Rogelio L. Ordoñez's Blog, page 10

Still They Are

(Poem — my modified English version of my original “Di Sila Nilamon Ng Lupa”)

gobbled by the earth

they are not

they who gallantly

fought and died

for the freedom and glory

of their beloved land.

still they are

in the murmuring breeze

in the creaking bamboo plants

in the roaring waves in every shore

still they are

in the lamentations

of grieving mothers

in the invectives

of rebellious fathers

in the shrieking rolling stones

and in the crying mowed grass.

yes, gobbled by the earth

they are not

they who offered their lives

for the freedom and glory

of their beloved land.

still they are

in the rattling chains

of poverty and misery

still they are

in the cadences of thousands feet

in the burning streets of protest

still they are

in the hymns of flaming fire

when greyish is the horizon

and not a single star

twinkles in the sky.

why will they be lost

and gobbled by the earth?

still they are

in the veins and blood

of the oppressed class

still they are

in the sinews of every

bleeding and loving heart

which fervently feels

the miseries of the poor

still they are

in every talahib

in the hinterlands

swaying with the music

of the wind forevermore

red roses still they are

will sprout and grow

and triumphantly bloom

again and again

in the green garden

of undying hope.

yes, they are not lost

they are not gobbled by the earth

mud they are not

in the sewers of society’s dirt

nor are they trash

being flirted by flies

or rotten, pungent cadaver

in a deserted, forgotten place

yes, lost they will not

the earth will not gobbled them

until the horizon of discontent

is cleansed by blood

and the bastion

of the exploitative class

is completely pulverized

at last!

Di Sila Nilamon Ng Lupa

(Tula)

di sila nilamon ng lupa

silang namayapa sa pakikibaka

para sa laya’t ligaya

ng bayang pinakasisinta

nasa pagaspas sila ng amihan

nasa langitngit ng kawayan

nasa dagundong ng alon sa dalampasigan

nasa hagulhol ng mga ina

nasa alimura ng mga ama

at daing ng gumulong na mga bato

at tagulaylay ng tinabas na damo.

oo, di sila nilamon ng lupa

silang nag-alay ng buhay

para sa laya’t ligaya

ng bayang pinakasisinta

nasa kumakalansing silang mga kadena

sa bilangguan ng dalita’t dusa

nasa kadensa sila ng laksang mga paa

sa naghihimagsik na lansangan ng protesta

nasa himno sila ng lagablab ng apoy

kung gabing abuhin ang papawirin

at ayaw kumindat ang mga bituin.

bakit sila mawawala’t lalamunin ng lupa?

nasa dugo’t ugat sila ng mga sawimpalad

nasa bawat himaymay sila

ng kumukulo’t nagliliyab na utak

nasa mga pusong taos magmahal

sa katubusan ng masang sambayanan

mga talahib silang nagsasayaw sa hangin

tupukin man nang tupukin ay sisibol din

mga pulang rosas silang muli’t muling

isisilang at bubukadkad

sa luntiang hardin ng mga pangarap.

oo, di sila nawawala

di sila nilamon ng lupa

di sila mga putik sa pusalian

ng balintunang lipunan

di sila mga basurang nilalangaw

o inuuod at namamahong bangkay

manapa’y di sila nawawala

di sila lalamunin ng lupa

hanggang di naliligo

ng dugo ang silangan

at di lubusang nadudurog

kuta ng uring gahama’t tampalasan!

Anino Ng Bayan Ko’y Nilamon Ng Dilim

(Tula)

isang gabing walang kumikindat

ni isang ulilang bituin

sa papawirin ng mga sagimsim

at piniringan-binulag

ng itim na ulap ng mga panimdim

malamlam na mata

ng tulalang buwan

anino ng bayan ko’y

nilamon ng dilim.

paano matutupad

sagradong mithiin

mapalayang lubos

sa mga hilahil

anino ng bayan kong

nilamon ng dilim?

nais kong itanong

sa sigaw ng hangin

at ngitngit ng alon

kailan maglalagos

sa gubat ng dilim

sagitsit ng kidlat

kailan magngangalit

lagablab ng apoy

sa natuyong damo

ng mga panimdim?

anino ng bayan ko’y

nilamon ng dilim

paa ko’y namanhid

sa burol ng lagim

mga pangarap ko’y

binansot-niluoy

ng namahong bangkay

nilangaw-inuod

sa tuwid na daan

anino ng bayan ko’y

nilamon ng dilim.

kailan magningning

malungkot-kulimlim

na mukha ng buwan

kailan manlilisik

liwanag ng araw

kailan tutugtugin

ng mga gatilyo

sonata ng punglo

kailan dadagundong

sa sangkalawakan

tungayaw ng kulog

upang makalaya

sa kuta ng dusa

anino ng bayan kong

nginasab-nilamon

ng sakim na dilim?

Tuwing Umuulan

(Tula)

tuwing umuulan

naaalaala ko

luha ng mga sawimpalad

luha ng mga supling ng dalita

luha ng mga inalipin ng inhustisya

luha ng mga ibinilanggo ng pagsasamantala

tumutulo ang mga luhang iyon

sa mabahong estero

inaanod ng baha ng kawalang-pag-asa

kasama ng nagibang mga dampa

luha iyon ng dalamhati ng lahi

sumisiksik sa mga kanal at imburnal

hanggang lamunin ng alon

sa baybay-dagat ng pangamba.

tuwing umuulan

naglalakbay sa telon ng mga mata

tagaktak ng pawis

ng sakada’t magsasaka

sa lupaing libingan

ng mailap na pangarap

at pabrikang taliba

ng ganid na pita

maalat na talulot iyon ng dalita

didilaan-hihimurin ng lupa

lulunukin-lalaklakin ng makina

hanggang maging masaganang grasya

ng di pinawisang asendero’t kapitalista.

tuwing umuulan

sumisiksik sa kamalayan

itinigis na dugo

ng mga mandirigma ng laya’t ligaya

sa kaparangang sakbibi ng dilim

sa kalunsurang saklot ng panimdim

umaagos ang mga dugong iyon

kasama ng mga patak ng ulan

sa tigang na dibdib ng pag-asa

sa tiyang hungkag sa pagsinta

upang mapanariwa nanilaw na mga damo

sa binaog na la tierra pobreza

ng mga panginoon ng dusa’t inhustisya.

oo, tuwing umuulan

masidhi yaring pagnanasang

humaginit na mga palaso

at umangil na mga punglo

masinsing mga patak ng ulan

at maglagos nawa sa lalamunan, sa wakas…

ng mga tampalasang diyus-diyosan!

Sa Pagitan Ng Dilim At Liwanag

(Tula)

kahit malimit

tayong nagugutom

at kinakayod

tumigas na tutong

sa puwit ng kalderong

ginahasa ng panahon

tuloy pa rin

madamdamin nating paglalakbay

sa pagitan ng dilim at liwanag

habang nagsasayaw

sa telon ng balintataw

nagliliyab na mga gunitang

hitik sa mithiing dakila

sinusuhayan ng mga ugat niyon

pinatatatag ng puno niyong

sintigas ng kamagong

mga tuhod nating nais nang sumuko

sa pagtahak sa madawag na landas

sa pagsalunga sa mga burol at talampas.

oo, patuloy tayong maglalakbay

sa pagitan ng dilim at liwanag

kahit nagbabanta

itim na balumbon ng mga ulap

kahit pumupusyaw

namumulang mukha ng araw

mga paa nati’y mananalunton

di sa tuwid na daan ng mga sukab

ng iilang diyus-diyosa’t mandurugas

kundi lagi tayong kakaliwa

sa sangandaan ng paniniwala

tungo sa hardin

ng mahalimuyak na mga adhika

mabulas na mamumulaklak din

laya’t ligaya

ng pinakasisinta

nating la tierra pobreza

magbabanyuhay rin ang lahat

tungo sa katubusan

ng dayukdok, binubusabos na masa.

oo, mga kapatid ko’t kasamang

nakakilala

sa mga talulot ng luha

ng dalamhati ng lahi

nakarinig

sa tagulaylay ng mga sawimpalad

nakadama

sa hapdi ng bitukang napilipit

nakakita

sa pawisang mukha’t katawan

ng namayat na magsasaka’t manggagawa

sa mga asyenda’t pabrikang

sila’y ibinartolina

oo, sa maalab nating paglalakbay

sa pagitan ng dilim at liwanag

hahantong din ang ating mga paa

sa katuparan ng mga pag-asa

magdiriwang rin tayo sa mesa ng laya’t ligaya

susunugin mga bangkay

ng uring mapagsamantala!

ANTO

(Short-Story — English translation  of the original Filipino version of SI ANTO, anthologized in “Stories from Southeast Asia” edited by Muhammad Haji Salleh and published by Yayasan Penataran Ilmu, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, 1997.                                                         

ANTO

by Rogelio L. Ordonez

I CHANCED upon Anto during a time of wandering.  That was a time when my soul was sort of feverish, delirious and groping for the stars, while poverty was some kind of a quagmire forever trapping me.  The city edifices then looked like blazing monstrous skeletons; the glaring neon lights seemed to pierce my soul; the sidewalks were gaping catacombs; the alleys, coffins; the lamp posts, candles standing stiff; and at every corner and passageway, I was encountering processions of robots and plastics.  It was a time when I felt nauseated with the debauchery and treachery of city life, and I could no longer recognise a friend from a foe. Each night, alone in my filthy and narrow rented room within a prostrate ramshackle dwelling beside the ever stinking estero, I was fervently longing to commune with the rustic scenery, a place where coconut trees seemed to beckon to me, where the grass seemed to dance with the murmuring breeze, and where the waves seemed to sing me a familiar lullaby.   

Lugging my typewriter and a suitcase of old clothes, I decided to go, one cold and damp dawn, to a far-flung place in Batangas, away from the howl of exhaust pipes and the cursing of money and what is called modern civilization.  I sought shelter with a family relative, in an ordinary nipa hut near the seashore surrounded by coconut farmland. And I felt how in such a pristine place, among common, honest folks, even poverty was exhilarating.    

It was there where I met Anto, on a day at twilight when I and my cousin Mando were drinking tuba on a banca lying idly on the shore.  I was getting a bit tipsy when I noticed a burly young man with sunburnt skin docking near us.  He beached his banca effortlessly out of the water and inside the fishing net which he carried on his shoulder, the fishes flipped and wriggled and I could see he caught a lot enough to overflow if poured into a bucket.    

“Ala’y looks like you made a good haul, Anto?” was my cousin Mando’s greeting.    

“Ala’y I made just enough,”  Anto answered softly while at the same time laying down the fishnet beside us.  He scooped out some fishes and put them inside the banca on which we were sitting.  

“These would go fine with your drinks.”  The fishes were still bobbing up and down.    

“Come, have a drink,” was my invitation and I filled the glass I was holding with tuba and was about to offer it to him.    

Anto stared at me.  I noticed those big eyes which always seemed in a quandary, probing, and as if fitted with his slightly flat nose and wide tight lips.   

“Meet my cousin, Anto,” Mando said.  ”This is Manong Roger… he’s vacationing here.”   

It was only then Anto withdrew his stare.  

“No thanks, I don’t drink, Manong,” he said almost whisperingly.    

“Cigarettes?” I offered him anew.    

“Ala’y neither do I smoke, Manong.”    

“Ala’y he’s got no vices except fishing and planting,” Mando said.    

I laughed.  Anto did not even smile.  He gathered the fishing net and lugged it on his shoulder, glanced at us, then continued walking. I could not avoid following him with my eyes until the thick clumps of coconut trees in the near distance hid him from view.    

“Anto lives just behind the coconut grove.” Mando seemed to have guessed what was on my mind.  ”Ala’y he’s living all by himself now, Manong.”    

I drank tuba and my eyes played with the wide expanse of the sea which, by now, was completely calm like a chest which has ceased to heave.  I was even startled to feel one of the fishes left by Anto inside the banca stirring near my feet.    

“Better, Manong,” Mando said, “I’ll bring these home, have them broiled for our pulutan.”   

I did not utter a word.  I could not explain why, a while back, that brief instance, a kind of mystery seemed to lurk behind those big eyes and in the way the wide lips which appeared to want to say and shout out something remained pursed.    

I did not notice Mando left me.  Meanwhile, the rays of the sun had become mere red lashes in the sky when he returned .  The broiled fishes were wrapped in banana leaves, still very hot, aromatic, and how in the province, the fishes were indeed fresh, and so were the people, unlike in the city where everything, including philosophies and dreams were rotten.    

The fishes tasted sweetish and I should have said thanks to Anto, I thought.    

“Did you say he now lives alone?”  I asked Mando rather absent mindedly.    

“Whom did you mean, Manong?” Mando stopped his tuba drinking.  

“Anto.”    

“Oh, yes, Manong.”    

“What about his parents?”    

Mando suddenly took a gulp of tuba. “Oh, Manong, a tragedy befell their family.  Ay, putang-ina, it was really tragic, Manong!”   

“What’s so tragic?”  I lighted a cigarette.    

“Do you see that coconut grove over there?”  and Mando pointed to the nearby coconut grove through which Anto passed a while ago.  ”They used to own them, Manong.  Ala’y their house was rather grand then… over there,” and Mando again pointed to the coconut grove which by now was blanketed by a thin darkness.   

“So where’s the house now?”   

Mando spat out some phlegm.

“Ala’y it was demolished by the new owner. You know, Manong,” Mando continued, “since birth I had known that Anto’s father was the rightful owner of that coconut farm. Then suddenly, one day, Anto must have been ten years old then, a fat man with a pig’s face from the town drove in a shiny, black car and angrily told Anto’s family to vacate the land. He was claiming ownership of the land. Ala’y Anto’s father, Ka Basilio, was fuming mad. He got his bolo. Ay, putang-ina, Manong…had the fat pig from town not run and got into his car right away, Ka Basilio could have hacked him to pieces with his bolo.”

“Then?” I emptied my glass of tuba.

“Oh, what else?” continued Mando. “Ala’y they brought the case to the court. Ka Basilio lost the case because they said he had no title. A few days later, the fat pig returned tugging some policemen along. Ay, Manong, Ka Benita, Anto’s mother, suffered a heart attack, died right then and there. Ala’y after Ka Benita’s funeral,” Mando took another swig of tuba, “the man’s henchmen came one day, again accompanied by policemen, and intended to tear down their house. Ala’y Ka Basilio seethed with rage and drew his bolo. Ay, Manong… he went after them. He killed two of the bastards before the policemen could shoot him down. The one, Manong… you should have seen him,” continued Mando with a tone of regret. “Ay, Manong, this got slashed open!” pointing to his stomach. “He kept hacking and shoving in the bolo…ala’y the intestines spilled out like long earthworms, bloody and wriggling, and the other one, ala’y the head almost severed from the body. The policemen could not tear Anto from embracing Ka Basilio’s dead body, and his unmarried sister Juliana fainted. Ay, Manong, ala’y that Juliana is a lovely girl. In fact, I had set my eyes on her,” Mando sighed.

I drank in quick succession. The tuba seemed to have gone insipid.

“And Juliana?”

“Ay, putang-ina… how tragic, Manong,” Mando seemed on the verge of tears. “So she worked as maidservant in town in a rich man’s house near the municipal building. Ala’y one day she was found hanging in the bedroom, hanged herself they said. Ay, putang-ina, Manong. I don’t know, it was said that the rich man’s son raped her. It was fortunate that Anto found Ka Masyong to take care of him… the old man to whom he goes home now. Ay, Manong, I’m really moved by what happened to that family. Ay, putang-ina, is that God’s will, Manong?”

For a long while, I was staring out into the void. The fishes which Anto left with us no longer tasted sweetish. I found it hard to swallow anymore.

That night, Anto’s big eyes stayed in my pupils and despite a headache, I grabbed my typewriter and under the gas lamp’s flickering sad light, I was able to compose two lines.

“You are the eyes of my conscience.

“You are the mouth of my dreams.”

FROM then on, I always waited for Anto’s banca to dock on the shore, and everytime he would find Mando and I drinking on that idly lying boat, it became like a ritual for him to give us some fishes and for my part to thank him. From time to time, I kidded him that I was going home to their place to get the most of his kindness. Sometimes, I even teased him that he might not get a wife if he would spend all his life fishing and planting because, according to Mando, Anto had not even gone wooing a girl, nor talked to any lady in that place. In spite of those jokes, Anto never even once laughed nor smiled.

One afternoon, while Mando was in town selling vegetables and coconuts, I was biding time drinking alone on the shore. Anto docked early as the sea was rough, as if a storm was threatening to blow. His eyes wandered around when he noticed me but did not hesitate to approach to offer me fish.

“Don’t bother, Anto, thanks,” I refused. “Nobody will broil them. Mando went to town.”

Anto did not speak. He threw the fishes back into the net. The fishes wriggled and flipped as soon as they hit the net’s bottom, as if overjoyed that I would not be having them for pulutan. Anto left silently and I thought perhaps he felt slighted by my refusal.

The sky was growing dark as nimbostratus collected. My mind was being gradually numbed by tuba when I was roused from behind by that soft and cold voice which seemed to blend with the blowing wind and could not be defeated by the sounds of the rushing waves.

“Here, Manong, for your pulutan,” Anto was beside me now.

“This is too much,” I said. “You took pains to broil them for me.”

Anto merely stared at me and sat on the edge of the banca, glanced at the sea and raised his head towards the sky.

“Ala’y it’s going to rain, Manong. This rain will be heavy, Manong,” he said as if absent mindedly.

I took in a pinch of fish. I felt the heat on my fingers and tongue.

“You broil fish deliciously, Anto.”

He looked straight at me as if mirroring in my eyes the truth about my statement, and I noticed a tinge of satisfaction in those big eyes. It seemed like this was the only time he heard words of praise, of recognition for what he has done.

“Ala’y I’m so sorry, Manong. I caught only a few today,” was Anto’s seemingly shy but earnest remark.

“But in fact… I should consider this my luck,” I quipped. “Do you know, Anto, that in Manila I had to content myself always with canned or dried fish or stale milkfish every once in a while. We had nothing but a whistle for our pulutan, of if there was a spare cash, we broiled dried squid which tasted like a shoe hide.”

Anto seemed incredulous of what he heard, especially from one like me whom he knew came from the reputedly rich city. I was about to pick a cigarette from the pack but it was empty and he noticed it.

“Don’t bother, Anto. When Mando comes home from town, he would surely bring home some cigarettes.”

“But he’ll be late, Manong, particularly if he gets caught in the rain. Ala’y you would have no more cigarettes.”

“In fact I could last for days without smoking,” I explained I know that the store was far away, some half kilometer from Mando’s house perhaps and, one thing more, I had no money in my pocket.

Anto did not insist any further. Again, he looked out to the wide expanse of the sea which has now become violent, exploding at the galloping of giant waves. The dark clouds had grown thicker and thicker, threatening to fall anytime. In fact, it was already drizzling here and there, but I have not consumed half the gallon of tuba which Mando left a while ago before he went to town yet there was only one more fish left on the banana leaves.

“Ala’y the best thing to do, Manong, is for you to do your drinking at home. You’ll surely get wet here,” Anto suggested.

“It’s all right. I like to bathe in the rain. The problem is you don’t even want to have a sip. It gives you a good feeling to drink, Anto, especially when you ask yourself who you are, what you are, and for what purpose you are.” I was being carried away by my thought perhaps because of the influence of tuba.

Anto stared at me, as if trying to fathom what I meant. Suddenly there was a downpour, the raindrops were compact and large like arrows shot from space. I thought that Anto was going to leave me but he did not budge from his seat; eyeing me while I poured tuba into my glass.

“Take a sip so you don’t feel cold,” I told him.

“Ala’y I really don’t drink, Manong.”

The tuba has almost taken complete control of my senses and I did not even feel cold despite the continuous onslaught of heavy rains. I suddenly became conscious, amidst the rains, to the accompaniment of the pounding of the waves, before Anto who was completely drenched and shivering, that I was telling him stories about the harshness and shamelessness of city life, the exploitation which I suffered in the various jobs which I took on. the incidents which forced me to abandon my course which I wrestled arduously through five years in a university, then fully devoted myself to writing fiction, articles, commentaries, and poems. I must have told him everything, including my dismissal from the Editorial Board of a national magazine because I learned to fight for the rights of my fellow workers, until often times I suffered hunger.

“You know, Anto,” I remember having said to him then. “You won’t be spared by hunger and poverty in the city if you never learn how to keep pace with the music and the trend of thought and of the kind of society there.”

I do not know how long Anto and I stayed in the rain but I remember, after I told my stories, Anto’s big eyes were reddening, blinking.

The day after, I had colds and fever, and Anto heard about it. He readily came to Mando’s house, carrying a bottle of goat’s milk for me. From that time on, Anto was not only an acquaintance — he became a friend to me.

“Ala’y I’m amazed at you, Manong,” Mando once said. “He has become so close to you. Anto does not befriend anybody here. Why… he looks like an elusive wild cock whom you’ve tamed.”

“I’m amazed myself,” I said.

But what puzzled me most, despite the days that he would spend time with Mando and me, especially when I was inebriated and told nonsensical and humorous stories, Anto never even laughed nor let go a grin or a smile.

Always, he would simply stare at us, observing our drinking, listening intently to our conversation and if he noticed that we needed anything, such as cigarettes or drinks, he would quickly move and serve us like it was his duty to do so. He would not budge except when he had something to offer me. And not once, did he ever mention the bitter tragic incident which happened to their family which I consciously avoided inquiring about.

I HAD stayed almost a month in Mando’s house, in that quiet place which was a paradise of coconut trees and kissing companion of the waves. And I felt like a newly born, infused with new strength, with new small dreams, with a new steadfastness to face any challenges in life. The image of the city which I left had become hazy, splintered and carried away by the waves. Then, one day, on that banca which lay idly on the shore, in front of a gallon of tuba, before Mando and Anto, I said, “I’ll probably say goodbye to you on Sunday.”

“Ala’y we’re not asking you to go, Manong,” Mando said. “Or perhaps you’re getting lonely here and are missing the life in the city?”

“No, not that. The truth is I already hate living in Manila. I could just go home, to Itay’s province, to the farm.”

Anto no longer watched our drinking anymore. Often times, his eyes were focused on the wide sea and he looked spiritless as he broiled fishes for our pulutan. After a while, Anto sought permission to leave saying he had to buy something from the store. It took a long time before he returned, the tuba which we were drinking was almost consumed. Anto brought me a pack of cigarettes.

“This is for you, Manong,” he spoke in a very soft voice.

As soon as he handed me the cigarettes, he turned away, walked towards the coconut grove through which he passed on his way home.

I did not see him for two days and I thought he did not go fishing because of the bad weather, the wind was gusty and the waves were wakening up. That Saturday, however, the day before my departure for my birthplace in Cavite, it was very early yet when Anto suddenly appeared in my cousin’s house.

Anto was carrying a gallon of tuba on his left hand and on his shoulder was a newly butchered goat which had not yet been skinned. He was already shouting while still at the gate. And that was the only time I heard him shout; the voice was full, and cold, as though it harbored a mystery which was difficult to fathom.

“Manong Roger! Manong Roger!”

“But why? What’s that for? We’re not having a party here,” was how I greeted him.

“Ala’y before you leave us tomorrow, at least, you should have tasted one of my goats.” His big eyes were glittering. “Manong Mando and I will cook kaldereta. I’m good at cooking kaldereta, Manong.”

Mando even sent someone to buy one more gallon of tuba. We would really have a good time drinking, he said, and one thing more, he followed up that we should fully indulge in our buzz because I was leaving the following day. Meanwhile, Anto was busy butchering the goat, while Mando in preparing the spices.

With gallons of tuba and steaming and fragrant kaldereta, I did not know how to express thanks to a man who attended to me almost like a servant for reasons I could not grasp. I did not know in those days when Anto was drawn close to me, he saw perhaps in my eyes my deep understanding of the tragedy which befell their family.

“I hope to repay your kindness someday, Anto,” I said to him. He did not say anything, merely glanced at me, while munching a piece of kaldereta, but I noticed that he seemed in deep thought; from time to time, he would gaze at the seashore and, often, stare awhile at the nearby coconut plantation which used to belong to them.

I had taken a lot and the tuba drink was coming to my brain, and I thought of taking a walk along the shore, to survey that serene surroundings which I had learned to love but which I would leave behind the next day. I noticed that Anto followed me and when he had gone a little farther away from where Mando was, he walked alongside me.

“Manong, I’d like to ask you a favour,” Anto’s voice sounded pleading. I stopped.

“With me you don’t have to plead,” I said smilingly.

“Ala’y you really mean that, Manong?” Anto’s eyes grew even bigger. I nodded.

“Can you bring me along with you tomorrow?”

“Is that all? Yes, sure.”

“Ay, but you don’t understand, Manong.”

I stared at him. He bowed his head.

“What I mean,” it was as if Anto would choke, “is, ala’y, I’d like to live in your house, Manong.”

I gaped.

THE NEXT day, the rays of the sun had not penetrated the coconut grove when Anto appeared near the stairs of Mando’s house, carrying a bayong of old clothes. The white polo shirt which he wore, though clean, seemed almost ready to burst open as it hugged his body. His faded denim pants hanged short and he wore rubber shoes though without socks. Nonetheless, Anto’s long hair was very neat, properly combed, parted on one side, and daubed with pomade.

Before we finally walked to town, I convinced him to take me to where he was staying, Ka Masyong’s house, so that, as I told him, I might be able to pay my respects to the old man.

“Ala’y son,” Ka Masyong said to me, “I hope you take care of that boy. Ala’y I don’t understand what that boy must have eaten that he can’t be dissuaded from going. Ala’y I have not scolded him or anything. If after a while he won’t like to stay with you anymore, son, ala’y I would beg you to please bring him back here.”

Ka Masyong was in tears when we left him.

I noticed that Anto stared awhile at that thick coconut plantation which they used to own beside Ka Masyong’s farm.

It was as if a momentary fierceness visited those big eyes which were always questioning, searching.

SINCE that time, Anto became not only my acquaintance, nor just my friend, but also my brother. The truth is that I really did not have a brother and, I thought, he would be of help to Itay in tending the gardens, in plowing the piece of land which we had inherited from grandpa.

As soon as Anto woke up an hour after the roosters crowed at dawn, it became his habit to clean the yard, sweep the fallen dry leaves of the mango trees, and clear off any undergrowth or thicket. Afterwards, he would water Itay’s vegetable plants. Before breakfast, he would have fed the three pigs which we raised, and also the chickens. Almost often, I just stayed in the house, in front of my typewriter, while Anto helped Itay in the farm. Once in a while, I went to Manila to submit my articles and articles for publication, and not a few times did I tell Anto to go with me so, I thought, he could at least see the City.

“Ala’y let me just stay here, Manong. No one will be left to help Itay,” was the excuse he would give each time in that full, cold voice.

I could see that Anto seemed happy and content living with us; Itay treated him nicely like his own son. Yet, despite all, I had not seen him laugh or even smile. The wide mouth seemed to have been totally deserted by even a slight grin.

“Anto is an industrious boy,” Itay said to me one time. The only trouble with him is I don’t see him laugh.”

“So you noticed that too,” I said.

“Is he really like that?” Itay seemed incredulous.

After that season’s harvest and when Itay had sold some cavans of palay, and also the three pigs which grew almost entirely under the care of Anto, he bought some clothes for Anto, and two hundred chicks for Anto’s pasttime because Anto did not even go out with friends, would not care to watch movies in town on Sundays and, most of all, would not drink. At night, he would just listen to the radio for a while, to songs and music, and then go to sleep.

Anto took very good care of the chicks; he would not even allow ants to crawl on their cages or houses which he himself built from bamboos which he himself cut, but one morning, just almost after having woke up, I heard Anto’s voice, not soft but loud, not cool but angry.

“Ala’y putang-ina!” that was the first time I heard him cursing. “Ala’y I’ll kill those rats!”

There were some five chicks which lay dead inside the cage, bitten by the rats. And that night, Anto did not go to sleep. Carrying a flashlight, and a piece of wood, I saw him entered and sat down on one corner of the cage.

When I woke up the following morning, I was greeted by the sight of Anto grinning from ear to ear, seeming to want to laugh, while holding on the tail two big, badly beaten rats.

“Ala’y, Manong… I killed the putang-ina!” Anto quipped. “Do you see these?” and he even slightly brandished the dead rats.

I gaped stupefied.

Then one afternoon, after Anto arrived from the farm, I sent him to buy Ginebra gin at a store near us. I could not continue with what I was writing then; my mind was like water that would not flow; it was as if a load of steel lay on my chest. In a short while, Anto rushed in, bringing a bottle of Ginebra, letting out a grin and his big eyes sparkled with excitement.

“Did you hear that news, Manong?” he immediately asked me.

“Which?”

“Ay, Manong,” his whole gums almost exposed while grinning. “What else? Ala’y Ka Berta has died, that old usurer in our place. They say she died in her sleep, and that her face was contorted. Ay, Manong, they say that she was even biting her tongue!”

The more I was unable to continue my writing, the more I drank. And we ate supper together with Itay, Anto was full of appetite; he took in big mouthfuls of food in succession.

It took some time before I could sleep that night. Anto’s grin danced in my mind.

The incident was repeated one day when I came home from Manila after submitting a story to an allegedly well-known magazine. As I was lucky to have been paid for an article I published, I thought of buying Anto a pair of rubber shoes and two pairs of socks so that, it occurred to me, if he thought of going to town to have a good time, he would have something presentable to wear because his old pair was already full of holes and seemed hardly fitted for his big feet.

Anto readily met me, he was grinning, with eyes seeming to laugh as well.

“I bought this for you, Anto.” But he did not even bother about what I was offering him.

“Ay, Manong Roger,” he seemed to want to break in a guffaw. “Ay, Manong… am sure you haven’t heard yet. Ala’y Ka Ignacio’s house burned down a while ago, completely reduced to ashes. Not even their clothing was saved. Ala’y they say has not stopped crying till now… they say he’s almost insane.”

Anto was referring to one of the rich landowners who owned a thousand or so hectares of ricefields in our place and who brought home even the chaff, would haul off his tenant’s share even if they were left with nothing especially if they could not pay their debts right away.

Anto did not even bother to open the shoe box. He did not ask either about what they were.

SOMEHOW it seemed like misfortune was our lot, our twin; indeed it is difficult to escape from povery; it is like a shadow which follows you around, then attacks, whenever or wherever without warning, not respecting any feeling or thought.

All of a sudden, one afternoon, Anto led home Itay who was writhing because of severe abdominal pains, his body wholly cold. Since the town was too far and there was no doctor in our barrio, I asked Anto to fetch Ka Mentong, an herbolario. We roasted rice, made into a coffee-like brew, and served it to Itay. Ka Mentong even asked for some banaba leaves, heated them, then placed them on Itay’s abdomen as a poultice. But Ka Mentong’s herbal powers proved ineffective.

Very early next day, I took out from a small chest box in a corner of the bedroom the small amount which Itay had saved. I hired a karitela and Anto and I carried Itay into it, brought him to town to an allegedly good doctor. The doctor, however, simply advised us to bring Itay to the hospital; his ulcer was acute and needed an operation. Itay was brought in the municipal ambulance to the provincial hospital. We were forced to mortgage to Ka Mamerto, also another landowner in our town, the piece of land which was Itay’s inheritance from his father. I was forced to sign up, upon permission from Itay himself,an agreement which stipulated lthat if we redeem the land following harvest season, Ka Mamerto had a right to confiscate it, foreclose it.

Itay was well now, had been discharged from the hospital, but needed to rest at home for a few months so that it was Anto who assumed the work in the farm. I saw in Anto’s face the strong resolve to do all he could, fully take care of the plants, rid them of insect pests, clear the harmful weeds. He would always come home when the sun had already set.

The beautiful harvest was redolent, the palay full, the vegetables healthy, and Anto’s chickens fat. Hope was simply there, dangling on, and just waiting to be picked in due time.

But, barely a month before harvest time, misfortune, as if brought about by chance or allegedly by will of God, was like a monstrous crocodile which attacked, pounced upon and gnawed away at the smallest fiber of our hope. A strong typhoon wrought havoc, the floods came, and Itay’s crops were totally destroyed, and Anto’s chickens caught a pest, weakened one by one and died.

“We’ll be fine,” Itay’s faith remained strong. I’ll request Ka Mamerto to allow us to postpone payment of our debts until the next harvest season. He’ll understand.”

From that time on, Anto lost his appetite. He hardly bother about eating. Mornings, he no longer spent time sweeping the yard and often he would stop and stare out blankly. At the farm, whenever he accompanied Itay in weeding out what the floods destroyed, it was often he would just sit on the dikes, stare at the void. He no longer listened to the radio at night, would lie down immediately and bury his face in the pillow.

Itay failed with Ka Mamerto.

“Ala’y what will happen to us now, Manong? Where else do we go?”

Anto’s voice was no longer cool that night, about three days before Ka Mamerto would confiscate that land which Anto seemed to have learned to love very much. Itay sat near the window, hands on chin, like he was figuring something out in the dark sky.

“Come what may!” I said absent mindedly. Go, buy me a bottle of Ginebra.”

“Ala’y let me drink this time, Manong. Give me just two shots.” Anto was emphatic and there was violence in his big eyes.

I consumed two bottles of Ginebra that night and I did not recall if Anto did drink or not.

The next day the news reverberated that Ka Mamerto was killed, his throat slashed, his abdomen hacked and, allegedly, the intestines spilled out.

Since that day Anto had disappeared.

I now have a wife and five children.

And I am still looking for him. #

(Translated by Nur Amir Nonilon V. Queano)

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GLOSSARY

estero —– small river in a city turned into a dirty canal.

tuba ——- an alcoholic drink made from the juice of palms or coconut.

Ala’y —— contraction of ala (fr. Allah) and ay;

sometimes it is written ala’e.

Manong — == apellation for an elder brother, father, or elderly person.

pulutan —- tidbits with wine.

Ay ——— an expression or exclamation.

putang-ina — literally “whore mother” an exclamation synonymous with “son-of-a-bitch”

ka ———- apellation for an elder person, male or female.

Itay ——– father: var. of Tatay and Ama.

kaldereta — meat stew of goat’s meat, mutton, or beef.

bayong —— bag or sack of woven buri palm leaves.

herbolario — a quack doctor

banaba ======= timber producing deciduous tree, also cultivated for its beautiful lilac-purple flowers and medicinal value.

——————————————————-

Musika Mo’y Minamahal Ko

(Tula — malayang salin ng orihinal kong Your Music I Love)

musika mo’y minamahal ko

mga tunog ng tambol

sa maitim, nananangis na gabi

umaatungal na ritmo

ng mga putok ng baril

sa labirinto ng kaisipan ko

hitik sa sumisikdong kadensang

humahagupit na lintik sa gulugod ko

naglulundo sa dagundong

ng sumabog na mga bombang

nanunuot sa kaluluwa at pandinig ko.

musika mo’y minamahal ko

dumadagok sa pandama ko

ginigising ako nang husto

pinaluluwang mga mata at ilong ko

at nginangatngat himaymay ng puso ko

humihimig ito ng mga notang mapanghimagsik

sa dugong dumadaloy sa aking mga ugat

pinupuno kalis ng katauhan ko

ng mainit na agos ng rumaragasang mithiin

para sa akin at sa iyo

para sa namimighati nating mga supling

sa ilalim ng ginintuan, di madakmang araw

upang, sa wakas,

mabulas na mamukadkad magpakailanman

kinandiling pula, pulang mga rosas

sa hardin ng walanghanggang pangarap.

musika mo’y minamahal ko

pinag-aalab nito himaymay ng laman ko

para sinlakas ng kulog na murahin, durugin

nananakmal, mapaminsalang mga diyus-diyosan

nililinis nito ang kaluluwa ko

upang siilin ng halik

buong timyas na yakapin sagradong mga adhikain

pinatatalas nito ang paningin ko

upang makita nakasusulukasok

na mga kabalintunaan sa lipunan

at nagnanana nitong mga pigsa

at nagdaralitang buhay ng masa.

musika mo’y minamahal ko

ipinaririnig nito sa akin tagulaylay

ng uring dayukdok at alipin

lirika nito’y kumukulo sa pagaspas ng amihan

itinataboy itim na balumbon ng mga ulap

sa papawirin ng kawalang-pag-asa

koro nito’y hitik sa alimura

tinatagpas ng matatalim na mga salita

ulo ng iilang hari-harian

sa nabubulok, nangangalingasaw na palasyo

ng abusadong mga hari’t senturyon

ng kasakiman at inhustisya.

musika mo’y minamahal ko

lagi’t laging pumapailanlang

mga nota ng naghuhumindig na pag-asa

mga lirika ng patuloy na pakikibaka

ng inaaliping sambayanang masa

silang itinanikala ng luha’t dalamhati

sa lupaing binaog, kahabag-habag kong bayan…

sa la tierra pobreza ng di matingkalang dusa

at laging laman ng araw-gabi kong mga pangarap

oo, musika mo’y minamahal ko

dahil sa naglalagablab, mapagpalaya

at rebolusyonaryo nitong lirika!

Mga Luha Mo’y Pandayin

(Tula)

mga luha mo’y pandayin

la tierra pobreza

sa hulmahan ng adhikang dakila

gawing mga punglo ng paglaya

bawat butil na nalaglag

sa damuhang pinanilaw

ng pang-aalipin

ng mga panginoon ng dusa’t hilahil.

oo, la tierra pobreza

sa higanteng mga templo

ng mga altar at rebulto

ng mga dasal at himno

ng mga ritwal at rosaryo

pinagbawalan kang humawak

ng tabak o sumpak

kahit dinadapurak ang iyong dignidad

kahit mga supling mo’y lugami sa hirap

mistula silang mga daga

sa madidilim na eskinita

kumikiwal na mga uod

sa gilid-gilid ng mga bangketa

gumagapang na mga langgam

sa gulugod ng esterong nakasusuka

hukot na mga aninong walang pangalan

sa ilalim ng sementadong mga tulay

ng dalamhati’t bagabag

mga ibon din silang walang madapuan

sa matalahib na kasukalan

sa nabaog na kaparangan

at walang habag na kabukiran.

oo, la tierra pobreza

daan-daang taong isiniksik sa iyong utak

ng mga taliba ng pagsasamantala’t inhustisya

ikaw na maralita’y mapalad

sa pangakong paraisong di maabot ng utak

kakalingain ka raw ng diyos ng habag

sa kaharian niyang walang kasingtingkad

hindi bale na raw krus ng paghihirap

laging pasan-pasan sa bawat pag-akyat

sa di masalat na mga pangarap

panahon nang luha mo’y pandayin

sa hulmahan ng adhikang dakila

gawing mga punglo ng hangad na laya

di hahalimuyak alingasaw ng dalita

kung tatanghod lamang

sa kandelabrang kumikinang

at kopitang nagkikislapan

at lulunok ng gapisong ostiya

mula sa kamay ng banal-banalan

di maririnig dupikal ng ligaya

sa kalembang ng kampana

sa kampanaryo raw ng pag-asa

matutunaw ba ang yelo ng dalamhati

sa puso ng inaalipin mong lahi

habang nagpipista sa buto’t laman

ng binubusabos mong mga supling

silang iilang diyus-diyosan

sa mga pabrika at asyenda ng dusa

at nilalaklak dugo ng iyong katawan

ng iilang mga panginoon

sa mariringal nilang palasyo

ng walang pakundangang kapangyarihan?

oo, la tierra pobreza

mga luha mo’y pandayin

sa hulmahan ng adhikang dakila

bawat butil ay gawing

punglo ng paglaya!

To Kristel***

(Modified English version of my poem “Kay Kristel”)

(blazing is my brain

each vein aflame

by the onrushing boiling blood

from my revolting heart…)

just a newly blooming rose

you are

untimely plucked

from the stem of life

by the rampaging whirlwind of poverty

perpetuated by an unjust society

while always robust and fragrant

the orchids being watered and nurtured

by the blood and tears

of the oppressed class

in the garden of mansions and palaces

of exploitative demigods.

or you’re just a flower gone astray

in what you perceived

as the cradle of your sacred dreams

not knowing where you would go

is the bastion of the ruling elite?

and in that callous place

no welcoming space at all

for an empty pocket

and a rumbling belly

and mended clothes.

yes, kristel

in that paradise of a chosen few

comprehend they will not

the shrieking agonies

of a tormented soul

and tortured heart.

for you’re a rose

that will only fully bloom

when black clouds are blown away

by the winds of change

in the grieving horizon of discontent

a rose you are

that will fully bloom

when the firmament is aflame

when the forest’s foliage is on fire

and the city’s streets turn red

and, alas, at last

the fortress of injustices and greed

of society’s exploitative pests

is completely pulverized

through the revolutionary struggle

of the oppressed-downtrodden class.

yes, kristel…

cease never will

the fervent love

of your gallant brothers and sisters

for the freedom and glory

of what fanon said

the wretched of the earth

they will relentlessly dance

with the music of flaming desire

so roses like you

will robustly bloom forevermore.

but now…

yes, kristel…

you’re a solitary rose

in a lonely grave

amidst the cadena de amor

amarillo and desolate grass!

(***Kristel Tejada was a student of the University of the Philippines who committed suicide recently when mentally tortured by the thought that she could not enroll the following semester as she was unable to pay her tuition on its due date.)

Kay Kristel***

(Tula)

(naglagablab ang utak ko

nag-alipato ang mga himaymay

sa pagragasa ng kumukulong dugo

mula sa naghihimagsik na puso…)

isa kang bagong bumubukadkad na rosas

wala sa panahong pinigtal

sa tangkay ng buhay

sa daluhong ng daluyong ng dalita

ng di makatarungang lipunan

gayong mabubulas naman

mahalimuyak ang mga orkidyas

na patuloy na dinidilig

ng dugo’t luha ng mga sawimpalad

sa hardin ng palasyo’t mansiyon

ng mga diyus-diyosang mandurugas.

o isa ka lamang naligaw na bulaklak

sa inakala mong halamanan

ng mumunting pangarap?

di inisip na kuta

ng mga hari-harian sa lipunan

ang iyong patutunguhan

walang puwang doon ang bulsang walang laman

at kumakalam na tiyan at damit na sinulsihan

di nila mauunawaan ang tagulaylay

ng lugaming puso’t nalilitong isipan

sapagkat rosas kang bubukadkad lamang

kapag naitaboy na ang itim na ulap

sa nananangis na kalawakan

rosas kang bubukadkad lamang

kapag naglagablab na ang silangan

kapag nag-alipato ang mga talahib sa kaparangan

kapag namula na ang mga lansangan sa kalunsuran

at nadurog na’t napulbos nang lubusan

mga moog ng inhustisya’t kasakiman

ng uring mapagsamantala sa lipunan…

asahan mong di magmamaliw ang pagmamahal

ng mga kapatid mong magigiting

sa laya’t ligaya ng masang sambayanan

at madamdamin silang patuloy na magsasayaw

sa musika ng lagablab ng apoy

upang mabulas na mapamukadkad

mga rosas na kagaya mo.

ngunit, sa kasalukuyan

oo, kristel…

ikaw ay ulilang rosas

sa ulila ring libingan

sa piling ng cadena de amor

ng amarillo’t damong ligaw!

(***Isang estudyante si Kristel Tejada sa Unibersidad ng Pilipinas na nagpakamatay kamakailan sapagkat labis niyang dinamdam na di siya makapag-aaral sa darating na semestre dahil di makabayad ng matrikula sa takdang panahon.)