Stories to read in Literature
21st Century Literature | Q1
THE NANKING STORE BY MACARIO TIU
I WAS only three years old then, but I have vivid memories
of Peter and Linda’s wedding. What I remember most was
jumping and romping on their pristine matrimonial bed
after the wedding. I would learn later that it was to ensure
that their first-born would be a boy. I was chosen to do the
honors because I was robust and fat.
I also remember that I got violently sick after drinking
endless bottles of soft drinks. I threw up everything that I
had eaten, staining Linda’s shimmering satin wedding
gown. Practically the entire Chinese community of the city
was present. There was so much food that some Bisayan
children from the squatter’s area were allowed to enter the
compound to eat in a shed near the kitchen.
During their first year of marriage, Linda often brought me
to their house in Bajada. She and Peter would pick me up
after nursery school from our store in their car. She would
tell Mother it was her way of easing her loneliness, as all
her relatives and friends were in Cebu, her hometown.
Sometimes I stayed overnight with them.
I liked going there because she pampered me, feeding me
fresh fruits as well as preserved Chinese fruits like dikiam,
champoy and kiamoy. Peter was fun too, making me ride
piggyback. He was very strong and did not complain about
my weight.
Tua Poy, that’s what she fondly called me. It meant Fatso. I
called her Achi, and Peter, Ahiya. They were a happy
couple. I would see them chase each other among the
furniture and into the rooms. There was much laughter in
the house. It was this happy image that played in my mind
about Peter and Linda for a long time.
I was six years old when I sensed that something had gone
wrong with their marriage. Linda left the Bajada house and
moved into the upstairs portions of Nanking Store which
was right across from Father’s grocery store in Santa Ana.
The Bajada residence was the wedding gift of Peter’s
parents to the couple. It was therefore strange that Linda
would choose to live in Santa Ana while Peter would stay in
Bajada, a distance of some three kilometers.
In Santa Ana where the Chinese stores were concentrated,
the buildings used to be uniformly two storeys high. The
first floor was the store; the second floor was the
residence. In time some Chinese grew prosperous and
moved out to establish little enclaves in different parts of
the city and in the suburbs. We remained in Santa Ana.
One late afternoon, after school, I caught Linda at home
talking with Mother. “Hoa, Tua Poya. You’ve grown very
tall!” Linda greeted me, ruffling my hair.
Sevilla
Week 1 - 8
At that age, the show of affection made me feel awkward
and I sidled up to Mother. Linda gave me two Mandarin
oranges. I stayed at the table in the same room, eating an
orange and pretending not to listen to their conversation.
I noticed that Linda’s eyes were sad, not the eyes that I
remembered. Her eyes used to be full of light and laughter.
Now her eyes were somber even when her voice sounded
casual and happy.
“I got bored in Bajada,” Linda said. “I thought I’d help Peter
at the store.”
That was how she explained why she had moved to Santa
Ana. I wanted to know if she could not do that by going to
the store in the morning and returning home to Bajada at
night like Peter did. I wished Mother would ask the
question, but she did not.
However, at the New Canton Barbershop I learned the real
reason. One night Mother told me to fetch Father because
it was past eight o’clock and he hadn’t had his dinner. As a
family we ate early. Like most Chinese, we would close the
store by five and go up to the second floor to eat supper.
The New Canton Barbershop served as the recreation
center of our block. At night the sidewalk was brightly
lighted, serving as the extension of the barbershop’s
waiting room. People congregated there to play Chinese
chess, to read the Orient News or just talk. It was a very
informal place. Father and the other elderly males would go
there in shorts and sando shirts.
He was playing chess when I got there. He sat on a stool
with one leg raised on the stool. “Mama says you should go
home and eat,” I said.
Father looked at me and I immediately noticed that he had
a drink. The focus of his eyes was not straight.
“I have eaten. Go home. Tell Mother I’ll follow in a short
while,” he said. I stayed on and watched the game although
I did not understand a thing. “I said go home,” Father said,
glowering at me.
I did not budge.
“This is how children behave now. You tell them to do
something and they won’t obey,” he complained to his
opponent. Turning to me, he said, “Go home.”
“Check,” his opponent said.
“Hoakonga!” Father cried, “I turn around and you cheat
me.”
His opponent laughed aloud, showing toothless gums.
Father studied the chessboard. “Hoakonga! You’ve
defeated me four times in a row!” “Seven times.”
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Stories to read in Literature
21st Century Literature | Q1
“What? You’re a big cheat and you know that. Certainly five
times, no more!”
It elicited another round of laughter from the toothless
man. Several people in the adjoining tables joined in the
laughter. Father reset the chess pieces to start another
game.
“You beat me in chess, but I have six children. All boys. Can
you beat that?” he announced.
Father’s laughter was very loud. When he had had a drink
he was very talkative.
“See this?” he hooked his arm around my waist and drew
me to his side. “This is my youngest. Can you beat this?”
The men laughed. They laughed very hard. I did not know
what was funny, but it must be because of the incongruous
sight of the two of us. He was very thin and I was very fat.
“Well, I have I seven children!” the toothless man said.
“Ah, four daughters. Not counted,” Father said.
“Ah Kong! Ah Kong!” somebody said.
The laughter was deafening. Ah Kong lived several blocks
away. He had ten children, all daughters, and his wife was
pregnant again.
They laughed at their communal joke, but the laughter
slowly died down until there was absolute silence. It was a
very curious thing. Father saw Peter coming around the
corner and he suddenly stopped laughing. The toothless
man turned, saw Peter, and he stopped laughing, too.
Anybody who saw Peter became instantly quiet so that by
the time he was near the barbershop the group was
absolutely silent.
It was Peter who broke the silence by greeting Father. He
also greeted some people, and suddenly they were alive
again. The chess pieces made scraping noises on the board,
the newspapers rustled, and people began to talk.
“Hoa, Tua Poya, you’ve grown very tall!” he said, ruffling my
hair.
I smiled shyly at him. He exchanged a few words with Father
and then, ruffling my hair once more, he went away. It
struck me that he was not the Peter I knew, vigorous and
alert. This Peter looked tired, and his shoulders sagged.
I followed him with my eyes. Down the road I noted that his
car was parked in front of Nanking Store. But he did not get
into his car; instead he went inside the store. It was one of
those nights when he would sleep in the store.
“A bad stock,” the toothless man said, shaking his head. “Ah
Kong has no bones. But Peter is a bad stock. A pity. After
four years, still no son. Not even a daughter.”
Sevilla
Week 1 - 8
“It’s the woman, not Peter,” said a man from a neighboring
table. “I heard they tried everything. She even had a
regular massage by a Bisayan medicine woman.”
“It’s sad. It’s very sad,” the toothless man said. “His parents
want him to junk her, but he loves her.”
When Father and I got home, I went to my First Brother’s
room.
“Why do they say that Ah Kong
has no bones?” I asked my
brother. “Where did you learn
that?” my brother asked.
“At the barbershop.”
“Don’t listen in on adult talk,” he said. “It’s bad manners.”
“Well, what does it mean?”
“It means Ah Kong cannot produce a son.”
“And what is a bad stock?”
My brother told me to go to sleep, but I persisted.
“It means you cannot produce any children. It’s like a seed,
see? It won’t grow. Why do you ask?” he said.
“They say Peter is a bad stock.”
“Well, that’s what’s going to happen to him if he won’t
produce a child. But it’s not really Peter’s problem. It is
Linda’s problem. She had an appendectomy when she was
still single. It could have affected her.” Somehow I felt
responsible for their having no children. I worried that I
could be the cause. I hoped nobody remembered that I
jumped on their matrimonial bed to give them good luck. I
failed to give them a son. I failed to give them even a
daughter. But nobody really blamed me for it. Everybody
agreed it was Linda’s problem.
That was why Linda had moved into Santa Ana. But the
problem was more complicated than this. First Brother
explained it all to me patiently. Peter’s father was the sole
survivor of the Zhin family. He had a brother but he died
when still young. The family name was therefore in danger
of dying out. It was the worst thing that could happen to a
Chinese family, for the bloodline to vanish from the world.
Who would pay respects to the ancestors? It was
unthinkable. Peter was the family’s only hope to carry on
the family name, and he still remained childless.
But while everybody agreed that it was Linda’s fault, some
people also doubted Peter’s virility. At the New Canton
Barbershop it was the subject of drunken bantering. He was
aware that people were talking behind his back. From a very
gregarious man, he became withdrawn and no longer
socialized.
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Stories to read in Literature
21st Century Literature | Q1
Instead he put his energies into the Nanking Store. His
father had retired and had given him full authority. Under
his management, Nanking Store expanded, eating up two
adjacent doors. It was rumored he had bought a large
chunk of Santa Ana and was diversifying into
manufacturing and mining.
Once, I met him in the street and I smiled at him but he did
not return my greeting. He did not ruffle my hair. He had
become a very different man. His mouth was set very hard.
He looked like he was angry at something.
The changes in Linda occurred over a period of time. At
first, she seemed to be in equal command with Peter in the
Nanking Store. She had her own desk and sometimes acted
as cashier. Later she began to serve customers directly as
if she were one of the salesgirls.
Then her personal maid was fired. Gossip blamed this on
Peter’s parents. She lived pretty much like the three
stay-in salesgirls and the young mestizo driver who cooked
their own meals and washed their own clothes.
Members of the community whose opinions mattered
began to sympathize with her because her in-laws were
becoming hostile towards her openly. The mother-in-law
made it known to everybody she was unhappy with her.
She began to scold Linda in public. “That worthless, barren
woman,” she would spit out. Linda became a very jittery
person. One time, she served tea to her mother-in-law and
the cup slid off the saucer. It gave the mother-in-law a
perfect excuse to slap Linda in the face in public.
Peter did not help her when it was a matter between his
parents and herself. I think at that time he still loved Linda,
but he always deferred to the wishes of his parents. When
it was that he stopped loving her I would not know. But he
had learned to go to night spots and the talk began that he
was dating a Bisayan bar girl. First Brother saw this woman
and had nothing but contempt for her.
“A bad woman,” First brother told me one night about this
woman. “All make-up. I don’t know what he sees in her.”
It seemed that Peter did not even try to hide his affair
because he would occasionally bring the girl to a very
expensive restaurant in Matina. Matina was somewhat far
from Santa Ana, but the rich and mobile young generation
Chinese no longer confined themselves to Santa Ana. Many
of them saw Peter with the woman. As if to lend credence
to the rumor, the occasional night visits he made at
Nanking Store stopped. I would not see his car parked
there at night again.
One day, Peter brought First Brother to a house in a
subdivision in Mandug where he proudly showed him a
baby boy. It was now an open secret that he kept his woman
there and visited her frequently. First Brother told me
about it after swearing me to secrecy, the way Peter had
sworn him to secrecy.
Sevilla
Week 1 - 8
“Well, that settles the question. Peter is no bad stock after
all. It had been Linda all along,” First Brother said.
It turned out Peter showed his baby boy to several other
people and made them swear to keep it a secret. In no time
at all everybody in the community knew he had finally
produced a son. People talked about the scandal in
whispers. A son by a Bisayan woman? And a bad woman at
that? But they no longer joked about his being a bad stock.
All in all people were happy for Peter. Once again his
prestige rose. Peter basked in this renewed respect. He
regained his old self; he now walked with his shoulders
straight, and looked openly into people’s eyes. He also
began to socialize at New Canton Barbershop. And
whenever we met, he would ruffle my hair.
As for his parents, they acted as if nothing had happened.
Perhaps they knew about the scandal, but pretended not to
know. They were caught in a dilemma. On one hand, it
should make them happy that Peter finally produced a son.
On the other hand, they did not relish the idea of having a
half-breed for a grandson, the old generation Chinese being
conscious of racial purity. What was certain though was that
they remained unkind to Linda.
So there came a time when nobody was paying any
attention anymore to Linda, not even Peter. Our neighbors
began to accept her fate. It was natural for her to get
scolded by her mother-in-law in public. It was natural that
she should stay with the salesgirls and the driver. She no
longer visited with Mother. She rarely went out, and when
she did, she wore a scarf over her head, as if she were
ashamed for people to see her. Once in the street I greeted
her–she looked at me with panic in her eyes, mumbled
something, drew her scarf down to cover her face, and
hurriedly walked away.
First Brother had told me once that Linda’s degradation was
rather a strange case. She was an educated girl, and
although her family was not rich, it was not poor either.
Why she allowed herself to be treated that way was
something that baffled people. She was not that
submissive before. Once, I was witness to how she stood her
ground. Her mother-in-law had ordered her to remove a
painting of an eagle from the living room wall of their
Bajada house, saying it was bad feng shui. With great
courtesy, Linda refused, saying it was beautiful. But the
mother-in-law won in the end. She nagged Peter about it,
and he removed the painting.
When the Bisayan woman gave Peter a second son, it no
longer created a stir in the community. What created a
minor stir was that late one night, when the New Canton
Barbershop was about to close and there were only a few
people left, Peter dropped by with his eldest son whom he
carried piggyback on. First Brother was there. He said
everybody pretended the boy did not exist.
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Stories to read in Literature
21st Century Literature | Q1
Then Peter died in a car accident on the Buhangin
Diversion Road. He was returning from Mandug and a truck
rammed his car, killing him instantly. I cried when I heard
about it, remembering how he had been good to me.
At the wake, Linda took her place two rows behind her
mother-in-law who completely ignored her. People passed
by her and expressed their condolences very quickly, as if
they were afraid of being seen doing so by the
mother-in-law. At the burial, Linda stood stoically
throughout the ceremony, and when Peter was finally
interred, she swooned.
A few weeks after Peter’s burial, we learned that Linda’s
mother-in-law wanted her out of the Nanking Store. She
offered Linda a tempting amount of money. People thought
it was a vicious thing to do, but none could help her. It was
a purely family affair. However, a month or two passed and
Linda was still in the Nanking Store. In fact, Linda was now
taking over Peter’s work.
I was happy to see that she had begun to stir herself to life.
It was ironic that she would do so only after her husband’s
death. But at the same time, we feared for her. Her mother
in-law’s hostility was implacable. She blamed Linda for
everything. She knew about the scandal all along, and she
never forgave Linda for making Peter the laughing stock of
the community, forcing him into the arms of a Bisayan girl
of an unsavory reputation and producing half-breed
bastard sons.
We waited keenly for the showdown that was coming. A
flurry of emissaries went to Nanking Store but Linda stood
pat on her decision to stay. Then one morning, her mother
in-law herself came in her flashy Mercedes. We learned
about what actually happened through our domestic
helper who got her story from the stay-in salesgirls. That
was how the entire community learned the details of the
confrontation.
According to them, Linda ran upstairs to avoid talking to
her mother-in-law. But the older woman followed and
started berating her and calling her names. Linda kept her
composure. She did not even retaliate when the older
woman slapped her. But when the mother-in-law grabbed
Linda’s hair, intending to drag her down the stairs, Linda
kicked her in the shin. The old woman went wild and flayed
at Linda. Linda at first fought back defensively, but as the
older woman kept on, she finally slapped her mother-in-law
hard in the face. Stunned, the older woman retreated,
shouting threats at her. She never showed her face in
Santa Ana again.
While some conservative parties in the community did not
approve of Linda’s actions, many others cheered her
secretly. They were sad, though, that the mother-in-law,
otherwise a good woman, would become a cruel woman out
of desperation to protect and perpetuate the family name.
Sevilla
Week 1 - 8
Since the enmity had become violent, the break was now
total and absolute. This family quarrel provided an
interesting diversion in the entire community; we followed
each and every twist of its development like a TV soap
opera. When the in-laws hired a lawyer, Linda also hired her
own lawyer. It was going to be an ugly fight over property.
Meanwhile, Linda’s transformation fascinated the entire
community. She had removed her scarf and made herself
visible in the community again. I was glad that every time I
saw her she was getting back to her old self. Indeed it was
only then that I noticed how beautiful she was. She had
well-shaped lips that needed no lipstick. Her eyes sparkled.
Color had returned to her cheeks, accentuating her fine
complexion. Blooming, the women said, seeming to thrive
on the fight to remain in the Nanking Store. The young men
sat up whenever she passed by. But they would shake their
heads, and say “What a pity, she’s barren.”
Then without warning the in-laws suddenly moved to
Manila, bringing with them the two bastard sons. They
made it known to everybody that it was to show their
contempt for Linda. It was said that the other woman
received a handsome amount so she would never disturb
them again.
We all thought that was that. For several months an uneasy
peace settled down in Nanking Store as the struggle
shifted to the courts. People pursue other interests. Then
to the utter horror of the community, they realized Linda
was pregnant.
Like most people, I thought at first that she was just getting
fat. But everyday it was getting obvious that her body was
growing. People had mixed reactions. When she could not
bear a child she was a disgrace. Now that she was pregnant,
she was still a disgrace. But she did not care about what
people thought or said about her. Wearing a pair of elastic
pants that highlighted her swollen belly, she walked all over
Santa Ana. She dropped by every store on our block and
chatted with the store owners, as if to make sure that
everybody knew she was pregnant.
There was no other suspect for her condition but the driver.
Nobody had ever paid him any attention before, and now
they watched him closely. He was a shy mestizo about
Peter’s age. A very dependable fellow, yes. And
good-looking, they now grudgingly admitted.
“Naughty, naughty,” the young men teased him, some of
whom turned unfriendly. Unused to attention, the driver
went on leave to visit his parents in Iligan City.
One night, I arrived home to find Linda talking with Mother.
“Hoa, Tua Poya! You’re so tall!” she greeted me. “Here are
some oranges. I know you like them.”
I said my thanks. How heavy with child she was!
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Stories to read in Literature
21st Century Literature | Q1
“How old are you now?”
“Twelve,” I said.
“Hmm, you’re a man already. I should start calling you
Napoleon, huh? Well, Napoleon, I’ve come here to say
goodbye to your mother, and to you, too.”
She smiled; it was the smile I remembered when I was still
very young, the smile of my childhood.
“Tomorrow, I’m going to Iligan to fetch Oliver. Then we’ll
proceed to Cebu to visit my parents. Would you like to go
with me?”
I looked at Mother. She was teary eyed. Linda stood up and
ruffled my hair. “So tall,” she said.
That was two years ago. We have not heard from Linda
again. The Nanking Store remains closed. The store sign
has streaked into pastel colors like a stale wedding cake.
First Brother says it is best for Linda to stay away. As for
me, I am happy for her but I keep wondering if she has
given birth to a boy.
DAHONG PALAY BY ARTURO B. ROTOR
The big ax sang its way through the large arc and then came
down on the block of wood with a mighty crash. It neatly
cleaved in two formidable mass, the pieces flying for a long
distance in opposite directions. Surveying his feat with
glowing pride, Sebio felt a ripple run down the muscles of
his arms, forearms, shoulders. He dropped the heavy ax and
wiped the perspiration from his brows, from his bare brown
arms, letting his fingers rest caressingly on each muscle.
Small were his muscles and flat and flabby when relaxed.
But how hard and powerful they became when he tensed
them! As hard as seasoned, knotted yantok!
Triumphantly he raised his arms above his head and, facing
the afternoon sun, he thrust out his chest and made every
muscle of his body tense. He was quite tall, above the
height of the ordinary native, but he had paid for this
increased height in diminished breadth. His chest was flat,
his neck long, and his legs thin. He was one of those boys
who, the village people said “grew too fast.”
“He will become bigger and stouter when he reaches his
twenty-fifth year,” his mother had always told solicitous
friends and relatives. How deceptive his figure was, Sebio
thought! No wonder those who knew him called him
Sebiong Pasmado (Sebio the weakling) because of his slight
figure, his spindle-shanks, his timidity. None of them would
believe that he could lift two Socony cans full of water with
either hand and raise them shoulder-high, or that he could
carry three sacks of rice on those narrow shoulders. As he
thought of them he snorted scornfully. The snake is the
Sevilla
Week 1 - 8
most slender, the most timid creature of the field, and yet
people are afraid of it.
“Sebio, what are you staring at?” a querulous voice came
from the nipa hut.
“Nothing, Nanay. I was just stretching my cramped arms,”
came the sheepish answer.
“Well, it is growing late. How do you expect me to cook rice
without firewood?”
“Yes, yes, Nanay.”
With renewed vigor he seized the ax and hewed away. The
thick blade fairly sang as it swung back and forth over his
shoulder. He paused and, for a while, was lost in thought. If
he could only summon such strength in those foolish games
of strength and skill! He had always failed there, miserably.
Somehow his courage always ran out before a noisy,
bantering crowd. “What strength can there be in those puny
arms, in that flat chest?” He would hear people say around
him.
And, most unbearable of all, his friends pitied him. The men
said, “You have no strength.” The women, “You have no
fighting heart.” “Thunder and lightning Name of Satan. . . !”
he muttered. Those memories angered him.
Once more he savagely attacked the wood before him.
Perspiration blinded his eyes; his unruly hair got into them
every time he bent down; but he minded not. In a last
tremendous swing he put every ounce of energy in his arms
and brought down the ax. The eager blade passed through
the entire thickness of the block, through the stone prop,
and sank into the soft earth beneath. For a moment he
regarded the result with a feeling of satisfaction; than
gathering together the chips, he went into the house.
That evening, as his mother sat in front of him at their
humble table, he was strangely silent.
“Are you thinking of going to Tia Binay’s tonight?” she
asked. “Yes, Nanay.” He didn’t add that he had been
thinking of almost nothing else all day.
“When you go, take with you our whetstone. One of her
workers came over and told me she wanted to borrow it.
Tell her also that the herbs she used for her uncle’s
rheumatism did me good too, and thank her for me, Sebio.”
The way to Tia Binay’s led through recently harvested rice
fields. A few weeks before, the grain had lain mellow and
golden in the all-enveloping light of the full moon. Now only
short, thick stubble, wisps of straw and traces of the
delicate, elusive fragrance of the ripe palay remains to
remind one of the hectares of slender, heavy laden stalks of
grain that had once rippled in graceful undulation with each
breath of the harvest wind. There was scarcely any beaten
path across these fields; but with hardly a glance about him,
Sebio made his way through them, avoiding each stalk of
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Stories to read in Literature
21st Century Literature | Q1
sharp stubble or the holes where the carabao’s feet had
sunk heavily during the rainy season and which had caked
since then in the hot sun. The lovely night was full of the
sounds and odors of life. The slender, swaying bamboos
whispered to each other eternal secrets of the night, and
from the distance came the dying croak of a frog caught in
the jaws of a snake.
When he reached Tia Binay’s place, he saw that the
evening’s work had already begun. All about the moonlit
clearing that stood at a distance from the house were
grouped young men and women whose gay laughter and
voices carried far into the distance. In the center was a
square of concrete where the golden grains of palay had
been laid to dry. On one side were five wooden mortars,
around each of which three persons, two men and a girl,
stood pounding grain. Each individual brought down his
pestle in definite rhythm and succession. One first and
then, just as he has lifted his pestle, the next would bring
his down, and so on. Every now and then the gifted voice of
someone in the group would break into song, and the notes
of a haunting kundiman would be wafted into the breeze to
add sweetness to the silence of the countryside. At
intervals, however, a sleepy cock perched aloft in a tree
nearby would let out an obstreperous crow as if he
disapproved of so much gaiety and lightness of the spirit.
Sometimes, to vary the monotony, the men pounding palay
would show off tricks with the pestle. One of a group would
make the heavy tool stand on the tip of the little finger or
on the nose, toss it in the air, whisk it between the fingers of
one hand, and bring it down on the palay without upsetting
the regular rhythm of his companions’ pounding. Such
demonstration of approval from the onlookers, and
repeated applause would encourage more difficult stunts.
Around the inclosure was a sort of bench built by tying
together several strips of bamboo. Here many sat and, while
waiting their turn at the mortar and pestle, laughed and
joked and ate unsparingly of the suman and bibingka of Tia
Binay.
“Ho, there, Sebio!”
“Good evening to all of you. Good evening, Tia Binay!”
Tia Binay peered at him. She was getting old and with her
failing eyes unable to see well even in the daytime, was
finding it difficult to recognize her guests at once.
“Who is this?” She asked kindly.
“It’s Sebio, Tia Binay.”
“Sebio?” she could not place the name.
“Sebiong Pasmado!” roared someone from a group close to
him. “Ah – yes, now I know.”
There was a hilarious outburst from the group and, with
blazing eyes; Sebio turned to the cruel joker. But he saw
only what seemed to him a surging sea of sneering faces.
Sevilla
Week 1 - 8
His face smarted as if from a slap. He turned again to Tia
Binay.
“Nanay told me to give this to you and to thank you for
those herbs.” The old woman gave a grunt of satisfaction.
“Of course they would do her good. Why, my grandmother
used them before I did, and so did her great grand uncle
before her.”
He found a seat in the farthest and darkest corner.
After a while, so lost was he in his thoughts that he did not
see a package done up in banana leaf which a small white
hand held out to him –not until a voice spoke:
“Here, Sebio, never mind those people. They are idlers. Try
this suman. I made it myself.”
Not until she spoke did he recognize Merci. Dumbly he took
the package, tore open the wrapper, and tasted the
contents. Slowly he became his old self again.
“Merci, you must have flavored this with your kisses,” he
boldly ventured.
The gratified girl blushed to the roots of her hair. “Give me
back that suman, “ she demanded.
Sebio laughed. He was again his likeable self. He tried to
catch the outstretched hand, but like lightning it was
withdrawn, and when he stood up
the girl was gone. He sat down again. Oh, for a throne and a
crown and a universe to lay at the foot of Merci! Now he had
fully recovered his composure, and he could study the
crowd better. There was Ambo and others. How strangely
beautiful the moonlight made everything! He saw the play of
moonbeams on the matchless hair of Carmeling and
wondered if its fragrance was more soul-satisfying than the
champaka-scented breeze that ever and anon caressed the
cheeks of Lourdes. And then he remembered the starlight
that he saw in the dark eyes of Merci, and he wondered no
more.
He became aware that the workers were being changed. The
second shift was ready. He got up.
“Here, Milio, you and Kiko work here. Anita, go to that
mortar with Tonio. You, Sebio, come here – and you too,
Pacio.” Tia Binay was assigning each to his place. Sebio
found himself with Pacio and – wonder of wonders – Merci
was with them to complete the group of three. For a moment
he could hardly contain his joy, and then he remembered
that he was also with Pacio, the bully, the braggart.
Bog-bog-bog! Every pestle fell with a dull thud each time.
First he, then Merci, then Pacio, in strict rhythm. Pacio, as
sure as death, would soon show off his prowess before the
world, before Merci. Sebio would have to compete with him,
which he knew would be another trial before a mocking,
unsympathetic crowd – another effort doomed to failure.
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Stories to read in Literature
21st Century Literature | Q1
Merci, conscious of the strain under which Sebio had begun
to labor, endeavored to relieve it. “This morning we chased
a big snake across the yard, but it escaped.”
“They say that nothing can prevent death from the bite of
some snakes.” “If you are bitten on the arm, you may have
to cut it off.”
“Or burn it,” volunteered Pacio sneeringly.
“Here, Sebio,” suddenly said Pacio in a tone that carried to
everybody. “Try this one.”
He tossed up the heavy pestle, causing it to describe the
figure “8” in mid-air, caught it and brought it down just as
Merci had lifted hers up. It was well timed.
“Wonderful,” everyone said.
Sebio felt himself growing hot all over. Pablo had challenged
him; everybody had heard the challenge. Although his eyes
were intent on his work he could feel everybody looking at
him.
“See how industriously Sebio works. He does not even see
us. Tia Binay, you really ought to consider him for a
son-in-law.” The taunt was flung by a heartless rival.
What a noise they made! He dared not raise his eyes lest
they see the light in them or he sees Merci’s own.
“Nanay does not need any son-in-law. I am still strong
enough to do work at home,” came the surprising retort
from Merci.
At this they all laughed and teased her about her proud
mouth, her delicate hands, and her duty to sex, to her
country. To Pacio, the joke was too good to cut short.
“Tia Binay,” he asked with a confident smile, “what must
your son-in law be like?”
But Tia BInay refrained from answering after a long look at
her daughter, so somebody answered for her:
“He must have rice fields!”
“No, first of all, he must be industrious,” another put in.
“Above all, he must be handsome.”
“You are all wrong,” cried the exasperated Merci. “My
mother’s son-in law must first be my husband.”
That seemed to silence them – for a while.
“Well, well – your husband then – he must be kind and
obedient and loving, eh?”
“And fleet of foot and strong of arm?”
“Here then, you beautiful men, can anybody do this?”
Sevilla
Week 1 - 8
It was Milio, the village clown. He seemed to be holding a
short rod that looked like iron. He was trying to bend it and,
in his apparent efforts to do so, his whole body was
contorted in the most ludicrous way. Suddenly it cracked
into splinters and by the sound they knew that it was only a
cleverly painted piece of bamboo.
While they were still holding their sides and slapping their
thighs, Pacio stood up. He stepped up to one of the mortars
and took from it a horseshoe that was nailed there for good
luck.
“Here, Milio, is an imitation of your feat,” he said, attempting
to inject a modest note in his tone.
He seized each end and gripped hard. In that light no one
could see Pacio very well, and they felt rather than saw the
bulging lines of his muscles as he strained them
convulsively. What they actually saw was the curved piece
of iron being slowly straightened out by Pacio’s hands.
A murmur of admiration rose from the crowd.
“Bravo!”
“Unheard of!”
“Incomparable!”
“Try that, Milio. But don’t crack it!” and Pacio laughingly
tossed the piece of iron to him.
“No, thanks. Suppose I vomit blood!” And Milio tossed it to
Sebio. For a moment the young man did not know what to
do. Somehow he felt that this was his chance, that he could
bend back that thing into the likeness of a horseshoe,
easily. Suddenly he got up with a bound and seized it.
Shouts of derision immediately followed. Even those few
who wished him well stared at him with doubt on their
faces.
“Aba’t, what is he going to do?”
“Hey, Sebio, drop that! That’s iron – not bamboo!”
He could feel the heat mounting to his cheeks as he gripped
the two ends and strained. His lips clamped together, his
face went pale, His eyes bulged. He held his breath during
the effort. An eternity – it seemed – passed. He thought he
felt the iron give way, and he opened his eyes. He saw that it
had bent only a little.
“Ho, my strong man, what now?”
“I told you it was not a bamboo!”
“Sebio would be a strong man and do mighty deeds if only
he would eat more.”
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Stories to read in Literature
21st Century Literature | Q1
And yet Sebio knew for a certainty that he could have done
it. He cursed himself as, like a whipped dog, he sought for a
place to hide the horseshoe.
“No strength,” said the men.
“No fighting heart,” whispered the women.
Shamed face, Sebio retired to a corner. He wanted to leave,
to be alone with an ax and some logs on which he could
give vent to all the bitterness that was in him. But to leave
now, he realized, would be an admission of his desperation,
his hopelessness.
“Sebio,” whispered Merci, who, unnoticed, had approached
him when his tormentors had left him alone, “I want to
make a fire so we can roast some corn. Will you help me get
some hay?”
Like a drowning man who suddenly found a floating object
to cling to, he eagerly followed Merci to the hay pile. Here
was someone who understood him.
“How could I do anything with that crowd?” he murmured a
little apologetically. Then his disgust at himself rising, he
kicked the pile of hay. This eased his feelings somewhat.
“Yes I know,” she sympathized, as she pulled out an armful.
“Just let me try again!” and again he struck savagely at the
hay pile.
They dropped their burden at the center of the clearing. And
then as he turned away a blood-curdling scream from Merci
pierced the noise being made by the merry-makers. He
turned around to see what had frightened the girl. From the
bundle that Merci dropped, had emerged, rearing its head
like some fantastic toy, its slender, green body poised to
strike, - a snake! And Merci stood and stared like one
hypnotized! Sebio knew that it would strike, strike before
his next breath. There was no time to plan what to do, to will
what part of the body to move. Instinctively, however, he
made a move to place himself between the girl and the
danger. As he did this he struck at the bundle of hay on
which the snake lay poised to strike. The effort was so ill
executed, however, that he missed it entirely. He fell on his
face and before he could recover the serpent had bitten
him on the calf of the leg, and then was gone.
Sebio staggered up and looked at his leg. From twin spots
on the skin, blood was beginning to ooze. A momentary
sense of faintness came over him and he closed his eyes.
Already he seemed to feel the searing course of the deadly
poison to his thigh, to his heart. He felt an impulse to run, to
dance about, to do anything. The faces around him were
becoming hazy. Only the excited voices of those crowding
around him prevented his mind from becoming completely
numbed.
“The deadly dahong palay!”
“Get some vinegar!”
Sevilla
Week 1 - 8
“Sebio is dying!” wailed someone.
His thoughts whirled crazily, his breath became convulsive.
Over and over he rolled in the dust, clutching widely at the
air, at the earth around him as if he sought for something
solid, some divine support that would bolster up his nerve.
He came up violently against one of the mortars, and
something heavy fell in the dust almost on his face. He
seized it. It was a horseshoe. It was as if out of a dark hole a
stalwart hand had lifted him, so clear and so sharply did he
see light. He waved the babbling group away. A fire here,
quickly!” he muttered in an agonizing voice.
It was Merci, obeying uncomprehendingly, who scooped a
handful of hay and husk, and in no time at all had a blazing
fire. It was she who tore a piece of her skirt and bound up
his leg tightly above the wound. It was her
delicate hands now suddenly grown powerful that had
tightened the ligature above the wound on the leg of the
dying man. The others were paralyzed to inaction.
“A knife, for the love of Christ!” Sebio again muttered
convulsively. Several sped to get a knife and several
moments – eternities – passed. He could feel his foot
becoming cramped and cold. Then a large knife was handed
to him.
And now the crowd witnessed the act that they were to
relate to their children in after-years. With a low cry Sebio
seized the horseshoe and, before the same faces that had
frequently taunted him, he straightened it as if it were a
slender hairpin. Then he wrapped a piece of cloth around
one end and thrust the other end into the fire. There was no
applause from the onlookers, just heavy labored breathing.
They could only stare and stare, now at the colorless face of
Sebio, grim and twisted as if by some terrible resolution,
now at the piece of iron turning an angry, luminous red.
“What is he going to do?”
“Merciful God!”
For Sebio had taken the sharp knife and had slashed across
the two pin pricks. Dark blood oozed out slowly. Then he
grasped the red-hot iron and before their horrified gaze
plunged it into the wound. The glowing point sizzled
drawing the blood out of the wound. The smell of burning
flesh filled the air. The women shrieked. Several of them
who could no longer stand the sight fainted.
Then, calmly, Sebio laid aside the iron, and his frothy lips
relaxed into the semblance of a smile. Slowly his eyes
closed. Somebody held him up. But before unconsciousness
came he had seen their eyes. And they told him that never
again would he be called “Sebiong Pasmado.”
8
Stories to read in Literature
21st Century Literature | Q1
SI PINKAW BY ISABELO SOBREVEGA
Naalimpungatan ako sa pagtulog nang hapong iyon sa
sigawan at nanunuyang tawanan ng mga bata sa kalsada.
Dali-dali akong bumangon, nagpahid ng pawis at
dumungaw sa bintana. Si Pingkaw pala na sinusundan ng
mga bata. Gula-gulanit ang kanyang damit na ilang ulit
nang tinagpian at may medyas ang isang paa na ewan
kung asul o berde. Malayo siya kaya’t di ko Makita nang
mabuti. Sa kabilang binti, may nakataling pulang papel de
Hapon na may kabit na lata sa dulo. Sa kanyang ulo, may
nakapatong na palara na kumikinang tuwing tinatamaan ng
sinag ng araw.
“Hoy, Pingkaw,” sigaw ng isang bata na nakasundong abot
sa tuhod at may itinatawing-tawing sa daga. “Sige nga,
kumanta ka ng blak is blak.”
“Ay, hiya ako,” nag-aatubiling sagot ng babae, sabay subo
sa daliri.
“Kung ayaw mo, aagawin namin ang anak mo,” nakangising
sabat ng pinakamalaki sa lahat, mahaba ang buhok at
nakakorto lamang. At umambang aagawin ang karga ni
Pingkaw. Umatras ang babae at hinigpitan pa ang yapos sa
kanyang karga.
“Sige agawin natin ang kanyang anak,” sabi nilang
pahalakhak habang pasayaw-sayaw na pinalilibutan si
Pingkaw.
Maya-maya’y nakita kong lumuhod si Pingkaw sa lupa at
nag-iiyak na parang bata.
“Huwag niyo naming kunin ang anak ko. Isusumbong ko
kayo sa meyor.” Patuloy pa rin ang panindyo ng mga bata
kahit na lumakas ang hagulhol ni Pingkaw.
Nakadama ako ng pagkaawa kay Pingkaw at pagkainis sa
mga bata. Kaya’t sumigaw ako para takutin sila. “Hoy mga
bata, salbahe n’yo! Tigilan n’yo ang pagtukso sa kanya.”
Ewan kung sa lakas ng pagsigaw ko’y natakot ang mga
batang isa-isang nag-aalisan. Pagkaalis nila, tumingala si
Pingkaw sa akin at nagsabi:
“Meyor, kukunins nila ang aking anak.”
Hindi ko mapigilan ang aking pagngiti. May koronel, may
sergeant, may senador siyang tawag sa akin. Ngayon
meyor na naman. “O sige, hindi na nila kukunin yan. Huwag
ka nang umiyak.” Ngumiti siya sa akin. Inihele ang kayang
karga. Nahulog ang basahang ibinalot sa lata ng biskwit.
Dali-dali niya itong pinulot at muling ibinalot sa lata.
“Hele, hele tulog muna, wala ditto ang iyong ina…” ang
kayang kanta habang ang lata’y ipinaghele at siya’y
patiyad na nagsasayaw.
Sevilla
Week 1 - 8
Natigilan ako.
At naalala ko ang Pingkaw na dati naming kapitbahay sa
tambakan, nang hindi pa siya ganito. Ang paghahalukay ng
basura ang kanyang hanapbuhay (sa amin ang tambakan
ng syudad) at ditto nagmumula ang kanyang makakain,
magagamit o maipagbili. Madalas siyang umawit dati rati.
Hindi naman kagandahan ang kanyang tinig -basag at
boses-lalaki. Subalit kung may ano itong gayuma na
bumabalani sa pandinig. Ewan kung dahil sa tila malungkot
na tinig ng kanyang paghehele o kung dahil sa pagtataka
sa kanyang kasiyahan gayong isa lamang siyang
naghahalukay ng basura.
Kadalasan, pabalik na siya niyang galling sa tambakan. Ang
kariton niya’y puno ng kartong papel, bote, mga sirang
sapatos, at sa loob ng bag na burin a nakasabit sa gilid ng
kanyang kariton, makikita mo ang kanyang pananghalian.
Ito’y mga tira-tirang sadinas, karne norte o kaya’y pork and
beans, pandesal na kadalasa’y nakagatan na at kung
minsan, kung sinuswerte, may buto ng fried chicken na
may lamang nakadikit. Sa kanyang yayat na katawan
masasabing tunay na mabigat ang kanyang tinutulak,
ngunit magugulat ka, tila nagagaanan siya at nakakakanta
pa ng kundimang Bisaya.
Pagdating niya sa harap ng kanilang barung-barong, agad
niyang tatawagan ang kanyang anak: “Poray, Basing,
Takoy, nandito na ako.” At ang mga ito, dali-daling
nagtakbuhan pasalubong sa kanya habang hindi
makaringgan sa pagtatanong kung may uwi ba raw siyang
dyens na estretsibol; ano ang kanilang pananghalian,
nakabili ba raw siya ng bitsukoy?
Dalawang taon kaming magkapitbahay ngunit hindi ko man
lamang nalaman ang kanyang tunay na pangalan. Pingkaw
ang tawag ng lahat sa kanya, b’yuda na s’ya. Namatay ang
kanyang asawa sa sakit ng epilepsy habang dinadala niya
sa kanyang sinapupunan ang bunsong anak. Samantala, si
Pisyang Tahur ay sumusumpa sa kanyang paboritong santo
na hindi raw kailanman nakasal si Pingkaw. Iba-iba raw ang
ama ng kanyang tatlong anak. Ang kanyang panganay, si
Poray, ay labis na mataas para sa kanyang gulang na
labintatlong taon at masyadong payat. Tuwing makikita mo
iting nakasuot ng estretsibol na dala ng ina mula sa
tambakan, maaalala mo agad ang panakot-uwak sa maisan.
Si Basing, ang sumunod, sungi ngunit mahilig pang
pumangos tubo gayong umaagos lamang ang katas sa
biyak ng kayang labi. Ang bunsong ewan kung tatlong taon
pa lamang ay maputi at guwapung-gwapo. Ibang-iba sa
kanyang mga kapatid kaya kung minsa’y naisip mong totoo
nga ang sinasabi ni Pisyang Tahur.
Pagkatapos mananghalian, aalisin na ni Pingkaw ang mga
laman ng kariton, ihihiwalay ang mga lata mga bote, mga
kariton at iba pang nakalagay rito sa napulot sa tambakan
katulong ang kayang mga anak. Kinasanayan na ni
Pingkaw na umawit habang gumagawa. Kung minsan,
sumasabay ang kayang mga anak at ang sungi ang siyang
9
Stories to read in Literature
21st Century Literature | Q1
may pinakamataas na tinig,. Pagkatapos, itutulak na niya
ang kariton patungo sa Tsino na tagabili.
Talagang mahal ni Pingkaw ang kanayang mga anak. Sa
tambakan, karaniwang makikita mo na sinasaktan ng mga
ina ang kanilang mga anak, ngunit hindi mo man lamang
makikita si Pingkaw na inaambaan ang kanyang mga anak.
“Ang mga bata,” nasabi niyang minsang bumili siya ng tuyo
sa talipapa at nakitang pinapalo ng isang ina ang maliit na
anak na nahuli nitong tumitingin sa malalaswang larawan,
“hindi kailangang paluin, sapat nang turuan sila nang
malumanay. Iba ang batang nakikinig sa magulang dahil sa
paggalang at pagmamahal. Ang mga bata, kung saktan,
susunod sa iyo subalit magrerebelde at magkimkim ng
sama ng loob.”
Sa tunggalian ng pamumuhay sa tambakan na roo, ang
isang tao’y handing tumapak sa ilong ng kapwa tao
mabuhay lamang. Nakapagtataka si Pingkaw. Lubha siyang
matulungin lalo na sa katulad niyang naghahalukay lamang
ng basura. Madalas siyang tumutulong sa pagtutulak ng
kariton ng iba lalo na ng mga bata at matatanda. Sinasabi
rin na sa pagsisimba niya tuwing Linggo hindi kukulangin
sa piseta anf kayang ipinamamahagi sa mga nagpapalimos.
Alam ng lahat sa tambakan ang pangyayaring ito. Minsan,
nagkasakit ng el to rang sunging anak ni Pingkaw.
Nagtungo ang babae sa suking Tsino. Nakiusap na
pautangin siya. Magpapahiram naman daw ang Tsino
ngunit sa isang kondisyon. Bukambibig na ang
pagkagahaman sa babae ng Tsino na ito:
pinagdugtung-dugtong ng mga tagatambakan kung ano
ang kondisyong iyon sapagkat wala naman talagang
nakasaksi sa pag-uusap ng dalawa. Nalaman na ng lahat
ang mga naganap; ang pagkabasag ng kawali na
inihambalos ni Pingkaw sa ulo ng Tsino.
Hindi rin nadala ni Pingkaw ang kanyang anak sa doctor.
Pag-uwi niya, naglaga siya ng dahon ng bayabas at
ipinainom sa anak. Iyon nalamang ang nakapagpabuti sa
bata.
“Nagpapakita rin na may awa ang Diyos. Kung ninais
Niyang mamatay ang aking anak, sana’y namatay na.
ngunit dahil naisip pa Niyang mabuhay ito, nabuhay rin
kahit hindi naipadoktor,” ang sabi ni Pingkaw nang
magpunta siya sa talipapa bago pa man gumaling ang
kanyang anak.
Minsang nag-uusap ang mga nagsisipagtipon sa talipapa
tungkol sa bigas relip, at iba pang bagay na ipinamimigay
ng ahensya na nangangalaga sa mga mahihirap. Sumabat si
Pingkaw na nagkataong naroroon, “Bakit iaasa ko pa sa
ahensya ang aking pamumuhay? Malusog at masigla pa
naman ako sa pagtutulak ng aking kariton upang tulungan.
Marami pa riyang iba na higit na nararapat tulungan. Ang
hirap lang sa ating pamahalaan, kung sino ang dapta
tulungan ay hindi tinutulungan. Ngunit ang ibang mabuti
naman ang pamumuhay, sila pa ang nakatatanggap ng
tulong. Kabaliwan…”
Sevilla
Week 1 - 8
Iyan si Pingkaw. Kontento na siya sa kanyang naabot sa
buhay.
Naganap ang sumunod na pangyayai kay Pingkaw nang
ako’y nasa bahay ng aking kapatid na may sakit.
Isinalaysay ito ng aking mga kapitbahay pagbalik ko, at
matinding galit ang aking nadama.
Isang araw, matapos silang mag-agahan ng kayang mga
anak, bigla na lamang namilipit ang mga bata sa sakit sa
tiyan. Ewan kung dahil sa sardines o sa kung ano mang
panis na kanilang nakain. Natuliro si Pingkaw. Nagsisigaw.
Tumakbo siya sa mga kapitbahay upang humingi ng tulong.
Ngunit wala silang maitulong maliban sa pagsabihan siyang
kailangan dalhin ang mga anak sa ospital.
Walang nagdaraang mga saasakyan sa kalyehon kaya sa
kariton isinakay ni Pingkaw ang kanyang mga anak.
Nagtungo siya sa bahay ng isang doktor na malapit lamang,
ngunit wala ang doktor at naglalaro ng golp, ayon sa
katulong.
Itinulak niyang muli ang kariton at nagpunta sa bahay ng
isa pang doktor. Matagal siyang tumimbre nakita niyang
may sumisilip-silip sa bintana.
Kaya nagugulkuhang itinulak na naman ni Pingkaw ang
kanyang kariton papuntang bayan. May doktor doon ngunit
wala naming gamut para sa nalason.
Halos hindi makakilos sa pagod si Pingkaw, bukod pa sa
kanyang lubhang pagkalumbay sa pagiging maramot ng
kapalaran. Ipinagpatuloy niya ang pagtulak ng kariton.
Nang makarating siya sa punong kalsada, maraming
sasakyan ang kanyang pinahinto upang isakay ang
kanyang mga may sakit na anak ngunit wala ni isa sa mga
ito ang tumigil. Maya maya napansin niyang hindi na
kumikilos ang kanyang panganay. Para siyang sinakluban
ng langit nang mabatid niyang hindi na ito humihinga.
Umiiyak siyang nagpatuloy sa pagtulak ng kariton para
iligtas ang buhay ng natitira pa niyang dalawang anak.
Maraming tao ang may pagkamanghang nagmasid sa
kanya, subalit wala kahit isa mang lumapiot upang
tumulong. Tumalbug-talbog ang katawan ng kanyang mga
anak sa kariton habang nagdaraan ito sa mga lubak-lubak
ng kalsada.
Pakiramdam niya’y isang daang taon na siya nang
makarating sa pambansang ospital. Matapos ang
pagtuturuan ng mga doktor at narses na ang tinitingnan
lamang ay mga pasyenteng mayayaman na wala naming
sakit, binigyan din ng gamut ang dalawang anak ni Pingkaw.
Nang gumabi’y namatay si Poray, ang pinakamatanda.
Dalawang araw pa ang lumipas, sumunod namang namatay
ang bunso.
Nakarinig na naman ako ng kaguluhan. Muli akong
dumungaw. Si Pingkaw na nagbalik, sinusundan na naman
ng mga pilyong bata.
10
Stories to read in Literature
21st Century Literature | Q1
“Hele-hele, tulog muna, wala ditto ang iyong nanay…” ang
kanta niya, habang ipinaghehele ang binihisang lata.
BY ANY OTHER NAME BY SANTHA RAMA RAU
At the Anglo-Indian1 day school in Zorinabad to which my
sister and I were sent when she was eight and I was five and
a half, they changed our names. On the first day of school, a
hot, windless morning of a north Indian September, we
stood in the headmistress’s study and she said, “Now you’re
the new girls.
What are your names?”
My sister answered for us. “I am Premila, and she”—nodding
in my direction—“is Santha.” The headmistress had been in
India, I suppose, fifteen years or so, but she still smiled her
helpless inability to cope with Indian names. Her rimless
half-glasses glittered, and the precarious bun on the top of
her head trembled as she shook her head. “Oh, my dears,
those are much too hard for me. Suppose we give you pretty
English names. Wouldn’t that be more jolly? Let’s see,
now—Pamela for you, I think.” She shrugged in a baffled way
at my sister. “That’s as close as I can get. And for you,” she
said to me, how about Cynthia? Isn’t that nice?”
My sister was always less easily intimidated than I was, and
while she kept a stubborn silence, I said, “Thank you,” in a
very tiny voice.
We had been sent to that school because my father, among
his responsibilities as an officer of the civil service, had a
tour of duty to perform in the villages around that steamy
little provincial town, where he had his headquarters at that
time. He used to make his shorter inspection tours on
horseback, and a week before, in the stale heat of a
typically post monsoon2 day, we had waved goodbye to him
and a little procession—an assistant, a secretary, two
bearers, and the man to look after the bedding rolls and
luggage. They rode away through our large garden, still
bright green from the rains, and we turned back into the
twilight of the house and the sound of fans whispering in
every room.
Up to then, my mother had refused to send Premila to
school in the British-run establishments of that time,
because, she used to say, “you can bury a dog’s tail for
seven years and it still comes out curly, and you can take a
Britisher away from his home for a lifetime and he still
remains insular.” The examinations and degrees from
entirely Indian schools were not, in those days, considered
valid. In my case, the question had never come up, and
probably never would have come up if Mother’s
extraordinary good health had not broken down. For the
first rime in my life, she was not able to continue the
lessons she had been giving us every morning. So our
Hindi3 books were put away, the stories of the Lord Krishna4
Sevilla
Week 1 - 8
as a little boy were left in mid-air, and we were sent to the
Anglo-Indian school.
That first day at school is still, when I think of it, a
remarkable one. At that age, if one’s name is changed, one
develops a curious form of dual personality. I remember
having a certain detached and disbelieving concern in the
actions of “Cynthia,” but certainly no responsibility.
Accordingly, I followed the thin, erect back of the
headmistress down the veranda to my classroom feeling, at
most, a passing interest in what was going to happen to me
in this strange, new atmosphere of School. The building was
Indian in design, with wide verandas opening onto a central
courtyard, but Indian verandas are usually whitewashed,
with stone floors. These, in the tradition of British schools,
were painted dark brown and had matting on the floors. It
gave a feeling of extra intensity to the heat.
I suppose there were about a dozen Indian children in the
school—which contained perhaps forty children in all—and
four of them were in my class. They were all sitting at the
back of the room, and I went to join them. I sat next to a
small, solemn girl who didn’t smile at me. She had long,
glossy-black braids and wore a cotton dress, but she still
kept on her Indian jewelry—a gold chain around her neck,
thin gold bracelets, and tiny ruby studs in her ears. Like
most Indian children, she had a rim of black kohl5 around
her eyes. The cotton dress should have looked strange, but
all I could think of was that I should ask my mother if I
couldn’t wear a dress to school, too, instead of my Indian
clothes. I can’t remember too much about the proceedings
in class that day, except for the beginning. The teacher
pointed to me and asked me to stand up. “Now, dear, tell
the class your name.”
I said nothing.
“Come along,” she said frowning slightly. “What’s your
name, dear?”
“I don’t know,” I said, finally.
The English children in the front of the class—there were
about eight or ten of them—giggled and twisted around in
their chairs to look at me. I sat down quickly and opened my
eyes very wide, hoping in that way to dry them off. The little
girl with the braids put out her hand and very tightly
touched my arm. She still didn’t smile.
Most of that morning I was rather bored. I looked briefly at
the children’s drawings pinned to the wall, and then
concentrated on a lizard clinging to the ledge of the high,
barred window behind the teacher’s head. Occasionally it
would shoot out its long yellow tongue for a fly, and then it
would rest, with its eyes closed and its belly palpitating, as
though it were swallowing several times quickly. The
lessons were mostly concerned with reading and writing
and simple numbers—things that my mother had already
taught me—and I paid very little attention. The teacher
wrote on the easel blackboard words like “bat” and “cat,”
11
Stories to read in Literature
21st Century Literature | Q1
which seemed babyish to me; only “apple” was new and
incomprehensible.
When it was time for the lunch recess, I followed the girl
with braids out onto the veranda. There the children from
the other classes were assembled. I saw Premila at once
and ran over to her, as she had charge of our lunchbox. The
children were all opening packages and sitting down to eat
sandwiches. Premila and I were the only ones who had
Indian food—thin wheat chapattis,6 some vegetable curry,
and a bottle of buttermilk. Premila thrust half of it into my
hand and whispered fiercely that I should go and sit with
my class, because that was what the others seemed to be
doing.
The enormous black eyes of the little Indian girl from my
class looked at my food longingly, so I offered her some.
But she only shook her head and plowed her way solemnly
through her sandwiches.
I was very sleepy after lunch, because at home we always
took a siesta. It was usually a pleasant time of day, with the
bedroom darkened against the harsh afternoon sun, the
drifting off into sleep with the sound of Mother’s voice
reading a story in one’s mind, and, finally, the shrill, fussy
voice of the ayah7 waking one for tea.
At school, we rested for a short time on low, folding cots on
the veranda, and then we were expected to play games.
During the hot part of the afternoon we played indoors, and
after the shadows had begun to lengthen and the slight
breeze of the evening had come up we moved outside to
the wide courtyard.
I had never really grasped the system of competitive
games. At home, whenever we played tag or guessing
games, I was always allowed to “win”—”because,” Mother
used to tell Premila, “she is the youngest, and we have to
allow for that.” I had often heard her say it, and it seemed
quite reasonable to me, but the result was that I had no
clear idea of what “winning” meant.
When we played twos-and-threes that afternoon at school,
in accordance with my training, I let one of the small
English boys catch me, but was naturally rather puzzled
when the other children did not return the courtesy. I ran
about for what seemed like hours without ever catching
anyone, until it was time for school to close. Much later I
learned that my attitude was called “not being a good
sport,” and I stopped allowing myself to be caught, but it
was not for years that I really learned the spirit of the thing.
When I saw our car come up to the school gate, I broke
away from my classmates and rushed toward it yelling,
“Ayah! Ayah!” It seemed like an eternity since I had seen
her that morning—a wizened, affectionate figure in her
white cotton sari, giving me dozens of urgent and useless
instructions on how to be a good girl at school. Premila
followed more sedately, and she told me on the way home
never to do that again in front of the other children.
Sevilla
Week 1 - 8
When we got home we went straight to Mother’s high, white
room to have tea with her, and I immediately climbed onto
the bed and bounced gently up and down on the springs.
Mother asked how we had liked our first day in school. I was
so pleased to be home and to have left that peculiar
Cynthia behind that I had nothing whatsoever to say about
school, except to ask what “apple” meant. But Premila told
Mother about the classes, and added that in her class they
had weekly tests to see if they had learned their lessons
well.
I asked, “What’s a test?”
Premila said, “You’re too small to have them. You won’t
have them in your class for donkey’s years.”8 She had
learned the expression that day and was using it for the
first time. We all laughed enormously at her wit. She also
told Mother, in an aside, that we should take sandwiches to
school the next day. Not, she said, that she minded. But
they would be simpler for me to handle.
That whole lovely evening I didn’t think about school at all. I
sprinted barefoot across the lawns with my favorite
playmate, the cook’s son, to the stream at the end of the
garden. We quarreled in our usual way, waded in the tepid
water under the lime trees, and waited for the night to bring
out the smell of the jasmine. I listened with fascination to
his stories of ghosts and demons, until l was too frightened
to cross the garden alone in the semidarkness. The ayah
found me, shouted at the cook’s son, scolded me, hurried
me in to supper—it was an entirely usual, wonderful evening.
It was a week later, the day of Premila’s first test, that our
lives changed rather abruptly. I was sitting at the back of
my class, in my usual inattentive way, only half listening to
the teacher. I had started a rather guarded friendship with
the girl with the braids, whose name turned out to be Nalini
(Nancy, in school). The three other Indian children were
already fast friends. Even at that age it was apparent to all
of us that friendship with the English or Anglo-Indian
children was out of the question. Occasionally, during the
class, my new friend and I would draw pictures and show
them to each other secretly.
The door opened sharply and Premila marched in. At first,
the teacher smiled at her in a kindly and encouraging way
and said,
“Now, you’re little Cynthia’s sister?”
Premila didn’t even look at her. She stood with her feet
planted firmly a part and her shoulders rigid, and addressed
herself directly to me. “Get up,” she said. “We’re going
home.”
I didn’t know what had happened, but I was aware that it
was a crisis of some sort. I rose obediently and started to
walk toward my sister.
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Stories to read in Literature
21st Century Literature | Q1
“Bring your pencils and your notebook,” she said.
I went back for them, and together we left the room. The
teacher started to say something just as Premila closed the
door, but we didn’t wait to hear what it was.
In complete silence we left the school grounds and started
to walk home. Then I asked Premila what the matter was.
All she would say was “We’re going home for good.”
It was a very tiring walk for a child of five and a half, and I
dragged along behind Premila with my pencils growing
sticky in my hand. I can still remember looking at the dusty
hedges, and the tangles of thorns in the ditches by the side
of the road, smelling the faint fragrance from the
eucalyptus trees and wondering whether we would ever
reach home. Occasionally, a horse-drawn tonga9 passed us,
and the women, in their pink or green silks, stared at
Premila and me trudging along on the side of the road. A
few coolies and a line of women carrying baskets of
vegetables on their heads smiled at us. But it was nearing
the hottest time of day, and the road was almost deserted. I
walked more and more slowly, and shouted to Premila, from
time to time. “Wait for me!” with increasing peevishness.
She spoke to me only once, and that was to tell me to carry
my notebook on my head, because of the sun.
When we got to our house the ayah was just taking a tray of
lunch into Mother’s room. She immediately started a long,
worried questioning about what are you children doing back
here at this hour of the day.
Mother looked very startled and very concerned, and asked
Premila what had happened.
Premila said, “we had our test today, and she made me and
the other Indians sit at the back of the room, with a desk
between each one.”
Mother said, “Why was that, darling?”
“She said it was because Indians cheat,” Premila added. “So
I don’t think we should go back to that school.”
Mother looked very distant, and was silent a long time. At
last she said, “Of course not, darling.” She sounded
displeased.
We all shared the curry she was having for lunch, and
afterward I was sent off to the beautifully familiar bedroom
for my siesta.
I could hear Mother and Premila talking through the open
door. Mother said, “Do you suppose she understood all
that?”
Premila said, “I shouldn’t think so. She’s a baby.”
Mother said, “Well, I hope it won’t bother her.”
Sevilla
Week 1 - 8
Of course, they were both wrong. I understood it perfectly,
and I remember it all very clearly. But I put it happily away,
because it had all happened to a girl called Cynthia, and I
never was really particularly interested in her.
ANG GILINGANG BATO BY EDGARDO M. REYES
Walang nakaaalam kung gaano na katanda ang gilingang
bato. Ito'y nagisnan na naming magkakapatid. Ayon kay
Ina, ito'y minana niya kay Impo, na minana rin naman daw
ni Impo sa sariling ina nito. Sa likod niyan ay wala nang
makapaglahad sa kasaysayan ng gilingang bato, maliban sa
sabi-sabi na ang kalahian daw ni Ina ay kalahian ng
magpuputo. Ang ina raw ni Impo ay isang mahusay na
magsusuman na kinilala sa buong San Fermin at dinarayo
maging ng mga tagakaratig-bayan na nagnanais
magregalo o maghanda ng espesyal nasuman sa
kapistahan, kasalan at iba pang okasyon na may handaan.
Si Impo ay naging kabalitaan daw naman sa kanyang
bibingkang sapin-sapin. At kung ang pagpuputo ay likas sa
talinong namamana, si Ina ang tanging nakamana niyon
pagka't sa kanilang magkakapatid, tatlong lalaki atapat na
babae, siya lamang ang lumabas na magpuputo.
Sa mangasul-ngasul na hilatsa ng gilingang bato, ang
pinag-ukitang batong-buhay ay maaaring sintanda na
ngpanahon. Ngunit ang mismong gilingan ay hindi
kapapansinan ng kalumaan, maliban sa tatangnang
mulawinna kuminis na at nagkabaywang sa kaiikot ng
sarisaring kamay.
Hindi ko alam kung gaano kahusay na magpuputo si Ina. Sa
lasa ko, ang kanyang lutong mga kakanin, na bihirakong
tikman, ay wala namang katangi-tanging sarap. Ngunit
maaaring dahil ako'y sawa na. Nawawalan ng lasa ang
pinakamasarap mang pagkain kapag araw-araw ay
nakahain iyon sa iyo. Ngunit maaaring masarap
ngangmagkakanin si Ina, pagkat siya, tulad ni Impo, ay
naging kabalitaan din sa pagpuputo.
Ang pagkakanin ni Ina, kung bagaman, ay hindi siyang
sandigan ng aming kabuhayan noong nabubuhay pa si
Ama, na isang panday. Kung baga'y nakatutulong lamang si
Ina. Ngunit biglang-bigla ang pagkamatay ni Ama.
Nakaramdam ng naninigid na pananakit sa puson at
pamamanhid sa paligid ng pigi, inakalang iyon ay kungano
lamang na titigil din nang kusa, at nang pumayag na
pahatid sa ospital (nang panahong iyon ay mayayaman
lamang ang karaniwang nagpapaospital) sa kabisera ay huli
na; mula sa San Fermin hanggang sa kabisera ay dalawang
oras na paglalakbay sa karitela, at sa daan pa lamang ay
sabog na ang apendisitis.
Maliit pa ako noon, pito o walong taon, upang akin nang
maunawaan ang kahulugan ng pagyao ni Ama at ang mga
naiwan. Ngunit nang malaki na ako, ang pangyayari'y
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Stories to read in Literature
21st Century Literature | Q1
napag-uusapan pa rin paminsan-minsan ng aking mga
kapatid at ang nilalaman ng kuwento-kuwento ay
nag-aalay ng tagni-tagning kabuuan.
Dalawang beses lamang daw umiyak si Ina: sa aktuwal na
sandali ng pagkamatay ni Ama at nang ang bangkayay
ibinababa na sa hukay. ang pait ay kinimkim sa kalooban,
ayaw iluha. At sa libing pa lamang ay usap-usapanna ng
mga tao kung paano kami mabubuhay ngayong wala na si
Ama. Kawawa raw naman kami.
Tatlong araw pagkaraan ng libing ay pinulong daw kami ni
Ina (hindi ko ito natatandaan).
"Wala na'ng ama n'yo. Ano'ng iniisip n'yo ngayon sa buhay
natin?"
Isa man daw sa amin ay walang umimik -- si Kuya
(panganay sa amin at mga 17 taon noon), si Ate, si Diko,
siDitse, saka ako (bunso).
"Mabubuhay tayo," sabi raw ni Ina. "Pero kikilos tayong
lahat”.
"Dati, si Ina ay nagpuputo lamang kapag may pagawa sa
kanya. Ngunit ngayong wala na kaming ibangpagkukunan
ay hindi na maaari iyong umasa na lamang kami sa dating
ng order; kailangang magputo kami atmagtinda araw-araw.
Naging abala ang gilingang bato mula noon. Gumigiling
kaming lahat, palit-palitan. Sa umaga, ang malagkit ay
nakababad na. Sa hapon ang simula ng paggiling, na
inaabot ng katamtamang lalim ng gabi. Hindi madaling
gilingin ang tatlo-apat na palangganang galapong.
Bukod sa mga tanging pagawa, si Ate at si Kuya ay
nagtulong sa isang puwesto ng bibingka at
puto-bumbongsa kanto. Si Ditse ay nakapuwesto sa
palengke tuwing umaga, sa hapon ay lumilibot, sunong ang
bilao ng sumang malagkit at suman sa lihiya. Si Diko, na
ang karaniwang tinda'y butse at palitaw, ay nakababad
namansa palaruan ng pool sa bayan, ngunit tuwing Sabado
at Linggo ay nakapuwesto sa harap ng sabungan. At
maging ako, sa edad kong iyon, ay nagtitinda rin, naglalako
ng gurgorya, bagama't hindi ako lumalayo nang malayo.
Natatandaan ko na minsan ay napaaway ako sa aking
paglalako ng gurgorya. Dalawang bata ang nakisabay sa
lakad ko, at tuwing itatawag ko ang aking tinda ay
ginagagad ako. Nakipagbabag ako dahil doon. Umuwi
akonang ngumangalngal, dumurugo ang bibig, may kalmot
sa leeg at sa pisngi. Nagsumbong ako kay Ina, ngunit ako
ang kanyang sinisi. Hindi ko raw dapat pinansin ang
panunukso, at lalong hindi raw nararapat
namakipagbasag-ulo ako nang dahil lamang doon.
Pinadapa niya ako, tatlong sunod na pinalo ng patpat.
"Di mo dapat ikahiya'ng paghahanapbuhay," sabi niya.
Inulit niya ang pangaral na ito sa aking mga
kapatidkinagabihan. "Ayoko ng ikahihiya ng sinuman sa
inyo ang hanapbuhay natin. Hindi tayo nagnanakaw.
Sevilla
Week 1 - 8
Pinaghihirapan natin 'to!" Ngunit ang higit daw na
pinag-uukulan niyon ay si Kuya, na diumano, sapagkat
binatana, ay malimit magparamdam kay Ate ng pagkahiya
sa bibingkahan at puto-bumbungan.
Hindi naman sa paglapastangan sa alaala ni Ama,
magaan-gaan ang naging pamumuhay namin kaysa noong
siya'y buhay. Ang aming bahay na pawid at kawayan ay
naging tabla at yero. Sa gabi, ang kabuuan ng mga entrega
ng pinagbilhan ay tinutuos ni Ina, ang tubo ay inihihiwalay
sa puhunan, itinatabi.
Matrabaho ang pagkakakanin. Mula sa pangunguha ng mga
dahon ng saging hanggang sa pagtitinda ng lutonang mga
kakanin ay samut-samot na paghahanda at gawain. Ngunit
sa kabila ng mga kaabalahan ay naisisingit namin ang
pag-aaral, maliban lamang kay Ditse, na sapagkat may
kapurulan ang ulo sa eskuwela ay tumigil pagkaraang
makapasa, nang pasang-awa, sa ikalimang grado.
Nauna si Kuya na nagkolehiyo (sa Maynila, pagkat noo'y
wala pang kolehiyo sa lalawigan), sumunod si Ate,
sumunod si Diko. Nababawasan ang katulong ni Ina sa
hanapbuhay ay nadaragdagan naman ang paggugugulan.
Tatlo na lamang kaming naghahali-halili sa gilingang bato.
Sa isang banda'y maipagpapasalamat ko na naging
mapurol ang ulo ni Ditse, sapagkat kung hindi ay sasapit
sana na ako lamangang maiiwang katulong ni Ina.
Patuloy ang pagtanggap ni Ina ng mga pagawang puto at
suman. Si Ditse ang pumalit sa bibingkahan at
puto-bumbungan. Sa akin napasalin ang pagtitinda ng
kakanin sa palaruan ng pool sa bayan, at sa sabungan
tuwingsabado at Linggo. Gayunman, ang kita namin ay
hindi na katulad noong lima kaming kabalikat ni Ina
sahanapbuhay
Tulad ng aming nakatatandang mga kapatid, nang matapos
namin ni Diko ang mga kursong pinili namin at magkaroon
ng sariling trabaho, ang sumunod na hinarap namin ay
pag-aasawa. Si Ditse ang pinakahuling nag-asawa sa amin,
at ang naging kapalaran naman ay isang magsasaka.
Nalayo kay Ina ang kanyang mga anak, liban kay Ditse, at
sa napangasawa nito na nakapisan sa kanya, sa dating
bahay namin. Kaming tatlong lalaki ay layu-layo rin ng
tirahan sa Kamaynilaan. Si Ate, na ang napangasawa ay isa
ring titser na tulad niya, ay iniuwi ng aking bayaw sa
sariling bayan nito, sa Santa Cruz, Laguna, at doon sila
parehong nagtuturo.
Ngunit hindi kami nakalilimot ng pagdalaw kay Ina. Lalo na
tuwing Pasko, nasa kanya kaming lahat, pati na ang mga
manugang at mga apo.
Talagang matanda na noon si Ina. Pilak na ang kanyang
nandadalang na buhok, luyloy na ang kalamnan ngmga
braso, lumaladlad na ang mga pisngi. Ngunit sa larawang
iyon ng katandaan ay mababakas pa rin ang katatagan, at
sa may kalabuan nang mga mata ay masasalamin ang
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Stories to read in Literature
21st Century Literature | Q1
kawalang-pagsisisi sa kanyang buhay atsa kanyang
pagiging isang ina.
At bakit nga hindi? Sa abot ng kanyang kaya ay nagawa
niya ang pinakamabuti para sa kanyang mga anak. Bukod
sa pagdakila ng kanyang mga anak, siya'y pinupuri ng mga
nakakakilala. Sa San Fermin, ang anak ng isang kutsero ay
maaasahang magiging isang kutsero din. Ngunit kami, apat
kaming nakapag-aral at ang ikalima'y dapat sanang
nakapag-kolehiyo din kung di lamang sa isang kakulangan.
Bihirang ina ang makagagawa ng nagawa ni Ina
Si ditse ay abala na sa sariling mga anak upang maasikaso
pa ang pagtitinda ng mga kakanin. Ngunit si Ina ay
tumatanggap pa rin ng mga pagawang puto at suman. Iisa
ang payo ng kanyang mga anak, na dapat na siyang tumigil
sa mabigat na gawaing iyon, dapat na niyang iukol ang
nalalabing mga araw ng kanyang buhay sa pamamahinga.
Ngunit ayaw niya kaming pakinggan.
"Madadali'ng buhay ko pag sinunod ko kayo," katwiran niya.
Sa lungsod ay walang katatagan ang pamumuhay.
Maaaring may trabahao ka ngayon, maaaring bukas
namanay wala. Darating sa iyo ang sarisaring di mo
inaasahang mga kagipitan.
Umaabot ito kay Kuya, sa akin, at lalo na kay Diko, na ang
tinapos lamang ay kursong vocational radio-TVtechnician.
At sa kagipitan, ang takbuhan ni Kuya at Diko ay si Ina.
sa pananalita ni Kuya at ni Diko, angkinukuhang pera ay
hiram, ngunit sa pagbabayaran ay hindi naman
tinatanggap ni Ina.
"Hamo na. Mahirap 'yong kayo pa'ng kapusin. Nasa Menila
kayo, walang malalapitan.
"Ngunit ako, sa kagipitan, ay sa mga kaibigan lumalapit.
Anhin ko mang wariin ay hindi ko kayang dibdibin nahingan
ng pera, sa porma ng hiram, si Ina, na tuwing maaalala ko
ay sa kalagayang matanda at mahina na aypumipihit pa rin
ng gilingang bato.
Ang totoo, ni minsan mula nang ako'y magkapamilya ay
hindi ko ipinahalata sa kanya na ako'y kinakapos sapera. sa
pagdalaw ko sa kanya ay mangyari pa na ako'y may
pasalubong na -- na ang ibinili ay maaaringinutang ko
lamang. At gayundin, sa aking pagpapaalam ay may iaabot
ako sa kanya na sampu-dalawampungpiso -- na maaari ring
inutang ko lamang. kahit anong pilit naman ang gawin ko ay
hindi niya iyon tatanggapin.
Nangungutang ako ng perang ibibigay ko sa kanya, na alam
kong hindi naman niya kukunin, upang mapalabasko na
ako'y nakaluluwag, sapagkat ngayong kami'y may
kanya-kanya nang pamilya, si Ina, kapag tungkol sapera, ay
may ibang trato sa amin. Kung gaano siya kapilit sa
pagbibigay ng pera sa mga anak ay gayundinnaman siya
kapilit sa pagsasauli sa perang bigay ng mga anak.
Sevilla
Week 1 - 8
Kapag umuwi ang isang anak niya, at sa pagpapaalam ay
walang iniaabot na pera, ang hinala agad niya aygipit ang
anak niyang ito, at kaya umuwi ay may kailangan, nahihiya
nga lamang na magsalita. Dudukot siya ngpera sa kanyang
bulsikot at ipipilit iyon sa anak. At kung ibig ng anak na
magdamdam at magtampo ang ina,ang kailangan lamang
na gawin ay tanggihan ang perang ibinibigay.
Kaya't ako, sa pagdalaw ko, upang hindi hinalain ni Ina na
ako'y hikahos, at upang hindi ako alukin ng perangsa ayaw
ko at sa ibig ay kailangang kunin ko, ay nangungutang ako
sa kaibigan, kung ako'y walang pera, upangmay maiabot sa
kanya sa aking
pagpaalam. Hindi niya tatanggapin iyon, alam ko, ngunit
hindi na lamang niyaako sapilitang bibigyan ng pera pagkat
sa akala niya ay maluwag ako, na siyang kahulugan ng
akingpagbibigay.
At isa pa ay ayokong isa pa ako sa kanyang mga anak na
iniintindi niya. Ibig ko na kapag naaalala niya ako atang
aking pamilya ang nasa isip niya ay patag ang aming lagay.
Minsan, sa pag-uwi ko ay dinatnan ko si Ina sa akto na
paggiling. Bago ko inagaw sa kanya ang trabaho ay
ilangsandali munang minasdan ko siya sa pagkakaupo ko sa
kanyang tabi. Makupad na at hirap ang kanyang mgakilos.
May kinig na ang kanyang mga kamay sa pagsusubo ng
binabad na malagkit. Mabagal na ang ikot ngpang-ibabaw
na taklob ng gilingang bato. Pasaglit-saglit ay tumitigil siya,
naghahabol ng hininga. Wala na angkanyang dating lakas,
sigla at liksi. Ngunit ang pinagtatakhan ko ay kung
paanong ang tuyot nang bisig na iyonay nakakaya pang
makapihit ng gayong bigat.
Sa bawat tulak at sa bawat kabig ay lalong nanlalalim ang
kanyang malalalim nang balagat. Ang nag-uslingmga ugat
sa kanyang braso ay waring nagsisipagbantang mag
igkasan. Natuon ang tingin ko sa kanyangkamay: kuluntoy,
butuhan. Si Ina ay anino na lamang ng kanyang dating
sarili, ngunit ang gilingang bato ayiyon pa rin. Sa gilingang
bato ay nabanaag ko ang panahon; sa lantang kamay ni Ina
ay nakita ko ang mgahuling sandali ng pakikihamok ng tao
sa panahon. Ang tao ay dumarating at yumayao; ang
panahon aynananatili. Si Ina ay tao; ang gilingang bato ay
panahon.
Inagaw ko ang gilingan. Ayaw niyang ibigay iyon. Sa
pagpipilitan namin ay napahawak siya sa kamay ko.
Naramdaman ng aking kamao ang ligasgas ng kanyang
makapal at nagkakalyong palad. Nakadama ako ng
dimaunawaang panliliit at pagkahiya.
Bumitiw siya sa tatangnan.
"Mahihirapan ka," sabi niya.
Ako, na bata at malakas, ang kanyang inalala, hindi ang
kanyang sarili!" Dati kong trabaho 'to," sabi ko.
15
Stories to read in Literature
21st Century Literature | Q1
Dati ko ngang gawain iyon, ngunit nang mga sandaling
iyon, na muling paghawak ng gilingan pagkaraan
ngmaraming taon, ay nakaramdam ako ng paninibago.
Kaybigat niyon! Nangalay agad ang kanang braso ko
atkinailangang ihalili ko ang kaliwa. Napansin iyon ni Ina at
siya'y nangiti.
"Hindi ka na 'ta marunong," sabi niya.
Noong araw, kahit sa kamuraan ko, ay parang nilalaro ko
lamang ang paggiling. Ang palanggana'ynapapangalahati
ko sa galapong nang hindi ako nagpapalit ng kamay. Bakit
ngayo'y kayhirap? Naisip ko na anggaan at bigat ng isang
gawain ay naaayon lamang sa kasanayan.
"Sino ba naman ang nagpapagawa pa sa inyo?" tanong
ko."Isang taga-Kamyas. Naimporta. Panregalo daw sa
binyagan."
"Hindi na kayo dapat pang tumanggap ng trabahao. At sila .
. . hindi ba nila nakikita na sa edad n'yong 'yan ekawawa
naman kayo kung pagtatrabahuhin pa?"
"Kaya ko 'yan."
Hindi alam ni Ina ang taon, maging ang buwan at petsa ng
kanyang kapanganakan. Ngunit nang siya'ynamaalam at
tuusin namin ay humigit-kumulang siya sa 80 taon.
Sa mga huling araw ni Ina, siya'y nagpaaninaw na at
mahinang-mahina na upang makayanan pang pumihit
nggilingang bato. At ang kanyang sinabi noon, ang pagtigil
sa gawaing mahal sa kanya ay maaaring magpadali
sakanyang buhay, ay waring nagkatotoo. Ayon kay Ditse,
mula nang "mamahinga" si Ina ay naging masasakitinito,
bumilis ang panghihina. Gayunman, kahit paipud-ipod ay
lumalabas ito sa kusina, dinadalaw ang kanyanggilingang
bato, na nakatabi sa ilalim ng kalanan. Hinuhugasan nito
iyon, o dili kaya'y pinupunasan ng basahangbasa.
Bigla rin ang kanyang pagkamatay, tulad ng pagyao ni Ama.
Ang kalooban namin ay handa na sa mangyayaringunit
inakala namin na mabubuhay pa siya nang mga dalawa o
tatlong taon pa. Ngunit isang umaga ay dumating sa amin
ang aking bayaw (asawa ni Ditse) at ibinalita na patay na si
Ina. Kung ano ang kinamatay,mahirap matiyak. Ngunit
hinulaan namin, batay sa nakita sa kanya na mga
palatandaan bago siya namatay, naiyo'y pulmonya.
Tatlong gabing paglalamay. Sa usap-usapan ay maraming
papuri kay Ina. Di na iilang patay ang napagmasdanko sa
pagkakaburol, at pangkaraniwang larawan ng patay sa
pagkakaburol ay hapis. Ngunit ang aming Ina,
sapagkakaburol, ay waring nakangiti pa!
Nairaos nang maayos ang libing. At kahit sa kanyang
kamatayan, kaming mga anak ay hindi nagkaroon
ngpagkakataong gastusan siya. May pera siya sa kanyang
bulsikot, mahigit na dalawang daang piso, husto na saisang
payak, payapang libing.
Sevilla
Week 1 - 8
Pagkaraan, bago kami magkanya-kanya ng uwi, ay
pinag-usapan namin ang tungkol sa mga naiwang
pamanasa amin ni Ina.
Bahagi ito ng isang matandang kaugalian hindi lamang sa
San Fermin bagkus sa buong lalawigan na sa pagyaong
isang magulang, ang bawat isa sa mga anak ay kailangang
kumuha ng kahit isa man lamang na bagay na naiwan, may
materyal mang kahalagahan o wala. Ang dapat piliin ng
isang anak ay kung alin ang inaakala niyana higit na
makapagpapagunita sa kanya sa yumaong magulang.
Ang bakuran at ang bahay ay hindi na dapat pang
pag-usapan. Buhay pa si Ina ay napagpulungan na namin
(siKuya, si Ate, si Diko saka ako) na sa ano't ano man, ang
bahay at bakuran ay kay Ditse. Itinuturing namin nasiya
ang pinakakawawa sa aming magkakapatid. Kinikilala rin
namin na siya ang may pinakamalaking naitulongkay Ina sa
hanapbuhay, na kaming apat, hindi si Ditse, ang higit na
nakinabang. Siya rin sa aming lima angtanging
nakapagsilbi sa aming ina sa huling panahon ng buhay nito.
Inisip namin ang iba pang mahalagang bagay na naiwan ni
Ina.
Isang singsing na may limang maliliit na butil ng brilyante.
"Ibigay na rin natin 'yon kay Chedeng," mungkahi ni Ate, na
ang tinutukoy ay si Ditse. Alam ni Ate na wala niisang
pirasong alahas si Ditse."Yon ba'ng gusto mo?" tanong ni
Kuya kay Ditse.Tumango si Ditse, tangong alanganin,
nahihiya.Isang karaniwang hikaw na tumbaga.
"Kung walang may gusto n'on sa inyo," sabi ni Kuya, "yon
na lang ang sa 'kin. Para kay Ester," na tinutukoynaman ay
ang kanyang asawa.
Sang-ayon kami.
Naalala ni Ate ang bulaklaking bestido ni Ina, na regalo rin
naman niya, ni Ate, sa aming ina noong nagdaangPasko.
Iyon na lamang daw ang kukunin niya, sabi ni Ate.
"Sa 'kin 'yong bulsikot!" sabi ni Diko. "Baka sakaling kung
ibitin ko sa loob ng aming aparador e magbigay sa'min ng
konting suwerte sa pera.
"Hindi namin napigil, napangiti kami. Marahil, ang
pinagbatayan ni Diko sa kanyang "pamahiin" ay
angkaalaman niya na kailanman ay hindi nawalan ng
lamang pera ang bulsikot ni Ina. Iyo'y yari sa
sinauna,antigong seda; tahing kamay, at kung hindi ako
nagkakamali ay matanda pa sa akin.
Binalingan ako ni Kuya. "Ikaw?
"Sinabi ko na ang nakakuwadro, ipinintang larawan ng
aming mga magulang sa bihis pangkasal.
16
Stories to read in Literature Sevilla
21st Century Literature | Q1 Week 1 - 8

Lahat sila'y nanganga, natigilan. Nahiwatigan ko ang

panghihinayang nila na walang nakaalala sa kanila
salarawang iyon.

"O, maayos na?" pagkuwa'y tanong ni Kuya.

Tanguan kami.

Pagkaraa'y kanya-kanya nang pagpapaalam sa mga

maiiwan, dala ang kanya-kanyang ina ring
pinakamahalagang alaala ng yumaong magulang.

17