapi ng pamilya ni Merdeka. Kasama ang
pamilya niya na nalunod sa South China Sea nang sumakay ang mga ito
ng maliit na bapor upang tumakas patungo sa Vietnam, na isang probinsiya
ng Beijing government. Napagkamalan na isang bangkang pandigma ang
bapor kaya’t pinaulanan ito ng missiles ng mga drone ng imperyo ng Estados
Unidos na noo’y nasa Subic. Nakaligtas lamang si Merdeka dahil hindi na
ito nakalabas ng dormitoryo sa unibersidad at nasama sa conscription ng
Beijing government; naging mabait sa kanya ang kapalaran at hindi na siya
nakasama sa kanyang pamilya para makatakas. Nag-aaral noon ng computer
engineering si Merdeka sa unibersidad.
“Ang kukulit niyong dalawa. Sa’n ba kayo nanggaling?” ang salubong sa
kanila ni Merdeka. Galit ito dahil napansin ni Imo na magkasalubong na ang
dalawang makakapal na kilay ng pinsan. Matangkad si Merdeka, hanggang
balikat lang niya si Imo. Hindi kumibo sina Imo at Wanda ngunit tila nabasa
na ni Merdeka sa mga mukha at ayos ng dalawa na ginamit nito ang kanyang
motorsiklo at lumabas sa Kuta.
“Hindi ba’t pinagbawalan ka ng mga magulang mo, Imo, na huwag kang
sasakay ng motorsiklo at lalabas ng Kuta? Paano kung tamaan ka ng ligaw na
bala? Ng bomba?”
“E, di patay kaming dalawa!” ang pabalang na sagot ni Imo. Napahiya
kasi siya sa harap ng kaibigan.
Isang sampal ang isinagot ni Merdeka sa pinsan. “Makasarili ka talaga, Imo.
Paano kung mapatay ka, sino ang mag-aalaga sa mga kapatid mo pagkatapos

Rogelio Braga 151


ng digmaan at matatanda na ang mga magulang mo?” Nakatiim-bagang si
Merdeka at mahigpit na nakatiklop ang kanyang mga palad. “Buti sana kung
mamamatay ka lang. E, kung nasunog ang katawan mo, ano na lamang ang
mapakikinabangan ng Kuta sa bangkay mo? Wala kayong maitutulong ni
Wanda! Wala!” At sunod-sunod ang paghagupit ng mga palad ni Merdeka sa
mukha ni Imo. Hindi naman makalaban si Imo o maipagtanggol ni Wanda
ang kaibigan dahil matangkad sa kanilang dalawa si Merdeka. Natigilan
lamang si Merdeka sa karahasan nang sumirit na ang dugo sa mga labi ni
Imo. Ang dugo na mula sa sugat sa bibig ni Imo ay kumalat sa palad, kamay,
hanggang sa mga braso ni Merdeka. Natigilan si Merdeka at nagulantang sa
karahasan na tumambad sa kanyang harapan; bumagsak na sa lupa si Imo at
tila tuod na nakatayo naman si Wanda habang gulat na pinagmamasdan ang
dalawa. Mabilis na hinubad ni Merdeka ang kanyang damit at pinunasan
ang bibig ni Imo. Mabilis, natataranta, at marahas ang pagpupunas niya
na para bang ang dugo ay mauubos sa katawan ni Imo dahil sa maliit na
sugat. Matapos mapunasan sinabihan niya ang dalawa na umuwi na sa kani-
kanilang tolda at huwag lalabas hanggang hindi siya nakababalik. Dali-daling
tumakbo ang dalawa at tumalima sa utos ni Merdeka.
Nagtungo sa baybayin ng Ilog Pasig si Merdeka nang mawala ang
dalawa. Pinagmasdan niya ang tubig na dumadaloy sa ilog, ang mga bagay na
lumulutang at dinadala ng daluyong—mga bangkay ng sundalo at sibilyan,
mga patay na alagang hayop tulad ng mga aso at pusa. Itinapon ni Merdeka
sa ilog ang damit na ginamit niya para linisin ang dugo sa mukha ni Imo.
Tinanaw niya ang damit na dinala ng daluyong papalayo sa pampang.
Kinawkaw niya ang kanyang mga kamay sa tubig upang tanggalin ang bahid
ng dugo ni Imo na unti-unti nang natutuyo sa kanyang mga palad. Naroroon
pa rin ang gulat at pagkagitla sa kanyang mga mata. “Tarantado ka talaga,
Imo … Tarantado …”
Matapos ang insidente na iyon kay Merdeka, napansin na nina Imo at
Wanda ang pagbabago sa binata. Napansin ni Imo na palagi nang tahimik
ang pinsan at nag-iisa. Hindi na rin ito nagpapasama sa kanila ni Wanda sa
pag-iigib ng tubig na maiinom para sa Kuta. Kung mag-iigib kasi ang tatlo
ginagamit nila ang pinakamabilis na motorsiklo sa Kuta, sa madaling-araw
sila umaalis, at si Merdeka ay kilala sa buong Kuta na mabilis ngunit maingat
na magpatakbo ng motorsiklo, na kaya niyang iwasan ang mga bala, ang
pagsabog, at takasan ang mga hagaran at tulisan sa naglipana sa EDSA. Sa
pag-iigib din sa ilang tolda sa Kuta kumikita si Merdeka. At sa pagsama-sama

152 Maikling Kuwento


sa pag-iigib para sa mga parokyano ni Merdeka sa Kuta kumikita rin sina Imo
at Wanda. Ngunit sa mga nagdaang araw naging bugnutin na si Merdeka at
hindi na nito isinasama ang dalawa.
“Baka gusto na lang na mag-isa ni Merdeka,” ang nasabi minsan ni
Wanda kay Imo. “Akala niya siguro malakas na siya.”
Dumating ang balita sa Kuta na may lumubog na namang limang barkong
pandigma ang imperyo ng Estados Unidos at ang kanyang mga kaalyansa.
Ito na rin ang senyales ng nalalapit nang pagwawagi ng Beijing government.
Hindi sila aalis sa arkipelago at mananatili. At tulad ng inaasahan ng lahat
ng mga taga-Kuta, pati nina Imo at Wanda, sa mahahalagang pangyayari
kagaya nito sa nagaganap na digmaan, may mga bangkay na namang kinuha
sa Ilog Pasig at nagpatulong pa kay Imo ang kanyang ina na maghanap ng
mga puting tela. Nang matapos ang isang araw na paghahanap, hindi naging
matagumpay si Imo sa pangangalap ng puting tela. Nakiusap na ang kanyang
ina na kahit na anong tela, kahit ang kulay ay kupas na asul, berde, dilaw—
huwag lamang itim at lalo na ang pula.
Ganoon din na naging aligaga ang ina ni Imo sa paghahanap ng mga
tela; bungkos ng mga tela ang bilin pa nito, nang magkaroon ng labanan sa
pagitan ng mga F-22 Raptor ng imperyo ng Estados Unidos at ng Beijing
government sa himpapawid ng Manila Bay. Isang umaga nagising na
lamang ang mga taga-Kuta sa ingay ng mga makina na mga naghahabulang
eroplanong pandigma sa himpapawid ng Maynila. Tatlong F-22 Raptor ng
imperyo ng Estados Unidos ang humahabol sa isang F-22 Raptor ng Beijing
government; nasa himpapawid din ang kani-kaniyang drones ng dalawang
panig. Papatakas sa Manila Bay ang hinahabol na F-22 Raptor. Lumabas ang
lahat sa kani-kanilang mga tolda sa Kuta upang saksihan ang paglalaban ng
mga eroplanong pandigma sa himpapawid. Sa bandang huli, sa harap ng
lahat ng mga nakasaksi, napabagsak ng F-22 Raptor ng Beijing government
ang dalawag eroplano ng imperyo ng Estados Unidos. Ngunit nasapol naman
ito ng isang missile mula sa isang paparating na F-22 Raptor ng imperyo.
Nakita ng lahat sa Kuta kung paano nagliyab ang eroplano sa himpapawid
at papadausdos na bumagsak sa dagat. Makalipas ang isang oras dumating sa
Kuta ang balita na ang isang taga-Maynila pala ang nagpapatakbo sa eroplano
ng Beijing government. Hindi Intsik na mula sa mainland o sa Hong Kong.
Ipinagbunyi ng mga taga-Kuta ang kabayanihan ng piloto dahil napabagsak
nito ang dalawang eroplanong pandigma ng imperyo, ito ang balita sa
radyo, telebisyon, mga pahayagan sa Internet. Pero sa Kuta, ang pagbubunyi

Rogelio Braga 153


ay inalay sa piloto. Noong gabi ding iyon, natuklasan nina Imo at Wanda,
habang nakakubli ang dalawa sa isang nabuwal na pader sa gilid ng Ilog Pasig,
ang pagsungkit ng mga taga-Sanctuario sa mga lumulutang na bangkay sa
ilog. At dahil para nga sa piloto ang pagbubunyi, napansin ng dalawa na halos
dalawang dosenang bangkay ang nakuha ng mga taga-Sanctuario at maayos
na isinalansan ang mga ito sa dalampasigan ng ilog.
“Hindi kaya dahil sa katapangan ng piloto kaya dalawang dosenang
bangkay ang inihanda sa hapag ng halimaw sa loob ng Sanctuario?” takot na
tanong ni Wanda kay Imo. Ang alam ni Wanda isang dambuhalang halimaw
daw na may tatlong ulo ang nasa loob ng Sanctuario. Pinakakain ng mga
bangkay ang halimaw na ito.
“Siguro. Pero narinig ko sa kuwentuhan ng ibang mga bata sa Kuta na
hindi naman daw halimaw ang nasa loob ng Sanctuario,” sangga ni Imo.
Hindi rin kasi nakakapasok si Imo sa loob ng malaking tolda kahit ang mga
magulang niya ang nagdadala ng bungkos ng tela sa loob ng Sanctuario.
“E, puro matatanda lang sa Kuta ang nakakapasok sa Sanctuario!”
“Iyon na nga,” inilapit ni Imo ang bibig niya sa tainga ni Wanda at
bumulong, “sila ang kumakain ng bangkay sa loob ng Kuta?”
Nanlaki ang mga mata ni Wanda sa takot.
“Kinain nila ang matanda …” At naalala ni Wanda ang matandang babae
na nag-alaga sa kanya. “Pero, Imo, bakit sinasabi nila palagi sa atin na para sa
ating mga bata ang ginagawa nila sa loob ng Sanctuario?”
Natahimik si Imo at pinaglimian ang mga salita ni Wanda. Naisip niya
ang pinsan, na sa edad nito marahil ay nakapapasok na sa Sanctuario. “Si
Merdeka! Si Merdeka! May nalalaman si Merdeka!” At nagdesisyon ang
dalawa na puntahan si Merdeka sa kanyang tolda.
Hindi kaagad nagpakita ang dalawa nang marating nila ang tolda ni
Merdeka. Nagkubli sila sa likod ng tolda ng pinsan ni Imo.
“Imo, ano ginagawa ng pinsan mo?” bulong ni Wanda. Nasa labas ng
tolda niya si Merdeka at nakaluhod sa lupa.
“Hindi ko alam. Parang naghuhukay si Merdeka?”
Nakaluhod si Merdeka at may hawak itong sanga na paniklot. Nakayukod
si Merdeka sa lupa at tila hirap na hirap sa kanyang ginagawa. Nakikita
nina Imo at Wanda ang paghihirap na dinaranas ni Merdeka sa marahas na
paggalaw ng kanyang likod at mga balikat. Isang malaking katanungan sa

154 Maikling Kuwento


dalawa kung ano itong ginagawa ng pinsan ni Imo. At naisip naman ni Imo,
na ito marahil ang dahilan kaya sa mga nagdaang araw ay parang inilalayo
na ni Merdeka ang sarili niya sa mga tao, sa mga taga-Kuta, palaging balisa.
Halos yumakap na sa lupa ang katawan ni Merdeka. Gamit ang paniklot
sinusubok niyang gumuhit sa lupa. Hindi niya maigalaw ang kanyang
mga kamay ayon sa kanyang nais. Ang kamay na palagi niyang ginagamit
sa pagpindot ng kompyuter, pagmamaniobra ng manibela ng kanyang
motorsiklo. Hawak ang paniklot na ang isang dulo ay nakasayad sa lupa,
pinipilit ni Merdeka na pasunurin ang paniklot ayon sa ninanais ng kanyang
mga kamay, ng kanyang mga daliri.
“Ano ang ginagawa ng pinsan mo, Imo? Hindi kaya na-rabis ’yan?
Bulung-bulungan na nakagat daw siya ng askal kahapon sa Binondo.”
“Hindi ko alam. Baka iyan ang dahilan kung bakit siya palaging galit
nitong mga nagdaang araw. Napansin mo ba?”
Lubos ang pagpupumilit ni Merdeka na pasunurin ang kanyang
mga daliri, ang kanyang mga kamay. At bigla siyang napatigil sa kanyang
ginagawa, huminga ng malalim. Naiyak siya na simula ay impit hanggang
sa tuluyang humagulgol. Palibhasa’y alam niyang siya lamang ang nasa lugar
kaya pinakawalan niya sa dibdib ang malalakas na pagsigaw. Siphayo ang
gumupo sa kanyang pagkatao. Doon lang nakita ni Imo ang kanyang pinsan
na parang batang umiiyak. Iyon ang una na nakamalas si Wanda ng isang
panaghoy bukod sa mga iyak at panaghoy ng mga batang kalaro niya, at sa
sarili niyang iyak noong pumanaw ang matandang nag-alaga sa kanya, at
noong dalhin sa malaking tolda ang bangkay nito pagkatapos.
Nang hindi na makatiis si Imo na makita ang pagtaghoy ng kanyang
pinsan ay mabilis siyang tumayo sa pinagkukublihang pumpon ng mga tela
at tinawag si Merdeka.
“Ano’ng ginagawa niyo rito?” Mababakas na sa mukha ni Merdeka ang
hiya at pagkagulat.
“Ano ang ginagawa mo kanina?” ang tugon ni Imo, nakatudla ang mga
mata sa mga kamay ni Merdeka.
Hindi tumugon si Merdeka. Nais niya sanang ipaliwanag sa pinsan na
ayaw niyang ipadala siya sa digmaan kaya sinusubok niya ang isang gawain
na nakikita niya lamang sa loob ng Sanctuario—pero paano ito mauunawaan
ni Imo? Nais niyang matulad sa isang nilalang na nasa loob ng malaking
tolda—itinatago, binabantayan, at pinagsisilbihan dahil sa isang kakayahan.

Rogelio Braga 155


May kakayahan ang nilalang na ito sa kanyang mga kamay na siya lamang
ang nakagagawa. Sinusubakan ni Merdeka na makuha niya rin sa kanyang
mga kamay ang kasanayan ng nilalang na nasa loob ng Sanctuario nang
madatnan siya nina Imo at Wanda. Kay Merdeka, alam niya sa sarili na kaya
niyang makuha ang kasanayan basta mapaamo niya lamang ang kanyang mga
kamay at makasanayan ang paggamit ng paniklot. Nais niya sanang sabihin
ito o itugon kay Imo ngunit ito ay paglabag sa batas ng Kuta: ang anumang
nangyayari sa loob ng Sanctuario ay para lamang sa mga nakapapasok sa loob
nito. Kamatayan ang parusa na ipinapataw sa sinuman ang lumabag sa batas
na ito ng Kuta. Ang paglabas kasi ng mga nangyayari sa loob ng Sanctuario
ay maglalagay daw sa panganib sa mga taga-Kuta. Ang mismong pagkukubli
kasi ng Kuta sa nilalaman ng Sanctuario ay tahasang paglabag sa batas ng
central government. Nagkataon lang na nasa isang malaking digmaan ang
Beijing government kaya hindi masyadong maayos ang pagpapatakbo ng mga
sangay ng gobyerno, maging ang pagmomonitor ng mga gawain ng mga nasa
kolonya. Ang pag-asang para sa mga kabataan o sa susunod na henerasyon
ang kung anumang nagaganap sa loob ng Sanctuario kaya tumatalima ang
lahat ng mga taga-Kuta sa batas na nagbibigay-proteksiyon sa malaking tolda.
“Ano ang ginagawa mo kanina, Merdeka?” Inulit muli ni Imo ang tanong.
Tumindig si Merdeka at marahan na binali ang paniklot. Mababakas sa
kanyang mukha ang pagsuko.
“Ayaw kong lumaban sa digmaan. Ayaw kong lumaban sa kanilang
digmaan.” Mahigit na nakatiklop ang kanyang mga kamay. Marahang
pumasok sa kanyang tolda si Merdeka nang hindi man lang lumilingon sa
kanila.

Kumalat kaagad ang balita sa buong Kuta sa pag-alis ni Merdeka upang


lumaban sa digmaan. Tuwang-tuwa ang matatanda, pati ang mga magulang
ni Imo na tumatayong tagapag-alaga ni Merdeka simula nang ito’y maulila.
“Imo! Imo!” Humahangos na dumating si Wanda kay Imo na noo’y
tahimik na nakatayo sa gilid ng Ilog Pasig. Naglilibang si Imo sa mga oras na
iyon sa pagbibilang ng mga bangkay na lumulutang sa ilog—mga sundalo,
may babae, may mga bata. Paminsan-minsa’y may mga hayop tulad ng aso,
kalabaw, kabayo. Lahat ng mga lumulutang sa Pasig ay dumederetso sa Manila
Bay. Nakagawian nang libangan ni Imo ang tumanaw sa mga lumulutang na
bangkay sa ilog simula nang mawala si Merdeka at sumama sa digmaan at si
Wanda naman ay abala sa pakikipaglaro sa mga kaibigan niyang babae.

156 Maikling Kuwento


“Bakit? Ano ang balita mo? Nanalo na ba ang Beijing government?
“Hindi, Imo. May iniahon na namang bangkay sa ilog. Siguradong para
sa pag-alis ni Merdeka ang bangkay!”
“E, palagi namang nangyayari iyan. Akala ko naman may bago kang
ibabalita’t nagmamadali ka pa.”
“Mayroon!” Pagyayabang ni Wanda.
“Talaga?”
“Kanina habang naglalaro kami sa baybayin may narinig akong dalawang
matandang nag-uusap. Nakaupo sila sa ibabaw ng sirang kotse at nagbibilang
din siguro ng mga bangkay na lumulutang. Narinig ko na nabanggit ng isa
ang ‘Sanctuario’ kaya nagkubli ako sa likuran ng dalawa dahil alam kong
tungkol sa halimaw sa malaking tolda ang pinag-uusapan nila.
“Narinig ko ang usapan nila. Mayroon daw matanda sa loob ng
Sanctuario at hindi isang halimaw. Mayroon daw itong kapangyarihan, Imo!
Gumagamit daw ito ng paniklot na may mga buhok ng tao ang isang dulo.
Makapangyarihan daw ang matandang nasa Sanctuario at higit sa lahat,”
luminga-linga si Wanda sa paligid sa paniniguro na walang nakaririnig sa
kanila at inilapit nito kay Imo ang kanyang bibig at bumulong. “Hindi raw
siya encoded sa central government na mamamayan ng Beijing government.”
Nandilat si Imo sa takot at sa kanyang natuklasan mula sa kaibigan.
“Isang makapangyarihang rebelde ang nakatago sa loob ng Sanctuario,”
pagpapatuloy ni Wanda. “Oo, maniwala ka, Imo. Kaya ganoon na lang daw
ang pag-iingat ng mga matatanda ng Kuta sa rebelde. Ayaw nilang sabihin sa
mga bata; baka kasi sabihin natin sa mga hindi taga-Kuta!”
“Ano itong kapangyarihan ng rebelde? Sinabi mo na may kapangyarihan
ang kanyang mga kamay at may paniklot siya?”
“Naaalala mo ba iyong ginagawa ni Merdeka? Imo, iyon ’yon! Ginagaya
ni Merdeka ang kapangyarihan ng matandang rebelde.”
Unti-unti nang nabubuo kay Imo ang lahat. May rebeldeng ikinukubli
ang matatanda sa loob ng Sanctuario, at ang rebeldeng ito ay makapangyarihan
dahil hindi siya encoded sa General Citizen’s Database ng central government.
“Imo, gusto mo mamayang gabi kapag inilabas na ang bangkay na para
sa pag-alis ni Merdeka pasukin natin ang Sanctuario?” suhestiyon ni Wanda.
Habang nagsasalita si Wanda napansin ni Imo na may tumutulong dugo sa
ilong ng kaibigan. “Bakit, Imo?”

Rogelio Braga 157


“May dugo ang ilong mo.”
Pinahid ni Wanda ang dugo at nagpatuloy. “Ano, pasukin na natin
mamaya?”
Hindi makatugon si Imo kay Wanda dahil nabahala siya sa dugong
tumulo sa ilong ng kaibigan. Inisip niya na lamang na baka nakipag-away si
Wanda kanina at nakipagbuntalan.
“Ano, pasukin natin mamaya?”
“Sige. Mamaya paglubog ng araw.”

Para sa pag-alis ni Merdeka ang bangkay na iniahon sa Pasig kaninang


umaga. Pumasok ang ina ni Imo sa Sanctuario dala ang ilang bungkos ng tela.
Nakaabang sina Imo at Wanda sa mga magkakapatong na kahon sa tabi ng
isang maliit na tolda sa tabi ng Sanctuario. Hinintay nila na magrelyebo ang
mga bantay sa lagusan ng malaking tolda. Nang lumalalim na ang gabi at oras
na upang magpalit ng bantay ay inihanda ng dalawa ang kanilang mga sarili.
Nang umalis ang dalawang bantay upang sunduin ang rerelyebo sa kanila,
mabilis na tumakbo ang dalawa papasok ng Sanctuario.
Maliwanag sa loob ng malaking tolda dahil maraming gasera ang
nakasindi. Dahil walang bintana ang Sanctuario, nakulob ang init at makapal
ang hangin sa loob. Masangsang din sa loob dahil sa patong-patong na mga
bangkay sa isang gilid; mga bangkay na pinigaan ng sariwang dugo. Nagkubli
sina Wanda at Imo sa likod ng isang malaking banga. At nakita ng dalawa
na naroroon nga ang nanay at tatay ni Imo at nakatalungko sa harap ng
matanda. Pinagmasdang maigi nina Imo at Wanda ang kamay ng matanda:
ang mga paggalaw ng mga ito na tila nagsasayaw sa ibabaw ng isang puting
tela. At nakita nga nila na hawak ng matanda ang paniklot. Nagsasalita ang
nanay ni Imo sa harap ng matanda at patuloy ang paggalaw ng mga kamay ng
matanda. Sinipat ni Imo ang sarili niyang mga kamay; alam niyang aabutin
ng maraming taon para matutunan niya rin ang paggalaw ng mga kamay ng
matanda na may hawak pang paniklot. Kung ano ang pagkamangha nina
Wanda at Imo sa mga kamay ng matanda ay ganoon din ang pagkamangha
nila kung paano niya pagalawin ang paniklot sa ibabaw ng tela; napansin
ng dalawa na ang dulo ng paniklot ay may kumpol ng mga buhok ng tao.
Nakalatag ang puting tela sa harap ng nakatalungkong matanda at marahan
niyang isinasawsaw ang dulo ng paniklot sa isang palanggana na puno ng
dugo. Naroroon ang ina ni Imo na habang nagsasalita ay patuloy naman ang
paggalaw ng kamay na hawak ang paniklot. Walang imik ang dalawa habang

158 Maikling Kuwento


pinanonood ang ginagawa ng matanda. Paulit-ulit niyang ginagawa ang
kanyang mahika at hindi naman nagsasawa sina Imo at Wanda sa kanilang
nakikita sa tila nakahuhumaling na palabas. Unti-unti nang tumataas ang
mga telang halos magkulay-pula na sa mga dugo habang unti-unti na ring
lumalalim ang naipong dugo sa malaking palanggana.
“Naku tiyak na matutuwa nito si Merdeka pagbalik niya!” May galak na
bulalas ng ina ni Imo sa harap ng matanda.
“Iyon ay kung makababalik pa siya nang buhay,” biro ng tatay. “Kung
hindi naman siya makabalik tiyak na bayani iyang pamangkin mo. Ipapása
natin ang lahat ng ito kay Imo para makilala ng kanyang mga anak si Merdeka.
Malapit na rin matapos ang digmaan na ito.”
“Halos limang taon na rin tayong ganito,” sagot ng nanay ni Imo. “Ang
balita ay pumayag na ang Beijing government na hati-hatiin ang mga isla sa
arkipelago at ibigay sa gobyerno ng Estados Unidos ang iba. Nararamdaman
ko rin na malapit nang matapos ang digmaan na ito. Sana magkasundo na
silang dalawa nang magkaroon na tayo ng normal na buhay, ng mapayapang
buhay tulad noon.”
Hindi tumutugon sa kuwentuhan ang matanda bagkus patuloy lang siya
sa kanyang ginagawa. Ngumingiti siya paminsan-minsan ngunit mababakas
pa rin sa kanyang mukha na dinidibdib niya ang kanyang ginagawa.
Magpapahinga lamang ang matanda kung magkukuwento ang ina ni Imo o
kaya’y marahan niyang hihimasin ang mahaba niyang balbas. Minsan naman
ay minamasahe ng tatay ni Imo ang mga kamay ng matanda.
Umaga na nang lisanin nina Imo at Wanda ang Sanctuario. Nang inilabas
ang mga bangkay na pinigaan ng dugo ay sabay na ring lumabas ang mga
magulang ni Imo. Tulog na at pagod ang matanda at relyebo na naman ng
mga tagabantay.
“Imo, uuwi muna ako sa amin; sumasakit ang ulo ko saka tiyan ko,”
paalam ni Wanda. Bago pa man sila maghiwalay ay tinawag ni Imo ang
kaibigan. Pinunasan niya ang ilalim ng ilong ng kaibigan dahil may tumakas
na namang dugo. Pinahid niya ito ng kanyang kamay at napansin niyang
buo-buo ang dugong tumatagas sa ilong ni Wanda.

Tigilan mo na ang pagsama-sama riyan kay Wanda,” paalala ng kanyang


ina habang sinasalansan ang mga puting tela. Alam na ni Imo kung para
sa ano talaga ang mga tela na ito na iniipon ng kanyang ina at dinadala sa
Sanctuario. Nagtataka si Imo kung bakit pinagbabawalan na siya ng kanyang

Rogelio Braga 159


ina na makipaglaro kay Wanda. Hindi nagbigay ng anumang tugon si Imo
at yumukod na lamang at diretsong lumakad palabas ng kanilang tolda.
Nang malapit na siya sa pintuan ay nagpatuloy ang kanyang ina; nahalata
marahil ng kanyang ina ang di pag-sang-ayon ni Imo sa bilin dahil sa kanyang
pananahimik.
“Huwag ka nang masyadong matigas ang ulo, Imo. Marami nang nakakita
na umiinom ng tubig mula sa Pasig iyang si Wanda. Mahirap nang tamaan ng
epidemya o mahawa … panahon pa man din ngayon ng digmaan.” Natigilan
si Imo sa gulat ngunit hindi rin siya nagtapon ng lingon-likod sa ina. “Hay
Imo! Ikaw may pamilya ka … iyang si Wanda wala! Sanay siyang mag-isa!”
Hindi nga nagkamali ang kanyang ina. Isang tanghali habang nakasakay
si Imo sa kanyang motorsiklo na minana niya mula kay Merdeka, natanaw
niya si Wanda sa ilalim ng Jones Bridge. Naglalakad ang kaibigan niya at
may hawak na timba. Nag-iisa na naman si Wanda. Bagaman palagi silang
magkasama ni Wanda, napapansin din ni Imo na may mga oras na gusto ni
Wanda ang mag-isa sa kanyang sarili, walang kalaro o kasama. Patungo si
Wanda sa baybayin ng Pasig. Alam ni Wanda na hindi maaaring inumin ang
tubig mula sa Pasig at pinaghihinalaan pa nga na sa tubig na ito nanggagaling
ang epidemyang sumasalanta sa Kuta. Nagkubli si Imo sa gilid ng isang gibang
gusali at inabangan ang susunod na hakbang ni Wanda. Hindi nagsalok ng
tubig si Wanda bagkus namulot ito ng mga nagkalat na shrapnels sa baybayin,
mga lata, at mga kagamitan na mailalagay niya sa kanyang timba. Nahiya siya
sa kanyang sarili dahil sa paghihinala sa kaibigan at naisip niya ang kanyang
ina, na sa palagay niya ay naglulubid lamang ng kuwento. Tangkang lalapitan
na sana niya si Wanda nang makita niya itong dagling yumukod na tila hahalik
sa itim na tubig ng Ilog. At sa pamamagitan ng kanyang kamay sumalok ng
tubig si Wanda at diretso sa kanyang bibig. Humarurot ang motorsiklo ni Imo
papalapit kay Wanda. Nagulat si Wanda sa biglang pagdating ng kaibigan.
Binigyan ni Imo si Wanda ng malalakas na sampal. Umiyak nang umiyak
si Wanda hanggang sa magdugo ang kanyang bibig dahil sa mga mararahas na
sampal ni Imo. Binitiwan ni Wanda ang balde na dala niya at kumaripas ng
takbo papalayo sa kaibigan. Ni hindi ito lumingon pabalik kay Imo.
Lumipas ang ilang araw at palagi nang balisa si Imo at hindi na lumalabas
ng kanilang tolda. Dumadalaw sa panaginip niya ang kamatayan ni Wanda.
Tinatanong siya palagi ng kanyang ina kung ano ang kanyang nararamdaman
o kung mayroon ba siyang ipinagdaramdam. Hindi tumutugon si Imo. Tulad
ni Merdeka noon, naging bugnutin na rin siya at hindi palakibo.

160 Maikling Kuwento


Isang gabi habang natutulog siya sa loob ng kanilang tolda at ang kanyang
mga magulang ay nasa Sanctuario, naalimpungatan si Imo sa mga pagtawag
ni Wanda mula sa labas. Impit na ang mga pagtawag ni Wanda at hindi
tumutugon si Imo. Patuloy pa rin sa mga pagtawag ni Wanda sa kanyang
pangalan at naririnig ni Imo ang pag-ubo ng kaibigan paminsan-minsan.
Hindi mabuo ni Imo sa sarili ang kanyang nararamdaman: nais niyang
makita si Wanda at makipagbati ngunit pumupunit sa kanyang pananabik
ang pangitaing nalalapit na ang kamatayan ng kanyang kaibigan. Hindi niya
alam kung ang kinatatakutan niya ba ay ang kamatayan o ang pagkawalay sa
kaibigan pagkatapos ng pagpanaw.
“Imo, gising ka na maglaro tayo! Imo, nandiyan ka ba?” Paulit-ulit na
pagtawag ni Wanda kay Imo. Upang hindi magambala ni Wanda ang kanyang
pananarili, tinakpan na lamang ni Imo ang kanyang mga tainga ng mga tela
na iniipon ng kanyang ina. Ginawa niya ang pagtakip sa kanyang mga tainga
hanggang sa dalawin siya ng antok at tuluyang makatulog. Habang unti-
unting namamatay ang putukan sa labanan na nagaganap sa malayo, sa labas
ng kanilang distrito marahil, sa labanan ng dalawang makapangyarihang
puwersa, unti-unti na ring numinipis ang boses ni Wanda sa mga pagtawag
niya sa kaibigan.
Inisip na lamang in Imo na kaya naman ni Wanda ang mag-isa. Di tulad
niya na natatakot maiwanan, mawalan ng kaibigan. Makasarili talaga si
Wanda, naisip niya, at tuluyan na siyang nakatulog.
Kinaumagahan nakita ang bangkay ni Wanda sa gilid ng isang tolda na
malapit kina Imo. Nang magising sina Imo at ang kanyang mga magulang sa
aringasa ng mga taong nakakita sa bangkay ni Wanda ay dali-daling tumayo
ang kanyang ina na para bang handa nang makipag-agawan sa bangkay ng
batang babae. Nakabuntot sa kanyang ina ang ama ni Imo na may dala nang
palanggana. Hindi naman makapaniwala si Imo sa kamatayan ni Wanda,
kagabi lang ay tinatawag-tawag pa siya nito at niyayang maglaro. Naupo si
Imo sa isang sulok at tiniklop ang mga binti at ipinatong ang ulo sa mga
tuhod. Pinilit niyang pigilin ang kanyang pag-iyak at inisip na lamang ang
masasayang araw nila ni Wanda.
Isang oras ang nagdaan at bumalik na ang kanyang mga magulang sa
kanilang tolda at tulad ng inaasahan, hindi na naman mapakali ang kanyang
ina sa paghahanap ng telang puti o iyong kukupas na ang kulay. Sinarili na
lamang niya ang kanyang tanong kung nasaan na ang bangkay ng kanyang
kaibigan dahil sa loob niya’y alam naman niya ang tumpak na kasagutan.

Rogelio Braga 161


Tiyak na dinala ang bangkay ni Wanda sa Sanctuario, sa matandang may
kakaibang mahika ang mga kamay. Pipigain ang katawan ni Wanda upang
kunan ng sariwang dugo at pagkatapos itatapon ang kanyang bangkay
sa Pasig at lulutang ang kanyang katawan kasama ng ibang mga bangkay,
ng mga sirang bagay tulad ng mga kotse, bisikleta, patay na mga hayop na
lumulutang sa ilog.
Kinagabihan ng araw na rin iyon, mag-isang nagtungo si Imo sa
Sanctuario. Alam niyang nasa loob pa rin ng malaking tolda ang bangkay
ni Wanda dahil wala pa siyang nakikita sa buong maghapon na itinapon na
mga bangkay sa Pasig na mula sa Sanctuario. Upang makapasok sa malaking
tolda ginawa niyang muli ang pagkukubli sa gilid ng maliit na tolda sa tabi
ng Sanctuario at hintayin ang relyebo ng mga bantay sa lagusan papaloob sa
malaking tolda.
Nang makapasok si Imo sa loob ay nagkataong walang ibang naroroon
kundi ang matandang may kakaibang mahika ang mga kamay. Naroroon
din ang bangkay ni Wanda, mag-isa, ngunit hindi na ito makilala dahil
nangulubot na ang balat at halos naghalo na ang bughaw at itim na mga kulay
sa katawan ng bangkay dahil pinigaan na ng dugo. Nakapatong si Wanda
sa isang tabla na ang ayos ay bubuhatin na, ilalabas sa malaking tolda para
itapon sa ilog.
Nagkubli si Imo sa pumpon ng tela. At nasaksihan niyang muli ang
kakaibang mahika ng matanda: ang pagkumpas ng kanyang mga kamay na
may hawak na paniklot na may buhok sa isang dulo na isinasawsaw sa dugo
at ilalapat sa tela pagkatapos—katulad ng ginagawa ni Merdeka noon nang
makita nila ni Wanda ang pinsan sa gilid pampang.
Sa lahat ng mga bata sa loob ng Kuta, sina Wanda at Imo lamang ang
nakasaksi sa kakaibang gawain na ito sa loob ng Sanctuario. Ang pagkupkop
ng taong wala sa database ng central government at ang ginagawa ng matanda
ay mahigpit na ipinagbabawal ng pamahalaan. Alam ito ni Imo dahil bago
ang digmaan, ipinaliliwanag sa kanila sa paaralan ang mga alituntunin ng
central government. Lahat ng gawain sa arkipelago na hindi namomonitor
ng Beijing government ay itinuturing na ilegal at gawain ng mga kaalyado ng
mga rebelde—isa itong pagtatraydor sa gobyerno.
Napansin ng matanda ang anino ni Imo at ibinaba nito ang hawak
niyang paniklot.
“Lumabas ka riyan kung sino ka man,” marahan niyang hamon.

162 Maikling Kuwento


Kinabahan si Imo dahil alam niyang sa kanya ipinararating ang mga salita
dahil silang dalawa lamang ang buháy na nasa loob ng Sanctuario. Inulit muli
ng matanda ang kanyang hamon at napilitan nang tumayo at magpakita si
Imo sa kanya. Nanginginig ang kanyang mga tuhod na lumapit sa matanda.
Napansin niya kaagad ang makapal nitong balbas at ang maninipis na mga
labi. Iniiwasan ni Imo ang mga mata ng matanda na wala namang galit ngunit
nanunukat. Kumumpas ito at inutusang maupo si Imo sa kanyang harapan.
“Bakit ka nandito sa Sanctuario bata ka?”
“Kaibigan ko po si Wanda,” nakayukod na tugon ni Imo.
“Ikaw si Imo…. Ikaw pala si Imo! Marami kayong taga-Kuta ang kilala
ko … kilalang-kilala ko pero hindi ko alam ang inyong mga itsura.”
Itinaas ni Imo ang kanyang mukha sa pagtataka.
“Para sa iyo si Wanda,” ang nakangiting sambit ng matanda.
“Para sa akin?”
“Oo. Dahil wala naman siyang kamag-anak at ikaw ang malapit niyang
kakilala—para siya sa iyo.”
Nabasa ng matanda sa mukha ni Imo ang pagtataka at tila hindi nito
naiintindihan ang kanyang ipinaliliwanag.
“Ay! Kung alam mo lang halos makipag-away ang nanay mo para sa
bangkay ni Wanda!”
Pinalapit ng matanda si Imo at marahang kinuha ang paniklot. Isinawsaw
ang isang dulo nito sa dugo, dugo na mula sa katawan ni Wanda. Gumuhit
ang matanda ng mga tuwid na linya sa mukha ng tela. Sari-saring mga guhit,
may pahalang, may patayo, pabilog, at may magkakadikit. Pinagmasdang
maigi ni Imo ang kamay ng matanda at kung paano niya isinasagawa ang
ritwal. Pagkamangha ang bumalot sa kanya nang makita niya ang kanyang
pangalan sa mukha ng tela.
“Pangalan ko iyan! Pangalan ko iyan!” bulalas ni Imo.
“Oo, Imo, pangalan mo iyan na nasa sarili nating wika. Siguro sa buong
buhay mo ngayon mo lang nakita ang pangalan mong hindi nakatipa sa
monitor ng kompyuter at hindi nakasulat sa ibang mga titik—ang mga titik
at teknoloniya ng mga sumakop sa atin.”
“Isa kang rebelde?” Naglakas ng loob si Imo na itanong sa matanda ang
kanyang pagkatao dahil alam niyang labag sa batas ang ginagawa ng matanda

Rogelio Braga 163


na isulat ang pangalan sa isang lumang wika at sa mga titik na malimit gamitin
lamang ng mga rebelde.
“Ang trabaho ko, Imo, ay para sa kasaysayan ng bawat tao, ng bawat
mahalagang pangyayari sa buhay ng isang tao. Gamit ang aking mga kamay
ay nailalagay ko ang bawat pangyayari at mahahalagang karanasan ng mga tao
sa tela upang kapag dumating ang susunod na henerasyon ay may nalalaman
sila sa mga taong nabuhay bago sila dumating dito sa daigdig. Kilala nila ang
kanilang pinagmulan.”
“Ilang taon ka na.”
“Matanda na ako. Naririto pa ang imperyo ng Estados Unidos sa
arkipelago buhay na ako.”
Nanlaki ang mga mata ni Imo. “Naabutan mo ang panahon na iyon? Ang
‘Panahon ng Isang Siglong Pananakop’?”
Natawa ang matanda. Malakas at sunod-sunod na pagtawa. “Iyan ang
sinabi ng Beijing government—na ang sumakop ay ang imperyo ng Estados
Unidos … iyan ang bersiyon nila ng ating kasaysayan … Marami ka pa ngang
hindi alam.”
“Pero totoo na sinakop nila ang arkipelago sa mahabang panahon.
Dumating dito ang Beijing government para iligtas tayo sa kanila. Ngayon
gusto nila tayo uling sakupin kaya may digmaan.”
“Kailangan mong balikan ang iyong nakaraan, Imo. Ang kasaysayan ng
arkipelago. Noong panahon ng imperyo ng Estados Unidos, malaya tayo. May
kalayaan tayo na magsalita, magpahayag ng ating saloobin. Itong ginagawa
ko, malaya ko itong magagawa noong panahon noon na nasa ilalim tayo ng
imperyo ng Estados Unidos.”
“Hindi totoo ’yan. Ang Beijing government ang nagtatanggol sa atin.
Iyan ang kasaysayan.”
“Mayroon talagang totoong kasaysayan, Imo. Pero sa ilalim ng Beijing
government mayroong ‘opisyal na kasaysayan’. Ang imperyo ng Estados
Unidos ang magpapalaya sa atin. Kailangan mo lang na buksan ang iyong
mga mata sa katotohanan. Kaya mo bang gawin ang ginagawa ko?”
Natahimik si Imo. Naguluhan siya na tila may dalawang uri ng kasaysayan
na ipinaliliwanag ang matanda sa kanya.
“Ito ang isang pamana sa atin ng imperyo ng Estados Unidos noon: ang
kalayaan na itakda ang sarili nating kasaysayan, ang ating kinabukasan.”

164 Maikling Kuwento


Naalala ni Imo ang mga eskuwelahan sa arkipelago na ikinukuwento
ng mga magulang niya. Sa eskuwelahan gumagamit sila ng kompyuter at
keypad, lahat ng mensahe at liham dapat idadaan sa email. Lahat kailangan
ay nasa kompyuter at nasa Internet dahil kailangan itong mabasa at ma-rebyu
ng central government. Simula nang dumating daw ang Beijing government
sa arkipelago ipinagbawal na nila ang lahat ng komunikasyon na hindi
dumaraan sa kompyuter.
“Ang pamana na iyan … ipinagbabawal ’yan ng central government.”
“Oo basta huwag ka lang pahuhuli,” ngumisi ang matanda. “Tingnan mo
sa ganito Imo: namatay si Wanda ngunit hindi ang kanyang alaala. Darating
ang panahon na ipanganganak ang susunod na henerasyon at malalaman nila
na minsan ay nabuhay si Wanda—ang hindi ‘opisyal na Wanda’ ng Beijing
government. Hindi nila kalilimutan, lalo na ng iyong mga apo, na naging
magkaibigan kayo ni Wanda.” Kinuha muli ng matanda ang paniklot at
aktong babalik na sa kanyang tinatrabaho, ito rin ang paraan niya para sa
sabihin kay Imo na kailangan na niyang lumisan dahil mahaba na ang oras
na kanyang nakuha sa pang-iistorbo sa matanda. “Hindi ito nabubura, Imo.
Hindi rin ito maaaring maging pag-aari ng central government. Hindi.”

Lumipas ang ilang araw ay hindi pa rin maiwaglit sa isip ni Imo ang pakikipag-
usap niya sa matanda. Wala na siyang kaibigan ngayon ngunit palaging nasa
isip niya ang pangako ng mahika ng matanda: na kaya nitong higitan kahit na
ang kamatayan. Naupo si Imo sa isang bato sa gilid ng Ilog Pasig. Pinagmasdan
niya ang mga bangkay na lumulutang, at naririnig niya ang maninipis na
putukan at pagsabog sa malayo. May labanang nagaganap marahil sa labas
ng kanilang distrito. Maya-maya pa’y tuluyan nang nanahimik ang putukan,
ang mga pagsabog. Nanibago ang kanyang pandinig dahil araw at gabi niyang
naririnig ang mga putukan halos dalawang buwan na. Naglabasan ang mga tao
mula loob ng kani-kanilang mga tolda dahil maging sila ay nagulat sa biglang
pagkawala ng putukan at ng mga pagsabog, sa pagdating ng katahimikan.
May gumuhit na isang sasakyang panghimpapawid sa langit; una ay isa at
sinundan pa ng isa hanggang sa dagsang libo na halos tumakip sa langit.
Halos magkulay dugo ang langit dahil pula ang kulay ng mga sasakyang
pandigma ng Beijing government.
Nagbunyi ang mga taga-Kuta dahil hudyat ito na nagwagi sa digmaan
ang Beijing government; nagwagi sa pagtatanggol sa arkipelago—darating na
muli sa kanila ang kapayapaan. Ang tanging hangad lamang ng mga taga-

Rogelio Braga 165


Kuta ay ang kapayaan at bumalik sa normal ang kanilang mga buhay. Halos
magsisayaw sa galak ang mga tao. Nanatili si Imo sa kanyang kinauupuan, at
naisip niya, tulad ng maiisip ni Wanda kung siya’y nabubuhay lamang: may
bangkay na namang iaahon mula sa ilog para sa mahalagang pangyayaring
ito. Marami-raming bangkay ang kakailanganin sa pagwawaging ito. Iniunat
ni Imo ang kanyang mga binti at tumungo malapit sa ilog. Lumuhod siya
sa pampang at sa pamamagitan ng kanyang mga kamay, sumalok siya ng
tubig. Tinitigan niya muna ang tubig sa kanyang palad na parang kinikilala,
kinakausap sa kanyang mga mata at pagkatapos—mabilis niya itong ininom.
Nararamdaman niyang gumuguhit ang tubig sa kanyang lalamunan.
Tinitigan niya ang kanyang mga kamay, alam niyang hindi niya magagawa
ang mahika ng matanda—at hindi-hindi niya ito gagawin kailan man. Hindi
dahil sa pagsunod sa batas ng Beijing government kundi dahil nais niyang
lumaya sa isang uri ng kalungkutan na naramdaman noon ni Merdeka ngunit
hindi niya nauwaan at pinipilit niyang maunawaan; na wala sa kalayaan ang
kaligayahan kundi nasa paglaban, sa pagsangga—ang kalayaan ay sa kung
saanman naroroon ngayon si Wanda, sa pag-iisa. Naluha si Imo sa kanyang
natuklasan sa sarili. May gumuhit na ngiti sa kanyang mukha. Ngiting dala-
dala niya hanggang sa bumalik siya sa Kuta at makihalubilo sa nagdiriwang
na balana.

166 Maikling Kuwento


Ahas
PERRY C. MANGILAYA

N anganak ng ahas ang asawa mo, Rodel. Ito ang balitang nakarating kay
Rodel na sa una, naisip niyang nagbibiro lamang ang kanyang biyenang
babae. Kalokohan, naisip pa niya. Ano ba ang nangyari sa kanyang biyenan
at naisipan nitong magbiro, gayong hindi naman ito palabiro. Pero sa tono ng
boses nito nang tumawag sa kanya, halatang hindi ito nagbibiro.
Dahil sa balitang iyon, napauwi siya nang wala sa oras sa kanilang
lalawigan sa Visayas, sa isang maunlad na bayan, at sa isang barangay na
hindi pahuhuli sa pag-iral ng makabagong teknolohiya. Hindi na niya sinabi
sa kanyang engineer, maging sa kanyang foreman at kapuwa kasamahan sa
konstruksiyon ang tunay na dahilan nang biglaan niyang pag-uwi. Basta ang
sabi lang niya, emergency. At kailangang-kailangan niyang umuwi.
Pero ang ipinagtataka ni Rodel, kung nanganak ng ahas ang kanyang
asawa, kung talagang nangyayari iyon, malamang nabuntis ito. At paanong
nabuntis ang kanyang asawa gayong mahigit sampung buwan na siyang
nakadestino sa Maynila bilang construction worker. At iyon nga, matatapos
na nila ang kanilang proyekto. Plano niyang bago magsimula sa bago nilang
proyekto, uuwi muna siya. Susulitin niya ang matagal na buwang wala
sa piling ng kanyang asawa. Tutal naman, dahil sa madalas niyang pag-o-
overtime, kahit paano, may naitabi naman siya. Bukod sa pagpapadala niya
kada buwan sa kanyang asawa. Pero heto at napaaga ang kanyang pag-uwi.
Ayon pa sa kanyang biyenan. Sa pag-uwi na lang niya ikukuwento ang
buong detalye kung bakit nanganak ng ahas kanyang asawa. At maging siya
man daw, maaaring hindi maniniwala sa sinapit nito. Pero ang albularyo,
na nagpalabas ng ahas mula sa sinapupunan ng kanyang asawa, ang
makapagpapatunay sa pangyayari. Bilang ebidensiya, nakunan pa ng litrato
ng kanyang biyenan ang ahas na ipinanganak ng kanyang asawa. Kulay itim
daw na ahas, gabraso ng bata ang laki pero patay na nang lumabas.

167
Pero bakit albularyo ang nagpaanak sa kanyang asawa? Ang isa pang
katanungang gumugulo sa isipan ni Rodel. Bakit hindi ang nag-iisang
kumadrona sa kanilang baryo?
Mabilis na kumalat sa kanilang nayon ang pangyayaring iyon. Bagay
na hindi naman ipinagtataka ni Rodel. Ganoon naman sa kanilang nayon,
kapag may nangyari, kay bilis kumalat ang balita. Pasa-pasa hanggang pati
sa kabilang baryo, nakakarating. Dagdag pa ang mabilis na pagkalat dahil sa
social media. May hindi raw naniniwala, mayroong namang naniniwala. Sari-
saring opinyon. Iba’t ibang haka-haka. Kani-kaniyang espekulasyon.
Pero kay Rodel, tanging ang asawa lamang niya ang kanyang paniniwalaan.
Ito lang ang makapagsasabi ng tunay na nangyari. Dahil asawa niya ito,
imposibleng magsisinungaling ito sa kanya.
Pababa pa lang si Rodel sa traysikel, sakbat ang napsak ay pinagtitinginan
siya ng mga taong tumatambay sa kalsada. Nahiwagaan siya sa mga kilos at
tingin ng mga ito. May ngumingiti. May hilaw na bumabati. Wala lang, basta
lang makabati. Pero sa kanyang pagtalikod, tila bumubuntot pa sa kanyang
pandinig ang hindi mawawaang bulungan ng mga iyon.
Awa ang nadama ni Rodel sa kanyang asawa nang datnan niya itong
matamlay, nakaupo sa mahabang bangkong kawayan sa tabi ng nakabukas na
bintana. Sinulyapan lang siya nito. Walang mainit na pabati o pagsalubong,
ni halik, wala. Bagay na ipinagtaka niya. Kadalasan kasi, masigla itong
sumasalubong sa kanya kapag alam nitong pauwi na siya. Sa kalsada pa lang,
inaabangan na ang kanyang pagdating. Pero sa kabilang banda, naunawaan
niya ang kanyang asawa. Marahil, hindi pa ito nakakabawi sa pangyayari. At
kung paano ang isang tao, manganganak ng isang ahas.
“’Musta na ang pakiramdam mo?” bati niya. Saka lamang tumingin ito
nang tuwid sa kanya.
“Okey naman na.” Halata ang panghihina sa tinig ng kanyang asawa.
Marahil, hindi pa rin ito nakabawi sa trauma na inabot kaya matamlay ito.
Kung tutuusin, nananabik na nga rin siya sa kanyang pag-uwi. Para sa
kanya, ang mahigit sampung buwan pagkawalay niya sa kanyang asawa ay
katumbas ng maraming taon. Kung ang kanyang asawa ang masusunod, ayaw
nitong magtrabaho siya sa malayo. Gustong-gusto na kasi nitong makabuo
na sila ng anak. Siguro, dahil ito na lamang ang walang anak sa apat na
magkakapatid. Ang tatlong nakakatandang kapatid ng kanyang asawa, may
tigtatatlong anak na. Dagdag pa siguro ang pag-aalala ng kanyang asawa dahil

168 Maikling Kuwento


sa loob ng limang taon nilang pagsasama, hindi pa kasi sila nabibiyaan ng
anak. At sabi nga ng kanyang asawa, tumatanda na sila.
“Kung dito ka na lang kaya maghanap ng trabaho,” naalala pa niyang
pakiusap ng kanyang asawa. “Ang hirap naman kasing nag-iisa rito.”
“And’yan naman si Inay, a.” Ang mga biyenan niya ang kanyang
tinutukoy. Dahil ang biyenan niyang lalaki, malaon nang namatay. “Kasama
mo naman s’ya.”
Hindi kumibo ang kanyang asawa.
“Sayang naman kasi ang pagkakataon,” patuloy niya. “Malaking
proyekto ang nakuha ni engineer, tuloy-tuloy ang trabaho, makakaipon tayo
at makapagpatayo ng sarili nating bahay. Hindi ’tong nakikitira lang tayo
sa nanay mo. Kung dito lang, paputol-putol ng trabaho. Mas madalas pang
wala.”
Tahimik pa rin ang kanyang asawa.
“Para pag magkaanak na tayo, me sarili na tayong bahay.”
“Pa’no nga tayo magkakaanak kung nasa malayo ka lagi?”
“Sayang kasi ang pagkakataon,” giit niya. “Makakabuo pa tayo n’yan.
’Yong iba nga, nasa forty na, nagkakaanak pa. At saka ayaw mo no’n,
makakaipon pa tayo.”
Muli, hindi kumibo ang kanyang asawa.
Hanggang sa araw ng kanyang pag-alis, dama niyang masama ang loob
nito.
Ang isang bagay pa na bago kay Rodel sa kanyang pag-uwi, ang kanyang
mga kapitbahay. Nahihiwagaan siya sa pakikitungo ng mga ito sa kanya.
Kung dati, masayang binabati siya ng mga ito. Ngayon, nahalata niyang kaiba
ang ikinikilos ng mga ito.
Maging ang kumpare niyang si Tony, nang madaanan niya ito sa bakuran
ng bahay nito, bagama’t lumapit at binati naman siya, nahalata niyang
parang naging iba ang pagbati nito. Simpleng kumustahan lang, kaunting
kuwentuhan, wala ang init tulad ng dati tuwing umuuwi siya.
Siguro nga, dahil sa panganganak ng ahas ng kanyang asawa. Tulad niya,
napapaisip din marahil ang mga ito kung paanong nabuhay sa sinapupunan
ng kanyang asawa ang isang ahas. At kung paano ito nabuo roon. Kung paano
niya ito natanggap. Kung sadyang kay hirap paniwalaan na nanganak ng ahas

Perry C. Mangilaya 169


ang kanyang asawa, may mahirap ding paniwalaan na sinipingan ng ahas ang
kanyang asawa.
Nasagot ang mga katanungang iyon ayon na rin sa kuwento ng kanyang
asawa.
“Naengkanto ka?” kandidilat siya. “Ano raw ang nakita ni Lolo Onyong?”
Ang nag-iisang matanda at kilalang albularyo ang tinutukoy niya, na kamag-
anak din ng kanyang asawa. Kilala ito, hindi lamang sa kanilang baryo, kundi
maging sa buong bayan nila dahil sa husay manggamot. Sabi nga, takbuhan
kapag hindi kayang gamutin ng doktor ang isang maysakit.
“Ang ahas na napatay ko raw ay alaga ng isang engkanto.”
“Ano ba ang nangyari?”
“Nagwawalis kasi ako ng mga sukal do’n sa may lilim ng puno ng
sampalok d’yan sa likuran natin, nang biglang may nalaglag na ahas, kulay
itim.”
“Anong ginawa mo?”
“Hinampas ko nang hinampas ng kahoy hanggang sa mamatay.”
“Tapos.”
“Kinagabihan, namilipit ako sa sakit ng t’yan. Kaya pinatawag ko si Lolo
Onyong ke Inay. Ayon, naengkanto nga raw ako.”
“Tumigil naman ang sakit ng t’yan mo?”
“Oo,” tango ng kanyang asawa. “Pero habang lumilipas ang mga linggo
hanggang sa inabot ng buwan napansin kong me pagbabago sa ’kin. Hinala
ko, buntis ako. Kasi hindi na rin ako dinatnan.”
“Hindi ka nagpatingin sa doktor?”
“Nagpatingin,” napasulyap pa ito sa kanya. “Inultrasound nga ako. At
buntis nga daw ako. Kasi sa result ng ultrasound, me pintig.”
Matagal niyang tinitigan ang kanyang asawa.
Pa’no ka mabuntis, e sa Maynila ako, ibig niyang isumbat sa asawa, pero
mas pinili niyang magpakahinahon. Naisip niya, hindi tamang sumbatan
niya ang kanyang asawa, o ang akusahan lalo na sa ganitong sitwasyon. Pang-
unawa ang higit na kailangan nito mula sa kanya at hindi kung anupaman.
“S’yempre hindi ako naniwala,” putol ng kanyang asawa sa pananahimik
niya. “Pati si Nanay, nagtataka rin kung pa’nong nangyari ’yon. Kaya sabi
n’ya, magpatawas daw uli ako kay Lolo Onyong.”

170 Maikling Kuwento


Kinikilabutan si Rodel habang pinakikinggan ang kuwento ng kanyang
asawa. Na ayon nga kay Lolo Onyong, totoong buntis nga ang kanyang
asawa. Pero hindi tao ang ipinagbubuntis nito, kundi ahas. At ang nakikita
ng doktor sa ultrasound, pintig daw iyon ng isang ahas. Malinaw na pati
ang doktor, nalinlang ng engkanto. Ganoon daw katindi ang kapangyarihang
taglay ng engkanto.
Kaya sa oras ding iyon, gumawa ng hakbang ang albularyo para mailabas
agad ang ahas sa sinapupunan ng kanyang asawa. Hindi raw dapat hayaang
lumaki pa ang ahas sa loob ng sinapupunan, dahil mauuwi raw ito sa
kamatayan ng kanyang asawa. Iyon daw ang sumpa ng engkanto. Bilang
kapalit sa namatay o pinatay na alagang ahas ng engkanto. Lalabas na buhay
ang ahas, pero kapalit ng kamatayan ng kanyang asawa.
Sa mahiwaga at makapangyarihang orasyon ng albularyo, na tanging
ito lamang ang nakakaalam, at kasabay ng ritwal ng paghampas-hampas
ng mga dahon-dahon, pagsusuob o pagpapausok mula sa baga na nilagyan
ng kamanyang sa buong katawan ni Adela, napalayas daw ng albularyo ang
engkantong lumulukob sa pagkatao sa kanyang asawa at matagumpay na
nailabas ang ahas sa sinapupunan nito. Kusa na lang daw itong lumabas. At
mapalad pa raw, patay ang ahas nang lumabas.
Maging si Lolo Onyong, kinikilabutan sa pangyayari. Kahit hindi na rin
naman ito bago rito. Hindi rin makapaniwala ang kanyang biyenan na naging
saksi sa pangyayari. Pero nariyan daw ang ebidensiya, kitang-kita raw ng mga
ito ang paglabas ng ahas.
Saka siya naliwanagan kung bakit hindi ang kumadrona ang nagpaanak
sa kanyang asawa, at kung bakit ganoon kaaga ito nanganak.
Agad din daw inilibing ang ahas na iyon sa may lilim ng punong
sampalok. Sa pag-asang hindi na gagantihan ng engkanto ang kanyang asawa.
Kasabay pa ng mga mahiwagang orasyon at ritwal, hindi na nga ginambala
ng engkanto ang kanyang asawa. Pero si Lolo Onyong ang binalingan ng
engkanto. Halos inaapoy ng lagnat at nagdidiliryo si Lolo Onyong nang
sumunod na gabi. Kung hindi nga lang daw magaling sa orasyon si Lolo
Onyong laban sa mga engkanto, baka ito raw ang namatay. Malaki raw ang
naging galit ng engkanto kay Lolo Onyong dahil sa pangingialam nito sa
ipinagbubuntis ng kanyang asawa.
“Nasa’n ba ang litrato?” ungkat niya.
Dinukot ng kanyang asawa ang selpon nito sa bulsa ng suot na duster.

Perry C. Mangilaya 171


Nagulumihanan si Rodel habang pinagmamasdan ang itsura ng ahas.
Kulay itim nga ito. Duguan pa ang ahas na nasa mismong paanan pa ng
kanyang nakahigang nakabukakang asawa. Kalalabas pa lang daw iyon. Na
ayon pa sa albularyo, sa sinapupunan pa lang daw ay namatay na ang ahas
dahil sa bisa ng orasyon at ritwal na ginawa nito.
“Hindi kaya masamang pangitain ’to?” puno ng pag-aalalang baling niya
sa asawa. “Hindi kaya daranas ng kamalasan ang ating pamilya, o ang ating
baryo o bayan? Naririnig ko kasi no’n sa mga matatanda kapag ganitong me
kakaibang nangyayari.”
“Sabi-sabi lang naman ’yon,” kibit-balikat ng kanyang asawa.
Hindi siya kumibo. Muling sinipat ang itsura ng ahas.
“Ahas ba talaga ’to?” baling niya uli sa asawa.
“Oo,” kaswal na sabi nito.
“Mukhang palos ang itsura, a.”
“Gano’n nga din ang sabi ng mga nakakita. Pero sabi ni Lolo Onyong,
ganyan daw kasi ang mga alagang ahas ng mga engkanto. At mabagsik na uri
ng ahas daw ’yan, makamandag.”
Napatango-tango siya habang nakatingin sa litrato.
“’Yong sinabi mong ultrasound, nasa’n?” naitanong niya.
“Naitapon ko.”
“Bakit?”
“Ano pang silbi no’n.”
“Kakausapin ko na lang ang doktor na nag-ultrasound sa ’yo.”
“H’wag na.” Nagulat pa siya sa biglang pagtaas ng boses ng kanyang
asawa.
“Me problema ba?”
“E, kasi nga mali naman ang ultrasound n’ya.” Napansin siguro ang
kanyang pagkagulat, naging mahinahon kaagad ang kanyang asawa. “Ayan,
kitang-kita ang ebidens’ya. Na totoong naengkanto ako.”
Muli niyang sinipat ang litrato sa selpon. Hawak-hawak na niya ang
ebidensiya na nagpapatunay na naengkanto ang kanyang asawa. Isang bagay
na nagpatibay sa kanyang paniniwalang totoong may engkanto. Dahil ang
totoo’y matagal na siyang naniniwala sa engkanto. Kahit siya man, nakaranas

172 Maikling Kuwento


na maengkanto. Naroong paglalaruan siya, lalo na sa gabi kapag umuuwi siya.
Na kahit anong lakad niya, hindi niya mararating ang kanilang bahay. Paikot-
ikot lamang siya, ni hindi lumalayo. Kung ano ang kanyang pinanggalingan,
iyon din ang kanyang napupuntahan. Salamat sa payo ng albularyong si Lolo
Onyong, na sinumang makakaranas ng ganoon, kakain lang daw ng kaunting
putik at babaliktarin ang suot na damit, makakauwi ka na.
Hindi lamang iyon ang kanyang naranasan, minsang natutulog siya sa
bahay isang gabi, nagising na lamang siya kinaumagahan na natutulog sa
lilim ng malaking puno ng sampalok sa kanilang likod-bahay. Na ayon sa
albularyo, napaglaruan daw siya ng mga engkanto. Maaaring sa kahimbingan
ng kanyang tulog, binuksan daw ng engkanto ang bintana at binuhat siya
at inilagay sa may puno ng sampalok. Ganoon daw kasi ang mga engkanto
kapag kinatuwaan ang isang tao. Pinaglalaruan, pero wala namang balak
saktan.
Pero noon iyon, naisaloob niya. Noong hindi pa umiiral ang makabagong
teknolohiya. Pero sa panahon ngayon ng social media, nangyayari pa ba ang
ganoon? Siguro nga, naisip niya. Dahil ang kanyang asawa at ang magaling na
albularyo na ang nagpapatunay, dagdag pa ang kanyang biyenan.
Kinahapunan, nagpasiya si Rodel na bumisita kay Lolo Onyong. Marami
siyang gustong maliwanagan at masagot na mga tanong. Dahil albularyo ito,
naniniwala siyang higit na makapagbigay ito ng linaw sa kanya sa nangyari sa
kanyang asawa.
“Sandali lang,” hinawakan pa siya sa kamay ng asawa nang akma siyang
bababa ng hagdanan.
“Bakit?” baling niya.
“Baka me marinig ka kung ano-anong tsismis sa mga kapitbahay natin,
h’wag kang maniniwala sa mga ’yon.”
Napatingin siya sa kanyang asawa, matagal.
“Tsismis?” Napakunot noo siya. “Anong tsismis?”
“Basta.” Pumiksi pa ang kanyang asawa. “Ang paniwalaan natin ay
si Lolo Onyong. S’ya ang albularyo, s’ya ang higit na nakakaalam sa mga
kababalaghang nangyayari.”
Tumango-tango siya. Pero habang naglalakad, hindi mapaknit sa kanyang
isipan ang sinabi ng kanyang asawa. At anong tsismis? naitanong niya. Kung
tutuusin, hindi na kailangang sabihin iyon ng kanyang asawa. Dahil siya ang

Perry C. Mangilaya 173


taong hindi naniniwala sa mga tsismis. Walang katotohahan ang tsismis, kaya
nga tsismis. Pawang mga paninira lamang ang lahat ng mga tsismis. Sabi nga,
ang taong naniniwala sa tsismis ay walang tiwala sa sarili.
At malaki ang tiwala niya sa kanyang sarili.
Pero bakit ganoon na lamang ang pagpapaalaala sa kanya ng asawa?
Habang naglalakad siya, naroon uli ang ilan nilang kapitbahay habang
nakatingin sa kanya. May kung ano siyang nababakas sa mga bukas ng mukha
at titig ng mga ito. Pero bakit nga ba niya bibigyan iyon ng ibang kahulugan.
Natural lamang na ganoon ang reaksiyon ng mga ito dahil siya ang asawa ng
babaeng nanganak ng ahas. Marahil, marami rin sigurong katanungan ang
mga ito. Kung ano ba ang nararamdaman niya sa mga oras na iyon. Kung
paano niya natanggap ang pangyayari.
Sa simpleng bahay-kubo, mag-isang naratnan ni Rodel si Lolo Onyong.
Napatayo pa ito nang dumating siya. Na tila inaasahan ang kanyang pagdating.
Sabay silang umupo pagkatapos niyang magmano.
“Naik’wento na sa ’kin ang lahat ni Adela, ’Lo,” simula niya. “Pero parang
hindi pa rin ako makapaniwala.”
“Hindi ka naniniwala sa asawa mo?”
“Naniniwala. Ang ibig kong sabihin, sa mga nangyayari.”
“Sa totoo lang, hindi na bago ’yon. Marami na akong nagamot na
naengkanto. Marami na akong natawas na nabuntis ng engkanto. Naalala mo
ba ang nangyari no’n kay Minda, ’yong me anak na lalaking anak-araw kung
tawagin?”
“Oo,” tango niya.
“Isipin mo, pa’nong nabuntis ’yon, e wala namang asawa ’yon. Ni
manliligaw nga, wala. At tingnan mo ang anak, kakaiba. Kakaiba ang
kaputian, na kapag pinisil mo, namumula. At higit sa lahat, nasisilaw kapag
araw. Gano’n ang mga engkanto.”
Nananatiling nakapako ang kanyang tingin kay Lolo Onyong.
“At hindi nga ako nagkamali sa pagtawas ko sa kanya no’n,” patuloy ni
Lolo Onyong. “Na sa pagsapit ng ikadalawampu’t isang taon ng kanyang
anak, mamamatay ’yon. Kukunin na ng amang engkanto.”
Tumango-tango siya.
“At akala mo ba, totoong anak nga ni Minda ang nakahimlay sa kabaong
no’n? Hindi. Tiniba na puno ng saging lamang ’yon. Dahil sa kapangyarihan

174 Maikling Kuwento


ng engkanto, nagawa nilang linlangin ang paningin ng mga tao. Pero ang
totoo, nakuha na ng amang engkanto ang anak ni Minda. Nando’n na sa
kaharian ng mga engkanto. Buhay na buhay.”
Naalala ni Rodel, kumalat din iyon sa kanilang baryo noon, na umabot
pa sa buong bayan. Naging laman ng mga huntahan ng mga nag-uumpukan.
Katulad marahil sa nangyari sa kanyang asawa ngayon. Na marahil, sa bawat
sulok ng umpukan, sentro ng usapan ang kanyang asawa.
Nakumpirma niya, at kumbinsido siyang naengkanto nga ang kanyang
asawa. Batay sa mga naging karanasan niya, at maging sa kuwento ni Lolo
Onyong.
Nag-aagaw na ang dilim at liwanag nang umuwi siya. Sapagkat
madadaanan ang bahay ng kumpare niyang si Tony bago ang kanilang bahay,
nadaanan niya itong tila siya ang inaabangan.
“Nakita kasi kita kanina,” bati nito. “’Kako, pagdaan mo na lang kita
kakausapin.”
“Tungkol ba sa panganganak ng asawa ko?”
Tumango ang kanyang kumpare.
“Galing nga ako ke Lolo Onyong,” sabi niya. “Naengkanto nga raw si
Adela, kaya nanganak ng ahas.”
“Naniniwala ka talagang nanganak nga ng ahas ang ’yong asawa?”
“Oo,” walang alinlangang sagot niya. “Nariyan ang ebidens’ya at saksi.”
“Naniniwala kang naengkanto nga si Adela kaya nabuntis at nanganak
ng ahas?”
“Ano ka ba, si Lolo Onyong na ang nagpatunay. Albularyo ’yon. At talaga
namang nangyayari ’yon na may mga naeengkanto. Kahit ako nga, naranasan
ko.”
“Sa tingin mo ba mabubuhay ang ahas sa loob ng sinapupunan?”
“Naengkanto nga, e. Alam mo naman ang kapangyarihan ng mga
engkanto, nagagawa nilang posible ang mga imposible.”
“Nakausap mo na ba ang doktor na nag-ultrasound ke Adela?”
“Hindi,” iling niya. “Bakit pa, e malinaw naman sa akin ang lahat.”
“Payong kumpare lang, bakit hindi mo subukang kausapin ang doktor,
alamin mo ang tunay na nangyari. Makiramdam ka.”
“’Yon na nga ang nangyari, naengkanto si Adela,” giit niya.

Perry C. Mangilaya 175


“Kausapin mo lang, baka mabago ang paniniwala mo.”
Napatingin siya nang tuwid kay Tony. Pilit niyang inaarok ang ibig
tumbukin nito. Hindi niya ipinangako kay Tony na kakausapin niya ang
doktor, pero habang pauwi siya, sumisingit iyon sa kanyang isip. Bakit ba
hindi makumbinsi ito na naengkanto nga si Adela. Siguro, isa na rin si Tony
na binago ng pag-iral ng mga makabagong teknolohiya. Nagbago na rin
ang pananaw at paniniwala nito. Ang nagagawa nga naman ng teknolohiya,
naisaloob niya.
“Kalat na pala sa Facebook ang nangyari sa asawa mo,” salubong sa kanya
ng biyenan pagkauwi niya.
“Me nag-upload ba sa nakuha ninyong litrato?” tanong niya pagkatapos
magmano.
“Baka ’yong kumare ko,” singit ng kanyang asawa.
Natigilan siya. Kung ganoon, pinagpipiyestahan na pala ng mga netizen
ang nangyari sa kanyang asawa. Malamang na inuulan ito ng mga iba’t ibang
komentaryo.
Nang gabing iyon, hirap siyang makatulog. Pumikit siya sa pag-asang
makatulong ito para makatulog siya, pero nananatiling gising ang kanyang
diwa. Parang nakikinita niya kung paanong naghirap ang kanyang asawa.
Sa isang banda, nais niyang sisihin ang kanyang sarili. Marahil, hindi sana
nangyari iyon sa kanyang asawa kung nakinig lamang siya rito. Kung hindi
niya ito iniwan.
Pero ang higit na nagpapuyat sa kanya, ang pagbabagong pakikitungo ng
kanilang mga kapitbahay. Pakiramdam niya, parang may ibig itong sabihin
na pilit itinatago. Pero iisa lang naman ang kanyang hinala, ang tungkol
marahil sa pagsilang ng ahas ng kanyang asawa.
Kahit naniniwala siyang naengkanto ang kanyang asawa, naroon pa rin,
gumugulo, ang mga agam-agam. Lalo pa’t naramdaman din niya ang tila
pagbabago ng kanyang asawa. At takot nga ba ang nababasa niya sa mga mata
ng kanyang asawa? Ano ang ikinatakot nito?
Hanggang isang araw, naistorbo ang kanilang pamamahinga nang
dumating ang tserman, kasama ang miyembro ng taga-TV.
“And’yan ba si Adela?” bungad ng tserman sa kanya. “Nandito kasi ang
taga-TV. Gusto sana nilang mainterbyu ang ’yong asawa.”
“Tungkol sa’n?” tanong niya bagama’t alam na niya ang dahilan.

176 Maikling Kuwento


“Kalat na kasi ang balitang nanganak ng ahas ang ’yong asawa,” ang
isang babaeng taga-TV ang sumagot. “Itatampok ho sana namin sa aming
programa sa sunod na linggo.”
“Hindi ako magpapainterbyu,” halos sabay silang napalingon nang
lumabas ng bahay si Adela, mababakas sa mukha nito na tila hindi nagustuhan
ang pagpunta ng taga-media.
“Ba’t ayaw mo?” Nilapitan niya si Adela.
“Basta ayoko,” iling nito. “Pagpip’yestahan lang nila ako.”
“Hindi mo rin naman maitago dahil kalat na nga sa Facebook ang litrato.”
“’Yon naman pala, bakit pa nila ako iinterbyuhin?”
“Me human interest ho kasi ang nangyari sa inyo, Ma’m,” magalang na
sabad ng babaeng taga-TV. “Para maiparating din natin sa mga manonood, na
kahit sa panahon pala ng information age, me nangyayari pa palang gano’n.”
“At ano naman ang mapapala ko?”
“Marami ho kasing nagko-comment na gawa-gawa n’yo lang daw ho
’yon,” sabi ng babae. “Nang sa gano’n po, masabi ninyo ang inyong panig.”
“Hindi!” mariing sabi ng kanyang asawa. “Kung ayaw nilang maniwala
na nanganak nga ako ng ahas, hindi ko naman sila pinipilit. Hindi pa ba sapat
ang litratong nakita nila. Basta hindi ako magpapainterbyu.”
“P’wede naman hong hindi natin ipapakita ang ’yong mukha,” pamimilit
ng taga-TV. “Para maitago natin ang ’yong pagkatao.”
“Kahit na,” iling ng kanyang asawa.
“Pasens’ya na,” paumanhin ni Rodel.
“Albularyo na lang ho siguro ang iinterbyuhin namin,” pakli ng babaeng
taga-TV. “Sa’n ho ba ang bahay ng albularyong nagpaanak sa inyo?”
“Kung p’wede lang, h’wag na rin n’yong interbyuhin ang Lolo Onyong
ko,” sansala ng kanyang asawa. Sa tono ng boses nito, naroon ang tinitimping
galit. Bakit ba ganoon na lang ang pakikitungo ng kanyang asawa sa taga-
media, ang mga tanong na gumugulo kay Rodel. “Ayaw n’ya ho ng gano’n. At
gusto na rin ho namin ang katahimikan.”
Nagkatingin na lamang ang mga miyembro ng taga-TV. Sinubukan pa
nilang kumbinsihin ang kanyang asawa, sa tulong na rin ng tserman ngunit
talagang matigas ang kanyang asawa. Pati siya, kinumbinsi ang asawa, ngunit
nagalit lamang ito sa kanya.

Perry C. Mangilaya 177


Nagdagdag pa iyon sa mga katanungang gumugulo sa isipan ni Rodel
nang sumunod na mga araw. Gayundin ang sinabi ni Tony. Bakit nga ba
hindi niya subuking kausapin ang doktor. Araw-araw, hindi mapaknit
iyon sa kanyang isipan. At kung kakausapin niya ang doktor, wala naman
sigurong mawawala, naisip niya. Siyempre, aasahan na niyang magkakaiba
ang ikukuwento nito kompara sa kanyang asawa at ni Lolo Onyong. Wala
namang doktor at albularyo na nagkakasundo ng pananaw at paniniwala.
Kadalasan, magkasalungat.
Kaya isang araw, bumisita siya sa doktor na ayon sa kanyang asawa,
nag-ultrasound dito. Hindi na niya ipinaalam sa kanyang asawa. Dahil alam
niya, hindi rin naman siya papayagan. Sasabihin nito, guguluhin lang niyon
ang kanyang isip. Pero para malaman niya ang panig ng doktor, nabuo ang
kanyang pasiya.
“Ako pala ang asawa ng napabalitang nanganak ng ahas, Dok,” bungad
niya sa babaeng doktor, pagkatapos masuri ang huling pasyente nito.
Matagal pa siyang tinitigan ng doktor bago siya pinaupo.
“Ahas ba talaga ang ipinagbuntis ng asawa ko, Dok?”
Iiling-iling ang doktor. “Kailanman, hindi mabubuhay o mabubuo ang
ahas sa loob ng sinapupunan ng tao,” sabi nito at may ipinakuha sa babaeng
sekretarya.
“Hindi kaya pumasok lamang ’yon do’n, Dok?”
Muling umiling-iling ang doktor. “Hindi mangyayari ’yon. At isa pa,
mararamdaman n’ya na masakit ’yon.”
Inabot ng doktor ang ibinigay ng sekretarya.
“Eto ang kopya ng ultrasound ng asawa mo?” Ipinakita sa kanya.
Tiningnan niya kahit wala naman siyang naiintindihan doon.
“Nakikita mo ba ang maliit na bilog na ’yan?” Sa pamamagitan ng hawak
na bolpen, itinuro iyon ng doktor.
“Oo,” tango niya.
“Dugo ’yan na nagpapatunay na buntis ang ’yong asawa,” sabi ng doktor.
“At batay sa result ng ultrasound, 8 weeks na s’yang pregnant no’n.”
Hindi siya umimik. Nananatiling nakatingin lamang sa ultrasound.
“Basta sigurado ako, hindi ahas ang laman n’yan,” giit pa ng doktor.
“Tulad ng kumakalat ngayon social media. Dahil unang-una, hindi marunong
magsinungaling ang ultrasound.”

178 Maikling Kuwento


Napatingin siya sa doktor. Magsinungaling! bumabalik-balik sa isipan
iyon ni Rodel. At ano ang nais palabasin ng doktor na ito, natainong niya
sa sarili. Bakit binigyan diin pa nito ang salitang magsinungaling, na parang
may ibig sabihin. Nagsisinungaling ba ang kanyang asawa, maging ang
albularyo at ang kanyang biyenan? Mali naman yata iyon. Una, asawa niya
ito. Kailanman, hindi siya pagsisinungalingan ng kanyang asawa, sampu ng
mga kapamilya nito. At sino ba ang doktor na ito para akusahan nito ang
kanyang asawa ng nagsisinungaling sa kanya?
Hindi na niya sinabi sa doktor ang tungkol sa sinabi ni Lolo Onyong,
na kahit ang doktor, kayang linlangin ng kapangyarihan ng engkanto. At
siguro nga, nalinlang ng engkanto ang doktor na ito at kung anu-ano na ang
nakikita nito.
Kawawang doktor, naisip niya. Walang kamalay-malay, nalinlang na rin
pala ng engkanto.
Maayos naman siyang nagpaalam sa doktor. Pero nasabi niya sa sarili,
hindi na siya babalik. Hindi na niya kailangan ang opinyon ng doktor na ito,
kung ganoong aakusahan lang naman nitong nagsisinungaling ang kanyang
asawa.
Sa kanyang pagbaba sa traysikel, sapagkat ang kanilang bahay ay
nakaharap sa bukid, at dahil tag-araw at tuyong-tuyo ang bukirin, napatingin
siya sa tatlong binata roon na pinaglalaruan ang isa pang binata. Kumuha
ang isang matabang binata ng natuyong tae ng kalabaw at saka ipinatong
iyon sa ulo ng nakatalikod na payat na binata. Sa kabiglaanan, napaigtad
ang payat na binata, sabay kiling ng ulo at pagpag dahil sa naiwang mga tila
nagpupulbos nang tae ng kalabaw.
“’Tang ina n’yo, a,” sabi pa ng payat na binata, pero hindi naman galit.
Hagalpakan ang tatlong binata habang nakatingin sa kanya. Nakitawa
rin siya, pero parang tawa ng isang bata na galing sa pagkakadapa. Walang
buhay.
“Ano, pinuntahan mo ba ang doktor?” bati sa kanya ni Tony nang
maparaan siya sa tapat ng bahay nito.
Huminto siya. “Oo,” tango niya.
“Anong sabi?”
“Base daw sa ultrasound n’ya, 8 weeks daw na buntis si Adela.”
Napatingin nang tuwid sa kanya si Tony, tila tinitimbang ang kanyang
reaksiyon.

Perry C. Mangilaya 179


“Naawa nga sa doktor na ’yon,” patuloy niya. “Walang kamalay-malay,
nalinlang na pala ng engkanto.”
“Anong ibig mong sabihin?”
“’Yon nga, no’ng tawasin kasi ni Lolo Onyong si Adela, hindi naman
daw tao ang ipinagbuntis ni Adela, kundi ahas. Nilinlang lang ang doktor
ng engkanto. Pinaniwala ng engkanto ang doktor na tao ang ipinagbuntis ni
Adela.”
“Hindi kita maintindihan, Rodel.”
“Ano ka ba, sa simpleng paliwanag, naengkanto nga si Adela. At totoo
naman talagang nabuntis s’ya, tulad ng sinabi ng doktor, pero hindi kasi n’ya
alam, ahas ang laman no’n. Hindi lang daw n’ya nakita sa ultrasound kasi nga
ginamitan ng kapangyarihan ng engkanto.”
“Anong sagot n’ya?”
“Hindi ko na sinabi na nilinlang s’ya ng engkanto, kasi hindi rin
maniniwala ’yon.”
Iiling-iiling si Tony. “Pare, ayaw kong magsalita, pero ang sa akin lang,
makiramdam ka, magmatyag,” tila naiinis na paalala ng kanyang kumpare.
“Doktor na ang nagsabi sa ’yo na nabuntis na ’yong asawa. Anong ibig mong
sabihin, mas marunong magsinungaling ang ultrasound kaysa tao? Mag-isip
ka nga.”
Napatingin siya nang tuwid kay Tony. Pati ba naman ikaw, ibig niyang
sumbatan ang kanyang kumpare, aakusahang nagsisinungaling ang aking
asawa at si Lolo Onyong, maging ang aking biyenan?
“Pare, hindi mo ba alam, pinagtsitsismisan na ng buong baryo ang
pagbubuntis ng asawa mo?” mariing sabi ni Tony.
“Natural,” hilaw siyang napangiti. “Magkaanak ka ba naman ng ahas,
hindi ka ba pag-uusapan no’n.”
Nahalata niyang tila nainis sa kanya si Tony nang maghiwalay sila. Pero
naunawaan niya si Tony, na marahil nga, isa na rin ito sa binago ng pag-iral
ng makabagong teknolohiya. At hindi na naniniwala sa mga kababalaghang
gawa ng mga engkanto.
Pero hindi kaila kay Rodel na laging laman ng usap-usapan ang asawa
niya. Patuloy na bumubuntot sa kanya ang mga tsismis na iyon araw-araw.
Harap-harapan na niyang naririnig, mula sa ilang kaibigan, lalo na kapag
nag-iinuman sila.

180 Maikling Kuwento


“Ikaw na ’ata ang pinakatangang taong nakilala ko,” napipikang sabi
ng isa niyang kaibigan, nang mag-inuman sila, kasama ang kumpare niyang
Tony. “At ang ikinaiinis ko, kaibigan ko pa.”
“Lasing ka na ’ata, P’re,” sabi niya. “Kung ano-ano na ang pinagsasabi
mo.”
“Alam mo bang awang-awa na kami ni Pareng Tony sa ’yo,” giit pa nito.
“At sa isang banda, naiinis din dahil ang tanga-tanga mo.”
“Hindi n’yo ba naiintindihan, naengkanto nga ang asawa ko. At nariyan
ang ebidens’ya at witness pa ang albularyo, kasama ang biyenan ko.” Gusto na
ring mapika ni Rodel sa dalawa.
“Ewan ko sa ’yo,” tuluyan nang napika ang kanyang kababata at kaibigan.
Sa inis marahil, bigla nitong tinungga ang baso ng alak, at pabagsak na
inilapag ang baso. “Kung ayaw mong maniwala sa ’min, bahala ka.”
Hindi naging maayos ang pagtatapos ng kanilang inuman.
Ang sumunod pang mga araw ay lalong ginugulo si Rodel ng mga tsismis
tungkol sa kanyang asawa. Naroong tahasang pinariringgan siya, hindi lamang
sa inuman kundi maging sa kanyang paglalakad. Kung naging mahina-hina
lamang ang kanyang pagtitiwala sa kanyang asawa, marahil, marami na siyang
nakaaway. Pero dahil malaki ang kanyang tiwala, inuunawa na lamang niya
ang mga kumakalat na tsismis. Na marahil, wala lang sigurong magawa sa
buhay ang mga ito. O, baka naman may lihim na naiinggit sa pagsasama nila
at pilit silang sinisiraan.
Gayumpaman, may mga gabing hindi siya pinatutulog ng mga bagay
na iyon. Higit siyang naaawa sa kanyang asawa. Na walang kamalay-malay,
naging sentro ng mga makakating dila sa kanilang lugar.
“Hindi ko na matiis ang tsismis na kumakalat dito tungkol sa ’yo, ang
pagbuntis mo at pagsilang ng ahas,” sabi niya habang magkatabing nakahiga
sila isang gabi. Kapuwa nakatutok ang kanilang mga tingin sa bubungan.
“Sabi ko naman sa ’yo, h’wag mong pansinin ang mga tsismis,” bakas
ang pagkainis sa boses ng kanyang asawa. “Wala lang siguro magawa ang mga
’yon, gusto lang manira ng kapuwa.”
“’Yon na nga,” untag niya. “Pero hindi naman p’wedeng mamuhay tayo
nang walang katahimikan.”
“Ano’ng plano mo?”
“Balak kung lumayo tayo.”

Perry C. Mangilaya 181


Napatingin ito sa kanya.
“Balak kong isama ka sa Maynila,” patuloy niya habang nakapako pa rin
ang tingin sa bubungan. “Mas okey ro’n, malayo tayo sa mga tsismis. Walang
manggugulo sa ’tin.”
“Sa’n tayo titira?”
“Pansamantala, sa baraks ka muna. Hangga’t hindi pa ako nakakahanap
ng k’wartong mauupahan natin.”
Katahimikan.
Maya-maya, tumagilid ang kanyang asawa, paharap sa kanya. Matagal na
nakapako ang tingin nito sa kanya. Tinatantiya marahil ang kanyang naging
desisyon. At nang matiyak marahil nito na buong-buo na nga ang kanyang
pasiya, yumakap ito sa kanya, mahigpit, isinubsob ang mukha nito sa kanyang
dibdib, at sinundan ng sunod-sunod na pagyugyog ng balikat nito.

182 Maikling Kuwento


Ang Mga Nawawalang Mukha
CHUCKBERRY J. PASCUAL

U maalingasaw ang antisipasyon sa loob ng barangay hall. Walang nag-


uusap sa mga empleado, pero hindi sila mapakaling lahat: walang
puknat ang tipa sa keyboard ni Kagawad Tu (kung ano ang tina-type, walang
nakakaalam), panay ang testing sa webcam ng barangay secretary at siyang in-
charge sa pagbibigay ng barangay clearance, nagwawalis at nagbubunot ang
isang tanod, at nag-aagawan ang dalawang staff sa pag-aayos ng mga papeles
na hinugot sa mga kinakalawang na filing cabinet. At lahat ng ito, habang
wala rin silang tigil sa panakaw na pagbabatuhan ng mga tingin na buntis sa
pananabik.
Hindi malaman ni Bree kung paano ipapakita sa ibang tao na
nagtatrabaho siya bilang receptionist, kaya ginawa na lang niya ang laging
ginagawa: nagsuklay siya ng buhok habang nakaupo sa likuran ng mesa sa
bukana ng barangay hall. Para makasabay kahit paano, naglabas na rin siya
ng compact mirror, ipinatong ito sa mesa, at hinaluan ng kagat-labing gigil
ang pagsusuklay sa buhok na hanggang balikat. Hindi rin niya maitatanggi
na para siyang biglang kinargahan ng koryente dulot ng bombang pinasabog
ni Mang Noel, mas kilala bilang Kagawad Wan.
“Ang sabi sa akin ng isang kontak ko,” panimula ni Kagawad Wan kanina,
“pinagkapuri-puri ni Mayor ang feeding program ni Kapitan.” Hindi na
binanggit ng kagawad na sabit lang si Kapitan sa naturang feeding program,
dahil ang nagpasimula talaga nito ay isang konsehal. Hindi na rin binanggit
ng kagawad na ang tinutukoy niyang kontak ay ang balo ng nasirang guro sa
PE ng Mababang Paaralan ng Talong Punay. Dumalo ang balo sa Recognition
Day ng Mababang Paaralan dahil inaanak niya ang gagawaran ng Ikatlong
Karangalang Banggit. Si Mayor ang susing tagapagsalita sa naturang okasyon.
Nandoon din si Kapitan dahil malapit naman sila ng prinsipal.
Sa sobrang tuwa ni Kapitan na pinuri ni Mayor sa entablado ang feeding
program, may ibinulong ito sa prinsipal ng Mababang Paaralan. Narinig ng
janitor ang ibinulong ni Kapitan, at ibinalita naman ito sa balo. Kapitbahay

183
ng balo si Kagawad Wan, at nakahuntahan niya ito noong isang araw sa
paresan. Doon nabanggit ng balo ang mabuting balita.
Walang reaksiyon ang mga nakarinig noong simula. Si Kagawad Tu ang
bumasag sa katahimikan, “Oewenonamansamin?”
Halatang inasahan talaga ni Kagawad Wan ang tanong mula kay Kagawad
Tu. Ang Tu ay galing sa Turing, pero madalas magbiro ang mga staff ng
barangay na Kagawad Tu ang tawag dito dahil “tumabit” lang sa listahan ng
mga nahalal na kagawad. Alam ng lahat ang lihim na iringan nilang dalawa,
lalo na at walang tigil si Kagawad Wan sa pagmamalaki na siya ang kagawad
na nakakuha ng pinakamaraming boto noong nakaraang eleksiyon. Hindi
nagmimintis si Kagawad Wan na ipaalala ito sa lahat ng kausap sa barangay
hall. Ito rin ang ginagamit niyang dahilan kaya siya malapit kay Kapitan,
kaya siya ang dapat tanungin tungkol sa mga balita tungkol sa barangay, kaya
hindi siya dapat nagtatrabaho, at kaya ang tanging gawain niya ay maging
reserbang puno ng barangay. (At dahil nandiyan naman si Kapitan, kaya
wala siyang silbi.) Hindi naman kinokontra ni Kapitan ang mga pahayag
ni Kagawad Wan, na lalo lang nagpapalakas ng loob nitong huli. (“Ibigay
kay Wan ang kay Wan, at kay Tu, ang kay Tu,” biro pa minsan ni Kapitan
nang may manguwestiyon sa awtoridad ni Kagawad Wan na nakabatay lang
sa bilang ng boto, at hindi sa aktuwal na trabaho.) Kaya pinalaki muna ni
Kagawad Wan ang dibdib, parang tandang na nagyayabang, bago sumagot.
“Nakarating na kay Kapitan ang balita, siyempre pa. At guess what? Sa tuwa
ni Kapitan na nakilala ni Mayor ang lahat ng paghihirap niya—”
“Natin,” sabad ni Kagawad Tu. “Ang lagay, siya lang ang nagtatrabaho?
Kundi pa laging absent—”
“—at ng buong barangay! Hindi pa kasi ako tapos!” bulyaw ni Kagawad
Wan. “Kanina ka pang lintek ka! Gusto mo bang makarating yan kay ser?”
“Sorry. Sige, tuloy.”
“Dahil nga napakalakas na natin kay Mayor, papasok si Kapitan ngayon,
para sabihing mag-a-outing tayo! At heto pa, sagot niya lahat!”

Muntik nang tumili si Bree nang makita si Kapitan. Para maitago ang
bumukang bibig, tinakpan niya ng buhok ang kalahati ng mukha pagpasok
ng opisyal sa barangay hall. “Good morning po, ser,” bati ng receptionist.
Umungot lang si Kapitan bilang sagot. Hindi pa nakakalampas sa mesa ni
Bree ang opisyal nang hangos na sumalubong si Kagawad Wan. “Ser, Kapitan,
Ser! Magandang umaga po! Nabanggit ko na po sa kanila ang balita—”

184 Maikling Kuwento


Itinaas ni Kapitan ang kanang kamay sa ere, hinarang ang susunod na
mga salita ng kausap. “Hep, hep. Anong balita?” Nakakunot ang mga kilay
nito nang magtanong,
Walang lumilingon sa mga nakikinig, patuloy lang sila sa pagkukunwaring
abala, pero alam ni Bree na sabay-sabay nagkislutan ang tainga ng mga
kawani ng barangay. Halata sa boses ni Kagawad Wan ang pag-aalinlangan
nang muling magsalita. “A, Kapitan, ’yong sa ano po? ’Yong ano ho, ’yong
kahapon—”
Hindi sumagot si Kapitan. Tumitig lang ito kay Kagawad Wan. Umubo
nang malakas si Kagawad Tu, kasabay ng malakas na pagtipa sa keyboard.
Narinig sa buong barangay hall ang tahimik na paglagapak sa sahig ng amor
propio ng numero unong kagawad.
Napatikhim naman si Bree, at tumigil sa pagsusuklay. Ibinalik na niya sa
bag ang hair brush. Nainis siya sa mayabang na kagawad, at lalo sa sarili. Bakit
nga ba maniniwala siyang darating ang araw na bibigyan sila ng pakonsuwelo
ni Kapitan?
“Ano nga ulit ’yon, Kagawad?” tanong ni Kapitan. “Hindi mo sinagot
ang tanong ko.”
Kinuha ni Bree ang cellphone niya sa bag. Bago ang cellphone na ito, dahil
natuluyan na ang lumang cellphone niya nang maibagsak ito sa karinderya ni
Aling Blesilda. Ipinagmamalaki niya ang cellphone, hindi lang dahil ito ang
pinakamahal na pundar niyang gamit—salamat sa kaibigan niyang Indiano
na si Deepak, pumayag ito na dalawang buwan hulugan ang dalawang libong
piso—kundi dahil ang pakiramdam ni Bree, walang maliliiit na butas ang
kanyang balat sa tuwing nagse-selfie gamit ang cellphone. Parang kalsadang
pinalitada ang mukha niya, higit pa ang epekto kaysa anumang kapal ng
foundation na inilalagay sa mukha. Para hindi na marinig ang kumpirmasyon
ng kabiguan sa mga pangakong hindi naman binitiwan ni Kapitan, naghanap
na lang siya ng magandang anggulo para sa selfie.
“May nagsabi po sa akin, Kapitan—” sabi ni Kagawad Wan. “Ano raw
po, sinabi n’yo raw po—”
“Na?”
“Na mag-a-outing raw ho tayo.”
“Talaga? Sinabi ko ’yon?”
Tumawa nang malakas si Kagawad Tu.

Chuckberry J. Pascual 185


“Anong nakakatawa, Tu?” tanong ni Kapitan.
“Naku, wala lang ho, Kapitan,” sagot ng kagawad. “May naalala lang ho
ako.”
“Ano?”
“Nakalimutan ko na ho.”
“Pilitin mo.”
“A, ’yong nagpa-clearance ho kahapon, nakakatawa ho ’yong apelyido.”
“Ano?”
“Binayagan ho.”
“Pinsan ko ’yon. Binayagan ang lolo ko sa nanay ko.”
Halos sumubsob ang mukha ni Kagawad Tu sa keyboard. Nagpatuloy
na lang siya sa pagtipa, at hindi na muling nagsalita. Naglakad si Kapitan
papunta sa kanyang opisina. Naiwan sa kinatatayuan si Kagawad Wan.
Nakatungo ito, parang batang iniwan ng sorbeterong ubos na ang paninda.
Nang makarating si Kapitan sa pintuan, lumingon ito. “Wan?”
“Ser?” tanong ni Kagawad Wan.
“Oo.”
“Ano hong—?”
“Mag-a-outing tayo.”
Magsasalita sana si Kagawad Wan at ang iba pang mga kawani, pero wala
nang ibang narinig sa barangay hall kundi ang tili ni Bree. Tumigil lang si
Bree nang bulyawan siya nang mas malakas ni Kapitan, “Brigido! Sasapatusin
ko ’yang mukha mo!”

“Meron ba kayong mga request sa outing natin? Pagkain, ganyan?” tanong ni


Kapitan habang nakatuon ang atensiyon sa hawak na cellphone. Kumikinang
ang nguso ng opisyal sa mantika ng lechon. Hindi man nakikita ni Bree ang
cellphone ni Kapitan, pamilyar sa kanya ang musikang galing sa cellphone ng
opisyal. Naglalaro ito ng Clash of Clans.
Nasa pinakamalaking mesa sila ng barangay hall. Bukas na espasyo ito,
pero tinatawag nilang conference room. Sagrado ang conference room dahil
dito pinaghaharap at pinag-aayos ang mga nag-aaway na kapitbahay. Hindi
maaaring gamitin sa ibang paraan ang espasyong ito. Pero dahil mahalaga ang
pagpaplano sa kanilang outing, nagpatawag ng lunch meeting si Kapitan sa

186 Maikling Kuwento


conference room. Si Kagawad Wan muli ang nagbalita sa lahat, at pinakadiin-
diinan niyang KKB ang tanghalian. “Ibubuhos lahat ni Kapitan sa outing,”
sabi ng kagawad. Kaya habang pinapanood kanina kung paanong lantakan ni
Kapitan ang isang plato ng lechon, pinilit ni Bree ang sarili na makontento sa
kanyang ginisang munggo.
“Ser, puwede ho ba tayong mag-pizza?” tanong ng barangay secretary.
Napansin ni Bree ang mabilis na paggalaw ng lalagukan nito pagkatapos
magsalita. Hindi masiguro ng receptionist kung natakot ito sa maaaring
isagot ng pinuno o natakam lang sa sariling tanong.
“Puwede naman,” sagot ni Kapitan. Nakatutok pa rin ito sa hawak na
cellphone.
“Salamat po, ser,” wika ng barangay secretary, saka sumubo ng kanin at
dinurog na tinapa.
Bumukas ang gripo ng pantasya sa isip ng mga kawani ng barangay, at
nasundan ang hiling ng barangay secretary ng iba’t ibang pakiusap na putahe.
May humiling ng lechon manok, ng lechong Cebu, ng lechong baka, kare-
kare, afritada, pecadillo, hamburger, spaghetti, siopao, bacon, at kung ano-
anong pancit, mula luglog hanggang habhab. Sa lahat ng ito, puro “puwede
naman” ang isinagot ni Kapitan, pero hindi rin nawawala ang mga mata nito
sa hawak na cellphone.
Nang banggitin naman ni Kapitan na kinakailangan nilang magbaon
ng tent, dahil mag-o-overnight sila sa pupuntahang isla, lalong umapaw ang
galak sa dibdib ng mga tauhan ng barangay hall.
“Ngayon lang ako makakapunta sa Boracay,” bulong ni Kagawad Tu kay
Bree. Nanginginig pa ang boses nito, parang batang hindi makapaghintay sa
tatanggaping regalo.
Sa TV lang naririnig ni Bree ang salitang Boracay, at alam niyang
maraming artistang nagpupunta sa lugar na ito. “Homaygad! Nasa Boracay
din ho ba si Jerry Anderson? Nakupo, ser, solid Jerrynatics ako,” bulalas niya.
Umangat ang ulo ni Kapitan sa cellphone. “Anong Boracay ang
pinagsasabi mo diyan? Sa Sitio Tagolilong tayo magpupunta.”
Nalaglag ang panga ni Bree. At kahit hindi na siya lumingon, sigurado
siyang nagsingangahan rin ang lahat ng nasa loob ng conference room.
Maliban kay Kagawad Wan. “Suwerte! Napakaganda ng Sitio Tagolilong!”
sabi ng kagawad.

Chuckberry J. Pascual 187


Tiningnan ito ni Bree para tahimik na kondenahin sa pagsisinungaling,
pero nakapako sa dingding ang mga mata ni Kagawad Wan. “Sa katunayan
ho, Kapitan, ser, may plano na po ako sa outing natin.”
“O, makinig kayong lahat kay Wan,” sabi ni Kapitan, saka bumalik sa
paglalaro sa kanyang cellphone. “Sige lang, Wan.”
Idinetalye ni Kagawad Wan ang mga nais niyang mangyari sa outing—
kung anong oras silang magkikita-kita, kung saan, kung sino ang taga-Sitio
Tagolilong na puwede niyang kausapin sa lalong madaling panahon—pero
wala nang narinig si Bree. Pinapantasya na niya ang pagwasak sa base ni
Kapitan sa Clash of Clans.

Humigit-kumulang tatlumpung ektarya ang laki ng Sitio Tagolilong.


Dinarayo lang ito noon ng mga taga-Talong Punay na desperadong makalibre
ng pagsu-swimming at pagbi-beach. Nagagagad din naman ng mabuhangin at
mabatong isla ang pakiramdam ng pagpunta sa mga mamahalin at malalayong
beach. Ginagawa rin itong pansamantalang himpilan ng mga namamalakaya.
Isang araw, may mangingisdang naisipang magtayo ng barumbarong, at doon
na nanirahan. Gumaya sa kanya ang ilang mangingisda. Doon na nag-asawa
ang ilan, nagkaanak, at muling nag-asawa, hanggang umabot na sa mahigit
isandaan ang pamilyang naninirahan sa buong isla. Dumalang na ang
pagpunta ng mga gustong makapalibre ng beach, at halos naging eksklusibo
na ang mga dalampasigan sa mga mamamayan ng Sitio Tagolilong.
Dahil masyadong matagal ang paghihintay kung tatawid nang
nakabangka, gumawa ang mga residente ng tulay na gawa sa kawayan
para mapadali ang paglalakbay. Walong daang metro ang haba ng tulay na
nagdudugtong mula sa pangunahing lupain ng Malabon at sa isla.
Alas singko ng umaga sila nagkita-kita sa palengkeng bayan ng Malabon,
iyong malapit sa consignacion. Mula roon, sumakay sila ng traysikel
papunta sa tulay ng Sitio Tagolilong. Huli ng tatlong oras si Kapitan, kaya
nakadungaw na ang araw nang simulan nila ang pagtawid sa aalog-alog na
tulay na kawayan.
Ilang metro pa lang ang nilalakad nila, namimitig na ang mga braso ni
Bree. Bahagya rin siyang nahihilo dahil sa pag-alog ng mabuway na tulay.
Sampung tarpaulin ang kipkip ng receptionist sa isang braso at isang bungkos
ng mga putol-putol na kawayan sa kabila. Hindi na nga siya magkandaugaga
sa pag-ipit ng mga ito sa pagitan ng braso at katawan, dagdag pa ang bigat

188 Maikling Kuwento


ng dala niyang knapsack na may damit, tuwalya, at iba pang mga kailangan
niya sa paliligo at pagpapaganda. Si Kagawad Wan ang nag-utos na magdala
sila ng mga tarpaulin mula sa barangay hall—isang may larawan ni Kapitan
at siyam na may larawan ng mga kagawad—dahil gagamitin ang mga ito sa
paggawa ng mga improbisadong tent para sa kanilang lahat. Ito rin daw ang
gagamitin niyang halimbawa para sa napipintong paghahanda ng proposal na
magkaroon ng tarpaulin drive sa buong barangay.
May mga tumutol sa mungkahi ni Kagawad Wan noong nagpulong sila,
pero nagpilit ang kagawad. Bahagi raw ng plataporma niya ang pag-aalaga
sa kalikasan, kaya kinakailangang mag-recycle hangga’t maaari. At ang mga
tarpaulin ng mga politiko ang kayamanan ng Talong Punay.
Walang nakumbinsi sa naturang argumento. Nasunod lang ang gusto ni
Kagawad Wan nang sabihin niya na ang anumang matitipid ni Kapitan sa
paggawa ng mga improbisadong tent ay maaaring ilaan sa budget sa pagkain
at pamasahe.
Pero tulad ng mga pangako ni Kapitan noong kampanya, hindi natupad
ang mga ipinangako ni Kagawad Wan. Ang mga staff rin ang nagbayad ng
traysikel na sinakyan. Wala silang baon na masasarap na putahe. Sa halip,
para silang mga refugee na tumanggap ng donasyon: apat na malalaking
plastic na puno ng de-latang sardinas, tuna, biskuwit, kornik, at monay ang
dala nila. May hila-hilang case ng beer at ice box sina Kagawad Tu at ang
barangay secretary. May bitbit na malaking picnic box si Kagawad Wan. Si
Kapitan ang may pinakamagaang na dala, isang malaking tupperware lang
ang kipkip nito. Pero siya rin ang bukod tanging sumakay sa bangka papunta
sa Sitio Tagolilong. Ingat na ingat si Kapitan sa pagsakay, halos ipagsaksakan
sa sariling dibdib ang tupperware. Mukhang takot na takot itong malaglag
sa tubig ang hawak at pinagsususpetsahan nito ang umaasisteng bangkero na
magnanakaw ng tupperware.
“Malayo pa ba tayo?” tanong ni Bree. Halos mahilam na siya sa sariling
pawis.
Walang pumansin sa receptionist, maliban sa isang babaeng kawaning
umirap. Sa ibang okasyon, tatarayan ito ni Bree, pero alam niyang kapuwa
lang sila naaagnas na ang makeup sa mukha dahil sa init at bigat ng mga
dalang gamit, kaya hindi na lang siya kumibo. Inisip na lang niya ang lahat ng
selfie na puwede niyang i-upload sa Facebook mamaya, pagdating nila sa isla.

Chuckberry J. Pascual 189


Pangingisda ang pangunahing kabuhayan ng mga taga-Sitio Tagolilong.
Halos lahat ng kalalakihan ay regular na namamalakaya. Ibinabagsak nila
ang mga huling alimasag, alimango, alupihang dagat, tahong, at tilapia sa
consignacion. Ang mga matanda, bata, at kababaihan naman ay tumutulong
sa pamamagitan ng paggawa ng lambat at pag-uuling. Karaniwang tanawin
na ang mga hindi pa tapos na lambat na nakasabit sa bintana at dingding ng
mga barumbarong sa isla.
Dahil walang nagmamay-ari sa isla, walang binabayarang buwis ang mga
nakatira doon. At dahil walang direktang pakinabang, halos hindi alam ng
lokal na gobyerno ang gagawin sa kanila. Walang koryente sa isla. Wala ring
mga paaralan. Sa Mababang Paaralan ng Talong Punay pumapasok ang ilang
batang nag-aaral. Kumpol ng mga barumbarong lamang ang matatagpuan
sa isla, at depende sa oras ng pagpunta, mga bangkang nakadaong sa
dalampasigan. May isang sari-sari store, pero iilang shampoo, sabong panlaba,
kendi, at uling lang ang ibinebenta. Tulad ng mga batang tumatawid sa daan-
daang metrong tulay para lang makapasok sa paaralan, dumadayo pa ang mga
residente sa palengkeng bayan para sa iba pang pangangailangan.
May opisyal na pangalan ang isla ng Sitio Tagolilong, pero walang
opisyal na pag-iral. Hindi malinaw kung aling barangay at distrito ang may
sakop sa kanila, at wala ring nagtatangkang makialam. Bagaman may iilang
pagkakataon na kinikilala sila ng lokal na gobyerno: halimbawa, dinaraanan
sila ng mga kandidato sa panahon ng pangangampanya—ito ang dahilan
kung bakit may mangilan-ngilang nakarehistrong taga-Sitio Tagolilong na
bumoboto sa mga presinto sa Barangay Talong Punay—o kaya naman ay
paimbabaw na dadalawin at kukumustahin ng mga lokal na opisyal kapag
nasusumpungang pansinin ng media (dalawang beses nang itinampok sa
panggabing balita ang isla)—pero maliban pa roon, umiiral ito nang bukod.
Maaga pa, pero tirik na ang araw nang makarating ang mga taga-Barangay
Talong Punay sa Sitio Tagolilong. Wala ring kahangin-hangin noong araw na
iyon, kaya ang pakiramdam ni Bree, bumubula na pati ang leeg at kilikili
ng kaluluwa niya. Pagbaba sa tulay, ibinaba kaagad ng receptionist ang mga
tarpaulin at hinubad ang kanyang knapsack. Kumuha siya ng bimpo mula sa
knapsack, at ipinahid ito sa mukha. Kombinasyon ng putik at makeup ang
nabakas sa bimpo pagkatapos. Lumingon siya, at napagtantong hindi lang
siya ang nagpuputik. Halos mabura na ang mga mukha ng mga kasamahan
sa pagpupunas ng pawis.

190 Maikling Kuwento


“Hoy, Bree. Etong limandaan. Pumunta ka doon,” inginuso ni Kagawad
Wan ang isang kalayuang grupo ng barumbarong. “Sabihin mo, tayo ’yong
aarkila ng generator, bentilador, saka mga bombilya. Bumili ka na rin ng
uling.” Wala ring tigil ang pagpapahid niya ng bimpo sa buong mukha.
“Saan ho ako bibili?” tanong ni Bree.
“Doon din. O kahit saan mo gusto,” sagot ng kagawad. “Halos lahat
dito, nagbebenta ng uling. Kumatok ka lang sa mga bahay.”
“Para saan ho ba ang uling?”
“Para sa mukha mo,” sagot ni Kapitan na walang kapawis-pawis sa mukha.
Pinapayungan siya ng barangay secretary, at pinapaypayan ni Kagawad Tu.
Pareho silang naglalapot. Mukhang isinawsaw na naman sa isang mangkok
ng mantika ang mga labi ni Kapitan. Binuksan na nito ang tupperware na
lechon pala ang laman, at nagsimula nang mamapak. Sandaling nasulimpat
ang tingin ni Bree nang tamaan ng sikat ng araw ang nguso ni Kapitan.
Nakatitig lang itong huli sa kanya, walang tigil ang pagnguya, halatang
naghihintay ng reaksiyon sa kanyang pambubuska.
Ngumiti na lang si Bree, tumawa nang mahina, saka itinuon ang atensiyon
sa itim na buhangin ng isla. Kaylayo nga ng Sitio Tagolilong sa Boracay, isip
niya. Puti raw ang buhangin doon, sabi ni Kagawad Tu. Nagkuwentuhan
silang lahat pagkatapos ng pagpupulong. Naglabasan ang mga sama ng loob
sa pagkawasak ng mga pangarap nilang makapunta sa beach na madalas
puntahan ng crush niyang si Jerry Anderson.
“May baon akong barbecue.” Itinuro ni Kagawad Wan ang picnic box na
bitbit kanina.
Totoong ngiti na ang sumilay sa mga labi ni Bree. Kahit paano, may pag-
unlad sa karaniwan niyang pagkain ang barbecue. Kinuha niya ang pera, at
naglakad papunta sa barumbarong. Hindi pa siya nakakalayo nang marinig si
Kagawad Wan na sumigaw, “Picture-picture na!”
Pinigilan ni Bree ang sarili na bumalik at sumama sa mga nagkukuhanan
ng larawan. Pinigil din niya ang sariling magtampo. Ipinaalala niya sa sarili
ang posisyon sa barangay hall: utusan ng mga utusan. Inilabas na lang niya
ang cellphone sa bulsa, at naghanap ng magandang anggulo para sa isang
selfie. Isinama niya sa kuha ang mga kawani sa barangay, para silang mga
nagkakagulong ekstra sa likod, at siya ang bidang sinasamba ng kamera.

Chuckberry J. Pascual 191


Nasa bungad ng kumpol ng barumbarong ang isang ito. Mataas ang mga
tukod ng barumbarong, kaya nakaangat ito ng ilang piye mula sa lupa at
malaki ang silong. May nakasabit na lambat mula sa bintana ng bahay.
Hindi pa tapos ang pagkakayari sa lambat, at sumasayad ito hanggang lupa,
parang buhok ng isang higanteng babae na hindi nagsusuklay. Isang babae
ang pangunahing naghahayuma. Nakaupo siya sa isang mataas na bangkito.
Tinutulungan siya ng isang binatilyo. Inaabot ng binatilyo ang mga piraso
ng nylon na pagtatagniin ng babae. Pagkakita sa mga ito, agad ibinulsa ng
receptionist ang kanyang bagong cellphone.
“Excuse me po, ako po si Bree. Ako po ’yong pinapunta ni Kagawad
Wan. Kami ho ’yong taga-Talong Punay,” bungad ni Bree.
“Ay, magandang umaga ho. Welcome po sa dito sa Tagolilong,”
nakangiting sagot ng babae.
“Magandang umaga po, Aling—?
“Lolit.”
“Kami ho ’yong aarkila ng generator, Aling Lolit.” Kinapa niya ang
cellphone sa bulsa. Nangungupahan lang siya sa isang bodega sa Barangay
Talong Punay, pero may suspetsa siyang mas komportable ang kanyang
pamumuhay kaysa buong pamilya.
Tumayo ang babae at tinapik ang binatilyo. Iniwan ng binatilyo ang
lambat, at sumuot sa ilalim ng bahay. Naiwan si Aling Lolit, nakatayo at
nakatitig lang kay Bree. Gusto niyang alukin ito na sumama na lang sa
pagkakasiyahan ng mga taga-Talong Punay, pero alam niyang hindi matutuwa
sina Kapitan at Kagawad Wan. Ibinaling na lang niya ang atensiyon sa lambat.
Paglabas ng binatilyo, may hila na itong lubid na nakapaikot sa isang
lumang generator. Sa kabilang kamay, may bitbit na lumang desk fan, at
may nakasukbit na lumang gym bag sa isang balikat. Inilagak ng binatilyo sa
paanan ni Bree ang mga gamit.
“Salamat. Eto pala ang bayad,” inabot ni Bree ang limandaan sa batang
lalaki.
Tinanggap ng binatilyo ang pera at parang napaso sa salapi, agad itong
ibinigay sa babae.
“Naku, ang laki ho nito. Wala ho kaming panukli,” bulong ni Aling Lolit.
“Kunin n’yo na lahat,” sagot ni Bree. “Hanggang bukas naman ho kami
dito.”

192 Maikling Kuwento


“Kahit na ho, limang piso lang ho ang upa sa generator kada isang oras.
Pero huwag ho kayong mag-alala, kahapon lang ho nakargahan yan sa Bayan.”
“Ah, e, kasama na rin ho ’yong upa diyan sa ibang gamit? Ito hong mga
nandito,” dinampot ni Bree ang lumang gym bag. Nagulat siya sa bigat, pero
pinanindigan ang pagbuhat. Binuksan niya ang zipper: mga cord extension,
bombilya, fluorescent, plais, liyabe, mga pako, turnilyo, at kung ano-ano
pang kagamitan na hindi na niya alam ang pangalan.
“Sobra ho yata ito,” pilit ng babae. “Wala ho kaming panukli—”
“Uling! Kukuha rin ho ako ng uling! Meron ba kayo non?” bulalas ni
Bree. Maingat niyang inilapag sa lupa ang gym bag, takot na mabasag ang
mga bombilya at flourescent kapag umumpog sa matitigas na kagamitan.
Ngumiti si Aling Lolit, saka tinapik ulit ang binatilyo. Sumuot ulit ito sa
silong ng bahay. Paglabas, dalawang sako ng uling na ang hila.
“Pagdamutan n’yo na ho,” sabi ng binatilyo kay Bree. Pagkuwa’y
bumaling kay Aling Lolit, “Samahan ko na po siya, ’Nay?”
“Sige, anak,” sagot ng babae.

“Wala nang sukli?” singhal ni Kagawad Wan.


Mistulang namumulang puwit na pinalo nang paulit-ulit ang mukha ng
kagawad. Hindi mawari ni Bree kung dahil ba ito sa matinding sikat ng araw
o sa biglang sulak ng dugo. Lumingon muna siya sa binatilyo para humingi
ng paumanhin sa kabastusan ng pagsalubong sa kanila, bago sumagot. “Ang
dami ko ho kasing kinuha, pasensiya na, Kagawad. Tinulungan na nga ho
ako nitong si—”
“Teddy ho,” sagot ng binatilyo.
“Ano to, bakit ang daming uling? Hindi naman tayo mag-iihaw ng baka!”
Ni hindi nilingon ng kagawad ang binatilyo.
“’Yong sobra ho, iuuwi ko na lang,” katwiran ni Bree.
“Siya, siya,” bruskong sagot ng kagawad. “Set up n’yo na ’yang generator,
kanina pa init na init si Kapitan.”
Nagtulong sina Bree at Teddy sa paghahanda ng mga gamit at
pagpapatakbo ng generator. Hindi na siya umimik nang wala man lang
magtangkang tumulong sa kanilang dalawa. Hindi na rin siya nagtaka nang
matapos ang paandarin ang generator, ikabit dito ang mga bombilya at itutok
ang bentilador kay Kapitan, siya pa rin ang inutusan ni Kagawad Wan na

Chuckberry J. Pascual 193


magpasimuno sa paghahanda ng pagkain. Wala na siyang aasahan, at nahihiya
rin siya sa kabaitan ng binata, kaya si Bree na ang nag-abot ng sampung piso
sa binatilyo pagkatapos nitong tumulong.
“Salamat po,” sabi ni Teddy.
“Gutom na kami,” ungot ni Kapitan habang nakatapat ang mukha sa
bentilador. Bahagyang nakakahinga na sina Kagawad Tu at ang barangay
secretary dahil tumatama rin sa kanila ang hangin mula sa bentilador.
Dinampot ni Bree ang mga plastik na puno ng baon nilang pagkain.
Malayo-layo rin ang nilakad niya papunta sa likuran ng isang malaking bato.
May kaunting lilim doon, at posibleng lumamig nang kaunti mamayang gabi
dahil malapit-lapit sa dalampasigan. Nailatag na niya ang kumot at nailapag
sa ibabaw nito ang ilang piraso ng monay at lata ng sardinas nang marinig
niyang pumuswit si Kagawad Wan.
“Psst! Bree!”
“Ho?”
“Nasaan ang mga tarpaulin?”
“Nandiyan lang ho,” sagot ni Bree. Bumalik siya sa pag-aayos ng mga
pagkain sa ibabaw ng kumot. Pinagsama-sama niya sa iisang tumpok ang
tinapay, sardinas, biskuwit, at kornik. Itinabi niya ang mga gamit na plastik,
para magsilbing sisidlan ng basura. Nakakahiyang mag-iwan ng kalat sa
Sitio Tagolilong. Wala silang kasabay na bumisita, walang ibang puwedeng
pagbintangan kundi sila.
“Saan dito? Halika nga!” tawag ni Kagawad Wan.
Itinigil niya ang ginagawa at naglakad pabalik sa puwesto ni Kagawad
Wan at ng iba pang kasamahan.
“Kagawad, ser, iniwan ko lang po diyan kanina,” sabi ni Bree. Kanina pa
siya nagkikilos, kaya tumatagaktak ang pawis niya sa buong katawan.
“Saan nga dito?”
Bumuntong-hininga muna ang receptionist bago muling nagsalita.
Kailangan niyang manatiling kalmado. Mahaba pa ang araw. “Diyan nga ho,
sa tabi ng knapsack ko.” Itinuro niya ang knapsack, saka nilapitan. “Kita
ninyo, nandito ang gamit ko, ’yong mga kawayan, at itong mga tarpaulin …
Teka, nasaan na nga ba ang mga iyon? Nandito lang ’yon kanina.”
“Kanina pa rin kami naghahanap.”

194 Maikling Kuwento


“Si Teddy ho? ’Yong batang lalaki? Baka nakita niya.”
“Malay ko.”
Wala na palang ibang tao sa paligid nila ni Kagawad Wan. Nag-uunahan na
ang mga ito papunta sa likuran ng bato, iyong malapit-lapit sa dalampasigan,
kung nasaan ang pagkaing inihanda ni Bree kanina lang.
“Puwede ho bang kumain muna? Gutom na rin ako, ser,” pakiusap ni
Bree.
“Hanapin mo na muna ’yong mga tarpaulin. Unahin mo muna ang mga
kasamahan natin, bago ’yang sikmura mo,” sagot ng kagawad.

Nagsi-siesta na si Kapitan nang makabalik si Bree sa kanilang kampo. Inilipat


ng mga kawani at kagawad ang puwesto ng kumot na may mga pagkain,
ipinalit dito ang kumot na hinihigaan ng pinuno ng barangay. Inilipat na rin
ang generator at bentilador. Nakatutok na ang bentilador sa naghihilik na
Kapitan.
Dalawang oras naglibot si Bree sa buong isla sa paghahanap sa mga
tarpaulin. Natagpuan niya ang mga ito sa kabilang bahagi, iyong batuhan na
nasa dulo ng isla. Malayo na ito sa kumpol ng mga barumbarong. Halatang
hindi ito masyadong dinarayo maging ng mga mangingisda, dahil walang
nakadaong na mga bangka. Puro basura ang paligid. Karamihan iyong
mga iniwan na lamang doon ng hangin, mayroon ding isinuka ng tubig sa
dalampasigan.
Doon sa bungkos ng mga basurang iyon natagpuan ni Bree ang mga
tarpaulin. Nakabulatlat ang mga ito sa buhangin, parang mga gusot na kumot.
Madali silang makikita dahil namumukod ang mga puting likuran, hindi pa
masyadong nilalamon ng putik. Dinampot ni Bree ang mga tarpaulin, isa-
isang ibinalumbon at dinala pabalik sa kampo ng mga taga-Barangay Talong
Punay.
“Anong nangyari sa mga ito?” tanong ni Kagawad Wan pagkatapos ilatag
sa buhangin ang dalawa sa sampung tarpaulin. Butas-butas ang mga ito.
Ginupit ang mukha ng mga taong nasa larawan. Kakatwa ang pagkakagupit
dahil sinundan ang hugis ng panga, tainga, at buhok. Parang gagamiting
maskara ang mga mukhang tinanggal.
“Ewan ko ho,” matamlay na sagot ni Bree. Nagtaka rin siya at bahagyang
nahintakutan sa nangyari—anong klaseng tao ang magnanakaw ng tarpaulin

Chuckberry J. Pascual 195


at magnanakaw ng mga mukhang kaypapangit naman?—pero dinadaig na
siya ng gutom at pagod.
“Ganito rin ba ang nangyari sa iba?”
“Ito lang hong isa ang hindi.”
“Alin?”
“Ito ho.” Kinuha ni Bree ang tarpaulin na bukod-tanging hindi
tinanggalan ng mukha, inalis ito sa pagkakabalumbon, inilatag sa buhangin.
Pagkakita sa naturang tarpaulin, napamura nang malakas si Kagawad
Wan, saka tinakpan ng palad ang sariling bibig. Sinaway siya ng sutsot ni
Kagawad Tu. Pero huli na, naalimpungatan na si Kapitan.
“Anong nangyayari?” tanong ng pinuno, pupungas-pungas pa.
Walang umiimik. Naramdaman ni Bree na nakatingin sa kanya ang lahat,
kaya siya na ang unang nagsalita. “Ser, ito ho kasing mga tarpaulin natin—”
“Anong nangyari sa mga tarpaulin natin?”
“Nawawala ho ang mga mukha, ser. Lahat po, maliban sa isa.” Itinuro
ni Bree ang nakalatag na tarpaulin, iyong may solong larawan ni Kapitan.
Mukha lamang ng pinuno ng barangay ang hindi tinanggal. Sa halip, nilaslas
ito: mula kanang sentido papunta sa ilalim ng kaliwang panga, wakwak ang
mukha ni Kapitan.
Napaupo si Kapitan at tinutop ang matabang dibdib. “Anong ibig sabihin
nito?”
“Ewan ho,” sagot ni Bree.
“Paano na ang ibang tarpaulin?”
“Pupuntahan ko na lang ho ’yong mga gumagawa ng lambat. Puwede
nilang tahiin ang mga ’yan.”
“Panginoon, pagkatapos ng lahat ng kabutihang ginawa ko?” bulong ni
Kapitan.
“Puwede ho ba, kumain muna ako?” tanong ni Bree.
“Ano ba ang meron sa mukha ko, Brigido?”
“Gutom na ho ako, kailangan ko ho munang pag-isipan—”
“Asikasuhin mo na muna ’yang mga tarpaulin. Mainit na, kailangan nila
ng silong,” sabad ni Kagawad Wan.
“Penge lang nga ho muna n’yang monay.”

196 Maikling Kuwento


“Huwag kang makasarili, uy. Unahin mo muna ang mga kasamahan
natin. Hindi lang ikaw ang nagugutom.”
Sasagot pa sana si Bree, pero nawalan na siya ng kausap. Nagtakip kasi
ng mukha si Kapitan. Nag-unahan ang lahat na kalamayin ang loob ng
pinuno. Napuno ang hangin ng sunod-sunod na pag-alo sa pinuno. Naku
Kapitan, huwag ho kayong mag-alala. Wala lang ho ’yan, Kapitan. Kayo
ho ang pinaka-cute na barangay captain. Huwag ho kayong maniniwalang
pangit kayo, huwag. Hindi po kayo mukhang baboy, mukha ho kayong
magbababoy. Magkaiba ho ’yon. Heto ho, kumain kayo ng lechon. Ayan na,
ayan na. Ambait talaga ni Kap, o. Tatahan na ’yan. Matapang ’yan. Aruuuu.
Habang abala ang lahat, pumunta si Bree sa tumpok ng mga baon nilang
pagkain, at dumampot ng dalawang monay. Kinain niya ang isa habang
naglalakad papunta sa kumpol ng mga barumbarong. Malayo na siya, at
nagsisimula na sa ikalawang monay nang marinig ang pahabol na palahaw ni
Kapitan, “Bakit hindi nila gusto ang mukha ko?”
Sa loob-loob ng receptionist, wala naman talagang matutuwa sa
kachakahan mo. Kahit maligno mabobokot sa pes mo.

Madaling kausap ang mga taga-Sitio Tagolilong. Hindi nagdalawang salita


si Bree nang sabihin niyang kailangan ng mga magpapatse sa mga nabutas na
tarpaulin. Kay Aling Lolit siya lumapit, ang nanay ni Teddy. Inabutan niya
ang mag-ina na naghahayuma pa rin sa labas ng barumbarong. Itinigil agad
ni Aling Lolit ang ginagawa, at pinuntahan ang ibang mag-iinang gumagawa
rin ng lambat sa harapan ng kani-kanilang tirahan. Hindi pa man sinasabi
ni Aling Lolit kung magkano ang pabuya, kinuyog na si Bree ng walong
bata. Pinagsabihan muna niya ang mga ito na huwag papayag na mababa
kaysa isandaang piso ang singilin bawat isa bago tumulong, saka itinuro ang
pinagkakampuhan ng mga taga-Barangay Talong Punay. Nag-unahan ang
mga itong kumuha ng mga ekstrang balumbon ng nylon, karayom, at aspile,
sa harap ng kani-kanilang bahay, saka kumaripas palayo.
Pagkaalis ng mga bata, napansin ni Bree si Teddy. Hindi ito umalis sa
kinatatayuan, patuloy lang sa tahimik na paghahayuma. Nilapitan ni Bree
ang binatilyo.
“Bakit hindi ka sumama sa kanila?” tanong ng receptionist.
“Binigyan n’yo na po ako kanina,” sagot ni Teddy, hindi nag-aangat ng
mata.
“Pero mas malaki ang bayad doon—”

Chuckberry J. Pascual 197


“Oo nga naman, anak. Sumunod ka na. Iwan mo na sa akin ’yan,” sabi ni
Aling Lolit, galing sa pakikipaghuntahan sa tapat ng katabing barumbarong.
Kasama niya ang isa sa mga kausap kanina. May hawak itong nakabilot na
magasin.
“Tatapusin ko na lang ho ito,” sagot ni Teddy.
May kumalabit kay Bree.
“Mawalang galang na ho,” bungad ng babaeng kasama ni Aling Lolit.
“Ano po ba ang nangyari sa mga baon ninyong … ano nga ba ’yon?”
“Tarkolin,” singit ni Aling Lolit. “Ay, pasensiya ka na rito kay Edna.
Tsismosa lang talaga ’yan.”
Pinalo ng kapitbahay si Aling Lolit sa braso ng hawak na magasing
nakabilot. “Nakow, tsismosa raw. E di ba ikaw ang lumapit at nagsabing me
nawawala na namang—”
“Ay, nakita na ho ’yong mga tarpaulin namin, Aling Edna. Kailangan
lang hong remedyuhan,” sagot ni Bree. Hindi siya tumingin kay Aling Lolit
pagkatapos itama ang bigkas.
“Ano ang sira?” usisa ni Aling Edna.
“Nagkabutas-butas ho—ay, puta!”
Nalaglag ang lambat sa kanilang apat. Nagpakawala rin ng tili ang
dalawang babae.
“Sorry po! Naku, sorry po!” bulalas ni Teddy. Nasa ilalim din siya ng
lambat.
Walang kibo si Aling Lolit habang umaalis sa pagkakalambat. Panay
naman ang palatak at paanas na reklamo ni Aling Edna. Nginitian na lang
ni Bree ang binatilyo para iparating na hindi siya galit, kahit sa totoo lang,
mangani-ngani na siyang sampalin ito. Kumakalam na nga ang sikmura
at nanghahapdi na ang mukhang humulas ang makeup sa sikat ng araw,
pagmumukhain pa siyang sabukot. Nagulo ang buhok niya at lalong dumikit
sa pawisang batok at mga pisngi dahil sa lambat.
Pagkatapos muling ikabit ang lambat sa bintana ng barumbarong,
nagpaalam ang binatilyo. Sasama na lang daw siya sa pagpapatse ng mga
tarpaulin. Tumango lang si Aling Lolit, at agad bumalik sa paghahayuma. Ni
hindi man lang ito nag-ayos ng buhok na nagulo dahil sa lambat.
“Mauuna na ho ako,” sabi ni Bree habang sinusuklay ng mga daliri ang
buhok na hanggang balikat. Nagtaka siya sa pagbabago ng isip ng binatilyo.

198 Maikling Kuwento


“Teka, tingnan mo muna ito,” habol ni Aling Edna.
“Edna, manong wag mo nang istorbohin si ser,” sabi ni Aling Lolit.
Hindi na sumagot si Aling Edna, binulatlat na lang ang hawak na magasin
sa harapan ni Bree. Ginupit din ang mukha ng babaeng artista sa pabalat.

Hindi agad pumunta sa kampo ng mga taga-Barangay Talong Punay si Bree.


Kinutuban siya matapos makita ang magasin ni Aling Edna. Lalo na nang
idagdag nitong hindi lang ngayon nangyari na may mga mukhang nawala sa
Sitio Tagolilong. Pati raw mga diyaryo, kalendaryo, kung ano-anong poster na
naiiwan sa kung saan, tinatanggalan ng mukha ang mga taong nasa larawan.
Tinunton ulit ni Bree ang lugar kung saan niya natagpuan ang mga
tarpaulin. Hindi pa siya nakakalayo sa kumpol ng mga barumbarong,
napatunayan na niyang tumpak ang hinala: naglalakad din papunta sa
malaking bato sa dulong dalampasigan si Teddy. Walang mapagtataguan
kung sakaling lumingon ang binatilyo, kaya binagalan na lang ni Bree ang
paglalakad.
Pumunta ang binatilyo sa likod ng malaking bato, nawala na sa paningin
ni Bree. Tumigil sa paglakad si Bree, at naghintay sa muling paglitaw ni
Teddy. Nang umabot ang sampung minuto at hindi pa rin lumalabas mula sa
likod ng bato ang anak ni Aling Lolit, kinabahan na si Bree. Humangos siya,
pero binagalan ulit ang pagkilos pagdating sa malaking bato. Dahan-dahan,
sumilip siya sa likuran nito.
Nakita niya si Teddy, hindi naman napaano: nakatalikod ito sa kanya,
nakatalungko sa dalampasigan, lubog ang mga binti. May kausap itong
babaeng mahaba ang buhok. Nakasuot ang babae ng basang kamiseta, at
nakadapa sa dalampasigan. Mukhang morena, batay sa nakalitaw na braso.
Hindi makita ni Bree ang kalahati ng katawan ng babae, dahil natatakpan
ng tubig. May inilabas si Teddy sa bulsa ng kanyang shorts—mukhang mga
piraso ng tela—at ipinakita ito sa babae. Sa pagkakalahad ng mga palad ng
binatilyo, parang mamahaling bagay ang inihahandog sa kausap. Kinuha ng
babae ang isa sa mga papel na bilugan—aha! isa sa mga mukhang galing sa
mga tarpaulin!—at tiningnan nang malapitan. Noon lang napagtanto ni Bree
na hindi niya maaninag ang mukha ng babae. Mayroon naman itong mga
mata, ilong, bibig, pero parang wala siyang makita. Tila binalot ng maitim na
balat ang mukha nito para matakpan ang anumang naroon, pero nananatili
pa rin ang bakas ng pagmumukha. Unti-unti siyang lumapit para mas masipat
ang mukha ng babae.

Chuckberry J. Pascual 199


Ilang hakbang pa lang ang nagagawa ni Bree nang mapansin siya ng babae.
Sumigaw ito nang ubod lakas. Nahintakutan si Bree dahil may bumuka sa
blangkong mukha nito, pero wala siyang nakitang labi. Sisigaw na siya pero
natigilan nang may umangat na higanteng buntot ng isda mula sa tubig.
Sandali siyang napaisip kung may pating ba sa Malabon, bago naidugtong sa
isip na bahagi ng katawan ng babae ang buntot. Saka lang niya natagpuan ang
sariling boses: “Omaygad! Sirena! Omaygaaaaad!”
Bago niya pa namalayan, nagtatakbo na siya palayo sa malaking bato sa
dalampasigan, at inabutan na siya ni Teddy. Hinawakan siya nito sa braso
at hindi bumitiw kahit anong pagpupumiglas ni Bree. Natumba sila sa
maruming buhanginan, nagpambuno, hanggang sa makapangibabaw ang
binatilyo, at tinakpan ng palad ang bibig ng receptionist.
“Huwag kang maingay! Huwag kang maingay!” sabi ni Teddy.
Hindi niya malaman kung dahil ba sa awa o sa matinding gutom sa
maghapon, pero doon inabutan ng pagod si Bree. Napapikit na lang siya at
tumigil sa paglaban. Nang maramdaman ng binatilyo na hindi na pumapasag
si Bree, bumitaw na rin ito, at umupo sa isang tabi.
Ilang sandali ang lumipas na nakahiga lang si Bree at nakapikit,
pinoproseso ang nakita kani-kanina lang. Natigil lang siya sa pagmumuni
nang marinig ang paghikbi ng binatilyo.
“Teddy,” sabi ni Bree.
“Wala siyang ginagawang masama, wala siyang kasalanan sa inyo,”
bulong ng binata.
“Sorry, nagulat lang ako. Diyos ko naman, ngayon lang ako nakakita ng
totoong sirena!”
Hindi sumagot ang binatilyo.
“Teddy, ano ba ang nangyari? Bakit ganoon ang mukha niya? At iyong
mga mukha, bakit—?”
Huminga nang malalim ang binata, lumingon kay Bree. Tinitigan siya
nito, saka nagsimulang magkuwento.

Mangingisda si Mang Quentin, ang tatay ni Teddy. Isang madaling araw,


umuwi ito na may malaking huli. Nagtaka silang lahat dahil hindi naman
karaniwang nag-uuwi ng ganoon karaming huli ang kanyang ama. Apat
o limang kilo lang ang kadalasang itinitira nito, at ibinebenta na lahat sa
consignacion kahit palugi. Pero noong madaling araw na iyon, pumasok si

200 Maikling Kuwento


Mang Quentin ng bahay na nagmamadali, bitbit ang huli na parang higanteng
sanggol na lambat ang pambalot, sa halip na lampin. Nangalingasaw sa buong
bahay ang matinding lansa. Sanay na sila sa amoy ng isda at dagat, halos hindi
na nga ito rumerehistro sa pang-amoy nila, pero mabagsik ang lansang iyon.
Napatakip ng ilong si Teddy. Nang lingunin niya ang ina, nakakunot din ang
ilong nito.
Nagtanong si Aling Lolit kung ano ang huli, pero sinaway lang siya
ng bana. Agad pinakuha ni Mang Quentin kay Teddy ang pinakamalaki at
pinakamalalim nilang banyera, at ipinalagay ito sa silong ng barumbarong.
Pagkatapos punuin ng tubig ang banyera, doon inilagay ang iniuwi.
Nakapalibot silang lahat sa banyera nang tanggalin ni Mang Quentin ang
lambat. Sumaboy sa hangin ang mabagsik na lansa. Tumambad ang huli ng
kanyang ama. Muntik nang himatayin si Aling Lolit, mabuti na lang at nasalo
ni Teddy. Isang sirena ang iniuwi ng kanyang ama.
Nakatungo ang sirena nang una nilang makita, at kahit nagulat na sila sa
buhok nitong mahaba at kulay lumot, sa katawang may maitim na balat pero
hindi sunog (mas naalala ni Teddy ang mga hito sa consignacion), sa dibdib
na walang utong (wala itong suot na pang-itaas, at kahit na hindi sinasadya
ng binatilyo, dumaplis ang mga mata niya sa dibdib ng nilalang sa banyera.
Labindalawang taon lang siya noon, pero hindi na inosente sa katawan ng
mga babae. Karaniwang tanawin na sa Sitio Tagolilong ang kababaihang
nagpapasuso ng sanggol kahit nasa labas ng bahay), at sa buntot na kulay
bato (itim, pero pinilakan at makaliskis), hindi nila naihanda ang mga sarili
sa mukha ng sirena.
Noon lang nakakita si Teddy ng ganoong uri ng mukha. Hindi niya
mailarawan kung ano ang tiyak na itsura ng mata, ilong, at bibig, pero sa
kung anong dahilan, hindi mapigilang tumitig ng binatilyo.
Napuno ang dibdib ni Teddy ng kung anong galak, parang gusto niyang
maglupasay sa buhangin at magpasalamat dahil ang ganda ng mundo,
napakabuti ng Diyos, at nasisiguro niyang walang katapusang tagumpay
ang kanyang nakatakdang kapalaran—kung anumang tagumpay ang maaari
niyang magagap sa murang isip. Umakyat ang luha sa kanyang mga mata.
Makaraan ang ilang minuto ng paglulunoy sa emosyong dulot ng mukha
ng sirena, nilingon ni Teddy ang mga magulang. Interesado rin ang mga ito sa
taong isda, pero walang mababakas na galak sa mga mukha. Sa halip, parehong
mukhang gutom ang mga ito, at masama ang tingin sa sirena. Madiin pa nga
ang kagat sa labi ng kanyang ama, halatang nanggigigil.

Chuckberry J. Pascual 201


Hindi kumikilos ang sirena. Nakatingin lang ito sa kanila, kalmado ang
pagtaas-baba ng dibdib.
Inutusan ni Mang Quentin si Teddy na itali ng lubid ang mga braso ng
sirena. Naaawa ang binatilyo sa taong isda, pero wala siyang nagawa kundi
sundin ang ama. Binusalan din niya ito, para masigurong hindi makakuha ng
atensiyon ng ibang tao sa isla.
Gustong ibenta ni Mang Quentin ang sirena. Sinabi niya ito agad,
pag-akyat nilang tatlo sa barumbarong. Gagamitin nila ang pera sa pagbili
ng bagong bangkang de-motor, at panimulang bayad sa uupahang bahay
sa pangunahing lupain ng Malabon. Sa wakas, makakaalis na sila sa isla,
makakapag-aral na ulit si Teddy, makakapagsimula na ng munting negosyo si
Aling Lolit—uupa sila ng espasyo sa palengkeng bayan at doon magbebenta
ng alimango, alimasag, at iba pang huli ni Mang Quentin—sa halip na
paghahayuma at pag-uuling lang ang inaatupag nilang mag-ina.
Tahimik lang si Aling Lolit habang naglilitanya ng mga pangarap ang
kanyang bana. Mukhang nalimot na nito ang anumang emosyon kanina sa
harapan ng sirena, at napalitan na ng antisipasyon sa posibilidad ng pag-
unlad ng kanilang buhay. Maging si Teddy ay naapektuhan. Pumarada sa isip
niya ang mga bagong kaklase at kaibigan, bagong uniporme, at ang patsada
ng Mababang Paaralan ng Talong Punay na huli niyang nasilayan noong nasa
ikalimang baitang pa lang siya.
Pinigil ang pangangarap ni Teddy ng sigawan sa labas ng kanilang
barumbarong. May sirena! May sirena! Humangos sila pababa. Marami na
palang tao sa harapan ng kanilang bahay, at nakapasok na ang mga ito sa
silong. Hindi man nag-ingay ang sirena, ipinakilala pa rin siya ng kanyang
matinding lansa sa mga taga-Sitio Tagolilong. May isang nakalabit ang ilong,
nagpunta sa silong, nakita ang sirena, at tinawag ang lahat ng kayang tawaging
kapitbahay.
May grupo ng kalalakihang humila sa banyera mula sa silong. Pumapalag
na ang sirena, panay ang kawag ng buntot nito. Napikon ang isang lalaki
na tinamaan ng buntot sa mukha. Kilala ito ni Teddy. Madalas niya itong
nakikitang kasabay ni Mang Quentin sa pangingisda. Tahimik lang ito at
bihirang makisali sa mga inuman. Pero noong sandaling iyon, nag-ibang
anyo ito dahil sa matinding galit na nakaguhit sa mukha.
Nilapitan agad ni Mang Quentin ang lalaki para pigilan, pero itinulak ng
lalaki ang ama ni Teddy. Pagkuwa’y binaligtad nito ang banyera. Sumadsad

202 Maikling Kuwento


sa buhangin ang sirena. Lumapit ang lalaki at sinabunutan ang taong isda.
Lumitaw ang mukha ng sirena na kanina ay natatakpan ng mahabang buhok
nito sa pagwawala. Ilang sandaling natigilan ang lalaki. Umasa si Teddy na
mabibighani rin ang lalaki at lalambot ang loob tulad niya kanina, pero lalo
lang umapaw ang galit na kanina pa mababakas sa mukha. Inginudngod ng
lalaki ang sirena sa buhangin.
Nagtangka na rin ang kanyang ina pigilan ang lalaki, pero hinawakan
siya ng ibang miron. Nasilayan rin ng mga miron ang mukha ng sirena, at
tulad ng lalaki, napuno rin sila ng poot. Nag-umpisang magtungayaw ang
mga tao: sige, basagin mo ang mukha niyan! Halimaw! Patayin ’yan! Malas
’yang lintik na ’yan! Peste!
Lalo lang ginanahan ang lalaki sa ginagawa, at paulit-ulit pang
inginudngod ang sirena. May ibang hindi pa nakontento sa pagtutungayaw.
Dumampot sila ng mga bato at pinagpupukol ang taong isda. Mayroong mas
mapupusok na lumapit at pinukpok nang paulit-ulit ang mukha, katawan at
buntot ng kawawang nilalang.
Habang pinagtutulungan ng mga taga-Sitio Tagolilong ang taong isda,
lumitaw si Mang Quentin, hinahalihaw ng sagwan ang lahat ng madaanan.
Isa-isang nagsilayo ang mga tinamaan. Pinuntirya ng ama ni Teddy ang
lalaking nagpasimula ng lahat: pinaghahampas ito ni Mang Quentin ng
sagwan, walang pakialam kahit saan tamaan. Ilang sandaling natigilan ang
lahat, bago muling kumuyog. May mga umaawat, may mga umaatake na rin
kay Mang Quentin. Sumali na rin ang kanyang ina. Panay ang sigaw nito
habang itinutulak palayo ang ibang taong gustong saktan si Mang Quentin,
kayo ang mga halimaw! Wala siyang ginagawa sa inyo! Wala kaming ginagawa
sa inyo! Lumayas kayo rito!
Sinamantala ni Teddy ang pagkakataon. Sa gitna ng gulo, pumuslit siya
at hinila ang sirena palayo sa mga tao. Dinala niya ito sa malaking bato sa
dulong dalampasigan, malayo sa kumpol ng mga barumbarong. Doon lang
niya nakita, sa liwanag ng buwan, ang sinapit ng sirena sa kamay ng mga taga-
Sitio Tagolilong. Puspos ang paghingi ng paumanhin, hinilamusan ni Teddy
ang sirena. Nahugasan ng tubig ang dugo at dumi sa mukha ng taong isda,
pero tuluyan nang nabura ang mukha nito.

“Mula noon, binibigyan ko na siya ng mga mukha. Kumukuha ako ng mga


mukha kung saan-saan. Sumasama ako minsan kay Tatay sa consignacion.
Naghahanap ako ng mga lumang diyaryo at magasin, ginugupit ko ang

Chuckberry J. Pascual 203


mga mukha,” sabi ni Teddy. “Kaya no’ng makita ko ang mga tarpaulin n’yo,
sinamantala ko na. Nakita ko lang na parating ka na, kaya hindi ko nagupit
’yong huling mukha. Nalaslas ko tuloy.”
Nakaupo pa rin sila sa buhangin, malapit sa malaking bato sa dulong
dalampasigan. Nakalimutan na ng receptionist ang pagkalam ng tiyan. Hindi
siya makapaniwala sa kuwento ng binatilyo, pero nakaukit pa rin sa isip ang
nasaksihan. “Ano ang nangyari sa mga tao pagkatapos? Hinanap ba nila ang
sirena?” tanong ni Bree.
“Wala. Tumigil sila nung makalayo na kami. Wala na ring maalala kahit
sila tatay sa mga nangyari. Hindi ko alam kung bakit.”
“Hindi sila nagtaka na bigla na lang silang nagbugbugan?”
“Pagbalik ko sa bahay, sinabihan ako nina tatay na huwag nang
babanggitin kahit kailan ’yong nangyari. Gano’n din siguro ’yong iba.”
“Pero ’yong mga nawawalang mukha? Wala silang suspetsa?”
“Ewan ko. Limang taon na rin mula nang mangyari ’yon. Basta sigurado
ako, wala na silang alam tungkol kay Maya.”
“Sinong—”
Tinitigan siya ni Teddy bago nagsalita, “’Yong kaibigan ko.”
Natahimik si Bree. Binalikan niya sa isip ang pakikipag-usap kay Aling
Lolit kanina. Tila nga wala itong kaalam-alam tungkol sa sirena. Kahit pa si
Aling Edna. Nagtataka lang sila na laging may mga nawawalang mukha sa isla,
pero sa pagtutuos, malamang ay wala na ring pakialam. Naisip ni Bree, siya
man ang tumira sa Sitio Tagolilong, hindi naman niya ito pagkakaabalahang
ukilkilin pa. Marami pang mas mahalagang bagay na dapat asikasuhin.
“Teddy?”
“Hmm?”
“Bakit mo binibigyan ng mga mukha si ano…?”
“Si Maya ho?”
“Oo, si Maya.”
“’Yon lang ho ang magagawa ko para mag-sorry, e. Wala namang magso-
sorry sa kanya,” sagot ni Teddy.
Bumuhos ang mga tanong na sumulpot sa isip ni Bree: “Pero bakit?
Nakikita niya ba ’yon? Sinusuot niya ba ’yong mga mukha? Di ba mga papel

204 Maikling Kuwento


lang naman ’yon? Saka wala ba siyang mga friends na sirena? O, teka, teka.
Nakakalangoy pa ba siya o hindi na? Wala ba silang kaharian sa ilalim ng dagat?
Saka bakit ikaw ang magso-sorry, hindi naman ikaw ang may kasalanan?”
Natigilan ang receptionist nang mapansin na hindi na sumasagot ang
binatilyo. Nakasubsob ito sa mga tuhod at braso, yumuyugyog ang mga
balikat. Sinurot siya ng konsensiya: bakit nga ba ipinapapasan sa binatilyo
ang mga detalye? Mahalaga pa ba ito? Siya lang naman itong nakikisawsaw
sa buhay ng mga taga-Sitio Tagolilong. Nawala man ang mga mukha, tinahi
naman ito ng mga bata. Walang nasaktan, mayroon pa ngang nakinabang.
“Sorry, Teddy.”
“Okay lang ho ako,” sagot ng binatilyo, nakasubsob pa rin ang mukha.
“May ibibigay sana ako sa inyo ni Maya,” sabi ni Bree. Kinapa niya sa
kanang bulsa ang cellphone. Binunot niya ito, at noon lang nakita na nabasa
pala ito habang nagpapambuno sila ng binatilyo. Pinindot-pindot niya ang
cellphone. Walang nangyari. Napabuntong-hininga na lang si Bree. “Naku,
Teddy. Pasensiya ka na. Nasira na pala itong cellphone ko.”
“Okay lang ho,” sagot ng binatilyo.
“Kung gusto mo, ibibigay ko pa rin sa iyo. Ipagawa mo na lang? Bibigyan
na lang din kita ng pampagawa, saka ’yong charger—”
“Salamat na lang ho.”
“Ha? Anong salamat ka diyan? Puwede n’yo itong gamiting pang-selfie!
Alam mo ba ’yon? ’Yong pipiktyuran mo ang mukha mo sa cellphone? Ayaw
mo non, hindi ka na magnanakaw ng mga mukha?”
“Hindi naman ho kami nanlilimos,” sagot ng binata.
Dahil hindi alam kung ano ang isasagot, tumayo na lang si Bree at
nagpagpag ng sarili. Nag-isip na lang siya ng mga posibleng paliwanag
pagbalik, kung bakit mukha siyang nagpagulong-gulong sa basura. “Halika
na?” aya niya sa binatilyo.
“Hindi n’yo ba gustong makilala si Maya?”
Napaisip si Bree. Sayang ang pagkakataon. Wala naman siyang gagawin,
titingin lang, makikipagkuwentuhan siguro nang kaunti, saka magpapaalam.
Pero paano na lang kung mapuno rin ng galit ang dibdib niya? Ayaw niyang
matulad sa mga halos nabaliw na mamamayan ng mga Sitio Tagolilong.
Ayaw rin niyang isipin ang mga posibleng mangyari kapag siya pa mismo ang

Chuckberry J. Pascual 205


magdadala sa sirena sa mga kamay ng mga abusadong kasamahan sa barangay
hall. “Huwag na lang. Baka nahihiya rin siya. Saka nakakita na naman ako
ng sirena.”
Namilog ang mga mata ng binatilyo. “Talaga ho? Saan?”
“Sa amin, sa Talong Punay.”
“Niloloko n’yo naman ako, e.”
“Hindi, Teddy. May mga sirena rin sa barangay namin,” sagot ni Bree.
“Hindi lahat ng sirena, may buntot.”
Nagkatawanan silang dalawa. Pagkuwa’y umangil ang tiyan ni Bree.
Hinila niya sa braso si Teddy, at sabay silang naglakad pabalik sa kampo ng
mga taga-Barangay Talong Punay.

206 Maikling Kuwento


Tula
Pitong Tula
BUBOY AGUAY

Pahimakas ng Liwanag

Pumanaw na sa dulo ng mga uhay


ang huling hibla ng kanluran;
nakamasid ang mga maya
sa pananakop, pananakot ng dilim;
hinahalukay ang balahibong nais
iwaksi, iwisik ang kapit ng maghapon;
kumikislot ang mga dalag sa putik
sa unang haplos ng pagbibihis
ng ligamgam at hahampasin
ng buntot ang panlalamig
ng paligid. Ilang sandali pa,
mamimintana na ang mga bituin
sa mga lusak kung saan umugat
ang binti ng maykapal ng tumana
na ngayon ay nakikibaka sa mga pangitain.

Homo Erectus (Hubo sa Recto)

Wala na sina Mark, Edward at Mike.


Napabalitang nasaksak sa Bangkusay
ang isa sa kanila; kumakayod ng pedicab
naman ang isa sa Moriones at isa sa kanila
ay kargador sa Divisoria. Dahil ang kuwento’y

209
nagpalipat-lipat sa bibig ng mga bakla
at matrona, di na mahalaga kung sino
sa kanila ang inaagnas na o humihingal
sa pasada o kayod-kalabaw sa palengke;
ang mahalaga, wala na sila sa Dilson Theatre.
Hindi mo na kilala ang bagitong lumapit
sa iyo kanina at nag-alok ng kapirasong karne,
isang kibit ng balikat at iling na di matinag
ang naging ganti mo sa kalabit.
Papalayo ka na sa Avenida at salat mo
ang hita habang nakadukot ang iyong kamay
sa butas na bulsa ng iyong pantalon,
bumabaon ang kuko mo sa iyong hita;
pilit na hinahanap, inaapuhap kung may
natitira pang pakiramdam ang Recto.

Sando

Kapag sumisilong ako


sa aking sando
bilang unang tangka
ng pagbibihis
para akong nag-aaral
lumangoy. Kumakawag
ang kamay ko sa itaas,
ang ulo’y natatalukbungan,
sumisinghap sa pagitan
ng sedang damit;
naliligaw ako roon
sa aking kabataan
at lumilitaw doon ang mga bakas
ng tren-trenan; naririnig ko roon

210 Tula
ang mga putok ng baril-barilan.
Madalas tila iyon
ang kubling lunan
kung saan naitatago ko
ang aking sarili sa lente ng mundo.
Sandali lamang ako roon,
pagdaka’y lilitaw ang ulo ko
sa ibabaw ng damit
didikit sa katawan ko ang seda;
para akong nakagapos,
ang tanging naigagalaw ko
ay ang aking kaluluwa.

Sa Banda Recto

Bago iniluwa rito ng maligoy na tren


si Trina, bagong ligo, luwa ang suso
bumuntong-hininga muna ang Recto.

Santo Intierro Lámang ang Tulog

Sa Avenida, magkasabay
na nagkukurus
ang daangbakal at kalsada;
ang paroo’t paritong
sasakyan ay nagmistulang libing;
ang mga tao’y isang kalbaryo
lamang ang tinutungo,
tanaw na tanaw sila
ng Itim na Nazareno.

Buboy Aguay 211


Tatlong Poste Lámang ang Sukat ng Habambuhay

Isang kulintas lamang


ang naibenta ni Nene
buong maghapon;
dalawa na ang kulay
ng kanyang balat;
buong araw
tatlong halimuyak siya;
habambuhay
apat na buwaya
ang hayok na hayok sa daan.

Ngayong Gabi

Sana magkunwaring karagatan ang higaan


at ang mga unan ay maging mga sagwan
tutulungan tayong gumaod sa higit na malalim pang kawalan
Hahayaan nating magmistulang dambuhalang mga alon
ang kobre kama’t kumot at hampasin tayo ng tangrib
tulad ng ganti sa mga lapastangan at taksil.
Ngayong gabi sasambahin natin ang dilim ng pagtatampisaw
hanggang sa malunod tayo at lisanan ng lakas at hininga
habang niyayakap ang karimlan
kung saan lamang nagkakasilbi ang napakakikinang na bituin.
Hayaan mong tipunin ko ang mga perlas sa bubon ng iyong pusod
na gantimpala ng paninisid sa kaluluwa mong humulagpos
tulad ng kung paanong hinayaan kitang baklasin
ang mga kaliskis kong itinadhana na ng bigong pangingisda.
Oo, hubad ako sa iyo ngayong gabi
at noon pang ang higaan ay nangarap ng katabi.

212 Tula
Kinalas mo na pala ang galeon
DENNIS ANDREW S. AGUINALDO

Sa kabila ng mga laboratoryo

panay puti ang mga rosal


sa dakong atin. Sa mga dipang atin
kamakalawa pa ho ang ngalay na ito.
Kasalanan ba nino kung pula rin ang plasenta
ng kaaway, at malauhog? Depende
kung tao o lawin. At kung sistema,
halina’t dumahak sa sistema kung wala
ni isang lagas na talulot. Halika …
panay langis ang mga kamay sa gigilid
at nakagigigil ang imis ng mga piyesa.
Inoorasan kapuwa ang kalas at kumpuni
ang ahon at lusong ng mga biyas, at
may ikalawang buhay ang kobre’t kumot
sa ospital: may trapo sa ilalim ng kabinet.
Sa ibabaw: yari sa balát ang sagisag.

213
Sasayaw ang Reyna

Uka-uka ang batya nang huli itong nakita.


Kunwa-kunwaria’y halaman doon
noon, habang hawak mo ang hos.
Nakatikim ng ambulansiya ang aking anak.
“Kaya mo naman ang ospital na ’yon;
pasalamat ka’t hindi lahat ng tumawag
ay nasundo, nakaranas.”
Ulanan natin ang halakhak
hanggang umapaw ang asoge,
at ayan, heto, malalaki na tayo,
at muli’t lagi, pikon ang talo.
Biyak na ang poso, salamat.
Matagal nang gumuho ang batalan.

Ang nakalipas ay ibabalik natin

Samantala, daratnan tayo ng ulan sa bakawan.


Inaasahan kasi natin ang mga tagak
sa lumang tanggapan ng putikang kalabaw.
Tanda mo pa ba kung tagasaan siya sa burol?
Ipapaalala ko sa ’yo / kahit maputi
Inihatid tayo ng kanyang paragos sa panteon
kung saan walang gripo o saksakan ng koryente
(“Hayaan mo … susulitin natin ang baterya”).
Sa mga patlang sa pagitan ng mga ilang-ilang;
naghihimulmol na ang mga uwak.
Tuyo ang lupa sa laylayan ng kanyang pantalon
noon. At musmos pa ang kuwelyo
nang ginayakan mo ako ng mga amorseko.

214 Tula
Inaanyayahan ang tubig

lalo’t hindi pa hungkag na hungkag


ang sisidlan ng shampoo.
Sisimutin ng pandesal ang bawat bakas
ng malasado sa plato.
Maipapagpag pa ang pakete ng kape. Sa lamig
kagabi, namaluktot tayo sa magkabilang piraso
ng watawat. Ang hindi mapipisil. Gupitin
ang puwit ng toothpaste
at bulalo itong dukutin ng sepilyo.
Sino man ang magtaktak ng utak
sa hapag ng mga langgam
ay walang ilalagda sa lupa. Pasaiyo’t
humaharurot ang aking mga traysikel.

Ano itong dinadala mo

sa mga taong hindi marunong magpakintab ng sahig?


Nagpigil ka, at sa halip ay nagwika:
Narito ako sa harap mo, hypoallergenic akong lumalapit …
Nais kitang hawakan, ngunit baka hindi ko maatim
ang napipintong pagbitaw. Tila
sahig ng klasrum sa mababang paaralan
mamula-mula ang paahon ng iyong mga pisngi
sa rali noon. Ipagpatawad
ang mga binitbit kong cola para sa iyo.
Ano mang namagitan sa ati’y hindi ko pa naididighay.
Labinlimang taon na ito, apat na ang anak mo

Dennis Andrew S. Aguinaldo 215


at mapaghahay iskul silang lahat ng real estate.
Kukuha sana ako sa iyo ng lupa … kung kakayanin ko
ang iyong porsiyento, kung hindi pa huli
kung sapat ang patubig at matatamnan.

Kinalas mo na pala ang galeon

Kahoy na lamang ang mga kahoy.


Tapos na ang kuntsabahan ng mga lumuting lubid
nakaliskisan ang korte ng mga isda.
Husto na ang palabas.
Hindi sa hindi ka man lang humingi ng tulong;
salamat, hindi ka humingi ng tulong
at sa halip: ang pagsisiwalat ng hingalo
’yong walang iyak
tipong bagyo ngunit walang ulan. Wais
itong bata, ang gusto raw ay arko
kasi nga naman may pinto. Ganito ka sasagot—
“Dibuho lang iyan, ineng,
lulunurin ka ng pinto”—
kung mananatili ka.
(Aba’y pares-pares sila kung umakyat—bakit
hindi mabilang ang mga nagpaiwan sa pier?)
“Lulunurin ka ng pinto sa tunay na buhay.”

216 Tula
Gamot na pula

Aming iniintindi
kung hindi ngayon, bakit pa
mahapdi na, pinahahapdi pa ninyo
mapula na, papupulahin pang lalo
hindi ba’t kay laki ng kamay ninyo
kung sa kamay rin lang tayo tititig
at kung hindi sa parteng ito, saan
sino ang sa inyo at magpapakasakit
kung hindi sa inyo, kanino ho kami?
Higit ang hapdi ng hapding inuunawa.

Dennis Andrew S. Aguinaldo 217


Di lang Laláng
MARK ANGELES

T’nalak

Kumunday-kunday ang tapis


na t’nalak—humapong rara avis—
pumagaspas at umawit.
Bakas sa mewel ang kathambuhay
ng libon at ng buo niyang angkan.
Ito ang mewet ng T’boli sa kalikasan:
Hindi kailanman mapapatid.
Maging sa bugtong na panaginip
magpapatuloy ito sa pag-ikid.
Bawat hulwaran ay namumukod-tangi
dahil panagimpan ang talang nalimi
sa talaytay ng pula, itim, at puti.
Paghiga ng libon sa nakikiramay na kama,
matiyaga siyang maghihintay na mabisita
ni Fu Dalu na siyang diwata ng abaka.
Handurawan ay ikikintal sa kanyang noo
ng milagrosang si Fu Dalu
tulad ng bathalang nanaginip ng mundo.
Maaaring ang pahayag ay tigulang,
mga butiki, dahong nagsasayaw,
langkay ng ulap, tutubi sa parang.

218
Maaaring mabalasik na kampana,
nagliliparang mga pana,
kalasag ng mandirigma.
Banal na ang libon mula pagkagising
at hindi na maaaring abalahin,
kailangang ang abaka ay konsagrahin.
Ihihiwalay sa bunton ng sapal
ang gagamiting mga himaymay
bago harapin ang habihan.
Kailangang dagta ay kumapit:
pula sa katapangan at pag-ibig;
itim sa paghahamok at ligalig.
Sakripisyo ang paghimpil sa blaba.
Kailangang hulwaran ay umalagwa
sa bawat buhol at lala sa tela.
Hindi pinapayagang sumiping
ang libong naatangan ng tungkulin
tulad ng isang alay na birhen.
Aabutin ng ilang buwan ang sakripisyo
kaya laman ng isip, masagrado
t’nalak na tagapamagitan sa dibino.
Kubong ang t’nalak ng kapuwa-lumad,
lampin ng bagong panganak,
kaloob sa kasal kapag nagbabasbas.
Hindi maaaring tabasin o labhan
at kung ikakalakal, sa tanso ilagay
kung ayaw magkasakit o mamatay.
Tuwing ang libon ay nananaginip
nalalantad sa kanya ang daigdig.
Maging mga badya ng panganib.

Mark Angeles 219


Itim. Gumapang ang itim sa t’nalak.
Mariin ang babala ni Fu Dalu sa lumad:
Dumating na ang mga mangwawasak!
Wala nang masilungan ang mga ibon,
mga ilog ay sinaluyan na ng lason.
Itim. Itim ang panaginip ng mga libon.
Ngunit si Fu Dalu na rin ang nagdala
ng balitang tigmak ng panibagong pag-asa:
sa t’nalak dadanak ang tingkad ng pula.

Vakul

Ikalawang buhok
ngunit hindi lumago
mula sa anit.
Insignia
ng fenix sa yugto
ng lagablab
bilang taga sa gunita
ng awanggan at muling
pagkabuhay.
Lalang mulang vuyavuy,
saksi sa pangitain
ng pagbabagong
-bihis ng munting
arkipelago
sa dakong hilaga—
Wala nang natira
sa mga mandirigmang
umaawit ng rawod.

220 Tula
Wala nang dumadalaw
sa mga puntod
na may bakod-batong
balangkas-bangka
maliban sa mga turista
at arkeologo.
Wala nang ibig magbasa
ng langit
sa pagdating ng sigwada.
Nagsilakihan na
ang mga sanggol
na iniwan sa mga vakul
habang nagbubungkal
ng ube’t kamote
ang kani-kanilang ina.
Marami nang nagtatanim
ng kani-kanilang paa
sa mga banyagang bayan;
ni ayaw nang manghayuma
o mangkurag
ng dibang.
Tila ba tigib
ng nakalipas
ang Batanes.
Tinitibag ang korales
at kalisang bahay
para sa kongkreto’t bakal.
Ang vakul na panangga
sa sungit ng panahon
ay iniwang inuuban.

Mark Angeles 221


Takaan

Kabayong kahoy na nilikha


para itago sa pagawaan,
hinahaplos kang gaya ng isang bathala.
Matapos kang damtan ng balita
muli ring susugatan.
Salat ang talas ng sundang sa katawan.
Itinaga sa bato ang patibay:
ilang ulit mang maghunos
ng hiram na balat,
ilang kuwadra man ang kinapal,
hindi ka matatawaran.

Manunggul

Umuugit, hindi
sumasagwan ang gumagaod
sa taluktok
ng tapayang manunggul.
Dalawang katao
sa magkabilang dulo
ng bangka,
wala ni layag o katig.
Hindi na kakailanganin
pagka’t hindi
gigiwang o tatalikwas;

222 Tula
pagka’t hindi kailanman
naligaw
ang bangkero.
Nakahalukipkip
ang pasaherong
kanyang itatawid—
kaluluwa ng yumaong
ang mga buto
ay nakasilid
sa bangang sinakluban,
pinahiyasan ng alimbukay.
Mabibilang sa mga daliri
ang mga dalumat
kung ano ang himala
ng matandang tapayang
natagpuan sa karurukan
ng matarik na dalisdis:
Isang kasunduan
sa pagitan ng baylan
at Nagsalad: hindi
magiging maunos
ang paghahatid
sa inmortalidad
kaya’t nakatanaw
sa karagatang may gayak
na sangyutang antitilaw.

Mark Angeles 223


Plakang Tanso

Ipinahahayag ng batbat sa pilas na tanso


ang kahatulan
sa mga buhay na supling ni Namwran;
isang tipan sa pagitan ng panginoon at maginoo.
Anong ginto itong pinag-ugatan ng pagkakautang?
kasimbigat
ng sampung buhay; naisasalin sa kaapu-apuhan?
Sa wawa ng Lumbang natagpuang
nakalulón ang talaan sa binistay na buhangin:
sapantaha ng deskubridor ay ginto ang nadukal—
natanso
nang matantong tanso ang lumitaw. Bulawan
ang naminang makislap na plakang nakalahok
sa alabok; sampung siglong naghintay
ng dudukal.
Pinakamatanda sa kaban ng katibayang
ginintuan ang kabihasnan ng tinubuang bayan
bago nadiwalwal sa krus at limbas.
Bulawan gaya ng mga pahiyas sa katawan
ng nabubuhay at nawara
tulad ng marangal na si Namwran—gintong hikaw,
gintong kuwintas, gintong pulseras, gintong sinturon,
gintong ngipin; gintong bathala

224 Tula
na tampulan ng mithi;
gintong budhi na tahasang
isinalang sa timbangan katapat ng kalakal.
Tiim-bagang na tinanggap ang inakalang kapalaran:
kaalipnan
sa halagang ilang tipak ng ginto.
Binatbat doon sa pumusyaw nang pahina ang lahat,
ang lahat-lahat ng maaari pang lingunin.
Isang pilas ng tansong badha at mukha ng nakalipas.
Isang labí, isang labíng nawawala ang kapingas.

Mark Angeles 225


Estranghero at Iba Pang Mga Tula
ALLAN POPA

Estranghero

May naitago ka na bang tao?


Ako, tatlo.
Isa sa aking pitaka,
isa sa ilalim ng kama,
at isa sa aklat,
sa pagitan ng mga pahina.
Gaano man kakitid,
naipagkasiya ko sila.
Isinuot ko ang mukha
ng pagmamaang-maangan
upang walang makahalata.
Sa salamin hindi ko nakilala
ang sariling mukha.
Natuto akong sumipol
upang magbigay ng babala
na nasa may bintana
ang naghahanap.
Sa awang at bitak
nag-abot ako ng pagkain,
mumunting mumo
at patak-patak ng maiinom
sa loob ng maraming taon.

226
Napakaliit
ng kanilang pangangailangan.
Natuto akong makinig
sa pinakamahinang bulong.
Naturuan ko ang mga mata
na makita ang pagdapo
ng alabok sa sulatang mesa.
Hanggang isang araw
naglaho sila sa kaliitan
at pagbukas ko ng pintuan
nakita ko sila sa sanlibutan.

Tarangkahan

Hindi iyak ng babae ang narinig mo sa kusina kanina kundi nagdaang


hangin lamang. Hindi hangin kundi katok sa pinto ang iyong
pinagbukasan. Hindi katok sa pinto kundi tunog ng kadenang kinakaladkad
sa semento. Hindi kadena kundi takatak ng lumang makinilya. Hindi
makinilya kundi tunog ng paglakad ng isang bata sa mahabang pasilyo na
nag-iwan ng mga bakas sa alikabok. Hindi mumunting hakbang kundi
lagaslas ng tubig mula sa gripo sa tuyong banyo. Hindi tubig kundi
sapatos ng nars na may dalang heringgilyang puno ng pampatulog. Hindi
puting sapatos kundi umaapaw na laylayan ng abito ng paring walang ulo.
Nakatingin siya sa malayo.
Mahal na Mambabasa, nagtatagpo tayo nang mata sa mata, hindi mo man
ako nakikita.

Allan Popa 227


Biyahe

May nakatabi akong ale


sa loob ng siksikang jeep.
Hindi siya mapakali.
Bubuksan ang bag
sa kanyang kandungan,
hahalughugin,
isasara, bubuksan muli.
Nakangingilo ang paroo’t
parito ng zipper.
Lumaki nang lumaki
ang kanyang ligalig
sa gitna ng trapik
at nasagi ang aking bisig.
Bumuka ang kanyang bibig.
May umalpas na ungol,
ilang katagang naipit
sa galit na hindi mawika,
hindi mabuo ang mura
na dumiriin sa ngalangala.
Hindi ako napakali.
Hindi nakausog.
Sinilip ko ang sariling bag.
Wala roon ang hinahanap.
Hindi ko malaman kung saan
ibabaling ang tingin.
Wari ko nakatitig ang lahat
ng pasahero sa akin.
Hanggang magsalubong
ang aming mga matang
punong-puno ng pangamba
at habag sa isa’t isa.

228 Tula
Ang Tagagawa ng Palaisipan

Katulad ng silid mo, may apat na sulok din ang kanyang silid. Ngunit sa
pakiramdam niya, hindi pantay ang haba ng bawat panig. Gusto niyang
tinatalikuran ang bintana. Lagi niyang iniiwang bahagyang nakaawang ang
pinto. Hindi niya rin ito hinaharap. Pipikit siya para makiramdam. Kapag
sapat na ang talas ng mga linyang hindi nagtatagpo, ilalatag niya sa mesa
ang blangkong papel. At hahanay ang mga liwanag na pinahintulutan niya
sa silid sa kanyang likuran. Umaga na. Punong-puno ng mapagkukublihan
ang mga sulok ng kanyang silid.

Pinakamahaba ang Gabi sa Panitikan

Isa kang bata sa harap


ng estrangherong naghihingalo
sa gitna ng gubat.
Mabigat ang kanyang habilin
na tila hindi makakayang gawin
ng mumunti mo pang kamay
ngunit susunod ka sa kanyang pakiusap.
Hahakutin mo ang mga panggatong
para gumawa ng apoy
na susunog sa kanyang bangkay.
Kasama niyang mabubura ang iyong ina.
Hindi sila maaaring makilala.
Minsan nang lumambitin
sa iyong harap ang daan palayo
sa anyo ng mahabang lubid
mula sa bunganga ng kampanang
basyo ang tinig sa iyong pandinig.
Hindi mo ito nagawang kapitan
o igapos sa sariling leeg.

Allan Popa 229


Nakadiin ang gabi sa katawan
ng lalaking hindi mo malalapitan.
Ikaw ang huling makakikita
sa kanyang mukha, bata.

Alinsunod Kay Victor Hugo

Sa kabila ng karahasang nagawa natin


sa isa’t isa, sa kabila ng mga kasinungalingan
na pinaniwalaan upang makapahinga,
sa kabila ng mga pagdurusang
pinipiling hindi makita,
sa kabila ng mga nilimot na,
magsusulat ka,
gamit ang mga kamay
na marami na ring nagawang pagkakasala,
ngunit naniniwalang may mababago pa,
kahit munti, kahit kaunti, dito sa pahina,
ibig sabihin, dito sa lupa.

230 Tula
Sanaysay
Pugon na De-Gulong
CHRISTOPHER S. ROSALES

N oong bata pa ako, mga lima o anim na taong gulang, pangarap ko


talagang maging isang mahusay na mandirigma. Maging tulad ni Pedro
Penduko na nakapapatay ng iba’t ibang maligno, o ni Nardong Putik na hindi
tinatablan ng mga bala, o ni Panday na nakagagapi ng masasamang-loob sa
isang wasiwas lang ng espada.
Makalipas ang halos isa’t kalahating dekada, natupad din naman ang
hiling ko. Naging isang mandirigma nga ako. Iyon nga lang, wala pa rin
akong taglay na anumang natatangi o nakabibilib na kapangyarihan. Hindi
ko pa rin kayang iurong ang bundok sa pamamagitan ng mga daliri, pagalawin
ang mga bagay gamit ang isip, magbuga ng apoy o sapot sa palad, o saluhin
ang bumubulusok na eroplano sa kalangitan. Mandirigma akong ang tanging
armas lang ay tibay ng tuhod, lakas ng gulugod, at mahabang-mahabang
pasensya. Mandirigma akong walang tama ng bala o daplis ng kampilan
mula sa mga kalaban, kundi mitig sa binti, gasgas sa braso, at sandamakmak
na paltos at kalyo sa paa. Mandirigma akong araw-araw na nakikibaka sa
trapik sa kalsada, araw-araw na nakikipagpatintero sa peligro ng pagsakay sa
mga tren ng Maynila. Maaaring ang tingin sa akin ng ilan ay isang simpleng
komyuter lang. Ngunit sa tagal na ng panahong nakikipagbuno ko sa dagsa
at agos ng libo-libo, pulu-pulutong, bata-batalyong pasahero ng tren lalong-
lalo na sa Pambansang Daang-Bakal ng Pilipinas (PNR), masasabi kong isa
na akong magiting at full-blooded na Spartan (minus the abs siyempre pa).

Kompanyerong De-Gulong
Totoo, naging malaking bahagi na ng buhay ko ang mga daang-bakal ng
Maynila.
Noong nag-aaral pa ako ng pag-iinhenyero sa isang unibersidad malapit sa
Luneta, limang taon din akong naging suki ng noo’y tig-isandaang stored value
card ng LRT na siyang nagsalba sa ’kin upang di na suungin ang araw-araw-
na-ginawa-ng-Diyos na trapik sa Taft Ave. tuwing umaga. Noong kasagsagan

233
ng bagyo at parang bulto ng mga ipis na pinausukan at nagsilabasan sa kani-
kanilang mga lungga ang alon ng mga tao, ang LRT ang naging takbuhan
ng mga gaya kong basang-basa, nanginginig sa lamig, nakayapak, at parang
busabos na buhat ang sariling nanggigitatang mga sapatos matapos lumusong
sa abot-tuhod na baha sa Maynila. Noong makatanggap ako ng dalawang
malutong at mainit-init na singko sa major at minor subjects ko, sa himpilan
ng LRT ko minuni-binuo ang mga tamang salita at lakas ng loob upang sabihin
ko sa mga magulang ko na, Ma, Pa, sori talaga, pumalpak ako, hindi na ’ko
makakalibre ng pambaon at tuition, sibak na ako sa DOST scholarship ko.
Noong minsang mahuli ako ng gising para sa isang pambansang kompetisyon
kung saan ako pa naman ang naatasang maging presenter ng aming thesis/
project study, naging kaibigang karamay ko ang PNR na siyang sumaklolo
sa ’kin upang umabot pa ako sa nakatakdang iskedyul. Noong nagre-review
na ako para sa board exam, sa PNR ako sumasakay upang di maipit sa usad-
millipede na trapik sa Quiapo pabagtas ng Morayta at España. Sa pagtatapos
ng unang araw ng makabagbag-utak naming board exam, naging sandalan
kong balikat ang PNR (na himala-sa-lahat-ng-himala ay kakaunti lang noon
ang nakasakay) upang makaidlip ako ng kung ilang minuto at matanggal ang
lahat ng lumiliglig na ligalig sa aking isip. Noong maging isang ganap na nga
akong lisensiyadong inhenyero, sa PNR pa rin ako sumakay upang magsimba
at magpasalamat kay St. Jude at Nazareno. At ngayon ngang nagtatrabaho
na ako sa isang telco sa Makati, ang luma at kinakalawang na mga bagon ng
PNR pa rin ang nagdadala sa akin pauwi ng bahay.
Para na talaga kaming magkumpare, magkatropa ng mga tren ng Maynila.
Naging kasa-kasama ko ang mga bagon sa lungkot at saya, pait at glorya ng
liko-tuwid-kurbang biyahe sa daang-bakal ng buhay.
Sa pitong taon kong pagiging komyuter ng tren, masasabi kong bihasa
na ako sa pagsakay dito. Kabisado ko na ang pangalan ng halos lahat ng mga
estasyon sa lungsod. Aral ko na ang lengguwahe ng pagal-sa-maghapong mga
bagon, ang tamang tinis at tempo ng umuugong nitong sipol, ang heometriya
ng pakiwal-kiwal na kinakalawang na mga riles na pinamumulaklakan sa
gilid ng mga tambay at iskuwater, ang siyensiya ng pagtitig sa wala habang
ngarag na pumipila sa kahera ng tiket. Kung magkakaroon lang siguro ng
mga asignatura sa eskuwela tungkol sa pagkokomyut, pwede nang i-ruler ang
TOR ko sa dami ng uno. Kung saka-sakali, baka nga nag-cum laude pa ako.

234 Sanaysay
Bachelor of Science in Tulakan, Major in Siksikan, with Specialization in
Mahabang Pilahan
Maituturing na ngang isang kurso ang maka-survive bilang komyuter
ng tren sa Maynila. Ang guro mo rito—karanasan. Ang silid-aralan—ang
himpilan na nag-eextend hanggang sa kalsada. At ang exam na nagsisilbing
sukatan kung pasado ka ba o bagsak—kung makararating ka sa pupuntahan
mo nang nasa oras, umalis ka man sa inyong bahay nang advanced o sakto
lang.
Ang LRT ang unang humubog at nagturo sa ’kin ng “basic skills” sa
pagiging komyuter sa tren. Kumbaga sa regular na institusyon ng edukasyon,
dito ako nag-kinder, elementary, at high school. Sa LRT ako nahasang
tumakbo nang ubod-tulin—parang Super Mario na naka-turbo—sa tuwing
sumisilbato na ng pag-alis ang tren at humahabol pa ako sa pagpasok sa
tumitikom na salaming-pinto ng mga bagon. Dito ko rin natutuhang
magbalanse ng sarili tulad ng isang sirkero—tumayo sa gitna ng tren nang
hindi humahawak sa handrails, at hindi matumba o makadagan ng iba sa
biglang liko-talbog-kalabog-hinto ng mga bagon. (Ang teknik ay simple lang:
salungain ang direksiyon ng puwersa. Kung hihinto ang tren sa kanan, itulak
ang sarili pakaliwa. Kung umalog ang tren at mahuhulog ka na paharap, itulak
ang sarili patalikod. Mahalaga rin na may sapat na espasyo sa pagitan ng iyong
mga paa upang malubos ang kakayahang mabalanse ang katawan. Dapat ding
ituon parati ang lakas sa ’yong binti, daliri ng mga paa, at sakong upang hindi
agad-agarang mahulog). Sa LRT ko rin natutuhang matulog nang nakatayo,
at tantiyahin kung nasaang estasyon na ako kahit nakapikit pa ako. Siyempre
pa, dito rin ako naging maláy sa iba’t ibang uri ng mga kawatan, kaya nga ni
minsan sa buhay ko ay hindi pa talaga ako nadudukutan. Kabisado ko na ang
mga estilo nila. May Salisi Gang, may Laglag-Piso Gang, may Gitgit-Sabay-
Dagit Gang, at may Gawa-Tayo-Ng-Eskandalo-Para-Madistact-Ang-Mga-
Tao-At-Makadekwat-Ang-Kasamahan-Natin Gang.
Pagkalipas ng limang taon, nang lisanin ko na ang aking Alma Mater at
gumradweyt bilang pasahero sa LRT, tumuloy naman ako sa bagong yugto
ng buhay-komyuter ko. Ang inang ugat ng lahat ng riles sa buong estado, ang
kolehiyo ng mga nagsasabarbarong pasahero—ang PNR.
Maraming nagsasabi na malaimpiyerno ang sumakay sa LRT at MRT.
Lagi itong binabanggit sa mga salimbibig, higit lalo sa diyaryo, radyo, at

Christopher S. Rosales 235


TV. Mas pokus kasi lagi ang midya sa dalawang tren na iyan. Pero lingid
sa kaalaman ng marami, mas impiyerno sa pinakaimpiyerno ang PNR.
Dito, kailangan mo talaga ng matinding resistensiya at tatag ng loob para
makatagal. Parang Hunger Games lang, “may the odds be ever in your favor.”
Kung hindi, tanggal ka. Ligwak ka. Talo ka. O kung minalas-malas pa, baka
ang uwi mo’y hindi na sa bahay kundi sa ospital na.
Sa PNR, kapag sinabing siksikan, SIKSIKAN talaga. Exaggerated man
sabihin, totoong mas close pa kayo ng mga katabi mo kaysa sa dalawang
butas ng ilong mo. Gamit na gamit maski ang pinakakatiting na milimetro
kuwadradong espasyo sa sahig. Huwag na huwag kang magkakamaling iangat
ang isang braso mo dahil di mo na ’yan maibababa pagkatapos. Pati ang paa
mo ay huwag na huwag mo ring itataas nang kahit isang segundo. Tiyak,
pagbaba mo niyan, pulos sapatos, tsinelas, at sandalyas na ang maaapakan
mo. Nangyari na kasi sa ’kin ’yan. Halos sampung minuto rin ako noong
nakakandirit sa loob ng tren. Nasa gitna pa man din ako kaya wala akong
makapitang anumang handrail. Nanginginig na talaga ang mga binti ko sa
sobrang ngalay at mitig. Wala akong choice kundi magpaubaya na lang sa
pag-urong-sulong, pagpaling pakaliwa’t kanan ng dagat-dagatang mga tao.
Kahit weekends, balyahan pa rin sa PNR, lalo na kung Linggo. Ang
dating 30 minuto kasing pagitan sa pagbiyahe ng mga tren ay nagiging isang
oras. Kung kaya, naiipon nang naiipon ang mga pasahero sa loob at labas ng
estasyon na sa sobrang dami’y aakalain mong may gaganapin na munting
People Power Revolution.
Buti na lang talaga at una na ’kong nahasa’t nahubog sa LRT. Hindi na
gayon kabigat ang mag-adjust sa serbisyo/perhuwisyong hatid ng naturingan
pa namang pambansang daang-bakal ng bansa.
Sa PNR, hindi uso ang beep card o anumang magnetic card sa entrance.
Ang meron lang dito’y munting papel na tiket na kalimitang pinambabalot
ng tsiklet o sinusulatan ng Can u be my textm8? Walang anumang makina
o detektor dito na makahaharang sa mga di nagbayad ng pamasahe, kaya
umaasa na lang talaga ang buong pamunuan sa Pinagkakatiwalaan Kita
System. Mayroon namang inspektor kung minsan na nag-iikot-ikot sa mga
bagon at naniningil ng kaukulang multa sa mga nahuling di nagbayad. Ang
kaso, dahil para ngang San Marino corned tuna ang mga tao sa loob ng mga
bagon, madalang pa sa blue moon at umento sa sahod at regularisasyon ng
mga kontraktuwal kung maglibot ang inspektor.

236 Sanaysay
Upang makasakay agad sa PNR-Buendia, isa sa mga ninja moves na
ginagawa ko ay ang pag-angkas sa pinakadulong bagon nito. Doon kasi
bahagyang mas kaunti ang mga tao. Kung bakit ay dahil ang bahaging ito
ay hindi naman nakatapat sa elevated platfrom kundi sa kalsada na mismo.
Kaya naman tanging ang mga alagad lang ni Taguro ang nangangahas na
magtungo rito. May munting hagdang-bakal naman sa gilid na puwedeng
sampahan upang makaakyat. Pero sa oras na balyahan na talaga at pumipito
na ang guwardiya tanda ng pag-arangkada muli ng tren, kailangan mo na
talagang humingi ng tulong at magpaakay sa mga nasa itaas. Siyempre pa,
kung pahirapan ang pag-akyat, pahirapan din ang pagbaba. Dahil ilang dipa
rin ang taas ng tren mula sa lupa, kailangang matibay ang tuhod mo upang
kayanin ang grabedad ng paglundag. Sa karanasan ko, parang tinatambol
na gong ang bayag ko sa tuwing lumulukso ako mula sa itaas. Para na rin
akong nagpa-parkour. Ang problema pa, sa estasyon ng FTI kung saan ako
bumababa, hindi patag ang tatalunang lupa kundi mistulang burol na may
mga bato-bato pa. Minsan nga ay nagkamali ako ng bagsak at bigla akong
natapilok pagkaapak ko sa lupa. Ilang araw din ako nu’ng parang bagong tuli
na iika-ika habang naglalakad.
Noon, wala ring mga plakard sa PNR na nagsasabi kung nasaang estasyon
ka na. Kailangan talagang maging alerto ka’t mapagmasid, kung hindi’y baka
sa Tutuban o Alabang ka na makarating. Bawat preno ng tren ay required
ka talagang maghagilap ng anumang palatandaan o landmarks. Di kasi gaya
sa LRT at MRT na sa bawat hinto ay ibubunghalit ng drayber/announcer
ang kasalukuyan at susunod na estasyon ng tren, sa PNR ay madalang itong
mangyari, lalong-lalo na tuwing gabi. Ang totoo niyan, mas ipinapanalangin
ko pa nga minsan na huwag nang magsalita ang drayber/announcer ng PNR.
Kalimitan kasi, kapag narinig na ang garalgal niyang tinig sa lumang speaker,
tiyak na pagkasira ng makina at pagkaantala ng biyahe lang naman ang
iaanunsiyo niya. So shut up na lang sana siya, hindi ba?
Nagkaroon lang ng mga bagong pintang plakard sa mga estasyon ng
PNR nang magkaroon ito ng renobasyon bunsod na rin ng aksidenteng
kinasangkutan nito nang minsan itong tumagilid at madeskaril sa may
gawing Magallanes at magtigil ng operasyon sa loob ng halos tatlong buwan.
(Naglalakad ako ng lisensiya ko sa PRC noong hapong iyon ng Abril 29.
Mabuti na lang talaga at may dinaanan pa ako sa SM Manila kaya hindi na
ako nag-PNR. Kung hindi, marahil ay naging isa ako sa humigit-kumulang
80 na nasugatan at napilayan sa nakahihindik na insidenteng iyon.) Nang

Christopher S. Rosales 237


magbalik-riles ang mga bagon ng PNR noong Hulyo 23, 2015, isa ako sa mga
unang nakasaksi at nakaramdam ng pagbabago rito. Mas naghigpit na ang
mga guwardiya sa paligid. May mga nangangasiwa na rin sakaling may mga
sumisingit sa pila ng tiket. Mas maaliwalas na ring tingnan ang mga himpilan.
Sa loob ng tren ay hindi na rin gaanong siksikan at damang-dama ko pa ang
napakalamig na bugso ng aircon sa kisame. (Dati kasi ay maligamgam na
hangin ang lumalabas dito at parang bentilador lang na naka-number 1.)
Tuwang-tuwa talaga ako noong araw na ’yon. Sabi ko sa sarili ko, shet, ang
sarap-sarap, sana araw-araw ganito, damang-dama ko ’yong pinatutunguhan
ng tax ko.

Pero hindi rin pala ’yon magtatagal.


Kamag-anak pala ni Steve Harvey ang PNR.
Na-Colombia ako.
Sa mga sumunod na araw at linggo ay bumalik muli sa kinamihasnang
chaotic na sitwasyon ang PNR. O baka mas lumala pa nga kaysa dati. Nag-I
shall return ang matinding problema sa pilahan, tulakan, siksikan, singitan,
dukutan, at delayed na biyahe. Noon ko lang napagtanto na kaya siguro
kakaunti lang ang mga tao no’ng unang araw ay dahil hindi pa informed ang
lahat na umaarangkada na muli ang tren. Unti-unti ay pumalya na rin ang
ilan sa mga aircon. Naging bentilador na sila ulit na naka-number 1.
Sa kabilang banda, tulad ng MRT at LRT, natatakdaan din kung sino
ang mga pasaherong maaaring sumakay sa bawat bagon ng PNR. Ang
unang dalawang bagon ay para lamang sa mga babae, matatanda, at may
kapansanan. Ang mga natitira naman ay malaya nang sakyan ng lahat, subalit
ang karamihan ng mga pumipisan dito ay pulos kalalakihan. Pero kung
minsan, lalo na sa katirikan ng rush hour, may mangilan-ngilan pa ring mga
dalagita na nangangahas na makisiksik sa isinumpa-sa-sikip na bagon ng mga
lalaki. Ewan kung dahil nahuli lang sa pagbili ng tiket, o sadyang punuan
na rin sa puwesto ng mga babae, o sadyang single lang at naghahanap ng
ka-sparks sa tren. Sa mga ganitong sitwasyon sumusulpot na parang kabute
ang mga gumagalawang Breezy na pobre. May ilang pasimpleng nang-
aakbay o nanggigitgit upang madikit sa porselanang braso/balikat/binti ng
dalaga. May ibang hayagang nang-iipit upang mamasdan nang masinsinan
kundi man lubusang makadaupang-katawan ang nanunuksong “hinaharap”
ng morenang kolehiyala. Mayroon ding matitindi—humu-Hokage level.
Sinasadyang itapat-ilapat ang tigang nilang “bukana” sa maumbok na likuran

238 Sanaysay
ng kaawa-awang dalagita. Bagama’t paminsan-minsan ay makasusumpong sa
bawat bagon ng mga nakapaskil na babala ukol sa RA 9262 o “Anti-Violence
Against Women and their Children Act of 2004,” ang mga ganitong uri ng
karumal-dumal na insidente ay patuloy pa ring nagaganap.
Hindi naman fatal ang trapik, sabi nga ni dating DOTC Sec. Jun Abaya.
Hindi naman fatal ang maging isang regular na komyuter sa Maynila. Hindi
mo naman ikamamatay kung ma-late ka at makaltasan ang gamumo mo
na ngang sahod na nauna na ring kinaltasan ng gobyerno na hindi mo rin
malaman kung saang bulsa ng impaktong malignong demonyo napupunta.
(Sa ipinapatayong mansiyon ba ni senador o sa mga pa-jueteng ni gobernor
o sa mga kerida ni mayor? O baka naman sa air-conditioned na babuyan
ni Nognog?) Hindi mo naman ikamamatay kung ma-suffocate ka ng kung
ilang minuto tuwing sira ang naghihingalong aircon, samantalang kasuklam-
suklam ang bentilasyon sa loob ng mga bagon at hindi mabuksang ganap
ang mga salaming-bintana upang may makapasok namang sariwang hangin
mula sa labas (na kung tutuusin ay hindi naman talaga sariwa dahil malaon
nang giniyagis nang buong bangis ng polusyon sa kalsada). Hindi mo naman
ikamamatay kung matuyuan ka ng gabaldeng pawis sa ’yong likod, kung
mabilad ka sa gitna ng tirik na tirik at sing-init ng bagong kulong tubig na
araw, kung magsulputang parang mapa ng Ermita ang mga ugat sa ’yong
binti at eyeballs sa kapipila, kapipila araw-araw, araw-araw. Hindi iyon
ikamamatay ng mga pasaherong sakitin, hikain, may komplikasyon sa puso,
may kapansanan, at uugod-ugod na. Paespesyal? Nag-iinarte? Nagmamaselan?
Anak-mayaman? Hindi nila ’yon ikasasawi, ano ba. Hindi rin ikamamatay ng
mga babae kung mahipuan sila’t madungisan ang puri gayong wala silang
magawa kundi magtiis, manahimik, at magsawalang-kibo kesyo rush hour,
kesyo gano’n talaga at siksikan, kesyo choice nilang sumakay sa tren kaya
magdusa sila. Hindi, hindi naman fatal ang maging komyuter. Anong fatal
do’n? Sa’n banda do’n ang fatal? Pakituro nga.
Fatal ng ina niya.

Tren, Tren Desarapen


Mabuti na lang talaga, no’ng nagpaulan ng ka-witty-han ang Diyos, may
dalang palangganang sinlaki ng La Mesa Dam ang mga Filipino. Tingnan
mo, subukan mong bigyan ng sunod-sunod na delubyo/sakuna/pasakit/
problema ang mga Pinoy. Tiyak, iiyak siya saglit sa isang tabi, magsasara ng
pinto, hihikbi, mag-eemote, magbabato ng vase o naka-plastic na stuffed toy

Christopher S. Rosales 239


sa ibabaw ng kabinet, magwo-walling kung may malapit na dingding, pero
maya-maya’y ngingiti na, magdyo-joke na, at sa tinig ng komedyanteng may
sa-kabayo ay sisigaw ng isang nag-uumigting, tumataginting na “E di wow!”
Kung ibang lahi ’yan, malamang ay matagal na silang nagbigti, tumalon sa
gusali, o kaya’y nasiraan na ng ulo’t palaboy-laboy sa mga kanto at humihiyaw
na hindi bilog, hindi oblate spheroid, kundi octagon ang mundo. Totoong
hindi matatawaran ang pagiging resilient, masayahin, at bibo ng mga Filipino.
Lalo pang tumitingkad ang kulturang ito sa mga panahon na walang-wala,
wasak na wasak, basag na basag na tayo. Kumbaga, imbes na malungkot
at magmukmok at magpakapangit ka sa isang sulok, piliin mo na lang na
maging masaya. Idaan mo na lang ang nararamdaman mo sa paggawa ng
mga nakakatawa ngunit sarkastikong memes, sa pagda-dubsmash, sa pagha-
hashtag, sa pagpa-pabebe wave, sa paglikha ng mga hugot line. O kung artist
ka, sa pagsusulat, sa pag-awit, sa pagtugtog, sa pagpinta. Hindi naman ito
isang uri ng karuwagan, ng kahinaan, ng pagtakas sa bagsik ng realidad. Isang
coping mechanism ito ng mga Pinoy upang sabihin sa sariling okey lang ’yan,
kaya mo ’yan, ’yong bida nga sa pelikula sinuntok-sinapak at binaril na’t
lahat-lahat, nakatayo pa’t nabuhay at may 3-minute monologue pa. Ikaw pa
kaya? All is well, kapatid!
Kani-kaniya rin ng paraan ang mga pasahero ng tren upang hindi maasar
o mayamot o mabato sa loob ng kabit-kabit, kakarag-karag na mga bagon
ng Maynila. May ilang nagbibisi-bisihan sa pagsi-COC, o nanonood ng
telenobela sa I-Want TV, o nakatanghod sa bagong torrent na animé series.
May ibang nagse-selfie, naggu-groufie. Maraming nagpapakalunod na lang sa
pakikinig ng music. May ilan ding pirming umiidlip, kulang na lang ay latagan
mo ng banig, kumot, at kulambo sa himbing ng kanilang tulog. May ibang
panay ang chat at pakikipaglandian sa FB at Viber. May mangilan-ngilan
ding dakila’t uliran na nagbabasa ng nobela o di kaya’y nagbubuklat-buklat ng
kanilang teksbuk. (Di ko malilimutan ang isang bagitong estudyante noon na
armado ng bolpen at Casio scientific calculator na kuntodong nagpapraktis
mag-solve ng iba’t ibang Thermodynamics problems habang umaalog-
alog ang tren na di mo malaman kung sadyang nagsisipag-sipagan lang o
nagpapaka-ideal student o sadyang mamabi lang. As in mamabida. Takot ko
lang kapag nagawi siya sa Luneta. Baka barilin siya doon!)
Madalas, para na ring isang malaking entablado ng comedy bar ang mga
bagon. Sa mga panahong sikip na sikip ka na, pawis na pawis ka na, pagod na
pagod ka na sa loob ng kulob at nanggigitatang tren, may mga bigla na lang

240 Sanaysay
hihirit-babanat na kung sino d’yan sa tabi-tabi na pihadong magpapahagalpak
sa ’yo hanggang sa kaibuturan ng ingrown mo. At sasabihin mo sa sariling
shet, ayos na ’ko, solb na ’ko, masaya na ulit ang mundo. Ilan sa malulupit
at palong-palong punch lines na narinig ko sa loob ng PNR ay ang mga ito:
Tapos na New Year, ah. Bakit may paputok pa rin?
Mawalang-galang na, kuya. Ang paksiw, inuulam, hindi ginagawang
pabango.
Kasiya pa ’yan, maluwag ’yan! Araw-araw ginagamit!
Huwag mo po silang salubungin sa paglabas! Hindi mo sila kamag-anak!
Oy, ate, kalma lang, huwag ka masyadong manulak. Sige ka, baka ma-
“fall ” ako sa ’yo.
Kanina ’pag pasok ko, kamukha ko pa si Alden. No’ng paglabas ko,
kamukha ko na si Jose!
Putsa, ’yong matris ko naipit! Baka reglahin ako nang wala sa oras!
Hoy, totoy, huwag kang ilusyonada! Gusto mong masapak at nguso mo
ang magregla?
Minsan pa, isang grupo ng mga kabataan ang naringgan kong nakapag-
akda ng parodiya habang nakasalampak sa maalikabok na sementadong sahig
ng estasyon at naghihintay sa karimlan ng gabi kung kailan susulpot sa guhit-
tagpuan ng langit at lungsod ang matang-bombilya sa noo ng PNR.

Tren, tren desarapen


Bandila na, wala pa rin.
Awts, awts, laging sira’t
Tumitirik.
Braso’y pili-pilipit,
Haggard, losyang
Pag-uwi sa bahay!
Siyempre pa, hindi rin mawawala ang mga nakakaaliw na eksena sa
PNR na ala-Banana Split o Bubble Gang. Minsan, may mga aleng parang
nasa bahay lang na pirming nagkukutuhan, naglilisaan. May isang lalaki rin
dati na sa katatawa sa pinanonood niyang video sa YouTube ay bigla siyang
nauntog nang matunog na matunog sa matigas na hawakang-bakal, subalit
imbes na hipuin ang bukol sa ulo ay tumikhim lang siya at humagikhik muli
at nagpanggap na walang sinuman ang nakasaksi sa naganap na 5 seconds

Christopher S. Rosales 241


na kahihiyan sa buhay niya. Gayumpaman, ang pinaka-epic talaga sa lahat
ay ang lalaking muntikan nang ma-GOMBURZA. Noon kasi, tinatawag ng
mamang ito ang mga kapuwa niya pahinante (na kumakaripas ng takbo sa
pagbili ng tiket) dahil maluwag-luwag pa roon sa puwesto niya. Ang kaso,
biglang-bigla, sumara ang pinto. Talagang napapikit at napasigaw ang lahat
dahil naiwan sa labas ang leeg at ulo ng pobreng mama. Mabuti na lamang
at may sensor ang pinto na sa oras na may pumipigil sa pagsara nito ay
agad-agaran din itong bumubukas. Alangang napapangiwi na napapangisi
ang lahat habang hinahaplos-haplos ng mama ang namumula niyang leeg.
Biglang may dumaang anghel. May kuliglig sound. May moment of silence.
Pero maya-maya pa’y may di na nakapagpigil at malutong na napahalakhak.
Natawa na rin ang lahat. Pati ang mama ay napahagalpak na rin dahil sa sarili
niyang kasutilan (o katangahan). Ayan, tawag pa more! hirit ng isa. ’Tikan ka
na pre ma-Samurai! segunda ng isa pa. Sa bandang huli ay hindi rin naman
nakaaabot sa tren ang mga kasamahan niya. Ang mga katropa niyang inalayan
na nga niya ng pagmamagandang-loob ay siya pang nagpaulan ng katakot-
takot na pang-aalaska sa kaniya.

Benepisyo De-Bobo
May choice naman talaga akong hindi sumakay ng PNR. Mula sa
opisina ay puwede naman akong sumakay ng dyip pa-EDSA Ayala at doon
na pumara ng bus pa-FTI. Ang kaso, kapag gano’n ang sinunod kong ruta,
walang katiyakan kung anong oras pa ako makakauwi sa bahay, o, mas malala
pa, kung makakauwi pa ba ako nang buháy sa bahay. Pahirapan kasi talagang
sumakay. Bago pa mag-alas singko ay punuan na ang halos lahat ng mga
bus sa EDSA. Minsan ay sinubukan kong ipagsiksikan nang todo ang sarili
sa sinapupunan ni Joanna Jesh. Kasama ng mga kapuwa pawisang obrero
ay sumabit ako sa pinakabungad mismo ng pinto. Kaso, para naman akong
nakasakay no’n sa Star Flyer ng Star City nang walang anumang harang o
seatbelt. Buwis-buhay talaga kaya di ko na inulit. May isang Biyernes din
na talagang nag-effort akong maglakad mula Ayala hanggang Guadalupe
makasakay lang sa buwakananginang bus na ’yan. Pakiramdam ko no’ng
gabing ’yon, ang dumi-dumi ko. Para na akong taong-grasa. Tangan-tangan
ko na ang lahat ng polusyon sa EDSA.
Kung kaya, mas pinipili ko pa rin talagang makisiksik at masiksik ng
kung ilang minuto sa PNR kaysa naman ma-stranded nang kung ilang oras
sa kalsada. Biro nga minsan ng isang kakilala, sa sobrang hirap sumakay at sa
labis na trapik sa EDSA, kapag bumiyahe ang isang buntis mula Magallanes

242 Sanaysay
hanggang Trinoma, pagbaba niya, Grade 6 na ’yong nasa loob ng tiyan niya.
Partida, marunong na rin ng Physics at Algebra.
Kahit papa’no, malaking tulong pa rin naman talaga para sa marami ang
PNR. Halimbawa na lang, noong bumisita si Pope Francis sa Pilipinas at
isinara ang maraming kalsada sa Maynila, operasyonal pa rin ang PNR kaya’t
nakapasok pa rin ako sa walang hintuang review classes noon para sa board.
Noong mag-surprise strike ang mga tsuper ng dyip sa Taguig na bukod sa
hindi na bumiyahe ay hinarangan pa ang malaking bahagi ng East Service
Road, nand’yan ang PNR upang magsakay ng mga na-stranded na obrero’t
mag-aaral at umakay sa lahat ng bad vibes ng umaga. Maaga rin akong
nakauwi sa bahay noong panahon ng APEC Summit kung saan nagkaroon
ng part 2 ang penitensiya at Mahal na Araw ng karamiham dahil naging
isang dambuhalang parking lot ang kalsada at wala silang ibang choice
kundi ang mag-on-the-spot alay-lakad nang tatlo, lima, sampung kilometro
makarating lang sa kani-kanilang tahanan. (Di ako informed, magpa-fun run
pala ako pagkaalis sa opisina, post ng isa kong kaibigan gamit ang hashtag na
#APECtado.)
Sa kabilang banda, bukod sa pagiging isang alternatibong moda ng
transportasyon, daan din ang mga tren para sa mga naghahanap ng abentura
sa kanilang buhay. May isa akong kilalang matagumpay na propesyonal na ang
makasakay sa PNR kung rush hour ang isa sa mga nasa bucket list niya. May
mangilan-ngilan ding mga manunulat na sa integrasyon sa mga karaniwang
tao sa tren humuhugot ng iaakdang kuwento, tula, o dula. Hinahanapan ng
kahulugan/talinghaga/hiwaga ang bawat imbay ng kamay ng mga nakasakay,
ang bawat kunot-noo nila, ismid, kurap, singhot, palatak, bahing, gitla, gatla,
puting buhok, pileges, agnos, armband, at sukbit na kupasing bag na may
nakaguhit na peace sign. Ginagawang salukan ng emosyon at pantasa ng
pamdama ang sari-saring pasahero’t estranghero sa mga bagon.
Sa lahat ng mga nagnanais na magpapayat, mabisang solusyon din ang
PNR. Hindi mo na kailangang mag-enroll pa sa kung saang mamahaling gym
na kung tutuusin, ang tunay na pakay mo lang naman ay magpapawis nang
kaunti pagkatapos ay poporma sa harap ng salamin at magse-selfie at magpo-
post sa FB ng #StartingTheYearRight #ForABetterMe #BalikAlindogProgram
#ParaSaEkonomiya. Hindi mo na rin kailangang parusahan ang sarili sa
pagsa-South Beach Diet o Atkins Diet o Dukan Diet o Hanggang-Tingin-
Na-Lang-Sa-Lechon Diet. Hindi mo na rin kailangang tumungga ng tatlong
pitsel ng Fit ’n Right at uminom ng kung ano-anong slimming pills na sa tindi

Christopher S. Rosales 243


ng tama sa tiyan mo ay para ka na ring Harry Potter na may septology araw-
araw sa kabanal-banalang trono. Sa sobrang siksikan, tulakan, at balyahan
kasi sa PNR, pihadong matutunaw-matatagtag ang lahat ng fats at calories
sa ’yong braso, hita, at kalamnan. Para ka na ring binoksing ng sampung
Donaire, benteng Mayweather, at trentang Pacquiao. Para ka na ring naging
isang buhay na stress ball na pinitpit-pinilipit ng pawisan at pasmadong
kamay ng Maynila. May libre pang hard massage kung nagkataong sinlaki
nina Big Show o Dumbo ang makakasiksikan mo. Pati nga kaluluwa mo ay
para na ring na-exercise (o na-exorcise) sa tindi ng makanginig-gilagid na galit
at konsumisyon.
Gayundin, sa sobrang init sa loob ng bagon, na animo’y isang kalawanging
pugon na tinubuan ng gulong, daig mo pa ang nag-intensive steam & sauna
sa Ace Water Spa. Tiyak na bubukas ang lahat ng pores mo sa katawan. (Oo,
pati ang pores sa ’yong ear drums). Magtatampisaw ka hindi lamang sa sariling
pawis, kundi maging sa rumaragasang anghit at lagkit ng mga katabi mo. Sa
tindi ng amoy, daig mo pang nakadroga. May kasama pa minsang libreng
paligo kung nataong nasa tabi ka ng bintana at magbuhos ng kung anumang
mapanghi/malansa/maasngaw na likido ang mga nasa gilid ng riles mula sa
kanilang marurungis na arenola’t palangganita. Aabutan (o pupukulin) ka pa
minsan niyan ng mga batong panghilod na kasinlaki ng hollow blocks. Sa
mga makasalanan naman, may libre ring pabasbas ang PNR kapag natapat ka
sa palyadong aircon sa kisame na umuuha ng dilaw na likidong benditado ng
alikabok at kalawang. (Pati ba ang makina’y nahihirapan na rin at marunong
nang magdrama?) Marahil, kung guguhitan ko ng bibig ang mauka at
tuklap-na-ang-pinturang mukha ng PNR, uusalin nito ang pinakamalalim
na buntooooong-hininga matapos magsa-armalite ang bibig at magpakawala
ng katakot-takot na mura at sumpa sa bulok/bugok/ugok na gobyerno.

Lokomotibong Paurong
Ayon sa isang matandang kasabihang Tsino, kung nais mo raw magkaroon
ng isang maunlad na bayan, magtayo ka muna ng mga kalsada’t daang-bakal.
Nobyembre 24, 1892 nang ganap na buksan ang kauna-unahang
tren sa Pilipinas—ang Ferrocaril de Manila-Dagupan. Ito’y batay na rin sa
plano ni Don Eduardo Lopez Navarro at sa dekreto ni Haring Alfonso ng
Espanya. Totoo nga ang kasabihan. Hindi lamang naging daanan ang 195.4
kilometrong riles na ito ng libo-libong mamamayang tangan-tangan ang kani-
kanilang bagahe’t kargamento, naging daluyan din ito tungo sa kalinangan ng
lipunan at kaunlaran ng buong estado. Sa pagsasanga-sanga ng iba’t ibang

244 Sanaysay
lunan at ruta ay yumabong din ang komersiyo’t kalakalan sa mga lugar na
dati’y liblib, madawag, magubat. Sa paglipas ng mga taon ay nadagdagan
pa ang mga estasyon ng tren mula sa San Fernando, La Union hanggang sa
Legazpi, Albay. Samantala, sa panahon ng mga Amerikano ay pinalitan ng
Manila Railroad Company ang pangalan ng tren, na paglao’y naging Philippine
National Railways noong Hunyo 20, 1964 sa bisa ng Republic Act No. 4156.
Ito na ngayon ang kilala nating de-diesel na tren na araw-araw sinasakyan ng
humigit-kumulang 70,000 pasahero sa Maynila at Laguna araw-araw.
Pagkalipas ng 123 taon mula nang buksan ang PNR, matapos ang kung
ilang digmaan, bagyo, lindol, sakuna, pagkaraan ng kung ilang dekadang
pagpapabaya ng pamahalaan, ang dating 161 na operasyonal na estasyon ng
tren, ngayon ay 24 na lang. Ang dating 1,100 kilometrong nilalandas ng mga
bagon mula hilaga hanggang timog-Luzon, ngayon ay 56.138 kilometro na
lamang. Imbes na maging pasulong ang takbo ng lokomotibo, tila naging
paurong pa. At dahil hindi na nga (raw) kayang sustentuhan ng gobyerno
ang gapiranggot na ngang pondo para sa operasyon ng mga tren, ang PNR
ay nagbabadya nang ipraybatisa at ipaubaya sa mga kapitalista, gaya ng
malaon nang kinasapitan ng LRT, MRT, at ng marami pang pampublikong
eskuwelahan at ospital sa bansa.
Parang OLX lang. Di mo na kayang i-subsidize? Ibenta mo na!
Sa panahon ngayon kung saan parang spaghetting pataas nang pataas
ang presyo ng mga bilihin, pababa rin nang pababa ang pagpapahalagang
iniuukol ng pamahalaan sa sambayanan. Imbes na i-“boss” ang mga Filipino’y
inaabuso’t binubusabos pa nga. Noong 2015 ay tinaasan ang pamasahe
sa LRT at MRT ng 50 hanggang 87 porsiyento subalit ni gamunti mang
ginhawa ay hindi dito nadama. Mas tumindi pa nga ang sitwasyon. Saan ka
nakakita ng mga taong pinaglalakad sa tulay, sa gilid ng riles dahil biglang
tumirik sa gitna ang mga bagon? Saan ka nakakita ng tren na kuntodong
humahagibis samantalang bukas ang pintuan at isang maling hakbang lang
ng mga pasahero’y maaari na silang malamog, malasog, at maitsa sa ere nang
kung ilang talampakan mula sa lupa? Nasa 600,000 ang sumasakay sa MRT
araw-araw kahit pa 350,000 lang ang kapasidad nito. At ngayon, sasabihin
nila na taasan din ang pamasahe sa PNR upang gumanda ang kalidad ng
serbisyo nito, at tutal dalawang dekada na rin naman ang nakakaraan buhat
nang magtaas-pasahe ito? Maski ata di edukadong galunggong ay hindi
maniniwala sa kagunggungan nila. Napatid na ata sa makikitid nilang isip na
ang pampublikong transportasyon ay isang serbisyong panlipunan at hindi
isang negosyong pampuhunan.

Christopher S. Rosales 245


Imbes na paigtingin ang iba’t ibang programa para sa kapakanan ng
buong bayan, mas gusto pa ng gobyernong suportahan ang pagtatayo ng mga
mall at condo na iilan lang naman ang nakikinabang, bakbakin-aspaltuhin
ang kay ayos-ayos namang kalsada, magtindig ng flag pole na nagkakahalaga
ng 7.8 milyong piso (kapag itinaas ba ang bandila, bigla ’yang magbubuga
ng confetti at fireworks?), at mamigay ng buwanang 500 na limos sa bawat
pamilyang naghihikahos samantalang 10 milyong Filipino pa rin ang walang
trabaho noong 2015 (ayon sa SWS), at 7 sa bawat 10 ang nagsasabing
nagdarahop pa rin sila (ayon sa Ibon Foundation). Hindi ko talaga alam
kung saang brand ng semento humuhugot ng kakapalan ng mukha ang mga
politiko. Siguro, kung pagsasama-samahin ang kara ng lahat ng mga tiwaling
opisyal sa bansa, puwede nang makagawa ng earthquake-proof na gusali sa
sobrang tigas ng balat nila.
Panlima na ang Pilipinas sa may pinakamalalang trapik sa buong mundo.
At simple lang naman ang solusyon dito—ang pagpapalawak at pagsasaayos ng
mga daang-bakal sa lungsod. Kung magiging mura, de-kalidad, at maaasahan
ang mga tren sa bansa, magiging bulto-bulto pa rin ba sa dami ang mga
pribadong sasakyan na kakaunti lang naman ang laman subalit kumakain
ng napakalaking bahagi ng kalsada? Tatangkanin pa ba ng marami na ilabas
ang kani-kanilang kotse’t van gayong di naman kalayuan ang opisina at may
kamahalan ang bayad sa pagpa-parking at gas? Ang bawat isandaan o higit
pang mga sasakyan na mababawas sa kalsada ay napakalaking tulong na sa
pagluluwag ng trapiko sa kalunsuran. Kung maghihigpit ang gobyerno at
kapulisan sa pagpapatupad ng mga batas, hindi naman malayong ganap na
malutas at mautas ang matinding trapik sa Maynila.
Naalala ko bigla ang kumalat na larawan noon sa social media na
nagpapakita ng mga linya ng tren sa iba’t ibang bansa. Halos bawat kanto
sa Paris, London, Seoul, at Tokyo ay kris-krusang nadaraanan ng mga riles
ng tren. Napalilibutan ang buong lungsod ng daan-daang nagsasalimbayang
mga himpilan. Samantalang sa Pilipinas ay kayang-kayang bilangin ng Grade
3 ang dami ng mga estasyon, kahit pa halos isang milyon ang kabuuang
bilang ng mga sumasakay dito buong maghapon.
Sign of progress naman daw ang trapik, hirit ni Noynoy. Nagsisiksikan
sa kalsada ang maraming manggagawa, ibig sabihi’y gumagalaw, lumalago,
nananagana ang ekonomiya ng bansa. Kahit pa halos 3 bilyong piso
ang nalulustay at nasasayang araw-araw dahil sa trapik, tanda pa rin ’yan
ng growth. Hindi ko lang alam kung no’ng bata siya ay kinulang siya sa

246 Sanaysay
iodized salt, o kung gano’n lang talaga siya mag-isip dahil sa lumalala niyang
pagkapanot.

Digmaan sa Daang-Bakal
Isa sa pinakahindi ko malilimutang karanasan sa PNR ay ang naganap
noong Enero 22, 2016. Biyernes nu’n. Gabi. Gaya ng dati, naging ilog ng
mga nakatirik at nagngingitngit na sasakyan ang kalsada, kaya sa PNR ko
piniling sumakay. Nasa estasyon ako ng Pasay Road. Dalawang tren din muna
ang pinalampas ko upang pansamantala akong makapagpahinga sa upuang
bato. Nang paparating na ang tren ay isinukbit ko na sa harapan ko ang
aking bag bilang paghahanda. Ano’t bago pa man makarating sa platform
ang tren ay bigla itong huminto. Nagkagulo ang mga tao. May mga pulis
na dali-daling pumito’t tumakbo. Hinubad ko ang suot na headset upang
makiusisa. Biglang-bigla, sa di kalayuan, sa gilid ng kalawanging riles, malapit
sa may checkpoint, natanaw ko ang anyubog ng isang lalaking nakahandusay
sa damuhan. Sinaklot ng kaba ang dibdib ko. Pinalibutan ng mga pulis ang
lalaki. Panay ang satsat nila sa kanilang radyo ngunit wala namang maihandog
na saklolo. Gusto ko sanang lumapit upang makisimpatya, makibalita ngunit
bigla nang umandar ang tren at nagsakay ng mga pasahero. Pumisan akong
may nagdadabog-nangangalabog pa ring tambol sa dibdib ko. Baka naman
nadaplisan lang ang mama. O nadulas lang. O baka may shooting pala
ng pelikula. Maya-maya pa’y isang lalaki ang humahangos na humabol sa
pagsasara ng pinto. Nakiusyoso pala ito. Tinuldukan niya ang mga tanong at
agam-agam sa isip ng lahat sa loob lamang ng tatlong pangungusap:
Wala na pre. Sabog ang utak. Tigok na.
Noon ding gabing iyon hanggang sa sumunod pang mga araw ay pilit
kong hinanap ang balita tungkol sa lalaki. Ang lalaking iyon na wala marahil
ibang nais kundi ang makahabol sa paparating na tren, makauwi nang maaga
sa bahay, at makasama sa hapunan ang kaniyang pamilya habang nakatutok
sa paborito nilang telenobela. Matiyaga akong nag-Google ng anumang
artikulo tungkol sa aksidente ngunit wala akong nakita. Maging sa TV at
radyo ay wala rin. Ang meron lang ay ang tungkol sa pagkaka-link ni Pia
Wurtzbach kay Noynoy, at ang kawalan ng love life ni Kris Aquino. Sino
nga naman kasi siya? Hindi naman siya isang sikat na politiko, o boksingero,
o artista. Hindi naman siya kamag-anak ng kung sinong matagumpay at
maimpluwensiyang businessman. Karaniwang tao lang siya. Bakit pa pag-
uusapan? Singkaraniwan ng nasagasaang kiring pusa sa kalsada ang nangyari

Christopher S. Rosales 247


sa kaniya. Sino pa ang mag-aatubiling sumubaybay sa kuwento niya? Sino pa
ang magtatapon ng kapiranggot na awa sa isang hamak na layak na gaya niya,
na gaya ko at ng iba pa’y suki ring pasahero sa mga tren ng Maynila?
Matatandaang sa mga riles ng PNR minsang naglandas ang mga bagon ng
digma. Dito noon sumakay ang daan-daang Katipunero upang makipaglaban
sa mga sakim at mapang-aping dayuhan. Dito binaril, nabuwal, namatay ang
maraming Filipino sa ngalan ng hinahangad na kalayaan. Mahigit isang siglo
na ang nagdaan ngunit patuloy pa rin ang digmaan sa daang-bakal. Libo-
libo pa ring mandirigma ang sumasakay dito, at isa na ako rito—nakikibaka
sa hirap ng buhay, binabata ang lupit ng hagupit ng opresyon sa lipunan.
Ang masaklap pa’y hindi na mga dayuhan ang katunggali ng mamamayan,
kundi ang mismong gobyerno na nag-aasal banyaga. Silang nagpapanggap na
makamasa ngunit may pusong imperyalista. Silang nangangako ng tuwid na
daan, na ang dulo pala’y diretso sa bangin ng kamatayan.
Lagi’t lagi, bago pumasok sa loob ng estasyon ng tren, mamamasdan ang
mga guwardiyang panay ang pag-iinspeksiyon sa bag ng mga pasahero. Kung
makakapkap ay parang may ipinuslit o itinatago ka na kung ano. (Subukan
kaya nila minsang sa Malacañang at Kongreso mangapkap?) Madalas ay
nanggigigil pa sa kahahanap sa kasulok-sulukan ng bag kung may nakatagong
anumang patalim o bomba. Ang hindi nila alam, nasa puso ng mga pasahero
ang patalim at bomba. Araw-araw na humihiwa, lumalaslas, sumusugat,
sumasabog sa ubod ng mamamayang ganap nang tinalikuran ng pamahalaan.

Hayan na naman. Sinasabi ko na nga ba. Biglang tumirik sa gitna ng


madamong riles ang tren. Narinig ko na naman sa lumang speaker ang
garalgal na boses ng drayber/announcer ng PNR. Magandang araw daw sa
’ming mga minamahal nilang pasahero. Pasensiya na raw. Nagkaroon ng
aberya ang makina ng tren at di pa alam kung gaano ang itatagal bago ito
maayos. Kung maaari’y bumaba raw muna ang lahat upang hindi mainip at
mainitan. (Nakapatay na kasi ang mga aircon na parang bentilador na naka-
number 1.)
Paglundag ko mula sa nagsasapugon muling bagon ay bumungad sa ’kin
ang nakangiting mukha ng politiko sa poste. Halatang phinotoshop ang kutis
ng animal. Di ko alam kung ano na namang pagdadahilan ang sasabihin ko
mamaya sa opisina kung bakit ako nahuli, bukod sa pagkaantala ng biyahe.
Pero di bale. Idadahak ko na lang muna sa plastadong ngiti ng politiko ang
namumuong plema sa bibig ko: puta de leche.

248 Sanaysay
Salvacion
JOSE DENNIS C. TEODOSIO

M atagal na akong nakatayo at nakatanghod sa harap ng lumang elevator.


Ang pagkulo ng aking sikmura at ang pamimitig ng aking mga binti
ang mga piping saksi kung ilang oras na akong naghihintay roon. Ala-sais pa
lang ng umaga nang ipasok si Mama sa operating room at hanggang ngayon,
hindi pa rin nila siya inilalabas. Niririndi pa rin ang tainga ko ng walang
kaasug-asog na turan sa akin ng nakabusangot na nurse kanina, “D’yan ka
lang.” Dahil doon, ayun, hindi na ako natinag pa sa puwestong iyon.
Walang nagsabi sa aking magiging malaking dusa pala ang paghihintay
ko sa harap ng lumang elevator na iyon. Ni hindi pumasok sa isip ko ang
ganoong pangitain. Nakondisyon akong matatapos ang operasyon ni Mama
sa loob lang ng isa o dalawang oras.
Kagabi, ako ang tokang tumingin kay Mama. Naghahanda na kasing
lumipad si Glenn pa-Middle East. Sinuwerte siyang mabak-apan ng isang
kapitbahay naming matagal-tagal na rin doon. Iyong susuwelduhin daw
niya, tama lang sa mga gastusin nila. Tatlo na rin kasi ang tsikiting niya at
lahat, nagsisipag-aral na. Dalawang taon ang pinirmahan niyang kontrata.
Para sa akin, mas mabuti na rin iyon—kaysa wala. Para makaalis, nabraso
niya akong magpahiram ng pera. Kahit gipit, hindi pa rin ako nakatanggi.
Umasa siyang gagawa ako ng paraan (dahil ako ang panganay sa aming tatlo).
Hindi nga lang namin napag-usapan kung babayaran niya ako o hindi. Si
Erwin naman, ang bunso namin, mula nang ma-lay off sa huling pinasukan
niya, nalulong na sa katamaran. Mahigit limang taon na rin siyang tambay.
Hindi nakatulong ang pambubulyaw ko. Katwiran niya, hindi naman siya
ang dapat sisihin kung wala siyang mapasukan. Pinalampas ko na lang ang
pamimilosopo niya kasi, kahit papaano, naaasahan siya ni Mama sa bahay
(kasi, ako, nakabukod naman sa kanila). Isa pa, mabuti na lang, may trabaho
iyong ex-wife niya at nasusustentuhan ang pag-aaral at pangangailangan ng
nag-iisa nilang anak. Dahil wala siyang pinagkakakitaan, naging kargo ko na
rin siya (at ang anak nila) dahil kay Mama sila nakapisan. Pinauwi ko muna
si Erwin para asikasuhin ang bahay.

249
Hindi ako iyong tipong palagay ang loob kapag nakikipaghuntahan sa
kapamilya. Parang meron akong “split personality.” Sa labas, maboka ako.
Ako ang laging bangka. Maingay. Palabiro. Maraming hirit. Life of the party,
sabi nga nila. Pero pagdating sa amin, tameme ako. Kapag pumasok na ako
sa bahay, bigla, parang nalululon ko ang dila ko. Wala akong masabi. Wala
akong ganang makipag-repartee. At kinasanayan na nila iyon sa akin. Hindi
ko alam kung ba’t ganoon ang naging siste ko. Suspetsa ko, dahil siguro iyon
sa trabaho ko. Pag-uwi ko kasi, nagkukulong na lang ako sa kuwarto para
bunuin ang mga iskrip na dapat ipasa. Lumalabas lang ako kung kakain na o
talagang kailangang mag-inat-inat. Paano pa ako gaganahang magsalita kung
puro salita na ang binubuno ko at pinipiga sa utak ko—sa araw-araw?
Tapos, kagabi, bago kami matulog, kinailangan kong kausapin si Mama.
Hindi madali iyon para sa akin. Hindi kasi niya maitagong kinukubabawan
siya ng takot na walang pangalan. Banas ako pero sumige na lang ako. Sa isip
ko, hindi na ako dapat magpasakalye. Dapat, sabihin ko sa kaniyang tigilan
na niya ang arte. Hindi makatutulong ang pagdadrama. Pero walang ganoong
ibinulalas ang aking bibig. Kasunod ng isang malalim na buntonghininga,
bumaling ako kay Mama at bumanat, “Ano ba ang ipinag-aalala mo? ’Pag
gising mo, tapos na ang lahat. Uuwi na tayo. Ayos ka na.” Sa tono ko, at sa
mga pangungusap ko na walang “po” at “opo,” parang kapa ko ang lahat.
Walang sasablay. Pero sa halip na humirit si Mama na katulad ng nakagawian
niya, lumayo lang siya ng tingin sa akin, parang paslit na nasigawan at
naghahanap ng paraan para maitago ang tinamong hiya. Hindi nakatulong
ang katahimikang namagitan sa amin. Dahil sa ginawa ni Mama, bigla,
sinunggab ako ng matinding galit. Narinig ko ang sarili kong paghinga, tanda
kung paano ko pinigilan ang tuluyang mapundi. Tapos, narinig ko si Mama.
Bawi niya, “Gano’n lang ata ’ko. Maraming inaalala. Maraming iniisip.” Pero
sa halip na kumalma, kumabig pa ako. Tumaas at lumakas ang boses ko. Sa
bawat bitaw ko, halata ang panlalait. Sabi ko, “Ba’t ka pa kasi nag-aalala at
nag-iisip? Ooperahan ka na nga bukas, di ba?” Salo niya, “Pero, pa’no kung—”
Tumingin ako sa kisame. Hindi ako nakasagot. Wala akong naisagot.
Hindi man natapos ni Mama ang sasabihin niya, parang malinaw na agad
ang tinutumbok niya. Peste. Saan ba ako huhugot ng paliwanag, ng pansalag?
Bigla, parang may lumatay sa aking pisngi. Bigla, parang sinampal ako ni
Mama. Malakas. Walang pasintabi. Parang ipinamukha niya sa akin kung
gaano kakitid ang utak ko, kung paano ako umaastang nagmamalaki, kung
paano ko binalewala ang pangambang bumabagabag sa kaniya ngayon.
Parang sinabi niya sa akin, “Wala kang utang na loob. Kung pagsalitaan mo

250 Sanaysay
ako, parang hindi ako ang nagluwal sa ’yo. Di porke ikaw ang sasagot ng
mga gastusin sa ospital, may karapatan kang umangas nang gan’yan. Ano ba
ang problema mo? Di mo pa rin ba nasasakyan ang sinasabi ko? Pa’no kung
magkabulilyaso sa operating room? Pa’no kung mamatay ako?”
Kung isang eksena lang ang lahat sa iskrip na isinusulat ko, parang wala
akong magiging hasel. Magiging madulas ang batuhan ng linya. Pero, letse,
iba ang totoong buhay. Sa totoong buhay, di uubra ang dialogue techniques.
Sa totoong buhay, matalim at madaling makasugat ang mga salitang
binibitawan.
Para makadistansiya, agad kong pinalipad ang utak ko.
Kailan nga ba ako huling nagkasakit? Dalawang okasyon lang naaalala
ko. Una, noong binulutong ako. Si Mama ang nagtiyang naglanggas sa mga
sugat kong nagnanaknak. Ngalngal lang ako nang ngalngal dahil sa sakit at
hapdi pero paulit-ulit lang niyang sinabing gagaling din ako. Grade 5 yata
ako noon. Hinding-hindi ko makakalimutan na binulutong ako dahil sa
mga peklat ko. Tapos, noong nasa second year high school na ako, tinamaan
naman ako ng sore eyes. Grabe ang trauma na dinanas ko noon. Sa lugar
namin, parang ako ang pinakaunang nagkaroon ng sore eyes. Sa madaling
sabi, ako ang napagbintangang virus carrier. Ayun, iniwasan ako ng lahat.
Iyong tiyahin kong nakatira malapit sa amin, sininghalan ako. Sabi niya, “Oy,
wag kang pupunta rito. ’Wag kang lalapit sa ’min.” Mangangatwiran pa sana
ako pero malakas niyang sinalya ang pintuan nila. Pakiwari ko, aso akong
binato para kumaripas ng takbo. Kumahol man ako, di na ako makakakagat.
Bumahag na ang buntot ko. Ang sama-sama ng loob ko noon. Hanggang
ngayon, galit pa rin ako sa tiyahin kong iyon dahil sa sinabi at ginawa niya
sa akin. Pakiwari ko, OA ang naging pagtrato niya sa akin. Sore eyes ang
tumama sa akin—hindi ketong. Pero si Mama, hawak ang Eye Mo, walang
kagatol-gatol na nagsabi sa akin, “Halika, patakan natin nito ang mga mata
mo. ’Wag mo na lang intindihin ang Tita mo. Praning ’yon.” Parang meron
invisible shield si Mama. Parang meron siyang kung anong secret power laban
sa sore eyes. Si Papa, si Glenn, at si Erwin—lahat kami sa bahay—nagka-sore
eyes. Pero si Mama, hindi.
Napuwersa akong bumalik sa nangyayari nang muli kong marinig si
Mama. “Pasensya na,” bawi niya. Medyo basag na ang boses niya noon.
Parang isang pangungusap pa, maningilid na ang luha niya. Pumikit ako,
tapos, napabuntonghininga. Paraan ko iyon para magkunwaring ako pa rin
ang may kontrol sa sitwasyon at hindi ako natitinag o naaantig. Naisip ko,

Jose Dennis C. Teodosio 251


dapat, hindi sumagi sa isip ni Mama na nag-aalala na rin ako, na binabagabag
na rin ako ng pangambang lumalamon sa kaniya. Naisip ko, sana, bulutong
o sore eyes na lang ang dumali kay Mama. Kahit paano, magiging patas kami
at makababawi ako. Matatapatan ko ang paglalanggas niya ng mga sugat ko
o pagpatak niya ng Eye Mo sa mga mata ko. Pero, hindi ganoon, e. Dahil sa
edad ni Mama, may namuo raw na bato sa daluyan ng ihi niya. Kasinglaki na
ng piso ang bato kaya kailangan siyang operahan.
Kailan lang namin nalaman ang kondisyon ni Mama. Nilagnat siya at
kinailangang isugod sa ospital. Tapos, kung anu-anong laboratory tests ang
ginawa para malaman ang dahilan. Na-bad trip talaga ’ko noon. Nataon pa
kasing katatapos lang ng isang project ko. Para sa katulad kong freelancer,
pinakanakakatakot ang pagtatapos ng isang project kasi hindi ko alam kung
may kasunod pa. Iyong kinita ko roon, sakto lang pambayad sa hinuhulugang
bahay at lupa at pantawid sa mga dapat bayarin bago matapos ang buwan.
Hindi ko alam kung saan ako huhugot ng pambayad sa doktor at sa mga
niresetang gamot para kay Mama. Meron akong checking account sa Cainta
Rural Bank pero ang laman noon, tama lang pang-minimum balance.
Kapag nag-withdraw ako ng sandaan, malilintikan na ’ko. Hindi ko naman
p’wedeng ipangalandakan sa lahat na kapos ako. Bulong sa akin ng pride ko,
malalagpasan mo rin iyan. Kapit ka lang. Ayun, kumapit nga ako. Kaya lang,
matalim ang nakapitan ko. Literal na nagkasugat-sugat ang mga kamay ko.
May nautangan nga ako pero nadale ako sa laki ng tubo.
Kasunod noon, naalala ko iyong alkansiya ni Mama. Parang nasa
third year high school ako nang magwelga sila Papa. Napilitan si Mama na
tumanggap ng mga labada at plantsahin. Iyong kinikita niya, hinuhulog
niya sa malaking garapon. Kapag may biglaang gastos sa school, doon siya
kumukuha ng iaabot sa akin. Dahil masinop si Mama at tila wala siyang pagod
maglaba at mamalantsa, mabilis na napuno ang garapon niya. Sakto namang
nagbukas ang kauna-unahang sinehan sa may amin. Para makapanood, hindi
ako nagdalawang-isip na kumupit ng pera sa garapon. Ang yabang-yabang
ko pagkatapos kong mapanood ang Dolphy’s Angels in Technicolor. Pag-uwi
ko, hindi ko na nakita pa ang garapon ni Mama. Inilipat niya iyon sa ibang
taguan. Mas nakonsensiya ako nang wala akong narinig mula kay Mama.
Ni hindi niya ako sinumbatan. Para makabawi, tinipid ko ang baon ko (na
galing din kay Mama). Tapos, isang araw, inabot ko sa kaniya ang naipon ko.
Paliwanag ko, bayad iyon sa kinupit ko sa kaniya dati. Ngumiti lang si Mama.
Tapos, tinanggihan niya ang iniabot ko. Gamitin ko na lang daw pampanood
ng sine. Narinig daw niyang may bagong pelikula si Chiquito. Masaklap

252 Sanaysay
isipin na sa paglipas ng panahon, hindi na kinaya ni Mama na mag-ipon pa
ng pera sa garapon. Hindi na rin kasi kinaya ng katawan niya ang tumanggap
pa ng labada at plantsahin.
Aminado ako. Hirap akong mag-move on sa usapin ng pera sa garapon.
Para makabawas ng bigat, nag-ipon ako pambili ng isang mamahaling bag
para kay Mama. Kumbinsi ko sa sarili, symbolically, papalitan ko ang garapon
niya ng mamahaling bag. Kung meron man siyang naitatabi, mag-le-level up
na siya kasi, bag na ang gagamitin niya—at hindi garapon. Nang ibinigay
ko sa kaniya ang bag, normal ang reaksyon niya. Nagustuhan daw niya ang
kulay—pula. Sabi ko, “Tingnan mo ang brand.” Binasa niya ang tatlong letra
sa bag—Y S L. Tapos, tumingin siya sa akin. “Mahal ba ’to?” Bigla, napikon
ako. Alam kong hindi niya binalak na b’wisitin ako pero hindi ko talaga
kinaya ang hinirit niya. Dahil napikon ako, tumahimik na lang ako. Mabilis
namang napik-ap iyon ni Mama. Ngumiti siya at bumanat, “Masaya na rin
ako kasi para akong si Aling Dionisia.” Sabi ko, “Sino?” Paliwanag ni Mama,
“Si Aling Dionisia. ’Yong nanay ni Manny Pacquiao. Niregaluhan din s’ya
ni Manny ng bag. Sa akin, YSL. Sa kaniya, Hermes.” Inulit ko ang Hermes
(nang may tamang articulation). Parang nalito si Mama. Ipinaliwanag kong
mali siya sa pagsasabi ng Hermes. Humagalpak siya. Naisip niyang mahirap
palang i-pronounce ang bag ng mga sosyal. Napangisi ako. Tapos, sa isip ko,
pumasok ang pagkakapareho at pakakaiba namin ni Manny Pacquiao. Pareho
naming ginagamit ang mga kamay namin. Siya, para sa boxing. Ako, para
magsulat. Magkaiba kami kasi siya, may pera. Ako, isang kahig, isang tuka.
Hindi ko na sinabi iyon kay Mama. Natuwa na akong makita siyang kalong-
kalong ang bag na pinag-ipunan ko para sa kaniya. At sa wakas, naka-move
on na rin ako.
Nang matiyak na may batong bumabara sa daluyan ng ihi ni Mama,
diniretso ako ng doktor. Kailangan daw ng operasyon para maiwasan ang
komplikasyon. Sumeryoso ang mukha niya nang sabihin niya ang salitang
“komplikasyon.” Diniretso ko rin ang doktor. Salo ko, “Magkano po ba?”
Ngumisi lang ang doktor. Tapos, sabi niya, “P’wede kang humingi ng second
opinion.” Bulong sa akin ni Mama, “Anong ibig sabihin ni Dok?” Sinagot ko
lang si Mama nang nakalabas na kami sa clinic. Sinagot ko siya sa paraang
hindi siya malilito. Tanong niya ulit, “O, ano na?” Sabi ko, “Kailangan natin
ng malaking pera.” Hanggang sa makauwi kami sa bahay, hindi na humirit
o kumibo pa si Mama. Alam kong alam niyang pag pera ang pag-uusapan,
madali akong napipikon. Sa pananahimik niya, para na rin niyang sinabing
ako na ang bahalang dumiskarte. Mag-aantabay na lang siya.

Jose Dennis C. Teodosio 253


Humingi ako ng tulong sa mga kaibigan at kakilala. Sinabi ko kung
magkano ang kailangan ko para sa operasyon ni Mama. Pero sa halip na
tulong, pawang puro mga insulto at kutya ang nakuha ko sa kanila. Sabi ng
isa, “Pasalamat ka at hindi kanser. Mareremedyuhan pa ’yan. Ayos na rin ’yan,
di ba?” Kompara ng isa, habang nakangising parang si Joker, “Si Mommy ko,
weak ang heart. Sa pang-maintenance pa lang n’ya, namumulubi na kami.
Gusto mo palit na lang sila ng sakit?” Tapos, iyong isa pa, “Punta kayo sa
Manaoag, Friend. Makukuha ’yan sa dasal.” Kung hindi ko pinigilan ang
sarili kong manuntok, malamang, sa kulungan ako nagpatuloy mag-isip kung
paano maitatawid ang operasyon ni Mama.
Maraming gabing nakatitig lang ako sa kisame at umaasang may
himalang mangyayari. Kinumbinsi ko sa aking sarili na merong genie o fairy
godmother na kayang magkaloob ng anumang hihilingin ko. Pero, mabilis
na lumipas ang mga araw. Walang genie o fairy godmother na tumulong sa
akin. At kung meron man akong natiyak, isang bagay lang ’yon—walang
maibubunga o maitutulong ang pagtitig ko sa kisame.
Dahil sa Google, nagkaroon ako ng kaunting pag-asa. Gamit ang search
engine, naghanap ako ng mga paraan para maremedyuhan ang nakabarang
bato sa daluyan ng ihi ni Mama. Para sa akin, ang ibig sabihin ng paraan
ay iyong “mura”—iyong hindi kakailanganing gumastos ng malaki. Merong
nagsasabi na dapat uminom lang ng ganoon at ng ganito. Meron din akong
nabasa tungkol sa shockwave at sa laser. Pero, sa huli, wala pa ring nangyari
at nakatulong. Sa napakaraming options na meron, iisa lang ang naging
common denominator—pera.
Tinapat ko si Mama. Sabi ko, “Tiis muna, ha. Pag-iipunan ko ang operasyon
mo.” Ang subtext? Hindi ko alam kung kelan ko siya mapapaoperahan. Sagot
niya, “Kaya ko pa naman, e.” Sa sinabi niyang iyon, alam kong ayaw niya
akong magalit at mag-aalala. Pero, sa totoo lang, ang sagot niyang iyon ang
naging dahilan para magalit ako at mag-alala ng todo. Salo ko, “Ano bang
gusto mong palabasin? Hindi kita inintindi? Na pinababayaan kita?” Depensa
niya, “Bakit? May sinabi ba akong masama?” Sabi ko, mas malakas at may
diin, “Ang drama mo talaga, Ma.” Tapos, umalis na ako bago pa malaman
ni Mama na ako talaga ang nagdadrama at hindi siya. Sa pag-alis kong iyon,
sigurado akong may kinimkim na sama ng loob sa akin si Mama.
Dinibate ko ang sarili ko. Ano ba ang karapatan ni Mama na magkimkim
ng sama ng loob sa akin? Nang mamatay si Papa, kinailangang pangatawanan
ko ang pagiging breadwinner. Dahil sa mga sinakripisyo ko, malamang,

254 Sanaysay
maeengganyo na si Charo Santos na isadula sa telebisyon ang mga pinagdaan
at tiniis ko para sa pamilya ko. Dapat sa edad ko, pag-aasawa na ang inaatupag
ko. Dati, sabi ko, kailangan munang mapagtapos ko sila Glenn at Erwin.
Ayun, sa awa ng Diyos, dumiretso sila sa simbahan. Si Glenn, nakabuntis
bago ang graduation sa college. Si Erwin, nagtanan bago magmartsa sa high
school. Tapos, kumambiyo ako at nag-iba ng mantra. Sabi ko, kapag natapos
kong hulugan ang bahay at lupa, sarili ko naman ang iisipin ko. Ang masaklap
nito, magsasampung-taon na akong naghuhulog sa bahay at lupa, pero parang
ni hindi nababawasan ang principal. Parang sa interest lang napupunta ang
ibinabayad ko buwan-buwan. Dagdag pa sa iniintindi ko ang mga gastusin
sa bahay—pamasahe, pamalengke, association due, ilaw, koryente, cable,
telepono. Tapos, ngayon, eto pa. Ang operasyon ni Mama. Katwiran ko,
may karapatan akong mag-init ang ulo ko kasi ang dami kong iniisip. May
karapatan akong mawala sa huwisyo ko kasi marami akong pinapasan at
iniintindi. Para mabawasan ang bigat ng dibdib ko, tinext ko ang lahat ng
angst ko sa kaibigan ko. Sagot niya, “Tanga ka kasi. Wala namang batas sa
Pinas na nagsasabing mag-feeling dakila ka. Ikaw ang may gusto niyan.”
Hindi ko na sinagot ang tinext niyang iyon. Wala kasing smiley. Naisip ko
ring hindi obligasyon ng ibang taong pagnilayan ang anumang problema ko.
Halos dalawang buwan din akong umantabay bago dumating ang
susunod kong project. Dahil may downpayment, naabutan ko si Mama.
Inilapag ko sa mesa ang pera pero parang wala siyang balak kunin iyon. Sabi
ko, “Di ako mag-so-sorry sa ’yo, ha.” Ngumiti si Mama. Kimi. Paalis na
sana ako nang humabol siya. Sabi niya, “Sa ’yo na muna ’yang pera mo.
May nakuha ako sa PNB.” Isa lang ang ibig sabihin ng PNB. Dumating na
ang buwanang pension niya. Galing ang pension sa pagiging SSS member ni
Papa. Sabi ko, “Kelan pa nagkasiya ang pension mo para sa mga gastusin?”
Kalmado akong nagsalita pero naramdaman ko sa boses ko ang sarili kong
pang-iinsulto. Ako ang napahiya. Bawi ko, “Kunin mo ’yan.” Tumango si
Mama. Dagdag ko, “Kumusta ka na?” Lumayo si Mama ng tingin, tapos,
kinapa niya ang tagiliran niya, parang sinasabi sa aking tumitindi ang sakit na
nararamdam niya. Diin ko, “Hayaan mo. Gagawa tayo ng paraan.”
Nakita ko na lang ang sarili kong humahagulgol sa kuwarto. Hindi ko
alam kung bakit. Siguro, dahil naalala ko ang nangyari kay Papa. Wala ako
noon sa bahay. Nakatanggap na lang ako ng beep kay Glenn. Sinugod daw
nila sa ospital si Papa. Nahilo raw. Tapos, kumpirma niya, inatake raw sa puso
si Papa. Atake sa puso. Parang ganoon din ang nangyari kina Tito Odong
at Lolo Pule. Walang kaabog-abog. Nahilo. Tapos, patay bigla. Traidor

Jose Dennis C. Teodosio 255


na sakit. Nang tumakbo ako sa ospital, nakita ko si Mama, si Glenn, at si
Erwin. Binabantayan nila si Papa. Una kong napansin ang sari-saring tubo
na nakasaksak kay Papa. Bulong ko sa sarili, “Lord, kunin n’yo na si Papa.
Ayokong maghirap pa siya.” Walang ibang nakaalam ng bulong ko na iyon.
Tapos, kinahapunan, parang dininig ako ni Lord. Namatay si Papa. Hindi ko
alam kung dapat ba akong magpasalamat sa langit.
Dahil ako ang panganay, ako ang nagsabi sa mga kamag-anak naming
wala na si Papa. Habang nasa bus, pina-practice ko sa isip ko kung paano
sasabihin ang tungkol sa pagpanaw ni Papa. Pero kahit anong practice ko, iba
pa rin ang sinabi ko noong kaharap ko na ang mga kamag-anak namin. Wala
akong nasabihan nang maayos. Hindi pa tapos ang sinasabi ko, pumapalahaw
na sila.
Nang makauwi ako sa amin, ako ang naghanda ng bahay para sa burol
ni Papa. Kalmado kong nagawa ang lahat. Makalipas ang isang oras, nang
maayos na sa bahay, dumating ang bangkay ni Papa. Doon, bigla, pumalahaw
ako. Umatungal ako pero walang boses na lumabas sa bibig ko. Mabilis akong
nagsiksik sa sulok. Dumaloy ang luha ko. Pakiramdam ko, hiniwa ang apdo
ko at sumambulat ang pait at sakit sa buong katawan ko. Natauhan lang
ako nang makita ko si Mama na nakatayo sa pintuan at nakatitig sa akin.
Namumugto ang mga mata ni Mama. Pinakalma ko ang sarili ko at saka ako
lumapit kay Mama. Sabi ni Mama, “Wala na si Papa mo. Ikaw na ang aasahan
namin.” Tumango ako kay Mama. Hindi ko naisip na pangangatawan ko
ang pagtangong iyon. Disiotso lang ako noon. Ano ba ang malay ko sa ibig
sabihin ng pasanin at responsabilidad?
Nagulat na lang ako nang masulyapan ko ang nurse na kanina ko pa
inaasam-asam na makita. Kalalabas lang niya ng elevator. Abala siyang
nagsusulat sa dala niyang chart habang naglalakad. Parang hindi niya ako
nakita sa kinatatayuan ko. Hindi ko siya pinalagpas. Sabi ko, “Excuse me.
Tapos na ba si Mama?” Sagot niya, “Sinong Mama?” Diin ko, “My mother.”
Tanong niya, “Marami kaming pasyente rito.” Ganoon? Bakit kaya siya
naging nurse kung hindi maaasahan ang memorya niya? Sagot ko, “Sabi
mo, dito ako maghintay. Remember?” Umismid ang nurse. Umasta siyang
nainsulto. Pero anong magagawa ko? Baka iyon ang hinahanap niya. Baka
kailangang insultuhin ko siya para bumalik sa kukote niya na nurse siya at
hindi prinsesang nakaupo sa tasa. Dapat niyang maintindihan na hindi ako
araw-araw na nasa ospital, na hindi madali ang mangamba sa buhay ng taong
pinagkakautangan mo ng buhay, na hindi tamang maging insensitive siya
sa nararamdaman ng mga kamag-anak ng mga pasyente ng ospital. Tapos,

256 Sanaysay
tumingin ang nurse sa dalang chart. Usisa niya, “Ano bang pangalan ng
pasyente?” Sabi ko, “Salvacion—.” Tumingin siya sa ’kin. Paliwanag niya,
“Kanina pa tapos ang operasyon no’n, a.” Sabi ko, “Ha? Kanina pa? E, ba’t
walang nagsabi sa ’kin? Kanina pa ako naghihintay rito.” Pakli niya, “Di
ko problema ’yon.” Kasunod noon, tuluyan siyang umalis nang hindi ako
nilingon. Nagpuyos ako sa galit pero sa halip na sundan ang walang modong
nurse na iyon, sumakay ako sa elevator at dumiretso sa operating room.
Si Mama. Dapat, makita ko si Mama.
Madali kong nakita ang operating room. Malaki ang lumang karatulang
nakabitin. Pero sarado ang pintuan. Kumatok ako pero walang nagbubukas.
Sandali pa, may dumating at pumasok sa operating room. Hindi ko alam
kung sino siya o ano ang ginagawa niya roon. Desperado lang ako kaya ako
sumunod sa kaniya. Pero, hindi umubra ang diskarte kong iyon. Sabi niya
sa akin, “Hoy! Sa’n ka pupunta?” Sinabi kong nasa loob si Mama at gusto
ko siyang makita. Diniin niyang authorized personnel lang ang puwede sa
loob kasunod ang pagturo sa isang sign na nakapaskil sa dingding malapit
sa pintuan ng operating room. Tanong niya, “Authorized personnel ka ba?”
Sagot ko, “Anak ako ng pasyente.”
Bago kami tuluyang magsalpukan ng kausap ko, may isa pang nurse
na lumabas. Mas bata siya kaysa sa kausap ko kanina. Dahil naramdaman
siguro ng nurse na magwawala na ako, nakialam na siya at nag-usisa. Siya ang
nagsabing nasa baba na si Mama.
Hindi ako nagpasalamat. Mabilis kung tinunton ang tinuro niyang baba.
Gusto kong makita si Mama. Gusto kong malaman kung ayos na siya, kung
ligtas na siya. Sa paggalugad ko sa mga madidilim na pasilyo ng lumang ospital
na iyon, mas bumigat ang pakiramdam ko. Nakita ko ang mga pasyenteng
nakaratay. Depressing. Para silang mga imahen sa napakalaking mural na
naglalarawan ng estado ng public health service sa Pilipinas.
Sa paghangos ko, unti-unti kong narinig ang boses ko noong kausap ko
si Erwin sa telepono. Noon ko unang narinig ang pinaggagawa ni Mama.
Dahil daw alam niyang hindi ko kakayanin ang gastos, nagtiyaga si Mama na
pumunta sa ospital na iyon. Tuwing Biyernes, umaalis daw si Mama sa bahay
ng alas singko ng umaga para mauna sa pila sa ospital. Nakailang bisita na rin
daw si Mama doon. Dahil government-owned, libre daw ang serbisyo ng mga
doktor sa ospital. Tanong ko kay Erwin, “Sa panahon ngayon, naniniwala pa
ba kayong merong libre?” S’yempre, hindi alam ni Erwin ang ihihirit niya
sa akin. Sinabi na lang niya sa akin na nakumbinsi ni Mama ang doktor

Jose Dennis C. Teodosio 257


na i-schedule siya ng operasyon. Libre raw ang bayad sa doktor. Iyong mga
gamot lang daw ang iintindihin namin. At saka iyong sa anesthesia. At iyong
mga laboratory tests na kailangang gawin para malaman kung fit si Mama na
sumailalim sa operasyon. Kailangan daw kasing gumawa ng maliit na hiwa
para matanggal ang bato sa daluyan ng ihi. Dahil senior citizen si Mama,
may discount daw siyang makukuha sa mga gamot. Marami pa sana akong
bubusisiin pero hindi ko na tinuloy. Kapag ginawa ko kasi iyon, sa huli, baka
lumabas pang ako ang kontrabida. Sa madaling salita, sumang-ayon ako sa
balak.
Isang Biyernes, sumama ako kay Mama sa ospital para personal na
makausap ang doktor. Bibo naman ang doktor. Naglabas pa siya ng chart para
ipaliwanag sa akin kung anong procedure ang gagawin kay Mama. Para akong
dumalo sa isang lecture tungkol sa pagtanggal ng bato, na may kasama pang
visual aid. Sa estimate, kakailanganin daw naming maghanda ng 50,000. Di
hamak na mas mababa iyon kaysa sa ibang option na aabot sa 250,000 ang
pinakamababa. Sa huli, diin ng doktor, “Kung wala pa kayong pera, tapatin
n’yo na kami. Marami kasing pasyenteng nakapila.” Tumingin si Mama sa
akin, parang nagsusumamong sabihin ko sa doktor na tuloy na ang operation.
Doon ko lang natimbang ang kahulugan ng kasabihang “Beggars can’t be
choosers.”
Simula nang nangako ako kay Mama na bubunuin ko ang 50,000,
parang pumanatag ang lahat. Hindi ko na inisip kung sino ang doktor na
gagawa ng operation. Para sa akin, isang bagay lang ang pagtutuunan ko—
ang mahagilap ang 50,000.
Nasa ground floor na ako nang tumigil ako sa paglinga. Hinahanap
ko pa rin kung saan nila dinala si Mama. Huminto ako saglit para kapain
ang perang nasa bulsa ko. Nakahinga ako nang maluwag. Meron pa akong
natitirang 100. Tapos, nang ibabalik ko na ang pera ko sa bulsa, doon ko
nakita si Mama.
Sa dulo ng ground floor, may napansin akong mahabang pila ng mga
tao. Limang dipa mula sa pila, may stretcher na nakaparada. Sa stretcher, may
matandang babae na nakahiga. Nanikip ang dibdib ko. Hindi ako maaaring
magkamali. Si Mama ang matandang babae na nakahiga sa stretcher. Isang
manipis at maikling kumot ang nakatakip sa hubad niyang katawan. Anong
ginawa nila sa kaniya?
Dahan-dahan akong lumapit kay Mama. Pinagmasdan ko ang mukha
niya. Humpak ang kaniyang mga pisngi. Maputla ang kaniyang mga labi.

258 Sanaysay
Ano kayang hirap ang dinanas niya sa operating room? Bakit iniwan lang
siyang ganito?
Hinawakan ko ang kamay ni Mama. Laking-gulat ko nang naramdaman
kong pinisil niya ang kamay ko. Tapos, napansin ko ang banayad na pagtaas
at pagbaba ng kaniyang dibdib dahil sa hirap na paghinga. Nagitla ako.
Napanganga. Sa isip ko, sumisigaw ako nang pagkalakas-lakas. Ang sigaw ko
ay naging palahaw. Mabilis na rumagasa ang luha ko. Saglit pa, kinubabawan
ako ng galit.
Sinugod ko ang in-charge ng departmentong iyon na nasa ground floor.
Sumigaw ako. Sa akin natuon ang tingin ng lahat ng mga nasa pila. Narindi
ang in-charge sa sunod-sunod kong sinabi. Para siyang ginulantang ng walang
patumanggang putok ng armalite. Sa halip na sagutin ako, dinampot niya
ang landline sa ibabaw ng mesa niya. May tinawagan siya. Pinakalma ko ang
sarili ko pero naririnig ko pa rin ang malakas kong paghinga. Pakiwari ko,
sasabog ako sa tindi ng galit na kinikimkim ko.
Nang harapin ako ng in-charge, ipinaliwanag niya sa akin na dapat ma-
x-ray si Mama pagkatapos ng operasyon. Iyon ang dahilan kaya siya dinala
roon sakay ng stretcher. Kaya lang, mahaba ang pila kaya hindi pa naaasikaso
si Mama. Walang bahid ng paumanhin ang pagbibigay niyang iyon ng mga
detalyeng nalaman ko. Narinig ko na lang ang sarili kong dinidiretso siya,
’Yang mga nakapila, malalakas sila. Kaya nilang tumayo at maghintay. Ang
nanay ko, kakaopera pa lang. Walang malay dahil sa anestisya. Hubad. Sa
palagay mo, matatanggap ko ang paliwanag mo? Naghihintay ako sa taas.
Kung kailangang dalhin siya rito, dapat, pinatawag n’yo ang kasama n’ya?
Common sense lang ’yan, di ba?’
Bago maka-depensa ang in-charge, isang attendant ang dumating.
Humahangos siya at nagmamadaling tinulak ang stretcher na kinahihigaan ni
Mama. Mabilis akong lumapit sa kaniya. Sa isip ko, isa pa siya sa mga dapat
sisihin. Dinala niya at iniwan si Mama roon. Hinarap ko siya at tinanong
kung saan niya dadalhin si Mama. Galit ang boses niya nang sabihin niya
sa aking i-e-x-ray na si Mama. Nagpanting ang tainga ko. Hinablot ko ang
kuwelyo ng uniporme niya at saka ko ibinulalas ang galit ko. Sabi ko, “Kung
ikaw kaya ang hubaran ko, operahan, at iwan dito, ano bang mararamdaman
mo?” Wala akong nakuhang sagot sa attendant. Sa mukha niya, nakita ko
ang takot. Sa laki ko, kaya kung basagin ang mukha niya. Narinig ko na
lang ang in-charge na noon ay lumapit na sa amin. Sabi niya, “Sir, pa-x-ray
na natin ang pasyente para matapos na.” Wala na akong nagawa. Hinayaan

Jose Dennis C. Teodosio 259


ko ang attendant na ipasok si Mama sa x-ray department. Sumandal ako
sa dingding, umaasang kakalma. Narinig ko ang bulungan ng mga taong
nakapila. Babalingan ko sana sila pero hindi ko na tinuloy. Baka kung ano pa
ang masamang mangyari.
Nang matapos ang x-ray procedure, dinala ng attendant si Mama pabalik
sa kuwarto. Tahimik lang akong sumunod. Nang umalis ang attendant,
nilapitan ko si Mama. Tinitigan ko lang siya. Sa pagkakataong iyon, hindi na
ako nagdrama. Kinausap ko na lang si Mama—kahit alam kong hindi niya
ako naririnig.
Sinabi ko kay Mama ang tungkol kay Papa. Inamin ko sa kaniya kung
ano ang ipanagdasal ko. At kung talagang dininig ng langit ang hiniling ko,
dapat, sa akin niya ibato ang sisi. Nangako ako sa kaniyang pangangatawanan
ko ang anumang obligasyong hindi na nagampanan ni Papa.
Sa unang pagkakataon, nag-sorry din ako kay Mama.
Nag-sorry ako kasi hindi ko siya nabigyan ng maganda, ng maginhawang
buhay. Nag-sorry ako kasi pagsusulat lang ang kaya kong gawin. Nag-sorry
ako kasi kinupitan ko siya noon. Nag-sorry ako kasi hindi ko siya mabibilhan
ng Hermes na katulad ng kay Aling Dionisia. Nag-sorry ako kasi, hanggang
ngayon, marami pa rin akong excuses kaya hindi ako nag-aasawa at hindi
siya nabibigyan ng apo. Nag-sorry ako kasi hindi ko siya binibigyan ng
pagkakataong mapalapit sa akin. Nag-sorry ako kasi ang dami kong reklamo
sa pagiging panganay ko at sa mga pinasan kong responsabilidad. Ayoko kasi
ng drama. Panay drama na nga ang sinusulat ko, tapos, magiging madrama
pa ang relasyon namin sa totoong buhay. Hiniling kong intindihin niya iyon.
Maghihintay pa ako ng isang oras bago tuluyang magising si Mama. Pero
sapat ang isang oras na iyon para makapag-bonding kami at makabawi ako sa
lahat ng mga pagkukulang ko.
Matapos lumipas ang isang oras na ’yon, maraming bagay pa ang
magiging posible. Hindi na ako magpapasa ng formal complaint laban sa
ospital dahil sa naging kapabayaan nila. Makikinig kasi ako sa sasabihin ni
Mama na ipa-d’yos na lang namin ang lahat. Ididiin din niya kasi sa kukote ko
na, sa huli, nakatulong naman ang ospital para malampasan namin ang krisis
na dinanas. Isa pa, pangangatwiranan niyang mas magastos ang magsampa
pa ng kaso. Lilipas pa ang ilang buwan at malalaman naming hindi naman
pala talaga iyong doktor na nakausap ko ang nag-opera kay Mama kung
hindi iyong interns lang niya. Ginamit nila si Mama na parang guinea pig.
Dahil sa kakulangan ng karanasan ng interns (o sa kapalpakan nila), muling

260 Sanaysay
ooperahan si Mama. Lilikha kasi ng keloid ang pinagtanggalan ng bato niya
at kakailanganing lagyan ng stent (o tubo) ang daluyan ng ihi ni Mama.
Hindi ko na sisisihin pa si Mama sa pagkumbinsi niya sa aking doon na sa
government hospital na iyon magpaopera.
Susuwertehen akong makakuha ng permanente at magandang raket—
sa labas ng bansa. Makakaipon ako at tuluyang mababayaran ang bahay at
lupang hinuhulugan.
Tapos, ipapakilala ko sa kaniya ang magiging partner ko sa buhay at
hindi siya masusurpresa (dahil, siguro, alam niyang kontento ako sa buhay na
pinili ko). Tatanggapin niya kaming dalawa at magiging masaya siya para sa
amin (kahit di kami makapagbibigay ng apo sa kaniya).
Sa kalaunan, babalakin kong isatitik ang lahat ng mga nangyari para
may maisali ako sa Palanca (pero iinsultuhin lang ako ng aking mga kapuwa
manunulat at sasabihin ine-estap’wera o ini-isnab sa Palanca ang mga akdang
nababahiran ng melodrama). Pipiliin kong hindi sila pakinggan. At sa huli,
aasa at huhugot ako ng positive vibes sa pagbabakasakali.
Nang magising si Mama, mukha ko ang una niyang nasungawan.
Ngumiti ako sa kaniya. Umasta siyang parang giniginaw kaya mabilis kong
inayos ang kumot niya. Tapos, tinanong ko siya kung anong pakiramdam
niya. Ininda niya ang kirot ng hiwa sa kaniyang tagiliran. Nang tingnan ko ang
hiwa, napatigalgal ako. Halos isang dangkal iyon. Malayo sa sinabi ng doktor
na maliit lang. Hindi ko agad ibinida sa kaniya ang paghihintay ko nang
matagal at ang nangyari sa x-ray department. Naisip ko, hindi naman siguro
masamang sa mga susunod na mga araw na naming ’yong pagdidiskursuhan
at pagpapagaling na lang muna ang dapat niyang isipin. Hinawakan ni Mama
ang kamay ko. Sabi niya, “Tama ka. Tama ang sinabi mo sa ’kin Pag gising ko,
ayos na lahat. Uuwi na tayo.” Tumango ako. At ngumiti.
Naramdaman at natiyak kong simula sa araw na iyon, mag-iiba na ang
takbo ng lahat para sa akin, para sa kaniya, para sa aming dalawa. Kung
tutuusin, sa mga nangyari, si Mama ay nagkaroon ng pangalawang buhay, at
ako, sa huli, natutong humarap at magpatuloy sa buhay. Napagtanto ko rin
na kung anumang lakas at pagmamahal na nanahan sa dibdib ko ngayon,
lahat iyon, galing sa lakas at pagmamahal ng aking ina.
Sandali pa, sinenyasan na ako ni Mama na buksan ang bintana. Mabilis
kong sinunod ang pinakiusap niya. Sa aking pagtayo, bigla, naisip ko kung
bakit nga ba Salvacion ang naipangalan sa pinakamamahal kong ina. Sinapuso
ko na lang ang nahagilap kong paliwanag. Nang tuluyan kong mabuksan ang
bintana, sa labas, namangha ako sa dahan-dahang pag-aliwalas ng mga ulap.

Jose Dennis C. Teodosio 261


Forum
From left to right: Charlson Ong, Luna Sicat Cleto, Dean Francis Alfar, J. Neil C. Garcia,
Gabriela Lee, Eliza Victoria, and Jaime An Lim

Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction

264
Lines of Flight: The Practice and
Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction

A Forum

Panelists: Luna Sicat Cleto, Dean Alfar, Charlson Ong, Jaime An Lim,
Eliza Victoria, and Gabriela Lee.
Moderator: J. Neil C. Garcia
The following is a transcription of the University of the Philippines
Press panel discussion that took place at Raffles Makati, on the first
day of the Philippine Readers and Writers Festival, sponsored by
National Bookstore, on August 26, 2016.
JNG: In literature, realism is the production of “reality effects” in
texts—a specific form of referentiality that seeks to faithfully point
to the nature of the world and of human life. While seemingly
universally self-evident, as a representational process, literary
realism—critics now tell us—is indicatively Western. It is rooted
in the “dominant mood” of nineteenth-century Europe, and
was premised upon “a rationalist epistemology that turned its
back on the fantasies of Romanticism.” The social, political, and
scientific events of its time and place all contributed to shaping it.
As such, realism is a staunchly secular vision that emerged in the
West when empiricism and materialism were in full sway, when
the mechanistic paradigm rendered reality explainable in terms
of causalities and determinations, when individualism had been
rationalized in terms of rights, and when the economic system
of capitalism had effectively reified many aspects of human life.
Owing to the ascendancy of critical theory, we now understand
that the “real” in realism is, of course, merely a convention—an
effect of a signifying system that permits this kind of referential
logic in literary representations.

265
Historians have concluded that literary realism is analogous
to journalism in the sense that like a news report, it aims to achieve
“objectivity” in its rendering of scenes. In Victorian England, the
better-known realist novelists of this period, in fact, worked in
journalism, in the main. Realism can be seen as a precursor of
documentaries in this sense, and like this contemporary mass
media genre, it treated the lives of the socially downtrodden,
as well as the difficulties being faced by the bourgeois class in
Europe and America. Moreover, literary realism draws from
psychological science, operationalizing its insights into human
behavior, motivation, and emotions, which it attempts to render
in all their complexity. Realist fiction regards people as the
locus of complicated forces and influences, and it deploys the
technique of internal monologue in order to reflect this “truth.”
A realist fictional text, therefore, dwells more on inner
transformation than outer plot, registering its movements as
changes in the main character’s perception and understanding.
Unlike Romantic novels—in which emplotment was both
obvious and orderly—the narrative arc of realist novels traces
trajectories that are not easily apparent. Further examining
realism in formal terms, we easily notice that the omniscient
point of view—that was the norm in Romantic writing—in this
fictional mode gives way to the selective omniscient or even the
first person perspective. Often, in these instances, the narrator
proves himself to be far from reliable. Realist stories are also
commonly framed within bigger narratives—a technique that
further distances the reader from the story’s external events. This
complication of narrative logic serves to further imitate reality,
which is, by definition, difficult, intractable, and shifting.
I would like to ask our speakers, by way of an introduction,
to describe their respective journeys as writers—in particular, as
fictionists. I would also like to ask each of them to answer the
following questions: Are you or aren’t you a realist? What exactly
does the “realist” or “non-realist” (or “speculative”) description
entail in terms of the topics, characters, “worlds,” plots, and
themes that you work with when you write?
LSC: Mabato ang daan ng naging landas ko sa pagsusulat. Parang hindi,
di ba, kasi pinalad akong magkaroon ng ama na nagsusulat—at
isa siyang magaling na fictionist. Mas matinding hamon ’yon

266 Forum
kasi ayaw mong maging alingawngaw o anino lamang. Ayaw mo
rin na susugan ’yong idea na awtomatiko nang naipapasa ang
talent dahil sa genetics. Pierre Bourdieu likened the artist to the
family idiot and maybe he said that because art isn’t financially
rewarding, kahit na it’s backbreaking work actually. Nakita
ko ito firsthand sa karanasan ng tatay ko, naging emotionally
isolated rin siya sa amin (in my version of things) dahil nauuna
ang pagsusulat niya Sa Lahat. Ito na rin siguro ’yong dahilan kung
bakit hindi ko naman talaga pinangarap na maging manunulat, sa
totoo lang, noong bata ako. May talent ako noon sa sining biswal,
at ’yon ang inakala kong magiging ikid ng buhay ko, ang magpinta
lang, o gumuhit. Bigyan mo ako noon ng papel at lapis, parang
kapalit na noon ang camera. Bukod sa napaligiran kami noon ng
mga libro (sari-saring mga nobela at short story collections), hindi
ipinagdamot ng aking ama na basahin namin ang mga ’yon.
Tila alam niyang makatutulong rin iyon sa amin. Karaniwan
lang kaming angkan na nakatira sa Quezon City: nagtuturo ang
aking ama sa unibersidad at accountant ang aking ina. Praktikal
siguro ang dahilan ng tatay ko nang sinabi niyang hindi ko
ikabubuhay ang pagpipinta lamang (siyempre), at maaring
nasindak ako sa bigat ng aking pasiya nang sabihin niyang
kung hindi ako sigurado na mahusay na mahusay ako sa aking
kakayahan (siyempre hindi!), ay huwag ko na lang ituloy … ’Yong
ellipsis na ’yon ang nagpreno sa aking huwag nang magtuloy sa
pangarap na maging pintor. Nag-aral ako ng Journalism sa UP,
na bandang huli’y napagawi sa Film. Nakalangoy naman ako sa
kurso dala nga ng hilig ko sa pagbabasa at kakayahan sa pahayag.
Nakilala ko ang gurong si Prof. Luis Beltran, kilalang
journalist. Natutuhan ko sa kanya ang ekonomiya ng mga
salita, at ok na sana kaso dinapuan ako ng bagot, nasisikil sa
itinatakda na “stick to the facts,” at maging accurate sapagkat
ang katotohanan ng ibinabalita ay mahalaga. Isang araw,
sumama ako sa isang kaibigan na mag-sit in sa workshop ni
Rene Villanueva sa TELON. Natatandaan kong natuwa talaga
ako sa pakikinig ng dramatic reading, at bago ko pa namalayan,
sumasali na ako sa pagsulat ng mga monologo, eksena, character
studies. Nakatuklas ako ng anyong para kang nasasapian kapag
in character ang sinusulat mo, lalo na kapag naitanghal iyon at
nadarama ng audience ang nangyayari sa tanghalan.

Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 267
Sa dula ko natutuhan ang basics ng fiction writing. Character,
plot, dialogue. Buto ng dula ang scenario, parang notecards sa
pagsusulat ng fiksiyon. Dumaan rin ako sa yugtong sinubok kong
tumula, at napasama ako sa mga workshops ng KATHA at ng
Linangan sa Imahen, Retorika at Anyo. Hindi man ako naging
makata ngayon, napakahalaga ng natutuhan ko sa pagkakaroon
ng metaphorical eye. Kung natuto ako sa pagmamapa ng
kuwento sa dula, at nagkaroon ako ng unawa sa pananalinghaga
sa tula, sa gabay naman ng screenwriter na si Armando Lao ko
natuklasan ang panahunan (tense), narrative voice, at imaginary
present. Sa cinematic language, mas blurry ’yong signposts ng
panahon, ang viewer ang bahalang magbalasa ng “kuwento” ng
“panahon.” Aniya, maraming literary devices ang pelikula, hindi
lang natin alam na iyon pala iyon, at magkahawig ang konsepto
ng auteur at awtor. Tinuruan niya kaming basahin ang wika ng
imahen sa panonood ng mga pelikula. Noon, nabalahaw ako
sa nobela kong Makinilyang Altar. Nawala iyon nang magka-
epiphany sa paghawak sa time. Hindi iyon kailangang maging
chronological, ni hindi nga kailangang maging totoo lagi. This
insight was so valuable then to my work because it helped me to
distantiate the material from the speculative and the real. While
the real served as a touchstone for authenticity, the speculative
helped me to find better ways to tell the story.
Mahalaga iyon kasi kung hindi ko ito nauunawaang lahat
through practice bilang isang fictionist, aakalain kong tatatlo
lamang ang panahon: nakaraan, ngayon, at bukas. Aakalain
kong ang mga imahe’y naroon lang, at hindi na matuto sa
kanilang semiotika. Aakalain kong ang tula’y nasa pahina
lang. Binuksan sa akin ang posibilidad ng mga probabilidad
ng panahon—maaring nakalipas, maaaring bukas, at maaaring
ngayon. At ganito rin ’yong patakaran pala maging sa setting.
Nasulat ko ang Mga Prodigal halimbawa, na nangyayari sa
Dubai, nang hindi kinailangang makarating mismo doon.
Nakataya ang believability ng signposts ng panahon at tagpuan,
pati ang mga tauhan, sa ekspertong pakikilaro ng manunulat
sa totoo at posibleng mangyari. Kaya lamang, dahil pinili kong
magsulat sa Filipino, kung minsan may bagahe (at alagwa iyon)
ng reponsabilidad sa kultural at materyal na realidad.

268 Forum
Parehas akong umiigib sa balon ng realismo at ng
spekulatibo. Realist akong manunulat in the sense na kailangang
kapani-paniwala ang hubog ng mga tauhan, lalo na ang mga
pasiya, kilos, winiwika ng mga ito; may verisimilitude ang
tagpuan, panahon, nakikilatis ang awtentikong karanasan na
naging batis o sanggunian ng teksto. Speculative o non-realist
na ako pagdating sa pagkahubog ng isang “imaginary present.”
Ang katangiang ito actually ang pinakanakakatuwa sa pagsusulat
ng fiksiyon. Isang anyo ito ng pagtakas, ng “pagbubuong-
muli.” Maaari ngang isipin na kaya rin natin sinusulat ang mga
kuwento’y sapagkat nasunog na ang tulay ng nakaraan, ngayon
at kasalukuyan—at ang kawalan na iyon ang binubuno ng mga
salita.
DA: Good morning. I grew up as a lover of fantasy, things that are
peculiar. I read everything I could but there came a point in
time when I ran out of books to read. So my kiddie self raised
my kiddie fist to the sky and said one day I will write books that
I would like to read. When I was older I started to write what
is now known as speculative fiction, which is an umbrella term
used for non-realist fiction that includes the genres of fantasy,
science fiction, horror. And I wrote a story called “The Kite
of Stars.” It was published in Strange Horizons. A few months
later, it was anthologized in the latest edition of The Year’s Best
Fantasy & Horror—in the table of contents, it’s Neil Gaiman,
Stephen King, Dean Francis Alfar, Ursula Le Guin. For me, it
meant that the kind of writing that I valued was recognized.
And a Filipino, more importantly: it meant if I could do it,
then other Filipinos should be able to do it as well. We all need
to produce. And we need those stories to be both wonderfully
written and have a variety of themes, a variety of concerns. There
is the misconception that speculative fiction or genre writing is
lightweight, that it is not necessarily of value. When I was much
younger, I really bought into this false dichotomy of realism
vs. speculative fiction. Because at that time I was so focused
on getting spec fic read and recognized. I wanted spec fic to be
taught in schools. Well fast forward, it is recognized. It is being
taught in schools. But realism and speculative fiction are not
opposites. They are both denizens of the country called “Story.”

Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 269
It becomes a matter of, as an author, what is the best way for
you to tell your story? What matters is how we tell it, how it is
received, and what truths we can impart.
JNG: How are we going to have an argument? You’re basically saying
that we should all just embrace one other and sing “Kumbaya
…”
GL: Yes!
DA: Because in this day and age we should all try to see the bigger
picture …
JNG: But we invited you all here so we could have an argument!
DA: Hold on. In this day and age we are living in a place and time
of fear, we fear for lives, we fear for our future. We need writing.
We need realist writing. We need speculative fiction. We need to
be able to create order from the chaos that’s happening. Realism
and spec fic can do that. We need to engage people. We need
to get them reading, we need to get them thinking. And it is
writing that will do that, that has always done that. If, here and
now, because of our politics and our political realities we are a
nation divided, then I would prefer in my speculative fiction
that we are a nation united. Amen.
JNG, EV, and Audience: Amen!
CO: Kung napapansin niyo, kami ni Jimmy Lim ang nasa gitna. At
wala kaming gadget. We’re being flanked by the enemy. I’ll answer
some of the questions. I’m probably a realist writer, because I
don’t tend to create parallel universes when I write. On the other
hand, I’m not very comfortable also with these categories. I have
stories that are not conventionally realist. Recently, a teacher
asked to use a story of mine for an introductory class in magical
realism. It’s a story titled “Season of Ten Thousand Noses,”
which I wrote almost as a history lesson. It’s about the burning
of the Parian. Do you know the burning of the Parian? Some
of you might not even know that. I think it’s a big deal in our
history that these things happened. There were pogroms, there
were burnings of ghettos, but very few people know about them.
They had been swept under the rug. So I wanted to write a story
about that, for younger people, and it became that story.

270 Forum
And then I also wrote a story called “Widow,” that could
be timely these days. I wanted to write a story kasi, given all the
hullabaloo about the refrigerated cadaver of Marcos, they said,
ang yumaman lang dito ’yong embalmer niya. So I wanted to
write a story from the point of view of the embalmer. And it
ended up being a story called “Widow.”
And then again my first novel, An Embarrassment of Riches,
has been described by a researcher online as dystopic, which
is why I was invited once to speak on dystopic writing. They
called it the only dystopian novel in and about the Philippines.
It has been called many things by many critics. I started the book
about 1993 and hoped to finish it at least by 1998 in time for
the Philippine Centennial celebrations. Wala pang contest noon.
So I wanted to write a book about the Philippines a hundred
years after the revolution. But I couldn’t. The times then were
like ngayon. You didn’t know what the headlines would be the
next day, what the President would say, who would be killed. I’m
a Martial Law minor; I grew up under Martial Law, and then
EDSA, and all that. And that period of our history was exciting,
brutal, maraming pinapatay, it was like a state of war between
the RAM and the Left. So I didn’t know how to go about it.
Things were so strange, so I had to create, in a way, a parallel, a
shadow nation that I could use as a kind of template. So anyway,
it ended up being An Embarrassment of Riches, and I called this
country “Victorianas”—the fictional island where the action is
set, a “shadow Philippines,” or at least that’s how I wrote it. So
I think in the end it’s really about wrestling with the material.
How do you deal with material in front of you, and you have to
find a way, and that was the way I thought could do it. I didn’t
really care what might happen after I wrote it, but anyway, it
won at the Philippine centennial awards.
And then after that, I thought I’d do a more conventional
historical novel because again … we’ve talked about realism, but
we don’t even have history in much of our literature. Where are
our historical novels? I can’t even name one off the top of my
head. So I wrote Banyaga, which is really a hundred years from
the nineteenth century. And I used immigrant boys. And they
became patriarchs of clans and to me it’s also the Southeast Asian

Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 271
story. Both An Embarrassment of Riches and Banyaga represent
the immigration story. And by the way, what happened with An
Embarrassment of Riches, I think, if you read it, a lot of the issues
that it discusses, are becoming urgent again. Like our issues with
China. Almost prophetic in a sense. So I guess writing is really
about thinking things through.
DA: Kasi spec fic writer ka talaga. (Laughter.)
CO: No. It’s really thinking things through, no matter what form you
want to use. You need to ask yourself: are you thinking clearly
or fuzzily? So you have to think through your own logic. And
then after Banyaga I wanted to write crime fiction—again, since
we don’t have a lot of crime fiction—and so I wrote Blue Angel/
White Shadow, which I think is not a bad book of crime fiction,
(chuckle), if I may say so.
DA: You may say so.
CO: I think there are so many forms that we haven’t really explored
yet, speculative or ano pa man. There are just so many things to
do, so many fictional structures that haven’t been explored by
our writers.
JNG: Are those forms mostly realist forms?
CO: Yes.
JNG: Not enough crime fiction, which is realist, right?
CO: Yes, but you can have a crime fiction that is not purely realist. It
doesn’t have to be.
JNG: Ah, yes. Trese, for example.
CO: I’m just saying, marami pa tayong hindi nae-explore, di ba?
There’s so much to be done, and to me historical writing is still
important, and we have barely scratched the surface. And now
I’m doing a thriller, with a lot of religion and a lot of sex. Priests
and prostitutes, my favorite characters. So I’m doing a thriller
now—think it will be that, or I hope, anyway. And I also got
dragooned into writing a horror movie—obviously, something
speculative. On the other hand, it’s also true that you can write
realistic fiction without saying anything real …
DA: Agree.

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CO: Case in point: movies. My favorite movie is The Godfather, and
it’s fiction. In 1960, I think, that was the first time there was
a US congressional hearing on the Mafia that was televised,
and Mario Puzo saw it and then he asked for the congressional
records; he got them and then wrote a book based on that. But
then when he was asked, o sino si Vito Corleone, he said, “My
mother. And if you knew her you wouldn’t ask why.” So mothers
are always there.
DA: There you go.
CO: On the other hand, and dami nating mga biopic dito, for
instance, The Kingpin of Tondo or whatever, na you know are
absolute nonsense. So again, it’s not really the form, but your
intention, and how you deal with the material. And I think at
some point, the spirit of the material will almost decide where
you should go, how you should write. Again, maybe, this is just
me being exclusive.
DA: Again, snobbery. Mag-aaway tayo.
CO: Mamaya, mag-aaaway tayo. But again for now I think the
universe of letters is so vast and there’s so much that we haven’t
done yet, although it’s my belief that realist fiction is being read
by intelligent people. About who reads non-realist fiction? Well,
you’ll have to ask them.
DA: Ok, them’s fighting words. I’ll be back.
JNG: You will have your turn later; let’s allow everyone to speak first.
DA: Hmpf.
CO: Readers now are swimming in new media, movies, so I think
that sort of determines what people read. It can’t be helped. Our
reality is really virtual, much of it is cyber anyway, and it will be
determined by the platforms that are going around. You have
Lav Diaz doing ten-hour movies, who’s going to watch that you
might ask? And yet, surprisingly, mayroon din naman.
DA: People without bladders.
CO: So I think it’s sort of open season kung ano ’yong gusto ko mong
gawin.

Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 273
JAL: Good morning. I would like to start with something about why
people end up as writers. I’ve spoken with a lot of other writers
and somehow there are commonalities. There are events that are
almost true for all writers. Number one, they got interested in
stories very early. This is because there was a storyteller in the
family.
DA and GL: Yes!
JAL: That could be a mother, that could be a yaya. In my case, it was
my elder sister. So all the stories they took up in class, she would
retell to us. And we were all excited. We would listen. Instead of
being noisy, unruly, we would settle down and listen. And we
were really serious. We were taken up by the stories. For us, the
stories were real. And we enjoyed them. And that is the love that
started there, because later on, when we ran out of stories and
the stories ended, we had to look for other stories. And the next
thing is, you have to read early.
DA: Yes.
JAL: I noticed that nowadays children generally have to be ten years
old to be able to read. I was reading when I was in Grade 2.
DA: Earlier.
JAL: Cebuano was very close to English, I thought, because it is
syllabic. You say “Bi-sa-ya” and that’s it, “Bi-sa-ya”: they’re all
expressed in syllables. English is practically the same. And so
I was reading early, something that Dean also mentioned, and
then of course there was the availability of a library …
DA: Yes.
JAL: And a bookstore. Do not underestimate the value of early
exposure to books. Sometimes you don’t think that this is very
crucial. But it is. So bring your kid to the library, and just let
your kid wander around, discover the place, because that child
is going to develop the love of reading. And he’s not going to
stay put with just the garden variety Pepe and Pilar material. The
child is going to move on. Even if you have to go through Emilie
Loring, that sort of thing. Love stories, crime stories, whatever.
Give the child a chance to read because eventually, the child is
going to find that the old material is repetitive. The child will

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want something else. And then the child will grow. And his taste
will become more sophisticated. You give the child a chance to
really explore the riches of literature. And once that child learns
to love reading, he is also going to try his hand at writing his
own stories. Believe me. Even if the first stories are terrible, that’s
fine. Because that child is going to grow. And even without you
knowing it, and without investing in a four-year course you have
created a writer. I don’t know if he’s always good, but at least if
the child could write, that’s better than not being able to write,
right?
DA: Kaso nga lang, hindi na siya doktor.
JNG: The child will be miserable and poor.
DA: Kasi hindi doktor.
GL and EV: PhD!
JAL: I don’t know. Well, money is not always the last measure—
DA: Yes!
JAL: Of success or happiness. So I went through that route and when
I was in elementary school I was buying books. How many
elementary school students do you know would buy books?
Usually they would buy clothes, toys, and food, and whatever,
but not books. When I had a chance as a kid, I bought books.
And the books that I bought were not for kids. Boccaccio’s
Decameron. Some of the stories there are very bawdy, but I
did not know that. And then the other book that I bought at
a drugstore was a paperback and it is one of my favorite books
up to now. Ray Bradbury’s The Golden Apples of the Sun. It’s
science fiction. But you know back then I didn’t even know it
was science fiction.
DA: Wonderful.
JAL: The stories are so haunting. Haunting. You know there’s this
boy, for example, who does not grow old. Can you imagine
living from year to year to year, and remaining young? The
parents who adopted him would grow old and so the boy would
try to escape because now they would realize there is something
strange about the boy, the boy who is always young. And so his
life is about this “Hail and Farewell.” That’s the title of the story,

Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 275
and I thought, “oh my God, this is so sad.” I was only a young
boy, but I empathized with the sadness of the boy who could
never be at home with his parents. He had to leave them because
they grew old and he remained young. You know, that kind of
story—from The Golden Apples of the Sun. If you get a chance,
get a copy. But I did not end up writing speculative fiction.
DA: That’s okay, I still love you.
JAL: I’m considered as a realistic writer, partly because of my sensitivity,
I think. I have the natural inclination for realistic fiction, I like
realistic stories. But another reason was because of my training
and exposure. In college, who were my early Filipino models? I
read Kerima Polotan, who wrote about ethical dilemmas among
middle-class couples. I liked NVM Gonzalez, who wrote about
kaingeros in Mindoro. I liked Bienvenido N. Santos, who
wrote about old-timers, pensionados living in America. I liked
Edilberto T. Tiempo, who wrote about American and Filipino
soldiers during the Second World War. Their writings would
be considered realistic; they were realist writers. So they were
my early models. And the same thing with the foreign authors.
Chekhov’s “The Lady with the Pet Dog,” Hemingway’s “A Clean
Well-Lighted Place.” So they are also realist writers. You could
say that was my training. And because I liked their writing, I
thought I would try to write in the same way. So essentially I
looked for inspiration from the world around me. I don’t explore
too much about what is outside my world. Perhaps I am just
lazy. I just look around, and there are already many stories.
DA: All around.
JAL: And so my technique would be linear, very predictable, point
A to point B to point C, and there are no abrupt jumps, no
drastic introductions of impossible materials. So no telegrams,
no emails, just stories. Just the flow of the narrative. I find it
easier that way. Not too imaginative, but I am also old. That
explains probably my preference for realistic fiction, because I
think speculative fiction is a young person’s genre … Although
you might think that we have exhausted the possibilities of reality
in fiction. Not true, not true at all. We’ve barely even touched
the tip of the iceberg. If you pursue the realist mode in writing,

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you’ll discover that there are still a lot of other stories that need
telling. Come to think it, however, I also use the speculative
mode when I write stories for children.
DA: Yes.
JAL: Like my story “Encanto” … I do have to say that when I wrote
it, I did not realize that this story would be speculative, because
in our town, encantos or fairies are real. And so I thought it was
part of my reality. And even ghosts, for the longest time, I tell
you, I thought they were real.
DA: They are, right?
JAL: And when I go out, I’m always afraid that something might
happen to me, because there’s a dark shadow behind the tree.
They are real. And so even if we say later on that they are
elements of speculative fiction, for some time, I thought they
were real. Superman? He’s part of my reality. He lives in the US!
And I thought actors never died, because they appeared in movie
after movie after movie.
DA: Tama.
JAL: I mean, I was a very gullible child. But I have admit I would like
to try writing more speculative fiction—this time, for adults.
DA: Yes!
JAL: You’ll be surprised. I think this old man still has a trick or two.
Chorus: Yipee!
DA: I’ll write a realist story. Trade tayo.
JAL: Ok. But anyway, like I said in the beginning, if you have kids
of your own, one way to encourage them to read and write is to
expose them to stories, tell them stories. Make them fall in love
with stories and they will look for stories, because stories are
really exciting.
So thank you very much.
EV: I wanted to start with a question: Isn’t all fiction speculative?
Yes, but what do you speculate on?
With speculative fiction you speculate on what happens
when you change the rules of the world. Like extending the

Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 277
“what if.” What if you’re a nun and you fall in love? This is a
good premise already for a realist story, but what if you extend
that? What if you deepen the question to push past what science
informs us, past what our senses show us? What if you’re a nun,
and you fall in love, and you explode? Now you have speculative
fiction.
What if you find a dead body inside your house? This could
definitely happen, and if you answer this question through
fiction, you’ll have a thriller or a mystery story. In my novel,
Dwellers, I decided to deepen the question. What if your soul
or your “essence” has the power to jump from one body to the next,
and the body that you jump into has a house, and in that house is a
dead body? Does this dead body now belong to you? If the body
is a house, how will you investigate this house? How will you
investigate yourself? So it becomes not just a mystery story, but
an exploration of body politics, gender, faith, the nature of the
soul, and the fallibility of memory—themes I indeed ended up
exploring in this work.
In realist fiction you find the extraordinary in the ordinary,
but in the kind of stories that I write, I place them side-by-side.
I just want to see what will come out from that kind of equation.
Reasons why I write like this: I grew up with stories that
science and our senses may not accept, but which my family
accepts as absolute truth. In our household, the “speculative”
becomes real.
My mother’s family comes from the Cagayan Valley, from
Tuguegarao, and they have a lot of stories from that town. Their
neighbor is a witch. My uncle was almost taken by a sirena. All
of these stories, these fantastic stories, were told in a matter-of-
fact way, and it’s no surprise that such tales—that juxtaposed
fantastic topics with a matter-of-fact tone—eventually entered
my fiction.
I read a lot, growing up. My mother bought a bunch of
books, a complete set of encyclopedia, so that’s what I first read.
She also had a lot of books from college. There was one called The
Complete Development of Philippine Literature in English Since the
1900s. It’s a green volume, and it has all these stories from NVM

278 Forum
Gonzalez, Nick Joaquin, Gregorio Brillantes, Tuvera. So I grew
up reading all of these stories also. And I guess when I ran out of
stories to read, I wrote my own. Having read all these stories, the
question at the back of my mind, up to now, has always been,
What else can I contribute? What new insight can I tap into, and
share?
I guess with speculative fiction, or genres, it becomes like
a shared language for readers, especially if they follow certain
beats. I read in the Guardian this thing that I really liked, that the
greatest barrier to sharing culture sometimes is culture itself, so
genre becomes a language to open doors to readers. For example,
maybe you’re talking to a teenager who doesn’t want really to
talk about poverty or totalitarian regimes, and then you’re like,
“Oh I have this novel which is about a contest, and it’s Hunger
Games.” So that’s a way to introduce them to these topics that
maybe, at face value, they wouldn’t want to read about or talk
about. Or you may be someone from outside of Filipino culture.
You may not be drawn to Filipino culture per se. But you may
want to pick up, let’s say, Mythspace by Paolo Chikiamco, which
is a space opera, but features aswang. So you may have the beats
of the space opera, you have the fight scenes, space ships, the
prophecy of the chosen one and you can use that to introduce
readers to important topics that you find important.
And I guess to react also to what was mentioned that there
are still so many topics that we haven’t tapped yet, I remember
talking to a friend who’s spoken to a reader who reads only a
certain portion of Filipino literature, so it becomes like a sort of
Filipino literature bingo, like, May sapa ba diyan, may kalabaw,
may magsasaka, and you’re like, that’s not the only kind of stories
that we have, so it’s really important. While I do enjoy that kind
of literature, I’d have to say that these are not the only stories
that we can or should tell.
DA: Yes.
EV: Think about how certain people view the world. Some people
take in stimuli, and then they write them as they are, but
some people add something extra. Look at how Einstein and
the scientists saw the world, and interpreted the world, and

Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 279
how they talked about their theories. They talked about them
through thought experiments and explanatory stories, basically.
What if you move so fast, so close to the speed of light that
time slows down? If you want to talk to a layperson, a non-
expert, you need to talk to them in terms of stories to make
them understand how you see the world. Scientists have stories
that are backed by theories. Fictionists have stories backed by an
honest interpretation of the human condition. Realist or non-
realist, these stories need to come from a place of honesty.
GL: When I started writing, I didn’t write fiction. I actually wrote
poetry. I came in to this particular writing life because of two
things. One was because I couldn’t be a doctor. The other thing
I realized I was good at because I was also not very good at
math and science was that I knew I was good in reading. I was
lucky though that my parents were very much willing to let me
experiment on things and think about what I wanted to be and
were never really strict about that. It also helped that much like
the rest of the panel, my mother is a storyteller. In particular she’s
a visual artist and she writes storybooks. So I grew up in a house
that very much privileged the creation of art and of storytelling.
One of the things that influenced my writing was really
personal experience, and I think that’s really important, to
stretch yourself and try out new things because you don’t know
what kind of stories are going to come out of it. I discovered that
writing to a certain extent is also about community. It’s about
people who are around you and help you to be a better writer. So
looking for that kind of community, I found it when I studied
in UP. But I studied poetry. I had fantastic poetry teachers, Sir
Neil among them, and I wrote my thesis on poetry and writing
poetry, but on the side, I enjoyed writing fiction but I never took
it seriously.
And so I graduated and I had to look for a job. I went
looking for a job. And then Dean Alfar gave me a job. And uh …
JNG: Did he pay you well?
EV: Naghesitate siya.
DA: We’re on the record here.

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GL: I was paid in experience. (Laughter.) And money, too. At least
may ganun. But one of the things that I learned from Dean, he
knew that I wrote but he didn’t know that I wrote fiction. And
so when the first call for speculative fiction came up in 2005,
he said, Why don’t you submit a story? And I did. And it didn’t
get accepted the first time around. Okay, so I said it’s not for me
talaga. Too bad, I’m going back to writing poetry. And then he
came up to me later on and said Gabby actually we have space
for two more stories, and I want yours to be one of them.
And then I realized later on when it first came out and I
saw the book, I realized that this was something that eminently
suited the way I saw the world, which was kind of slantwise,
kind of strange, and kind of, again I think of what Eliza said
earlier, extending the “What if …” The what-if was already for
me something that you could explore in poetry, actually. But
here in speculative fiction—I didn’t even know it was speculative
fiction until the anthology came out—to me that was just story.
I realized that this was another way of engaging the world that
I live in. This was another way of me trying to understand the
world that I live in, but you use a different lens, and a different
way of seeing things, and trying to engage with it. And so to me
that was when I got hooked.
And one of the other things that influenced me was when
I studied abroad. Studying abroad also kind of broke down all
those rules, and said genre is a label and if that’s what you want
to call your story, go ahead and call your story that, but for us
we’re concerned with what is it you’re trying to say—Is it the
best way of executing this story in the manner that you want to
tell it? And to me that was such a novel way of looking at things,
kasi I didn’t have the checklist anymore, of ah ’yong character
mo ba ito ’yong ginagawa niya? Ito ba ’yong rules nung ano
mo? But rather is this the best use of technique? Is this the best
use of language? One of the things also that helped me in that
particular stage and still helps me right now is because I studied
poetry I pay attention to the use of language because poetry is
such a precise craft, and you have to pay attention to every word
that you choose. And in fiction, normally some fictionists use
the excuse na mahaba naman iyan eh, pwede mong itago.

Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 281
But the truth is each word is important, and where you place
them is still important. And the value of the meaning changes
when you change the meaning and the placement of words. And
to me that was such a valuable lesson that poetry taught that I
still carry up to now, writing fiction. But I’ve always thought this
way—I never thought that there were boundaries and I never
thought that to be labeled one is to immediately cancel out the
others. I think that every story is important. What we should be
paying attention to is the manner of the telling, and the message
that it’s trying to convey. Because once we get to the meat of it,
all stories are just talking about the way we see the world.
EV: Yes.
GL: And if we accept that particular premise, that means that
whatever the genre is, the story should be important, and should
at least be given the chance to be read.
JNG: Thank you for your rather exhaustive summations and
introductions. Let me explain that I thought of this topic because
I believe it is a timely one. I believe—I know—that so many of
our young writers have given up on realism, and are happily
writing different kinds of speculative fiction. This is clear, going
by what’s being increasingly written in Creative Writing classes,
and going by the entries to the fiction category in such contests
as the Palanca Awards, for example.
The thing is, not everything is hunky-dory in this picture,
because it’s not entirely clear that these young writers have tried
realism seriously—and consistently—enough to actually be able
to mindfully (or credibly) give up on it, or whether speculative
forms of fiction are simply what they have been exposed to and
therefore prefer to read (and write). Moreover, while speculative
fiction may have more adherents among the young than realism,
institutionally the latter still dominates the scene, receiving
accolades and recognitions, while the former still mostly gets
affirmed in “indie” and non-institutional ways. While we
would like to believe that we are all citizens of “the Republic
of Letters”—and that we are all denizens of this country called
Story—we may still need to question this mode called realism,
which we may need to “provincialize,” because it arguably is a

282 Forum
culturally specific way of telling a story (or indeed, of seeing a
world). As such it is constrained by narrative conventions and
expectations, many of which—as a number of you have pointed
out—may not be even be appropriate to our cultural situation.
While initially understood as being strictly a question of
formal accomplishment, realism is now seen by many literary
critics as a signifying practice that exceeds surface technicality.
As such it is comprised of discursive strategies that encourage
the reader to believe in the text’s referential power. Over and
above the technical features of this mode of writing, there are
certain “conditionalities” that are required for realism to work.
First, the world must be an abundantly “describable” location.
Next, it must be possible to fully name and communicate
something about this world. And then, words must be deemed
as capable of imitating—but not literally producing—the real.
And then, both the message and the style must be as unobtrusive
or “imperceptible” as possible. Finally, the reader must believe
what the author is saying.
Clearly, these requirements cannot be easily assumed by
us, especially as regards the usefulness of an always already
perceptible and self-consciously deployed textual literacy in
a residually but powerfully oral culture, whose realities aren’t
entirely describable, nameable, or even “capturable” in literary
(that is, scriptural) language, and whose linguistic situation is
dizzyingly mixed and multifarious right from the start.
And then, the last condition proves most salient, indeed:
basically, for realism to be possible, both reader and author must
share the same “attitude”—needless to say, must share the same
language and the same cultural ground, the same habitus that
deems this form of imitation as realistic, precisely. Given the
multiple “divides” in Philippine society, the uniformity of any
“reality effects” in a literary or writerly tradition that is not even
evenly legible or “available” to the majority of its citizens (who
don’t really read) obviously cannot be stabilized or assured.
On a related note, as we have appropriated it in our
tradition, realism is routinely confounded by the inescapability
of and almost perfunctory recourse to translation. Think of

Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 283
Rizal’s novels, which supposedly lie at the very wellspring of
the realist canon in our literature, and their scenes that should
have realistically happened in Tagalog, but that Rizal willfully
translated into Spanish. Or think of the touchstone works of
our great anglophone fictionists—for instance, NVM Gonzalez,
whose characters are typically peasants conversing in perfect
“standard” English in the middle of the ash-covered loam.
In a manner of speaking, writing realistically—at least,
in English—in our country will always be “speculative” or
transformational, precisely because it will inevitably require
verbal and cultural translation (which is about approximation/
speculation, at its very best). If this is so, then the tradition of
speculative writing in our country becomes suddenly much
larger—and older.
What can you say about that?
To the fictionists in English: if you are indeed enacting
verbal and cultural translations in your works, then to what
kind of translation practice are you inclined? Do you promote
equivalence rather than difference—opting for a “domestication”
of the foreign (for instance, “sour pork broth” instead of sinigang
na baboy)? The former endorses the idea of commensurability
across cultural experiences and promotes a seamless reading
experience premised on the illusion of sameness; the latter insists
on the irreducibility of cultural realities, and indeed registers the
source text’s “foreignness” in the target text itself. What do you
believe might be the advantages of the translational practice that
you prefer?
LSC: My stand on the value of translation is this—I’d go for using the
original term like sinigang na baboy and letting the reader figure
it out for herself, because I think she can gauge the meaning
through context clues. Pangarap kong mabasa ang Makinilyang
Altar ng iba pang mga mambabasa, na labas sa ating bansa, kaya
pinasalin ko iyon sa Ingles. ’Yong pakiramdam na ito matagal ko
nang napapansin sa sarili—’yong parang ang liit ng sapa, tapos
ang likot ng buntot at hasang mo at gusto mong makalangoy sa
mas malawak na katawang-tubig. Mapalad ako at tinanggap ni
Marne Kilates ang proyekto. Alam ko ang kalidad ng trabaho

284 Forum
ni Marne, at dahil isa siyang makata, alam kong malalim ang
kanyang pagpapahalaga sa wika. May footnotes originally ang
salin niya, para ipaliwanag ang mga salitang tulad ng bisor, dirty
ice cream, etc. Naipabasa ko rin ang draft ng salin ni Marne
kay Andrea Pasion-Flores. Pinayuhan ako ni Andrea na hindi
na kinakailangan ang footnotes, at ang reference niya dito
’yong experience niya bilang a Singapore-based literary agent. I
followed her advice. May mga bahagi sa draft ng salin na dala pa
rin ang bagahe ng pagkokompara sa wikang lirikal ng orihinal.
Sa salin ni Marne (Kilates), napanatili naman niya ang lumbay
ng personang si Laya, pero kung minsan sumusungaw sa dialogo
ang asiwa ng timpla ng wika. Parang radio drama ang dating,
kung magiging tapat. Pero ’yon ang nakasulat sa Filipino, e. Mas
naidiriin pala kapag sinalin ’yong melodrama. ’Yong pamagat ng
akda ay ginawang literal na salin. Ayaw sana ni Marne ang title,
mas gusto niya ang, “At the Altar of the Typewriter” dahil hindi
idiomatic ang Typewriter Altar. In the end, pinaubaya na lang ni
Marne sa akin ’yon, which I appreciate. The translation process
went fine, but the review process was not as smooth as I hoped it
would be. If it’s any consolation to the younger writers, kami rin
ay may mga rejection slips na natatanggap. The review process
was a study in contrast. ’Yong isang reader, gustong-gusto ang
salin habang ’yong isa’y hinding-hindi. The press director did
not elaborate their reasons, she only said that they needed to
break the tie, but it took another year bago ko nalaman na hindi
na sila interesado sa proyekto. Eye-opener ’yon para sa akin on
many levels. Una, kailangan talagang ilaban ng awtor na isalin
ang akda niya, at itaya iyon. Sana nga automatic na itong kasama
kapag nakapasa ang isang manuskrito sa isang university press
(or any publishing house for that matter). Ikalawa, na-realize
ko sa experience na iyon na if we are up against the world (kasi
nga we have to compete with other authors globally) we must
do our best to write it well, and to translate it well, and not
to look at ambition as a bad thing. Kung walang aspirasyon o
pangarap, bakit ka pa nagsusulat? Ikatlo, sana ang review process
ay mas transparent, at mas nag-uusap ang publisher at author
para mapaganda talaga ang akda niya.

Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 285
DA: I prefer to render the names of things in the original language,
then provide a context for readers to understand what I’m saying.
There will never be 100 percent correspondence translating
across cultures. It really depends on the needs of the story. But
in the end, what matters more to me is uniqueness of cultural
experience, whether writing in the realist or the speculative
mode.
EV: I’ve always wanted to ask English fictionists: in your head, and in
the world of the story, do your characters actually speak English?
They don’t, in my case. They speak Filipino (or, in certain stories,
an otherworldly language), so I see my English-language fiction
as translation. I used to italicize Filipino terms in my English-
language fiction (dinuguan, sinigang na baboy, atbp.), but I also
italicize words to emphasize, so it looks strange on the page.
Now my practice is just to translate everything—for a seamless
reading experience, as you mentioned.
This is tricky, because if this is all translation, then you can’t
apply the grammar rules of English. We often read this cliché,
grammar-dependent pronouncement after a character’s recent
death: She is a teacher. No, I’m sorry. She was a teacher. Was. Was.
Was. I’m still getting used to this. If you’re speaking Filipino, you
won’t have the same problem, at least not immediately. Same
with gender pronouns: “I’m taking him out to dinner.” “So you
are dating a guy!” If they’re speaking in Filipino, the character
can continue being cryptic about his sexual orientation, because
Filipino pronouns are not gendered.
I’m still problematizing this. I also write fiction in Filipino
(though rarely), and I love how it frees me from all of these
translation problems!
GL: As for me, I think in English—it’s the language that I find most
comfortable for me to express myself. I think that there’s never
been any overt decision in terms of self-translation. What I do
take care in rendering in my writing is the milieu, whether it is a
reimagining of the world around me or a completely secondary
world, what I prioritize is the translation of the space and the
place. I can use all the Filipino words in my (admittedly limited)
vocabulary, but if I don’t believe in the space, and if I don’t
believe in the project, then the story doesn’t go anywhere.

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JNG: Needless to say, “realistic” is not the same thing as “real,” and
going by your presentations it’s clear you all have—you all start
from—the “real” in your works. In Luna’s and Jimmy’s case the
real is relevant or urgent personal experience, both their own
and other people’s, as they remember, imagine, or research it.
The real in Dean’s case would seem to be the charmed country
of childhood, its elemental hurts, fascinations, and joys.
Charlson’s real is history, especially its nagging questions and
silences—a concern that’s particularly interesting, as we know,
because history is itself necessarily narrated, isn’t it? Eliza’s real
is pretty interesting, too, because it is constituted of questions,
sourced from knowledge systems other than fiction, that
could nonetheless serve as the jumping-off place for fictional
explorations. It’s the same for Gabby, more or less, although
because she started out as a poet language to her is “real” as well,
which she painstakingly minds, other than just the story per se.
Allow me to raise this question, then. Given the fact
that you all agree that reality is important, what you can say
about the various ways—many of them resolutely ironic and
“distantiating”—speculative or non-realist writing handles or
approaches it? In particular I would like you to weigh in on
the following commonly heard accusation: Are the various
speculative flights from realism nothing more than escapist
gestures? In other words: Are speculative writers simply in denial
of the complexities and difficulties of contemporary life?
LSC: Iba ang game plan ng mga nagsusulat sa Filipino pagdating sa
pagpili ng anong uri ng realidad ang itatanghal. Tingin ko na-
stereotype na rin ang maikling kuwento at nobela sa Filipino
na binanggit sa checklist ng sapa, kalabaw, bukid. Totoong may
mga ganoong kuwento na dinakila, at magpahanggang ngayon
ay itinuturo bilang mabuting ispesimen ng kuwentong Filipino.
Pero dapat hindi doon tumigil sa pagkaunawa natin sa kayang
gawin ng maikling kuwento, prosa o nobelang Filipino. Ayaw
kong ituring na parang nagtuturo kami ng ambahan (pasintabi,
hindi ko intensiyong isawalang bahala ang anyo’t tradisyon na
ito) at fineafeature na lang sa mga dokumentaryong nilikha ng
NCCA. Hindi naman dapat alienated ang mambabasang Filipino
sa sariling panitikan. Kaya lang, batay sa napagmamasdan

Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 287
kong mga paraan ng pagtuturo ng panitikan at kakulangan
ng talas para ituro ang panitikan na umaayon sa panahon at
pangangailangan ng kontemporaneong Filipino, tila parang
napakalaking pagsalunga(t) ang itaya pang sumulat sa Filipino
sa panahon ngayon. Hindi ko rin sinasabi na dapat kalimutan
natin ang mahuhusay magkuwento sa Ingles. Ang sinasabi ko,
lawakan natin ang nalalangoy natin sa pagbabasa at sa pagsusulat.
Gusto kong banggitin ang ambag sa realismo ni RM
Topacio Aplaon, na masasabi kong nagpapatunay na ang tunay
na talent ay laging matatalunton, basta’t hindi napapupurol ang
paraan ng pagbasa at pagtuklas. Pinatunayan ni Aplaon na wala
sa edad ang sopistikasyon at maturity ng pananaw pagdating
sa pag-angkin ng isang mundo, isang karanasan na bagama’t
paulit-ulit nang nakikita’y maaring maging bago pa rin, dahil
sa kapangyarihan ng kanyang paghawak sa panahunan, tauhan,
imahen, talinghaga. Ang mga touchstone na ito para sa akin ay
hindi kukupas sa alinmang panahon.
JAL: Realism as a mode of representation pays privileged attention
to contemporary society and life. This has been the prevalent
mode for sometime. I don’t think it has become outmoded,
despite some speculations to the contrary. For as long as we still
consider the world around us as important, then any literary
representation that recognizes its own continuing importance is
still workable and relevant. Can you imagine a world where all
books deliberately ignore the immediate world and focus instead
on an alternative reality in another universe? That, of course, is
the ultimate nightmare. The poet and critic Gemino H. Abad
has come out with several anthologies of Filipino short stories
in English spanning several decades: Upon Our Own Ground,
1956–1972; Underground Spirit, 1973–1989; and Hoard of
Thunder, 1990–2008. From his comprehensive survey, you can
already chart the relative fortunes of the realist and the non-realist
story. In fact, in his Introduction, Abad observes that among the
stories in his anthologies, there are non-realist stories, stories of
the marvelous and the supernatural, but he observes that the
dominant form in Philippine fiction is still realistic. Despite the
growing popularity of speculative or non-realist fiction in the

288 Forum
Philippines, I believe the enduring dominance of realist fiction
will continue in the foreseeable future.
Incidentally, you might think that the non-realist or the
speculative mode of writing is a very recent Filipino literary
development. Not so. It was already very much around before
the formulation of this Western term, if you consider the magical
nature of our ancient legends, cosmological accounts of the
universe, folktales, myths, and epics with their talking animals,
flying carpets, and levitating datus. To appreciate the magical
nature of our folk literature, we only need to revisit Damiana L.
Eugenio’s comprehensive folklore series.
An important current trend in Philippine writing is the
growing popularity of modern speculative fiction. Wikipedia
defines speculative fiction as “a broad category of narrative fiction
that includes elements, settings and characters created out of the
imagination and speculation rather than based on reality and
everyday life. It encompasses the genres of science fiction fantasy,
science fantasy, horror, alternative history, and magic realism.”
It may feature “mythical creatures and supernatural entities,
technologies that do not exist in real life like time machines
and interstellar spaceships, or magical or otherwise scientifically
inexplicable elements.” How do we explain this development?
Some of our friends on this panel are non-realist writers or
writers of speculative fiction, and they have already mulled his
question with more substance. But allow me to give my five-
cents’ worth—my own attempt at a “speculation.” Like everyone
else, writers are susceptible to the influence of popular culture
from abroad. Western books and movies are ever present in the
national consciousness of readers and movie-goers. And writers
as well. Just think of the popular recent releases: Game of Thrones,
The Hobbit, the Harry Potter books, The Lord of the Rings, Cloud
Atlas, The Hunger Games, Ender’s Game, The Time Traveler’s
Wife, etc. They are all over the place. I think Filipino writers
are inspired by this exciting field of the imagination, so they try
their hand to participate in the global speculative conversation.

Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 289
Speculative does not automatically mean escapist. It
depends on how the speculative is developed. For instance, it
can be developed as a possible future of the world, given the
state of contemporary realities. Think of such books as Brave
New World, The Handmaid’s Tale, 1984, and Fahrenheit 45—all
of them far from being merely trivial flights of fancy.
DA: The best, or most engaging, speculative fiction is anchored in
truth. We may create a secondary world with mindboggling
realities but still, it needs to be anchored in some emotional truth.
Speculation is not merely an escape. It is a strategy to cope with
the real world, an effort to question events and circumstances
and see if things could be different. We ask the question, “What
if?” and we provide stories that explore answers.
EV: I was in Hong Kong very recently, and I met up with a friend,
Crystal Koo, who also writes, and she teaches literature also. And
I asked her, so what do Hong Kong teenagers write about? And
she said, life in Hong Kong is very fast, right. It’s very natural to
see people running to the trains, and when the train is late by
five minutes it ends up on the front-page of their newspapers,
and so on. And the teenagers, in her class, they write slow stories,
very inward-looking. So I’m thinking, maybe that’s their escape.
You have a very fast city life, with hardly any room for personal
contemplation in a way, and that’s what your commit to the
page.
I’m thinking with young writers now, what they find
important may seem frivolous to us, but it means the world
to them. So I think that it’s still important in class to treasure
that, to honor that. As they grow older, what’s important in
their lives will change also. And I’m pretty sure they will become
more socially aware. And then their stories, as well as their craft,
hopefully will improve.
Personally, in my writing, I want my stories to be well-
written and entertaining, but I also want them to be thought-
provoking, without being didactic or preachy. I want people to
read my stories, and enjoy them, but I also want my readers to
think. Speculative fiction, it’s just a different lens, really, to look
at the world. And you can’t completely escape the world, the

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way you can’t completely escape your culture, your family, your
humanity, your own body.
GL: To borrow and bastardize C. S. Lewis, the only people who
should be concerned with escapism are jailers guarding prisoners.
Otherwise, all fiction is escapist, speculative. There is no other
way to imagine contemporary life as being anything other
than speculative—many of the ways in which we relate and
communicate and experience life has been imagined by science
fiction writers in the ’60s and ’70s and onwards. “Cyberspace”
as a practical concept was first articulated in William Gibson’s
Neuromancer, a cyberpunk novel from the 1980s. In fact, I’d
argue that SF writers confront the complexities and difficulties of
contemporary life simply because it highlights and extrapolates
experiences from the disparate elements of the present. The
horrors of war, the fear of famine, the terrible things that people
do to each other—these are all highlighted and emphasized in
SF. When people read widely and deeply, whatever stories they
encounter, I think that the genre boundaries blur even more,
because at the end of the day, what matters is the immersion, the
experience.
JNG: Let us now venture into potentially perilous territory. As has
been the experience of so many of our writers (and artists) across
a tumultuous century, realism is not always the easiest—or the
safest—strategy or mode to use in one’s work. The question is,
should realism necessarily be the preferred vehicle for protest
and/or “resistance” in our own time? What can you say about
the idea that speculative writing can, in the face of repressive
regimes, in fact function as a “strategy of circumvention” for
socially engaged writers? Have you ever availed yourself of
this strategy in your work? Conversely, can one be a staunchly
speculative writer and still espouse a politics or be an advocate
for something?
JAL: Of course, either way. Protest is a function of rhetorical strategy.
Protest is bodied forth in a sliding scale from outright to subtle.
You can deal with protest directly in realist fiction. Or you can
deal with protest indirectly through allegory, irony, metaphor,
etc. in non-realist fiction. In Abad’s anthology Underground

Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 291
Spirit, which covers stories from 1973 to 1989, some Filipino
writers resorted to such strategies of circumvention. As Abad
pointed out in his Introduction, “because of the ever-present
danger of arrest (torture, imprisonment, disappearance), writers
during the Marcos dictatorship (1972 to 1986) were driven to
other forms or guises of the short story: fantasy, fable, ghost
story, parable, science fiction, tale.”
DA: The burden of the political should not be placed on every
story in existence. But certainly, fantasy, science fiction, and
horror have been used to comment on political situations by
authors here and abroad. We can project a utopia, for example,
to counter the dystopian feeling of the current times in our
country. We can create fantasy worlds where women are not
treated as inferior, in hopes that one day, it will come true. We
can write horror to deal with the real monsters in our society.
Speculative fiction can advocate for the political just as realist
fiction can. Spec fic classics, such as Ursula Le Guin’s “The Ones
Who Walk Away from Omelas,” are particularly resonant in the
context of extrajudicial killings. But we need to recognize that
not all stories need to be so. Stories that spark a sense of wonder
are just as vital.
EV: Definitely. As I mentioned earlier, speculative fiction just gives
you a different lens to look at the world. It’s a way, an instrument,
to talk about topics that people may be tired of thinking about,
and talking about. Recently I was part of the Virgin Labfest, my
entry was called Marte. It’s about OFWs on Mars. People can be
sick of talking about the plight of poor migrant workers—my
father was an OFW when I was younger—they’re overworked,
they’re underpaid, they get abused. How can you talk about
abusive labor practices without alienating people? How can
you engage them? Speculative fiction, genre fiction, has always
been seen as a vehicle for entertainment, but entertainment can
also educate. So for that piece, I changed the lens, I moved the
OFWs away from Dubai, UAE, Hong Kong, and placed them
on Mars. So we have a new conversation, and we can listen to
each other again.

292 Forum
I’m not going claim that I’m an activist for migrant workers,
because that’s unfair to the people who draft laws, who reach
out to OFWs and help them escape that life, but I want to use
my fiction to educate (especially since I see that my readers
are mostly in their early twenties, or younger). My latest novel
Wounded Little Gods touches on eugenics. Who the hell wants
to talk about eugenics? But perhaps if I package it in my fiction,
even high schoolers won’t tune me out.
GL: All writing is political. One’s stories can carry with it one’s beliefs
and opinions and politics. What SF does is it provides a different,
alternative lens in viewing what is otherwise a massive and
overwhelming info-dump. For example: Orson Scott Card is a
terrible human being, but Ender’s Game is a fantastic meditation
on the nature of politics and political discourse during a time of
war. It asks the important questions: who should be responsible
for the destruction of another life? Who bears the guilt of war—
the politicians making the decisions or the soldiers carrying
them out? Add to that the personal journey of Ender as he
moves from innocence to experience, the classic bildungsroman,
and you have a novel that plays on the anxieties of a society that
feels both responsible for its own actions and at the same time,
fearful of retribution. Except that, you know, this takes place
in a futuristic military camp in space, with technology that far
outstrips what we have now, and subverts the entire humans vs.
aliens space battles that were a staple in military science fiction.
But the questions and concerns are still valid, I think, for the
way we live now.
JNG: Fantasy is a very popular subgenre in the non-realist canon,
and this is the case not just textually but also transmedially, on
both the local and global fronts. In an interview with a local
magazine during his visit here a few years back, Neil Gaiman
gushed about our country’s rich mythological worlds, and
issued a subtle challenge to our young writers to tap into them
(or else he would). What can you say about Filipino works of
fantasy that do tap into our native myths? Are there better or
more “effective” ways of going about this project? While Gaiman

Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 293
obviously didn’t have any experiential claims to know about this
important misgiving or caveat, nevertheless we do need to ask
ourselves: Might there be ethical questions to the “mythopoetic”
use of regional folkloric material—especially when the users are
Manila-based and from the middle class?
DA: There will always be a struggle and a negotiation between
cultural ownership and appropriation, between promoting and
exoticizing our own. We need to respect the cultural contexts
and history of our sources when we borrow from the myths and
stories outside of our own experience. We can use these as a
springboard, to creatively construct something new, but there
will always be the root of it.
JAL: The use of our own mythologies as the basis of Filipino works
of fantasy is not only logical but also desirable. We don’t want
to be known simply as copycats, making our local versions of
Star Trek and Superman. However, the use of regional folkloric
material by just anybody may raise the question of authenticity,
knowledge, and ownership. The material is not just any story
but an important part of the cultural identity of an ethnic group.
There is something fraudulent about somebody freely singing
somebody else’s song as though it were his own.
I would encourage the lumad writers to write about the
materials because otherwise I think it’s sort of preempting them.
You take their stories, you tell their stories, and you tell the world
you are the owner of the story and you’re not, you just heard it.
But that’s my point of view. Probably it’s just a personal opinion,
I would like the lumad writers to have the chance to tell their
own stories. I think this is a very delicate question. It’s like if you
are in the US, you are a white writer, and you write the story
of a black person. How authentic is your story? I mean it boils
down to that, eventually. Are you just capitalizing on something
that is popular? And you have things like this big case of an
American poet who was rejected so many times, he was forced to
take a pseudonym, a Chinese woman’s name, and the poem was
Chinese-themed, and the poem was accepted and was included
in the Best American Poetry of the year. Actually he admitted it,
he thought poets of color had it easier than white male poets.

294 Forum
When people found out that this came from a white man and
not from a Chinese woman, they got angry because they felt that
he was capitalizing on something that he did not really earn.
JNG: Yellowface.
JAL: For a Chinese woman writing as a Chinese woman, there
already exists a history that she has to overcome, a history of
discrimination and oppression …
EV: Sexism.
GL: Patriarchy.
JAL: All of these things. But the white writer did not suffer, he did not
go through all that, and as if through a sleight of hand, by using
a mask, he got the reward without the pain. I mean it could be
interpreted that way.
EV: I grew up in Bulacan, with maternal roots in Cagayan, so when
I do tap into folklore and myth, I tap into the stories I know. If
you’re a writer who’s going to appropriate something outside your
own region or culture, it’s important to remember context. You
have to be extremely circumspect. Where is your information
about the culture or the myth coming from? Is it reliable? Is it
fair? Are you writing the story from a place of empathy—or are
you writing it from a position of power? Come to think of it,
these questions should be asked by every writer, but even more
so by the writer who plans to step into a life he or she has never
lived, has never even brushed against.
GL: I think that there’s a difference between adaptation and
appropriation. This is something that, I believe, has been
discussed in the ongoing conversations regarding diversity in SF.
As a Filipino, I think I have every right to use what is available
to me, and what is interesting to me, in order to tell a story.
My loyalty, first and foremost, is to the story. Am I telling it
the best way I know how? If it needed research, did I do my
research? Was I faithful to the core concepts? Am I respectful to
the sources, and can I stand by my creative choices? That’s how
stories survive: by being adapted, by being passed on.
If I wanted to write an academic essay about myths and
legends, then I’d write that. But I’m writing fiction, and fiction

Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 295
is about imagining a “What if?” scenario and pursuing it.
Otherwise, if we’re just going to put up walls and boundaries
and borders between them, if we’re just going to keep on
saying “No, you can’t have this, it’s mine,” as if anyone can just
claim entire pantheons for themselves, then there’s no point in
imagining anything. We might as well just stop ourselves—and
stop people like Rick Riordan (he’s not Greek, so why does he
have the right to retell Greek myths?) and Neil Gaiman (he’s not
South African, so why is he allowed to adapt the story of Anansi,
or play around with different pantheons in American Gods?) and
even Budjette and Ka-Jo’s Trese series—because of this perceived
demand for fidelity to a singular source, which may or may not
even exist.
JNG: Many of us may have problems—or “disenchantments”—with
realism, but at least as a dominant literary mode it has been
rationalized, its ideal qualities inventoried and generally agreed
upon and understood. What about non-realist or speculative
fiction: How exactly do you determine excellence in this mode
of writing? What are its formal or technical “touchstones,” and
how might one productively deploy them (for instance, in the
business of curating and/or editing manuscripts)?
JAL: If not verisimilitude, then a thoroughness in the construction of
the imagined world, action that begins somewhere and ends in
some manner of completeness and satisfactory closure, characters
that behave consistently according to their inner nature and
motivation, etc. In other words, more or less the same things I
look for in realist fiction.
DA: In terms of the literary, the basic elements are the same: narrative
techniques, character, plot, setting, world-building, language,
tone. But with spec fic, there are also the specific genre tropes
that define the type of story. Science fiction, for example, needs
to explore some scientific notion or scenario, whether hard
or soft scifi. But ultimately, spec fic needs to engage readers
and draw them deep into the unreal worlds. Because it needs
verisimilitude, it needs to be anchored on truth, whether that
truth is a personal truth or a speculative one.

296 Forum
EV: The formal or technical “touchstones” for speculative fiction are
similar to the “touchstones” for realist fiction, except that the
speculative fiction writer has to work harder to make the reader
believe that the story he or she is telling is true. How will you build
this never-before-seen world without relying on “info-dump,” or
paragraph after paragraph of description and exposition? One
of my pet peeves in fantasy or science fiction is when characters
explain certain aspects of their world to each other. Why are you
explaining what a mandrake root/time machine/wormhole is?
You are sorcerers/scientists/adventurers who live in this world—
you should know this already! Obviously, they’re talking about
it for the sake of the hapless reader, but how can you write the
scene in a way without making it seem contrived?
GL: It’s the same as with any other piece of writing: Does it make
sense? Was the writer able to wield the elements of fiction
together in order to sustain the story? Is it better/worse than
other stories that have followed similar beats, or paths? As with
any other genre, writing SF requires that the writer must be
familiar with the tropes or conventions of the field, has a clear
vision or project that was pursued throughout the text, and is
able to maintain the suspension of disbelief necessary in all forms
of fiction. I think in addition, for SF, we need to be more aware
of the world-building as well—does the world you’re creating
make sense to the reader, who does not live in that world, but
who wants to enter it?
JNG: Finally I want to bring up the question of language, which the
presence of Luna in this panel all too powerfully sets in bold
relief. At the end of it all, we simply must flag the fact that the
choice of language is entirely determinative of so many things in
our literature—calling forth questions about its inception and
reception, which of course bring up (the) usual and inevitable
regional, national, and class concerns.
While we can easily accede to the idea that we may not
need to challenge or reject realism outright (simply because
the exciting depth and full range of its possibilities have not
been sufficiently explored in our literature), nevertheless, as it
is practiced and taught, especially in English Creative Writing

Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 297
classes, it seems to be obviously culturally circumscribed, its
fictional worlds much too limited (and diminished). I know
that the situation may indeed be different, or even opposite,
in the history of fiction in Filipino, but the fact is, unlike in
the generation of anglophone writers like Kerima Polotan
Tuvera, Juan Gatbonton, NVM Gonzalez, and Aida Rivera
Ford, nowadays many realist stories being written in English
(especially by the younger authors) are narrated in the first
person. As a realist formal strategy—that betrays a cultural
fetish for authenticity on one hand, and intimates the rise of
“antifiction” fiction on the other—this narrative method renders
these stories experientially limited, especially as it is wielded by
the soft and sheltered hands of English-proficient, mostly city-
bred, and middle-class young Filipinos. Admittedly, while these
writers normally can’t be expected to immerse themselves in
the realities of the rural and urban poor, it’s very troubling to
think that, going by the evidence of their literary output, many
of them may just be oblivious and entirely self-satisfied in their
own little corners of the Philippine reality, and not remotely care
about what’s happening to the rest of the country.
Might commonly endorsed writing protocols—for instance,
“Get Real”—in our Creative Writing programs have something
to do with this trend? Should it be time to rethink—or even,
reject—this artful but dangerously solipsistic imperative?
JAL: I think your personal excitement, if it’s really there, would be
communicated and they might get wind of that. So you have to
be interested in what you’re teaching. Some teachers, really, they
have no business being in the classroom. They just collect their
salary, and that’s the most dulling experience, if you’re under a
teacher who does not love the subject matter. And then I think
it is important to recognize the interest of your students. Look
at their current level of proficiency. For example, if they don’t
understand the language, say English, very well, don’t give them
very difficult or highly symbolic stories; stick to something that
is very simple, on the surface, the meaning is right there, that
they can see. Don’t give them Eric Gamalinda just yet. I think
you start with this decision. Just give them something that is of

298 Forum
interest to them, and then capitalize on their level of proficiency,
their current interests, and then you can move on to something
more difficult at the end of the semester.
DA: I write in English because I grew up reading and speaking in
English. And while writing only in English may seem limiting,
the question is actually easily answered by the very nature of
speculative fiction itself: we speculate. We go beyond the
boundaries of our immediate surroundings and experiences. We
question our limitations and create new worlds to explore the
answers in. We are not all immersed in the realities of the urban
poor, but we can research and imagine a Philippines in the far-
flung future when we are an entire nation of scavengers—and
take it from there. While young writers tend to turn inward, as
they mature they will tend to look around, away, and beyond
themselves.
EV: I think I’d begin by asking these young writers themselves why
they decide to write these, as you say, “experientially limited”
stories. Maybe it isn’t because they don’t care, but because they
are overwhelmed, or scared, or tired. God knows the world is a
wearying place. I think before we demand them to be socially
aware, we should first see if they are even aware of their own
thoughts and feelings and their place in this world, if they have
the strength to constantly interrogate themselves.
GL: As one of the young faculty who teaches fiction, okay, one of the
things that I actually enjoy from students are stories that take
their reality and make it new in some way or form. One of the
things I tell my students obviously, I cannot experience what
you’re experiencing right now, una sa lahat, kasi mas matanda na
ako sa inyo. Pangalawa, ’yong reality ko when I was in college
is probably different from your reality right now. For example,
everyone’s on their phones. And when you ask them, my first
instinct is always, nagbubulakbol ka ’no? And then it turns out
that they’re actually looking for definitions, for things that I say,
or looking at other things that can inform what they say in class,
for example. So okay, it’s knowledge-gathering pala, and it helps
them craft the ideas they will eventually say in the classroom or
whenever we have discussions, and to me that’s always helpful.

Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 299
The second thing is, and this is one of the eternal frustrations
that I think student writers have, is that nobody listens to them.
And so the best that I can do as a teacher is to give them a
range. And then to find, from this particular range, what they’re
particularly interested in. I think there’s always a moment of
emulation, because that’s the way we learn. We copy the people
that we like to read or the stories that we respond best to.
Certainly that was how I started. And a lot of student writers,
I think, are in that particular stage. And I think it’s unfair to
tell them immediately, “This is terrible,” without giving them
the chance to experience things. Because I always think there’s
a curve. And I think that, to tell young people that just because
you’re not writing in one way doesn’t mean that it’s bad writing.
I think that socially conscious writing can, and should be part
of one’s writing life. In fact, just by being sensitive to the world
one lives in, one will already build one’s social consciousness,
which is reflected in one’s writing. And as storytellers, the
choices we make—the language, the genre, the politics—will
always play a part in crafting a story.
LSC: Mahalaga na alam ko—at hindi ito sapilitan dapat—na
mahalaga pa rin nating basahin sina Lazaro Francisco, Macario
Pineda, Rosario de Guzman Lingat, Marcel Navarra, Wilfredo
Pa. Virtusio at marami pang iba. Hindi lang naman Filipino
at Ingles ang mga wika natin, di ba? Mayroon tayong mga
wika sa Waray, Sugbuanon, Ilokano, Hiligaynon, at madalas
nakakalimutan natin iyon. At siya nga pala, ang katumbas ng
speculative sa Filipino ay sapantaha.
Pag sinabi nating sapantaha, ay parang nahuhulaan o
nakukutuban mo. So related siya sa prophecy, pero hindi
katulad noong halimbawa ng mga futuristic visions na may mga
robot—mahirap sumulat pala ng ganoon sa Filipino kasi hindi
kapanipaniwalang magiging technogically advanced tayo, or
makakarating ang isa sa atin sa buwan … Totoong masalimuot,
pero nagpupursigi pa rin kami—sa pagsulat na iyon, at doon
sa path na iyon, kasi ang paniniwala namin, katulad ng sinabi
ninyo, we need to expand our universe.

300 Forum
Sayang nga lang at hindi natutuklasan ng karamihan ang
kahusayan ng mga naunang sumulat ng sapantaha tulad ng
ginawa ni Macario Pineda sa Ang Ginto sa Makiling, o ang
mga kuwento ng katatakutan/domestikong drama ni Rosario
de Guzman Lingat. Tingin ko kailangan ring baklasin ang
stereotipong nasa sosyal na realismo lamang ang lipad ng
kuwento o nobela sa Filipino. Bakit kailangan maliit lamang?
Noong panahon na nagsulat ang aking ama kasama ng kanyang
mga kasabayang sina Ave Perez Jacob, Efren Abueg, Dominador
Mirasol at Edgardo M. Reyes, ang mga realistikong kuwento nila
tungkol sa mga aguador, tungkol sa mga atsoy, tungkol sa mga
aping manggagawa, ay reaksiyon din dahil ang mga nilalabas
ng Liwayway at popular na magasin ay mga kuwentong pag
labas mo ng pintuan ay makakakita ka ng bayong ng ginto, o
mga duwendeng nagsasalita. Speculative ang mga iyon, ’di ba,
o mas angkop sigurong tukuyin na eskapista, at sa kasaysayan
ng kuwento sa Filipino, “nauna” sila sa uri ng realismong
tumutuligsa sa lipunan. Kaya inis na inis ang mga manunulat
na tulad ng aking ama dahil nga ang hirap hirap na nga ng
buhay, dekada ’60 na noon at malapit nang mag-Martial Law,
tapos puro duwende at kapre ang pinupuntirya ng maraming
kuwentista. Mabuti na rin at pinulot ng mga manunulat sa
SIGWA tulad nina Ricardo Lee, Fanny Garcia, at Levy Balgos
de la Cruz, ang mga tematiko’t mga diskursibong mga tanong.
Ito ang dahilan kaya hindi pa rin kumukupas ang mga
istorya na nakaugat sa ating katotohanan o sa ating mga realidad.
Babanggitin ko lang ’yong isang maikling kuwento na nabasa
ko. Kasama ito sa anthology na ipinasa namin sa UP Press. Ito
’yong “Hasang,” na sinulat ni Jolly Lugod. Ang premise niya
ay nasa coastal village nakatira ’yong mga mangingisda. ’Yong
asawa doon ay labis na nalungkot sa pagkalunod ng kanyang
anak na batang lalaki, kaya bawat gabi ay lumulusong siya sa
dagat, hanggang sa tubuan siya ng hasang. Sa dulo ng kuwento,
’yong babae ay maglalaho at sasama doon sa anak niyang lalaki.
Noong una kong nabasa iyong kuwento, sabi ko, Grabe, ang
galing-galing ng manunulat na iyon. Buong-buo ’yong kuwento’t
damang-dama mo ’yong pang-araw-araw na buhay ng mga

Lines of Flight: The Practice and Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction 301
mangingisda. ’Yong description, halimbawa, ng alat sa dila—
may nangyayari kasi sa balat mo sa labis na paglusong sa dagat,
iyong mga ganoon, mahirap siyang hanapan ng kahambing o
isalin sa Ingles—kailangan precise, at kuhang-kuha ito ni Lugod.
Sa huli’t huli, ito siguro ang mga pinakaimportanteng isipin
ng nagtatangkang sumulat. Unang-una, kailangang magwagi
siya sa digmaan ng wika. Ikalawa, kailangang buo ang kanyang
kuwento, anumang kategorya iyon. Kapag napagtagumpayan
niya ’yong dalawang tests na ito—hindi naman siguro test,
kundi kahilingan—may istorya na nga siya. Ang kuwento, akala
ng marami, ay ang dali-daling isulat. Actually, ang hirap-hirap
niyon—tinutulay mo ang hamon para matandaan ng mga tao
na may kuwento ka, sa pagsalok sa pang-araw-araw na buhay
at dalumat, ngunit para maging memorable ang kuwento,
humihigit dapat sa pang-araw-araw ang saklaw ng dalumat. At
walang ibang paraan para magawa iyon maliban sa pagiging
ispekulatibo. Ito ang challenge na lagi naming binubuno bilang
mga manunulat sa Filipino.
Kaya ang paanyaya ko sa mga kapuwa ko ring denizens,
citizens sa repubika ng kuwento, ay tuklasin din natin ang
isa’t-isa. Idadagdag ko pa na kinakailangan din nating umalpas
paminsan-minsan, at lumabas sa ating bayan.
Ang dami-daming mga kuwento sa mundo.

302 Forum
Literary Calendar
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
December 2015
12th Lamiraw Creative Writing Workshop Held by Katig Writers Network Inc. and Abaknon Literary Arts Guild
(ALAG Writers) Inc.
Sebuano:
1) Lota Lleve of Visayas State University (VSU)
2) Salvador Catre of Visayas State University (VSU)
3) John Eras of University of Cebu (UC)
4) Jessrel Gilbuena of Cebu Normal University (CNU)
5) Manuel Avenido Jr. of University of San Jose Recoletos
(USJR)
Waray:
6) Arjay Babon of Leyte Normal University (LNU)
7) Precious Elaine Tubigan of Visayas State University (VSU)
2–4
8) Byron Mahilum of Northwest Samar State University
(NwSSU)
Inabaknon:
9) Rogelio Banagbanag of University of Eastern Philippines
(UEP)
English:
10) Lloyd Cabasag of the University of the Philippines (UP
Diliman)
11) Ela Mae Salazar of Leyte Normal University (LNU)
Filipino:
12) John Leihmar C. Toledo of the University of the

303
Philippines (UP Diliman)
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers

304
December 2015
Book Launch: And Then She Laughed by Hosted by Anvil Publishing Inc.
3
Sylvia Claudio
Boses x Berso: A Poetry Battle for HIV-AIDS Organized by UP Alpha Nu Fraternity
5
Awareness
34th National Book Awards Held by the National Book Development Board (NBDB) and the Manila
Critics Circle (MCC)
Winners:
Artline Highlighters Prize for Best Book of Non-Fiction in
English: Ramon Obusan, Philippine Folkdance, and Me by
Kanami Namiki, Anvil Publishing Inc.
Juan C. Laya Prize for Best Novel in a Philippine Language:
Si Janus Silang at ang Tiyanak ng Tabon by Edgar Calabia
Samar, Adarna House, Inc.
Juan C. Laya Prize for Best Novel in a Foreign Language:
5
Dwellers by Eliza Victoria, Visprint, Inc.
Cirilo F. Bautista Prize for Best Book of Short Fiction in
English: Wonderlust by Nikki Alfar, Anvil Publishing Inc.
Best Book of Essays in Filipino: iStatus Nation by Joselito delos
Reyes, Visprint, Inc.
Best Book of Essays in English: Cherry Blossoms in the Time
of Earthquakes and Tsunami by Rey Ventura, Ateneo de
Manila University Press
Best Anthology in Filipino: Ang Labintatlong Pasaway by Jun
Cruz Reyes, Visprint, Inc.

Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
December 2015
Best Anthology in English: Agam: Filipino Narratives on
Uncertainty and Climate Change edited by Regina
Abuyuan, Institute for Climate and Sustainable Cities

Literary Calendar
Clodualdo del Mundo Sr. Prize for Best Book of Literary
Criticism/Literary History in Filipino: Talab: Mga
Sanaysay sa Panitikan, Wika, at Pagtuturo by Rebecca T.
Añonuevo, Ateneo de Naga University Press
Ophelia Alcantara Dimalanta Prize for Best Book of Literary
Criticism/Literary History in English: The Postcolonial
Perverse Critiques of Contemporary Philippine Culture Vol.
1 by J. Neil C. Garcia, The University of the Philippines
Press
Best Book of Poetry in a Philippine Language other than
Hiligaynon or Kinaray-a: Kundiman sa Gitna ng Karimlan
by E. San Juan, The University of the Philippines Press
Best Book of Poetry in Hiligaynon or Kinaray-a: Tikum
Kadlum: Sugidanon (Epics) of Panay Book 1 by Federico
“Tuohan” Caballero, Teresita “Abyaran” Caballero-Castor,
and Alicia P. Magos, The University of the Philippines
Press
Philippine Literary Arts Council Prize for Best Book of Poetry
in English: Hidden Codex: Fictive Scriptures by Jose Marte
A. Abueg, University of Santo Tomas Publishing House;
Time’s Enchantment and Other Reflections by Marne
Kilates, Ateneo de Naga University Press

305
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers

306
December 2015
Best Book of Graphic Literature in Filipino: Tabi Po (Isyu 1) by
Mervin Malonzo, Visprint, Inc.
Best Book of Graphic Literature in English: Rodski Patotski:
Ang Dalagang Baby by Gerry Alanguilan (story) and
Arnold Arre (illustration), Meganon Comics Publishing
House
Best Book of Wordless Graphic Literature: 14 by Manix Abrera
(writer and illustrator), Visprint, Inc.
Best Translated Book: The Manila Synod of 1582: The Draft of
Its Handbook for Confessors translated by Paul A. Dumol,
Ateneo de Manila University Press
Best Book on Food: Country Cooking: Philippine Regional
Cuisines by Michaela Fenix, Anvil Publishing Inc.
Elfren S. Cruz Prize for Best Book in Social Sciences: Rido:
Clan Feuding and Conflict Management in Mindanao
edited by Wilfredo Magno Torres III, Expanded Edition,
Ateneo de Manila University Press
Victorio C. Valledor Prize for Best Book in the Professions: The
Adventures of a PR Girl by Bettina Rodriguez-Olmedo,
Anvil Publishing Inc.
Best Book in Leisure: Buti Pa Ang Roma, May Bagong Papa by
Noreen Capili, Anvil Publishing Inc.
Alfonso T. Ongpin Prize for Best Book on Art: Journey of a
Thousand Shuttles, The Philippine Weave by Norma Absing
Respicio, National Commission for Culture and the Arts

Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
December 2015
Pilipinas Shell Prize for Best Book in Science: Birds of Cebu
and Bohol Philippines by Nilo Arribas Jr., Bobby Kintanar,
and Raul Benjamin Puentespina, University of San Carlos

Literary Calendar
Press
John C. Kaw Prize for Best Book in History: Sakdalistas’
Struggle for Philippine Independence, 1930–1945 by Motoe
Terami-Wada, Ateneo de Manila University Press
Best Book of Journalism: Vantage Point: The Sixth Estate and
Other Discoveries by Luis V. Teodoro, The University of
the Philippines Press
Komisyon sa Wikang Filipino Prize for Best Book in Language
Studies: Ambagan 2011: Mga Salita Mula sa Iba’t Ibang
Wika sa Filipinas by Michael M. Coroza and Galileo S.
Zafra, The University of the Philippines Press
Best Design: The Manila Synod of 1582: The Draft of Its
Handbook for Confessors designed by Karl Fredrick M.
Castro, Ateneo de Manila University Press
Publisher of the Year: Visprint, Inc.”
Book Launch: Mag-Artista Ka! by Noel Hosted by Anvil Publishing Inc.
5
Ferrer
5–28 Twice: Ang INK Annual Exhibit Organized by Ang Ilustrador ng Kabataan
Book Launch: Ang Maglandi ay Di Biro by Hosted by Anvil Publishing Inc.
6
Dani Hernandez

307
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers

308
December 2015
Book Launch: Kare-kare Komiks by Andrew Hosted by Anino Comics
12
Drilon
13–18 2015 South East Asian Write Week Hosted by South East Asian Writers Awards
15 Lira Batch 30 Fellows Night Organized by Linangan sa Imahen Retorika at Anyo (LIRA)
Book Launch: Luzon at War by Dr. Milagros Hosted by Anvil Publishing Inc.
15
Guerrero
Red Letter Days: The Red Whistle Art + Hosted by The Red Whistle
19
Literary Folio Launch
Lira 30: Tatlumpung Taon ng Pagtula at Organized by Linangan sa Imahen Retorika at Anyo (LIRA)
22
Pagkakaibigan
Book Launch: LIRA 30: Tatlong Dekada ng Hosted by Linangan sa Imahen Retorika at Anyo (LIRA)
22
Makatang LIRA edited by Fidel Rillo
Dinsulan: Usapang Pampanitikan Organized by Kataga-Lucena
Speakers:
Ferdinand Pisigan Jarin
21–23 Mark Angeles
Alvin Capili Ursua
Marco Antonio Rodas
Reuel Molina Aguila
Kritika Kultura Lecture Series: Hosted by Kritika Kultura and Ateneo de Manila University
29 Hyunjoo Ki: Performing Racial
Conflicts

Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
February 2016
1–7 Makiling Inter-Cultural Arts Festival Hosted by Philippine High School for the Arts
Pagpupugay: A Tribute to the National Held by UP Press in partnership with UP College of Arts and Letters
Artists of the UP Press National Artists:

Literary Calendar
Amado V. Hernandez (Literature, 1973)
Leonor Orosa-Goquingco (Dance, 1976)
Francisco Arcellana (Literature, 1990)
Edith L. Tiempo (Literature, 1999)
Nestor Vicente Madali (NVM) Gonzalez (Literature, 1997)
5 Rolando S. Tinio (Theatre, 1997)
Jose M. Maceda (Music, 1997)
Francisco Sionil Jose (Literature, 2001)
Virgilio S. Almario (Literature, 2003)
Bienvenido L. Lumbera (Literature, 2006)
Lazaro A. Francisco (Literature, 2009)
Ramon P. Santos (Music, 2014)
Cirilo F. Bautista (Literature, 2014)
The Art of Fiction: The Narrative Organized by DLSU Libraries
5
A Dialogue with F. Sionil Jose
Book Launch: Sons of Naujan: Poems in the Organized by PUP Center for Creative Writing
5
Labyrinth of Time by Edel E. Garcellano
Book Launch: Hai[na]ku and Other Poems by Hosted by Anvil Publishing Inc.
9
AA Patawaran
Tasting Words: A Talk by Ginny Mata Sponsored by the Edilberto and Edith Tiempo Creative Writing Center of
11
Silliman University

309
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers

310
February 2016
Book Launch: Lucena: Dagim at Dagitab by Organized by Kataga-Lucena Panitik
12
Alvin Capili Ursua
Book Launch: Sagupa: Antolohiya ng mga Presented by PUP Kagawaran ng Filipinolohiya
17 Tula ng mga Makatang Guro ng
Kagawaran ng Filipinolohiya ng PUP
Salamyaan: Pagpupugay at Paggunita kay Presented by UP Sandigan ng Mag-aaral sa Ikauunlad ng Kamalayang
18 Cesario Y. Torres (1927-2004) maka-Araling Pilipino (UP SIKAP) and UP Writers Club
Lecture by Ricky Celeste Ornopia
Kritika Kultura Lecture Series: Hosted by Kritika Kultura in cooperation with Kagawaran ng Filipino
Reimagining Cultural Citizenship:
23
Artistic Production in Filipino
Canadian Lives by Robert Diaz
Book Launch: Omnibus at ang Misteryo ng Presented by Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center, DLSU's
26 Nawawalang Ulo by Rhod V. Nuncio Departamento ng Filipino, and Likhaan UP Institute of Creative
Writing
Klasrum Adarna para sa mga Guro: Organized by Adarna House
26
Pagtuturo ng Klasikong Panitikan
Leoncio P. Deriada Book Launch Presented by Kasingkasing Press and Hubon Manunulat In cooperation
27 with Produkto Lokal Weekend Fair and Youth First Initiative
Philippines, Inc.
Kasumaran: Pisik sa mga Tinagsip Poetry Presented by UP Cebu TINTA, The Nomads, BATHALAD Sugbo,
27
Night Handuraw Pizza Gorordo, and SuWhat

Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
February 2016
2016 Palihang SWK-CBSUA sa Malikhaing Held by Sentro ng Wika at Kultura – Central Bicol State University of
Pagsulat Agriculture
Fellows:

Literary Calendar
Aurora A. Año
Gilmar Baran
Danny Boy Nacario
Nicky Gem Rivera
27–28
Bryan Cariaga
Georgina D. S. Claveria
Rizalyn Sahagun
Michael Sales
Christine Uy
Krizelle Infante
Kate Closa Gomez
March 2016
Talasalitaan: Organized by UP Sentro ng Wikang Filipino-Diliman, UP Diliman
4 Wika at Kasarian: Mulang Katuturan Gender Office, and University Center for Women and Gender
Tungong Kamulatan Studies
Book Launch: The Golden Dagger by Presented by The Department of Interdisciplinary Studies of the Ateneo
Antonio G. Sempio and Love in the de Manila University
4
Rice Fields and Other Short Stories by
Macario Pineda
Writing the Faraway: A Talk by Ninotchka Hosted by the DLSU Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center
5
Rosca

311
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers

312
March 2016
Klasrum Adarna: Paggamit ng WiKAHON Organized by Adarna House
5 (Pagtuturo ng Wika: Pagtataya tungo sa
Paghasa)
31st Gawad Ustetika Winners: One-Act Play/Dulang May Isang Yugto:
Honorable Mention
“Binhi” by Rani Mae B. Aberin (Michelle Faucult)
Third Place
“Curfew” by John Michael V. Peña (Plainjane)
Second Place
“Layo” by Miko Jan A. Portes (Sadle)
First Place
“Deadline” by Reena Medina (Pusakal sa Eskinita)
5 Sanaysay:
Third Place
“Patayin sa sindak si Juan dela Cruz” by George G. Deoso
(J. dela Cruz)
“Panty” by John Evan P. Orias (Yi Wan)
Second Place
“Ang Paggiba sa Palaruan ng Pool” by Ma. Beatrice C. Pancho
(Tricia)
First Place
“Kuwentong Nota” by Patrick Ernest C. Celso (Kai B. Ghan)

Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
March 2016
Katha:
Honorable Mention
“Working Scholar and Other Fees” by Patrick Ernest C. Celso

Literary Calendar
(Kai B. Ghan)
Third Place
“Ang Pinakamahabang Pedestrian Lane sa España” by Nathan
Micah A. Bagayas (Eloisa P. Noval)
Second Place
“ZXCVBNM” by Christian P. Mendoza (Mark Ang)
First Place
“Ang Lalaki sa Banyo” by Miguel A. Herrera
Tula:
Third Place
“Pangngalan” by Nathan Micah A. Bagayas (Farrah V. San)
Second Place
“Ang Pamilya Sta. Maria” by Joshua John G. Dela Peña (Juan
Catacutan)
First Place
“Ang Watak-Watak na Salinlahi ni Godot: Mga Tula” by
George G. Deoso (Conchita D. Mabuhay)
Maikling Kuwentong Pambata:
Honorable Mention
“Isa Dalawa Tatlo” by Miko Jan A. Portes (Desmond
Sunflower)

313
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers

314
March 2016
Essay:
Honorable Mention
“That Moment When I Envisaged A Priest” by John Alfred F.
Rabena (Mirus Alumnus)
Third Place
“It’s Not Just a Game!” by Kimberly Mae J. Crisologo (Abyss)
Second Place
“The Last Ten Years” by Nathan Micah A. Bagayos (Jamie
Wellerstein)
First Place
“Origin Story” by Maria Tanya Patricia P. Cruz (Punny)
Fiction:
Honorable Mention
“One Night in the Life of Ivan Dihagiba” by George G. Deoso
(Margaret dela Paz)
Third Place
“The Woman” by Johannah Mari B. Felicilda (AHP)
Second Place
“Aswang” by John Evan P. Orias (Yi Wan)
First Place
“The Lampiko” by Paulo Miguel J. Gabuat (Lucas Martinez)

Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
March 2016
Poetry:
Honorable Mention
“Flowering Shade and Other Poems” by Nikko Miguel M.

Literary Calendar
Garcia (Mikel Macay)
Honorable Mention
“Choreography #1, Why is it Hard to Forget You, Adam’s
Sonnet, Trajectory, Around the World in Six Words, An
Arbitrary Picture” by John Michael A. Espino (Aninag)
Third Place
“(Dis)closures” by Patricia Camille H. Que (Clementine
Kruczynski)
Second Place
“Spare Weather” by Jan Reitchelle C. Atanacio (Pat Quijano)
First Place
“Poems in Praise of the Matriarch” by George G. Deoso (Jose
D. Makalimot)
Rector’s Literary Award:
“The Lampiko” by Paulo Miguel J. Gabuat (Lucas Martinez)
Travel the Write Way: A Travel Writing Hosted by Writer's Block Philippines
12
Workshop Facilitated by Ana P. Santos and Nikka Sarthou-Lainez
Kritika Kultura Reading Series: Martin Hosted by Kritika Kultura in cooperation with the Fine Arts Program
15
Villanueva and Ramon Guillermo (AdMU) and the Rizal Library
19 Book Launch: Colon by Rogelio Braga Presented by UP Writers Club and Balangiga Press

315
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers

316
April 2016
1st Cagayan de Oro Writers Workshop Organized by the Nagkahiusang Magsusulat sa Cagayan de Oro
(NAGMAC), in partnership with Xavier University-Ateneo de
Cagayan's Department of English
Fellows:
Jessmark D. Acero
Christian S. Baldomero
1–3 Adeva Jane H. Esparrago
Stephanie Alexis C. Gonzaga
Arvin E. Narvaza (Poetry)
Hazel-Gin L. Aspera (Non-Fiction)
Gari R. Jamero
Jeany Mae D. Macalam
Ervin Patrick G. Silva (Fiction)
Kritika Kultura Lecture Series: Hosted by Kritika Kultura
Unbearable Affinities with the All-
4 too-human: Richter and Littell’s
Intimate Representations of a Nazi
by Dr. Mark Raftery-Skehan
Klasrum Adarna: Book Making Workshop Organized by Adarna House
4–8
for Kids

Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
April 2016
Kritika Kultura Lecture Series: Hosted by Kritika Kultura
Saroyan’s Travel Memories: Contesting
National Identities for Armenian-
7

Literary Calendar
Americans during the Great
Depression by Dr. Mauricio D.
Aguilera Linde
Dandaniw 2016: A Tribute to Renato Organized by the USC Cebuano Studies Center in partnership with
8
Madrid Robinsons Galleria
PahinaLaya 2016: CLSU Collegian’s 1st Held by LSU Collegian, the official student publication of Central Luzon
9–10 Integrated Campus Press Conference State University
and Competition
For Love of the Word: Workshops on Organized by Philippine Center of International PEN (Poets,
11–12 Teaching Philippine Literature in High Playwrights, Essayists, Novelists)
School and College
Literaturang Pang-Mass Media Seminar Organized by the Polytechnic University of the Philippines (PUP) Center
13–15
for Creative Writing
Klasrum Adarna: Organized by Adarna House
14 Paggamit ng WiKAHON (Pagtuturo ng
Wika: Pagtataya tungo sa Paghasa)
Kritika Kultura Lecture Series: Hosted by Kritika Kultura
On Benedict Anderson: Lectures
15
by Vicente L. Rafael, Ramon
Guillermo, and Vernon Totanes

317
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers

318
April 2016
6th Saringsing Writers Workshop Organized by the Parasurat Bikolnon, Inc.
Fellows:
Mon Joar Imperial (Calabanga, Camarines Sur)
Rency Asas (Calabanga, Camarines Sur)
Kreselle Canares (Masbate)
Mack Tuzon (Calabanga, Camarines Sur)
Marvin Aquino (Tinambac, Camarines Sur)
Gilmar Baran (Balatan, Camarines Sur)
Mary A. Galvez (Pili, Camarines Sur)
Nicky Gem Rivera (Baao, Camarines Sur)
15–17 Michael Sales (Pili, Camarines Sur)
Clinton Caceres (Calabanga, Camarines Sur)
Emmanuel Barrameda (Catanduanes)
Rizalyn Sahagun (Naga City)
Danny Boy B. Nacario (Iriga City)
Leopoldo C. Brizuela Jr. (Ligao, Albay)
John Cris Pineda (Calabanga, Camarines Sur)
Abegail Sta. Ana (Calabanga, Camarines Sur)
Armie Cardema-Cedo (Naga City)
Clarisse Molin (Calabanga, Camarines Sur)
Ahj Eufracio (Naga City)
The Young Writer's Workshop 2016 Organized by the DLSU Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center
16
(BNSCWC)

Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
April 2016
Summer Komikon 2016 Hosted by KOMIKON, Inc. in partnership with UP Graphic Arts in
16 Literature, UP Lunarock, Graphic Literature Guild, and The Dark
Knight Philippines

Literary Calendar
Kritika Kultura Reading Series: Organized by Kritika Kultura, in cooperation with the Ateneo Institute of
Transit: An Online Journal and Small Literary Arts and Practices (AILAP), the Fine Arts Program, and the
18
Press Initiative (Lecture and Rizal Library
Reading)
International Writing Program Alumni A workshop for Filipino writers who completed the International Writing
Writers Workshop Program at the University of Iowa
18–20
Organized by the US Embassy in Manila in partnership with the DLSU
Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center (BNSCWC)
Ikapitong Pambansang Kongreso sa Wikang Organized by Kapisanan ng mga Superbisor at Guro sa Filipino
Filipino: Pinayamang Kaalaman sa (KASUGUFIL)
19–22 Pagtatamo ng Iba’t Ibang Literasi sa
Pagtuturo ng Filipino sa Elementarya,
Sekundarya, at Senior High School
16th IYAS National Writers' Workshop Co-sponsored by the Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center of
De La Salle University and the National Commission for Culture
and the Arts
Fellows for fiction:
24–30
English: Hazel Meghan Hamile and Gari Real Jamero
Filipino: Abby Pariente and Isaac Ali Varona Tapar
Cebuano: Roehl Joseph Dazo and Mae Tiffany Galendez
Fellow for drama in Filipino: Adrian Crisostomo Ho

319
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers

320
April 2016
Fellows for poetry:
English: Miguel Antonio Lizada and Regina Angelica Theresa
Bengzon
Filipino: Abner Dormiendo and Joey Tabula
25
Cebuano: Herminigildo Sanchez and Reyanne Joy Librado
Kinaray-a: Tracy Javines
Hiligaynon: Anne Franceine Jean Corillo
Alternate fellow for poetry in English: Nancy Ayeng
25 Kritika Kultura 26: Issue Launch Organized by Kritika Kultura
Pambansang Kumperensiya sa Wika at Organized by Komisyon sa Wikang Filipino (KWF) and University of
25–27
Panitikang Sebwano San Carlos (USC)
Sali(n) na, Shakespeare! Organized by Komisyon sa Wikang Filipino (KWF)
26 Timpalak sa Pagsasalin para sa mga
Kabataan
13th Lamiraw Creative Writing Workshop Organized by Northwest Samar State University (NwSSU), in
cooperation with Katig Writers Network Inc., CALAO Writers Inc.,
and Abaknon Literary Arts Guild (ALAG Writers) Inc.
Waray:
Aivee Badulid (UP Tacloban/Dolores, Eastern Samar)
Butz Eguia (DWU/Tacloban City)
27–29
Anita Christine Macale (Leyte Normal University/Salcedo,
Eastern Samar)
Kimberly Mae Ortego (Leyte Normal University/Talalora,
Samar)
Ryan Ostulano (Northwest Samar State University/Calbayog

Likhaan 10
City)
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
April 2016
Sebuano:
Sarah Masiba (UP Los Baños/Ozamis City)
Wilfreda Cabusas (Cebu Normal University/Talisay City)

Literary Calendar
English:
Nicolo Nasol (University of Cebu/Cebu City)
Cesar Miguel Escaño (Ateneo de Manila University/Tacloban
City)
Filipino:
Daniw Plaridel Santiago (UP Diliman/Quezon City)
Talasalitaan: Wika ng Midya at Kultura ng Presented by UP Sentro ng Wikang Filipino-Diliman (UP SWF-Diliman)
28 Eleksiyon and Komite sa Wika ng Kolehiyo ng Komunikasyong Pangmadla
(UP Diliman)
7th Philippine International Literary Held by the National Book Development Board (NBDB)
28–29
Festival: Against Forgetting
2016 Reading Association of the Philippines Hosted by The Reading Association of the Philippines (RAP)
28–30 National Convention: Transforming
Lives Through Language and Literacy
UMPIL Pambansang Kongreso ng mga Held by Unyon ng mga Manunulat sa Pilipinas
30
Manunulat
Book Launch: Mansyon by Agnes Españo- Presented by Kasingkasing Press
Dimzon
30
Repentances and Rehabilitations by Alain
Russ Dimzon
Book Launch: Marcos Martial Law: Never Hosted by the Philippine Center of International PEN (Poets,
30

321
Again by Raissa Robles Playwrights, Essayists, Novelists)
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers

322
May 2016
Writing in Exile: A Conversation with Held by the UST Center for Creative Writing and Literary Studies (UST
4
Miguel Syjuco CCWLS), in cooperation with the UST Department of Literature
Seminar on Philippine Copyright and Co-organized by C&E Publishing, Inc., Freelance Writers Guild of the
Textbooks with Book Champion and Philippines (FWGP), Intellectual Property Office of the Philippines
7
IP Ambassador Bebang Siy (IPOPHL), National Book Development Board (NBDB), and
Filipinas Copyright Licensing Society (FILCOLS)
55th Silliman University National Writers’ Fellows:
Workshop John Patrick Allanegui (Ateneo de Manila University)
Catherine Regina Borlaza (University of the Philippines-Diliman)
Christian Ray Buendia (University of the Philippines-Los Baños)
Angela Bernice Cabildo (Xavier University-Ateneo de Cagayan)
9–27 Christine Faith Gumalal (Xavier University-Ateneo de Cagayan)
Chris David Lao (University of the Philippines-Mindanao)
RJ Ledesma (University of St. La Salle Bacolod)
Arnel Murga (University of the Philippines-Miag-ao)
Marianne Freya Nono (University of Santo Tomas)
Veronica Vega (Silliman University)
Exhibit: Secret Lives of Books: Karl Castro, Presented by Filipinas Heritage Library
17
Book Designer
ALBASA 43rd Annual General Assembly Organized by Academic Libraries Book Acquistion Systems Association,
18–20
Inc. (ALBASA)
Book Launch: Remembering/Rethinking Hosted by Anvil Publishing Inc.
19 EDSA edited by JPaul Manzanilla and
Caroline Hau

Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
May 2016
Sipat|Sulat: A Workshop on Seeing and Hosted by Adarna House
20–21
Making Literature
55th UP National Writers Workshop Organized by the University of the Philippines Institute of Creative

Literary Calendar
Writing
Fellows:
Vijae Alquisola (Tula, Filipino)
RM Topacio Aplaon (Nobela, Filipino)
Vince Dioquino (Poetry, English)
Mina Esguerra (Fiction, English)
22–29 Celine Beatrice Fabie (Creative Nonfiction, English)
Francisco Monteseña (Tula, Filipino)
Jude Ortega (Creative Nonfiction, English)
Elena Paulma (Creative Nonfiction, English)
Cheeno Sayuno (Short Story for Children, English)
Melecio Turao (Poetry, English)
Carlo Vergara (Dula, Filipino)
Enrique Villasis (Tula, Filipino)
14th Ateneo National Writers Workshop Organized by the Ateneo Institute of Literary Arts and Practices (AILAP),
in collaboration with Kritika Kultura
Fellows:
23–28 Poetry in English:
Luis Wilfrido J. Atienza (Makati City)
Jayson C. Jimenez (Pasig City)
Louyzza Maria Victoria Vasquez (Quezon City)

323
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers

324
May 2016
Poetry in Filipino:
Paterno B. Baloloy Jr. (Calauag, Quezon)
Beatriz Nicole C. Mariano (Taguig)
Ronald Ramos Jr. (Bolbok, Batangas City)
Romel G. Samson (Noveleta, Cavite)
Drama:
Jerome D. Ignacio (Quezon City)
Jayson Arvene T. Mondragon (Cabarroguis, Quirino)
Fiction in English:
Kenneth V. Ballena (Davao City)
Austere Rex P. Gamao (Sagay City, Negros Occidental)
Deo Charis I. Mostrales (Iligan City, Lanao del Norte)
Fiction in Filipino:
Jack A. Alvarez (Al-Khobar, Saudi Arabia/Cagayan de Oro)
Lenin Carlos M. Mirasol (Baliuag, Bulacan)
Essay in English:
Reina Krizel J. Adriano (Quezon City)
Essay in Filipino:
John Leihmar C. Toledo (Quezon City)
Criticism:
Arbeen Regalado Acuña (Las Piñas City)
Christian Benitez (San Mateo, Rizal)
Raymon D. Ritumbán (Quezon City)
Neslie Carol Tan (Mandaluyong City)
Joseph Ching Velasco (Manila)

Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
May 2016
Book Launch: Paglulunsad Hosted by University of the Philippines Press
Selected Poems by Cirilo F. Bautista
Selected Stories by F. Sionil Jose

Literary Calendar
Science Philippines: Essays on
Science by Filipinos (Volume
III) edited by Gisela Padilla-
Concepcion
Performing Catholicism by Sir Anril
Pineda Tiatco
Migrations and Mediations: The
Emergence of Southeast Asian
Diaspora Writers in Australia,
1972–2007 by Jose Wendell
27 P. Capili
Science Fiction: Filipino Fiction for
Young Adults edited by Dean
Francis Alfar and Kenneth Yu
Typewriter Altar by Luna Sicat
Cleto
The Axolotl Colony by Jamie An
Lim
Snail Fever by Francis C.
Macansantos
Kalampay edited by Alicia P.
Magos, Federico Caballero,
and Anna Razel Limoso

325
Ramirez
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers

326
May 2016
Bamboo Bed by Weldon M.
McCarty
Of That Other Country We Now
Speak and Other Stories by
Charlson Ong
Bohemian Rhapsody of Two Places
by Trixie Alano Reguyal
Araw/Gabi: Mga Aporisimo ng
Pagkautal at Pagkaulol by
Rolando B. Tolentino
23rd Iligan National Writers Workshop Funded by MSU-Iligan Institute of Technology and National
Commission for Culture and Arts (NCCA)
Fellows:
Luzon:
Thomas David Fillarca Chaves, UP Diliman (Poetry, English)
Rogene Apellido Gonzales, UP Diliman (Poetry, Filipino)
Dominic Paul Chow Sy, UP Diliman; Erwin Escarola Cabucos
(Fiction, English)
Arbeen Regalado Acuña, UP Diliman (Fiction, Filipino)
30 to June 3
Josephine Villena Roque, De La Salle University (Drama,
Tagalog)
Visayas:
Charles Dominic Pelaez Sanchez, University of San Carlos
(Fiction, English)
Elsed Silfavan Togonon, University of San Agustin (Poetry,
Kinaray-a)

Likhaan 10
Amado Arjay Babida Babon, Leyte Normal University (Drama,
Waray)
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
May 2016
Mindanao:
Saquina Karla Cagoco Guiam, Mindanao State University-
General Santos (Poetry, English)

Literary Calendar
Krishna Mie Ceniza Zabate, Ateneo de Davao University;
Al Bangcolongan Gra-as, Lyceum of Iligan Foundation
(Poetry, Sebuano)
Eric John Betita Villena, Xavier University; Jack Aguid Alvarez
(Fiction, Filipino)
Nal Andrea Cabao-an Jalando-on, Philippine Women’s College
of Davao (Fiction, Hiligaynon)
June 2016
Romance Masterclass: Editing Your Novel Organized by the Romance Writers of the Philippines
4
(Seminar and Workshop)
Palihang Rogelio Sicat 9 Organized by the Departamento ng Filipino at Panitikan ng Pilipinas
(UP Diliman)
Fellows:
Tula:
Rhea Rose Berroy, Maynila
8–12 Mark Bringel, Quezon
Julie Kristine de Guzman, Davao
Roma Estrada, Valenzuela
John Ocampo, Maynila
Norman Vincent Paderes, Quezon
Aubrey Viscara, Lungsod Quezon

327
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers

328
June 2016
Kuwento:
Arbeen Acuña, Quezon
Ana Algabre-Hernandez, Seoul, Republika ng Korea
Ma. Rowena Angeles, Maynila
Davidson Banquil, Zambales
Andrew Clete, Las Piñas
Sarah Masiba, Laguna
Seymour Barros Sanchez, Maynila
Alexandra Villegas, Lungsod Quezon
Sanaysay:
Nina Francheska Caballero, Lungsod Quezon
Book Launch: Batang Rizal at Iba Pang Dula Organized by Ateneo de Manila University Press
20
by Christine Bellen
#HeistClub: The Launch Organized by Bronze Age Media and sponsored by Buqo and Enderun’s
The Study
E-book bundles released:
#HeistClub: Why We Run
“Bayawak’s Trail” by Justine Camacho-Tajonera
25
“The Fraud Hunter Book 1: Chasing an ATM Schemer” by
Racquel Sarah A. Castro
“The Retreat” by Yeyet Soriano
“Come With Me” by Michael Recto
“Inertia” by Sette Luis

Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
July 2016
#HeistClub: What We Fear
“Till Death Do Us Apart” by Irene Nicholas-Recio
“Soul Makers” by Jee Ann Guibone

Literary Calendar
“Classified” by Georgette S. Gonzales
“High Stakes” by Ana Valenzuela
“Dressed to Kill” by Cassandra Javier
#HeistClub: What We Hide
“Snakehead” by Bianca Mori
“Sampaguita” by Mark Manalang
“Let’s Play Murder” by Farrah F. Polestico
“Corpus Delicti” by Porcupine Strongwill
“The Flame Squad: Sly Prince” by Jessica E. Larsen
“The Gung Ho Lady” by Arlene Manocot
4th National Children’s Book Awards Presented by the National Book Development Board (NBDB) and the
1
Philippine Board on Books for the Young (PBBY)
Virgin Labfest 12 Writing Fellowship Organized by the Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP)
5–7
Program
“Performing Sovereignty in the Late Hosted by Kritika Kultura, the international refereed journal of language,
Eighteenth Century: Simon de Anda, literary, and cultural studies of the Department of English, Ateneo
13
Diego Silang, and the British East India de Manila University
Company” Dr. Megan Thomas
KRITIKA 2016 National Workshop on Art Hosted by the Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center
and Cultural Criticism (BNSCWC) of De La Salle University (DLSU). This workshop
13–16 is cohosted by the USA Center for Research, Innovation and
Development (CRID) and supported by the DLSU Office of the

329
Vice Chancellor for Research and Innovation (VCRI)
23 “Elitism in Art and Culture” conference Hosted by the Department of Literature, De La Salle University–Manila
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers

330
August 2016
“Doing Digong: Politics in the Wake of Organized by Kritika Kultura, the international refereed journal of
EDSA” (A Roundtable Discussion language, literary, and cultural studies of the Department of English,
Featuring Carmel Abao, Walden Bello, Ateneo de Manila University. Co-sponsored by the Rizal Library; the
2
Nicole Curato, and Richard Heydarian) Departments of History, English, Political Science, and Philosophy
(AdMU); and the University of Washington (Seattle) Study Abroad
Program
"The Philippine Readers and Writers Festival Hosted by National Book Store and Raffles Makati
26–28 2016 Lines of Flight: The Practice and
Limits of Realism in Philippine Fiction"
Pambansang Kumperensiya sa Wika, Pinangunahan ng PUP sa pangunguna ng Kagawaran ng Filipinolohiya
27
Panitikan at Kulturang Pilipino
Writing for Children: A Panel with Adarna Presented by National Book Store and Raffles Makati
28 House's 2016 National Children's
Book Award Winning Authors
September 2016
66th Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards Winners:
Kabataan Division
Sanaysay:
1st Prize: “Hulagway sa Rabaw ng Tubig” by Mikaela Lu
2 Apollo
2nd Prize: “Minsan Nag-Selfie ang Isang Propagandista” by
Harvey D. Lor
3rd Prize: “Ang Pinakamagandang Pamato sa Larong Piko” by
Jason Renz D. Barrios

Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
September 2016
Essay:
1st Prize: “To Thine Own Self Be True” by Jill Esther V.
Parreño

Literary Calendar
2nd Prize: “Then The Abstract Was Misunderstood” by Dawn
Gabriela Emmanuele G. Dela Rosa
3rd Prize: “iThink, Therefore iAm” by Alpheus Matthew D.
Llantero
Filipino Division
Maikling Kuwento:
1st Prize: “Ang Daga” by Orlando A. Oliveros
2nd Prize: “Bangkera” by Emmanuel T. Barrameda
3rd Prize: “Cutter” by Paolo Miguel G. Tiausas
Maikling Kuwentong Pambata:
1st Prize: “Ang Nakabibilib na si Lola Ising” by Annalyn
Leyesa-Go
2nd Prize: “May Pula” by Manuelita Contreras-Cabrera
3rd Prize: “Ambon ng Liwanag” by Eugene Y. Evasco
Sanaysay:
1st Prize: “Pugon na De-Gulong” by Christopher S. Rosales
2nd Prize: “Mga Pagsasanay sa Paggalugad ng Siyudad” by
Eugene Y. Evasco
3rd Prize: “#PaperDolls” by Segundo Matias
Tula:
1st Prize: “Di Lang Lalang” by Mark Anthony S. Angeles
2nd Prize: “Tempus Per Annum at Iba pang Tula” by Louie Jon
Agustin Sanchez

331
3rd Prize: “#PagsisiyasatSaSugat” by Allan John Andres
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers

332
September 2016
Tula para sa mga Bata:
1st Prize: “AngTotoo, Raya, ang Buwan ay Itlog ng Butiki” by
German Villanueva Gervacio
2nd Prize: “Tiniklop-tiklop na Bugtong” by John Patrick F.
Solano
3rd Prize: “Awit ng Bakwit” by Vijae Orquia Alquisola
Dulang May Isang Yugto:
1st Prize: Bait by Guelan Varela-Luarca
2nd Prize: Billboard by Mark Adrian Crisostomo Ho
3rd Prize: Ang Mga Bisita ni Jean by Ma. Cecilia C. De La Rosa
Dulang Ganap ang Haba:
3rd Prize: Chiaroscuro by Lito Casaje
Dulang Pampelikula:
1st Prize: Kulay Lila ang Gabi na Binudburan pa ng mga Bituin
by Jimmy F. Flores
2nd Prize: Deadma Walking by Eric Cabahug
3rd Prize: Alay ng Lupa sa Daing ng Dagat by Ymmanwel Rico
Provinio
Regional Division
Short Story - Cebuano:
1st Prize: “Tigpamaba sa Magay” by CD Borden
2nd Prize: “Lumba” by Gumer M. Rafanan
3rd Prize: “Estatwa” by Manuel M. Avenido Jr.

Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
September 2016
Short Story - Hiligaynon:
1st Prize: “Ang Panaad” by Ritchie D. Pagunsan
2nd Prize: “Nagakaangay nga Panapton” by Early Sol A.

Literary Calendar
Gadong
3rd Prize: “Bahal Nga Tuba” by Alain Russ G. Dimzon
Short Story - Ilokano
3rd Prize: “Pamulinawen” by Roy V. Aragon
English Division
Short Story:
1st Prize: “Zoetrope” by Richard C. Cornelio
2nd Prize: “Sundays at the Cardozas’” by Larissa Mae R. Suarez
3rd Prize: “Things that Matter” by Michelle Abigail Tiu Tan
Short Story for Children:
3rd Prize: “Saranggola” by Joemar L. Furigay
Essay:
1st Prize: “A View From Masada” by Joel Vega
2nd Prize: “Circle” by Hammed Q. Bolotaolo
3rd Prize: “Lip Reading” by Maria Roselle G. Umlas
Poetry:
1st Prize: “Hush Harbor” by Ana Maria K. Lacuesta
2nd Prize: “Accidents of Composition” by Dr. Merlinda Bobis
3rd Prize: “Homecoming Collection” by Angela Gabrielle
Fabunan

333
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers

334
September 2016
Poetry Written for Children:
2nd Prize: “The Small Bright Things” by Jaime An Lim
3rd Prize: “Miniature Masterpieces” by Patricia Celina A. Ngo
One-Act Play:
1st Prize: Tic-Tac-Toe by Peter Solis Nery
2nd Prize: 1990 by Robert Arlo DeGuzman
3rd Prize: Gawani’s First Dance by Patrick James Manongdo
Valera
Full-Length Play:
1st Prize: The Floret Road by Joachim Emilio B. Antonio
3rd Prize: Tirador ng Tinago by Michael Aaron C. Gomez
Centennial Celebration of the birth of Organized by the Intertextual Division of the Cultural Center of the
6
National Artist Francisco Arcellana Philippines (CCP)
To Open All Closed Things: Presented by the University of the Philippines Department of English
9 Celebrating Francisco Arcellana and Comparative Literature, with Likhaan: the UP Institute of
Creative Writing
Vicente L. Rafael’s Motherless Tongues: book Organized by Kritika Kultura, the international refereed journal of
13 forum and launch language, literary, and cultural studies of the Department of English,
Ateneo de Manila University
14–18 The 37th Manila International Book Fair
2016 CDO Writing Clinic (Poetry Clinic) Organized by the Nagkahiusang Magsusulat sa Cagayan de Oro
18 (NAGMAC) in partnership with the Xavier Center for Culture and
the Arts (XCCA)

Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
September 2016
Kritika Kultura Lecture Series: Hosted by Kritika Kultura
Graduates’ Competencies as
20 Performance Indicator of Higher

Literary Calendar
Education Institutions by Dr. Ied
Sitepu
20 to October Padya Hubon Manunulat 2016 Organized by the Iloilo Taboan West Visayan Literary Festival
15 Hugot Hiligaynon Writing Contest
Book Launch: Musika sa Kasaysayan ng Organized by the University of the Philippines Press (UP Press)
22 Filipinas: Pana-panahong Diskurso by
Raul Casantusan Navarro, PhD
Ani 39 themed “Kahayupan/The Animal Organized by the Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP)
23
Kingdom” launch
Book Launch: Kara at Play (by Lara Saguisag Hosted by Adarna House, Ang Ilustrador ng Kabataan, and Ayala
24 and Jamie Bauza) and Kapitbahay Kubo Museum
(by Pergylene Acuña)
Book Launch: Be Ye Steadfast: Poems of Hosted by The Philippine Center of International PEN (Poets,
Carlomar Arcangel Daoana, Mookie Playwrights, Essayists, Novelists)
24
Katigbak-Lacuesta, and Allan Justo
Pastrana
Kritika Kultura 27 Launch Organized by Kritika Kultura, the international refereed journal of
29 language, literary, and cultural studies of the Department of English,
Ateneo de Manila University
30 “Tapping Ink: Tattooing Identities” Sponsored by the UP Institute of Creative Writing and the UP Press

335
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers

336
October 2016
Social History in PUP @ 30: National Presented by the PUP Center for Social History (PUP-CSH) under the
Lecture Series PUP Institute for Cultural Studies (ICS) and PUP Office of the
“The Local Life of a Fishing Vice President for Research, Extension, Planning and Development
Community in the Philippines: (OVPREPD)
Focus on the Production of Local
3
Knowledge” by Dr. Nelson Turgo
“Negotiating Filipino in Cyberspace:
New Zealand-Based Filipino’s
Identity Construction in Social
Media” by Dr. Alwin Aguirre
7–8 Katatau: Mindanao Studies Conference Organized by Xavier University-Ateneo de Cagayan
Unang Pambansang Kumperensya sa Organized by Kagawaran ng Filipinolohiya ng Polytechnic University of
Makabayang Edukasyon the Philippines (PUP), Alyansa ng Mga Tagapagtanggol ng Wikang
Filipino (TANGGOL WIKA), Alyansa ng Mga Tagapagtanggol ng
14–16
Kasaysayan (TANGGOL KASAYSAYAN), Pambansang Samahan
sa Linggwistika at Literaturang Filipino (PSLLF), and Alliance of
Concerned Teachers-Philippines (ACT-Philippines)
1st UP Basic Writers Workshop (Amelia Organized by LIKHAAN: The University of the Philippines Institute of
Lapeña Bonifacio) Creative Writing (UP ICW)
Fellows for English:
Paul Cyrian Baltazar
Rachel Castañares
14–17
John Leir Castro
Vida Cruz
Arby Medina

Likhaan 10
Arianne Patricia Onte
Rosemarie Urquico
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
October 2016
Fellows for Filipino:
Mary Gigi Constantino
Joel Donato Ching Jacob

Literary Calendar
Christian Ray Pilares
Isaac Ali Tapar
Kristoffer Aaron Tiña
Unang Pambansang Kumperensya sa Organized by Kagawaran ng Filipinolohiya ng Polytechnic University of
Makabayang Edukasyon the Philippines (PUP), Alyansa ng Mga Tagapagtanggol ng Wikang
Filipino (TANGGOL WIKA), Alyansa ng Mga Tagapagtanggol ng
14–16
Kasaysayan (TANGGOL KASAYSAYAN), Pambansang Samahan
sa Linggwistika at Literaturang Filipino (PSLLF), and Alliance of
Concerned Teachers-Philippines (ACT-Philippines)
2016 CDO Writing Clinic (Fiction Clinic) Organized by the Nagkahiusang Magsusulat sa Cagayan de Oro
16 (NAGMAC) in partnership with the Xavier Center for Culture and
the Arts (XCCA)
22–26 2016 Davao Writers Workshop Organized by the Davao Writers Guild
The Fifth Cordillera Creative Writing Sponsored by the University of the Philippines Baguio and National
24–28
Workshop Commission for Culture and the Arts
26–30 The 13th Ubud Writers & Readers Festival Hosted by the Yayasan Mudra Swari Saraswati
2016 Reading Association of the Philippines Hosted by the Reading Association of the Philippines
National Demofest:
27–29
Reading Instruction for All: Enabling,
Engaging, and Enriching

337
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers

338
October 2016
Kokoy F. Guevara Poetry Competition The Kokoy F. Guevara Poetry Competition was established by the friends
and family of the late poet Francisco F. Guevara, in partnership with
28 the De La Salle University (DLSU) Department of Literature and
the Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center (BNSCWC), to
commemorate his life and work
November 2016
SULAT-DULA 4: A Playwriting Workshop Presented by the Xavier Center for Culture and the Arts (XCCA) and the
17–19
in Mindanao National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA)
19–20 Komikon 2016 Hosted by KOMIKON, Inc.
2016 CDO Writing Clinic (Literary Essay Organized by the Nagkahiusang Magsusulat sa Cagayan de Oro
20 Clinic) (NAGMAC) in partnership with the Xavier Center for Culture and
the Arts (XCCA)
Social History in PUP @ 30: National Presented by the PUP Center for Social History (PUP-CSH) under the
Lecture Series PUP Institute for Cultural Studies (ICS) and PUP Office of the
“Ang Haring Bayang Katagalugan” by Vice President for Research, Extension, Planning and Development
Dr. Milagros Guerrero (OVPREPD)
29
“Rebolusyonaryong Gobyerno Nga Ba
ang Haring Bayang Katagalugan?”
by Michael Charleston “Xiao”
Chua

Likhaan 10
Date Event Participants/Winners/Organizers
December 2016
2016 Madrigal-Gonzalez First Book Award Shortlist:
Zero A.D. for Überman; RM Topacio-Aplaon for Lila ang
Kulay ng Pamamaalam; Rogelio Braga for Sa Pagdating ng

Literary Calendar
2 mga Barbaro at Iba Pang Mga Dula; Mar Anthony Simon
Dela Cruz for Isang Gabi sa Quezon Avenue at Iba Pang
Kuwento; Chuckberry Pascual for Kumpisal; Tepai Pascual
for Maktan 1521
2016 CDO Writing Clinic (Drama Clinic) Organized by the Nagkahiusang Magsusulat sa Cagayan de Oro
11 (NAGMAC) in partnership with the Xavier Center for Culture and
the Arts (XCCA)

339
Literary Bibliography

English

A
Abad, Gemino, and Myrna Peña-Reyes, eds. Artemio Tadena. Manila:
University of Santo Tomas Publishing House, 2016. [POETRY] Gémino
Abad and Myrna Peña-Reyes honor another acclaimed poet in this title.
Artemio Tadena’s eponymous collection showcases the master’s power of
diction. Using syntax, unusual wordings, and a colloquial tone, Tadena
forges an imperial tongue into a familiar language.
Alfar, Dean Francis, and Kenneth Yu, eds. Science Fiction: Filipino Fiction
for Young Adults. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press,
2016. [SHORT STORY, ANTHOLOGY] This anthology is the second
installment in Dean Francis Alfar and Kenneth Yu’s genre-anthology
series for young adults. It contains short stories that tackle the dilemmas
of young adulthood through the lens of science fiction.
Alunan, Merlie, ed. Susumaton: Oral Narratives of Leyte. Quezon City:
Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2016. [FOLK LITERATURE]
Susumaton, edited by noted writer Merlie Alunan, contains oral narratives
in their original format as narrated by Waray storytellers. The narratives
weave together the Waray people’s worldview, social values, and history.
Alvarez, Ma. Ailil. Slivers of the Sky: Catholic Literary Readings and Other Essays.
Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing House, 2016. [CRITICAL
ESSAY] Slivers of the Sky, the first book of literary criticism by Ma. Ailil
Alvarez, applies literary criticism to Catholic thought. The selections
include a wide range of topics—from Carlomar Daoana’s poems to Akira
Kurosawa’s films—that showcase a symphonic relationship between
religion and theory.

341
B
Bautista, Cirilo F. Selected Poems. Quezon City: University of the Philippines
Press, 2016. [POETRY] Bautista’s twelfth poetry collection, which
contains poems that are handpicked by the author himself, enhances the
framework of Philippine nationalism and captures the vibrance of the
Philippines as a nation of the world.
Bilbao, Techie Ysmael, and Jose Mari Ugarte. La Divina: The Life and
Style of Chona Recto-Kasten. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, Inc., 2016.
[BIOGRAPHY] This book is an inspiring biography that offers glimpses
into the life of fashion legend and icon Chona Recto-Kasten.

C
Capili, Jose Wendell P. Migrations and Mediations. Quezon City: University of
the Philippines Press, 2016. [CRITICAL ESSAY] Jose Wendell Capili’s
Migrations and Meditations is a book of scholarly work that focuses on
literature produced by Southeast Asians in Australia.
Cleto, Luna Sicat. Typewriter Altar. Quezon City: University of the Philippines
Press, 2016. [NOVEL] In Typewriter Altar, Luna Sicat Cleto offers a peek
into an artist’s life with the story of Laya, who wakes up from a recurring
dream thinking that she can hear her parents’ voices. Silence soon settles,
and she is always left with an empty house strewn with empty pages.

D
Dimzon, Alain Russ. Repentances and Rehabilitations. Iloilo City: Kasingkasing
Press, 2016. [POETRY] Described as a “trip to the jungles of the
claustrophobic psyche,” this poetry collection gathers the earlier works
of Alain Russ Dimzon, a Palanca and Gawad Emmanuel Lacaba awardee.
Drilon, Andrew. Kare-Kare Komiks. Quezon City: Adarna House, 2016.
[COMICS] Kare-Kare Komiks is an action-packed and delightful
hodgepodge of comics from diverse genres—a collection of worlds and
characters that are all tied to the journey of a metafictional protagonist
facing a threatening apocalyptic entity.
Dumdum, Simeon. The Poet Learns to Dance (A Dancer Learns to Write a Poem).
Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2016. [POETRY]
Simeon Dumdum revels in the marriage of dance and poetry in his new
collection The Poet Learns to Dance (A Dancer Learns to Write a Poem).
The acclaimed poet plays with movement and rhythm in choreographing
poems that show the dynamism of human emotion.

342 Likhaan 10
E
Españo-Dimzon, Agnes. Mansyon. Iloilo City: Kasingkasing Press, 2016.
[ESSAY] Mansyon contains essays written by Agnes Españo-Dimzon. It
is the first creative nonfiction collection published in Hiligaynon.

G
Garcia, J. Neil C. Myth and Writing: Occasional Prose. Quezon City: University
of the Philippines Press, 2016 [ESSAY] This is a personal anthology of
prose pieces that reflect on the contact zones between creativity and the
mythological imagination. This book’s conclusion is that all art finally
aspires to turn into myth, which is nothing if not narration wielding
powerful and transfigurative magic over the communal psyche that invents
it, providing not so much explanations as experiences of its innermost
depths, its uppermost visions, its intuition of the transcendental, without
which it would be quite impossible for any of us to grieve, to love, and be
fully a person in this world.

J
José, F. Sionil. Selected Stories. Quezon City: University of the Philippines
Press, 2016. [SHORT STORY] F. Sionil José’s Selected Stories is comprised
of twelve stories that, while drawn from the mundane, become fantastic
through the magical weaving of words.

K
Kilates, Marne. Lyrical Objects. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing
House, 2016. [POETRY] Marne Kilates’s fifth poetry collection contains
sixty poems written by the poet over three months before his sixtieth
birthday. These poems capture the lyrical quality of objects, objects
that embody the poet’s daily encounters with reality, memory, and the
perpetual motion of time.

L
Lee, Gabriela. Instructions On How To Disappear. Pasay City: Visprint, Inc.,
2016. [SHORT STORY] Gabriela Lee’s debut short story collection
entitled Instructions On How To Disappear contains eleven narratives that
rework numerous genre tropes, creating atmospheres where familiarity
breeds strangeness. Lee writes with a meticulous style that weaves the
magical into everyday life.

Literary Bibliography: English 343


Lim, Jaime An. The Axolotl Colony. Quezon City: University of the
Philippines Press, 2016. [SHORT STORY] This short story collection
by multi-awarded author Jaime Ann Lim showcases the author’s control
of plot and depth. Lim masterfully sketches his characters’ humanity and
vulnerability in the face of fear, desperation, and dread.

M
Macansantos, Francis C. Snail Fever. Quezon City: University of the
Philippines Press, 2016. [POETRY] Snail Fever is the fourth poetry
collection of Francis C. Macansantos, a five-time Palanca awardee for
Poetry in English. Containing works that Macansantos wrote from 1997
to 2016, this collection tackles nature, history, love, and oppression.
MacCarty, Weldon. Bamboo Bed. Quezon City: University of the Philippines
Press, 2016. [AUTOBIOGRAPHY] This memoir by Weldon McCarty
chronicles the musician’s life during his days in colorful pre-Martial Law
Manila.
Magos, Alicia P. et al., researcher and translator. Quezon City: University
of the Philippines Press, 2016. [EPIC POETRY] Labaw Donggon and
Masangladon fight for Matan-ayon’s hand in Alicia Magos’s Kalampay.
In order to save Matan-ayon, they must dive through the great waterfall
Panibyungan to get to the underworld.
Manzanilla, JPaul, and Caroline Hau, eds. Remembering/Rethinking EDSA.
Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, Inc., 2016. [ANTHOLOGY, ESSAY]
Remembering/Rethinking EDSA is an anthology of the narratives of
activists, academics, and artists during the People Power Revolution of
1986.
Marfil, Dawn Laurente. Looking for Polaris. Manila: University of Santo
Tomas Publishing House, 2016. [ESSAY] Looking for Polaris is Dawn
Laurente Marfil’s debut collection of autobiographical essays. It contains
narratives that revolve around different spectrums of loss, told with a sly,
ironic tone that deftly captures the harshness of agony and the hope that
seeps underneath it.
Mejia, Arnie Q. Writing Naked. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing
House, 2016. [AUTOBIOGRAPHY] Writing Naked is Arnie Mejia’s first
book. It chronicles the author’s experience as a boy and a young adult in
the United States of America where his family went to a voluntary exile
during Martial Law. The book reveals the struggles of the author as a

344 Likhaan 10
young immigrant in the land of the free and his guilt at being away from
his countrymen during one of the most intense periods of Philippine
history. The book is a worthy addition to the literature published on
Martial Law.
Muslim, Kristine O. Lifeboat. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing
House, 2016. [POETRY] In Lifeboat, Kristine Ong Muslim writes about
loss, the subject matter she masterfully handled in her previous works.
The poems in the collection highlight the essence of absence, see beauty
in the ordinary, and find hope in hidden corners.

N
Navarra, Alan. Sacada: A Catalog of Commodities from a Period of Glorious
Tumult. Pasay City: Visprint, Inc., 2016. [POETRY] Sacada by Alan
Navarra is both a poetry collection and a graphic memoir of the city-
dwellers of Manila. Presented in visual, experimental, and free-form
poetry, Sacada explores the commodification of creativity.

O
Ong, Charlson. Of That Other Country We Now Speak. Quezon City:
University of the Philippines Press, 2016. [SHORT STORY] Charlson
Ong’s fourth short story collection contains thematically and stylistically
diverse stories that were written over the last two decades.

P
Palanca, Clinton. The Gullet: Dispatches on Filipino Food. Pasig City: Anvil
Publishing, Inc., 2016. [ESSAY] In Clinton Palanca’s fifth book entitled
The Gullet, he traces the culinary revolution the Philippines has undergone
in the past ten years through a collection of essays on food and travel.
Patawaran, AA. Hai[na]ku and Other Poems. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing,
Inc., 2016. [POETRY] This is the first poetry collection of AA Patawaran,
author of Write Here Write Now and editor of Manila Bulletin Lifestyle.
Pineda, Macario. Love in the Rice Fields and Other Stories. Makati: Tahanan
Books. 2016. [SHORT STORY] Macario Pineda’s collection of short
stories, retold in English by Soledad Reyes, sketches a landscape of
emotions and experience. Love in the Rice Fields and Other Stories
takes readers into a familiar road—from the innocence of youth, the
disillusionment of old age, and the epiphany of death.

Literary Bibliography: English 345


Polistico, Edgie. Philippine Food, Cooking, & Dining Dictionary. Pasig
City: Anvil Publishing, Inc., 2016. [DICTIONARY] Philippine Food,
Cooking, & Dining Dictionary is a kitchen reference book that contains
more than 8,000 terms related to traditional Filipino cuisine. Perfect for
anyone who is passionate about Filipino food, this dictionary gathers
entries ranging from ampapagot (Cebuano for triggerfish) to ukuh ukuh
(a Tausug dish resembling a sea urchin risotto).
Popa, Allan. Incision. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing House,
2016. [POETRY] Allan Popa’s poetry collection Incision displays man’s
vulnerability, fear of consequence, and conscious decision-making. With
an arsenal of poetic technique, Popa creates a unique effect of hesitation
and enquiry relatable to all.

R
Rafael, Vicente L. Motherless Tongues: The Insurgency of Language amid
Wars of Translation. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press,
2016. [CRITICAL ESSAY] Motherless Tongues by Vicente Rafael looks
at language and its effects on history in either colonial or postcolonial
setting. The book touches on translation and the power of language in
shaping history, knowledge, and power.
Ramsey, Edwin Price, and Stephen J. Rivele. Lieutenant Ramsey’s War.
Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing House, 2016.
[AUTOBIOGRAPHY] This is a memoir written by a Philippine Scout
cavalry officer who became one of the leaders of the guerrilla resistance
movement in Bataan after the fall of the Philippines in 1942.
Rapatahana, Vaughan. Atonement. Manila: University of Santo Tomas
Publishing House, 2016. [POETRY] Vaughan Rapatahana’s poems in
Atonement intersect with various pan-Pacific experiences while, at the
same time, comingle with the familiarity of personal history: idealism,
alienation, and identity. Mostly experimental, the poems in the collection
explore binaries and possess a distinct voice in the midst of identity
politics, history, and culture.
Reguyal, Trixie Alano. Looking at the World: An Introduction. Quezon City:
University of the Philippines Press, 2016. [ESSAY] In her collection of
essays, Trixie Alano Reguyal explores the world in a wide array of topics
ranging from food, music, family, and travel. The essays were written
from the mid-1990s to the present.

346 Likhaan 10
Rillo, Fidel, ed. n.p.: LIRA 30: Tatlong Dekada ng Makatang LIRA, 2015.
[POETRY, ANTHOLOGY] This anthology was launched by Linangan
sa Imahen, Retorika at Anyo (LIRA) as part of its thirtieth anniversary
celebration. It brings together poems written by member poets in the
past thirty years.

S
Sempio. Antonio G. The Golden Dagger. Manila: De La Salle University
Publishing House, 2016. [NOVEL] The Golden Dagger is a novel written
by Antonio G. Sempio and translated from Filipino by Soledad S. Reyes.
By telling the story of Dalisay, a woman who experiences a series of
tragedies because of love, the novel depicts the sociopolitical forces and
tensions prevalent in Philippine society during the 1930s.
Sitoy, Lakambini. Sweet Haven. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, Inc., 2016.
[NOVEL] Sweet Haven is Lakambini Sitoy’s first novel which was
originally published in French as Les Filles de Sweethaven. The story is set
in a decaying and unromanticized Philippines and follows Narita Pastor,
a woman who is haunted by her dark past in Sweethaven, the community
of her childhood, after learning about her illegitimate daughter’s scandal.
Suarez, Michelline, Joonee Garcia, and Divine Reyes. A LOLO-ng Time Ago.
Quezon City: Ilaw ng Tahanan Publinshing Inc., 2016. [HISTORY,
CHILDREN’S LITERATURE] A LOLO-ng Time Ago is a children’s
history book about the beginnings of the Philippines. The topics in the
book include the formation of the Philippines as a group of islands, the
life of the earliest ancestors, and the beginnings of our culture.

T
Tiatco, Sir Anril P. Performing Catholicism. Quezon City: University of the
Philippines Press, 2016. [CRITICAL ESSAY] Performing Catholicism
is a book by UP Professor Sir Anril Pineda Tiatco who specializes
on speech communication and theater arts. This book explores the
intricate relationship between theater and religion, posing a question on
Catholicism as performance.
Torres, Catherine. Mariposa Gang and Other Stories. Manila: University of
Santo Tomas Publishing House, 2016. [SHORT STORY] Mariposa
Gang and Other Stories is Catherine Torres’s collection of ten short stories
revolving around Filipino individuals as they navigate the seemingly
exotic places and spaces where the writer herself once lived.

Literary Bibliography: English 347


Torres, Jose Victor. To the People Sitting in Darkness. Manila: University of
Santo Tomas Publishing House, 2016. [ESSAY] Torres’s essay collection
centers around historical footnotes, events that are often relegated to the
margins of our past. In his essays, Torres provides in-depth discussions
on these footnotes and situates them in the formation of the Filipino
culture.

V
Victoria, Eliza. Wounded Little Gods. Pasay City: Visprint, Inc., 2016.
[NOVEL] Wounded Little Gods is a fantasy novel by Eliza Victoria. It tells
the story of Regina and the events that lead her back to her hometown,
Heridos, where gods and spirits once walked among mortals. Wounded
Little Gods provokes a sense of mystery and is a good addition to the
fantasy genre in the Philippines.

Y
Yuson, Alfred. The Music Child & The Mahjong Queen. Pasig City: Anvil
Publishing, Inc., 2016. [NOVEL] Alfred Yuson’s earlier manuscript
called “The Music Child”—which would later become his third novel—
was shortlisted for the Man Asia Literary Prize in 2008. It is a marvelous
tale about a child who turns people’s words into music and a mahjong
queen who stands undefeated in the game for angels speak through her
fingers.
———. Islands of Words. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing
House, 2016. [POETRY] Poems set in folkloric scenarios and drawn
from myth comprise Krip Yuson’s seventh poetry collection. Together,
they form a narrative of a people and feature a collision of languages.

348 Likhaan 10
Filipino

A
Acacio-Flores, Lin. The Secret (Filipino Edition). Pasig City: Anvil Publishing,
Inc., 2016. [NOBELA, PANITIKANG PAMBATA] Ang The Secret ay
isang nobelang pambata na hango sa sariling karanasan ni Lin Acacio-
Flores noong Ikalawang Digmaang Pandaigdig. Sa Isang kumbento na
pinamumugaran ng mga misteryosong anino, isang batang babae ang
susubok tuklasin ang katotohanan.
Adaya, Jomar, et al. Sagupa: Antolohiya ng mga Tula ng mga Makatang Guro ng
Kagawaran ng Filipinolohiya ng PUP. Manila: Polytechnic University of
the Philippines Press, 2016. Ito ay koleksiyon ng mga tulang nilathala ng
mga guro ng Kagawaran ng Filipinolohiya ng Politeknikong Unibersidad
ng Pilipinas (PUP).

B
Bayuga, Mayette. Babae sa Balumbalunan ni Hakob. Manila: University
of Santo Tomas Publishing House, 2016. [DAGLI, MAIKLING
KUWENTO] Ito ay isang koleksiyon ng mga dagli at maiikling kuwento
kung saan ang hiwaga at biyaya ng kalikasan ang tanging pumupukaw sa
kamalayan ng mga Filipino.
Bellen, Christine S. Batang Rizal at Iba Pang Dula. Lungsod Quezon: Ateneo
de Manila University Press, 2016. [DULA] Binubuo ang koleksiyong ito
ng mga dulang musikal na akma ang haba para sa batang mambabasa.
Mithiin ng mga ito ang pagyamanin ang kultural at pangkasaysayang
kaalaman ng batang Pilipino.
Braga, Rogelio. Colon. Manila: Balangiga Press, 2016. [NOBELA] Ito ang
pinakabagong nobela ng mandudula at mangangatha na si Rogelio Braga.
Sa pamamagitan ng depiksiyon ng relasyong Moro-Filipino, tinatalakay
nito ang isyu ng identidad, karahasan, at kapayapaan.

D
delos Reyes, Joselito D. Troya: 12 Kuwento. Pasay City: Visprint, Inc., 2016.
[MAIKLING KUWENTO] Ang Troya: 12 Kuwento ay isang koleksiyon
ng maiikling kuwento ni Joselito D. Delos Reyes, ang ginawaran ng 2013
NCCA Writer’s Prize for Short Story in Filipino.

Literary Bibliography: Filipino 349


E
Eliserio, U Z. Kami sa Lahat ng Mataba. Manila: University of Santo Tomas
Publishing House, 2016. [KRITIKAL NA SANAYSAY] Sa koleksiyon
ng mga kritikal na sanaysay na ito, nilapat ni U Z. Eliserio ang mga
kanluraning teorya sa pagsuri at pagtalakay ng sitwasyong kultural,
politikal, at panlipunan ng Pilipinas.

F
Ferriols, Padre Roque J. SJ, at Leovino Ma. Garcia, ed. Sulyap sa Aking
Pinanggalingan. Lungsod Quezon: Ateneo de Manila University Press,
2016. [AUTOBIOGRAPIYA] Ang autobiograpiyang ito ng dating
propesor ng pilosopiya na si Fr. Roque J. Ferriols ay pinamatnugutan ni
Leovino Ma. Garcia. Nilalaman nito ang paglalakbay ng dating propesor
sa paghahanap ng katotohanan, mula sa kaniyang kabataan bilang isang
paring Heswita hanggang sa kaniyang mga karanasan sa paghubog ng
bawat henerasyon ng mag-aaral ng pilosopiya.

M
Molina, Russell, and Kajo Baldisimo. 12:01. Quezon City: Adarna House,
2016. [KOMIKS] Ang komiks na 12:01 nina Russell Molina at Kajo
Baldisimo ay tungkol sa kuwento ng isang barkada na nasiraan ng kotse
sa daan lampas hatinggabi sa kasagsagan ng Martial Law.

T
Tolentino, Rolando B. Araw/Gabi. Lungsod Quezon: University of the
Philippines Press, 2016. [APORISMO] Twitter ang unang naging
lunsaran ng mga aporismong bumubuo ng koleksiyong ito, na siya
namang hinati sa dalawa: araw at gabi. Ang aporismo, base sa may-akda,
ay “maiikling pangungusap na direkta ang punto … at ang pangungusap
na ito ay nagbibigay-distinksyon, ng pagkakaiba’t pagmumukod-tangi sa
ordinaryo. Ito ay isang definisyon din, ng paglalahad ng isang sintesis
hinggil sa karanasan sa mundo ng makabuluhan aspekto nito … at
hinggil sa sangkatauhan.”

350 Likhaan 10
Y
Yapan, Alvin B. Sangkatauhan Sangkahayupan. Lungsod Quezon: Ateneo
de Manila University Press, 2016. [MAIKLING KUWENTO] Ang
Sangkatauhan Sangkahayupan ay ang unang koleksiyon ng maiikling
kuwento ni Alvin B. Yapan. Laman nito ay mga kuwentong naglalayong
ibalik ang mga nalimutang pisi ng kasaysayan sa pamamagitan ng
tambalan at talaban ng mito at realidad.

Literary Bibliography: Filipino 351


Notes on the Contributors

Nagsisiyasat ng mga imahen at mga salita si Tilde Acuña para sa kanyang


tesis. Mag-aaral ng MA Araling Pilipino (KAL-DFPP) at research associate
(SURP) sa Unibersidad ng Pilipinas (UP). May-akda ng ilang piyesa sa Kritika
Kultura, Likhaan, Tomas, UP Forum, Ani, High Chair, hal, Literary Apprentice,
Bulatlat, atbp. Kalahok sa ilang pambansang palihan sa malikhaing pagsulat
at sa kritisimo; iginawad ang apat sa naturang fellowship ngayong taon,
kung kailan kinilala ang mga akda niya sa Critical Essay Contest (finalist) ng
UP Press, sa Gawad Balacuit (unang gantimpala) ng Iligan Workshop at sa
Gawad Rogelio Sicat (ikatlong gantimpala sa kuwento; unang gantimpala sa
tula) ng Sentro ng Wikang Filipino.
Buboy Aguay is a writer of Bikol poems. His collection, Gibsaw sa
Salakab, was published in 2008. He won third prize in the Carlos Palanca
Memorial Awards for Literature in 2011 with his entry “Posporo” (Dulang
May Isang Yugto). Currently, Aguay is the Chairman of the Board of Directors
of Parasurat Bikolnon, Inc. Aguay’s works have also won titles in the Bikol
Film industry initiated by the Peñafrancia Short Film Festival where his
scripts “Sakay: Andas sa Barotong Papel” (2013) and “Simong Lawog”(2015)
were named Best Picture and Second Best Picture, respectively.
Dennis Andrew S. Aguinaldo teaches at UP Los Baños. He was a fellow
of the UP National Writers Workshop as well as the workshops of Iyas,
University of Santo Tomas, and Ateneo de Manila University. His poetry
has appeared in magazines such as the Philippines Graphic, Transit, and The
Sunday Times. His fiction has been included in the PEN anthologies of 2007
and 2008, as well as in Kritika Kultura and The Cabinet.
Mark Angeles was a writer-in-residence of the International Writing
Program at the University of Iowa, USA in 2013. Lampara Books published his
children’s books Si Znork, Ang Kabayong Mahilig Matulog and Si Andoy, Batang
Tondo. His fiction collection Gagambeks at mga Kuwentong Waratpad was
published by Visprint. A redux of his book Emotero is forthcoming. Angeles
is a columnist of Pinoy Weekly, literary editor of bulatlat.com, and features

353
contributor of GMA News Online. He writes for DIWA textbooks and
teaches senior high Filipino at Notre Dame of Greater Manila. He was
conferred Makata ng Taon 2016 by the Komisyon sa Wikang Filipino. The
poems that appeared here are included in his collection “Di Lang Lalang,”
which won first place at the Palanca Awards of 2016.
Ronnie E. Baticulon is a pediatric neurosurgeon. He graduated from
the UP College of Medicine, and trained in Philippine General Hospital and
The Royal Children’s Hospital in Melbourne. He posts his stories on being a
Filipino doctor, teacher, and writer in his blog, http://ronibats.ph.
Mananaysay, kuwentista, at mandudula si Rogelio Braga. Inilathala ng
Ateneo de Naga University Press ang kanyang aklat ng mga dula Sa Pagdating
ng Barbaro at Iba Pang Mga Dula na shortlisted sa 2016 Madrigal Gonzalez
First Book Award at ng Balangiga Press ang una niyang nobela na Colon. Ang
maikling kuwento, “Kabanalan sa Panahon ng Digmâ,” ay bahagi ng binubuo
niyang aklat ng koleksiyon ng mga katha na May Rush Ba Sa Third World
Country. Kasapi si Braga ng Naratibo at ng UP Writers Club. Fellow siya
ng Asian Cultural Council ngayong 2016 para sa teatro sa Timog Silangang
Asya.
Thomas David Chaves is an assistant professor with the Department of
English and Comparative Literature of UP Diliman. A medical anthropologist
by background, he is currently completing an MA in Creative Writing
(Poetry) in UP Diliman. His short stories have won both the Palanca and
Nick Joaquin awards.
Richard Calayeg Cornelio is a nineteen-year-old currently pursuing BS
Materials Engineering at UP Diliman. His fiction and nonfiction pieces are
included in Kritika Kultura, Philippine Speculative Fiction X, and Trash: An
Anthology of Southeast Asian Urban Writing, and the forthcoming inaugural
issue of Akda: The Asian Journal of Literature, Culture, Performance.  He has
received a couple of prizes in both the Amelia Lapeña-Bonifacio Literary
Awards and the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature.
A recipient of the Palanca Award for Poetry, Rodrigo Dela Peña Jr. is the
author of Requiem, a chapbook. He has been a fellow for poetry in various
writers workshops. His poems have been published in Kritika Kultura, Rattle,
Hayden’s Ferry Review, QLRS, and other journals and anthologies. He is
currently based in Singapore.
Israfel Fagela practices law out of Makati City. He holds degrees in
economics (1998) and law (2004) from UP Diliman. His short stories and

354 Likhaan 10
poetry have appeared in Caracoa, Likhaan, Philippines Free Press, Philippines
Graphic, and other literary anthologies and magazines. He is also a songwriter
and independent musician, performing under the name “Easy.” His second
solo album, Majorette, is out now. He is the recipient of a Nick Joaquin
Literary Award and an alumnus of the UP National Writers Workshop as
well as the National Writers Workshop of Dumaguete City.
Paul Maravillas Jerusalem is a Singapore-born Filipino who is an
undergraduate student at Yale-NUS College, a liberal arts college in
Singapore. Three of his works have been published by the Quarterly Literary
Review Singapore, and his poems will be published in SingPoWriMo 2016,
an anthology of poems written during the annual Singapore Poetry Writing
Month, as well as in ASINGBOL: An Archaeology of the Singaporean Poetic
Form.
Si Perry C. Mangilaya ay tubong Bagacay, Ibajay, Aklan. Kasalukuyan
siyang namamahala ng patnugutan ng Liwayway magasin sa Manila Bulletin,
bukod sa pagiging kuwentista ay isa ring nobelista. Ang huli niyang nobelang
nalathala sa Liwayway ay ang “Silang mga Tumandok sa Isla.” Nakapagkamit
na ng mga parangal sa pagsusulat sa Palanca Awards, GAWAD Komisyon,
PBBY-Salanga Writer’s Prize at UN-Millennium Development Goals.
Bukod sa mga nobela at maikling kuwento, nakapaglathala rin siya ng mga
kuwentong pambata, tula, sanaysay, flash fiction, artikulo, kolum, komiks, at
iba pang mga lathalain na karamihan ay sa Liwayway, Hiligaynon, at Manila
Bulletin. Ilan din sa kanyang mga kuwento ay nalathala sa Ani 33–39 ng
Cultural Center of the Philippines, Ani ng Wika ng Komisyon sa Wikang
Filipino, at sa ilan pang literary anthologies. Bukod sa wikang Filipino,
nakapaglathala rin siya sa wikang Hiligaynon, Akeanon, at Ingles. Naging
Language Reviewer (Filipino) siya ng DepEd K-12 Learning Material (LM)
at Teacher’s Guides (TG).
Ana Margarita R. Nuñez is a native of Iligan City. She has an MFA
in Creative Writing from De La Salle University and is currently pursuing
a PhD in Literature at the same institution. At present, she teaches English
Literature for Senior High School at an all-boys’ school in Metro Manila. She
was a fellow at the 48th Silliman National Writers’ Workshop, and her essays
and short fiction have been published in Philippines Free Press and the Sunday
Inquirer Magazine.  Married and a mother of two boys, she hopes that her
children will grow up with the same roots that she finds herself so fortunate
to have.

Notes on the Contributors 355


Jose Luis Pablo is an associate creative director for an independent
advertising agency located in Ortigas. He graduated from UP Diliman in
2013 with a degree in broadcast communication and is currently pursuing a
master’s degree in creative writing at the same university. His poetry has been
published in Likhaan Journal 9.
Si Chuckberry J. Pascual ay nagtapos ng BA Malikhaing Pagsulat, MA
Araling Pilipino, at PhD Malikhaing Pagsulat sa UP Diliman. Siya ang awtor
ng Hindi Barbra ang Ngalan Ko (2011), 5ex (Youth and Beauty Brigade,
2012), at Kumpisal: Mga Kuwento (UST Publishing Hosue, 2015). Sa
kasalukuyan, nagtuturo siya sa UST Faculty of Arts and Letters at nagsisilbi
bilang Resident Fellow ng UST Center for Creative Writing and Literary
Studies.
Nagtuturo si Allan Popa sa Ateneo de Manila University at kumukuha
ng PhD in Literature sa DLSU. Nagtapos siya ng MFA in Writing sa
Washington University in Saint Louis kung saan siya nagwagi ng Academy
of American Poets Prize at Norma Lowry Memorial Prize. Awtor siya ng
sampung aklat ng mga tula kabilang na ang Incision (UST Publishing House,
2016),  Drone (Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2013), at Laan  (DLSU
Publishing House, 2013). Ginawaran na siya ng Philippines Free Press Literary
Award at Manila Critics Circle National Book Award for Poetry. Isa siya sa
mga kasaping tagpagtatag ng High Chair.
Jan Kevin Rivera works for Teach for the Philippines, a nonprofit
social enterprise. He is currently seconded to a rural Mindanao town where
he develops agriculture trade policies and teaches at a state college. He
completed his BA in broadcast communication, cum laude, at UP Diliman.
He attended high school at UST where he won an Ustetika, the university’s
literary prize. He has been a Fellow for Creative Nonfiction at the National
Writers Workshops of Silliman University and UST.
Si Christopher S. Rosales ay isang lisensyadong electronics engineer
na nagtapos sa Technological University of the Philippines-Manila. Minsan
na siyang naging punong patnugot ng The Philippine Artisan, ang opisyal
na publikasyong pang-estudyante ng TUP. Nakatanggap na siya ng mga
parangal mula sa Palanca Awards, Talaang Ginto: Gawad KWF sa Tula, at
Lampara Books Children’s Story Writing Contest. Nakapaglathala na rin siya
ng dalawang aklat-pambata: Si Berting, ang Batang Uling at Namimingwit sa
Langit. Kasabay ng pagsusulong niya ng kaniyang karera sa pag-iinhinyero ay
patuloy pa rin siyang nagsusulat sa mga libre niyang oras.

356 Likhaan 10
Jose Dennis C. Teodosio’s portfolio garnered prizes from the Palanca
Awards, the National Commission on Culture and the Arts, Gawad CCP,
Gawad Ka Amado, the PBBY-Salanga Writer’s Prize, Gawad Teatro Bulawan,
CineManila, Star Cinema, Viva Films, Philippine Pink Film Festival, Film
Development Foundation of the Philippines, Film Academy of the Philippines,
the Aliw Awards, China-Southeast Asia-South Asia TV Arts Week, and the
Asian TV Awards. He was a fellow in the UP (1996 & 2007) and the Iligan
National Writers Workshops (2002). He was a scholar of the 1st ABS-CBN2/
Ricky Lee Course in Soap Writing and was part of the Star Cinema Concept
Development Group. After the 1st Virgin Labfest’s runaway hit, “Gee-Gee
At Waterina” (2005), 31 of his plays were eventually staged. He was also
commissioned to write plays for Gantimpala Theater Foundation and PETA.
He is a member of the Writers Bloc and the PETA Writers Pool. Currently,
he is based in Yangon, Myanmar.
Jenette Ethel N. Vizcocho recently finished her MA in Creative Writing
at UP Diliman. A speech therapist by profession, she is also working on
interviews and features of interesting people, places, and events with her
friends for their online magazine Murphy Report during her free time.  She
hopes to be more diligent in writing short fiction. To gain material, she has
started traveling solo, the process of purchasing train tickets, eating alone,
getting lost, and never understanding the local language of each country
being wonderful potential for story ideas. The piranhas in “Wash And Wear”
are real, and were inspired by her cousin Kuya Dennis showing her videos of
his fish feeding on various small prey. This story is dedicated to his memory.

Notes on the Contributors 357


About the Cover Artists

Cover designer R. Jordan P. Santos is an independent graphic designer


who loves books and designs them for a living. Follow him at https://www.
instagram.com/rjordanpsantos/.
Ang cover illustrator na si Bheng Densing ay may bachelor ng fine
arts major in visual communication sa UP Diliman. Dati siyang graphics
editor ng Philippine Collegian, at ngayon ay professional art director sa isang
advertising agency sa Pilipinas. Bukod sa visual arts, devoted din siya mag-
express ng kaniyang mga pananaw sa mundo by making rock songs kasama
ang kanyang kasalukuyang bandang TAO.

359
Notes on the Panelists

Dean Francis Alfar is a novelist and writer of speculative fiction. His


fiction has been published and anthologized both in his native Philippines
and abroad (Strange Horizons, Rabid Transit, The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror,
The Apex Book of World SF, The Time Traveler’s Almanac, and the Exotic Gothic
series among many others).
His literary awards include ten Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards
for Literature—including the Grand Prize for Novel for Salamanca—as well
as the National Book Awards for the graphic novels Siglo: Freedom and Siglo:
Passion, the Philippines Free Press Literary Award, and the Gintong Aklat
Award. He is a member of the Manila Critics Circle. Dean lives in Manila
with his wife, award-winning fictionist Nikki Alfar and their daughters Sage
and Rowan.
Luna Sicat Cleto has published two novels, Makinilyang Altar (University
of the Philippines Press, 2002) and Mga Prodigal (Anvil, 2010). Some of the
awards she received were from the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for
Literature, the Madrigal Gonzales Best First Book, and the Cultural Center of
the Philippines for her poetry, prose, and plays. She is the translator of John
Green’s An Abundance of Katherines (NBS and Anvil, 2015), and cotranslator
of Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues and William Shakespeare’s Othello.
Her works in fiction, poetry, and essays have also been anthologized in many
publications. She currently teaches creative writing and literature appreciation
at the University of the Philippines Diliman, where she is an associate of the
Likhaan: UP Institute of Creative Writing.
Fictionist Jaime An Lim is cofounder of the Mindanao Writers Group
and the Iligan National Writers Workshop. He has won awards for his fiction:
“The Axolotl Colony,” First Prize in the 1993 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial
Awards for Literature; “The Boy and the Tree of Time,” Second Prize (Short
Story for Children) in the 1993 Palanca Awards; “Encanto,” originally titled
“Yasmin,” Third Prize (Short Story for Children) in the 1990 Palanca Awards;
“The Husband,” 1984 Ellis Literary Award for Best Graduate Fiction,

361
Indiana University; “The Liberation of Mrs. Fidela Magsilang,” Third Prize
in the 1973 Palanca Awards; and “Outward Journey,” Honorable Mention
in the 1973 Focus Philippines Short Story Contest. In 2000, the Unyon
ng Manunulat sa Pilipinas (UMPIL) awarded him the Gawad Pambansang
Alagad ni Balagtas for poetry and fiction in English.
Eliza Victoria is the author of several books including the Philippine
National Book Award-winning Dwellers (2014) and the novel Wounded Little
Gods (2016). Her fiction and poetry have appeared in several online and print
publications and have won prizes in the Philippines’ top literary awards. A
story of hers (“Dan’s Dreams”) is included in The Year’s Best YA Speculative
Fiction 2013, featuring stories from authors such as Ken Liu, Lavie Tidhar,
Sofia Samatar, Nnedi Okorafor, and Neil Gaiman. She served as guest
panelist in the 54th Silliman University National Writers Workshop, and was
a Writing Fellow in the 54th UP National Writers Workshop.

362 Likhaan 10
About the Editors

Issue editor J. Neil C. Garcia teaches creative writing and comparative


literature in the University of the Philippines, Diliman, where he serves as
director of the university press and a fellow for poetry in the Institute of
Creative Writing. He is the author of numerous poetry collections and works
in literary and cultural criticism, including The Sorrows of Water (2000),
Kaluluwa (2001), Performing the Self: Occasional Prose (2003), The Garden
of Wordlessness (2005), Misterios and Other Poems (2005), and Postcolonialism
and Filipino Poetics: Essays and Critiques (2003). In 2009, Hong Kong
University Press published its own international edition of his Philippine Gay
Culture (1996). Between 1994 and 2014, he coedited the famous Ladlad
series of Philippine gay writing. Another important anthology that he edited
is Aura: the Gay Theme in Philippine Fiction in English, published in 2012.
His most recent books are The Postcolonial Perverse: Critiques of Contemporary
Philippine Culture, Homeless in Unhomeliness: Postcolonial Critiques of
Philippine Literature, and Myth and Writing: Occasional Prose. He is currently
at work on Likha, his seventh poetry book.
Associate editor Charlson Ong has published four collections of short
fiction: Men of the East and Other Stories, Woman of Amkaw and Other Stories,
Conversion and Other Fictions, and Of That Other Country We Now Speak and
Other Stories, as well as three novels: An Embarrassment of Riches (which won the
Philippine Centennial Literary Prize), Banyaga, A Song of War (which won the
2006 National Book Award), and Blue Angel, White Shadow (which won the
2011 National Book Award). He teaches creative writing at the Department of
English and Comparative Literature, College of Arts and Letters, UP Diliman.
Managing editor Gabriela Lee has been published for her poetry and
fiction in the Philippines, Singapore, the United States, and Australia. Her
latest short fiction appears in the anthologies Science Fiction: Filipino Fiction
for Young Adults (UP Press) and Friend Zones (Ateneo University Press). Her
first book of prose is titled Instructions on How to Disappear: Stories, published
by Visprint Inc. She received a Master of Arts in Literary Studies from the
National University of Singapore (NUS), and currently teaches literature and
creative writing at the University of the Philippines, Diliman.

363

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