Araw-araw akong nagtatraysikel papunta sa sakayan ng FX. Malayo ang tinitirhan ko mula sa opisinang pinapasukan ko. Madalas, isang oras akong nagcocommute. Kung tatanghaliin ng gising o kung mamalasin at matrapik, minsan inaabot ako ng dalawang oras.
Trese ang pamasahe mula sa labas ng subdivision namin hanggang sa sakayan. Halos doble ng minimum fare, kaya matatantya nyo na kung gaano ito kalayo. Nagiging pamilyar na sa akin ang mga mukha ng mga traysikel drayber sa araw-araw kong pagsakay.
Isa si Mang Jhonny sa madalas kong makita sa paradahan. Ganyan ang pagkakabaybay ng pangalan nya, ayon sa rehistro na nakasabit sa traysikel nya. Matanda na si Mang Jhonny. Kulubot ang balat, maitim, kulot ang buhok, at hindi matangkad. Madalas manipis na kamiseta ang suot nya at magrasang shorts. Butas-butas na ang goma nyang sapatos. Sa TODA terminal, pumipila ang mga traysikel para makakuha ng pasahero. Habang naghihintay, dispatcher rin si Mang Jhonny.
Una ko syang napuna nung minsan sakay ako ng traysikel nya at nagpakrudo sya sa isang gasolinahan. Kakataas lang ng presyo ng gas ilang oras lang ang nakakalipas at dismayadong dismayado si Mang Jhonny sa balitang ito. “Anak ng ... Taas ng taas ang gasolina, di naman kami pwede magtaas ng pamasahe, lintik na buhay ito, oo...”
Laspag na ang traysikel ni Mang Jhonny. Kalawangin ang mga bakal, tagpi-tagpi ang upuan at nirecycle na trapal ng mga advertisement ang bubong nya na tumutulo kapag umuulan.Kung nakaparada ito sa isang tambakan, hindi mahirap isipin na baka pwede na itong ipatimbang sa junk shop.
Pero kahit naghihingalo na tricycle ni Mang Jhonny, mabait naman sya sa mga pasahero. Sa katunayan, namumukhaan nya na ako at di nao kailangan pang tanungin kung saan ako bababa. Di nya rin hinahayaan masingitan ako sa pila ng mga ayaw maghintay ng kanilang pagkakataon. Kapag ginagabi ako ng uwi at konti na lang ang mga traysikel sa pila, pinipilit nya ang mga drayber na kunin akong pasahero kahit di na nila ruta. At sinasabihan nya rin akong tandaan ang numero ng traysikel kung sakaling may maiwan ako, gaya ng isang ale na minsang humingi ng tulong sa kanya sa naiwang wallet. Daig pa ni Mang Jhonny sa pagiging maasikaso ang maraming mga empleyado sa pampublikong tanggapan.
May isang araw na di si Mang Jhonny ang nagmaneho, kundi ang anak nya, siguro mga disi-syete anyos pa lang. Sakay lang si Mang Jhonny sa likod habang nagbibigay ng mga utos. "Tingnan mo magkabalang gilid mo. Maging alerto ka sa mga dumaraan. Wag na wag kang magaalinlangan sa interseksyon, tuluy-tuloy lang at nang di ka mabitin sa gitna."
Pagdating sa gate ng subdivision namin, inabot ko bayad ko sa kanya, sabay sabi ng, “Salamat po.”
Madami akong natutunan sa mga simpleng kapwa tao na nakakasalimuha ko araw-araw. Di lang trese pesos ang halaga niyon.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Friday, August 10, 2007
Unconditional
I'm convinced that sometimes life plays out events with undeniable cohesion just to make a point come across to you as clearly as possible.
It was another one of those I-don't-know-how-we-got-to-this-topic conversations over dinner with Gary. We were talking about parental love. We were talking about how easy it is for a parent to love a good child. It's when they love the problematic ones - the ones who consistently screw up all time - that proves how much love parents are capable of. And we could only surmise the depth of that kind of love. I've been told I'll never understand it until I become a parent myself.
Later that evening, I was waiting for the FX to be filled with passengers when a father, his two kids, and a yaya clambered up the backseat with me. The dad was in his early to mid-thirties and he spoke English when he addresses his kids, a toddler son and a pre-school daughter. He called his son "mahal ko" and his daughter "ate".
The children were loud. No, make that: the children were LOUD. And restless. And quarrelsome. And loud. Did I mention they were loud? The dad gave them a warning at the start of the trip. "Don't misbehave, guys, ok? We're not the only ones in the backseat." But after the kids exchanged mean words to each other and a number of poking at each other, the warning ended up unheeded. And also - do kids really have to repeat every line they say? I mean every line. Twice. At the least. The girl, who was a little older, was somewhat manageable. But the boy was everywhere. Standing up, twisting on his seat, pulling at everyone's clothes. It's amazing how many things a three-year old can do in that cramped space.
The dad took a phone call on the way. I couldn't help but overhear the phone conversation. It was a business proposal. Mr. Dad was politely declining any networking endeavor since his time is divided between his day job and his family. And besides, he said, he was more inclined to creative work than in sales. The kids continued to wreak havoc in the backseat while he tried to get on with the phone call. And not once did the dad tell them off. I was awed at his patience. Ok, maybe I was more incredulous he didn't find it annoying to conduct a conversation above the ruckus.
After the call, he quietly tells his son, "Mahal ko, you have been extraordinarily naughty today." The kid who was sitting on his lap, looks up to him with wide eyes. The dad kisses him on the forehead and says, "But I still love you."
The boy falls silent and after a few moments says, "I'm sleepy, Dad. Sing me 'hush now'."
The dad began to sing a lullaby unfamiliar to me. With lines like, "Hush now, my darling child... into a place where there is no harm... with cuddly clouds..."
The FX atmosphere experienced its first moments of silence. And I find myself thinking, "I get the point."
It was another one of those I-don't-know-how-we-got-to-this-topic conversations over dinner with Gary. We were talking about parental love. We were talking about how easy it is for a parent to love a good child. It's when they love the problematic ones - the ones who consistently screw up all time - that proves how much love parents are capable of. And we could only surmise the depth of that kind of love. I've been told I'll never understand it until I become a parent myself.
Later that evening, I was waiting for the FX to be filled with passengers when a father, his two kids, and a yaya clambered up the backseat with me. The dad was in his early to mid-thirties and he spoke English when he addresses his kids, a toddler son and a pre-school daughter. He called his son "mahal ko" and his daughter "ate".
The children were loud. No, make that: the children were LOUD. And restless. And quarrelsome. And loud. Did I mention they were loud? The dad gave them a warning at the start of the trip. "Don't misbehave, guys, ok? We're not the only ones in the backseat." But after the kids exchanged mean words to each other and a number of poking at each other, the warning ended up unheeded. And also - do kids really have to repeat every line they say? I mean every line. Twice. At the least. The girl, who was a little older, was somewhat manageable. But the boy was everywhere. Standing up, twisting on his seat, pulling at everyone's clothes. It's amazing how many things a three-year old can do in that cramped space.
The dad took a phone call on the way. I couldn't help but overhear the phone conversation. It was a business proposal. Mr. Dad was politely declining any networking endeavor since his time is divided between his day job and his family. And besides, he said, he was more inclined to creative work than in sales. The kids continued to wreak havoc in the backseat while he tried to get on with the phone call. And not once did the dad tell them off. I was awed at his patience. Ok, maybe I was more incredulous he didn't find it annoying to conduct a conversation above the ruckus.
After the call, he quietly tells his son, "Mahal ko, you have been extraordinarily naughty today." The kid who was sitting on his lap, looks up to him with wide eyes. The dad kisses him on the forehead and says, "But I still love you."
The boy falls silent and after a few moments says, "I'm sleepy, Dad. Sing me 'hush now'."
The dad began to sing a lullaby unfamiliar to me. With lines like, "Hush now, my darling child... into a place where there is no harm... with cuddly clouds..."
The FX atmosphere experienced its first moments of silence. And I find myself thinking, "I get the point."
Saturday, August 04, 2007
"Rain"
He found himself grinning, in spite of the circumstances.
The rain came pouring down suddenly. Perfect cue, he thought. The day was clear moments ago and then – seemingly out of nowhere - heaven's tears. Heaven was bawling, more like it.
Office workers in corporate attires hurried to take shelter, trying to maintain whatever poise and dignity they could manage as they clambered under awnings, entryways, canopies. The austere business center was covered in a blanket of what looked like static-laden television reception.
For what seemed to be slow-passing moments, he stood there at the middle of the unfolding chaos, trying to absorb life's ironic humor. He felt like he was part of a scene in one of the movies he often watches. But he wore the wrong expression on his face. He was grinning. And protagonists do not end up grinning under the rain after chasing the girl but not catching up with her.
But she was not an ordinary, random girl. Not just another pretty face in the crowd who has caught his eye. Far from being so. This was her - the ubiquitous presence in his past and the continual haunting in his present. She who kept a hold on his life long after he had convinced himself that he was free from everything she meant to him. There are days when he believed it, and there are those when he can't. For some reason, that day, he was overwhelmed with a nameless need to approach her. Say hello. See her up close. Maybe even shake her hand, if he felt casual enough.
He wondered how well he could play the part of a grown-up, unflurried by the past shared between the two of them. Besides, it shouldn't be so hard, he reasoned. After all, they have been good friends once before. Before the heartbreaks, tears, and eventual goodbyes. He felt he could manage a nonchalant air. It need not be an awkward situation. He was an adult now; his character, he hoped, has been strengthened by the time and space they spent apart. Maybe enough time has passed for them to reconsider their interrupted friendship.
Fuelled by these optimistic possibilities, he mindlessly paid his fare and got off the cab. And as the screenplay scene called for it, our lead character frantically searched the crowd for her familiar face.
Familiar. Hers will always be a familiar face. At the back of his head, he felt that if he'd lived to meet a thousand more people, her face will never lose its familiarity. He could also recognize her scent anywhere - even in public elevators as it hits him and leaves him reeling from the impact of sudden memories. And he'd try to seek the source. Which one? Was it her? Or her? Until he couldn't sense it anymore and he'd be left hanging on to every breath of the still air all by himself. Left hanging with the images unseen to others but vivid in his own head.
And once again, he sought her. How many times had he been in this situation - seeking her? He lost count. He seems to be always trying to find her, the answers she withheld, and the explanations she didn't deem necessary to share.
This time, he searched for her in the crowd of commuters, pedestrians, bystanders. She seemed to have vanished. He began to think whether he made her image up in his head or he simply mistook her for someone else. Still, he spun around, bent on finding her. Which one? Was it her? Or her? This is not how this scene is meant to end. It should have a sense of completion, maybe even vindication.
Moments pass and at last, he finally saw her. A figure walking briskly away. He tried to quicken his steps to catch up, but didn't dare call out after her. The movement of his steps matched the rhythm of his heartbeat. But it was futile. The last he saw was her back disappearing behind the glass door. When it closed after her, he was faced with his own reflection – somewhat dishevelled and obviously out of place.
He can never seem to catch up with her. Never have. He had always felt she was so evanescent even before when she was such a real and tangible part of his life. That quality seemed to have magnified more now that she is part of his past.
The thought hit him as the first drops of rain collided with the ground. Heaven was sympathizing with him, perhaps. Or making fun of him. He decided it must be humor. And he found himself grinning, in spite of the circumstances.
The rain came pouring down suddenly. Perfect cue, he thought. The day was clear moments ago and then – seemingly out of nowhere - heaven's tears. Heaven was bawling, more like it.
Office workers in corporate attires hurried to take shelter, trying to maintain whatever poise and dignity they could manage as they clambered under awnings, entryways, canopies. The austere business center was covered in a blanket of what looked like static-laden television reception.
For what seemed to be slow-passing moments, he stood there at the middle of the unfolding chaos, trying to absorb life's ironic humor. He felt like he was part of a scene in one of the movies he often watches. But he wore the wrong expression on his face. He was grinning. And protagonists do not end up grinning under the rain after chasing the girl but not catching up with her.
But she was not an ordinary, random girl. Not just another pretty face in the crowd who has caught his eye. Far from being so. This was her - the ubiquitous presence in his past and the continual haunting in his present. She who kept a hold on his life long after he had convinced himself that he was free from everything she meant to him. There are days when he believed it, and there are those when he can't. For some reason, that day, he was overwhelmed with a nameless need to approach her. Say hello. See her up close. Maybe even shake her hand, if he felt casual enough.
He wondered how well he could play the part of a grown-up, unflurried by the past shared between the two of them. Besides, it shouldn't be so hard, he reasoned. After all, they have been good friends once before. Before the heartbreaks, tears, and eventual goodbyes. He felt he could manage a nonchalant air. It need not be an awkward situation. He was an adult now; his character, he hoped, has been strengthened by the time and space they spent apart. Maybe enough time has passed for them to reconsider their interrupted friendship.
Fuelled by these optimistic possibilities, he mindlessly paid his fare and got off the cab. And as the screenplay scene called for it, our lead character frantically searched the crowd for her familiar face.
Familiar. Hers will always be a familiar face. At the back of his head, he felt that if he'd lived to meet a thousand more people, her face will never lose its familiarity. He could also recognize her scent anywhere - even in public elevators as it hits him and leaves him reeling from the impact of sudden memories. And he'd try to seek the source. Which one? Was it her? Or her? Until he couldn't sense it anymore and he'd be left hanging on to every breath of the still air all by himself. Left hanging with the images unseen to others but vivid in his own head.
And once again, he sought her. How many times had he been in this situation - seeking her? He lost count. He seems to be always trying to find her, the answers she withheld, and the explanations she didn't deem necessary to share.
This time, he searched for her in the crowd of commuters, pedestrians, bystanders. She seemed to have vanished. He began to think whether he made her image up in his head or he simply mistook her for someone else. Still, he spun around, bent on finding her. Which one? Was it her? Or her? This is not how this scene is meant to end. It should have a sense of completion, maybe even vindication.
Moments pass and at last, he finally saw her. A figure walking briskly away. He tried to quicken his steps to catch up, but didn't dare call out after her. The movement of his steps matched the rhythm of his heartbeat. But it was futile. The last he saw was her back disappearing behind the glass door. When it closed after her, he was faced with his own reflection – somewhat dishevelled and obviously out of place.
He can never seem to catch up with her. Never have. He had always felt she was so evanescent even before when she was such a real and tangible part of his life. That quality seemed to have magnified more now that she is part of his past.
The thought hit him as the first drops of rain collided with the ground. Heaven was sympathizing with him, perhaps. Or making fun of him. He decided it must be humor. And he found himself grinning, in spite of the circumstances.
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