Milflores Online

MILFLORES RELEASES LATEST OF ITS HEALTH SERIES

2011-12-18T22:18:00.000-08:00

Milflores Publishing has released the latest in its best-selling Health Series Booklets: “Animal Bites” by Drs. Marilyn Vinluan, Jerome S. Ramos, Cecilia Montalban and Agnes Dominguez Mejia.

Many Filipinos have suffered animal bites or stings of different kinds—from dog bites to snake bites to bee stings. While some of these may just be aggravations, others are dangerous, even fatal.

This little volume contains a wealth of information—in language easily accessible to the layman and with illustrations Dr. David Brian Olveda—about the most common types of bites and stings, symptoms, remedies, and preventive care. Moreover, it provides an appendix containing diagnostic centers all over the country, including their locations.

The authors, like the authors of the other booklets in the series, are all experts from UP-PGH. Other booklets are: “Hypertension Among the Young;” “Anemia: Unmasking the Silent Enemy;” “My Kidneys and Me;” “Allergies: Dermatitis, Rhinitis, and Asthma;” and “Do You Snore?”. Series Editor is Dr. Agnes Dominguez Mejia, Chair of the UP-PGH Department of Medicine and a professor in the UP College of Medicine.

Posted on December 19, 2011

SELECTED MILFLORES TITLES ARE NOW E-BOOKS!

2011-09-29T16:37:00.000-07:00

Selected Milflores Publishing titles are now available e-books through a partnership with Flipside Digital Content Publishing, Inc.

Here are the Milflores ebooks already available on the Amazon Kindle Store (Click on the titles of the books below to view their Amazon page):

You may like the Flipside Digital Content page on Facebook too. Please help us promote our e-books by telling friends, colleagues, as well as your online and offline social networks about it.

You may read these e-books, even without a Kindle device, by downloading the Kindle "app" (software/program) and installing it on your computer (Mac, Windows), iPad, Android device, etc.

If you like what you purchase, we hope you'll review it on Amazon, and spread the word to your Facebook friends. These e-books have also been uploaded to and will be available on Apple iTunes iBookstore after about 14 days.

Please check out this site regularly for updates.

We in Milflores thank our authors for their willingness to take this exciting new step with us. Congratulations!

We would also like to thank FRANCIS M. QUINA, for all the help extended to Milflores, and whose first book we are eagerly anticipating.

Posted on September 30, 2011, updated on October 27, 2011.

New Milflores Release

2011-07-21T17:32:00.000-07:00

HYPERTENSION AMONG THE YOUNG by Dr. Adrian Paul JU. Rabe, Dr. Celito A. Tamban, and Dr. Agnes D. Mejia

24 pages

ISBN - 9789718280850

Contrary to popular belief, you don't have to be elderly to suffer from hypertension (or what is ordinarily referred to as "high blood"). In the Philippines, 19% of adults, age 20 to 39 years, have pre-hypertension, and 13% have hypertension.

In this booklet, which is part of the popular Miflores Health Series and has Dr. Agnes D. Mejia as Series Editor, leading medical experts from UP-PGH offer simple, easy-to-follow information regarding its diagnosis, causes, types, treatments, and preventive measures.

The booklet's illustrations are by Matthew Jose Fisher and Niko Angelo Rabe.

Dr. Adrian Paul Rabe is a graduate of the 7-year program, Integrated Liberal Arts in Medicine (Intramed), which combines a B.S. Basic Medical Science degree with a Doctor of Medicine, at UP Manila.He has completed his residency in Internal Medicine and is planning to pursue a career in teaching.

Dr. Celito Tamban is a B.S. Biology and a Doctor of Medicine from the University of the East, magna cum laude, was UE's Most Outstanding Post-graduate Intern in Medicine, and has completed his residency in Internal Medicine at the UP-PGH.

Dr. Agnes Dominguez Mejia has a B.S. Pr Med, cum laude, from UP Diliman, and a Doctor in Medicine from the UP College of Medicine. She did a 3-year fellowship in Nephrology at the University of Cincinnati Medical Center and a 3-year fellowship in Hypertension at the University of Michigan Medical Center. She is currently Chair of the UP-PGH Deparatment of Medicine.

"Hypertension Among the Young" is available at all National Bookstore and Powerbooks branches, in the UP Press Bookstore, Solidaridad, Popular, and other bookstores.

Price: P120 per copy

Posted on July 21, 2011

New Milflores Release

2010-08-22T17:44:00.000-07:00

BE YOUR OWN ENGLISH TEACHER!

MORE IDIOMS

By Lydia Arcellana, Ph.D. and Heidi Emily Eusebio-Abad, M.A.

Idiomatic expressions can add spice to conversations and written work. However, their improper use can cause embarrassment and confusion.

In this booklet—the thirteenth in Milflores’ best-selling series “Be Your Own English Teacher!” Series—two experts on the English language from the University of the Philippines explain the correct usage of common idioms. They also provide self-learning exercises, and interesting trivia on the origin of some idioms, to help the reader.

Both Lydia R. Arcellana and Heidi Emily Eusebio-Abad teach at UP Diliman’s Department of English & Comparative Literature. Dr. Arcellano has won the Leopoldo Yabes Award for Most Outstanding Associate Professor and is co-author of five other titles of the Miflores English Series. Prof. Abad is co-author of two other titles of the Miflores English Series and writes books for children, for which she has won the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Award.

“More Idioms” is available in National Bookstore and Power Books branches, in the UP Press Bookstore in UP Diliman, Solidaridad, Popular, and other major bookstores at only P95 per copy.

33 pages

ISBN- 9789718280836

Posted on August 22, 2010

2010-05-28T17:38:00.001-07:00

LATEST MILFLORES RELEASE

2010-05-25T17:24:00.000-07:00

PAMHINTA X: MGA NAGBABAGANG SANAYSAY

by LOUIE CANO

ISBN - 9789718280812

111 pages

Milflores Publishing, Inc. has released "Pamhinta X: Mga Nagbabagang Sanaysay," a collection of hilarious and insightful essays in Filipino on gay life in the Philippines by Louie Cano.

Pamhinta is a street word that refers to a man who has discovered the mystery of love in the bosom of a fellow male, a man who is "pormang maton, pero pusong mamon." The word denotes a muscular guy who is into pumping iron in gyms until his face sprouts abs, who showers thrice a day, who likes books, likes Madonna, likes Malate, likes men, and likes life with considerable voracity, but who doesn't cross-dress, doesn't use makeup (well, maybe a little concealer and lipgloss), and who doesn't swing his hips (well, maybe just a bit).

The specificity of a pamhinta in the gay world provides a point of view for the author. It does not define the boundaries of his essays, which gaze unblinkingly on both the straight and gay worlds of Metro Manila and which capture their vibrant essences through colorful language that is sometimes acerbic, occasionally malicious, and always hilarious.

Louie Cano is also the author of the widely-read collection of essays in English on the gay life, "Brusko Pink, King Kong Barbies & Other Queer Files," the first dictionary of the colorful Filipino gayspeak, "Baklese: Pinoy Pop Queer Dictionary," and its sequel, "Baklese Dos," and a colorful collection of essays in Filipino on the gay world entitled "Masculadoll."

The cover of "Pamhinta X" is by Alvin Fadriquela and the book design is by Zenaida N. Ebalan.

"Pamhinta X" is available at all National Book Stores, PowerBooks, U.P. Press Bookstore, Popular Bookstore, and other major book stores at P250 per copy.

Price: P250.00 per copy

Posted on May 26, 2010

NEW MILFLORES RELEASE

2010-04-26T18:41:00.000-07:00

"ALLERGIES: Dermatitis, Rhinitis, and Asthma"

by Dr. Angelo Dave C. Javier, Dr. Juan Paolo DLC. Lagunzad, and Dr. Cesar Joseph C. Gloria

34 Pages

ISBN - 978-971-828-080-5

Milflores Publishing, Inc. has released "Allergies: Dermatitis, Rhinitis, and Asthma" by Dr. Angelo Dave C. Javier, Dr. Juan Paolo DLC. Lagunzad, and Dr. Cesar Joseph C. Gloria.

About half of all the people in the world suffer from some form of allergy that harms their health, quality of life, and productivity. Among the most common forms of allergy are: Atopic Dermatitis, also called skin asthma, Allergic Rhinitis, and Allergic Asthma. Although these allergies affect different parts of the body, their common feature is that they cause itching.

In this booklet, leading medical experts discuss the three most common allergic diseases in simple layman language in order to inform the reader of the best ways to diagnose and treat these allergic conditions.

This booklet is the fourth title in the new health series of Milflores Publishing, Inc. that aims to provide expert medical information on common diseases and health hazards at affordable prices. The first title was a guide to chronic kidney disease, the second was on anemia, and the third booklet was on snoring.

The editor of the Milflores Health Series is Dr Agnes Dominguez Mejia, the current chair of the UP-PGH Department of Medicine and a professor at the UP College of Medicine. She specialized in Nephrology and Hypertension in the U.S. and has won national awards for her work in medical education.

Elbert Or and Zenaida N. Ebalan designed the cover and Zenaida N. Eblan did the layout for "Allergies."

"Allergies: Dermatitis, Rhinitis, and Asthma" is available at all National Book Store and PowerBooks branches, U.P. Press Bookstore, Popular, and other major book stores at P120 per copy.

Price: P120.00 per copy

Posted on April 27,2010

NEW MILFLORES RELEASE

2009-09-26T18:19:00.000-07:00

"DO YOU SNORE? A SIMPLE GUIDE TO THE INS AND OUTS OF SNORING"

by Dr. Katerina T. Leyritana, Dr. Patricia D. Salvador, and Dr. Manuel C. Jorge II (Consultant); illustrated by Dr. Katerina T. Leyritana
55 pages
ISBN - 9789718280799

Milflores Publishing, Inc. has released “Do You Snore? A Simple Guide to the Ins and Outs of Snoring” by Dr. Katerina T. Leyritana, Dr. Patricia D. Salvador, and Dr. Manuel C. Jorge II (Consultant).

Snoring is one of the most common health problems in the world—around 40 percent of all adults snore. This means that snoring is a problem for close to 80 percent of the world’s adult population, for most snorers disturb the sleep of their partners.

In this guidebook written in layman’s language, medical experts clarify why people snore and the possible serious complications of snoring. They also explain the types of remedies for snoring, including the latest devices—surgical, laser, mechanical, etc., and cures from alternative medicine.

This booklet is the third title this year in a new health series of Milflores Publishing, Inc. that aims to provide expert medical information, in layman’s language, on common diseases and health hazards at affordable prices. The first title was a guide to chronic kidney disease and the second was a primer on anemia.

The editor of the Milflores Health Series is Dr. Agnes Dominguez Mejia, the current chair of the UP-PGH Department of Medicine and a professor at the UP College of Medicine. She specialized in Nephrology and Hypertension in the U.S. and has won national awards for her work in medical education.

Elbert Or and Zenaida N. Ebalan designed the cover and Zenaida N. Ebalan did the layout for “Do You Snore?”

“Do You Snore? A Simple Guide to the Ins and Outs of Snoring” is available at all National Book Store and PowerBooks branches, U.P. Press Bookstore, Solidaridad, Popular, and other major book stores at P120 per copy.

Price: P120.00 per copy

Posted on September 27, 2009

NEW MILFLORES RELEASE

2009-09-11T17:52:00.000-07:00

"ANEMIA: UNMASKING THE SILENT ENEMY"

by Dr. Jennifer A. Abengana, Dr. Maria Socorro L. Agcaoili, and Dr. Angelina L. Mirasol (Consultant)
72 pages
ISBN - 9789718280713

Milflores Publishing, Inc. has released “Anemia: Unmasking the Silent Enemy” by Dr. Jennifer A. Abengaña, Dr. Maria Socorro L. Agcaoili, and Dr. Ma. Angelina L. Mirasol (Consultant).

Anemia is a silent enemy because it is caused by so many health problems that it is often misdiagnosed or ignored. A 1998 survey showed that in the Philippines, more than half of infants less than a year-old, half of pregnant women, and 30-40 of those over 60 suffered from anemia.

All Filipinos need to know what causes anemia, how to detect it, how to prevent it, and how to treat it through this booklet that has been written by medical experts from the UP-PGH for the layman.

This booklet is the second title in a new health series of Milflores Publishing, Inc. that aims to provide expert medical information, in layman’s language, on common diseases and health hazards at affordable prices. The first tile was a guide to chronic kidney disease. Forthcoming titles this year will cover allergies (including asthma, dermatitis, and rhinitis), and snoring.

The editor of the Milflores Health Series is Dr. Agnes Dominguez Mejia, the current chair of the UP-PGH Department of Medicine and a professor at the UP College of Medicine. She specialized in Nephrology and Hypertension in the U.S. and has won national awards for her work in medical education.

Elbert Or and Zenaida N. Ebalan designed the cover and Zenaida N. Ebalan did the layout for “Anemia.”

“Anemia: Unmasking the Silent Enemy” is available at all National Book Store and PowerBooks branches, U.P. Press Bookstore, Solidaridad, Popular, and other major book stores at P140 per copy.

Price: P140.00 per copy

Posted on September 12, 2009

NEW MILFLORES RELEASE

2009-06-08T18:28:00.000-07:00

"AND THE GEEK SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH"

by Carljoe Javier

105 pp

ISBN - 9789718280768

Milflores Publishing, Inc. has released “And the Geek Shall Inherit the Earth,” a collection of hilarious essays in English by Carljoe Javier.
Carljoe’s short essays in his first book cover diverse topics like being a certified geek with eyeglasses, the panties of celebrities, the dilemma of peeing, teaching at a school for girls, playing with an edgy rock band, and joining a local reality TV show.

In her introduction, Conchitina Cruz says of the book: “The charms of the geek are many, and this, Carljoe clearly knows … rather than go by way of encyclopedic knowledge and that bewildering capacity for obscure detail for which geeks are known, (Carljoe) plays up the social ineptitude and predisposition to clunky situations set off by a series of unfortunate events for which geeks are also known … Ah, geeks. What’s not to love?”

The author taught at the Creative Writing program of U.P. Diliman and he was a fellow at the recent U.P. Writing Workshop in Baguio City. He is currently a full-time writer and he has published short stories in the Philippines Free Press and an essay in the local edition of Playboy magazine.

The exhuberant, over-the-top book cover was designed by electrolychee.com and Zenaida N. Ebalan did the layout.

The book is available at all National Book Store and PowerBooks branches, U.P. Press Book Store, Solidaridad, Popular, and other major book stores at P220.00 per copy.

Price: P220.00

Posted on Month June 9, 2009

NEW MILFLORES RELEASE

2009-05-17T17:32:00.000-07:00

A-SIDE/B-SIDE: ANG MGA PISO SA JUKEBOX NG BUHAY MO

ni Vlad Bautista Gonzales

96 pages

ISBN - 9789718280751

Milflores Publishing, Inc. has released “A-Side/B-Side: Ang Mga Piso sa Jukebox ng Buhay Mo,” a new collection of hilarious, imaginative, and reflective essays in Filipino by Vlad Bautista Gonzales, the author of the best-selling “Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan.”

Vlad’s essays spring from his fantastic imagination and he creates a wide variety of memorable characters and wacky situations, including the hapless and endearing Ms. Ligaya Nazareno, the former “Mutya ng Tayabas, Quezon” and star high school student, who is pulled hither and thither by the social forces in the seething cauldron of U.P. Diliman, where she goes for her college education.

Just as interesting is the author’s invention of his own persona as a videoke master of Novaliches and Cabuyao who knows practically everything about pop music—the objective correlative that ties together all the multifaceted essays in the book. It is perhaps the ease with which Vlad writes funny, creative, and brilliant essays about popular culture that make a number of readers suspect that he is really the sensational and mysterious Bob Ong—a speculation that Vlad denies.

The author teaches Malikhaing Pagsulat, Panitikan at Kulturang Popular at UP Diliman and has taught at the Kagawaran Filipino at the Ateneo University. He claims that he can sing 75-80% of all the Beatles and Eraserheads songs.

The book cover was designed by Elbert Or and the layout was done by Zenaida Ebalan.

“A-Side/B-Side: Ang Mga Piso sa Jukebox ng Buhay Mo” is available at all National Book Stores and PowerBooks branches, U.P. Press Book Store, Solidaridad, Popular and other major book stores at P195 per copy.

Price: P195.00

Posted on May 18, 2009

NEW MILFLORES RELEASE

2009-04-13T21:23:00.000-07:00

OUR LADY OF ARLEGUI: ISANG YUGTONG DULA

ni Chris Martinez

25 pages

ISBN - 9789718280744

Milflores Publishing, Inc. has released “Our Lady of Arlegui: Isang Yugtong Dula” by Chris Martinez.

This comedy won First Prize for the one-act play in Filipino at the 2007 Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature. It revolves around a chance encounter between a young Christian film geek and a Muslim seller of pirated DVDs and CDs in Arlegui, Quiapo, while a raid of the Optical Media Board takes place outside the store. The hilarious dialogue makes the reader laugh while it painlessly explores the stereotypes and prejudices between Filipino Christians and Muslims that have hindered understanding and peaceful co-existence through the centuries. The edgy bantering over their mutual biases and intolerance ultimately lead the Christian and Muslim protagonists to discover their common humanity.

Chris Martinez is a noted playwright, script writer, and film and stage director who has won a number of writing awards from the Palanca Awards, the Cultural Center of the Philippines, the PETA, and the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA). In 2008, he won the Best Director, Best Screenplay, and the Audience Choice awards for his movie “100” at the Cinemalaya Film Festival. He wrote the screenplays for the critically-acclaimed films “Bridal Shower” and “Bikini Open” and the award-winning plays “Welcome to Intelstar” and “Last Order sa Penguin”. He also did the stage adaptation of the cult graphic novel, Zsa Zsa Zaturnnah.

Elbert Or designed the cover of the book and Zenaida N. Ebalan did the layout.

“Our Lady of Arlegui” is available at all National Book Store and PowerBooks branches, U.P. Press Book Store, Solidaridad, Popular, and other major book stores at P95.00 per copy.

Price: P95.00

(First Prize - 2007 Palanca Awards)

Posted on April 14, 2009

NEW MILFLORES RELEASE

2009-04-06T18:52:00.000-07:00

FLOUNDERING AT 25: A YOUNGLIFE CRISIS

by Michelle B. Meneses

110 pages

ISBN - 9789718280737

Milflores Publishing, Inc. has released “Floundering at 25: A Younglife Crisis” by Michelle B. Meneses.

Everyone has heard of the midlife crisis—that period of emotional turmoil in middle age characterized by a strong desire for change. Fewer have heard of the increasingly common quarterlife crisis that hits many young people in their mid-twenties. This used to be shrugged off as mere growing pains or youthful angst. But the mind-boggling complexity of modern technological life, and the endless choices it demands of us all, has caused increasing numbers of young people to experience a full-blown quarterlife crisis that is characterized by utter confusion, depression, high stress levels, indecisiveness, and insecurity.

For the first time in our country, a young writer has written a gripping personal account of her quarterlife crisis that sheds light on its many aspects and nuances—including problems at work, rapidly losing old friends and adjusting to new ones, confusing sexual experimentation, and searching for a mature faith that can sustain adulthood and its responsibilities.

“Floundering at 25” is written in a probing, reflective style that has some humor and is very readable. It is motivated by the desire to understand more deeply the quarterlife crisis and to share with others what the author has learned from her experience.

Michelle B. Meneses graduated from the Ateneo University with a degree in Management Information Systems. She is currently doing a PR and Marketing consultancy for a fashion retail brand. This is her first book.

Bernie Sim of electrolychee.com designed the cover of “Floundering at 25” and Zenaida N. Ebalan did the layout.

The book is available at all National Book Store and PowerBooks branches, U.P. Press Book Store, Solidaridad, Popular, and other major book stores at P250.00 per copy.

Price: P250.00

Posted on April 7, 2009

GALING PINOY, BASAHIN!

2009-04-04T19:37:00.000-07:00

MILFLORES FOUNDER AND MILFLORES AUTHORS IN PANEL DISCUSSION ON CREATIVE NONFICTION

As part of the activities celebrating the 13th Philippine Book Development Month, the National Book Development Board is sponsoring a panel discussion on creative nonfiction at 9 a.m. on Thursday, November 12, 2009 at the Filipinas Heritage Library on Makati Avenue (across from the Manila Peninsula Hotel).

The moderator of the discussion is Milflores founder, Antonio A. Hidalgo. He will be giving a brief lecture on important aspects of the relatively new genre of creative nonfiction, its current popularity in Philippine literature, and the achievments of the young panelists in this genre.

The panelists are Luis Katigbak, Vlad Gonzales, Rica Bolipata-Santos, Louie Cano, and Carljoe Javier. They will give intimate talks on their recent creative nonfiction books that have been published by Milflores Publishing, Inc. These are: "The King of Nothing to Do" by Luis Katigbak, "Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan" and "A-Side/B-Side: Ang Mga Piso sa Jukebox ng Buhay Mo" by Vlad Gonzales, "Love, Desire, Children, Etc.: Reflections of a Young Wife" by Rica Bolipata-Santos, "Brusko Pink, KingKong Barbies & Other Queer Files" and "Masculadoll: Mga Sanaysay ng Buhay Bading na Di Buking" by Louie Cano, and "And the Geek Shall Inherit the Earth" by Carljoe Javier. Except for Luis Katigbak's book, all the other books were first books by the authors that were published in the past few years by Milflores Publishing, Inc.

The discussion promises to be an exciting event because it features fresh young writers with new ideas and it focuses on what is perhaps the most dynamic literary genre in the Philippines and the rest of the world at this time.

The public is cordially invited.

Posted on April 4, 2009

NEW MILFLORES RELEASE

2009-03-26T02:22:00.000-07:00

MY KIDNEYS AND ME: A LAYMAN'S GUIDE TO KIDNEY DISEASE

by Dr. Maridel Orata-Gorospe, Dr. Edhel Santiago-Tripon, and Dr. Isabel De Leon-Duavit (Consultant); illustrated by Dr. Jim Tripon

45 pages

ISBN - 9789718280720

Milflores Publishing, Inc. has released “My Kidneys and Me: A Layman’s Guide to Kidney Disease” by Dr. Maridel Orata-Gorospe, Dr. Edhel Santiago-Tipon, and Dr. Isabel De Leon-Duavit (Consultant).

Chronic Kidney Disease (CKD) is a life-threatening condition. To help Filipinos who may be suffering from CKD in its various stages, a team of specialized doctors from the UP-PGH has written this comprehensive, but simple, guide to kidney disease. The authors have drawn on their extensive training and clinical experience to write on a broad range of topics on CKD, including its causes, symptoms, diagnostic tests, various stages, types of treatment, and dietary implications.

This booklet is the first title in a new health series of Milflores Publishing, Inc. that aims to provide expert medical information, in layman’s language, on common diseases and health hazards at affordable prices. Forthcoming titles this year will cover allergies (including asthma, dermatitis, and rhinitis), anemia, and snoring.

The editor of the Milflores Health Series is Dr. Agnes Dominguez Mejia, the current chair of the UP-PGH Department of Medicine and a professor at the UP College of Medicine. She specialized in Nephrology and Hypertension in the U.S. and has won national awards for her work in medical education.

Dr. Jaime Rafael H. Tripon illustrated “My Kidneys and Me.” Elbert Or designed the cover and Zenaida N. Ebalan did the layout.

“My Kidneys and Me: A Layman’s Guide to Kidney Disease” is available at all National Book Store and PowerBooks branches, U.P. Press Bookstore, Solidaridad, Popular, and other major book stores at P120 per copy.

Price : P120.00

Posted on March 26, 2009

NEW MILFLORES RELEASE

2009-03-03T18:55:00.000-08:00

“English Idioms”

by Les McGaw

35 pages

ISBN - 9789718280690

Milflores Publishing, Inc. has released “Be Your Own English Teacher! Idioms” by Les McGaw, M.A.

Fluency in English requires familiarity with its idioms—the peculiar usage of English phrases that cannot be deduced from its individual elements. In this booklet, an expert explains the meanings of many types of English idioms and gives examples of how to use them correctly. He also provides self-learning exercises, along with the answers, to help the reader.

Les McGaw has taught English for over 25 years in Saudi Arabia, Lebanon, and Thailand. He taught at the English Department of Silliman University in the Philippines in 1998-2001. He currently resides in Thailand, where he teaches English.

This is the twelfth volume in the Milflores English Series that provides affordable self-learning manuals by experts for Filipinos who need to improve their English skills to get better jobs here and abroad. The previous titles cover nouns and pronouns, punctuation, prepositions, business writing, grammar review, new words, modifiers, verbs, spelling, oral communication, and confusing English words.

Mikey Pantoja and Zenaida N. Ebalan designed the cover of “Idioms” and Zenaida N. Ebalan did the layout.

“Be Your Own English Teacher! Idioms” is available at all National Book Stores, PowerBooks, and other major book stores at P95.00 per copy.

Price: PhP 95.00

Posted on March 4, 2009

NEW MILFLORES RELEASE

2008-11-23T17:44:00.000-08:00

Baklese Dos

by Louie Cano

46 pages

ISBN - 9789718280683

Milflores Publishing, Inc. has released “Baklese Dos: Pinoy Pop Queer Dictionary,” compiled by Louie Cano.

This is the long-awaited sequel, by the same author, to “Baklese: Pinoy Pop Queer Dictionary,” which was the first dictionary of the colorful and imaginative Pinoy gayspeak. All the words in “Baklese Dos” are new and are not contained in the first volume. This is an indication of how quickly Filipino gayspeak is evolving.

“Baklese Dos” is both informative and entertaining. Its malicious humor tags a senior citizen as “tanderbolt lightning” and a “Wrangler with zipper.” “Baget,” a standard word in street Filipino, is given a new twist to mean “bakit?”. The English word, dilemma, means “madilim”, and “flower” means “tanga, engot”.

Irony turns “award-winning” to mean “napagalitan”, and “bombilya” to mean “tanga”. Whimsy makes the skin disease “buni” into “Boni Avenue” and “Botswana” into “boots”.

This update on Pinoy gayspeak is a must read for gays, straights, and those in-between of all ages.

The cover is by John Hoben B. Barrameda and the book design is by Zenaida N. Ebalan.

“Baklese Dos” is available at all National Book Stores, PowerBooks, and other major book stores at P95 per copy.

Price: PhP 95.00

Posted on November 24, 2008

NEW MILFLORES RELEASE

2008-11-07T17:18:00.000-08:00

Much I Do About Nothing - Part Two

by Atty. Onnie Martin

127 pages

ISBN - 9789718280669

Milflores Publishing, Inc. has released “Much I Do About Nothing – Part Two,” a collection of zany and hilarious fictional interviews of an annulment lawyer by Atty. Onnie Martin.

Anything goes in the wacky world of the author. Crazy spouses of mad superheroes and anti-heores bare their bizarre reasons for wanting to annul/nullify their marriages or for seeking a legal separation. The lawyer who counsels them is just as nuts and ends up getting mired in sticky, inextricable situations with his wild clients.

But in the midst of all the rollicking, side-splitting humor, he manages to provide expert legal information on the Philippine laws that govern the break-up of marriages.

This book is a sequel to the first “Much I Do About Nothing” that was widely-read and was shortlisted in the 2008 National Book Awards of the Manila Critics Circle that is administered by the National Book Development Board. Both books are products of the author’s out-of-the-box thinking that uses fictional comedy to entertain and painlessly provide accurate legal information on marriage cases.

Atty. Martin is the vice executive judge of the Regional Trial Court Branch 73 in Antipolo City that functions as a family court handling annulment cases. He previously served for many years at the Office of the Solicitor General, where he handled numerous petitions for the annulment and nullity of marriages. While studying law at the Ateneo, Onnie worked as one of the script writers for the popular TV comedy, “Mongolian Barbecue”.

Elbert Or designed the colorful cover of the book and Zenaida N. Ebalan did the layout.

“Much I Do About Nothing – Part Two” is available at all National Book Stores, PowerBooks, and other major book stores at P290 per copy.

Price: PhP 290.00

Posted on November 8, 2008

NEW MILFLORES RELEASE

2008-10-18T19:35:00.000-07:00

Masculadoll: Mga Sanaysay ng Buhay Bading na Di Buking

by Louie Cano

100 pages

ISBN - 9789718180652

Milflores Publishing, Inc. has released “Masculadoll: Mga Sanaysay ng Buhay Bading na Di Buking,” a collection of hilarious and insightful essays in Filipino on gay Filipino life by Louie Cano.

The title refers to muscular gays who are into pumping iron in gyms, a category to which the author belongs by virtue of his self-description: “Mukha siyang brusko, pero mas bakla pa siya kay Madonna.” Louie Cano is also the author of the widely-read collection of essays in English on the gay life, “Brusko Pink, King Kong Barbies & Other Queer Files,” and the first dictionary of the colorful Filipino gayspeak, “Baklese: Pinoy Pop Queer Dictionary.”

In his first collection of essays in Filipino, Louie puts to good use his training as a Creative Writer under the late Rene Villanueva in the award-winning children’s TV show, “Batibot.” His mastery of modern street Filipino is evident in this collection, which is an important contribution to this rapidly developing language—the lingua franca that will ultimately enable the emergence of a more unified Filipino culture that was fractionalized by centuries of colonization by two foreign masters.

The titles of the essays in the slim volume clearly signal the freshness and verve of Cano’s writing in Filipino, as in “Diva medida, siyete pulgada,” “Majess,” “Mga multong bakla sa tukador ni mudra,” and “’Nyetang Ex.” His latest essays are a major step towards achieving Louie’s cherished dream of being anointed a dyosah of Filipino gayspeak and gay creative writing.

The cover is by Alvin Fadriquela and the book design is by Zenaida N. Ebalan.

“Masculadoll” is available at all National Book Stores, PowerBooks, and other major book stores at P195 per copy.

Price: PhP 195.00

Posted on October 19, 2008

Reader Review ng Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan

2008-10-17T20:40:00.000-07:00

Mga Gunitang Astig sa Panulat

ni Quinia Jenica E. Ranjo

ANO NAMAN kayang klaseng “kaastigan” ang nilalaman ng panibagong akda ni Vlad Gonzales, isang propesor ng Malikhaing Pagsulat sa Unibersidad ng Pilipinas, Diliman, sa kanyang librong “Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan” (Milflores Publishing, Inc., 2008) na kasing-nipis at liit lang ng isang kuwaderno?

Sa unang tingin pa lang, mapapansin ang “astig” na disenyo ng pabalat nitong akmang-akma para sa mga mambabasang interisado sa mga bagay na may kinalaman sa pagka-astig, o ‘di kaya’y gustong maging astig. Sa pamamagitan ng kumbinasyon ng imahinasyon at katotohanan, tunay na naipakita ni Gonzales ang kakaiba, nakakamangha at “astig” na mga perspektibong hango sa pang-araw-araw na pamumuhay gamit ang pamamaraan ng pagsulat ng blog na maihahalintulad sa estilo ni Bob Ong.

Ngunit sa pagbabasa ng akdang ito, mapapatunayang mayroon namang sariling daloy ng paglalahad ng kuwento si Gonzales kung saan pinaghahalo niya ang katha at sariling karanasan. Ito’y maihahalintulad sa sinabi niya tungkol sa cultural poetics. “Mag-uumpisa ka sa isang pangyayari, madalas ay nakaugat sa pisikal na mundo, pagkatapos ay iuugnay ito sa isa pang teksto, at itutuhog pa uli sa iba pang kultural na teksto.”

Mula sa kanyang mga karanasan at alaala, lumilikha siya ng mga kuwentong tunay namang makapagpapasakit ng tiyan ng mga mambabasa sa katatawa, lalung-lalo na sa mga naabutan pa ang pagsikat ni Alice Dixon at ng Topical Hut, ang mga sinehang wala pa sa mga malls, at ang youth-oriented show na TGIS. Tunay din namang maliligayahan ang mga mambabasa ng kasalukuyang henerasyon sa sandamakmak na mga kuwentong napapanahon at nakapagbabalik ng mga nakatutuwang alaala.

Kabilang dito ang kuwento ni Gonzales tungkol sa karanasan ng isang “solid” na barkada. Hinango niya ang buhay ng mga hayskul na karakter ng istorya mula sa isang MTV-type scene na saliw sa kantang “Torpedo” ng Eraserheads. Sa kuwentong ito rin nakapaloob ang isa pang kuwentong makapagpapaalala sa mga kalalakihan ng “kaastigan” ng pagpapatuli, kung saan magbubuklod-buklod ang mga kabataang nasa elementarya upang magpakitaan ng ebidensya ng kanilang pagbibinata.

Hindi rin mawawala sa koleksiyong ito ang mga istoryang ka-macho-han, gaya na lamang sa Kuwentong Military Science Part 1, at Part 2, kung saan inilahad ni Gonzales ang kanyang mga alaala noong siya’y sumali sa ROTC. Dito’y ipinakita niya kung paano ang mga makikisig at hinahangaang mga officer na kung makapagbigay ng mga utos ay parang Diyos na ‘di maaaring suwayin ay nagmamakaawa rin pala sa kanilang mga propesor dahil sa pagkakaroon ng mga gradong “singko.”

Hindi rin naman puro katatawanan ang laman ng munting koleksiyon ni Gonzales. May ilang sanaysay na seryoso ang tema ngunit “astig” pa ring maituturing, gaya ng kabanatang Mga Pamilyar na Kuwento, kung saan isinasalaysay ng may-akda ang mga pag-aaway ng mga miyembro ng kanyang pamilya. Nariyan ang hindi pagkakaunawaan ng kanyang mga magulang na nauuwi sa habulan sa kalsada, sigawan, at “batuhan ng magulang,” na kadalasa’y nag-uugat sa mga mabababaw na dahilan katulad noong sinabihan ng kanyang tatay ang kanyang nanay na “Nililigawan ka ng lesbyanang ‘yan!” nang minsang lumabas sila kasama ng isang tiyahin at ang karelasyon nitong babae. Ganoon rin naman ang mga salaysay sa sumunod na kabanatang Mga Kuwentong Pamilyar.

Ayon kay Gonzales, “same old, same old” lang ang mga problema ng kanyang pamilya na maaaring naranasan na rin ng ibang pamilya.
Sa unang tingin, aakalain ng mambabasa na walang gaanong mapapala sa librong ito dahil higit na madaling ituring na literal ang lahat ng mga superpisyal na salaysay na nilalaman nito. Ngunit kapag inintindi at sinuri ito sa mas malalim na lebel, tiyak na hindi lamang iisang “kaastigan” na puro tungkol sa pagiging dominante ng kalalakihan ang mapagninilayan ng mga mambabasa.

Ang bawat sanaysay ay puno rin ng mga katatawanan, na isinama ni Gonzales upang panatilihing magaan ang daloy ng mga kuwento, habang unti-unting inilalahad sa mga mambabasa ang kabigatan ng mga temang nakapaloob sa bawat maikling sanaysay.

Ang salitang “astig” ay tunay ngang may malawak na sakop. Hindi eksakto ang ibig-sabihin. Nakadepende na lamang ito sa gagamit ng salita. Sa puntong ito, si Gonzales na mismo ang umamin na hindi niya naman talaga alam ang ibig sabihin ng salitang “astig.” Tumpak siya nang sinabi niyang, “Ang talagang pinakaastig naman ay ang pagsusulat mismo.”

Basta’t may alaala’t matibay na memorya, kahit sino’y puwedeng maging manunulat.

Posted on December 4, 2008

Reader Review of King of Nothing to Do

2008-10-01T00:04:00.000-07:00

Of Idleness and Idealism

by Raydon L. Reyes

WHAT remains when there is nothing left to do? Nothing and everything, Luis Katigbak asserts in his collection of nonfiction pieces titled, The King of Nothing to Do (Milflores Publishing Inc., 2006).

In his compilation of essays which he had written for various publications like LegManila, MEGA, and Manila Bulletin, the Palanca and Philippines Graphic Awards winner presents “a pleasant conversation about writing, music, films, and pop culture.” The essays discuss more than just the ways that people entertain themselves, as they also tackle the underlying culture within the different methods of escapism that people incorporate into their lives.

His first essay, “Another One Rides the Bus,” reveals how Filipinos have gotten used to crimes in the city.

Katigbak narrates his experience involving a violent, knife-carrying bus driver who assaults a rival driver, with the passengers watching passively as the aggressive driver smashes the other bus’ rear-view mirror.

“It had never even occurred to me to report it,” Katigbak writes. “I realized I had taken it as a normal everyday occurrence.”

“A Brief History of Slime” tells of the dark side of dormitory living as Katigbak discloses the bad cleaning habits of his college friends and the consequences of their neglect, which include a layer of “sickly green scum” covering their unwashed dishes and a patina of fructified vomit taking over the bathroom.

Katigbak also shows how hobbies like reading and writing can be ways for strangers to cease being strangers since having fervor for the same things can link people together. Then he tells of an experience with a woman in a bookstore who shared his taste for books.

“It was undeniably pleasant, in a manner that only conversations with complete strangers, about shared passions, can be,” Katigbak writes in his essay “Essential Distractions: On Writing, Death Threats, and Talking to Strangers.”

What gives The King of Nothing to Do its strength is the way that Katigbak turns his focus on tackling issues of midlife crisis and the yearning for death. In “Hanging by a Thread,” he contemplates how man keeps on holding onto life because of the connections he has made during his life on earth.

“But we remain suspended above this abyss because we are attached to threads–cherished beliefs, financial security, close friends, loved ones,” he writes.

But he also shows his optimism in “What to Do When Saturn Returns” by saying: “The prospect of oblivion is not as attractive as the hope that you might actually be able to end up doing what it is you’re meant to be doing.”

Reading each essay is an exciting experience for the reader because besides Katigbak’s humorous approach to his subjects, there is also an infusion of metaphors and concrete symbolisms that are easily relatable.

In The King of Nothing to Do, he likens his perpetually lost friend, who has yet to discover his calling in life, to a disconnected telephone wire. Each piece is also accompanied by a caricature of Katigbak portraying everyday life in the city.

However, Katigbak’s self-deprecating humor can sometimes be overbearing. Most of his essays about writing keep on reiterating how being a freelance writer is the same as having no career. This view of equating “non-contractual writing” to being a bum can discourage aspiring writers to pursue the same path.

But what redeems The King of Nothing to Do is the way it idealizes contemplation. Since idle moments are the perfect opportunities to think about and re-evaluate one’s life, Katigbak ultimately proves that “having nothing to do” can also be a good thing.

(From http://www.varsitarian.net/literary/of idleness and idealism)

Posted on October 1, 2008

ANOTHER READER REVIEW OF KAASTIGAN

2008-09-12T21:05:00.000-07:00

Another Bob Ong, Please: Vlad Gonzales’ Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan

The first page recounts the author’s kindergarten experiences, and readers can’t help recalling the same scene in Bob Ong’s ABNKKBSNPLAko?. Actually, if one is going to scan the Philippine lit bookshelves, one will feel an earnest desire of local publishing houses to come up with books that will equal if not outdo the success of the Bob Ong series. Aside from this book, there are Eros Atalia’s “Peksman, Nagsisinungaling Ako” and Bud Tomas’ “Wala Lang,” which are both written in comical-but-wait-there-is-depth-and-drama-somewhere-yes-I’m-Bob-Ong-but-hello-I’m-not mode. Even National Artist Virgilio Almario employs a Bob Ong element in his new book which he entitled “Supot ni Hudas.”

But why should I complain? Many students are now flocking National and Powerbooks to search for local books with the same BobOngish mode, and before I know it they’re already reading F. Sionil Jose. And Amado Hernandez. And even Edel Garcellano! This might be a sign of an upcoming golden age of Philippine literature! And god, Bob Ong is its father.

Anyway, back to Gonzales’ book. “Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan” really is a napakalaking kaastigan, as it is indeed tough to talk about nothing but yourself in a 100+ page book. Reading it feels like going through a collection of journal entries, spontaneous, no uniting theme, and flowing with memories about childhood, school, family, sex, funny and corny cobweb jokes, and influences from pop culture. There are stories about eventful quarrels between his parents, unforgettable conversations with friends and relatives, and hilarious and sometimes melodramatic moments with the family. There are stories about growing up with and being conditioned to live like TGIS stars, learning to act like Sharon Cuneta , and dance ala Maricel Soriano.

What can I say about a book whose professed purpose is to simply entertain? Vlad Gonzales’ voice is natural, playful, and pleasingly narrative. Some readers might be annoyed reading tidbits of random experiences ending with expected punchlines, but hey, it works with Bob Ong, and Vlad Gonzales definitely knows how to pull it off too, employing good writing techniques, dramatic line repetition and deft word play. If you’re an Edsa revolution baby, I recommend this. The stories that Vlad Gonzales shares and the humor that he creates simply come from our generational and cultural familiarity with what is unforgettable and what is funny. His book is your bestfriend telling you everything you’ve gone through after you smashed your head and got amnesia.

(From http://jezriel.wordpress.com/2008/08/04/another-bob-ong-please-vlad-gonzales-isang-napakalaking-kaastigan/)

Posted on September 13, 2008

Reader Review of Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan

2008-09-07T03:07:00.000-07:00

A DOSE OF SELF-CONSCIOUS PINOY MACHISMO

by KATRINA STUART SANTIAGO

If there’s anything that made me pick up Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan by Vlad Bautista Gonzales, it was its size and title - the same things that allow me to pick up books by Milflores Publishing more often than I would any other publishing house. There’s something easy and light about the way their books are packaged, something that calls out to you as you browse through the Filipiniana section of any bookstore. And with prices that are almost always only equivalent to the price of a large cup of coffee in your neighborhood Starbucks, it’s easy to shell out for their seemingly endless set of new releases.

Gonzales’ book of essays though also had the word “astig” going for it. A word that the author himself swears to using, but really only has a flimsy because broad description for what it actually is. In the essay with the same title as the book, the word “astig” is allowed a life all its own: “Kahit saan ako pumunta may astig. Sa bahay, may astig. Sa eskuwela, may astig. Sa TV at saka sa DVD, may astig. Minsan may nagtsismis sa’kin, astig daw ako. Hindi ako naniwala (102).”

And yet, it is this instability of definitions that allows for the book itself to bank on the notion of the “astig” - whether it means to or not. Particularly to a female reader, it is the one thing that allows for the book of essays to be digestible at the very least, and downright enjoyable at most.

This is of course not to say that Gonzales’ essays are politically incorrect as far as gender issues are concerned. In fact, what he employs as male essayist, obviously talking about Pinoy male experiences, is a self-conscious - if not self-deprecating - tone. Usually beginning to tell a sexist joke by precisely saying it is sexist; more often than not speaking of male experiences (such as Military Science, or issues with other males in the family, or conversations with friends) and noting that it is precisely Pinoy ka-macho-han that is the point.

But beyond the male-female dynamic that this self-conscious Pinoy macho voice dares deal with - rare enough on this side of patriarchal Philippines - Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan has much more to offer.
For the generation to which Gonzales belongs, there is familiarity in the book’s nostalgic turn towards the lives we lived in the 90s. We are reminded by these essays that the shows we watched, the music we listened to, the roads we traveled, were by and large the same; we are told that the lives we lived then were intertwined by the technology we had (TV and cassette tapes), and learned to get used to (pirated DVDs and computers); we are made to imagine that we are bound together by the malls we started to frequent, and the changing landscape of consumerism that we began to live and believe.

It is here that Gonzales’ writing becomes even more integral to his telling of the lives he has lived, and continues to do so. In the throes of neo-coloniality and its contingent effects on contemporary culture, the form that Gonzales uses to keep his readers interested is as important as what it is he actually says.

Gonzales’ use of the essay as form, is in fact a reclaiming of a space that in recent years has come to be equated with the woman writer. Through the non-fiction narrative, the woman has been allowed her own voice and experiences - a writing back against the patriarchy that has oppressed her. With Gonzales’ self-conscious, gender-correct, use of the form in telling the lives he has lived within the expectations of becoming a full-blooded Pinoy macho, he himself may be seen as someone who writes back against this patriarchy.

It becomes clear throughout the essays in the book, that the Pinoy male is also as much oppressed and repressed by patriarchy’s expectations of its own self. That the length of the essays is sometimes as short and as experimental as blog entries is telling as well of how these experiences are dependent on memory - selective as that may be. That the experiences are almost always funny, if not downright hilarious, is telling as well of the things that memory keeps, and the ways in which we cope with the things that oppress us.

Another aspect of form that can’t be left unsaid is the language that Gonzales chooses to write in. Using a Filipino that’s easy and comfortable to read, that shifts to English when it must, Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan is representative as well of a generation grappling with the issues of neo-coloniality in the forms of available technology and the changing urban landscape. What Gonzales ends up treating readers to is a language that’s urban vernacular at its best - the kind that we use everyday, but which we are told, isn’t the kind of language we can write in. Because it’s too informal, or is just not done.

But Gonzales proves it can be done. In fact, through Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan, he proves many things to be possible for the Pinoy male writer: the use of a perspective that’s critical of his “macho” self, and that’s self-conscious about the sexism that his culture allows him; finding affinity with the form of the essay and its recent function as response to patriarchal literary production; the unapologetic use of a Filipino language that disregards academic notions of acceptable writing.

In the end, and probably without knowing it, Gonzales has in fact defined what it is that makes his writing astig. And as a full-blooded female reader, I can only agree and say: “Astiiiiig!”

(From http://katrina.stuartsantiago.com/a-dose-of-self-conscious-pinoy-machismo/)

Posted on September 7, 2008

Reader Review of Love, Desire, Children, Etc.

2008-09-02T17:57:00.001-07:00

A Book just like Dinuguan: Rich, Satisfying, and filled with Guts

by Trish Christianne Dizon

It would be an understatement to say that I am bewildered right now. At 22 years old, I am at a standstill in life. I am trying to figure out many things and, sometimes, the thoughts become too complicated so I opt to just amuse myself with media in all its forms. In my search for distractions, I stumbled upon the National Book Development Board Book Club, a government organization that aims to promote a love of books—books penned by Filipino authors, to be exact. After calling their office, I was promptly e-mailed an invitation announcing that Love, Desire, Children, Etc.: Reflections of a Young Wife by Rica Bolipata-Santos would be the next piece of work to dissect. I made sure to get myself a copy of the book right after my Saturday class at the Ateneo. I really didn’t know what to expect, but after three pages, I was irrevocably hooked.

“I am a writer of nonfiction” should be Rica’s battle cry. The book is an insightful tell-all of a talented woman who plays many roles in life: “much loved teacher,” “hard working employee,” ”loving wife and mother,” “youngest child,” and—yes—a very inspiring writer. Reading her book left me giggling and blushing at times. I distinctly remember closing the book at one point because I could not believe she recounted the first time she and her husband made love with such disconcerting honesty. But more importantly, she made me nod in agreement; she made me stop reading to think about the idea she had just presented me with; and she put down on paper thoughts that were floating without shape in my mind with eloquence and sincerity.

“A Bow to my God” is my favorite in the book. Her relationship with her mother is exactly like my relationship with my formidable and beautiful mama. Our relationships with our mothers are “strange and awkward.” On one hand, we are fascinated with and enthralled by them. But in the same breath, we also feel inadequate in their eyes. Rica’s metaphor for this lifelong bond hit the nail right on the head. In her journal, written 2-24-88, she wrote “I am like a pomelo in your hands…”

Being a mother herself now, Rica finally understands that her mother’s constant criticisms and inability to acknowledge her gifts stemmed from the painful realization that she gave birth to herself—that Rica is uncannily like her in more ways than one. Without the criticisms, Rica’s mother would have to simply accept that she was aging and her own dreams were receding. Every time my mother and I get into an altercation, I remember these lines and I find it so much easier to understand. The fights have dwindled and it is more peaceful in our house now.

(This review won the “My Favorite Book Contest” of the Philippine Star and was published in its August 31, 2008 issue.)

Posted on September 3, 2008

CALLING ALL NORANIANS!

2008-08-13T18:29:00.000-07:00

New Website for Noranian book

A new website has been constructed for Si Nora Aunor sa Mga Noranian: Mga Paggunita at Pagtatapat, edited by Nestor de Guzman.
Click on: http://www.noranianbook.weebly.com to enjoy!

Posted on August 14, 2008

NBDB TULAAN SA TREN

2008-08-05T00:46:00.000-07:00

Tulaan sa Tren - an NBDB project

The National Book Development Board launched Tulaan sa Tren last Saturday, August 9, from 1-3 pm at the LRT Santolan, Pasig Depot, Marcos Highway, Pasig City.

Tulaan sa Tren features regular readings by well-known actors of Pinoy poems in Filipino and English over the LRT's sound system during regular train runs of the LRT. It aims to make Philippine literature more accessible to more Filipinos while entertaining commuters. The project may feature literary genres other than poetry later.

The project is supported by the Light Rail Transit Authority (LRTA), the Optical Media Board (OMB), and the Book Development Association of the Philippines (BDAP).

The public was invited to the launching of this imaginative and laudable project.

Posted on August 10, 2008

THE MADNESS OF PHILIPPINE SHOPPING

2008-08-04T16:44:00.000-07:00

by ANTONIO A. HIDALGO

In my previous privileged life as a UN expat, I was able to shop in many renowned consumerist Meccas—Hong Kong, Singapore, Bangkok, Seoul, Tokyo, New York, New Jersey, San Francisco, Paris, Rome, and Geneva. At that time, the Philippines was a shopping backwater with a narrow range of consumer goods that were being sold at prohibitive prices.

Since globalization happened, our shopping situation has turned around completely. Shopping places of all kinds have sprouted like mushrooms—from gigantic SM and Ayala malls to permanent and sporadic tiangges to labyrinthine ukay-ukay complexes. We have opened up our market to a dizzying array of the latest fashions, accessories, appliances, vehicles, and sundry gadgets. The cutthroat competition to sell so many goodies to mostly poor consumers has stretched Filipino ingenuity in inventing promos and bargain sales and in sourcing the cheapest possible goods.

Our country is now known as a shopping paradise and is touted as such by travel agents to tourists. Locals are in the grip of a consumerist frenzy that seems to be guided by Krip Yuson’s immortal phrase, “I mall, therefore I am.” The validation of our existence in this way is enabled by the ceaseless marketing of credit cards, never mind if the subscribers may not have the wherewithal to pay the piper when he eventually appears.

One of our most resourceful methods of sourcing cheap goods is the ukay-ukay, which may very well be an original Filipino retailing invention. This started in Baguio City many years ago and has since spread to all our cities. They may now be found in numerous streets in Metro Manila, provincial cities, and even the malls have their own variations of “surplus” shops.

Some say that ukay-ukay clothing and accessories are donations from rich countries for our destitute and this explains why they are so cheap. But I have seen the scale of the bundles of ukay-ukay goods at the bagsakan in Baguio City and I can’t believe that the goodwill of rich nations can provide so much clothing and accessories over so many years. The goods are so abundant that they can’t be displayed individually in the multi-storied labyrinths in Baguio, buyers literally have to dig into piles of clothing to find what they want, hence the monicker ukay-ukay, from the Filipino words hukay and halukay.

Others surmise that drug syndicates smuggle illegal drugs in the bundles of ukay-ukay clothing and sell the bundles of clothing dirt-cheap after retrieving the drugs. But I have yet to hear of an investigation of this allegation.

Though many of the clothes and accessories in the ukay-ukay shops are, indeed, used, there is also a lot of brand-new stuff, mostly cheap local and imported knock-offs of well-known brands and the occasional genuine branded article. It is the last item that attracts moneyed locals and foreign tourists to the ukay-ukay in Baguio, for they are really prized catches. They are priced exactly like the used clothing and the knock-offs, for the retailers buy in such bulk that they simply set average prices for the items in each bundle. This makes it possible for a lucky buyer to get a new, genuine leather jacket that is made in Europe or the US for a thousand pesos, when it sells for at least twenty times that amount in its country of origin.

Some years ago, I chanced upon an outlet of Bally shoes in a tiny and decrepit shopping mall in Katipunan Ave. in front of Ateneo University. I was surprised that it was selling hundreds of pairs of genuine Bally shoes at a negotiable four or five thousand pesos each, less than a sixth of the price at the Rustan’s outlets. I talked to the Filipina owner, who happened to be there, and found out that she lives in Zurich, where she buys the Swiss shoes at factory sales. Based on her prices and the unlikely location of her shop, I deduced that she had smuggled in the shoes. Escaping taxes in this way allowed her to sell at low prices, but the absence of papers precluded her from setting up in the malls, where she would be tax-mapped.

A year later, her shop had a streamer announcing a closing-out sale. Apparently, Bally shoes are a fetish only for older Filipinos and the student crowd in Katipunan found them too stodgy. There were still over a hundred pairs left and they were being sold at only two thousand pesos each. I asked the salesman what they were going to do with the shoes that couldn’t be sold. “Boil them to eat,” he jokingly replied.

My house is near the Greenhills Shopping Complex. I have seen the tiangge there grow enormously over the years so that now it sells not only clothes and shoes but also cell phones, costume and real jewelry, handicrafts, local foods, etc. It has also been air-conditioned and has added a second floor. The copies of branded T-shirts like Lacoste, Burberry, and Polo have improved a lot in quality so that some of them are now virtually indistinguishable from the originals, though they sell at only a few hundred pesos each.

The Polo T-shirts intrigue me. About a year ago, I saw a shop at the Greenhills Theater Mall that specialized in these and sold them at a couple of thousand pesos each, compared with the 4-8 thousand pesos at the Rustan’s outlets. The T-shirts were identical in quality to those at Rustan’s and the shop had a wider and better selection of designs than Rustan’s. The salesgirl assured me that the shirts were originals that were brought in from the US.

A few months later, other shops in Shoppesville carried the same Polo T-shirts at eight hundred pesos. Now, the tiangge stalls sell them at four hundred pesos. In some cases, they are exactly the same T-shirts that are being sold by Rustan’s, which is the exclusive distributor of Polo. Curious, I asked at some of the stores where the shirts come from. All of them said they come from China, from the same factory that makes the original Polo T-shirts. I have no way of verifying if this is true, but the high quality of the T-shirts makes the story credible.

The Polo story doesn’t end there. In the SM Department Store, I saw similar Polo T-shirts for sale at 700 to 800 hundred. I asked where they are made and the salesman said they are locally produced. I thought that they are licensed by Ralph Lauren, but, in the course of the conversation, the salesman informed me that Rustan’s had sued them in court for using the Polo brand name. He said Rustan’s lost the case because their company had registered the Polo name in the Philippines ahead of everybody else. In that case, I maliciously asked him, “Why doesn’t your company file a case to prohibit Rustan’s and Ralph Lauren from selling Polo clothes in the Philippines?” He just smiled knowingly at me.

The situation is crazy. Identical Polo T-shirts are being sold from a low of 400 to a high of 8,000 pesos by different outlets. And the outlets are all surviving. It is an apocryphal story about the confusion engendered by globalization.

Extraordinary bargains can be had at the seasonal sales of large chain retailers like Zara, Calvin Klein, Kenneth Cole, et al and at the periodic midnight madness sales of malls. Even foreign tourists now flock to these sales.

But here the buyer should beware, for the sales of retailers are in stages—they begin with a 20-25 percent discount and end with an 80-90 percent discount for the same items. Discounts are similarly steeper on the last day of mall sales. Smart buyers also know that Rustan’s real discount house is Tutto Moda, where all the unsold branded clothing and accessories of this chain are tagged with bargain prices, again, in ascending stages of price reductions.

The current madness of Philippine shopping rewards the smart and persevering shopper. Like in hunting, only the best bargain-hunters get the choicest goodies at the lowest prices.

(The University of the Philippines Forum, November-December, 2008)

Posted on December 30, 2008

ON MALLS AND MALLING

2008-08-03T18:36:00.000-07:00

by ANTONIO A. HIDALGO

It does not surprise me at all that the words “malling” and “maller,” which are commonly used in our conversations, are Filipinisms that cannot be found in standard English dictionaries. In the last two decades, we have enthusiastically flocked to the shopping malls that have sprouted all over the country with a passion rarely seen elsewhere, such that “malling” is now a favorite pastime of Filipinos of all ages, income brackets, educational levels, and ethnic origins. We are about as united in our fondness for malling as we can ever be about anything else. This has given us the right to coin our own words to denote those who spend a considerable amount of time in shopping malls and what they do.

Malls have become our parks and cultural centers, aside from being places for social and business meetings, eating, shopping, playing electronic games, surfing and e-mailing at Internet cafes, and catching a movie. Provincial folk even charter buses to make excursions to Metro Manila malls, just as they used to make excursions to the Sibul Spring in Bulacan or to Los Baños in past centuries. And the cultural fare in malls—plays, ballets, classical music, books, the Internet, the hottest pop singers and dance groups, mime, yoyo exhibitions, badminton, rock-climbing, and other sports contests, and, of course, movies—long ago outstripped the offerings of the Cultural Center in its vibrancy and the size of its audience.

I suspect that malls exercise an important influence on the development of our culture and values. Most of them belong to large chains and have a basic uniformity in design, types of shops and eating places, and entertainment fare. Hence, the rapid spread of malls throughout the country probably has the effect of providing common experiences to previously very disparate ethnic groups that had been sheltered in the cocoons of their sub-cultures. Put in another way, the malls can be seen as moving us towards a more unified culture by spreading the big-city values of Metro Manila throughout our archipelago.

The economic importance of malls is obvious. They are powerful catalysts for urban development. Malls played a large part in the rapid physical development of the bustling Ortigas Center that straddles the cities of Quezon, Pasig, and Mandaluyong. They are doing the same thing in Southern Metro Manila in the Filinvest, Alabang, and BF areas, in the North in the Fairview and Commonwealth areas, in the West in the reclaimed areas of Manila Bay in Pasay and Manila, and in the East in Taguig, Cainta, Pasig, and Antipolo.

Malls directly employ hundreds of thousands. And the sales that they generate spur economic activities among the tens of thousands of suppliers to the shops, department stores, and eateries in the malls that benefit millions more. I have not yet come across measures of total mall sales, but their humongous magnitude can be deduced from a survey a few years back that showed that some 300 thousand people went to SM Megamall over a very good shopping weekend. When I mentioned this to my visiting brother-in-law, who is German and lives in Geneva, he sucked in his breath and exclaimed that this was the entire population of Geneva!
As a sometime urban planner, I once criticized our malls on two points. I didn’t think that they should have been built along our major thoroughfares like EDSA and the Alabang-Zapote Road, for they take in and disgorge a very large number of commuters and private cars that severely hamper the flow of traffic going elsewhere. I also found most of them rather unimaginative, box-like structures that have very little that is Filipino in their design.

However, when I recently reviewed the sales of books of my publishing house that sells mostly through the National/PowerBooks stores in malls, I found that most of my sales were in the malls along EDSA, including the new SM Mall of Asia, which is actually at the end of EDSA. I figure that this is because most Filipinos commute through public transport and don’t ride in private cars, thus they find it more convenient to patronize the malls along EDSA. Perhaps this explains why gigantic malls that were built in places with no substantial residential communities like SM North Edsa and SM Mall of Asia have been so successful. If only because they provide equal access to the less affluent who commute on public transport, I guess the malls on the major thoroughfares are in the right places, after all.

I still think that the design of our malls should be more imaginative and Filipino. There are notable exceptions, however. Ayala Cebu and parts of Ayala Alabang were inspired by the traditional designs of our cockpits. And the new Greenbelts I to IV, SM Mall of Asia, Gateway in Cubao, and the new Trinoma are good Western-style designs. Too bad that SM missed a great opportunity to build an outstanding mall in the breathtaking location of the former Pines Hotel in Baguio City.

Despite the widespread popularity of malls, not all Filipinos like them. When I was putting together and editing “The Milflores Guide to Philippine Shopping Malls,” a compendium of reviews and essays on specific malls throughout the country by 25 well-known writers, my good friend, poet Jimmy Abad, told me he wouldn’t join the book because he hated malls and hardly ever went to one. I think he considers them a waste of time that could be spent on worthier pursuits.

Militant groups have criticized them for their unfair labor practices, encouraging excessive consumerism, catering mostly to the affluent, harming the poor by enticing them with things they can’t afford, diverting scarce investment funds away from programs for the poor, etc.

They may have a point in doing so. My wife and I once saw our bright housemaid through computer school. Upon her graduation, she left our employ to work as a cashier at a supermarket in a large mall. After six months, she visited to borrow some money from my wife to tide her over. Apparently, her first contract was only for six months and she couldn’t get another contract from the same supermarket without a six-month interregnum between her first and next contracts. She didn’t find it easy to find alternative employment during the six-month interregnum. It has been several years now and she is still living on the edge, often unemployed and borrowing money from my wife, which she conscientiously pays back when she is employed.

I don’t think our malls cater only to the affluent. The sheer number of mallers disproves this. All the high-end malls, even the Glorietta in Ayala Center, always have people from all income classes. And there are many low-end malls like, Sta. Lucia, the Ever-Gotesco chain, and Metropolis in Alabang, that did not target the affluent from the start. The enjoyment of malls and malling seems to be one of the few things that cuts across all classes in our country.

How the less affluent and the poor cope with consumerist pressures is another question. To be fair, however, malls are not the major source of these pressures—they are generated by the nature of modern city life itself. Witness how most common folk—housemaids, drivers, etc.—now have cell phones. Think of the mounting cases of cell phone snatching and of the ubiquitous underground market for these stolen phones. Malls have little to do with this phenomenon.

Certainly massive investments have gone into Philippine malls in the past two decades. But their economic success has resulted in multiplier effects that have benefited the entire economy. While their economic benefits are not pro-poor per se, proper taxation (note that our current tax structure is heavily skewed towards consumption taxes through e-vat) and sound government policies could harness these resources for social development programs.

The larger question, of course, is whether the high-consumption, high-growth, economic model invented by the Anglo-Saxon societies, which has created malls, is sustainable for all mankind in the long run. Creeping climate change and the imminent exhaustion of some natural resources like fossil fuels warn that this model may lead to disaster and our possible eventual extinction. We may soon find out the answer to this very important question with the rapid rise of affluent and consumerist China, with its 1.2 billion people, and India, with its 1 billion.

Meanwhile, I will continue to enjoy malling. I find it fun, comfortable, convenient, and entertaining.

(The University of the Philippines Forum, November-December, 2008)

Posted on December 22, 2008

THE LAST BATTLE OF MARTIN MAYO

2008-08-02T23:13:00.000-07:00

by

ANTONIO A. HIDALGO

It was Monday. Felt like Sunday. Everyday felt like Sunday now. No schedules, no important things to do anymore. Just waiting. Waiting.
Martin Mayo stirred in his bed, but did not get up. He looked at the window. The curtains were closed. He imagined a bleak September morning out there. Overcast. Drizzling. He heard one of his cocks crow. He got up with much effort.

Passing by the living room on his way to the kitchen, he looked out the large French windows at the gentle slopes of his huge gamecock farm. He was right about the morning.

Susan, his cook and housekeeper, prepared breakfast for him as he sat, waiting, at the kitchen table. The smell of frying eggs and beef tapa sickened him. He ordered Susan to stop cooking breakfast and asked for a cup of chocolate instead. Even the chocolate turned his stomach. He almost retched. He thought ruefully about how he would rather take some Batangas barako coffee. But it would certainly make him vomit. He got up and left his unfinshed cup of chocolate.

He went into his bathroom to wash himself. Then to the bedroom to change from his pajamas. He put on a light blue Dunhill T-shirt, a dark blue pair of Givenchy slacks, midnight blue Christian Dior socks, and black A.Testoni walking shoes with serrated rubber soles. Dressing in expensive casual clothes gave him no more pleasure. It was a chore now.
On his way out, he noticed that his cell phone in the living room was off. He decided to leave it off.

He sat on the rattan rocking chair in his spacious porch and waited for Larry, his farm kapatas, to bring him Sultan. He heard some angry cackling from the scratch pens in the cockhouse. He briefly scolded Larry for being careless with Sultan when he came with the fighting cock.
Martin Mayo gazed intently at the squat, stocky, old cock, with motley white, blue, brown, and yellow feathers on his hackles, wings, and back. Sultan was lively this morning and greeted Martin with a series of full-throated crows.

“Are you very sure that Sultan doesn’t mount the hens anymore?” Martin asked Larry for the umpteenth time.

“Yes Sir, I have watched him closely as you ordered. He is too old. We did not get a single chick from his hens this past year,” Larry replied.

“Okay, move Sultan to the fly pen now,” Martin said, as he got up from the rocking chair to follow Larry to the fly pens.

Sultan tried to hit and peck Larry when the kapatas tried to get him from his tie-cord on the lawn. Martin went up to Sultan and gently picked him up. Sultan let him do it without a fuss. Martin brought Sultan to the fly pen himself, with Larry following them.

Once in the fly pen, Sultan immediately flew up the five-foot wooden roost, popped his wings hard and crowed. This gratified Martin, and he said to Larry: “Good, good. Sultan is starting to behave like a younger cock now. Keep up the regimen of transferring him every hour from scratch pen to fly pen to tie-cord and back again. This will stimulate him to keep moving and exercising. How long have you been doing this?”

“Everyday, Sir, since you told me to do it three weeks ago. I spend most of my time with Sultan now and let the other boys condition the rest of the cocks. Are we going to fight Sultan? He’s about nine years old, you know.”
“Maybe. Of course, I know how old Sultan is. I looked it up in my breeding notebooks. Pay attention to his special diet. Are you mixing the powdered vitamins and minerals with his grains? And the fresh meat and calf manna? Don’t feed him too much. Just one whiskey jigger-full per meal. Have you got that?”

“Of course, Sir. But it’s going to be hard to get Sultan in shape to fight.”

Martin smiled at Larry. “I know. But he deserves an honorable and dignified death as a great warrior. I don’t want him to just waste away from old age like a pensiyonado. You understand?”

He did not wait for an answer. Martin walked slowly back to the sprawling ranch house to take his usual late morning nap on the rocking chair on the porch. And to gather his strength to take some lunch. His damned bad liver had killed all his appetites, even his desire for women.
Martin thought of his father and his brothers and sisters as he tried to nap.

MARTIN WAS ENTERING his father’s old mansion in Malolos. He wrinkled his nose at the musty smell emanating from the perenially damp stones and mortar of the first floor as he went up the elaborate staircase. He tried to step lightly as he entered the upstairs living room, to minimize the familiar creaking of the three-foot wide polished narra floorboards. When he passed the windows of the living room, he was careful to look up, not down. He could not bear to look at the servants’ quarters below, where he had lived briefly as a young boy, while his father verified the story of the twelve-year-old boy who had suddenly appeared at his doorstep.

Martin’s father, Ambrosio, the five-term assemblyman and congressman from Bulacan, had just died from a heart attack at the age of sixty-nine. The entire clan was assembled for the ninth day ritual. Martin had just won his first term as congressman in Batangas and was feeling proud of having lived up to his famous father’s name.

“You hurt Papa very much when you refused his help in your campaign,” Ernesto, his oldest half-brother said quietly to him in a corner of the living room, away from the other guests. “He loved you too, you know, even if you quarreled with him all the time.

“Anyway, I have met with the other brothers and sisters and we have agreed to share the inheritance with you. We can only offer you a half share. Papa spent a lot in his later campaigns and there’s not much left. I hope you understand.”

The words cut Martin deeply—almost as if Ernesto had used a knife. Martin averted his eyes to hide the hurt. He said he would consult his wife, Conching. He came back to Ernesto and said: “Thank you very much for your offer, Ernesto. Now I finally know what I am worth—exactly half of each of you. But no thanks. Conching and I are doing very well and we don’t need it. Good night.”

Martin stormed out of the house, dragging Conching by the arm. In the car, he vented his anger with expletives directed at his legitimate half-brothers and sisters. When Conching tried to calm him down, he sarcastically insulted her for being the eldest legitimate daughter of the powerful and wealthy former Senator Mamerto Lacson of Bacolod City.

The affront had stayed in his heart all his life. In later years, whenever his profligate brothers and sisters came to him for help when on the verge of bankruptcy, he was careful to always be generous with them. And never to speak a word about his hurt.

“Sir, Mr. Tony Ayuyao is here to see you.” It was Susan gently shaking his shoulder as Martin dozed in the rocking chair.

“Oh, good, good. Show him in. We’ll talk here on the porch.”

“Good morning, Vice President. I heard that you’re preparing to fight your cocks again,” Tony said as he shook Martin’s hand. A tall, muscular man in his forties, Tony exuded strength and confidence despite his severely thinning hair.

“You know, Tony, I’ve missed it a great deal, the cockfighting. It has always been my way to relax. Even when I was a young boy in Mindoro, barely surviving as a bootblack.”

“How are your cocks doing now? I’m breeding the two trios you gave me and hope to get a bumper crop of chicks this year.”

“Not too well, I’m afraid. I’ve fought seven cocks this month. Six lost. I’m well over the hill now, and so is my breed.

“Lunch is ready, Tony. Let’s talk business while we eat.”

At the dining room table, Martin managed to swallow several mouthfuls with great effort, before he turned to business.

“I called you here to organize a press conference for me.”

“Oh? What’s the topic? Are you going back to politics?”

“No, no. I want to announce that I’m resigning as Chairman of the Molave Bank because I’m terminally ill with cancer.”

Tony was silent for a few seconds, absorbing the shocking news about his friend. “Tell me straight, Martin. How bad is it?”

“Very bad. All my doctors at the Stanford University Hospital and at the Makati Medical Center agree that I have only two to ten months to live. It seems that the cancer developed in my lungs and that it has now spread to my liver. I want people to know. I think it’s my duty after nearly a lifetime as a public figure.”

“I agree. Senate President Montinola’s refusal to confirm that he was seriously ill caused a lot of instability before he died.”

“Can you handle the press conference? I’ll pay your fees.”

“No fees, Vice President. It’s the least I can do, after you gave my ad firm that large contract during your recent campaign. I remember your remarkable press conference after you lost the presidential elections. The one where you said that you felt like going out on a deserted beach in Mindoro and swimming into the raging sea to let the powerful waves toss you to and fro like a piece of driftwood. That was a bit poetic. Can you be as candid as that in this conference?”

“I’ll try. What have I got to lose? Maybe I’ll tell them that I don’t want to lie in state at Malacañang because politicians will only deliver speeches full of lies over my casket. That I would rather be put in a cockpit, so my fellow cockers can pay their genuine last respects. Or in Mindoro ….” Martin said with mischievous eyes.

Tony laughed. “That’s good, Martin. Very good. Consider it done. Let’s do it on Wednesday next week at the Manila Pen in Makati, okay?”

“Fine.”

“What will you do now?” Tony asked with concern.

“I really don’t know,” Martin said candidly as he paused from the conversation to ponder something.

WHAT SHOULD HE DO? Martin had already pondered over Tony’s question for the past month, since he had discovered that he was dying. He thought of all the overwhelming questions haunting the country, issues that he had fought over—development paths, decentralization of political and economic power, the role of civil society in governance, protecting the environment, our country’s role in Asia, all that jazz—and concluded that they no longer concerned him, for he could not do anything about them in the few months he had left.

He turned to history to comfort him with the thought that mankind would continue to march forward, regardless of what happened to him. It was a laughable exercise—he spent all of two hours in his library, trying to read Thucydides and Herodotus and O.D. Corpus, and got bored stiff. He concluded that a scholar he was not, though he had been a good student in law school.

What should he do?

Tony had moved to the French windows to look at the cocks on tie-cords in the yard when Martin finally spoke: “I guess I’ll put my accounts and land titles in order for my children. There’s the press conference. I’d also like to spend some time with good friends like you.

“And maybe I’ll fight my favorite cock, Sultan—who is an eleven-time winner but who is also nine years old. That’s like being seventy or eighty years old for humans. He is my greatest cock, you know. The very best in more than thirty years of breeding.”

Tony returned to the table and said: “I like the thing about Sultan. I will be there to watch the fight. Tell me when and where.”

“Of course,” Martin said with a smile as he motioned for Susan to take Tony to the door so he could rest.

As he lay in bed trying to sleep, he thought of Conching.

“YOU LYING PRICK!” she screamed at him as they rode in the back of his Mercedes Benz 500 SEL on their way to a rally in Lucena City, when he was campaigning for Vice President. “You told me you were in Pangasinan last night. But Nanette Salvatierra saw you last night at the Spices restaurant at the Pen, having a lovey-dovey dinner with a pretty young woman!”
“You believe that old gossip, Nanette?” he asked.

She ignored the question. “What do you tell those twits to get them to bed? I’ll bet you get their sympathy with that campaign story about roaming the forests of Mindoro to look for fruits and edible leaves for you and your labandera mother.

“I can’t take this anymore, Martin. You can’t help having your mother’s genes. You will always be a cheating, lying, little bastard, no matter how far you go in politics. I’m going home to my people in Bacolod, who are civilized.”

Martin slapped her hard on the face to shut her up. She screamed and it alarmed Capt. Berroya, who was driving, and Lt. Espinosa, who was in the front seat. Berroya pulled over to the side of the highway. The trailing Pajero carrying Martin’s security escorts stopped behind them.
Martin angrily told Berroya and Espinosa to mind their own business and to continue driving to Lucena City.

He had regretted hitting Conching then. He regretted it now. But when she was jealous, Conching could often wrench open the trap door in his mind that he had so carefully constructed in order to succeed in getting people to trust him, in order to succeed, period. All the black garbage within burst forth when this happened.

He also regretted that he was sleeping at the Lipa farm with a young and beautiful movie starlet when Conching died suddenly from a massive stroke in their Dasmariñas house three years ago.

He missed her, and wished that she were still alive so that he could, at least, attempt to achieve some kind of closure on that part of his life.

The press conference the following week was a great success. Tony had arranged it impeccably. Martin performed like the professional politician that he was. And the story hit all the front pages of the major dailies in English and Filipino.

Martin had to shut off his cell phone permanently after the story came out. He also instructed his former staff members at the bank and the servants at his large house in Dasmarinas Village in Makati not to divulge the location of his Lipa farm. Too many political acquaintances wanted to waste his precious time.

His lawyer, Atty. Ancheta Catindig, worked efficiently in the next two weeks putting his estate in order. When he had finished, Martin signed the necessary papers with relief. This left him with only the occasional chat with an old friend that he would summon to Lipa, when he felt strong enough. And the preparations for the final fight of Sultan.

Martin felt well that day, so he personally sparred Sultan against a mediocre stag. He insisted on putting the gloves on Sultan, even if his hands shook a little. And he did the tailing and pecking to warm up the cocks before pitting them.

Sultan still moved unusually fast, for his age, and hit the stag solidly on the first fly and immediately followed this up with a murderous ground shuffle. He sidestepped perfectly when the stag rushed him after the shuffle. Sultan hit the stag with three more solid blows on the back before he tired and got hit on the head when he lost his focus. Martin immediately stepped in to stop the sparring after Sultan got hit.

“It’s unbelievable. The old cock can still fight. Had we heeled them with knives, the stag would be dead now,” remarked Larry, who had handled the stag.

“Yes, but so would Sultan. He got hit at the end. He’s not ready. He never got hit before. He needs another month,” observed Martin. “Give Sultan a young hen in his fly pen this afternoon. See if he mounts her. It might speed up his metabolism.”

Martin went back to the ranch house to rest. He dozed fitfully that afternoon as the chemotherapy was upsetting even his pissing and bowel movements. In his waking moments, he reminisced of his, and Sultan’s, youthful battles.

HE WAS TWENTY-ONE and fighting in an outdoor boxing ring during the Taytay fiesta to augment the meager allowance his father provided him. His fighting name was Fancy Dan and his opponent was Fighting Marlon, a taller boxer with an upper body chiseled from pure muscle, a narrow, hard waist, and strong legs. Marlon came after him from round one, showing disdain for his squat, stocky build and his shifty style, and hit him in the face with a good left hook and short right straight during the first minute.

His knees wobbled and he hung onto Marlon’s shoulders, as he smelled the pungent odors in the ring from the sweat, the cracked and dirty leather gloves, and the resin on their shoes. He resolved to turn Marlon’s cockiness to his advantage. He dissembled being more hurt than he actually was to encourage Marlon to rush him carelessly. Marlon fell for the trick and Martin frustrated him by slipping his blows while hitting him with off-rhythm punches. He hurt Marlon enough in the fourth and final round to win the decision and the five-hundred-peso purse.

It was 1990 and Sultan was barely a year old, fighting for the first time at the Roligon cockpit in Paranaque in a hack fight against a beautiful mahogany red stag of Esting Abello from Bacolod. Esting’s stag was so much taller and finer-looking, and he strutted with so much authority in the pit, that the odds were ten to six against the short-feathered, off-color, coarse-featured, and strangely quiet Sultan.

The Bacolod red flew to the lights on the first pitting and Sultan only stared and waited without moving from his mark. The red rushed Sultan two more times, each time lowering his flight in an attempt to reach Sultan with his blows. Sultan still did not move, he just turned to face the red on each pass. The red was fooled by Sultan’s dissembling, and mistook his deliberate immobility for fear. He rushed Sultan carelessly on his fourth pass. He came in too low. Sultan jumped barely a foot above the ground and sank his slasher blade deep into the red’s back to win with one blow.

After three months of conditioning under his strict supervision, Martin finally decided that Sultan was ready for his last battle.

Larry tried to dissuade him: “But, Sir, Sultan still won’t mount a hen. I’ve given him three of our best pullets and he doesn’t show any interest at all.”

“That’s natural at his age, isn’t it?” Martin replied.

“How about stamina? We know that Sultan is still strong and reasonably fast. But can he last in a tough fight against a top opponent?”

“Character will tell, when everything is on the line,” Martin said as he walked away from Larry.

He carefully selected the date of the derby—December 12. This would be four days after his last chemotherapy, so he wouldn’t feel too sick. He also painstakingly chose the venue—the Roligon cockpit. This was the closest major cockpit to his Lipa farm and he was a pillar in its cockers’ association. He informed his friends of the fight and he made it a point to call Tony Ayuyao himself.

Martin meticulously supervised the final conditioning of Sultan. He observed Larry carefully, to make sure that his kapatas put his heart into preparing Sultan, despite the reservations in his mind. He watched every feeding and personally sparred Sultan two more times, before he tapered off the cock’s training regimen.

Martin had new prescription glasses made so he could heel Sultan himself, though he had not tied a knife on a fighting cock in decades. He often practiced heeling his cocks with slasher knives a week before the fight. He supervised Larry’s cleaning and sharpening of Sultan’s own special slasher knife.

Martin was rather preoccupied the night before Sultan’s last fight. He hardly touched his dinner. He tried calling up Tony, but Tony wasn’t at home. He retired to his bedroom early.

But he couldn’t sleep. He lay awake in bed and thought of Sultan’s greatest victory. And his own.

SULTAN WAS TWO YEARS OLD and at his prime on his fourth fight—an international derby at the Araneta Coliseum. This one was for all the marbles—the pot of a million pesos and the title of Cockfighting Champion of the World—as Martin’s entry had won all seven previous fights and the final fight—Sultan—was against a five-time winner imported Sweater Grey of Ray Jumper, a leading American breeder whose entry had also won all of its previous fights in the week-long derby. Jumper’s confident grey was cackling in derision at Sultan and the odds were eight to twelve for the grey when the cocks were pitted.

The Sweater Grey measured Sultan perfectly on his first pass and jumped straight to where Sultan stood, his left leg viciously slashing its knife. Sultan turned ever so slightly to the left and got a billhold on the grey’s hackles as he passed. He flipped the grey on his back and quickly and cleanly slashed his throat to win the world title.

It was late 1986 and the widow of the martyred Jesus Garcia, Mary, had just assumed the Presidency after the dictator Floro Santos had fled the country. Martin was her Secretary of the Environment and Natural Resources in her revolutionary government, by virtue of his close friendship with Mary’s late husband, who had become a national hero.
Martin was pacing the carpeted corridor fronting the Rizal study on the second floor of Malacañang palace.

“Secretary, the President is playing mahjong and doesn’t want to be disturbed. Is your business very important?” Maj. Santos, one of her aides, whispered to him.

“Tell her it concerns the future of the country. I will only need ten minutes of her time,” Martin answered curtly.

Maj. Santos showed him into the study after a few minutes. Mary got up from the huge desk at the end of the long room to shake his hand.

“Martin, how nice to see you again,” She said cheerfully. “Sit down. What can I do for you? I haven’t much time as I’m meeting a delegation of U.S. businessmen led by Ambassador McGrath in a few minutes.”

“President Mary, I have drafted a presidential decree for your signature which will ban all logging in the country. It will have the binding effect of a law, as we are in a revolutionary mode of government. Please sign it. It will stop, once and for all, the denudation of our forests and the attendant flooding which kills thousands every year. It will be a major achievment of your administration and you will be remembered forever as the president who solved a stubborn problem that the dictator and the other presidents before him could not solve,” Martin said quickly.

Mary Garcia thought for a moment before saying: “I’m sure you know what you’re doing, for you’re an old hand at politics. Will we get much flak from the businessmen?”

“Not any more than we’re getting now. And the press and the NGOs will love you for it.”

“Okay. I’ll sign the original now. We’ll do it again tomorrow for the press and the TV. My press office will make the announcement,” Mary said while she signed the decree.

“Just like that,” Martin thought happily to himself as he descended the staircase of the palace. “No discussions, no acrimonious articles in the newspapers, no marching in the streets. Thank heavens for mahjong.”

A few days later, Martin read a columnist who attacked him for his effrontery in banning logging after he had practically denuded the entire province of what is now Saranggani in partnership with Governor Chua in the days of the dictator, when Martin had left politics in disgust over the declaration of martial law, after serving two terms as congressman for Batangas and one abbreviated term as senator. He had lost all faith in the future of the country then and cared only about enriching himself. The same columnist also accused him of having used his gains from illegal logging to buy his thousand-hectare farm in Camarines Norte and his slightly smaller one in Mindoro. That same day, his own former partner, now citizen Washington Chua, sent him veiled death threats.

He did not care. He had just won a major victory—quickly and cleanly.

Martin got a lot of sympathy at the Roligon cockpit the evening of the derby. Everyone had read or heard about his terminal illness. He looked terrible. He had lost thirty pounds and most of his previously thick white hair on his head and beard. It didn’t take much to imagine his suffering. Martin gracefully accepted all the expressions of regret.

After an hour of watching the fights, he retreated to his cockhouse. He sipped orange juice while he waited for Sultan’s fight. Larry heeled and pitted the other cocks and Martin did not bother to watch their fights. Two lost and one won. As Martin had requested, Sultan’s was the last fight of his entry.

When Sultan’s fight was finally called by the pit runner, Martin took complete charge. He gently eased Sultan out of the holding stall and gingerly put him into the small scratch pen to adjust to the bright lights. Martin did the teasing with a catch cock to warm up Sultan’s muscles. Then he picked up Sultan to officially weigh him in front of his opponent’s owner, Joey Almendras from Davao City, in the heeling room. The weights of both cocks were in order and Martin heeled Sultan.

There was a lusty cheer from the crowd as he entered the pit and he acknowledged it by waving both hands above his head. Joey Almendras was not cheered by the crowd when he entered with a pure white cock.

Martin scrutinized Joey’s cock carefully as he was tailed with a catch cock. He was well-conditioned and at the prime age of two years. He had the natural grace of the Zamboanga breed that Joey fought. He was also taller and better proportioned than the squat and stocky Sultan. Martin was satisfied that he was a worthy opponent for Sultan’s last fight.

Martin was very careful in pitting Sultan. He backed up all the way to the pit wall before letting Sultan go, to give him as much room as possible for maneuver.

The first minute of the fight was like entering a time warp for Martin. Sultan was simply fabulous and fought like he did the last time, five years ago. Instead of waiting for his opponent to break first, as he often did, Sultan risked all by meeting the white head-on in the first fly. The white broke too high for Sultan, so he quickly slid just under the white and stabbed him on the right leg from below. The white could not parry the blow as he had never been hit from below with such speed and accuracy before.

The white limped badly when both cocks hit the ground and the crowd roared its approval of Sultan’s magnificent maneuver. Sultan alighted lightly and instantly faked a blow to the white’s head. When the white dodged to his right to avoid the blow, Sultan got him in a flash with a punch to the white’s left side.

The white reeled from the powerful blow, but Sultan refused to come in with a killing shuffle. He backed away instead and they circled each other for a few moments. The white decided to take a risk, as he was behind in the fight. He faked a thrust at Sultan’s chest, but Sultan was not taken in and he stood his ground. So the white really went for Sultan’s chest. It was a mistake, for Sultan quickly flew just high enough to be able to jab the white on the back as he missed lunging at Sultan. It looked like a killing blow, at last, and the crowd roared once more. But Sultan’s slasher caught on a bone and he was unable to quickly pull it out.

It was the stroke of luck the worthy white needed—for Sultan to be momentarily immobile and off-balance. The white instantly turned on his back, forcibly pulling out Sultan’s knife, and slashed Sultan across his bottom below the lower end of the breast bone, spilling Sultan’s bloody guts in little pieces on the hard earthen pit floor.

Martin blanched, for he knew that this was the most painful wound that could possibly be inflicted on a cock in a slasher fight. Even the gamest breeds of American fowl had been known to stop fighting or even run with such a terrible wound. It did not kill instantly, but sadistically afforded a cock a few minutes more of sputtering life in unbelievably intense pain. And Sultan had not been bred for gameness, but for intelligence and wiliness. Martin prayed that Sultan would not die in shame by quitting.

Sultan could not stand from the pain of his chopped-up intestines. He laboriously dragged himself with his wings to the white, as moving his legs intensified his terrible pain. The white had also collapsed on the ground from his many wounds, but he raised his head to peck as Sultan approached.

The downed cocks fought desperately with wing blows and pecks for several minutes more. But they could no longer kill, for their legs were gone. During the frequent face-to-face careos by the referee, Sultan always pecked first and more aggressively. It often seemed as if Sultan might win the fight on sheer courage and determination, despite suffering from excruciating pain. He fought with such a clarity of will that it almost seemed possible that his bravery might momentarily staunch the bleeding in his exposed entrails. But he died just one minute before the clock signalled the ten-minute fight limit. The white won purely on the luck and staying power of his youth.

The crowd clapped and cheered lustily at the awesome display of courage by both warriors, but especially by Sultan, who had fought on without any hesitation, and with an admirably calm dignity, despite his terrible wound. Martin jumped to his feet and clapped his hands with all the strength he could muster.

Then he knelt reverently beside the fallen Sultan and gently picked him up. Martin gruffly waved away Larry, who tried to help. He insisted on covering Sultan’s bloody knife with its scabbard himself.

He proudly raised Sultan’s limp head as he carried him out of the pit. He looked up at the crowd as he reached the pit door. They had gone about their business of paying and collecting bets and were no longer looking at the pit.

Martin wished the same cheering crowd would watch as he grappled with the excruciating pain on his deathbed.

From Cockfighting Stories, by Antonio A. Hidalgo (Milflores, 2000).

Posted on November 20, 2008

REVIEW OF "ILUSTRADO"

2008-08-02T04:59:00.000-07:00

A REVIEW OF MIGUEL SYJUCO’S ILUSTRADO

by

ANTONIO A. HIDALGO

Ilustrado by Miguel Syjuco, the novel that recently won the MAN Asia Prize and the Palanca Grand Prize, is an exceedingly complicated and ambitious work.

It tells many stories simultaneously by using many voices, two narrators who are also the main characters, a dazzling collage of invented material like excerpts from novels and short stories, learned social and political essays, TV shows, printed interviews, poems, letters, and the ubiquitous and anonymous school jokes and ribald stories that all of us get through text messages and E-mail correspondence.

It is a mystery thriller, a historical novel of the Philippines and Filipinos spanning the last 150 years, a novel of manners of the Filipino ilustrado class, a political novel about the Philippines and its various diasporas, a deeply personal autobiographical novel, and a novel about two fictional gifted writers reflecting on Philippine literature.

The main thread of Ilustrado is ostensibly the story of two Filipino writers in New York. Crispin Salvador is a larger-than-life fictionist and essayist who was once a literary lion. Born into a hacendero family from Bacolod, he roamed the world in his youth and later wrote an autobiography about his adventures with the internationally rich and famous. When time passes him by and he is largely forgotten, he retreats to New York, becomes a recluse, teaches literature, and tries to write a final masterpiece. Miguel, who has no surname, is his student who becomes his literary acolyte. Miguel also comes from a wealthy family that lives in Forbes Park, but he has chosen to run away from his emotional problems at home to find himself in Manhattan. He intends to write a biography of Crispin, his mentor, and doggedly hounds him to probe all the hidden crevices in Crispin’s mind and heart.

The novel begins with a prologue by Miguel about the discovery of Crispin’s body floating in the Hudson River. The police don’t know if Crispin was murdered or if he committed suicide. Miguel is deeply troubled by the mysterious death of Crispin and sifts through his belongings in search of a clue to what really happened. He finds nothing except the odds and ends of Crispin’s life. His relationship with his girlfriend, Madison, finally dies at this time after much languishing. There is nothing left for him in New York. He decides to return to the Philippines to try to unearth the truth behind Crispin’s death and to gather more material for the biography.

On the plane trip home, Miguel muses with irony, thoughts framed by the return of the first ilustrados long ago: “Around me, in this tin can, my fellow travelers: we, the acquiescent, unaware insurrectionists, we who have left and returned so constantly throughout history our language has given us a name—balikbayan. Slope-shouldered are we, freighted by years of self-exile; handcarries bulging with items that wouldn’t fit in overweight luggage, all the countless gifts for countless relatives—proof our time away has not been wasted … These are my people. (Crispin once called them the ‘splay-toed, open-hearted’.)”

In Manila for the yuletide, the young writer reflects on his country and people and a pastiche emerges. There is a recollection of Crispin’s imaginary interview: “Manila is the cradle, the memory, the graveyard; the Mecca, the Cathedral, the bordello; the shopping mall, urinal, discotheque. I’m hardly speaking in metaphor.” And a passage from one of his books: “… We should embrace Traffic as part of our cultural identity, the way the French have their smoking and the Italians their womanizing …. Our chaos is as ordered as it is necessary. We cope. We protect ourselves. We learn the patience necessary in everyday life …. Happy are those who learn to enjoy it. It’s better than a cockfight, and free!”

Like Manila traffic, the novel’s narrative congeals into ordered chaos. The time line is frequently disrupted with invented historical texts of the origins of the Filipino elites beginning with the migration of Crispin Salvador’s Spanish great grandfather to the Philippines in 1860. History is merged with fiction through Crispin’s stories of the Philippine Revolution in the 19th century. One of Crispin’s characters, Cristo, returns home from battle after the Revolution has been defeated. His four young sons no longer recognize him. He shaves his beard and walks with his sons and his wife, Maria Clara, after dinner. On the spur of the moment, he invites his wife to have another child, to try for a girl, this time. Then he says: “We will become American. Our children will learn to speak American. When they are ready, we will send them there to be educated. Just as I was in Europe …. They’ll return to make a difference.”

In Crispin’s imagined autobiography, he alludes to the deterioration of the ilustrados from the heights of revolution to crass selfishness and greed when he writes: “Fittingly, my father’s name was Narciso …. At one time, somewhere in the lineage before him, the name possessed the tragedy of the myth and the irony that such a name could be possessed by such a man so distinctly un-narcissistic. Upon my father, however, … the very act of christening him ‘Narciso’ authored a parody of a sacred sacrament, wherein one is named for his essence, his worst characteristic by which he would be forever remembered. In fact, he is belittled further as ‘Junior’ …. A self-fulfilling prophecy: try as he did, he was damned forever to be the tiny narcissus.”

With an unflinching gaze, the novel inexorably, albeit sporadically, builds a most critical profile of Filipino elites. The character of Miguel remembers that his mother bought a pair of jeans for P5,000 and paid her maid only P3,000 a month. At a dinner in Dasmariñas Village where he is introduced to the parents of his new Pinay girlfriend, Sadie, he records through dialogue the utter contempt with which Sadie’s mother regards her maids. There is a scene of bitter bickering over inheritances in a family after the collapse of sugar prices in the 70s. And historical accounts of the many bastard children of the elites. Miguel begins to go out regularly with his young barkada to the nightspots and clinically records their superficial preoccupation with drugs and sex, including his own reversion to getting high.

Through TV and the papers, he sees the country descend into chaos from politically-instigated bombings and the ruthless machinations of the charlatan Brother Martin of a charismatic Christian movement, the opportunistic revolutionary Wigberto Lakan, and the corrupt President Fernando V. Estregan and his ally, former general turned senator, Filimon Lontok. Within the gathering storm in the country, the novel examines the possibilities of high-minded action through the writings of Crispin, a bit like what Rizal’s novels did. The writings are from different periods in Crispin’s life and are contradictory. They cover the gamut of choices—from revolution to compromise to acquiescence to creating literature like Rizal’s that would kindle social powder kegs.

While the novel paints the large portrait of Philippine society, it simultaneously develops the personal quest of Miguel for the truth about Crispin. He talks to his sister and aunt and discovers a humdinger of a family secret that will send him on a lengthy odyssey for the roots of Crispin and what makes him tick. In the process, he is forced to confront his own bitter personal secret.

All the stories are regularly interspersed with pop culture jokes about a promdi OFW called Erning Isip; colgelialas, Atenistas, La Sallites, and their foil, a poor student from the AMA Computer College; and the hilariously bawdy Boy Bastos. They lighten the essentially cerebral nature of Ilustrado.

Like: “When Boy Bastos was still a sperm in Erning’s testicle, he was already precocious. One day … he feels the current moving them forward. Boy Bastos … leads the pack. As he is about to shoot forth from Erning’s shaft, he shouts, ‘Go back, go back, it’s only tonsils!’ The next day, he feels the current moving again and leads the pack once more. At the last instant, he shouts again: ‘Go back, go back! It’s only condom!’ The next day, the current flows, and Boy swims forward with anticipation, convinced this time must be his. Suddenly, he turns back, shouting desperately to the others: ‘Go back, go back! It’s shit!’”

Using a wide variety of materials in a novel is often called bricolage—literally, construction by using whatever comes to hand. Its expert use in Ilustrado achieves several objectives. It imbues the novel with a wonderful makeshift and uncertain quality that evokes real life. It also broadens the canvas of the novel by using pop culture and sharpens its content by limning its characters and present realities with light from learned analysis of the past.

Heteroglossia—multiple voices using different language registers—is also employed quite effectively by the talented author. Because the many voices in Ilustrado all ring true, what emerges is a large three-dimensional reflection of our country and of ourselves from various angles, including the views from our scattered diasporas.

All the story lines converge towards the end of the novel. Miguel continues to be alienated from his parents and does not yet resolve his personal dilemma. One night, he and Sadie bail out of a nightspot from boredom to go to a party. It rains heavily and the streets flood. The lights go out in most places and they are stuck in frozen traffic near the Pasig River at the edge of Makati. The Pasig rises and they are trapped in Sadie’s car. A factory across the river explodes like fireworks. Two street children float by their car atop an ice-cream cart.

Miguel remembers Crispin’s words: “You must choose sides. If you choose your own, you choose oppression, fratricide, indifference; you will never be content amongst your own. If you side with the others, you choose treason, patricide, betrayal; you will never be accepted amongst those unlike you …. What to do? Nothing to be done, Pozzo. You cannot sit this out. The airplane lands. The people clap. Take a bow. You’re on the stage.”

While this is happening, EDSA 4 is going on at Malacañang. Lakan has taken hostages and threatens to kill them. The mob, egged on by Brother Martin over the objections of Lakan, attacks the palace. The national political storm coincides with the heavy rains and the crisis in Miguel’s life that calls for action.

In post-modern style, Ilustrado ends uncertainly, or perhaps, ends in several contradictory ways. There are several scenes where Miguel takes alternative paths with vague results that are written in soaring prose: “He thought, instead, not of how it began, but how it must have ended, of how it always must. That last final moment before going towards the light: the pinprick of dawn, the world turning on its side, the horizon vertical, the sun and the moon in the same sky …. Hearing someone sing your name, seeing faces to whom life will soon ascribe meaning, the discovery of your first word, the oblivion of not yet knowing there would ever be your last.”

The epilogue is a fitting ending to the chaos so ably rendered by the novel. It surprises, explains much, but also further nuances the multiple visions that abound throughout the book. The language of the denouement, by itself, is a singular achievement that is certain to satisfy readers.

Ilustrado is metafiction in that it is often fiction about fiction. It is a most cerebral novel that dares to reflect the Philippines and Filipinos at so many levels and dimensions. Through virtuoso use of language and a dazzling array of fictional techniques, it achieves all of its lofty objectives.

It is far too sophisticated to engage readers in the direct way of, say, melodrama, like Rizal’s novels did. The right reader, however, will be thoroughly engaged by this novel, for he will be enticed to reflect upon himself and his society in a fresh light through the passion of ideas.

It deserves all the accolades it has won. It is among the finest novels written by a Filipino. Perhaps, even by any writer.

(Antonio A. Hidalgo was chair of the board of judges that unanimously awarded the 2008 Palanca Grand Prize for the novel to Ilustrado by Miguel Syjuco. Thanks to Syjuco, this review was also based on the slightly rewritten version that won the 2008 MAN Asia Prize.)

Published in the Philippine Daily Inquirer, December 1, 2008, pp. E1-E2.

Posted on November 21, 2008

ANG MUSIKA NG GABI

2008-08-01T16:40:00.000-07:00

ni

ANTONIO A. HIDALGO

UMIIHIP ANG NAGPAPAGINHAWANG AMIHAN MULA SA SIERRA MADRE sa ilang na bayan ng San Miguel, Bulacan nang unang dumating si Leo Gimeno sa Magiting Gamecock Farm ni Oscar Bernardo sa kalsadang Tecson. Katapusan na ng Oktubre noon, sa wakas, lumamig na rin ang mabanas na panahon, at ang amihan ay pinagagalaw nang mahinay ang dahon ng mga puno ng niyog, mangga, duhat, dama de noche at iba pa sa maluwag na hardin kung saan nakatulos ang mga panabong ng Magiting sa tabi ng maraming tuwid na hanay na triyanggulong playwud – ang tinatawag na teepee ng mga sabungero – na bumubuo ng pambihirang dibuhong guhit na lumilihis sa dibuhong likas ng napakaraming malusog na puno’t halaman sa palahian ni Oscar.

Dahil sa mahinahong amihan, ang mga mabalahibong panabong sa palahian ay hindi na nagtatago mula sa nakakapritong init ng araw sa kanilang teepee at hindi na humihiga sa malamig na lupa habang nakanganga’t nakalatag ang pakpak; hindi, ngayon ay walang-hinto silang kumakahig ng lupa sa paligid ng teepee, pumuputak sa mga inahin sa mataas na boses upang ipahiwatig na nakahanap sila ng malinamnam na bulate o uod, o kaya’y nagmamagilas sila sa paglakad, naghahanap ng bakbakan at maya’t maya’y tumitilaok upang hamunin ang katabing panlaban, habang humihila sa tali para makawala upang sugurin ang kinasusuklamang karibal sa mga dumalagang nakakawala sa hardin.

Ang apat na tagapag-alaga ng daan-daang panabong ay nagtiis din ng mahaba’t maalinsangang tag-init ng taong El Niño, kamukha ng mga hayop at tanim sa palahian, at sila man ay nakilahok sa pagbabago ng natigang na lupa – una, mula sa maikling tag-ulang nagtagal nang ilang linggo lamang; at, pagkatapos, mula sa maaliwalas na amihang nagpapahiwatig ng pagdating ng Disyembre at ang panibagong pagsibol ng kagalakan sa pamamagitan ng Pasko. Nakasiyorts, nakayapak at hubad ang dibdib, masigasig nilang inasikaso ang kanilang mga alaga, masigla silang nagkuwentuhan habang nilibot nila ang palahian upang hulihin ang mga panabong para inspeksiyunin ang mga tumutubong balahibo pagkatapos ng lugon sa panahon ng pagbabago, upang sila’y timbangin at tingnan ang kalagayan ng kanilang tali, teepee, at lalagyan ng pagkain at tubig.

Pumito si Leo ng popular na kanta ni Jude Michael, “Mula sa Puso,” habang siya’y naglakad sa nakaangat na landas na gawa ng siniksik na lupa na pinalibutan ng mga hollow block, ang daanang bumibiyak ng hardin at tumutungo sa konkretong tirahan ng mga tagapag-alaga sa likod ng palahian. Ang kanyang itinatanging gitara’y nakasakbat sa kanang balikat at siya’y may dalang maliit na maletang naglalaman ng kanyang damit, teyp ng musika, at bitbiting cassette player sa kaliwang kamay. Huminto siya sa gitna ng daanan upang kumaway kay Lando at magpakilala, habang ang huli’y sinusubuan ng bitamina ang nakangangang tuka ng isang panabong.

“Kumusta, ako’y si Leo Gimeno galing sa Naga, kinuha ni Bos Oscar para tulungan kayong mag-alaga ng panabong,” ‘ika niya bago ilabas ang kanang kamay para kumasa kay Lando.

Inilapag ni Lando ang kanyang hawak na panlaban at kumasa siya sa kamay ni Leo. “Ako naman si Lando Solis mula sa Bacolod. Welcome sa palahian! Tara, ipakikilala kita kay Ramil Caceres, ang ating kapatas.” Magkahawak sila ng kamay tumungo sa kanilang tirahan, kung saan nagpapakain si Ramil ng mga sisiw sa loob ng kulungang pinalibutan ng iskrin. Tumigil sa trabaho si Ramil upang batiin si Leo at kunin ang kanyang kamay para dalhin sa mahabang kuwarto na parihaba’t may malamig na sementong sahig at yerong bubong kung saan natutulog lahat ng katulong at ang guwardiya sa gabi ng palahian.

“Heto ang iyong tiheras, kumot, unan at kulambo. Ilagay mo ang iyong gamit sa ilalim ng tiheras. Ang mga plato’t kubiyertos ay nasa mesa sa kanto, kung saan lahat tayo’y kakain. Inasal na manok, estilong Bacolod, ang ating tanghalian. Kumatay kami ng sobrang inahin ngayong umaga. Lulutuin ko sila maya-maya. Taga-Bacolod ako, gaya ni Lando, at sana’y magustuhan mo ang aking pagluluto. Ang tatlo pang nakatira’t nagtatrabaho rito’y si Rey Capul, mula sa Iloilo; Gil Palma, galing Samar; at Frankie de Guzman, mula sa Mindoro – siya ang guwardiya sa gabi. Makikilala mo silang lahat pagkain natin ng tanghalian. Mabait silang lahat,” ang sinabi ni Ramil kay Leo, habang nakaupo sila sa tiheras ni Leo.

“Ikinalulungkot ko na wala akong nalalaman tungkol sa panabong o sa sabong, kuya Ramil,” nagtapat agad si Leo. “Pero sinabi ni Bos Oscar na okey raw ito dahil tuturuan niya ako.”

“Huwag kang mag-alaala. Wala rin kaming alam nang kami’y nag-umpisa rito. Tutulungan ko si Bos Oscar sa pagtuturo sa iyo. Dalawang taon na ako rito. Magpahinga ka nang sandali. Tatawagin na lang kita pag handa na ang tanghalian,” ang mabait na sagot ni Ramil bago siya umalis para magluto.

Umupo muli si Leo sa kanyang bakal at plastik na tiheras paglisan ni Ramil at mapangarap siyang tumanaw sa mga umiimbay na dahon ng matataas at matatandang puno ng niyog gawa ng pag-ihip ng amihan. Ikinakuwadro nila ang magara at antigong mansiyon sa kabilang dulo ng palahian, malapit sa kalsada, kung saan nakatira si Bos Oscar; ang magagandang linya ng mansiyon, matitingkad na kulay at matarik na bubong ay pinalitaw ng makapal na dahon ng mga nakapalibot na napakataas na mga puno ng is-is, kaimito at dama de noche. Nagpasiya si Leo na gustung-gusto niya ang magandang lugar at mababait na kasamahan at sumumpa siyang gagawin ang lahat ng kanyang makakaya sa pag-aalaga ng mga tinali.

Nang gabing iyon, pagkatapos nilang maghapunan, naglabas si Ramil ng malaking bote ng Ginebra San Miguel, iyong tinatawag na kuwatro kantos, at umupo silang lahat sa mesa sa ilalim ng nakasinding hubad na bombilya upang mag-inuman at magrelaks pagkatapos ng trabaho. Hindi talaga umiinom si Leo, pero lumagok siya ng konting gin tuwing siya’y inaalok para hindi siya maiba. Hindi nagtagal, natunaw ng gin ang kanyang hiya at nakipagbarkada na siya sa pamamagitan ng pakikipagpalitan ng mga bastos na kuwento’t pagsabay sa pagtatawa rito.

Kinanta ni Lando ang “Usahay,” ang bantog na awit ng mga Cebuano ukol sa pagmamahal, at inanyayahan niya ang lahat na sumama sa pagkanta. Medyo nawala si Lando sa tono, kaya inilabas ni Leo ang kanyang gitara upang sabayan si Lando at ibalik sa tamang nota. Ginanahan ang mga katulong dito at malakas ang kantahan nang halos isang oras, habang umaalalay si Leo sa kanyang gitara. Nang naubusan ng awit ang grupo, si Leo na lang ang kumanta ng mga kundiman na Tagalog gaya ng “Dahil sa Iyo” at “Ikaw.” Nasa kondisyon ang kanyang boses, pinuri ng barkada ang kanyang maramdaming estilo at pinakiusapan siyang kumanta pa ng ibang awit. Pinili ni Leo ang “Mula sa Puso,” ang bantog na awit ni Jude Michael, bilang kanyang pangwakas, dahil ito ang kanyang kasalukuyang paborito. Pumalakpak at pumito ang mga tagapag-alaga nang siya’y matapos. Pinabalik nila sa pag-awit si Leo, habang inuubos nila ang natitirang gin. Kinanta ni Leo ang isa pang awit ng kanyang idolong si Jude Michael, “Ang Iyong Pag-ibig,” bago sila matapos mag-inuman at maghandang matulog.

Malalim ang tulog ni Leo noong gabing iyon, bumaluktot siya na parang bilig sa loob ng kumot dahil sa ginaw, at nangarap siya tungkol sa mga kalugud-lugod na bagay na hindi niya matandaan sa kanyang paggising dahil preskung-presko ang kanyang pakiramdam at siya’y nananabik mag-almusal.

Marubdob ang dinanas ni Leo sa mga sumunod na linggo, habang siya’y nag-aral ng pag-alaga ng mga teksas na tandang, inahin at sisiw. Medyo nalito siya sa kanyang kataka-takang nakita at kakaibang impormasyon na pasumalang pumasok sa kanyang utak habang nagtatrabaho, ngunit binuhay rin nito ang kuryusidad ni Leo at inakit siyang gumalugad ng kabigha-bighaning mundo ng sabong.

Natuklasan niya na ang mga istag na nagbibinata sa edad na apat o limang buwan ay ibinubukod, upang hindi sila lumaban nang patayan bago dumating ang kanilang itinakdang panahon; ikinukulong sila sa scratch pen na may sahig na puting buhangin upang mahehersisyo ang kanilang hita sa pamamagitan nang paghalukay, na may kahoy na hapunan sa gitna na apat na piye ang taas, kung saan sila madalas tumuntong para tumilaok at sa ganitong paraan palakasin ang kanilang pakpak, at may bubong na yero upang hindi sila tamaan ng mainit na araw o mabasa sa ulan. Napansin niya na mabangis pala ang mga inahing teksas at madalas nilang ipagmalaki ang kanilang mataas na katayuan sa kawan sa pamamagitan ng biglang pagtuka o mabangis na pagsipa sa nananahimik na mas mababang inahin, habang sila’y gumagala sa palahian. Natutunan din niya na maagang lumitaw ang personalidad ng mga sisiw, bago pang tumubo ang kanilang balahibo; ang iilan ay nagtatanghal ng kanilang liderato sa pamamagitan ng mabagsik na panunupil at abenturerong paggalugad ng pinakatagong dako’t sulok ng palahian, at ang karamihan naman ay matapat na sumusunod sa kanilang piniling idolo kung saan man pumaroon ito, habang ginagaya nila ang bawat kilos at ingay nito.

Nilagyan ng numero ang bawat kulungan at teepee at ang mga sasabungin na nakatira rito’y may mga malabayaning pangalan gaya ng Sultan, Prinsipe, Datu at Hari; kakaibang pangalan kamukha ng Volare, Guniguni, Ani at Tot; at nakatatakot na pangalan gaya ng Upak, Saksak, Killer at Polpot. Ipinaliwanag ni Bos Oscar sa mga Boy na nilikha niya ang masalimuot na sistema ng pagbigay ng numero sa lahat ng kinalalagyan ng manok at ng pangalan sa lahat ng tinali at ipinasok niya ang sistema sa kanyang computer sa bahay, upang lagi niyang malaman kung nasaan ang bawat panabong sa kanyang palahian. Tuwing regular na araw, mula alas-diyes sa umaga hanggang tanghali, inilabas ni Bos Oscar ang kanyang polder ng talaan mula sa computer, ipinares niya ang mga panabong batay sa kanilang timbang, inutusan niya ang mga Boy na kunin ang mga panlaban mula sa presisang kulungan o teepee, isinuot niya ang maliliit na glab sa matulis at matigas na tahid ng mga panabong, at ibinitaw sila nang dalawang beses nang eksaktong treinta segundos kada bitaw – ang tagal ng bitaw ay itinakda ng stopwatch na hawak ni Bos Oscar. Pagkayari ng bawat bitaw, minarkahan ni Bos Oscar, na parang guro, ng grado ang nagsalpukang panabong sa kanyang talaan batay sa kanilang galing sa bitaw, itinalakay niya sa mga Boy ang abilidad sa paglaban ng binitawang tinali, at, paminsan-minsan, inutusan niya ang mga tagapag-alagang magbigay ng espesyal na hehersisyo sa panabong o kaya’y palitan ang kanyang diyeta.

Nabahala si Leo sa sistema ng pagmarka ng grado’t ang asal ni Bos Oscar na parang istriktong guro dahil naalaala niya ang kanyang pag-aaral sa Naga, kung kailan huminto siyang pumasok sa ikalawa niyang taon sa hayiskul gawa ng hindi niya matupad ang gawaing iskuwela kapag may gurong nakabantay sa kanya, may hawak na pluma at talaan ng grado, at nananabik humatol sa pinakamaliit niyang pagkakamali. Parati siyang ninenerbiyos sa ganitong situwasyon dahil ipinaalaala nito sa kanya ang kanyang walang-hintong pagpalpak sa pag-aaral sa iskuwela at sa mga palakasan ng estudyante gawa ng kanyang malubhang disbentaha, sapagkat hindi siya makapagbasa nang matagal at ang katawan niya’y mababa at payat. Natakot siya na, balang araw, hindi lang ang mga panabong ang mamarkahan ng grado ni Bos Oscar, baka markahan na rin niya ang mga tagapag-alaga, batay sa kanilang lakas, resistensiya at galing sa pag-alaga.

Ngunit panandalian lang ang kanyang mga pangamba – mabait naman sa kanya si Bos Oscar at iniligtas siya ng kanyang mga kasamahan sa manaka-nakang mabigat na pagbubuhat ng teepee o natumbang puno gawa ng malinaw na mahina ang kanyang katawan; sa katotohanan lang, nagustuhan siya ng kanyang mga kasama dahil siya’y mahinahon at laging handang tumugtog ng gitara at kumanta sa gabi upang libangin sila at ito ang isa sa mabibilang na panahon sa kanyang buhay kung kailan hindi siya naging target ng panunupil o magaspang na biruan ng barkada. At nasindak siya sa tindi ng mga panabong kapag nagsasalpukan; naramdaman niya ang kanilang galit at poot tuwing sila’y lilipad nang mataas upang bagsakan ang kalaban at ibuhos ang lahat ng kanilang lakas sa pakpak at hita sa mga rapidong palo, o kapag sila’y nagbitaw ng masidhing siyapol sa pamamagitan ng mahigpit na pagkapit sa pulok ng kalaban, paghila nitong papasok habang umuupo sila sa kanilang buntot, at walang-hintong pagpagaspas ng pakpak at paulit-ulit na pagsipa nang matulin na parang nasisiraan ng bait. Natuwa si Leo sa walang-hiyang kayabangan ng mga panabong pagkatapos ng salpukan, kung kailan napakalakas ng kanilang pagtilaok at pagputak upang ipagmalaking nanalo sila at tuyain ang kalaban, dahil wala siyang ganitong ugali at siya’y naakit sa mga panabong katulad ng pagkaakit ng magkabaligtad na polo ng koryente sa isa’t isa.

Isinama ni Bos Oscar si Leo sa three-cock derby sa sabungan ng San Rafael pagkalipas ng isang buwan. Humanga si Leo sa konkretong gusali at sa komportableng mga upuan na may kutson para sa tahur, dahil ang nakita niyang mga sabungan sa kanyang bayan ay gawa lamang ng kahoy at walang ganoong upuan, mahahaba’t matitigas na bangko lang ang ginagamit ng mga mananaya. Bumilib siya sa rami ng mga potahe’t kakanin sa mga karinderiya sa unang palapag at sa mamahaling baro ng mga sabungero, pati na ang mga tagapag-alaga ng iba pang palahiang sumali sa paligsahan.

Lumaban si Upak sa ruweda, ang kanilang unang panabong, na may tunay na tari. Napukaw si Leo nang winasak ni Upak ang kalaban sa unang lipad sa pamamagitan ng isang suntok na tumama na parang bomba at nang kumolapso ang kalaban sa gitna at ito’y biglang naging isang bungkos ng gusut-gusot na balahibo na lamang. Walang kakurap-kurap siyang tumitig sa sentensiyador, habang inangat nito ang dalawang panabong – ang walang sugat at nababalisang Upak at ang nangingisay at namamatay na itim na kalaban – upang patukain nang dalawang beses si Upak. Ngayon lang nakakita si Leo ng kamatayan at ang eksena, kasama na ang malakas na hiyawan ng tao, ang sigaw ng sentensiyador sa kanyang paghatol, ang maanghit na amoy ng lupang sahig ng ruweda, ang maalat na amoy ng dugo sa tari ni Upak, at ang mabigat at mausok na hangin sa ruweda kung saan siya nakatingkayad sa isang kanto – lahat ito’y lagi na lang sasagi sa kanyang utak habang siya’y nabubuhay.

Nanalo ang lahat ng tatlong panabong ng Magiting Farm at naging kampiyon ang entry ni Bos Oscar kasama ang dalawa pang entry. Malaki ang pagsasaya sa asotea ng palasyo ni Bos Oscar pag-uwi nila nang bandang alas-dos ng madaling araw. Inabutan ni Bos Oscar ng balato ang lahat ng mga Boy, pati na ang bantay sa gabi, at naglabas siya ng isang kaha ng serbesa. Pagkatapos nilang buhaying muli ang mga panalo ng kanilang alagang panabong sa pamamagitan ng kuwentuhan, hiniling ng mga kasama niya na kunin ni Leo ang kanyang gitara upang aliwin sila ng awit. Karaka-rakang pumayag si Leo at kinanta niya ang dalawang paboritong awit: “Ang Iyong Pag-ibig” at “Mula sa Puso” ni Jude Michael. Napakadalas na niyang pinakinggan ang mga kantang ito sa kanyang cassette player at memoriyado na niya ang lahat ng kanilang sayusay at nota at kaya na niyang ilipat ang sayusay sa piyano ng saliw ng unang awit sa kanyang gitara at gayahin nang walang kamali-mali ang sayusay sa gitara ng ikalawang kanta; binanat niya nang husto ang pinakamatataas na nota ng kanyang boses, kamukha ng ginagawa ni Jude Michael, upang bigyang-diin ang damdamin ng mga awit.

Bumilib si Bos Oscar sa pag-awit ni Leo at wika niya: “Ang galing mo, Leo. Bakit hindi ka sumali sa paligsahan ng kanta sa Pamaskong Perya ng San Miguel sa darating na linggo? Malay natin, baka manalo ka?”

“Hindi po. Hindi sapat ang aking galing para sumali sa paligsahan. Pero salamat, sir, sa inyong pagpuri,” ang nahihiyang sagot ni Leo.

“Tama ka na. Masyado kang mapagkumbaba,” namilit si Bos Oscar. “Panahon na ngayon ng globalisasyon at uso na ang magpaligsahan. Lahat tayo’y kailangan nang lumahok sa paligsahan – gaya ng mga panabong ng Magiting Farm. Isali mo si Leo sa paligsahan ng perya,” ang iniutos niya kay Ramil.

Masiglang sumang-ayon ang mga boy sa desisiyon ni Bos Oscar at hinimok nila si Leo na sumali sa paligsahan. Naunawaan ni Leo na nabitag na siya at wala na siyang ibang magagawa kundi pumayag.

Masunuring itinupad ni Ramil ang utos ni Bos Oscar pagkaraan ng dalawang araw. Para kay Leo, parang kidlat dumaan ang buong linggo bago ganapin ang paligsahan, dahil wala na siyang ginawa sa kanyang libreng oras, kundi pakinggan ang teyp ni Jude Michael, “problemang puso,” sa kanyang cassette player upang sabayan ito sa kanyang gitara at pag-awit. Malubha ang nerbiyos ni Leo tungkol sa darating na paligsahan at nagpasalamat siya na mukhang hindi ito napansin ng kanyang mga kasama at parang inakala nilang normal lang para sa mang-aawit na sasali sa paligsahan ang kanyang labis na pagsasanay. Tuwing mag-iinuman sila sa gabi, kasingdami na ng ibang Boy ang ininom ni Leo upang pawiin ang kanyang nerbiyos, subalit hindi rin napansin ito, dahil hindi naman ito binanggit sa kanya ng iba pa niyang kasamahan.

Nang dumating, sa wakas, ang kakila-kilabot na gabi ng paligsahan, isinuot ni Leo ang kanyang pinakamagarang T-shirt na kulay-puti na may dibuhong kulay-marun, pantalong maong, at kaisa-isang balat na sapatos. Muntik na niyang malimutan ang kanyang gitara nang lumakad sila patungong perya pagkatapos ng hapunan, pero kinuha ito ni Lando mula sa kanyang tiheras, idinuldol sa kanyang kamay, at pabirong nagtanong kung natandaan ni Leo na isuot ang kanyang brief.

Malamig at sariwa ang hangin noong gabing iyon sa patyo ng antigong simbahan ng San Miguel, katapat ng munisipiyo, kung saan ginanap ang Pamaskong Perya. Umaapaw sa tao ang patyo, halos nagliliyab ito mula sa daan-daang nakasinding bombilya, may puti at may sarisaring kulay, na nakasabit sa mga kahoy na poste, at pinalamutihan ng makukulay na palawit na papel. Natutuwang lumibot ang mga kasama ni Leo upang tumingin sa mga kubol na nagbebenta ng mga damit at abubot, sumali sa laro gaya ng basketbol na may premyong manika kung maisiyut ang tatlong bola mula sa maikling distansiya, at tumingin na may pagnanasa sa mga dalagang namamasyal at nagkukunwaring hindi nila napapansin ang mga titig ng mga naglalaway na binata. Natakot si Leo kaysa matuwa sa kasiyahan ng perya dahil malakas ang kanyang kutob na siya’y papalpak sa paligsahan gawa nang parati na lang siyang napapahiya tuwing napipilitang sumali sa kompetisiyon. Ang mga amoy mula sa pawis ng dumagsang tao, sa usok ng mga nilulutong barbikyu, at paminsan-minsang pumuputok na rebentador ay sumalakay sa kanyang ilong habang hinihintay niyang ganapin ang paligsahan at may kumikirot na teribleng kilabot sa kanyang puso. Maaskad ang mga amoy at naisip ni Leo na kawangki nila ang mga amoy sa sabungan ng San Rafael noong sumali sila sa derby.

Sa wakas ay nagsimula ang kinatatakutang paligsahan at si Leo’y medyo natuliro nang marinig niyang tinawag ang kanyang pangalan bilang unang mang-aawit.

“At ngayon, para umpisahan ang ating pinakahinihintay na paligsahan sa pagkanta, ibibigay ko sa inyo si Leo Gimeno, ang bata at matalinong mang-aawit na Bikolano mula sa Magiting Farm ni Mr. Bernardo! Umakyat ka rito, Leo. Anong aawitin mo para sa amin ngayong gabi? Sinabi sa akin ni Mr. Bernardo na napakagaling mo raw,” ang pahayag ng emcee sa mikropono.

“’Mula sa Puso,’ kanta ni Jude Michael,” ang ibinulong ni Leo sa mayk pagkatapos siyang itulak sa entablado ni Ramil.

Tumanaw sa dumagsang tao si Leo mula sa entablado at nanigas siya dahil sa takot. Hinanap niya si Bos Oscar, pero hindi niya nakita. Natuwa siya na wala roon si Bos Oscar. Pinaglaruan niya nang sandali ang kanyang gitara, na kunwari’y itinotono niya. Nang hindi na niya mapigilan ang di-maiiwasan, sa wakas ay itinaas niya ang kanyang mukha sa mayk at nagsimula siyang kumanta.

Nagkamali ng sayusay si Leo sa kanyang gitara sa simula ng kanyang awit. Tumawa siya dahil sa nerbiyos at muli siyang nag-umpisa. Nanigas ang kanyang lalamunan at talipyang lumabas ang kanyang boses sa mga unang nota. Tumingin siya sa mga nanonood at nakakita siya nang ilang taong nagkukuwentuhan at tumatawa. Sinubukan niyang abutin ang mataas na nota sa gitna ng kanta at pumiyok ang kanyang boses. Nabigla ang isang dalaga sa tapat ng entablado at sumigaw siya ng: “Ai!” Tinakpan agad ng dalaga ang kanyang bibig nang tiningnan siya ni Leo. Nakabawi naman nang konti si Leo sa bandang huli ng awit at nakakanta siya ng ilang magandang nota. Pumito si Lando mula sa tabi ng entablado at sinuntok niya ang kanyang kamao sa hangin nang maraming beses. Pero maligamgam lang ang palakpakan pagkatapos kumanta ni Leo.

Nagmadaling lumayas sa entablado si Leo. Naiiyak na siya nang lumapit sina Ramil, Lando, Gil at iba pang kasama para batiin siya at kumasa sa kanyang kamay. Alam ni Leo na siya’y pumalpak na naman. Nagdahilan siya na masakit ang kanyang ulo. Umalis siya sa perya nang mag-isa para umuwi sa palahian.

Nayamot si Leo sa pag-ihip ng amihan sa kalsada. Gininaw siya sa hangin at ginulo nito ang kanyang buhok. Tumindi ang kanyang kalungkutan dahil sa unti-unting nawawalang ingay mula sa perya. Tumulo ang luha sa kanyang pisngi, habang dahan-dahan siyang naglakad nang pauwi sa madidilim na kalsada.

Pumuputak nang malakas ang isang panabong sa kanyang kulungan pagdating ni Leo sa gayt ng palahian. Nagtaka siya kung papaano natuklasan ng panabong ang kanyang kahihiyan. May kumalabog pagdating niya sa daanang papunta sa kanilang tirahan; lumingon siya’t nakita niyang may nahulog na niyog. Nanghinayang siya na hindi pa lumagpak ang niyog sa kanyang ulo, para tapusin na ang kanyang pighati.

Nagpasiya siyang umalis sa palahian – sasabihin niya ito kay Bos Oscar kinabukasan. Pupunta siya sa Gapan para maghanap ng trabaho. Baka matulungan siya ni Benjie, isang tagapag-alagang nakilala niya sa sabungan ng San Rafael. Mag-uumpisa siya uli.

At sa susunod, hindi na siya papayag na ilaban siya ng patayan na parang isang hamak na panabong.

Mula sa Ang Musika ng Gabi at Iba Pang Istorya ni Antonio A. Hidalgo (Milflores, 2002).

Ang bersiyon ng istoryang ito sa Ingles ay nagwagi ng Runner-Up prize sa 2000 NVM Gonzalez Literary Awards.

Posted on November 23, 2008

MEMORIES OF FRANZ

2008-08-01T01:54:00.000-07:00

ANTONIO A. HIDALGO

Franz Arcellana was my neighbor in the UP campus in Diliman in the ’50s and ’60s. My parents moved us there when I entered Grade Five and I left after finishing college, some graduate school, and teaching at the UP for a couple of years.

The campus was very different then. There were far fewer residents, students, faculty, and everything else. No traffic, hardly anyone on the streets, and lots of empty sawali houses left behind by the Americans, who had used the campus as a military base for some years after the Second World War.

We lived at the very edge of Area XIV, just a few steps away from Area XVII, where Franz and his family lived about a block away. Between the Arcellanas and us lived O.D. Corpuz, Pepe Encarnacion, the spouses Socrates of UP High, Favila of the Math Department, and Nepomuceno of the Accounting Department. Further down Area XVII lived the Abuevas, and way across the campus in Areas II and III lived the Manalangs and the family of NVM Gonzalez.

As a boy, I had no inkling of the importance of my older neighbors in the country’s intellectual and cultural life. That many of them would later be honored as National Scientists and Artists for their achievements never entered my mind. They were just my neighbors who worked at their jobs to keep the UP community running. My father was an army officer who ran the ROTC. Franz taught English, as did NVM Gonzalez and Priscilla Manalang; Emerenciana Arcellana taught political science, as did O.D. Corpuz; Pepe Encarnacion taught economics, the spouses Socrates taught in the high school, Favila taught mathematics, Nepomuceno managed the accounting department, Billy Abueva taught fine arts and Pepe Abuva taught public administration. My friends and I were students. In the small and simple UP community then, we all had our roles and daily worked at them.

Over some years, images of my older neighbors were formed in my young mind out of their idiosyncrasies. Pepe Encarnacion liked to stroll leisurely to work in colorful Bermuda shorts, under a large umbrella in the hot sun, and with a bottle of San Miguel Pale Pilsen in his hand. Billy Abueva rode a Roman-style chariot pulled by a horse to his classes. It was a small chariot that he drove while standing, just like a Roman soldier in the movies. O.D. was still a soft-spoken scholar who talked carefully and deliberately. He had yet to release the inner drives that later led him to ride large, fast motorcycles while clad in jeans and a denim jacket. The Favilas always spoke in Ilocano in their house. NVM liked to play the violin late in the evening. My mother often hitched a ride with the campus garbage truck to the bus stop on her way to play mahjong. The spouses Arcellana occasionally had monumental shouting quarrels that we could hear across the street from the Area XVII playground where we would hang to secretly smoke our lungs out at night.

In high school, some of my neighbors in Areas XIV and XVII became my teachers. Mrs. Pineda taught me Filipino and gave me my first failing grade. A lifetime later, we met at a reunion and I proudly told her that I had written eight books in Filipino and that I might not have done it if she hadn’t awakened my drive to learn the language with the failing grade. Mrs. Dela Cruz became my homeroom adviser and made me class president, only to be severely disappointed when I abdicated because it was interfering with my learning to play billiards. Mrs. Socrates entered me in a declamation contest and patiently coached my delivery of “Casey at the Bat” to the point of scrounging up a real baseball uniform with a cap and a bat. I placed third and I thought I disappointed her, too.

In college, I finally realized what important intellectuals some of my neighbors were and I sought them out to enroll in their classes. I took two subjects with Pepe Encarnacion and marveled at his wizardry in mathematical economics. I liked that he never hovered over us during exams and allowed us to refer to any book while taking them, for the answers to his questions could not be found in a book. I didn’t like that he forbade us to smoke in class while he chain-smoked when lecturing. I also enrolled in NVM’s class on fiction to learn from the master. In those days, NVM taught in the old style, by inflicting pain on bad writers. He singled out our least talented classmate and spent hours deconstructing a terrible paragraph she had written that described a canal. He summed up the exercise by telling her that he hoped she would become the best describer of canals in the world. I was so appalled that I stopped writing fiction for years. I understand that later, after NVM had taught for a number of years in the US, he became a great teacher of literature who inspired an entire generation of young writers.

I also enrolled in a graduate course in philosophy under Ricardo Pascual, another neighbor in Area XIV. He had an enigmatic style of teaching that hinted at, rather than told us, how to understand the core ideas of the great logical empiricists and logical positivists. He never gave straightforward lectures and liked to ask us a series of vaguely stated questions that he would never answer. It forced us to forge our own thoughts on the subject.

When I went into college debating, I often walked across the street at night to consult with O.D. Corpuz on my preparations for a forthcoming contest. He patiently took the time to help me, though sometimes I would interrupt a chess game he was playing with a faculty colleague. My teammate, Macapanton Abbas, and I went on to win the national championship for UP, and, this time, I didn’t disappoint my mentor.

I didn’t have the opportunity to study under Franz or Emerenciana Arcellana, though, by college, I was fully aware of their intellectual stature. However, at certain points in my life, Franz became more than just a neighbor to me.

In 1962, I was into student leadership and took the competitive exams for the Philippine Collegian, the UP student newspaper at the college level. Franz was the chair of the board of judges. He disqualified me from taking the exams because there was a rule that required that all examinees should not have a grade lower than 2.5 in their English classes (the Collegian was still in English then). I had gotten a grade of 3 in my Business Writing class.

Because he had known me as a boy, Franz went out of his way to personally explain to me why I had been disqualified. With some heat, I explained the unfairness of my situation to him. I told him that all my other grades in English were 1’s, except for this class, that I had to take because it was required by my degree course, which was Business Administration, major in Economics. I reasoned that business writing had little to do with campus journalism. Also that it happened that this course was taught by only one faculty member who never gave any other grade than 3. He never failed anyone and never gave a grade higher than 3. Franz found it hard to believe that this was happening in his department. But he did check his colleague’s grades and found that I was right.

Franz changed that particular rule the next year. However, by then I had already won the competitive exams for The Philippinensian, the UP yearbook, and was no longer eligible to take the Collegian exams. Franz was also the chair of the board of judges for the Philippinensian exams. I appreciated the decision of Franz to rectify the Collegian rules, though I could no longer benefit from it. The 1964 Philippinensian was my first book. It is probably the reason why I returned to writing and publishing books after many decades of working in other fields.

Another important interface I had with Franz was at one of the lowest points in my life. In 1967, I foresaw Marcos’s drift to authoritarianism and wrote two essays on impending martial law for the Graphic magazine under the pseudonym of Ricardo Lawin. In 1970, while taking up my M.A. in Political Science in Ateneo, I left my cushy job at Esso Fertilizer and joined the activist movement against Marcos to help try to prevent martial law. I taught full-time at the Philippine College of Commerce, then the center of student activism, and became a staff writer of the left-wing Graphic magazine.

As we all know, Marcos declared martial law in 1972. The PCC was closed for several months and I learned from the only newspaper that was allowed then, The Daily Express, that I and about a dozen other faculty members had been fired from the PCC for subversion. The Graphic magazine was closed down and I was banned from writing in the media. The Manila Times, where my wife, Cristina, wrote regular movie reviews, was also shut down. And Cristina was summarily fired from teaching at the UST because of my political activism. From holding four full-time jobs between the two of us, my wife and I were suddenly jobless with a little daughter to feed. It was the bitter fruit of our defeat and the temporary Marcos triumph.

The first glimmer of hope in the bleak horizon that we faced then was the induction of Cristina and me into the UP Writers Club by Franz Arcellana in the same year that martial law was declared. This is an honor society open to all Filipino writers whose achievements merit membership, which is solely by invitation, much like in an academy of letters. It is not so easy to understand now how courageous an act of Franz this was. I had just been punished by the martial law government for my teaching and writing and banned from writing for the media. It was the early days of martial law and fear haunted all of us. No one knew how far martial law would go, or whether a bloodbath was in the offing. A sea change had been forcibly imposed on life in the Philippines and many of the things that we took for granted were taken away—the media was tightly muzzled, constitutional rights like the freedom of assembly, the Writ of Habeas Corpus, and free speech were revoked, major elected opposition politicians like Senators Ninoy Aquino and Pepe Diokno were arrested and jailed, a night-time curfew was imposed, and heavily-armed soldiers were highly visible in the streets. Yet Franz inducted Cristina and me into the UP Writers Club in a public ceremony during this dangerous time.

Franz was also instrumental in Cristina’s getting a teaching job at the UP English Department—the first job either of us got after martial law. Franz gave us courage when we most needed it, for he showed us that all was not lost simply because martial law had been declared by a despot. He demonstrated to us that more sensible points of view continued to exist and he gave us hope that these would survive the dark decades that were coming.

Posted on November 14, 2008

A SONG FOR MY BROTHER

2008-07-30T23:29:00.000-07:00

by

ANTONIO A. HIDALGO

A deserted cemetery is one of the most forlorn places on earth. Especially an empty cemetery during a burial. Only Marla, Maya and I, dressed in shades of black and gray, were under the tent, while a handful of workers prepared the grave for the burial last week at the Himlayang Pilipino, at the northern tip of Quezon City, near Bulacan. The plot was in a new, undeveloped area of the memorial park. There was a storm warning for the Metro-Manila area and it was drizzling. The wind was up, whipping the newly planted saplings sparsely distributed in the grassless areas around our tent. The priest provided by the park kept looking worriedly at the dark storm clouds and at his watch, obviously wishing that the workers would hurry it up so that he could go back to the safety and comfort of his church.

Memory
Is but a fiction of Time
Neither real nor unreal

WE ARE HIDING in the gumamela bushes, my brother Amading and I, waiting for just the right time to strike. It is a windless, hot afternoon in May and the relentless sun curls the air above the asphalt street leading to the gravel driveway of Professor Cruz’s sawali cottage, creating the illusion of a wavy street and making us a little dizzy. The hens in the makeshift coop of rusty chicken wire and discarded wood are faring no better. Instead of cackling at our presence beside them, they are standing close to the wire, staring vacantly outside, panting heavily, with their mouths open and their tongues hanging out.

I signal to Amading that I will charge by cocking my head slightly toward the chicken coop. He nods and I swiftly jump over the unruly hedge and dash for the nests inside the coop. I hurriedly raise the wire of the coop, tearing it from the rotting strip of wood which holds it to the ground. Amading and I crawl beneath the wire and burrow in the rice straw in the nests to scoop up the eggs.

All hell breaks loose. The hens are panicked by our raid and fly around the tiny coop as they cackle indignantly at our sudden intrusion into their house. Amading and I crouch to keep from hitting our heads on the roof of old G.I. sheets. We fend off the hens with one hand as we pocket the eggs with the other. A thunderous shout explodes from the cottage. It is Professor Cruz threatening to kill us for sure this time. We crawl under the wire, jump over the hedge and run for our lives. The hens follow us under the wire and noisily fly for theirs too. I never look back, so I don’t know if Professor Cruz actually barges out of the house with his rifle, as he sometimes does.

We sit in the shade of an old sampaloc tree at the back of the decrepit Quonset hut that used to be the movie theater when there were still American families in Area XIV at the U.P. campus. Our backs are to the theater and we look out at the empty golf course across the barbed wire fence that the American Army had put up to seal off the residential areas. This is our place and we are safe here.

We have spent many afternoons here rummaging through the rubbish left by the departing Americans—empty reels and cans of movie film, a torn screen at one end of the hut, the plywood bar where they used to sell popcorn and soft drinks, stacks of old tickets, scattered flyers announcing the movie of the week, and, strangely enough, piles of clay pigeons for skeet shooting. We never figured out why there were clay pigeons in the abandoned theater, but they were our favorites in the treasure trove. We often alternated in tossing a clay pigeon in the air while the other tried to blast it with a slingshot. We got high the few times we actually hit a clay pigeon.

“How many eggs did you get?” I ask Amading as soon as I catch my breath.

“Four,” he says and empties his pockets.

“I only got three,” I tell him as I lay them on the ground beside his eggs.

Amading gets up to rinse the old paint can where we boil the eggs. I start to gather twigs for the fire. I arrange three stones as a base for the can and Amading partially fills the can with water from the faucet in the theater and puts in the eggs. After I start the fire, he places the can on top of the stones. I light up a Chesterfield that we share fifty-fifty while we wait for the water to boil.

“Did you see if Professor Cruz came out with his rifle?” I ask Amading.

“Yeah, he did. Didn't you see him? He was swearing, his face was red, and he was in his sando.”

I laugh. “No, I was too scared to look back. Weren’t you?”

Amading laughs. “He forgot his glasses. That old fart couldn’t hit this theater from twenty feet without his glasses.”

When the eggs are done, Amading takes the can by the wire handle, empties the boiling water, and cools off the eggs by filling the can with cold tap water. I put out the fire by stepping on it and scattering the smoldering twigs. Amading lays the eggs on the ground and takes out the salt that he had snitched from Ma’s kitchen. We feast quietly, swiftly wolfing down the hardboiled eggs with the kind of appetite that only young boys have. Amading offers me, his kuya, the last egg. I insist that he take it because he got four to my three eggs.

After eating, we relive our adventure by recounting it several times. We recall the many other times we have raided Professor Cruz's poultry. We exaggerate his angry appearances at each raid and his frustrated curses until the tears come to our eyes from laughing so hard.

Then we climb the sampaloc tree to release some of the excess energy and strength we got from the boiled eggs. I lean back on a large branch and Amading does the same on an adjoining one. I pull out a prayer book—one of those pornographic mini books with stories full of fucking and lots of black and white pictures of screwing couples and threesomes. I flip through the pictures and then hand the booklet to Amading. He gives it back to me after a few minutes and I read aloud the so-called story in English. We both unzip our pants and start playing with ourselves. A few moments later, Amading announces triumphantly that he has finished. I ejaculate a few seconds after Amading comes. I tell him that I won the race. He takes none of my bullshit and insists that he won.

Dusk descends on the forlorn golf course across the fence of barbed wire. We sit quietly on our perches in the tree as we contemplate the end of another day. Presently, I climb down and Amading follows. We go into the decrepit theater to take a last look, in the dark, at our very own place. We sadly leave by the front door and slowly walk home to our parents’ house five blocks away. Halfway there, Amading breaks into a sprint and I race him home. He wins this race, too, because of his head start.

Too far
Our sun is a star
Scattering light but no warmth

“BUT HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN?” I angrily ask Mon. It is early evening and there are just the two of us standing on the lower steps of the Arts and Sciences building at the U.P. campus. The night wind has started to blow, so we stoop behind the concrete flower boxes on one end of the stairs to keep the wind from mussing our pomaded hair too much. The campus has shut down and the long street in front of the A.S. building is completely empty. The lights are on behind the massive wrought iron gate at the top of the stairs, which is always locked. They cast long shadows on the steps all the way to the street. Mon and I face each other in the flickering shadows.

“I couldn’t intervene. Manny’s argument was perfectly sound. You imposed the rule that no neophytes with fives could be accepted before I became head of the frat,” Mon answered.

“Manny had two fives when he joined. He’s been kicked out since.”

“He joined before your rule.”

“That was never a rule. I proposed it last year, but it hasn’t been applied yet. Why should it be applied only to my younger brother?”

“Because Manny hates you and so do a lot of the other brods. They think you look down on them because you were a university scholar.”

“And you sided with them, after I proposed you to head the frat when they rebelled against my leadership?”

“I couldn't intervene. Manny was right. Your proposed rule should apply to all—including Amading."

“But you're the Supreme Exalted Brother—your word is law!”

“I also have to keep the frat intact. Why didn’t you attend the presentation? You could have argued for Amading yourself.”

“I didn’t know that they were going to reject Amading. I’m very busy with my first semester of teaching.”

“It’s your fault, then.”

“No, it’s not. I didn’t know about the plot. They harmed Amading to get back at me. It means so much to him. And you, my closest brod, did not protect my brother!” I cannot hold back my anger and frustration any longer. Tears stream down my face after I say this.

Mon cries, too, out of compassion. He embraces me and apologizes profusely for letting me down. He invites me to drink at our hangout at the Capitol Spot in a Caltex gasoline station on Quezon Avenue. I take a rain check because I need to talk to Amading. I leave Mon and briskly walk home to Area XIV through the dark empty streets lined by tall acacia trees. I meet only one security guard doing his rounds along the whole stretch of more than a kilometer.

I catch Amading in our room before dinner. He is lying in bed in the dark, staring at the ceiling.

“I heard about your rejection from Mon just a few minutes ago. You shouldn’t take it personally. It’s really me they want to hurt,” I say to him softly as I sit on my bed.

“I know,” Amading answers without looking at me.

“I was angry at Mon for not defending you.”

“Thanks.”

“I didn’t know about the plot. That’s why I wasn’t at the meeting to defend you.”

“It’s alright.”

“Why did you apply now, when you have a five? You should have studied hard this sem and applied next sem.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry.”

I look at Amading, who is still lying in bed fully clothed, with his shoes on, still staring at the ceiling. And I realize that I cannot reach him tonight, for he is not really there.

Bonded
Flesh to flesh
We survive
Entrapped and entwined

“YOU HAVE TO HELP ME. I don’t know what to do anymore!” Ma says desperately as she reaches across the glass top of the dining table to grasp my hand. “Amading has gone from bad to worse since your father died. He doesn’t want to study anymore. He sleeps all day and stays out all night. He steals money from me to buy drugs.”

I understand Ma’s agitation. Since Pa suddenly died of a burst aneurysm in his aorta about ten months ago, and since Ma was diagnosed to have terminal cancer of the cervix at about the same time, Marla, Maya and I have spent one night a week and all of our weekends with Ma in her mother’s house in San Lorenzo Village in Makati. Pa, Ma and Amading had moved there from the U.P. a few months after I had gotten married and had set up house in a rented apartment on Malakas Street in Quezon City. I have noticed during my frequent visits that Amading is hardly ever home. I have also heard about his going around with a fast crowd of young men in Makati who come from wealthy families.

I look at Ma in alarm and clasp her hands. She is ravaged by the chemotherapy. Half her hair is gone and nearly all her flesh has been eaten away by the cancer and its supposed cure. I blink briefly to try to recapture the chubby, pretty mother of my boyhood in my mind. It does not work. Ma is still skin and bones.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask helplessly.

“Talk to him. Convince him to marry his girl friend, who comes from a good family. That may make him more responsible.”

“What will they live on?”

“Sell this house and a couple of other properties I inherited from my mother. Use the money to pay for my medical bills and the rest, the two of you can share after I’m gone.”

I ponder a bit and absently look at Maya playing quietly with her plastic doughnuts in the sala, blissfully unaware of our serious discussion. “He may not listen to me. I’m a large part of his problem. He thinks he lost our competition for your, and Pa’s, love and admiration,” I finally say.

“Try. For my sake.”

I look outside the window beside the dining table. I notice that a strip of plywood has peeled off from the ceiling overhanging the window. I make a note to myself to have it repaired. There are many other things in the old house that need to be repaired—the screen door on the porch, the broken window pane in the maid’s room, the stereo set that doesn’t work. I reluctantly nod my agreement and get up to go to Amading’s room.

“Wake up, Amading. Ma wants me to talk to you,” I tell him as I shake his shoulder.

“Shit. Does it have to be now? I was up all night!”

“I’m afraid so. Ma’s very worried.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll wash up first.”

I sit and smoke a Marlboro while I wait. I smoke two sticks before Amading emerges from the bathroom.

“Okay. What is it this time, Kuya?” Amading asks sarcastically as he sits on his bed.

“Ma says your life is a mess and she wants you to straighten it out before she dies.”

“She won’t die. She’ll outlive both of us.”

“You’re crazy. Can’t you see that she’s as thin as a stick?”

“Yeah? And of course only you know when she will croak. What’s your brilliant plan this time?”

“Ma wants you to marry Grace. She thinks that will make you responsible.”

“Sure. I'll just move her into this room. Who will pay for the wedding? And our family expenses?”

“Ma has asked me to sell all her properties, including this house. There should be enough cash to pay for her bills and your wedding. Maybe even for a little nest egg to start you off with. But you'll have to find a job after you get married.”

The smirk slowly leaves Amading's face as he ponders the possibilities. He gets up and paces the room. Then he says: “How will I get a job without a degree?”

“I’ll help you with my brods. You can’t be picky, of course. Just take whatever you can get and work your way up.”

“Okay,” Amading says instantly, “I’m willing to prove myself.”

“There’s a catch.”

“I knew it. With you, there’s always one. What is it this time?”

“Ma says you’re on drugs. You’ll have to enter the rehab center at the Makati Med for a month, just to make sure that you’ll be ready to start afresh.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it! You want me to stay with the lunatics in that madhouse for a month? You know that that center is for both druggies and crazies!”

“It will only be for a month.”

“No way. Sure, I smoke a little Mary Jane now and then. But I’m no druggie. I’m not hooked on anything.”

“Oh yeah? Then how come you steal money from Ma? Show me your forearms and ankles.”

“Bullshit! What are you, a cop? I tell you, I don’t need any rehab!”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. Neither one of us is walking out of here until you agree,” I say with finality as I stand up to my full height of six feet.

Amading stands up too. He is a little taller and bigger than me now. “Okay, make me, then,” he says as he glowers at me.

Marla barges into the room at just the right time. She has been listening outside the door.

“C’mon, both of you, cool it. Sit down and listen to me. Ma is dying. She has a few months at the most. It’s Ma who wants you to do these things, Amading, not Oscar,” she says as she gently presses her hand down on Amading's shoulder to make him sit on the bed. I sit down too.

“Even if you don’t think you need to rehab, can’t you do it for Ma’s sake? It’s like a dying wish. We’ll see to it that you have everything you need while in rehab. I’ll visit you everyday to make sure,” Marla says. She is the only one standing.

Amading looks up at her desolately. Then he buries his face in his hands and starts to sob. When he is done crying, he stands up and says: “Okay, you all win, as usual. But I can’t believe that you would send your own brother to the loony bin, Oscar. I’m hungry. I’m going to the kitchen to get something.”

The rush, oh the rush
The teetering before winning or losing
Like a delectable shivering orgasm

“I’M AT THE LOBBY. I’m coming up,” Amading’s voice booms over the house phone. In a minute, he is at the door of our hotel room and I let him in. We embrace briefly, then he kisses Marla and Maya, who shyly offers her cheek like a proper young lady should. We have just arrived from Singapore, where I work for the Bank of America, for a couple of weeks’ home leave, and our bags are strewn all over the floor. Amading skips over them to join me in the sofa in the small anteroom.

“You’re fat,” I say to him.

“And you’re bald,” he shoots back. We laugh as we pour out the beers that Marla brings us from the fridge. “Let’s have dinner at our house in Las Piñas tomorrow night, okay?” Amading asks Marla.

“Sure,” Marla says as she closes a bag and props it up against the wall.

“How’s Grace? And the kids?”

“She cooks too well. That’s why we’re all fat. She has a canteen at the DBP branch beside us. Carla is on the honors list in high school. Bong is like me, he can’t seem to finish high school.”

“Maya’s in college now, taking up economics. Come and talk to Tito Amading, Maya,” Marla answers.

We finish our beers and leave Marla and Maya for a night out.

“New car?” I ask Amading as I get into his green Toyota Crown at the basement parking lot.

“Naah, I got it second-hand for a good price from a customer of mine. Business is good. I’ve managed to save a little from my commissions even after buying this car and paying the mortgage on the house. Maybe we’ll visit you in Singapore one of these days.”

“That would be great. Do it soon, before I’m transferred again.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Amading takes me to the Makati Cinema Square, where we spend an hour at an air-gun target range. We play several matches of ten shots each at fifteen meters. He beats me most of the time. I figure he must practice here a lot.

After shooting, I want to go to Amorsolo, a bar around the corner with young, pretty waitresses in bathing suits. He insists on taking me to dinner first at the Golden Pearl, a Chinese restaurant a floor above the target range.

The restaurant is small and a bit tacky, but it is spotlessly clean. Right after we order food and beers, a young woman in a blue skirt and white blouse that look like a uniform comes to our table. Amading stands up to seat her.

“This is Lisa,” Amading says to me, “she has just finished her shift as a takilyera at one of the movie houses on this floor. She’ll be joining us tonight.”

I am quite solicitous of Lisa over dinner, piling her plate high with food and encouraging her to take some wine or beer. I’m not sure what she is doing there with us and figure that there is always the possibility that Amading has fixed her up for me tonight.

Lisa joins us at the Amrosolo bar and I hold her hand as we sing a duet at the karaoke room, while Amading looks on with great amusement. Then I take her out to the main bar for a couple of slow dances and start hitting on her. She laughs and calls me Kuya.

After I have made a complete fool of myself, Amading whispers sweetly into her ear at our table in a dark corner to show me that she is his. And when they talk about her child by a previous marriage in parental tones at the end of the evening, I finally understand that she has been Amading’s mistress for sometime now.

Imperceptibly
Subtly
We succumb
Shutting our eyes

WE ARE LEANING on the gleaming metal railing of the third floor of the new Megamall, looking down at April Boy Regino as he sings on a makeshift stage at the lobby. He lets it all out and the enthusiastic crowd periodically responds with high-pitched screams. April Boy throws out dozens of baseball caps, handfuls of candies, and a few T-shirts at the crowd as he sings. There is a mad scramble for the goodies.
“Like him?” Amading asks me.

“Yeah, he’s good. But why does he have to bribe his fans? He doesn’t need to,” I answer.

"It’s a Filipino custom. You’ve been away too long.”

“What’s so Filipino about dependency?”

“Listen, I need to get something in your car,” Amading says as he walks to the parking lot at one end of the ridiculously long corridor. I follow him and we leave the screaming teens.

Amading opens the window of the front passenger seat and makes himself comfortable by adjusting the seat. I sit at the driver’s side, open my window and wonder what he is up to. He slowly pulls out various gadgets and many small plastic envelopes from his pockets. Then he cooks something with a lighter. He focuses intently on what he is doing, as if it were one of our experiments in high school biology class.

“What is that?” I ask.

“Shabu,” Amading says.

He finally rolls a cigarette after the elaborate preparations, lights up and inhales deeply. His facial expression relaxes almost instantly. He offers me a puff. I push away his hand in disgust.

“That stuff will kill you,” I tell him sternly.

“It relaxes me. Helps me cope with my problems. You can’t imagine. Grace paralyzed from the stroke. Losing Lisa. Losing my job. The expenses. Bringing up the kids practically by myself.”

“And that will help? You’re nuts!”

“C’mon. You need this, too. You’ve just been fired by your bank in Singapore.”

“Retrenched. With a golden handshake. And I intend to find another job here.”

“Sure. But why not relax first?”

“And get hooked on shabu? Your brains are addled!”

“You’re such a fuddy-duddy, always the kuya. Remember Woodstock from our youth? That’s the way to go. Life is too short to take seriously.”

“Drugs are a trap!”

“I’ve invented a new technology that will keep me from getting hooked. It’s really original. Maybe I’ll patent it someday,” Amading tells me seriously. He is high now. I give up and tell him I’m going home. He carefully puts out his cigarette and slips the butt into an envelope. He tells me he’ll just hang out at the mall for awhile.

Perfect reciprocals:
Success … Failure;
Alternative tempos:
Modes of being.

“HELP ME! These assholes want to take me to the Las Piñas police station!” Amading yells into my phone at three a.m. I hear curses, a loud thud and the phone goes dead.

“Where are you, Amading? What’s happening?” I yell into my phone. No answer. The phone is dead.

My brother is in trouble again, I reflect. Lucky for him that I have a job now as vice president of the Bank of the Philippine Islands. Kuya to the rescue once more. I wake Marla to tell her of the call.

“Are you sure it was Amading?” she asks.

“Absolutely.”

“Then we must go and help him.”

I call Henry, my colleague at the BPI who lives in Las Piñas, and ask him to help out by joining us at the station. Henry is waiting for me at the brightly lit doorway of the station when Marla and I get there.

“I’ve talked to the senior officer. Amading is in a cell inside. His neighbor complained that he is a pusher who sells shabu to his daughter. They didn’t catch any shabu on him, but they got lots of shabu paraphernalia. I think we can spring him on your guarantee that he will go into rehab,” Henry tells me quickly, before I enter the station. He takes me to Amading’s cell.

Amading is squatting on his haunches in the far corner of the tiny cell, casting furtive glances at the cell bars, like a cornered animal. He springs up and strides to the bars when we approach.

“Look what they did to me! The motherfuckers beat me and locked me up on mere suspicion of being a pusher. They have no evidence. Charge them with police brutality. Teach them a lesson!” Amading yells out to me, though I am standing only a couple of feet away on the other side of the bars.

I look at him. He is a mess. He is very thin and his cheeks are sunken. He is dressed in a dirty white T-shirt which is wet from his tears and snot, denim shorts and the closed-toed tsinelas that old sabungeros like to use. The left side of his face is swollen and his left eye is half-closed from a nasty blackeye.

“What happened?” I ask, the tears of pity welling in my eyes.

“Hell, I don’t know. I was just hanging out with some friends a block from my house when this police car came with its sirens wailing. Naturally, we dashed away to avoid any trouble. They chased me, tackled me, and beat me in the face with my own tsinelas. They cursed me and called me a pusher, searched my pockets and then clapped me in jail. Help me get out of here. Please. They might kill me if you don’t.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

I approach the sergeant at the desk, give him my calling card and introduce myself as Henry’s friend and Amading’s older brother. I ask him to release Amading into my custody.

“Are you sure you want him released? He’s a walking time bomb, you know. It’s a question of time before he commits a violent crime. And he’s destroying lives by pushing,” the sergeant replies with some heat.

“You have no evidence of his pushing. This is his first arrest.”

“Can’t you see how high he is? He gave us a tough time and tried to fight back. I really should throw the book at him.”

“I’m sorry for his behavior. But you can’t hold him without finding any shabu, can you? Why force me to hire a lawyer who might even charge you with abusing my brother’s human rights?”

“But if you leave him here, I’ll send him straight to the rehab center in Bicutan, where he might be cured.”

“I’ll take care of a private rehab if you release him to me. And Mr. Henry Lacuesta and I will owe you a favor. We work for the BPI, you know. Who knows, maybe we can help you out with a bank loan or something in the future?”

“Make your brother sign a statement promising to go into rehab and releasing us from any liability for his arrest.”

I go back to Amading and explain the terms for his release. At first, he refuses to sign any statement on going into rehab, since that would practically admit that he is a shabu addict. But he relents when I explain that that is the only way that he will get out of jail. As he laboriously scrawls his statement on the police blotter, I notice how unfocused his eyes are and how bad his handwriting is. I conclude that he is high, as the sergeant said, and resolve to make him undergo rehab.

After thanking Henry profusely in the driveway of the station, Marla and I take Amading home. Once there, he jumps out of the car, runs to his bedroom and slams the door shut. He yells at me through the door that he would rather die first then go into rehab with the crazies again. I yell back that he has no choice in the matter. I’m coming back at seven a.m. to take him to the Makati Med rehab. Otherwise, he will have to deal with the police on his own.

Later that morning, I return and knock on the door of Amading’s house. Bong opens it. I go into the bedroom and only Grace is there in their bed. It is painful to look at her. She was fat all her life, now all her limbs are wasted and only her torso and face resemble the Grace of old. She is disheveled and no one has bothered to comb her hair. I wonder if anyone has bothered to bathe her lately.

She weeps uncontrollably for several minutes when I come in. I pull a chair to her bedside and try to soothe her by stroking her forehead.

“It has been hell this past year, Oscar. Amading is so weak—he’s falling apart again, just like when your parents died. Only this time, I’m too sick to help him cope. You cannot imagine how bad it is. The rages. Blaming me for my stroke. Yelling at Carla and Bong all the time, the few times he is home. It’s affecting their studies. Help us, please.”

“Of course. I came to take him to rehab. Do you know where he went?”

“He took some clothes and the car. He’s probably with his addict friends. I don’t know any of them.”

“Call me when he comes home and I’ll come over.”

“Please. Just ask the police to arrest him and force him into rehab.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t do that. They beat him up last night.”

“But you have to. It’s our only chance. He has to get well again.”

“I’ve heard bad things about the government center in Bicutan. The guards beat up the inmates and sell them shabu. Use them for crimes, too. It’s better if we bring him to the Makati Med.”

“He won’t go with you, this time. He told me that when you brought him home.”

I hold her hand in silence for a while. Then I whisper to Grace: “I really can’t ask the police to arrest my brother. I’m sorry.”

“Then I’ll move to my sister’s place with the children. I’m so afraid of him now. His brain is crazy with shabu and he might harm us.”

In the prison of my vice
Soul crisscrossed with self-inflicted wounds
Despair is my only salve
And self-pity a daily indulgence

I AM HERE AT THE WAKE OF GRACE. She died three days ago from a final stroke. I have been here at the Magallanes chapel every night since Grace died to mourn her and to wait for Amading, whom I have not seen since the night of his arrest. My brother is an eerie presence at the wake because of his absence. Hardly anyone but Marla and I talk about him. Certainly not the relatives of Grace. The head of my clan, Tita Fely, who bought my mother’s house many years ago, asks me where Amading is. I shrug my shoulders and she lets it go at that.

I have found out that Amading's children are doing reasonably well with their aunt. Carla has graduated at the top of her class in physical therapy and is about to leave to work in the U.S. Bong is working at Jollibee’s while struggling to finish college at the U.S.T. I spend some time with them every night to encourage them in their struggle to carve out a normal life as orphans. They respond to me warmly, but quickly shut me out when I try to talk about their father. I finally ask Bong what he would do when his father shows up.

“Probably punch his face,” Bong says angrily.

“But Amading only breaks out of love,” I tell him.

“He cares only for himself. No father would abandon his family like that,” Bong instantly replies. He turns his back and walks toward his aunt.

The wake is finally over and Grace will be buried today. The mass has just finished and I suddenly see Amading standing at the end of the aisle, silently watching the mourners file past the open casket of Grace. He is wearing a pair of sunglasses and is dressed in a polo barong, dark pants, and shoes. As I approach him, I see that he has lost some more weight. He jabbers in a perturbing way when I greet him. He is high and very nervous about being here. I put my arm around him and walk him down the aisle to the casket. The file in front of the casket parts for us and the mourners quickly disappear into the seats. Only Amading and I are left in front of the casket. My brother just stares at his dead wife for a few minutes. Then he turns to leave and I follow him. Tita Fely nods at me as we walk past her. Everyone else averts his eyes. I ask Amading to join Marla and me in the car to go to the memorial park. He embraces me and sobs on my shoulder. He does not go to the burial.

Life is but a presence
While Death is an absence
In time's long arms
Only absences are present

I buried Amading last week. There was no wake. I took my brother straight from the emergency room of the PGH, where the doctor said he had died from malnutrition and heart failure from repeated use of shabu, to the funeral parlor. Only my wife and daughter joined me in the burial at the memorial park. I didn’t have time to call our friends from the U.P. days. I don’t know his addict friends. Carla is working in the States. Bong refused to come.

After the workers had finally finished preparing the grave and the priest had said his prayers and had left hurriedly, we had a few minutes to say our good byes to Amading while he lay in the open casket. Marla and Maya stood over the casket and looked at his face while they prayed silently. I wanted to pray too, but could not, since I don’t believe and have forgotten all the Catholic rituals. I just touched the glass over his face and softly hummed the lullaby I used to sing to him when I put him to sleep as a little boy, when our parents were not home.

As the attendants piled the squares of grass on the grave, I noticed that the grass was scruffy and that the sparse leaves were growing in wayward directions. I wondered if I should have the grass replanted all over again with a variety that is stronger and that would grow more evenly in an upright direction.

From A Song For My Brother and Other Stories, by Antonio A. Hidalgo (Milflores, 2002).

Posted on November 20, 2008

TOILET TRAINING AND PROGRESS

2008-07-29T18:04:00.000-07:00

by

ANTONIO A. HIDALGO

There is a plethora of ways of measuring the progress of human societies -- political, economic, and social indicators devised by some of the most clever minds of our time. I was not clever enough, while working in the development industry, to have contributed any of the standard yardsticks of success. I would like to rectify this situation at this late date by offering my own original indicator of human progress: the level of toilet training among the people in a society. I daresay that this indicator is, at least, as accurate as any other in revealing the true state of affairs in human aggrupations. It is more interesting to measure (I am sure statisticians would rather count the people peeing in the streets than the GNP) and it has the potential of capturing many other realities (for example, the truth that Filipinas are more civilized than Filipinos, for less of them urinate in the streets).

A good way of immediately assessing the level of a country that one visits is to look for public signs that prohibit urinating in public places like street corners, monuments of national heroes, the presidential residence, parking lots, entrances to the best hotels, and the like. It is also good to actually watch people relieve themselves in public, but this may take a little time which the traveller may not be able to spare, and it may not be appreciated by the locals. There is a reverse logic that links public signs with the actual level of toilet training in a country -- the more signs there are, the more people actually urinate in public places; the more hysterical the signs and the stiffer the threatened penalties, the more common the practice is.

Most wealthy countries have no signs prohibiting public urination and defecation. Some of them have signs prohibiting pets from peeing and pooing in certain places. Obviously, those that do are still having problems with the progress of their pet populations. The newly rich countries have signs against spitting and littering, and a few against peeing, in public places. A testament, certainly, to the fear of backsliding after achieving their hard-won progress. The poorest and the most backward countries are littered with signs against peeing everywhere, many of them drawn, like graffiti, on walls, lamp posts, overpasses, doors, and any other blank space. This could only attest to the popularity of the practice.

Tender hearts sometimes excuse the widespread practice of public urination in a country by pointing out that there are no public toilets. This may be putting the karetela before the horse, for there may very well be no public toilets because no one feels strongly about the practice. Besides, if the lack of toilets truly caused public peeing, then why don't the women in afflicted countries do as their menfolk do? Come to think of it, they could become a formidable tourist attraction if they did.

If I remember it right, Freud made an elegant connection between severe toilet training and the development of repressed personalities, which he labelled as anal types. Perhaps this is the reason why we do not emphasize toilet training in the Philippines. Certainly, there is some evidence in our freewheeling driving habits that the absence of toilet training in early childhood can encourage the development of spontaneous personalities.

I wonder if the NEDA planners have taken account of this important indicator of national progress? It would be fun to devise programs to stem the flood of urine that is currently inundating the streets and sidewalks of our country. Or if this cannot be done, then perhaps projects to make use of the urine?

From The Asian Traveller: Essays on Development by Antonio A. Hidalgo (Anvil, 1996).

Posted on November 23, 2008

HARI NG MGA UNANO

2008-07-29T17:04:00.000-07:00

ni

ANTONIO A. HIDALGO

'TAWAG NILA SA AKIN AY ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER DIMAYUGA. 'Tong pangalan na ibinigay sa akin ni Itay. Siguro dahil sa malakas ako. O kaya'y dahil bagay ito sa aming apelyido, na ang ibig sabihin ay matibay. Kahit anupaman ang dahilan, nasisiyahan ako sa aking pangalan. May dating, di ba?

Totoong may natatawa sa aking pangalan. Nauunawan ko naman sila, kahit na sing-kitid ng sinasabing pasukan sa langit ang kanilang utak. Bakit, wala bang malalakas sa kagaya namin? Bawal ba kaming tumulad sa mga bida sa sine? Sila na lang ba ang makakagawa niyan?

Unano kasi ako, e. Dos piye at isang pulgada ang taas ko. Huwag mong limutan ang isang pulgada, dahil sa kalagayan ko, higit na mahalaga ang bawat pulgada. Ganito na ang taas ko noong kinse anyos pa ako. Beinte-siyete na ako ngayon.

Weyter ako noon sa Hobbitt House. Doon ako namasukan dahil hindi ako nag-iisa roon. Marami kaming maliit na TAO roon. Tandaan mo 'yan – maliit na TAO. Akala kasi ng iba riyan na ibang klaseng tao na kami, dahil lang sa aming sukat. Hindi totoo 'yon. Pare-pareho tayong lahat. Marunong din kaming magmahal at magsaya. Malumbay at magalit. Dugo rin ang sumisirit kapag kami'y nasugatan. Sukat lang ng katawan ang aming pagkakaiba. Katawan, di utak. Di ba sinabi ni Shakespeare na ang buhay ay isang kuwentong isinasalaysay ng isang idyota, puno ng ingay at matinding galit, subalit walang kabuluhan. May nagsasabi na ang gusto niya talagang tukuyin ay bulilit, di idyota, ang nagsasalaysay ng buhay. Pero hindi niya ginawa ito upang iwasan ang galit ng maliliit na tao. Di bale na ang mga idyota, na hindi naman makakabasa ng kanyang sinulat. Nakita mo? Nabasa ko si Shakespeare. Wala 'kong diperensiya sa ulo.

Ngayon na nagkakaintindihan na tayo, ikukuwento ko sa iyo kung paano ako naging big-time na sabungero. Nagsimula lahat ito isang gabi sa Hobbitt House. Dumating si Nestor Divinagracia at ang kanyang dalawang tsutsuwa, este, kaibigan pala, na si Oscar at Abet. Siyempre, sinilbihan namin ni Bernardo Carpio Abaya, ang aking matalik na kaibigan, ang mesa ni Nestor. Biniro nila kami habang umoorder.

"Gaanong kalaki ang San Miguel beer dito?" tanong ni Abet.

"Bote, lata, o keg?" sagot ko agad.

"Baka maliliit kasi ang order dito, e," sabi ni Abet, habang tumatawa.

Nakitawa na rin kami ni Bernard, dahil sanay na kami sa ganyan klaseng biruan. "Hindi, Sir, full portions, full service at full satisfaction po ang aming patakaran dito."

"Maliit din ba ang nagluluto?" tanong naman ni Oscar, habang nakangisi.

"Higante po, na malakas kumain," sagot ni Bernard, "kaya siguradong mabubusog kayo, kahit na ang kaibigan ninyong mataba."

"O, Abet," sabi ni Oscar, "sinabi ng pandak na baka hindi mo raw kayang ubusin ang isisilbi nila."

Tahimik lang si Nestor. Pero nakita namin kaagad ni Bernard na siya ang bos noong dalawa. Tiyak na siya ang magbabayad dahil siya lang ang may suot na sapatos na Bally at relos na Rolex Oyster Perpetual. Tumpak ang hula namin, pagkat pagkatapos magbiro ang dalawa, si Nestor ang umorder ng maraming pagkain at isang boteng Martell X.O. Cognac. Di kamukha ng mga tsutsuwa niya, hindi niya kami biniro.

Pagkakain nila, pinaupo kami sa mesa ni Nestor para makipag-inuman. Pero bawal 'to sa amin, kaya tumanggi kami ni Bernard. Ipinaliwanag na lang niya sa amin, habang nakatayo kami, kung ano talaga ang sadya nila sa Hobbitt House.

Big-time na sabungero pala si Nestor. Nagsimula siyang magpalahi ng mga bantam na panabong bilang eksperimento. Nahihirapan daw siya at ang kanyang mga tagapag-alaga sa mga bantam, dahil maliksi't mababa sila. Mahirap hulihin at mahirap ibitaw. Sumasakit na ang kanilang likod sa kayuyuko. Marami na raw siyang pamilyang bantam sa palahian at naghahanap siya ng tatlong maliit na taong mag-aalaga sa mga linyang ito.

"Wala po akong nalalaman tungkol sa sabong," 'ika ko.

"Di bale. Mas mabuti pa nga 'yon, e, dahil wala ka pang mga maling paniwala. Tuturuan kitang magsabong."

"Magkano ang isusuweldo ninyo? Mainam pong magbayad dito," sabi ni Bernard.

"Umpisahan natin sa doble ng kinikita n'yo rito. Puwede na ba 'yon? Pumasyal muna kayo sa manukan ko sa Lipa bago kayo magdisisyon. Baka magustuhan n'yo ang itsura. Kailan ba ang day-off n'yo?"

"Bukas," sabi ko.

"Ipasusundo ko kayo sa aking Tsedeng. Pakisulat lang ang tirahan n'yo."

Wow! Ang gara-gara talaga ng kotse ni Nestor. Maaga kaming sinundo ng drayber kinabukasan at mahigit dalawang oras kaming nagbiyahe papuntang Lipa. Pinaupo kami sa likod, at kayluwag-luwag doon, halos kasing-laki ng kuwarto namin ni Bernard. May remote ang CD at pinaglaruan muna namin ito. Nang nagsawa na kami sa kapapalit ng magagandang kanta, hinayaan na naming tumuloy ang paborito kong CD - 'yong Concert in the Park nina Simon & Garfunkel. Tumayo naman kami ni Bernard sa balat na upuan, upang matanaw namin ang mga niyugan ng Batangas sa bintana sa likod. Sa tuwa naming magkuwentuhan habang nakatingin sa labas ng bintana, hindi namin namalayang nakarating na pala kami sa manukan ni Nestor.

Pare, ang lawak ng lupain ni Nestor! Siguro mahigit daang ektarya. Sarisaring klase ang nagdaramihang puno. May lugar na niyugan, may lugar para sa mga punong-prutas, may konting palayan, may malaking gulayan, at may magandang bahay sa tuktok ng bundok na gawa ng binarnisang kawayan. Pambihira ang korte ng bahay na 'yon – parang templong Budista ng Intsik o Koryano.

Sinalubong kami ni Nestor at ng kanyang dalawang tsutsuwa at dinala kami sa palahian ng mga bantam. Talaga palang maliit sila. Kasukat namin sila dahil ang iniliit nila sa pangkaraniwang panabong ay siyang iniliit din namin sa ordinaryong tao. Kamukha rin namin, wala silang diperensiya dahil sa kanilang sukat. Parang mas mabilis at masigla pa nga sila sa mga pang araw-araw na panlaban ni Nestor.

Nasindak muna kami ni Bernard sa mga unang bitaw, dahil ang babangis ng mga bantam kung lumaban. Parang nais nilang patayin ang kalaban sa bawat palo. Kahanga-hanga ang lalim at tindi ng kanilang galit. Nainggit ako na kaya nilang ipahiwatig ang kanilang sama ng loob sa pamamagitan ng malulutong na suntok. Kung kaya ko lang gawin 'yon, matagal na sana akong naging panabong.

Hindi nagtagal bago kami natuwa ni Bernard sa mga bantam. Parang bagay na bagay sila sa amin. Minsan lang kaming tinuruan ni Nestor kung papaanong humuli at humawak ng panabong, 'tapos kami na ang nagbitaw sa kanila at umawat ng laban. Tawa nang tawa ang dalawang asungot ni Nestor nang nagbibitaw kami ni Bernard ng mga bantam. 'Buti pa si Nestor, pangisi-ngisi lang.

"Nahihilo ako sa bilis ng mga bantam at handler," 'ika ni tabang Abet.

"Puwede sa sirko ang mga ito," sabi pa ni kalbong Oscar.

Marami pa silang ibang masasakit na biro. Napigilan lang ang maliliit ang utak nang biglang ipinahinto ni Nestor ang pagbibitaw, dahil meron daw siyang naisip. Para palang tauhan sa komiks si Nestor kapag biglang nagkaroon ng idea. Kumiskislap ang kanyang mga mata, at nabubuhayan ang kanyang buong pagmumukha. Halos makikita mo ang bombilyang sumindi sa ibabaw ng kanyang ulo.

"Bakit hindi tayo magtayo ng panibagong sirkulo ng sabong?" 'ika niya habang nakatayo sa gitna ng ruweda na parang isang pulitiko at kami naman ay nakikinig sa tabi niya. "Paramihin natin ang mga bantam at hayaan nating mamili ang mga sabungerong naghahanap ng panibagong kilig sa sabong. Magpaggawa tayo ng sariling sabungan at maliliit na tari, baina at iba pang gamit. Lahat ng ating magiging kasador, kristo, handler, at iba pang tauhan ay dapat kasukat ni Arnold at Bernard. Mga bantam na panabong lang ang papayagang ilaban sa ating sabungan. Hindi ba napakaorihinal na idea ito? Siguradong makikiliti ang isip ng mga sabungero sa buong kapuluan at malaki ang kikitain natin mula sa plasada, bayad sa pinto, mga entry fee sa derby, pagbebenta ng pagkain, at porsiyento sa kikitain ng mga kristo't mananari."

Akala ng dalawang tsutsuwang ga-langgam ang utak ay nagbibiro si Nestor at nagtawanan sila. Pero nabasa ko agad na seryoso si Nestor, na kaya niyang kapitalan ang kanyang ideya, at saksakan ang dami ng posibilidad para sa amin ni Bernard ang kanyang sinasabi. Lintik, sino naman ang may gustong maging weyter habang-buhay?

"Kol, Bos. Ako na ang bahalang maghanap ng maliliit na tao. Kahit ilan ang kailangan ninyo'y kaya kong kalapin. Lahat kami'y madaling turuan, maliit lang ang katawan namin, di ang utak. Madali kayong magkakaroon ng mga kailangan ninyong tagapag-alaga, kasador, mananari, kristo, tagapangasiwa ng sabungan, tagaluto at tagasilbi sa karinderiya, at kung anupaman ang kailangan ninyo."

"Di pumasok na kayo kaagad sa akin. Kailangan nating iplano nang mabuti ang proyekto. Dalian natin, baka manakaw pa ang aking ideya."

"Okey, bukas dadalhin na namin ang aming mga gamit."

Tumingin ako kay Bernard at tumango siya. Kabisado niya ang likot ng aking utak, at naintindihan niya kaagad na pagkakakitaan namin ito.

Wala kaming ginawa sa mga sumunod na buwan kundi mag-alaga ng mga bantam, maghanap ng maliliit na tao upang yayaing sumali sa proyekto, magplano ukol sa pagtatag ng bagong sirkulo ng pagsasabong, at mag-aral tungkol sa pagpalahi, pagpalaki, pagpili, pagkundisyon, pag-ulot at pagtari ng mga bantam.

Komplikado palang magpalahi't maglaban ng mga panabong! Ang daming teoriya ni Nestor tungkol sa lahat ng bahagi ng pagsasabong. Kahit bagito ako, nakita ko na katarantaduhan ang ibang itinuturo niya sa amin – lalung-lalo na ang sobrang paghehersisyo ng panlaban at pagsaksak ng mga droga. Pero, bilib pa rin ako sa kanyang malikot at mapaglikhang pag-iisip. Malinaw na marami siyang pinag-aralan at ipinokus niya lahat ng kanyang kaalaman at guniguni sa pagsasabong. Pambihira siya dahil dito – sa palagay ko'y uniko siya sa buong mundo.

Madalas akong umikot sa mga lugar na pinupuntahan ng mga katulad kong maliit na tao. Halos nilimas ko ang mga tauhan ng Hobbitt House. Binunot ko ang aking mga kamag-anak sa perya sa Roxas Boulevard at sa sirko sa Parañaque. Sinulatan ko ang mga iba ko pang kaibigan at kamag-anak sa probinsiya. Tinulungan ako ni Bernard at kinuha rin niya ang kanyang mga kaibigan at kamag-anak. Nagulat na lang si Nestor nang biglang dumami ang maliliit na tao sa kanyang palahian. Hindi raw niya akalaing marami palang kagaya namin ni Bernard sa bayan natin. Kulang-kulang sa sandaang maliit na tao ang kinalap namin sa loob ng tatlong buwan.

Nagtaka rin si Nestor na nakatapat siya sa akin ng kamukha niyang malikot ang isip at walang-pagod sa paglilikha, pagpaplano't pagtalakay ukol sa proyekto. Madalas kaming umagahin ni Nestor sa pagbuo ng bagong sirkulo ng sabong. Nakuha ko rin ang loob ng kanyang magandang asawang si Katrina. Kalahating Olandes si Katrina at malambot ang kanyang puso sa mga kaawa-awang katulad kong unano. Pumalakpak ang tainga ko nang ipinagtapat ni Nestor sa akin na ako lang daw ang nakapagpasuko sa kanya sa diskusyon tungkol sa pakana sa pagsasabong. Malayung-malayo raw ako sa mga kaibigan niyang sabungero, kamukha ni Oscar at Abet, na pangkaraniwang mag-isip at kulang sa imahinasyon. Napansin kong bihira nang pumasyal sa palahian ang dalawang tsutsuwa. Siguro naramdaman nilang tinatabangan na si Nestor sa kanila, at ako ang parati niyang gustong kausapin.

Doon ko unang namalayan na malapit ko nang mahuli ang aking among tunay. Kumagat siya sa aking kawil na may pain nang iginalang niya ang aking talino, at huminto siyang matuwa sa aking kapandakan.

Bilang pag-ensayo ng plano ni Nestor na magtatag ng bagong sirkulo ng pagsasabong ng bantam, nag-organisa ako ng derby ng bantam sa manukan sa Lipa. Kinundisyon namin ang dalawampung panlaban at bumuo kami ng limang entry para sa 4-cock derby. Pinares-pares namin ang mga bantam batay sa blind matching na sistemang ginagamit sa mga karaniwang derby. Kami ang nagtari, nagbitaw at nagsentensiya. Maghapong naganyak si Nestor sa aming derby. Ang aking entry ang nagkampiyon – nanalo ako nang tatlong laban at tumabla ako sa huling sultada.

Tuwang-tuwa si Nestor sa aming matagumpay na derby. Nagpasiya siya, roon mismo, na handa na kaming magpatayo ng sariling sabungan para sa mga bantam. Kumuha siya ng arkitekto at ipinapatag niya ang kanyang lupaing humigit-kumulang na isang ektarya sa dakong labas ng lunsod ng Lipa. Nagtayo rin siya ng joint checking account naming dalawa sa BPI sa Lipa, at pinondohan niya ito ng isang milyong piso. Ito raw ang gagamitin namin sa pagpatayo ng sabungan.

"Kailangan 'kong lumakad muna sa Amerika," ang sinabi ni Nestor sa akin isang gabi habang kami'y nag-iinuman ng cognac.

"Gaano kayo katagal mawawala, Bos?" tanong ko.

"Anim na buwan. Kasama ko si Katrina. Hahanap kami ng kabakas sa pagpatayo ng malaking paggawaan ng mga kasangkapan sa panggagamot dito sa Maynila. 'Yan ang linyang pinag-aralan ng asawa ko sa Europa."

"’Paano ang proyekto natin?"

"Ikaw na ang bahala. Malaki ang tiwala naming mag-asawa sa 'yo at 'yong tropa. Basta't huwag mo lang gawin na masyadong en-grande ang sabungan. Magsimula muna tayo nang maliit, okey?"

"Hindi kayo magsisisi sa inyong pagtitiwala. Aapurahin ko ang pagpatayo ng sabungan, upang magkaroon tayo ng inagurasyon sa inyong pagbalik. Ite-text ko sa inyo ang progreso ng proyekto."

Pinangatawanan ko ang pagpatayo ng sabungan, at natapos ito bago bumalik si Nestor at Katrina. Tuwang-tuwa sila nang ibinalita ko ito. Bumilib sila na kalahating milyon lang ang aking nagastos sa pagpatayo ng sabungan. Inutusan ako ni Nestor na ihanda ang inagurasyon. Ipinaimbita niya si Senador Ralph Recto at Mayor Vilma bilang mga pangunahing panauhin na magpuputol ng ribon. Ipinaimbita rin niya ang lahat na kakilala niyang big-time na sabungero, gaya ni Nene Araneta at Patrick Antonio; at mga may-ari ng mga sabungan, kamukha ni Louie Mendoza, ang may-ari ng Pasig Square Garden, at mga magkakapatid na Liamzon, ang may-ari ng dating Ibayo sa Marikina. Halos isang libong tao ang ipinaimbita niya sa inagurasyon.

Dumating si Nestor at Katrina kinagabihan bago mag-inagurasyon. Sinalubong ko sila sa paliparan at inihatid sa bahay nila sa San Lorenzo Village sa Makati. Kinabukasan, pumasyal si Nestor sa manukan sa Lipa. Hindi na sumama si Katrina dahil pagod pa siya sa biyahe. Nasiyahan si Nestor na maayos naman ang kanyang palahian, at walang problemang hindi ko nalutas habang wala siya. Doon kami nananghalian at marami siyang kinain sa ipinahanda ko. Sabik daw kasi siya sa pagkaing Pinoy dahil matagal siyang nawala sa bayan. Nagpahinga lang kami nang konti bago kami dumiretso sa inagurasyon ng bagong sabungan nang bandang alas-tres ng hapon.

Napakarami nang tao sa entrada ng sabungan, kasama na roon si Senador Ralph at Mayor Vilma. Hindi muna bumaba si Nestor sa Tsedeng upang batiin ang kanyang mga bisita. Matagal siyang natulala habang nakatitig sa bagong sabungan. Pagkatapos, minura niya ako.

"Putang-ina mo, Arnold, bakit parang bahay ng manika ang ipinaggawa mong sabungan? Hindi makakapasok ang normal na tao riyan! Pagtatawanan ako ng aking mga kaibigan!"

Siyempre, naggalit-galitan din ako.

"Huwag kayong magmura, Bos! Sinunod ko lang ang inyong mga utos. Hindi ba sabungan ng mga bantam ang gusto n'yo? At mga unano lahat ang mga tauhan? Di kasukat nila ang sabungan – tres piye ang taas ng mga pintuan. At sabi n'yo pa na ayaw n'yong en-grandeng sabungan, gusto n'yo maliit lang!"

Pagkabulalas ko nito, nagmadali akong bumaba sa kotse bago ako masakal ni Nestor.

Sa wakas, bumaba na rin si Nestor pagkaraan ng ilang minuto. Sinalubong siya ng malakas na tawanan ng mga bisita. Maghapon siyang kinantiyawan sa inagurasyon. Meron ding nagalit sa kanya. Inakusahan siya ng isang manunulat tungkol sa sabong na insulto sa lahat ng sabungero ang kanyang sabungan. Patalinghaga raw niyang ipinapahayag sa buong mundo, sa pamamagitan ng kanyang minyaturang sabungan, na ang sabong ay isang estupidong laro ng mga bulilit ang utak.

Nagkaroon ng masamang budhi si Bernard noong gabing iyon. Tinanong niya ako: “Kaawa-awa naman si Nestor dahil sa teribleng kahihiyan na dinanas niya. Bakit mo naman ginawa ‘yon?”

Pinatahimik ko siya agad sa aking sagot: “Bakit? Meron bang nabubuhay na Filipinong di bansot ang puso’t utak? Sira rin ‘yang si Nestor. Karapat-dapat lang ang ginawa ko sa kanya.”

Pinalayas kaming lahat ni Nestor kinabukasan. Ipinadala na rin niya sa amin ang lahat ng mga bantam sa kanyang palahian. Isunusumpa na raw niya ang lahat ng mga pandak na bagay sa mundong ito.

Binili ko sa kanya ang bagong sabungan. Noong una, nagalit siya sa turing kong sampung libo, kasama na ang lupa. Pero pumayag na rin siya pagkatapos ng isang linggo, dahil wala naman siyang gagawin sa sabungan na para sa maliliit na tao lamang at masyadong magastos naman kung ipabubuwag pa niya ito. Nakatulong dito ang kanyang mga tsutsuwang si Abet at Oscar, kahit galit sila sa akin. Pinayuhan nila si Nestor na mabuti pang ipagbili na lang sa akin ang sabungan kaysa maging hari pa siya ng mga unano.

Ginawa kong sentro ng maliliit na tao ang sabungan. Pinarami ko ang mga bantam ni Nestor at nalibang kami sa paglalaban sa kanila. Kung ang sabong ay laro ng pandak ang utak dahil lahat ng sabungero'y natatalo, bakit hindi puwedeng magkaroon ng sariling sabungan ang mga tunay na unano?

Nagtayo rin ako ng mga restawran, masahihan, disko at karaoke para sa maliliit na tao sa loob ng sabungan. Halos lahat ng maliliit na tao sa ating bayan ay naging parokyano ko.

Sa labas naman, nagtayo ako ng malaking restawran at mga souvenir shop para sa mga ordinaryong tao – ‘yon bang mga mas mataas at malaki sa amin, subalit lampa. Binuksan ko ang bubong ng sabungan at nilagyan ko ng hagdanan sa labas paakyat sa bubong. Nilagyan ko ng mga upuan ang bubong, upang makapanood ang mga ordinaryong tao ng kataka-takang sabong ng mga unano.

Limpak-limpak ang dumating na turistang Pinoy at dayuhan. Umapaw ang kita sa aking maliliit na bulsa.

Ganyan ako naging big-time na sabungero.

Mula sa Ang Masayang Mundo ni Nestor D ni Antonio A. Hidalgo (Milflores, 2001).

Posted on November 23, 2008

YOU CAN'T FALL OFF A MOUNTAIN

2008-07-28T03:14:00.000-07:00

by

ANTONIO A. HIDALGO

I can’t remember exactly when I came across the kooky actress Shirley McLaine’s autobiography with that title. It must have been a long time ago, perhaps 30 years ago. I remember that it was an easy and interesting read, for she had done some unusual things in her life. It wasn’t profound, for that is not her strong point, but she was able to effectively convey her free and daring spirit through repeated use of the saying: “You can’t fall off a mountain,” that she said had guided her throughout her life.

The book struck a chord in me. I have made a number of very risky decisions in my life guided only by a deep intuition and, as yet, undefined but extremely urgent need. Afterwards, I would try to explain my radical shifts in life directions to those close to me in rational terms that I never found to be completely adequate. I think now that what was missing in the rationalizations was my inborn belief, long before I had read Shirley McLaine, that life is too short not to do what you need to do for fear of the risk, for you can’t fall off a mountain.

In 1967, in my 20s, I wrote an article using a pseudonym in the Graphic magazine that predicted that President Marcos would declare martial law. I had been primed to be sensitive to a crisis in the larger society because the company I was working for, Esso Fertilizer, was losing money, was breaking up, and had been put on the auction block. Guided by my insight, I obtained a study grant from my employer and enrolled in Ateneo for an M.A. in Political Science, the better to understand the changes that were coming. This led to my resigning from my cushy job in Esso in 1970, despite having a young family of my own, to join the militant left to help prevent the imposition of martial law by teaching at the Philippine College of Commerce, then a hotbed of student activism, and writing for the Graphic, then a leftist publication.

As we all know, martial law was imposed in 1972, and though I was not jailed, my wife and I lost all four of our teaching and writing jobs in the pogrom that attended it, leaving both of us jobless and virtually penniless. We bounced back, though, and by an unusual confluence of fortunate events, I joined UNICEF in Bangkok to embark on an enviable career as an international professional three years later.

I did it again in my late 40s, when I resigned from UNICEF in New York to return home, leaving a well-paid job with diplomatic rank and privileges just eight years before I was old enough to be entitled to a pension. Tears flowed when I discussed this decision with my wife and our teenaged daughters. My wife was scared to death of the financial uncertainty of going home without the safety net of a pension and the drastic change of life that faced us in the Philippines after 15 years of being UN expats. My daughters saw their shattered hopes for an Ivy League education in the US and the end of the comfortable First-World life they had been living.

It was not easy, but we all managed to eventually rebuild our lives back home. My wife blossomed, earned a Ph.D., carved out a successful career as a teacher and administrator at the UP, and wrote many books. My daughters earned their college degrees, learned Filipino, developed permanent peer groups and close friends at last (compared with their evanescent ones during our itinerant life in various countries when I was with the UN), and became bonded to the country and Pinay at their cores. I took a more circuitous path and became a professional breeder of fighting cocks, wrote a series of cockfighting manuals, moved on to write an opinion column for Money Asia, served in the cabinet of President Ramos as Secretary General of HUDCC, wrote 17 books, and established a book publishing house that has done well since 1999.

Knowing only too well the volatility in my nature and my penchant for taking large risks to embark on new journeys, I surmised that my daughters probably had these in their natures too. I thought I would prepare them to handle this part of themselves by giving them the confidence they would need to safely navigate around the risks they were bound to take. I told them about Shirley McLaine’s autobiography and her mantra: “You can’t fall off a mountain.” This was the opposite of my own upbringing. My parents were quite traditional—they had no inkling that my nature was very different from theirs and they often tried to instill caution and conservatism in me, like most parents are wont to do.

My unorthodox parenting sometimes led to funny situations. I had been teaching Anna, our 15-year-old daughter then, how to drive a car for about two weeks, when we took a family trip to Baguio during one of our home leaves while living abroad. On a flash of inspiration, I stopped the car when we reached Kennon Road and asked Anna to take over the wheel.

My wife knew what I was up to, but had to worriedly ask me anyway: “Do you really think she is ready to drive up the zigzag road?” Anna thought so and took over the wheel with relish.

Carmen, our youngest daughter who was nine then, didn’t think so and frantically remonstrated with us: “This is very dangerous! We could fall off the cliff and die!”

I tried to reassure her: “Don’t worry. Remember what I said? You can’t fall off a mountain.”

She refused to be reassured and shot back heatedly: “That is sooo dumb! Of course, you can fall off a mountain. Rona, my classmate in Rangoon, fell on a mountain trail and sprained her ankle badly. She was lucky not to break a leg. And my friend in New York, Jenny, fell while biking down a mountain and broke her leg!”

My wife and I smiled at each other and I said: “That can’t be true, for you can’t fall off a mountain.”

Carmen stuck to her guns and cited three other instances that she had heard of where children had fallen on hillsides and had hurt themselves. I figured she was too young to really understand what I was doing, so I let her win the argument.

We made it safely to Baguio City.

After this incident, my unorthodox attempts at values education through “You can’t fall off a mountain” became an object of fond mirth within my family. My wife and daughters would sometimes utter the mantra in incongruous circumstances to rib me. Like when talking of final catastrophes like dying from a car accident, or when doing something quite safe and mundane, like getting up on a stool to wipe off the roof of a car.

In college, Anna once wrote an informal, humorous essay for her class that dwelt on her unusual upbringing. “You can’t fall off a mountain” figured prominently in it, along with growing up in many foreign lands.

Little did she know when she wrote that essay what treacherous paths she would tread in only a few years. After heading a student org and becoming managing editor of her school paper, she decided upon graduating not to get a job. Instead, she set up her own company with almost no capital, Really Swell Multimedia, and convinced a cousin and a close friend to join her. Unbelievably, they got a number of contracts and the company did well for a couple of years. Anna rented a condo and moved out of the house with the Honda City I gave her.

Then the economy took a bad turn and the contracts dried up. The City disappeared, and we suspected that she had sold or pawned it to see the company through hard times. But we weren’t sure and we never did find out, for none of us had the heart to ask her about it whenever we saw her, for she was always so obviously unhappy and stressed out from seeing her dream crumbling. It took less than a year for her company to go bankrupt. Anna had to give up her condo and humbly move back in with us sans the City.

But she didn’t fall off the mountain. After some months, she landed a good job with a multinational NGO. In a year, she bought herself a secondhand car and moved into another condo. After some more years, she won a Fullbright scholarship and earned an M.A. in the prestigious Johns Hopkins University, fulfilling her dream of an Ivy League degree. Then she joined the World Bank in Washington, D.C. to serve in Asia.

In one of our conversations at home, she told me that believing that she couldn’t fall off a mountain helped her a lot during her tough period.

Some years after we had returned home, Carmen went through a rocky emotional patch in college from a romance that had ended badly. My wife went up to her on one of her bad days and asked: “Are you okay? Can you get through this?” Carmen smiled at her and said, “Don’t worry, Ma. You can’t fall off a mountain, remember?” When my wife told me this, my heart swelled and I stopped worrying about Carmen.

She didn’t fall off the mountain either. She recovered her gung-ho disposition and finished college. Then she tried her hand at modeling, got a few contracts, and won a minor national beauty contest. New in the world of work, she tried a couple of jobs—doing communications for a university, then an NGO—and later settled down for a few years in a large advertising and PR company. She did well enough to rent a condo and move out of the house. But last year, when the company she was working for encountered serious financial difficulties, she decided to take the high-risk path of making a life for herself in the US. She is now working there and saving up to take graduate studies. She sent me a card for last Father’s Day. It said that I taught her how to get what she wants out of life. That she is still clinging tenaciously to the side of the mountain, but she is sure she can scale it.

I E-mailed her to say that I wasn’t sure whether her mountain is there or here, but that I was certain she would reach its summit.

Published in the column "Imagine" in the Philippine Chronicle in 2007.

Posted on November 23, 2008

THE MAN WHO SOLD DREAMS

2008-07-28T01:47:00.000-07:00

by

ANTONIO A. HIDALGO

Gladys always looked forward to Wednesdays, for that was the day of the week when she went to Robinson’s Supermarket in Galleria Mall to shop for the little luxuries that, for some years now, had been practically the only source of her family’s joy. Little things like a fourth-kilo of sliced Majestic Ham and a small bottle of Lady’s Choice Sweet Mixed Pickles with which to make sandwiches for breakfast, a small bottle of Lady’s Choice Creamy Peanut Butter, a small box of Magnolia Cheddar Cheese, and, sometimes even, what she liked best of all, a bag of imported Nabisco Oreo cookies. It strained her meager household budget, but she reasoned to herself, and once or twice to Rod, who had mildly questioned her spending on non-essentials in an upscale supermarket, that it really did no harm and gave her and the family some pleasure, not least through the act of shopping itself that allowed her to put on makeup, dress in her newest jeans and blouse and either in her black or brown pair of leather pumps, and step out of the house after Rod had left for work and Ralph had gone to school to spend the better part of the day in the fascinating Galleria that was always crowded with all sorts of people.

She alighted from the jeepney coming from Cainta just across Galleria and quickly crossed the street toward the beckoning mall. Gladys walked past the huge shrine of Mama Mary on the corner of EDSA, past the Mercury Drug Store and entered the side entrance of National Book Store. She briefly glanced at the local romance novels, then tarried at the shelves with the imported ones. She browsed through two of them for a while and got engrossed in one: “Snowbound Sweetheart,” by Judy Christenberry. She smiled at herself when she recognized the will-she-won’t-she-go-to-bed plot involving a fashion model and a hunk, but finally put it back with a shrug and decided not to buy it this time, as it was still a week away from Rod’s next payday. Maybe next week.

She left National through the entrance inside the mall, ambled through the crowded corridor stalls selling cheap imported knock-offs of designer casual clothes, cursorily examined a pair of mod splash-faded DKNY jeans and a lavender Polo blouse, and wended her way to the supermarket that, it seemed to her, was more brightly lit than either National or the corridor stalls.
There was a celadon-green Hyundai Starex van at the entrance of the supermarket. It was the grand prize in the coming Christmas raffle for the supermarket customers. One’s name, address and phone number just had to be printed on the back of one’s receipt, signed, and dropped in the collection boxes to get a chance to win the van.

Gladys asked permission from the salesgirl tending the collection boxes to get into the Starex van; the surly girl grudgingly nodded her approval and opened the front door by the driver’s seat. She sat behind the wheel and studied the dashboard, marveled at the tiny TV set, the CD changer and player, the array of indicators and controls within easy reach and thought of how much vehicles had changed since she drove the family Toyota while living with her parents decades ago. Like a child, she turned the wheel back and forth and briefly dreamed of family weekend outings to provincial resorts in the huge van with Rod and Ralph. She ran her fingers over the soft upholstery in a paisley print and primped herself in front of the mirror on the windshield visor. Then she alighted and thanked the salesgirl with a big smile. She made a note to herself to make sure to drop her receipt in the collection box later as she entered the supermarket. Who knows but she might win the van – stranger things had happened.

She went into the supermarket, past boxes of Synergy All Purpose Powder Detergent and IGA Tasteroos, Crispy Rice and Corn Flakes that were on sale, and headed for the wine and cigarette store on the left side of the supermarket to tarry over the neatly stacked wine bottles, reading the French, Spanish, American, Australian and Chilean labels. She had sometimes read in the romance novels scenes of evening repasts with fine wine, and intended to surprise Rod someday with a bottle with which to highlight their dinner, but had not yet gotten up the nerve to do it. Then she moved onto the shelves with brandies and other liqueurs and read their varied labels too, thinking that she might go all the way one day and get a bottle of good liqueur with which to cap their dinner before they retired for the night. Wouldn’t that really startle Rod? Maybe she’d do it for Christmas with a bottle of burgundy wine and Cointreau.

Gladys moved onto the supermarket proper and started with the display of deli goodies behind a refrigerated glass counter. There were so many meats, there was even the Tyrolean slab bacon that looked like preserved litson kawali; she remembered that the store had run out of this last week. She looked at the tag on the package: P375 for a fourth-kilo – too expensive a treat for now. It would have to wait. She gazed at the packets of large German franks and dark Hungarian spicy sausages and their prices and finally asked the salesgirl for a 300-gram packet of local Fat/Thin Chinese sausages that cost P90.50.

She loaded the sausages onto her trolley and moved to the shelves with the preserved sweets and snacks. Gladys carefully examined a cyclindrical box with a new flavor in Pringles potato chips: Wild Consomme, then studied a bottle of American peanut butter. Finally, she picked up a small bottle of Nata de Coco, a six-pack of A&W root beer, a box of tissue paper, two bars of soap and a small box of Kraft Cheddar Cheese and pushed her lightly-loaded trolley to the paying counter.

Gladys decided to have a budget meal of chicken, rice and a soft drink at the McDonald’s on the ground floor, which was usually not as crowded as the one in the basement beside the fastfood stalls. She was right about this and had to queue only briefly for her meal. After lunch, she went into the Marithe and Francois Girbaud store beside McDo’s to look at jeans and blouses. Then to Florsheim shoes to imagine how Rod would look in them.

She left the Florsheim shop, lugging her small bag of groceries, and intended to continue window shopping. She did not expect, at all – was most surprised, in fact, to see the strange stall right smack in the middle between Florsheim on her side and Celine on the opposite one.

“DREAMS FOR SALE – P100 FOR 30 MINUTES,” the sign said. She had never seen the stall before, though she was sure that she knew every single shop and stall in the mall. It tickled her curiosity and she approached the solitary man sitting behind a small desk. She took a seat across the desk and looked at him. He smiled reassuringly at her. He was middle-aged, balding, wore glasses and was dressed simply in a white short-sleeved shirt and dark pants.

“Do you really sell dreams?” Gladys asked impishly while she smiled back at the man.

“Yes, I do,” he answered evenly as he looked calmly at her with lively eyes.
“But what does that mean?”

“We will talk for thirty minutes and I will help you weave your dream.”

“What will I get at the end of thirty minutes?”

“Your dream.”

“And you’ll charge me a hundred pesos for that? A movie is only sixty pesos and it lasts for two hours.”

“Yes, but your own dream will be more satisfying and will last longer. It will be yours alone – it need not be shared with anyone.”

“I’m really curious. But it’s too expensive.”

“Tell you what: why don’t you try it? If you’re not completely satisfied with your dream, you won’t have to pay me anything. I only put up this stall yesterday and that’s my promo to get people to try my service.”

Gladys looked at the man’s face again. There was a reassuring quality about him – he didn’t look like a petty crook that would try to scare her into paying if she didn’t want to. She impulsively decided to give it a try.

“Okay, what do I do?”

“Just sit back and relax,” the man said. Then he stared intently at her face for ten seconds. Before Gladys could get uneasy, he spoke again in a soft, low voice that had a musical quality to it.

“Tell me, what do you dream of these days?”

“Winning the Starex van that is being raffled off downstairs at the supermarket. My husband and my son and I could go on weekend trips to out-of-town resorts in it. I could pack our lunch and we could have picnics every week.”

The man listened carefully, then he said: “You were seven years old when you skipped and ran around the beach near your house in La Union very early one morning, at sunrise, before your mother got up to prepare breakfast. You wove one of your first dreams then.”

Gladys was startled. This scene was one of the dearest in her heart. How could he know about it? She said nothing while she stared intently at him.

“A storm was coming. The sea was restless. But you were not afraid. You had slipped out of the house wearing only a panty to play on the beach.”

Gladys frowned. She crossed her legs tightly and folded her arms across her chest.

“The sting of salt spray on your face and chest awakened your senses. You enjoyed it a great deal. You felt one with the sea, the sky, with nature and the world. You dreamed of the freedom to roam and enjoy the world that would surely be yours when you grew up. You dreamed of living a full and happy life,” he said in a low, soothing, pleasant voice that instantly dissolved Gladys’s apprehension.

“How did you do that? Do I know you? Have we met before?”

The man simply smiled.

“You went back to the same place on the beach at sunrise when you were fifteen, one morning during your summer vacation in your senior year in high school. You had put on your bathing suit and had swum out to sea. You occasionally dived underwater to look at the fish and playfully tried to catch them. As you dried yourself with a towel back on the beach, you thought of your own impending adulthood with great anticipation; you were so certain that you would prosper and do great and important things, for nature is so abundant. Perhaps you would establish a tinapa factory and distribute your products throughout Luzon.”

“Yes,” Gladys said enthusiastically. “And I still dream of it. And when I finally do it, then I’ll buy the Starex van for my family.”

The man smiled beatifically and leaned back in his chair. He was silent for a long time.

Gladys broke the silence. “Is that it? Are my thirty minutes over?”

“Yes,” the man answered. “You can complete your dream on your own now, without my help.”

Gladys paid the man and walked to the jeepney stop with a light heart. She recalled and savored the two beach scenes in her mind on the ride home and felt, rather than thought, that the man was right. The roots of her dream were still somewhere out there on the beach in La Union.

After their dinner that night, when Gladys had washed and put away the dishes and utensils, she conversed briefly with Rod while they lay on their bed before they watched TV. She told him of the strange man in the mall who sold dreams and of her pleasant experience. She related in wonderment how he had lyrically described two of the childhood scenes that she especially treasured. And how those scenes, and the childhood dreams that they evoked, had, indeed, stayed with her all day and had made her very happy. This made the hundred pesos she had paid him well worth it.

Rod felt a bit bothered when Gladys told him of her experience. A strange man probing his wife’s mind, monkeying with her childhood memories and dreams, perturbed him. It was too intimate; it invaded his privacy as well as hers; it violated his sole right to intimate conversations like that with the mother of their child. But he saw that it had made Gladys happy and he decided not to ruin this by expressing his apprehension.

“I’m glad that you enjoyed it,” he said. “Hope it lasts you for several weeks, for we really can’t afford expensive entertainment like that too often.”

“Don’t worry about that. It was just a whim. He may be out of business next week, when I shop again. His stall is so strange, I don’t think he’ll get many customers.”

After watching TV for a couple of hours, for the first time in some weeks, Rod made love to Gladys before they went to sleep. She responded quite passionately because she was in a good mood and they slept very soundly that night.

Next Wednesday, Gladys went to Galleria again to shop, as she had done every Wednesday for years now. She retraced her route of last week from habit and bought essentially the same things from the supermarket. She ate at the same McDo’s outlet, except that she ordered a hamburger budget meal this time. Then she looked for the man who sold dreams.

He was there, sitting behind his desk, and there was no one else in the stall, just like it had been last week.

“Hello,” he greeted her warmly when she sat down. “How was your shopping?”

“Okay. Bought the usual stuff. Do you have another dream for me today?”
He looked at her intently for a few seconds, then he started the session.

“It was a hot and humid evening in early June. Your boyfriend was visiting you in your uncle’s house in Singalong. To make him more comfortable, you suggested that you both go up on the roof to enjoy the breeze and look at the stars. He was a bit surprised by this at first, then he quickly realized that this would give him more privacy with you.

“On the roof, you sat on the chairs you had brought and looked for shooting stars. You saw two, then you chatted intimately for hours about the stars, the universe out there, and your dreams in life. He talked passionately for some time about his plans to become a lawyer after finishing his accounting course. He wanted to help poor people attain a measure of justice in our free-for-all society, where the rich and powerful often step on the poor and powerless. You responded by telling him how, one day, you would set up a business that would provide good cheap food for ordinary people. And this business would allow him to donate some of his hours pro bono to poor legal clients.

“It was a good evening full of warm feelings between the two of you. He kissed you for the first time. Then he proposed marriage.”

Gladys instinctively touched her cheek with the palm of her hand and realized that she was brushing off a tear. “But how do you know these things?” she blurted out, interrupting the man.

The man just smiled.

“It was a great evening. A turning point in my life. The dreams we made that night will … live forever …” Gladys said haltingly as the man sat in silence. Gladys lapsed into silence too and was lost in thought for some minutes. The two of them just sat there, with neither looking at the other.

Finally, Gladys turned to the man, smiled, thanked him and paid.

She was sad and happy all day at home from the lost dreams that the man had retrieved for her, while she cleaned the house and, later, prepared dinner and waited for Rod and Ralph to come home. She thought of how Rod never did get to go to law school, as he had hoped. He worked immediately after graduating so that they could get married and then couldn’t go back to school. She quit her job as a secretary to have Ralph and then never went back to work. She never tried to set up a business as she had planned. But she was elated when she remembered their youthful selves full of hopes and dreams. And she thought that, maybe, it wasn’t too late. Maybe it was never too late.

After dinner, Gladys once more recounted her strange experience with the man who sold dreams at the mall to Rod as they lay in bed. This time, Rod got mad and couldn’t keep himself from chiding Gladys.

“But why do you share our most intimate moments with a stranger?”

“I didn’t. He knew all about our night on the roof. I don’t know how or why, and he wouldn’t tell me, when I asked.”

“How is that possible? How can I believe that?”

“But you must. Because it’s true.”

“Okay, I’ll let it go this last time. But you must stop seeing this man, for heaven’s sake. I can’t let him go on playing with your mind. He might be out to destroy our marriage for his own strange reasons.”

“Okay, if that’s what you want. But he has done no harm. He behaves very properly. And he makes me happy for days on end by reviving a part of you and me that I thought had already died.”

“I don’t think that’s what he’s up to. He is too strange. I’ll go see him tomorrow and talk to him.”

“Talk to him, if you must. You’ll see there’s nothing to be afraid of. He’s a kindly old man who’s nearly bald. Please don’t get angry with him. I’m sure he means well. I feel that very strongly.”

Rod did not make love to Gladys that night, for he was in a bad mood. Neither of them slept well.

The next morning, Rod went to work as usual in the accounting firm where he was a clerk. But he asked for a couple of hours off from his boss to attend to some urgent family business. Then he went to Galleria at ten to have it out with the strange man who pried into his wife’s dreams.

He methodically and precisely followed Gladys’s directions until he got to the front of the Florsheim shop, where he could see Celine’s across the corridor. But when he looked, there was no stall in the middle with a man that sold dreams. That area of the corridor was empty.

Rod went into the Florsheim shop, pretended to look at the shoes and waited for the salesman to approach him. He asked about the prices of a few pairs rather perfunctorily, then he inquired about the stall with the man that sold dreams.

The saleman looked at him quizzically and asked him to repeat the question. When Rod did that, the salesman simply shook his head vigorously and said that he had never seen or heard of such a strange stall before.

Rod went to Celine’s and asked the salesgirl there about the strange man and his stall. The girl laughed and said that there was no such stall in the mall and that she doubted if there was that kind of stall in any other mall in the country.

Thoroughly confused, Rod went back to his office and tried, rather unsuccessfully, to work as if nothing untoward had happened.

He really couldn’t concentrate on his work, so he went home early and quietly slipped into the house. From the tiny living room, he saw and smelled Gladys cooking his favorite Batangas bulalo with her back turned. She was dressed in a thin duster and desire stirred in him as he noticed that she had kept her good figure through their years of marriage. She paused from cooking to brush the hair from her ears. He glimpsed her naked pink ear. In that instant, he thought he understood what Gladys was trying to tell him by inventing the story of the strange man who sold dreams. He crept quietly behind her and kissed her ear.

She was startled and dropped her ladle. But she giggled girlishly when she saw that it was her husband. After kissing him back on the mouth, she asked: “Well, did you talk to the man who sells dreams?”

Rod laughed and said: “No, I changed my mind. You’re right, he does no harm. And whatever makes you happy makes me happy too. Listen, why don’t we catch a movie at the Galleria after dinner tonight? Let’s date, like in the old days.”

Gladys looked into Rod’s eyes. Then she hugged him tightly.

From A Song for My Brother and Other Stories by Antonio A. Hidalgo (Milflores, 2002).

This story won First Prize in the 2002 NVM Gonzalez Literary Awards.

Posted on November 22, 2008

THE SECOND COMING

2008-07-26T18:23:00.000-07:00

by

ANTONIO A. HIDALGO

It was the biggest, most important media conference of all time – even for the jaded news icons who had seen more than their share of hyperbole in their long years on the job. They came from all over the world to swoop down on the new Manila Hotel – waving their reservation receipts, sundry international credit cards, fistfuls of crisp thousand dollar bills, letters of introduction from the most powerful editors and network presidents in the world, and the occasional letter of recommendation from the Philippine President, or at least a Filipino cabinet secretary – so stiff was the competition for the rooms at the 800-room five-star hotel. Needless to say, there was bedlam everyday for several days before the conference at the hotel lobby, which was always crammed not only with international media personalities, but also with gawking spectators, Filipinos and tourists, who craved to be a part of history, even if it was only to be in the place where the great conference was to be held before it actually took place. It was common knowledge that HE was staying in the penthouse suite of the hotel, and it was not impossible that HE could be briefly glimpsed as HE came down for HIS meals or other needs.

Almost as soon as the hotel had been reserved for the conference, it was put under the tightest security. This meant installation of the latest CT scanners at the doors, which had all been hastily imported, and which could scan to the innards and the skeletal frame. Unfortunately, it also involved the deployment of thousands of intelligence agents, policemen and army petty officers – all dressed in dark slacks and cream polo barongs, holding video phones from which they monitored every square inch of the hotel's common areas and communicated with one another and the hotel personnel. They only added to the confusion because they were nearly as disorganized as the crowds that daily flocked to the hotel.

The statement from Global Biotech, Inc. announcing the conference was brief but electrifying:

"THE SECOND COMING OF JESUS CHRIST

"Global Biotech, Inc. is proud to announce an international media conference at the Manila Hotel, Manila, Philippines on Monday, December 25, 2035 to introduce Jesus Christ to the world community.

"Thirty years ago, on March 25, 2005, a team of eminent scientists working for Global Biotech, Inc. successfully cloned Jesus Christ from his DNA which was obtained from an unimpeachable source and carefully verified by a separate team of the most qualified historians and theologians of that time. The embryo was successfully implanted in an eighteen year-old virgin who worked as a washerwoman, Maria Santos of Paco, Manila, Philippines. The child Jesus was brought up by Maria and her brother, Jose, a mason. Both of them chose to forego normal lives so that they might bring up Jesus Christ with financial assistance from Global Biotech, Inc., and advice from the company's team of educators, theologians and social scientists – all of whom have impeccable credentials.

"It was decided by the Global Biotech, Inc. project management in 2005 that Jesus Christ should be born in a predominantly Christian, poor country in keeping with his mission in his first life. Chiefly for security reasons, and to forestall imitations, the project has been kept from the public since then.

"Today, the project has matured and Jesus Christ is thirty years old – the age at which he started to impart his religious truths to the world. Global Biotech, Inc. proudly presents Jesus Christ to the world."

Sven Horsgaard, the chairman of Global Biotech, presided over the conference. He launched into a lengthy technical presentation of the cloning process that had "elevated mankind to the level of the Creator." The complicated holograms of color-coded DNA floated before the eyes of every journalist, security officer, and privileged spectator, including practically the entire central government of the Philippines, as Sven droned on in his jargon-filled monologue. The patient crowd was extremely quiet, its eyes glued on the heavily bearded young man with sad eyes and shoulder-length hair, in a cream robe, who was seated beside the standing chairman and who followed every word with great interest. Finally, the chairman wrapped up his presentation with an unabashed tribute to Global Biotech's audacity and unselfish generosity in cloning Jesus Christ, which, he said, was a guarantee of the unsurpassed quality of its products and services.

But when he turned over the conference to Jesus Christ, it was not the long-haired man in a robe beside him who stood up. Another young man with undercut, tousled and dyed blond hair, the current hairstyle in Manila, in jeans and a red T-shirt, who was seated three places away, stood up briefly to wave to the crowd. Then he sat down and talked in a most casual manner, his every word picked up by the super-sensitive mike, no larger than a cigarette lighter, that was barely noticeable at the center of the long table. He spoke for three minutes, smiling often, sometimes gesturing with his hairy, muscular arms, and said nothing of importance. He simply greeted the world, told all mankind that he was glad to be back, thanked his foster parents for their sacrifices, said that he had done a bit of traveling to renew his knowledge of the human condition, and assured everyone that he was, indeed, Jesus Christ, though he had, thus far, not yet been contacted by God. He never mentioned Global Biotech, Inc. and ended his talk rather abruptly with an amused smile.

The chairman announced that three written questions had been selected from the thousands that had been submitted, for Jesus to answer. He explained that there would be plenty of time for Jesus to teach the world in the coming years. Then he read the first question:

"Are you truly the Son of God?"

"I was. But this time around, you might say that I am the Son of Man," Jesus answered off-handedly, triggering much laughter in the crowd.

"What miracles will you do to prove yourself?"

"Don't know about that. Tried making wine from water a year ago. Gave it up. The wine wasn't even as good as the Napa Valley stuff," Jesus retorted instantly to more laughter.

"Will you feed the poor in the Third World countries?"

Jesus thought for the briefest moment as he stroked the short black stubble on his chin. "No. It would alter the future of mankind in the wrong way," he said vaguely, before he pointed to a stout, bearded man who was waving his hand while standing in the center aisle.

"Why don't you look like Jesus Christ at all?" the man shouted.

"The PR men of the sponsors tried to do that," he said with a laugh, "but I prefer to live in this time."

The chairman suddenly stood up to announce that the conference had ended. Then he briskly walked out of the lobby, followed by the bearded man with long hair wearing a robe, carrying the chairman's briefcase. There was a stampede to send out the dispatches.

The story preoccupied all the media in every country for the next few weeks. Most of the coverage was skeptical about the cloning of Christ. Every bit of information about Global Biotech, Inc. was ferreted out by the cascade of background stories that followed the first reports on the conference. The company and its people stood up to the intense scrutiny. It was the leading biotechnology company in the world, and had been this for four decades. The teams that had successively managed the project included eleven Nobel Prize winners. None of the team members, or officers of the corporation for that matter, had the slightest blotch on their records, save perhaps for an ardent desire to make the company profitable.

Some of the more interesting complications from the conference were the need for tightened security for Christ, for there were rumors of a fatwah for his death from the mullahs of Iran. And the pressure on Global Biotech, Inc. from the Saudi Arabian government to clone Muhammad. And from the King of Thailand to clone Gautama Buddha. The rumors eventually died down with no real hard news, as is often the case with earth-shaking events.

Christ became an instant icon because his photos from the conference circled the globe many, many times. He had to change his hairstyle to a crewcut, dye his hair back to its natural dark color, shave his stubble, and take to wearing a business suit and necktie to avoid media harassment.

He was thus dressed, and completely alone, when he showed up at the Vatican to see Pope Paul XXXII. He called the Philippine Ambassador to the Vatican from his hotel room to ask him to arrange a private meeting with the Pope. Jesus clearly specified that the meeting was to be between him and the Pope only, with no one else in attendance.

Jesus was met at the gate of the Vatican by Cardinal Bottini, who greeted him very properly, with a slight bow, but no warmth. The Cardinal offered to tour Jesus around the Sistine Chapel, but Jesus told him that he had already seen the place as a tourist and had admired Michelangelo's painting on the ceiling. They went straight to the Pope's waiting room, receiving the salutes of the Swiss Guards at every door they passed – salutes meant for the Cardinal, for the guards could not have recognized Jesus.

Christ waited for twenty minutes in the opulently appointed anteroom before a buzzer sounded and the Cardinal stood up to show him to the door. He entered the door and the Cardinal stayed behind to close it after him. The Pope stood up from his massive desk in one corner of the cavernous office and motioned him to a sofa with an antique coffee table at the opposite end. As the beaming Pope approached Jesus by the sofa, he reflexively offered his ring to be kissed. Jesus's eyes flashed and the Pope, without skipping a beat, hugged him instead and said:

"We have waited for this moment for an eternity, it seems. Please, let us sit down and talk."

"You dare to make the founder of your church wait?" Jesus said gruffly, as he sat down.

The Pope sat beside him and turned to look at Jesus serenely. "That is yet to be established, my dear young man," he said evenly, with a benign expression. "But we are sorry that we had to sign some urgent papers that were suddenly brought up. Perhaps some tea or coffee would atone?"

"I am thousands of years old. And I didn't come here to drink coffee or chitchat."

"What, then, can we do for you, Sir?"

"It's a travesty – all of it, all organized religion. Surely, you see that sometimes?"

"We do the best we can, Sir, in our little spheres of influence. Perhaps, if you could be more specific about the Catholic Church, since we can't do a thing about the other religions?"

"Okay. I'll start with you, because your church is the most authoritarian and harmful. But I'll go on to give the others a piece of my mind. What's with this ex-cathedra infallibility? None of you popes are divine! Certainly not Peter, the first one, or anyone else that came after."

"We did not start this venerable tradition, Sir. It has existed for thousands of years and its philosophical foundations may be found in successive encyclicals of our esteemed predecessors. Please understand, Sir, that the infallibility of the Pope, when speaking ex-cathedra, is a subtle concept that is absolutely necessary and that has all the requisite limitations and safeguards from abuse. One that is not amenable to intelligent discussion when expressed in rough and unsophisticated language. Surely, you know, with your excellently supervised education by some of our own scholars, that the matter is not as simple as you wish to make it appear?"

"Everything is far simpler than you want it to be. But let's turn to fucking. Why do you torture yourselves with this crazy celibacy rule? The Gods gave screwing its power to assure the survival of the species. You would all govern more wisely if you were happier."

"I must appeal for an elevated discussion, Sir. One that befits your status and does not demean a Man of God in the House and City of God."

"Good. You are now an 'I' and no longer a 'we.' And contraception! Why forbid it when the poor are multiplying like flies and are living lives as unfulfilling and short-lived as flies?"

"I was told that you had read all the pronouncements of the Church. You did not agree with the carefully reasoned arguments?"

"You should really take a stand against the forced spaying of pets like dogs and cats. Perhaps against the idea of pets altogether."

"Let me tell you now, in all frankness, that I was really against your cloning when the idea was first discussed with the Church. But I was only a young priest then and had no power to stop it. I thought, even then, that you would not understand our situation and the necessity of what we do."

"What about those silly evangelists? They lead the masses by the nose. Your church has its own, like that stupid El Shaddai movement in the Philippines. Close them down!"

"I'm sure that you have read Dostoevsky's chapter on the Grand Inquisitor?"

"He was a delightful writer."

"Please, think back on what he said. You left us all before in a great blaze of glory, assuring your place in legend and history. We, on the other hand, were left to do the dirty work, hampered by our human frailties. But we understand our kind. I assure you that there was no other way."

"No other way, my foot! I understand all of you, especially the poor. No way shall I kiss you, though you dream of it so that you could be even more full of yourself."

"Do you intend to do this unpleasant business with all the other religious heads?"

"You ain't seen nothin' yet. I will lead a revolt that will leave all your churches in ruins. Remember: 'Do not think that I have come to bring peace upon the earth. I have come to bring not peace but the sword.'"

"You will be crucified all over again."

"So what? I can do it again and again and again."

"For what purpose? Do you think it will end differently this time around? That men will not build on your life and teachings for their own purposes? And, perhaps, achieve some measure of good in the process?"

Jesus guffawed loudly at this. He stood up and walked out without looking back at the Pope.

Word of the encounter spread like wildfire. Cardinal Bottini, who wanted to be Pope, retrieved the tapes of the conversation and surreptitiously released them to the media. The news stories that came out heavily embellished the drama of the brief meeting. These were followed by similar accounts of confrontations with the heads of the Greek Orthodox Church, various Buddhist and Muslim sects in several countries, and other Christian denominations. In a few months, spontaneous movements in the millions sprang up all over the world, composed chiefly of young people, to follow Jesus Christ. The Global Biotech, Inc. headquarters in Atlanta and Jesus's foster parents in Manila were besieged daily with thousands of video calls, text messages, letters, telegrams and sundry missives begging Jesus to speak to groups that had abandoned all practical and earthly pursuits to devote themselves to him. The mobilization for Jesus accelerated with astonishing speed, fueled by stories of his exploits, like chasing the parish priest out of the Mount Carmel Church in Quezon City, Philippines with a belt while the latter was celebrating mass one Sunday. Or his preaching to a crowd of thousands on the beach at Fort Lauderdale for a full weekend, during which he fed them pita bread and smoked salmon that he conjured up out of nowhere, cured dozens of gays who were dying of AIDS by simply touching them on the forehead, and entertained them by walking and doing handstands on the water for thirty minutes.

Like a true revolutionary, Jesus was energized by the rapid multiplication of his followers. Without any hesitation, he plunged into a whirlwind preaching tour, sparing no country, however small and insignificant. His ubiquitous preaching was magnified by the media, which he had mesmerized by this time, and which tried very hard to document his every word and movement. In this way, he managed to be everywhere in the world at once. The more frenzied his pace became, the happier he seemed to get. He gained weight and felt stronger. True, he began to look more and more disheveled, the longer he stayed on the road, but this was only because he didn't want to travel with too many clothes or to waste any time shaving or having his hair cut. He took to wearing a loose, comfortable robe which he rarely changed and grew his hair and beard long. After several months, he looked like the Jesus Christ in the catechism books – the one that was supposed to have been his original incarnation.

Like a true revolutionary, too, Jesus was very clear on why he wanted to destroy all the organized religions, but rather vague on what was to take their place, save for a general idea of a more human, individual, and liberal moral order that everyone was supposed to voluntarily internalize. The nebulousness of his alternative did not seem to matter, however, for he drove all the churches into the clearly defensive position of undertaking belated and desperate reform measures which scored no points at all with Jesus's youthful armies. It did not take long for Jesus to bring the world to the brink of a moral revolution that, it seemed, would shake the very bowels of the earth.

On his thirty-third birthday, Jesus took one of his rare trips home for a brief rest. One evening, he spent a little time after dinner meditating beneath an old acacia tree that dwarfed the tiny backyard garden. Such were his powers of concentration that he could do this, even though beyond the wall, only a few feet away, was a main street where constantly passed an endless procession of the colorful Manila passenger jeepneys – the same jeepneys that made such a racket with their noisy engines spewing poisonous fumes and customized horns that blared motley tunes that ranged from snatches of "Danny Boy" to the theme of the recent hit movie "Forever My Love." Jesus had meditated for more than an hour when his mother quietly stepped out of the house to sit on a wooden bench near the tree. She missed Jesus very much and wanted to spend as much time as possible with him during this visit. Jesus faced the acacia tree and did not see or hear his mother walk into the garden. They both sat quietly for a long time, before Jesus heaved a mighty sigh, stood up, and turned around. Maria's heart nearly broke when she saw the extreme anguish on Jesus's face and realized that he had been silently crying all this time to the point that the front of his robe was completely drenched with tears.

Her first impulse was to rush to him and ask why. But she froze on the bench when he gently stopped her with an upraised hand. They gazed soulfully at each other for several minutes while Maria's compassionate tears streamed down her cheeks. Finally, Jesus spoke to say: "My soul is sorrowful even to death. Remain here and keep watch with me." Then he turned back to face the tree and meditate for several hours more while Maria silently kept watch on the bench.

Jesus left home very early the next morning. He made it a point to wake up his mother and father to say goodbye before he left. Then he walked out the front door and was never seen again.

With his disappearance, the Jesus frenzy gradually wound down. The world went back to its business of making do and surviving. No one was sure why the legend of Jesus's Second Coming slowly petered out, and why the media stopped giving it top billing. Some said that Jesus was eased out of the news when a group of American astronauts, commanded by the young and personable Captain Mark Sawyer, landed on Mars and beamed full documentary coverage of this breakthrough back to earth. This was why Jesus had suddenly disappeared – he simply could not take anonymity. Others insisted that it was the other way around – the moral revolution had been aborted by the sudden disappearance of Jesus. They conjured up dark plots hatched by the religious leaders whose power Christ had threatened – plots that, however, were never substantiated. There were occasional stories of the sighting of Jesus performing some miracle or the other within the circles of committed cultists, even after his movement had died. But most observers dismissed these as the products of a kind of hysteria, like the supposed sightings of Elvis Presley, which had continued to persist long after Elvis's music had been forgotten.

The dying of the Jesus myth and his disappearance threw the Global Biotech, Inc. into disarray. At first, the company spent millions in mobilizing a worldwide search for Jesus. When this proved futile, there was major carnage at the top executive levels, after much corporate intrigue and finger-pointing, for some people had to pay for the fizzling out of the company's most important, most expensive, and longest-running, promo. Then, its sales went into a tailspin until it became only the third largest company in its field after being number one for such a long time. Naturally, the company's most talented scientists left to join the larger companies with more vibrant research programs.

In contrast, Jesus's foster parents, the simple Maria and Jose, accepted his disappearance with resignation, which allowed them to bear their profound grief. They were consoled by their memories of their beloved son, their fleeting historical role, and their ample, if diminished, monthly stipends from the Global Biotech, Inc., which were continued, just in case Jesus should show up all of a sudden.

But the legend of the Second Coming of Jesus Christ did not end so nondescriptly. Two years after his sudden disappearance, Jesus made it back to the front page headlines and prime time shows. A purported message from him, handwritten in a neat script that the experts had all agreed was his handwriting, inexplicably and simultaneously, showed up in all of the world's important news rooms. It read:

"FAREWELL TO MY FLOCK

"I was contacted by our Creators and left this world. I shall be away for a long while.

"It was not the right time.

"Coming back was a gas. It rekindled all my old passion for my brethren. I look forward to doing it again someday.

"Lose not your heart. Verily I say unto all of you: your salvation lies in your hands alone.

"And behold, I am with you always, until the end of the age."

The terse message was analyzed to death for months. Some analysts said that it was a fitting end to a monumental hoax that was about to be discovered. Others drew a moral lesson – that it was not for man, but for God alone, to determine when the second coming of His son should be, especially since Jesus wrote that "It was not the right time." A few saw the hand of an alien race from somewhere in the universe, since Jesus referred to "our Creators" in his farewell note. The humanists, of course, trumpeted his message about our salvation being in our hands alone. And the religious found proof of eternal existence beyond this life in Jesus's last sentence.

From A Song for My Brother and Other Stories by Antonio A. Hidalgo (Milflores, 2002).

This story won Third Prize in Futuristic Fiction in the 2001 Palanca Awards.

Posted on November 23, 2008

ANG TELENOBELANG BUHAY NI MIGS SAN JUAN

2008-07-25T19:30:00.000-07:00

ni

ANTONIO A. HIDALGO

Sa loob ng hardin sa tabi ng isang tindahang sari-sari sa bukana ng subdibisiyon na Green Land sa Cainta, may dalawang lalaking nag-iinuman. Nakaupo sila sa mga puting silyang monobloc at ang kanilang mga beer at pulutan ay nakahain sa maliit na mesang bilog. Tumayo ang nakakatanda sa dalawa, si Mang Doming, at sinindihan ang bombilyang nakasabit sa ibabaw ng punong narra sa tabi ng mesa upang ilawan ang nananaog na takipsilim.

Pagbalik ni Doming sa upuan niya, nagsalita ang kainuman niyang si Jun: “O, Mang Doming, ubusin na natin ito at lalakad na ako.”
“Bakit naman?” ‘ika ni Doming. “Nag-iisa ako rito dahil umuwi si Misis sa Atimonan. Sabado ng gabi ngayon. Malulungkot ako kapag lumisan ka. Saan ka ba paparoon?”

“Sa totoo lang, Mang Doming, manonood ako ng telenobela ni Thalia sa bahay. Lokong-loko ako sa telenobelang ‘Marimar’ at aabutan ko pa kung aalis ako ngayon. Delikado ang kalagayan ng pagmamahalan ni Marimar at Sergio, at kailangan kong malaman kung anong nangyari sa kanila.”

“Hayaan mo na ‘yan, Jun,” ang sagot ni Doming. “Guniguni lang ang kuwento ni Marimar. Ganito na lang, manatili ka rito at kukuwentuhan kita ng isang kabigha-bighaning telenobela tungkol sa buhay ni Migs San Juan, ang kristo ko sa sabong at kaibigan kong matalik. Maniwala ka sa akin, mamumutla ang buhay ni Marimar sa utak mo pagkatapos mong marinig ang aking kuwento. At tunay na buhay ang isasalaysay ko sa iyo.”
Natawa si Jun. “Okey na, Mang Doming, suko na ako. Talagang lonely ka yata ngayon. Sige, mag-inuman na tayo at ihanay mo na ang mga beer sa mesa.”

“Hindi, pareng Jun. Hindi ko na kayang sumabay sa iyo sa pabagsakan,” sabi ni Doming. “Uminom ka at ako’y magkukuwento para maaliw tayong pareho.”

Tumayo si Doming at nagpunta sa kusina. Kumuha siya ng apat na malamig na beer at nagbukas siya ng isang de-latang cuttlefish at inihain ito sa plato. Dinala niyang lahat ito sa mesa.

“Umpisahan natin ang unang yugto ng telenobelang buhay ni Miguel San Juan, pare,” ‘ika ni Doming. “Kilala mo siguro si Migs. Siya ang kristo ko sa sabungan, pag nagtatrabesiya ako. Siya rin ang tagapag-ulot at tagapagbitiw ko ng mga panabong pag naglalaban ako ng manok. Paminsan-minsan, iniuuwi ko siya rito pagkatapos ng sabong at nag-iinuman din kami.”

“Namumukhaan ko siya,” sabi ni Jun. “Mestisuhin siya, hindi ba? Mga treinta’y singko lang siya, ano?”

“Mahigit kuwarenta’y singko na si Migs. Mukhang bata lang siya dahil walang ginawa sa buong buhay kundi magsabong. May anak nga siyang beinte-kuwatro na, e. Subalit nauuna ako sa aking kuwento. Simulan natin, siyempre – sa unang yugto ng telenobela.”

TANDANG-TANDA KO PA NOONG UNA KONG NAKILALA SI MIGS. Nagsisimula pa lamang ako sa sabong noon. Nakatira ako sa tiyuhin ko sa Tiriguhan Street, isang eskinita sa kanan ng Calle A. Bonifacio sa Marikina kung galing ka sa munisipyo. Tumira muna ako rito upang mapalapit ako sa PSBA sa Aurora Boulevard, kung saan ko tinatapos ang aking pag-aaral ng pangangalakal. Halos tatlumpung taong gulang na ako noon, subalit hindi pa ako tapos sa kolehiyo dahil nanggaling lang naman ako sa mahirap. Nag-ipon muna ako ng pangmatrikula sa pamamagitan ng pagtanggap ng sarisaring trabaho at pagbibili’t pagbebenta ng iba’t ibang bagay.

Kumita ako nang kaunti sa pagbili’t pagbenta ng mga bakal kaya nagtungo ako sa sabungan sa tabi ng tulay sa ibayo ng Ilog ng Marikina. Naglakad lang ako mula sa tinitirhan ko. Umakyat ako sa pangalawang palapag ng sabungan, para mahiwalay ako sa mga batikang tahur na malalakas tumaya na nakaupo sa unang grado. Maaliwalas sa itaas dahil bukas ang mga bintana at malakas ang ihip ng hangin galing sa ilog. Maganda pati ang bista roon at kitang-kita ko ang mga nagsasalpukan na mga tinali. ‘Yun nga lang, nakatayo kaming lahat sa itaas.

Wala pa akong tiwala noon sa kaalaman ko sa trabesiya, kaya naghanap ako ng kristo upang ipagtaya niya ako. Nakita ko si Migs at pinili ko siya dahil siya’y guwapong mestisuhin, mukhang mabait at palaging nakangiti, at maliit siya sa akin at kaya ko siyang gulpihin kung lolokohin niya ako.

“Pare,” ‘ika ko kay Migs, “itaya mo nga ako ng dos sientos kuwarenta sa dehado.”

Noong panahon na iyon, malaki-laki pa ang halaga ng sandaang piso. Kaya hindi naman masyadong maliit ang taya kong ‘yon.
Itinaya ni Migs at nanalo ang dehado. Maya-maya, inientrega niya sa akin ang tatlong daan. Binigyan ko siya ng isang medyo mabalasik na tingin at sabi ko: “Teka muna, pare. Hindi ba sa logro-onse ka nakasahod? Di tres sientos treinta dapat ang ientrega mo.”

Hindi naman nagmatigas si Migs. Ngumiti lamang siya at ang sagot niya’y: “Oo nga pala, boss. Sorry, ha. Nakalimutan ko lang at madami akong kliyente ngayon.”

Nagustuhan ko ang kanyang sagot, kaya niyaya ko muna siyang uminom ng serbesa sa isang restawran sa ibaba ng sabungan. Nakaubos kami ng tiglimang bote at sa kuwentuhang iyon nagsimula ang aming pagsasamang panghabangbuhay.

Napadalas ang pasyal ko sa sabungan at utay-utay kong nakilatis ang pagkatao ni Migs. Kahit na tinedyer pa siya noon, magaling na siyang magsabong. Maliban sa pagkikristo, bihasa rin siyang pumili ng mga mahusay na sasabungin na ibinebenta ng mga magbabayong galing Batangas. Kinatatakutan siya sa ulutan dahil sa talas ng kanyang mga mata at dahil sa kagulangan niya sa laban. Marunong din siyang mag-alaga at magkundisyon ng manok. At nag-aaral na rin siyang magtari noon. Halos nakatira kasi sa ibayo si Migs, e, dahil wala pa naman siyang asawa at sinusustentuhan pa siya ng kanyang mga magulang.

Ilang taon din kaming naglibang tuwing linggo sa ibayo. Lalo na nang makatapos na ako ng kolehiyo at marahan kong napaunlad ang mga negosyo namin ng aking Misis. Naglaban din kami ng mga manok noon. Si Migs ang namili, nag-alaga at naglaban ng mga ito – at ako’y kapitalista lang.

Madalas naman kaming manalo at, siyempre, madalas kaming mag-inuman, kapag nanalo. ‘Yun nga lang, madalas din kaming matalo dahil alam mo naman ‘yang sugal – walang sigurado riyan. At tuwing matatalo kami’y masakit, dahil, aywan ko ba, kung kailan ako medyo gipit sa pera’y roon kami parating matatalo. Bakit ba ganoon?

Nakaraos naman ako sa sabong noong mga taon na iyon na hindi napilayan ang bulsa. Hindi naman sa pagyayabang, masipag ako dahil sa ako’y may pamilya na noon, at lintik naman ang kayod na pinuhunan ko sa aming mga negosyo. Nagsimula kaming mag-asawa na gumawa ng matamis sa bao mula sa niyugan ng pamilya ni Misis sa bayan namin sa Atimonan. Nakahanap din kami ng paraan na iluwas ito sa mga Filipino sa West Coast sa Amerika. Unti-unti kaming nagpundar para sa aming pamilya.

Si Migs naman ay hindi na nagtapos ng hayiskul man lang. Wala raw siyang hilig mag-aral at ang gusto niya’y magsabong lang. Madalas siyang pagalitan ng kanyang ina at, paminsan-minsan, maglalayas siya at makikitira sa amin sa aming unang munting bahay sa Parang sa Marikina. Tuwing mangyayari 'yon, susubukan ko ring pangaralan si Migs dahil hindi naman nasisiyahan si Misis na may nakikitira sa aming maliit na tahanan. Subalit mahirap pangaralan si Migs. Hindi siya lumalaban at ang kalooban niya’y mabait, pero hindi rin puwedeng abutin ang kanyang utak o damdamin. Kunwari, makikinig siya sa akin, ngingiti, at mamaya ay magkukuwento na tungkol sa panabong.

Apat na taon na kaming nagsasabong ni Migs, nang i-etsapuwera siya ng tatay niya sa kanilang bahay. Sa pagkakuwento ni Migs sa akin, hinintay siya ng tatay niya isang gabi. Katatapos lang ng sabong at pagpasok ni Migs sa pintuan ng kanilang bahay, sinalubong siyang bigla ng kanyang tatay ng isang matinding right cross. Bumagsak siya dahil hindi siya handa. Habang nakahiga siya’t tinatakpan ng kanyang mga braso ang kanyang mukha, pinagsusuntok at pinagmumura siya ni Itay: “Putang-ina mo! Punung-puno na kami ng nanay mo sa iyo! Anong klaseng tao ka? Hindi ka makausap! Tungo ka lang nang tungo pag pinagagalitan ka ng nanay mo, pero hindi ka naman nagbabago! Ayaw mong mag-aral, ayaw mo namang magtrabaho – sugal ka lang nang sugal! Anong mangyayari sa buhay mo niyan? Matagal na akong nagtitimpi sa iyo, animal ka, subalit ngayon, pumutok na ang aking butsi! Wala naman kaming pagkukulang sa iyo. Nagsakripisyo kaming palakihin at pag-aralin ka. Pinakain ka namin at binigyan ka ng mga damit at tirahan. Ngayon ito lang ang ibabayad mo sa amin? Wala kang kuwentang anak – panganay ka pa naman! Mabuti pa ang kapatid mong babae at namasukan na sa trabaho. Ikaw, ano ang pakinabang namin sa iyo pagkatapos ng lahat ng sakripisyo namin? Mabuti pa’y lumayas ka rito ngayon din, at huwag ka nang babalik kailanpaman! Itinatakwil na kita! Hindi na kita kinikilalang anak!”

Pinabaunan pa raw siya ng isang huling suntok sa leeg para lang masigurong naintindihan niya na tapos na ang pagsasama nilang mag-ama’t mag-ina. Dumating si Migs sa bahay na pasa-pasa ang mukha.

Binigyan ko siya agad ng aspirina at serbesa at pinakinggan ko ang kanyang kuwento. Nagulat ako na hindi siya naiiyak – hindi man lang siya galit – habang isinasalaysay niya ang nangyari. Ganoon talaga si Migs – malalim at di halos maarok ang kanyang kalooban. Kinabukasan, niyaya pa niya akong magsabong, subalit tumanggi ako dahil sa trabaho.

Pagkatapos siyang palayasin sa bahay, ginawa na ni Migs na isang hanapbuhay ang kanyang pagsasabong. May beinte-uno o beinte-dos ang edad niya noon. Sumali siya sa samahan ng mga kristo sa Marikina Valley Cockpit. Nagsimula rin siyang maningil sa kanyang pagtatari, pag-uulot at pagbibitaw ng mga manok sa ruweda. Dumami ang kanyang mga parokyano at napansin ko na okey naman ang kabuhayan niya noon. Nag-iisa siya at wala naman siyang malaking gastos dahil nakikitira siya sa amin, at madalas siyang makikain.

Doon ako nag-umpisang mag-alaga ng mga tinali. Dahil nandoon si Migs at maluwag naman ang bakuran ko sa bahay, binigyan ko siya ng puhunan para mamili ng mga panabong. Gumawa siya ng mga kulungan at mga teepee, at bago pa makaangal si Misis, nagkaroon na kami ng maliit na manukan sa hardin. Mas masayang magsabong kapag may mga sariling manok. Lalong malalim ang kahulugan ng pagpanalo ng sariling manok kaysa manalo lamang ng kuwarta sa pagtaya sa manok ng ibang tao. Marami kaming gabi at serbesang naubos ni Migs sa kuwentuhan tungkol sa kagalingan ng aming mga sasabungin at, higit sa lahat, sa kadalubhasaan namin sa sabong.

Para kaming nasa paraiso ni Migs noong panahong iyon. Kung minsan, dalawa o tatlong beses kaming magsabong sa loob ng isang linggo. Ang problema lang, napansin ng Misis ko na kinukulang na ako ng sipag sa aking iba pang tungkulin. Noong una, sinubukan niyang madalas akong paalalahanan tungkol sa kailangang gawin sa mga hanapbuhay namin. Nang makita niyang hindi umuubra ito, gumawa siya ng isang malalang solusyon sa kanyang malubhang suliranin.

Biglang umuwi si Misis sa Atimonan at sa pagbalik niya’y kasama si Juanita, isang pamangkin niyang malayo mula sa angkan ng kanyang ina. Disiseis anyos pa lamang si Juanita at bagong salta mula sa probinsiya. Maganda siya bagama’t promding-promdi ang kanyang suot at wala siyang meykap. Maputi ang kanyang kutis, mababa siya at maliliit ang kanyang buto, ngunit matipuno ang kanyang katawan. Medyo kahawig ng kanyang pagkamestisahin ang bukas ng mukha ni Migs, dahil parehong pino at matangos ang kanilang mga ilong at may kalakihan at kabilugan ang kanilang mga mata. Parehong makapal at makintab ang kanilang mga buhok.

Sinabi ng Misis ko na kailangan na raw namin ang tulong ni Juanita at lumalaki na ang mga bata at umuunlad na rin ang negosyo ng matamis sa bao. Hindi ako umangal – papaano naman akong tututol, habang nakatira sa amin si Migs? Subalit kinutuban ako.

Tama nga ang kutob ko dahil hindi nakalipas ang anim na buwan nang ibulong sa akin ni Misis na buntis daw si Juanita at ang maysala’y si Migs.

Hinintay ko si Migs umuwi mula sa sabungan upang magtuos kami noong mismong gabing iyon. Umuulan noon, kaya sa salas ko siya inutusang umupo, at hindi sa mga upuan namin sa manukan sa labas. Ang sinabi ko sa kanya ay ganito: “Migs, matagal na rin tayong nagsasama at hindi na ako magpapaliguy-ligoy pa. Malaki ang kasalanan mo sa akin at sa Misis ko. Pinagsamantalahan mo ang aming pamangkin, habang ikaw ay nakikitira’t nakikikain dito. Anong klaseng lalaki ka ba? Wala ka bang utang na loob? Menor de edad ‘yang si Juanita! Bakit mo naman sinaktan? Anong mangyayari sa kanya ngayon? Sinong magpapalaki ng anak ninyo? Hindi ka pa ba kontento sa kagandahang-loob na ipinakita namin sa iyo bilang isang bisita sa aming pamamahay? Bakit mo naman kami bibigyan ng problemang ganito? Makinig ka nang mabuti sa akin, Migs, dahil kaibigan kita. Kailangang panindigan mo ang pagkakasala mo kay Juanita! Nakataya ang pagsasama natin diyan!”

Kamukha ng dati niyang gawi, hindi siya nakipagdiskusyon sa akin. Ngumiti lang siya at ito ang sagot niya: “Sorry, sorry, Mang Doming. Hindi ko lang napigilan ang aking sarili dahil sa ganda ni Juanita. Okey naman kaming dalawa ni Juanita, Mang Doming. Nagkakaintidihan na kami. Hindi ko naman siya sinaktan. Siyempre, sasaluhin ko ang pamangkin ninyo. Never ko siyang pababayaan. Bakit ko naman gagawin sa inyong lahat ‘yon? Magpapakasal kami. Kung meron lang ako, e, di hinintay ko na sana ang kasal bago kami magmahalan. Wala lang ako, kasi, e, Mang Doming. Puwede ko ba kayong kumbidahin ni Misis na maging ninong at ninang namin sa kasal? At kung meron kang konti riyan, Mang Doming, baka puwede mo rin kaming tulungan sa gastos?”

Natunaw ang aking sama ng loob kay Migs, habang naghahanda kaming lahat para sa kasal nila. Malaki ang naging gastos naming mag-asawa, mula sa pagbili ng mga bagong baro, sa pagbayad sa simbahan, hanggang sa paghanda ng kaunting kainan at inuman para sa mga kaibigan namin at ng mga bagong-kasal. Ngunit sa tingin namin, sulit na rin ang aming gastos dahil magandang pares ang dalawa at mukhang liligaya sila sa kanilang bagong buhay. Namilit pa si Misis na bayaran muna namin ang tatlong buwang upa para sa bahay na may isang kuwarto sa isang lugar ng mga iskuwater sa tabi namin. Kinumbinsi ako ni Misis na kailangang magsarili ang dalawa upang maging seryoso sa buhay si Migs.

“Diyan natatapos ang unang yugto ng ating telenobela, pareng Jun. Tutuwid kaya ang landas ni Migs sa buhay ngayon na may pamilya na siya? Liligaya kaya ang mag-asawa sa kanilang bagong buhay? Matututo kaya si Migs na magmahal nang tunay kay Juanita? Magkakaayos kaya si Migs at ang mga magulang niya kapag nanganak na si Juanita?” ang mga tanong ni Mang Doming para mawili si Jun sa kanyang kuwento.

Sumali si Jun at nagdagdag siya ng kanyang tanong: “Magtatagumpay kaya ang mga negosyo ni Doming at ng kanyang Misis?”

“Oo nga. Maganda ang iyong tanong. Huwag kang aalis diyan, pare, at kukuha lang ako ng serbesa at pulutan. Abangan mo na lang ang susunod na kabanata. Sasagutin natin lahat ang mga tanong na iyan.”

LALAKI ANG NAGING UNANG ANAK ni Migs at ni Juanita. Ang gusto sanang pangalan ni Juanita’y “Teofilo” alinsunod sa kanyang tatay, ngunit si Migs ay moderno at ayaw niya ng makalumang estilo ng pangalan. Siya ang nasunod at “Robert” ang naging pangalan ng bata.
Dalawang buwan na si Robert bago magkaroon ng lakas-loob si Juanita na imungkahi kay Migs na ipasyal nila ang bata sa mga magulang ni Migs. Noong una, ang sabi ni Juanita sa misis ko, nagkunwari si Migs na nagagalak siyang gawin ito. Subalit tuwing magyayaya na si Juanitang lumakad, parating nagdadahilan si Migs na may kailangan siyang asikasuhin. Hindi nagtagal bago isuko ni Juanita ang kanyang mungkahi.
Siyempre, hindi nagbago ang ugali ni Migs, kahit naging padre de familia na siya. Patuloy pa rin siya sa kanyang pagkapropesyonal sa sabong. Subalit ‘yung kita niya’y hindi na sapat para sa tatlong tao at sa sariling pamamahay. Madalas niya akong hingan sa sabungan. Sa palagay ko’y nambabakal din siya sa mga iba pang parokyano sa sabungan, upang makaraos ang kanyang pamilya sa mga gastos.

Nagkaroon din naman ng mga sandali na mutso si Migs – kapag sinusuwerte sa trabesiya o di kaya’y nakakasingit sa tiyopeng sultada o nakakahanap ng tangang tahur na puwedeng labanan ang salapi. Tuwing darating ang grasya, bukas-palad si Migs at ibibili niya ng laruan si Robert at bagong baro si Juanita. Paiinumin pa ako paminsan-minsan.
Subalit, sa kabuuan, naghirap silang mag-asawa dahil hindi maaasahan ang hanapbuhay ni Migs. Pagkatapos nilang magsama nang dalawang taon, malimit nang pumasyal si Juanita sa aking Misis para humingi ng panggatas ni Robert. Gusto pa sana niyang mamasukan sa amin, subalit nakakuha na kami ng katulong.

Dumalang ang aking pagsasabong mula nang ikasal si Migs. Ipinamigay ko na ang mga tinali at dalawa o tatlong beses na lang sa isang buwan ako kung pumasyal sa ibayo. Ibinuhos ko ang aking sigasig sa mga negosyo at sila’y umunlad, lalung-lalo na ang paggawa at pagluwas ng matamis sa bao. Nasimulan namin ang paghuhulog sa lote nitong bahay namin sa subdibisyong Green Land. Nakabili rin kami ng una naming dyipning pampasada. Natural, nagkikita pa rin kami ni Migs sa ibayo at walang-patid ang aking balita tungkol sa buhay ng kanyang pamilya. Mas marami pang alam si Misis tungkol sa buhay nila dahil malapit sa kanya si Juanita.

Noong magdadalawang taon na si Robert, siya’y nagkaroon ng mataas na lagnat at siya’y nagsusuka. Nagpatuloy ang sakit ni Robert nang ilang araw, subalit ang akala ni Migs at ni Juanita ito’y pangkaraniwang sakit lamang. Madalas lang nilang binigyan ng aspirina at pinapatulog ang bata.

Isang gabi, nagpunta si Migs sa derby sa sabungang Texas, kahit walang-hinto ang pagsusuka ni Robert. Baka raw may tiyopeng sultada na pawawalan ng isang kilalang manlalahi. Hindi siya nag-iwan ng pera kay Juanita bago umalis at kailangan daw niya ng kapital para sa ilalaglag na sultada.

Hindi natuloy ang tiyopeng sultada sa derby at minalas pa si Migs. Baligtad ang bulsa niya noong umuwi siya nang madaling-araw.

Sinalubong siya ng humahagulhol na Juanita: “Nasaan ka ba nang buong magdamag? Nangingisay si Robert at wala akong pera para dalhin siya sa health center! Kanina pa siya suka nang suka at siya’y mahinang-mahina na! Habang nagsusugal ka sa sabungan, namamatay ang anak mo rito! Wala ka bang pagmamahal sa amin? Dugo mo iyang anak mo, ha! Bakit mo kami iniwanan? Diyos ko po! Maloloka na yata ako! Papaano ba ito? Anong gagawin natin? Tulungan mo naman kami, Migs! Baka mamatay si Robert! Migs!”

Isinakay agad ni Migs at ni Juanita ang bata sa traysikel at dinala sa health center. Nars lang ang nandoon at sinubukan niya ang magagawa niya, subalit hindi nagtagal ay naputulan ng hininga si Robert.

Pinagalitan ng nars ang mag-asawa dahil namatay ang bata: “Hindi ba ninyo alam na maraming kasong H-fever sa Parang ngayon? Ang daming lamok kasi rito, e. Wala bang kulambo ang anak n’yo? Mapipigilan ‘yang H-fever kung gumagamit lang kayo ng kulambo.

“Hindi naman dapat ikamatay ‘yang H-fever, ah. Halos lahat ng mga dinala rito’y gumaling naman sa paggagamot namin. Kasi, maaga pa, dinadala na sa amin ang maysakit. Masyadong matagal n’yong pinabayaan ang bata. Palagay ko’y mahigit isang linggo na siyang may mataas na lagnat at nagsusuka, ano? E, kung dinala n’yo rito agad, di sana’y naagapan ko.

“E, hindi ko naman kayang magmilagro. Noong dinala n’yo rito ang bata’y wala na siyang pag-asang mabuhay. Ang kaya ko lang gamutin ay ang ordinaryong maysakit. Kasalanan n’yo ‘yan.”

“Salamat po sa inyong tulong,” ang sabi ni Juanita. “Pero wala po kaming ibabayad sa paggamot ninyo kay Robert. Pasyensiya na po kayo.”
Noong sabihin ni Juanita ito, tinalikuran siya ng nars at sinabi niya kay Migs: “Mabuti pa, iuwi n’yo na agad ang bangkay ng anak n’yo. Pag inabot pa ‘yan ng doktor dito, magkakaproblema pa kayo sa pagbayad dahil ipinasok n’yo siya rito.”

Hindi ko matandaan kung si Migs ay umiyak sa paglibing kay Robert. Siguro naman, tinamaan din siya ng pagkamatay ng kanyang unang anak. Ang naaalala ko’y ang malalim na sugat sa puso ni Juanita.
Pagkatapos ng libing, umuwi agad si Juanita. Pumasok siya sa kanilang kuwarto at hindi na siya lumabas doon nang isang buwan. Araw at gabi siyang umiyak. Huminto siyang magluto at maglinis ng bahay. Si Migs ang nagpatakbo ng kanilang bahay, habang nagkukulong si Juanita. Pilit niyang pinakain si Juanita na sinusubuan niyang parang isang sanggol.
Pagkatapos ng isang buwan, habang nasa sabungan si Migs, nagbalot ng mga baro si Juanita at lumayas siya nang walang paalam. Hindi rin siya nagpaalam kay Misis o sa akin. Kaya noong hinanap ni Migs sa amin, kami man ay nagulat, sapagkat wala na pala siya.

Hindi nagtagal bago tumawag ang isang pinsan ni Misis para sabihin na si Juanita ay nasa Atimonan. Ang payo niya’y iwanan muna si Juanita roon para magpagaling ng kanyang sugatang puso. Nang malaman ko ito, sinabihan ko agad si Migs at pinayuhan ko rin siya na antabayanan na lamang ang kusang pag-uwi ni Juanita, dahil kung susunduin niya, baka naman lalong pumiglas ang kanyang asawa.

Pagkalipas ng tatlong buwan mula nang siya’y lumayas, bumisita si Juanita sa bahay at matagal silang nag-usap ni Misis. Mukhang tumanda siya nang higit sa kanyang edad na disinuwebe. Malungkot pa rin siya at doon muna siya natulog sa bahay nang dalawang gabi, bago siya tuluyang umuwi kay Migs. Pero parang kaya na niyang pasanin ang kirot ng kanyang kalooban dahil panay naman ang tulong niya kay Misis sa kusina.

Nang nabuntis ulit si Juanita pagkalipas ng anim na buwan, nasiyahan kami ni Misis, dahil sa tingin namin, maaayos na ang kanilang buhay. Subalit hindi pa rin namasukan si Migs sa regular na trabaho at ang kalagayan nila tungkol sa pera’y nanatiling isang kahig, isang tuka. Ito siguro ang dahilan kung bakit nagtrabaho si Juanita bilang isang weytres sa maliit na pansiteriya sa tabi ng palengke ng Marikina, kahit nagdadalang-tao na siya. Huminto lang siya nang sandali sa pagtatrabaho upang manganak, at bumalik agad nang wala pang isang buwan. “Mylene” ang ipinangalan sa pangalawa nilang anak.

Nahirapan noong una si Migs nang mamasukan si Juanita. Siyempre, napilitan siyang makihati sa mga gawaing pambahay, gaya ng paglilinis, pamimili, pagluluto at higit sa lahat, pag-aalaga sa sanggol na si Mylene. Minsan daw, nagreklamo si Migs: “Hoy, Juanita. Papaano ba ito? Mula nang magtrabaho ka, para na akong walang maybahay rito, ah. Bihira na tayong magkita at, madalas, pagod ka’t mainit pa ang iyong ulo. Gusto mo yata, pagsilbihan pa kita! Mahirap ang ganito. Hindi ba puwedeng ayusin mo ang mga tungkulin mo rito sa bahay? Magsikap ka para matupad mo nang mabuti ang mga responsibilidad mo sa pamilya."

Sinagot daw siya ni Juanita: “Hoy, Migs, dahan-dahan ka sa pagsasalita mo riyan. Anong pagkukulang ang idinidiin mo sa akin? Gusto mo yatang maging hari ng pamilya, ano? E, ang hari’y dapat magsustento ng kanyang mga alagad at maglaan para sa kinabukasan ng kanyang kaharian. Ngayon, sabihin mo sa akin kung sapat ang iyong nagagawa para sa amin. Kaninong kakulangan ang gusto mong pag-usapan natin dito? Nakakalimutan mo na yata ang nangyari kay Robert dahil sa iyong kakulangan!”

Gawa nito, nadala na si Migs na magpahayag ng kanyang mga karaingan. Hindi niya puwedeng ipilit ang kanyang pananaw dahil baka mauwi ito sa paghinto niya ng pagsasabong. Kaysa baguhin niya ang kanyang marawal na pamumuhay, tinanggap na lamang niya ang lubusang pagbabago ng relasyon nila ni Juanita.

Mas madali sana ang kanilang pagparte ng gawain sa bahay, kung hindi pareho ang mga oras nila sa trabaho. Si Migs ay umaalis sa bahay tuwing alas-dos, hanggang alas-tres, ng hapon at umuuwi nang alas-nuwebe o alas-diyes ng gabi, kung walang derby. Kung may derby, madaling-araw na siya umuuwi. Si Juanita naman ay umaalis tuwing ala-una ng hapon at umuuwi nang alas-otso ng gabi, bago dumating si Migs. Ang kabutihan nito kay Migs ay hindi niya kailangang sunduin si Juanita sa trabaho, dahil nauunang matapos si Juanita. Subalit ang naging problema’y ang pag-aalaga kay Mylene sa hapon, dahil pareho silang wala sa bahay. Mabuti na lang at ang kapitbahay nilang si Aling Selma ay wala nang ginagawa, dahil biyuda na at matanda na rin ang kanyang mga anak. Si Selma ang nag-alaga kay Mylene tuwing hapon at ang bayad niya’y libreng pagkain araw-araw.

Pagkaraan ng ilang taon ng ganitong klaseng relasyon, guminhawa na ang pakiramdam ni Migs tungkol sa pagkakaayos ng kanyang pamilya. Pumayag na siyang tumulong sa paglilinis at pag-aalaga kay Mylene, lalo na at lumalaki na rin ang bata at maaari na siyang kausapin at kalaruin. Nakatutuwa pa namang bata si Mylene dahil lista siya, madaldal at masarap yakapin, dahil bilog na bilog ang katawan. Naging mas malapit nga si Mylene kay Migs kaysa kay Juanita, at parang may espesyal na koneksiyon ang bata sa kanyang tatay. Tuwing umaga, si Migs ang parating unang nilalapitan ni Mylene upang maglaro pagkatapos mag-almusal.

Huminto na si Juanita sa paghingi ng pera kay Migs para sa mga gastos. Paminsan-minsan, nakakaambos pa nga si Migs ng puhunan kay Juanita. Dahil dito’y hindi pa rin lumuwag ang kanilang kalagayan hinggil sa kuwarta, ngunit wala namang malaking pagkakagastosan dahil hindi pa naman nag-aaral si Mylene, kahit na mahigit na anim na taon na siya. Nakontento na si Migs sa kanyang buhay.

Nabasa ko ito sa mukha ni Migs tuwing magkikita kami, at sa kanyang mga sinasabi kapag tinatanong ko siya tungkol sa pamilya. Dahil masaya si Migs, natuwa na rin ako, pagkat naging parang kamag-anak ko na rin siya. Kaya siguro mabagsik ang naging reaksiyon ko noong nagtsismis si pareng Pilo sa akin tungkol kay Juanita.

Inaanak ni Pilo ang anak kong si Abe, na seaman sa ngayon at madalas nagbibiyaheng paikut-ikot sa Asya. May tindahan si Pilo sa palengke ng Marikina at ang tirahan niya’y hindi naman kalayuan sa bahay ni Migs. Magkakilala sila dahil nagsasabong din si Pilo sa ibayo.

Nagkita kami ni Pilo sa ibayo at naisipan naming magbakas ng tigalawang libo. Hinanap namin si Migs, subalit nag-derby siya sa Pasig Square Garden, kaya si Ricky na lang ang ginamit naming kristo. Nalito kami ni Pilo sa pananaya dahil itong lintik na Ricky ay kung anu-anong tip ang ipinipilit sa amin sa bawat sultada. Nagpapanggap yata kasi siya na siya’y isang dalubhasang sabungero. Natalo tuloy ang pinagbakasan namin ni Pilo. Gusto pa sana ni Pilong magbakas nang panibago, subalit ayaw ko na dahil punung-puno na ako kay Ricky. Niyaya ko na lang si Pilo na magpahinga muna at uminom ng serbesa sa restawran.

Mainit pa ang dugo ko kay Ricky pagdating namin sa restawran sa kabila ng kalsada sa tapat ng pintuan ng sabungan. Habang umiinom kami ng serbesa, nabanggit ko na si Ricky ang may kasalanan sa aming pagkatalo. Sabi ko kay Pilo: “Kung naririto lang si Migs, hindi sana tayo matatalo.”

“Oo nga, pare. Magaling talaga ang barkada mong si Migs sa sabong. Sayang, wala siya rito. May laban sana ang pera natin. Pero, pare, may sasabihin ako sa iyo. Kahit magaling iyang si Migs sa sabong, napakatanga niya sa buhay. Hindi siya marunong magdala ng asawa,” sagot ni Pilo.

“Bakit mo naman nasabi ‘yon?”

“Baka hindi mo nalalaman, pare, na kinakaliwa siya ng asawa niyang si Juanita.”

“Ano?!”

“Pare, nalalaman kong magkabagang kayo ni Migs. Kaya ko lang naman sinasabi ito ay para tulungan mo siya sa pag-aayos ng kanyang buhay.”

“Sabihin mo na nang diretso, pare, at titingnan ko ang aking magagawa.”
Nagsalaysay si Pilo ng kanyang mga naririnig at nalalaman. Ang sabi niya: “Umuugong na sa sabungan ang mga kataksilan ni Juanita kay Migs, pare. Halimbawa, sinabi sa akin ni Reggie, ‘yung bang katulong ni Obet sa pagkasa ng mga sultada sa ibayo, na pumasyal siya isang araw kay Migs para magpatulong bumili ng mga teksas. Inagahan niya ang pagpunta, mga alas-diyes ng umaga, para abutan niya si Migs, pero nang kumatok siya sa bahay ay walang sumagot. Umikot siya sa likuran at doon nakarinig siya ng mga ungol na nagmumula sa kuwarto ni Migs. Napangiti siya at akala niya iyon ang dahilan kung bakit hindi siya pinagbuksan ng pintuan ni Migs – dahil binabanatan ni Migs ang kanyang asawa sa kainitan ng umaga. May maliit na puwang daw sa kurtina. Sumilip si Reggie at nakita nga niya si Juanita na hubad at nakapatong, habang bumobombang pataas at pababa. Natakot siyang ituloy ang kanyang pamboboso dahil baka mahuli siya ng mag-asawa. Kaya umikot siya ulit papunta sa pintuan ng salas para hintayin si Migs na matapos sa kanyang pagtatalik.

“Hindi naman nagtagal bago bumukas ang pintuan, pero ang lumabas ay hindi si Migs, kundi ang isang kolektor ng Meralco na hindi niya kakilala. Ilang minuto pa’y lumabas din si Juanita at binati siya. Nang hinanap niya si Migs, ang sabi ni Juanita ay kasama ni Abet sa palahian sa Teresa, dahil nagkukundisyon sila ng mga manok. Nagmadali siyang nagpaalam kay Juanita.

“Sa tingin daw ni Reggie, niyari ni Juanita ang kolektor ng Meralco dahil wala siyang pambayad at ayaw naman niyang maputulan ng koryente.”

Pagkatapos kong mapakinggan ito, sabi ko kay Pilo: “Pare, tsismis lang ‘yan. Baka naman may alitan si Migs at si Reggie at naninira lang ang Reggie para makaganti.”

“Puwede,” ang sagot ni Pilo. “Pero, pare, ako mismo’y nagkaroon din ng karanasan kay Juanita. Alam mo, pare, kahit tumatanda na tayo, mahilig pa rin tayo kapag nakainom. Noong isang buwan, nalasing ako sa handaan ni Emil sa kanyang kaarawan doon sa Calumpang. Nagkayayaan ang barkada sa paborito naming masahihan doon sa Green Lantern sa Binangonan, kahit na alas-kuwatro pa lang ng hapon noon.

“Pagdating namin sa masahihan, tinanong ko ang kakilala kong manedyer kung sino ang magaling na bagong salta. Sinabi niya si Elvie raw ay maganda, mahilig at bagong lipat sa kanila. Pumayag akong kunin si Elvie, kahit hindi ko pa siya nakikita dahil mahilig ako sa maganda at bagong mukha. Pumasok na ako sa kiyubikel, naghubad, nahiga sa kama at hinintay si Elvie.

“Habang nakahiga ako, pare, dumating ang masahista at bigla niyang binuksan ang kurtinang pintuan ng kiyubikel. Nailawan ngayon nang mabuti ang kiyubikel. Pare, maniwala ka sa akin, halos inatake ako sa gulat ko nang nakita ko si Juanita na naka-unipormeng puti! Nakita rin niya ang aking mukha’t tumalikod siya agad at sumibat siyang paalis.

“Pagkatapos mangyari ‘yon, dumating ang isa pang masahista at sabi niya sa akin, wala raw si Elvie roon at siya na lang ang kapalit. Nagpamasahe ako at, natural, pare, niyari ko nang mabuti ang kapalit. Alam mo naman, pare, na kahit ganito na ang edad natin, umuubra pa rin tayo.

“Pagkatapos kong maligo, hinanap ko ang manedyer para tanungin siya tungkol kay Juanita. Pero nagtago na siya sa akin.”

Galit akong sumagot sa sumbong ni Pilo. ‘Ika ko sa kanya: “Pareng Pilo, nalalaman mo naman na pareho kayong malapit sa akin ni Migs. Huwag na huwag mo akong papiliin sa inyong dalawa! Masahol ka pa sa tsismosa sa ginagawa mong iyan! Lahat ng isunumbong mo sa akin ay grabeng paninira kay Juanita. Ngunit walang halaga sa akin ang mga sinabi ni Reggie dahil hindi ko naman kilala ang kanyang pagkatao. At ang nakita mo sa masahihan ay hindi naman sigurado. Isang sulyap lamang iyon na maaaring sala. Hindi mo naman nakausap ‘yung Elvie, ni hindi mo nakausap ang manedyer pagkatapos mong magpamasahe.

“Nalalaman mo ba, Pare, na inaanak ko sa kasal iyang si Migs at si Juanita? Nagkakilala sila sa bahay ko. Si Juanita’y kamag-anak ng aking misis. Mag-ingat ka naman sana sa pagsasalita mo, Pare! Maaari kang makasira ng buhay na may buhay sa ginagawa mong iyan! Tatayo na ako at iiwanan na kita bago pa tayo mag-away, Pare. Tandaan mo na lamang ang aking payo!”

Iniwanan ko si Pilo na nakanganga. Huminto na akong magsabong at agad-agad akong umuwi. Naroroon si Misis at ibinuhos ko sa kanya ang aking sama ng loob sa mga kuwento ni Pilo tungkol kina Migs at Juanita. Nakinig siyang mabuti – at pagkatapos kong magmura at pagkalipas ng aking galit – ipinagtapat niya sa akin na totoo lahat ang sinabi ni Pilo.

Pagkatapos manganak ni Juanita kay Mylene, humingi pala siya ng payo sa aking misis. Masyadong maliit daw ang kita sa pagiging weytres at gusto raw niyang mamasukan sa masahihan, kung saan maaaring kumita nang mabuti. Bagama’t pagtataksilan niya si Migs sa ganitong trabaho, sa tingin niya’y hindi naman malaking kasalanan ito, dahil si Migs ay hindi na magbabago at magpapakamatay na raw siya kung madisgrasya ulit ang pangalawa nilang anak dahil sa kapabayaan ni Migs at ng kanilang kahirapan.

Noong una, hindi pumayag si Misis sa plano ni Juanita. Subalit ipinagpilitan ni Juanita ang kanyang balak at, sa wakas, hindi na siya pinigilan ni misis dahil hindi naman namin masasagot ang lahat ng pangangailangan ng kanilang pamilya.

“At sa paghukay natin ng lihim na trabaho ni Juanita ay nagwawakas ang pangalawang yugto ng ating telenobela, pareng Jun. Sasabihin kaya ni Doming kay Migs ang katotohanan tungkol sa kataksilan ni Juanita? Mabubungkal kaya ni Migs sa sarili niyang sikap ang maitim na sikreto ng kanyang asawa? Makakarma kaya si Juanita dahil sa kanyang kataksilan? Anong tadhana ang naghihintay sa anak nilang si Mylene? Madidisgrasya rin ba siya kamukha ng kuya niyang si Robert?” tanong ni Mang Doming kay Jun para akitin siya sa kuwento ng buhay ni Migs.

“At kailan hihinto si Migs sa pagsusugal para awatin na ang mga dumaraming problema ng kanyang pamilya?” tanong naman ni Jun na pabiro.

“Tama ‘yang tanong mo, Jun. Antabayanan mo na lang, Pare, ang susunod na kabanata, habang naghahanda ako ng ating mga serbesa at pulutan. Sasagutin natin lahat ang mga tanong na iyan.”

HINDI KO NAKUHANG SABIHIN KAY MIGS ANG AKING NALALAMAN tungkol sa kanyang asawa. Kasi, masyadong gugulo ang buhay naming lahat, kapag ginawa ko ito. Puwedeng magalit siya sa aking misis dahil pinayagan niya na maging puta si Juanita. Magtapatan na tayo rito, Pare, at pareho naman tayong lalaki. Ang masahista ay puta, at walang masahistang hindi pumapayag sa “ekstra serbis” dahil mamamatay sila sa gutom, kung ang aasahan lamang nila’y ang kanilang parte sa bayad para sa tunay na masahe.

Siyempre, ipagkakaila ni Juanita ang aking sasabihin. Baka naman hindi maniwala sa akin si Migs at sa akin pa siya magalit. Madalas mangyari iyan sa mga busalsal na pakialamerong sumisisid sa mga mapanganib na karagatan, hindi ba?

Kaya pinabayaan ko na lang ang maselang bagay na iyan, at, mahirap na, baka masangkot pa kami ni misis sa gulo. Ngunit nahahabag kami ni misis sa kalagayan ng mag-asawa at sinubukan kong ihanap si Migs ng trabaho. Sandali ko lang sinubukan ito dahil malinaw na malinaw na wala siyang hilig mamasukan.

Tinulungan na lang namin ni misis si Mylene at napalapit siya sa amin. Pinagpilitan kong ipasok na sa paaralan ang bata at kami ang nagpasan ng kalahati ng matrikula. Noong una, madalas kaming magregalo kay Mylene ng mga baro at mga gamit sa pag-aaral. Tuluy-tuloy kasi ang pag-unlad ng aming mga negosyo at sa panahon na iyon, naging tatlo na ang aming pampasadang dyipni.

Pero, alam mo naman, apat din ang mga anak na pinapalaki namin, at sinimulan na rin namin ang pagpapatayo ng bahay at tindahan na ito, kaya limitado rin ang aming tulong kay Mylene. Dahil hindi regular ang aming tulong, may mga taon na huminto si Mylene sa pag-aaral at naiwanan lang sa bahay upang tumulong sa kanyang mga magulang.
Kinse anyos na siya nang makatapos ng elementarya at disiotso na siya nang makapasok sa hayiskul. Dahil malaki ang tanda niya sa mga kaeskuwela, tinamad na siyang mag-aral at masama ang kanyang mga grado.

Sa tingin ko’y hindi naman mahina ang kanyang ulo dahil buhay na buhay ang kanyang personalidad, at mabilis siyang sumagot sa biruan at kantiyawan. Maganda pati siya dahil namana niya ang kanyang kutis at pinong pagmumukha sa kanyang ama at ina. Mas mataas siya sa kanyang ina at mahilig daw siyang sumayaw ng mabibilis na sayaw ng mga bata.

Dahil parehong madalas wala sa bahay ang mga magulang, nagkaroon si Mylene ng maraming kaibigang babae at lalaki sa kakapuslit para gumimik sa araw at magdisko sa gabi. Hindi siya nahadlangan ng kahirapan ng mga magulang sa kanyang paggiging sosyal. Nakakahingi naman siya sa aking misis ng panggimik paminsan-minsan. At ang kanyang ganda’y nagpaluwag ng bulsa ng mga lalaking parating nakapaligid.

Walang mintis ang disgrasya sa kalsadang tinatahak ni Mylene sa kanyang buhay, lalo na’t ayaw niyang makinig sa mga pangaral ni misis. Madalas siyang pumasyal sa bahay upang makipagkuwentuhan kay Misis at, siyempre, para humingi na rin ng pera. Kay Misis nanggaling ang nalalaman ko tungkol sa buhay ni Mylene.

Dumating ang araw na nabingwit siya ng isang babaerong istambay na nagkunwaring anak ng maykaya – ang pangalan niya’y Babes. Siya’y panganay ni Pinong, isang may-ari ng talyer sa West Avenue sa Quezon City, na nakilala ko minsan sa negosyo. Beinte-kuwatro o beinte-singko na si Babes at marami na siyang karanasan sa pagbabarkada at sa mga babae. Guwapo at malaking lalaki ang damulag, at walang iniintindi sa buhay. Hindi siya nakatapos ng hayiskul at ang balita’y humihithit pa siya ng shabu paminsan-minsan.

Sa simula’y nagkaunawaanan lang muna sila, habang pumapasok si Mylene sa paaralan. Hindi gaanong nagtagal bago makumbinsi ni Babes si Mylene na huminto na sa pag-aaral, dahil magpapakasal naman daw sila. Paglisan ni Mylene sa paaralan, nagkasintahan na sila. Anim na buwan silang nagkita nang araw-araw upang ibuhos sa bawat isa ang umuusok nilang silakbo ng kabataan. Habang nangyayari ito, akala naman ni Migs at ni Juanita’y tuloy pa rin sa pag-aaral si Mylene. Si Misis lang ang nakakaalam ng katotohanan noong panahong iyon.

Kung saan-saan daw napadpad si Babes at si Mylene sa kanilang mga tipanan. Halos wala silang nakaligtaang lugar na popular sa mga kabataan para binyagan ng kanilang pagtatalik o, kaya, seryosong kaplugan kung masyadong marami ang mga tao. Nagkalat ang tamod ni Babes at ang lusaw ni Mylene sa mga sinehan sa mga mall, sa Luneta at sa Quezon Memorial, sa madidilim na kanto ng sarisaring disko, sa mga pribadong kuwarto ng mga videoke bar, at kahit sa mga bakanteng lote sa mga pinapasyalan nilang mga subdibisyon. Siyempre, pag may kuwarta si Babes, pumapasok din sila sa motel at nagyayarian din sila sa mga kotseng naitatakas ni Babes paminsan-minsan mula sa talyer ng kanyang tatay. Ito’y nagmumula na sa utak ko at hindi naman ganito ang estilo ng pagkuwento ni Misis sa akin.

Akala ni Mylene ay seryoso si Babes, kaya sumunod muna siya sa utos nito na uminom siya ng pildoras upang hindi mabuntis. Subalit, pagkatapos ng anim na buwan, kumuti-kutitap na ang alab ng puso ni Babes. Nagsimula siyang magdahilan para mabawasan ang dalas ng kanilang mga tipanan.

Minsan sa isang linggo na lang sila kung magkita nang maging desperada si Mylene, dahil mukhang umuus-os na sa kanyang kamay ang mahal niyang si Babes. Huminto siyang uminom ng pildoras at nagpabuntis siya para siluin ang kanyang kasintahan.

Nalaman ni Mylene kung gaano kalaki ang kanyang pagkakamali nang sinabi niya kay Babes na buntis na siya nang dalawang buwan. Kunwa’y natuwa si Babes at pinaghahalikan pa siya sa leeg. Ngunit hindi sila nagtalik noong gabing iyon. Sa susunod na linggo, nagpaalam si Babes kay Mylene at sabi niya’y ipinadala raw siya ng tatay niya sa Davao at maiiwanan siya roon ng tatlong buwan para magtayo ng talyer. Hindi na nakita ni Mylene si Babes mula noon.

Hindi naman halatang nasiraan ng loob si Mylene sa pagkakaiwan sa kanya ni Babes, ayon kay Misis, bagama’t kung minsan nahuhulog siya sa paggugunam-gunam, kahit may kausap. Pinilit niyang makigimik pa rin sa mga kaibigan upang malimutan ang kanyang problema. Disinuwebe anyos pa lang siya noon at marahil hindi pa makalayo ang kanyang isip sa kasalukuyang paglilibang, kaya dumaan ang panahon na walang nakakaalam ng kanyang kundisyon, maliban kay Babes at kay Misis.
Nagpasiya naman si Misis na hintayin na lamang na si Mylene mismo ang magkumpisal ng katotohanan sa kanyang mga magulang.

Pagkaraan ng apat pang buwan, masyadong lumaki na ang tiyan ni Mylene at, isang gabi, hinarap siya ni Juanita. Ipinagtapat ni Mylene ang lahat at walang pag-aatubiling niyakap siya ni Juanita, hanggang mag-iyakan sila nang matagal.

Pagdating ni Migs sa bahay noong gabing iyon, inutusan ni Juanita si Mylene na mamili ng de-lata sa tindahan at saka niya ibununyag kay Migs ang kalagayan ni Mylene. Lumihis si Migs sa kanyang pangkaraniwang katamlayan ukol sa mga pangyayari sa kanyang pamilya nang malaman niya ang nangyari kay Mylene. Nagwala siya’t nagsisigaw, pinagmumura niya si Juanita’t nagbanta siyang patayin si Mylene. Iniwanan siya ni Juanita para lumabas ng bahay upang salubungin si Mylene. Inutusan ni Juanita si Mylene na matulog na muna sa aming bahay noong gabing iyon.

Inihatid ko si Mylene kay Migs makalipas ang dalawang gabi. Nagpasabi muna ako kay Migs na darating kami ni Mylene, kaya naghihintay na siya nang kami’y pumasok sa pintuan – subalit wala si Juanita roon.

Tumayo si Migs at binati ako pagdating namin. Pagkatapos dahan-dahan siyang humarap kay Mylene at bigla niyang sinampal nang malakas ang kanyang anak sa kaliwang pisngi. Nagalit ako, at itinulak ko nang malakas si Migs. Sinabi ko sa kanya: “Migs, ipanatag mo ang iyong sarili! Nauunawaan kong nandito tayo sa iyong bahay. Ngunit hindi pa rin ako papayag na saktan mo ang iyong anak sa aking harapan! Tandaan mo, Migs, na malaki na rin ang naitulong namin sa pagpapalaki kay Mylene. Sugpuin mo ang iyong galit at mag-usap tayong lahat nang maayos!”

Natauhan si Migs at ‘ika niya sa akin: “Sorry, Mang Doming. Nabigla lang ako. Kagabi ko pa iniisip ang grabeng problema ni Mylene. Halos hindi nga ako nakatulog. Pero umupo muna kayo. Mag-usap tayo.”

Nang nakaupo na kami, nagsalitang muli si Migs: “Nalalaman naman natin na hindi kita pinagbuhatan ng kamay bago nangyari ito, Mylene. Maaaring kasama na rin ‘yan sa pagkukulang ko sa inyong mag-ina. Nalalaman ko iyon. Pero ako’y tao lamang at kung anuman ang pagkakasala ko sa inyong dalawa, isinusumpa ko ngayon sa harapan ni Mang Doming na hindi ko sinadyang saktan kayo. Mabisyo ako at wala akong tiyaga, totoo ‘yan, pero meron din akong mga damdamin. Madali akong saktan at ang dugo ko’y tumatagas pag ako’y nasugatan. Mylene, ikaw ang pag-asa sana ng ating pamilya. Kami ng ina mo’y matatanda na at wala nang pagkakataong umasenso. Ikaw na lang ang may panahon pang umangat sa buhay. Kaya kami’y naglingkod sa iyo, para makapag-aral ka at magkaroon ka ng magandang kinabukasan.

“Maniwala ka sa akin, Mylene, hindi madali ang naging buhay namin ng iyong ina. Pero nagtiis pa rin kami para sa iyong kapakanan. Ngayon, ito ba ang ibabayad mo sa amin? Isa kang disgrasyadang babae na nabuntis, pero hindi pinakasalan! Sinong mag-aalaga at magpapalaki ng iyong anak? Kami? Bakit walang tatay ‘yan? E, kasi bulagta ka lang nang bulagta sa harapan ng kung sinu-sinong lalaki! Iyan ang napala mo sa kaka-goodtime mo gabi-gabi!

“Bakit hindi mo sinabi sa amin kaagad, para puwede pa sana nating naipalaglag iyan? Itinago mo sa amin ang pagkabuntis mo, pero kami rin ang magbabayad para sa mababaw mong kaligayahan! Wala ka nang ibang inisip, kundi ang iyong sarili! Hindi mo naman kayang magsarili at umaasa ka pa rin sa aming tulong!

“Hindi kita palalayasin sa ngayon, di kamukha ng ginawa sa akin ng aking tatay noong araw, dahil mahigpit ang iyong pangangailangan. Pero tandaan mo ito, Mylene – ikaw, at ikaw lang, ang sumira sa iyong buhay! Pagbabayaran mo iyan balang-araw!”

Parang wala sa lugar si Migs na magsalita nang ganoon dahil pabaya naman siya sa kanyang pamilya, at wala siyang karapatan na singilin ng utang na loob si Mylene. Ngunit pinabayaan ko na lang ang sermon ni Migs dahil siya ang ama ni Mylene, at ang layunin ko’y pigilin lang siya sa pananakit sa kanyang anak.

Sa mga sumunod na araw, marami akong mga mungkahing iniharap kay Migs upang pagaanin ang problemang dala ni Mylene. Hindi niya gaanong pinansin ang mga sinasabi ko dahil mukhang alam na niya ang kanyang gagawin.

Pagkatapos manganak ni Mylene ng isang lalaking pinangalanan niyang “Philip,” nabalitaan ko kay Misis na gabi-gabi raw ay sinisi nang sinisi ni Migs si Mylene, hanggang sumuko na ang bata at sa wakas ay pumayag na sa matagal nang ipinipilit ni Migs na mag-Japayuki si Mylene – bilang isang “mananayaw na kultural.”

Naiwanan si Philip kay Migs at Juanita nang lumipad si Mylene patungong Fukuoka sa Japan. Regular naman ang pagpapadala niya ng salapi sa kanyang mga magulang para sa pagpapalaki kay Philip. Sobra-sobra nga siguro ang ipinapadala niya dahil napansin ko sa sabungan na nakabili si Migs ng bagong sapatos at mga T-shirt at lumakas ang kanyang pagtaya.

Nawala na rin ang galit ni Migs kay Mylene at unti-unting tumaas ang pagtingin niya sa nag-iisa niyang anak. Nagsimula siyang magyabang sa akin tungkol sa laki ng kita ni Mylene sa Japan.

At noong minsan, pagbisita ko kay Migs, nakita kong nakatanghal sa kanyang salas ang isang makulay at malaking ritrato ni Mylene. Malaki ang kanyang ngiti sa kamera, ang suot niya’y ang bikini at bra ng mga nagbuburles na may mga naglalambitin pang makiskislap na borloloy, at tangan niya ang kanyang dalawang suso, habang bahagyang nakabuka ang kanyang mga hita.

“At sa ganyang ritrato ni Mylene natatapos ang pangatlong kabanata ng ating telenobela, pareng Jun. Makakarma kaya si Migs dahil sa kalupitan niya kay Mylene? Anong mangyayari kay Mylene sa Fukuoka? May pag-asa pa ba siyang lumigaya sa buhay? Kailan kaya matatauhan at magsisisi si Migs sa kanyang pagkukulang kay Juanita at kay Mylene?” tanong ni Mang Doming sa mababang boses, na kunwari’y tagapagsalita sa radyo.

Sumakay naman si Jun sa biruan: “Sapat na kaya ang parusa ng langit kay Juanita, sa pamamagitan ng pagkadisgrasya ni Mylene, para sa kanyang kataksilan kay Migs o meron pang karmang naghihintay sa kanya? At si Migs naman, kailan kaya siya magbabago ng kanyang landas sa buhay? Okey ba ‘yun, Mang Doming?”

“Okey na okey, pareng Jun. Kuha mo na ang estilo ko sa pagkukuwento. Sasagutin natin lahat ang mga tanong na iyan sa huli at sukdulang yugto ng buhay ni Migs San Juan. Sandali lang, pareng Jun, at magbabawas lang muna ako sa banyo. Babalik ako.”

MEDYO SUMIKAT SI MIGS SA SABUNGAN, habang pinadadalhan siya ng pera ni Mylene mula sa Fukuoka. Tumaas ang antas ng mga tinaling inilalaban ni Migs at lumaki ang parada ng kanyang mga manok. Huminto na siyang manghingi sa akin at, kung minsan, nagyayaya pa siyang magbakas kami sa trabesiya. Itinuloy pa rin niya ang pagkikristo, ngunit binitiwan na niya ang mahihinang parokyano at nagpaupa na lamang siya sa makakuwartang tahur. Madalas na siyang magpunta sa mga derby, pati na sa bantog na Araneta Coliseum.

Napansin ko rin, sa mga madalang kong bisita sa bahay ni Migs, na may bagong sopa na sila at maliit na telebisyon na nakapatong sa mesang may ginantsilyong doyli sa ibabaw. Parati nang may isang kahong serbesa sa kusina, at ang pulutan niya’y naging de-lata na.

Isang araw, dumating ang liham mula kay Mylene na nagbabalita na uuwi na raw siya sa susunod na buwan sapagkat hindi na siya makapagpanibago ng kanyang bisa. Sinabi ni Migs sa akin na halu-halo raw ang kanyang mga damdamin hinggil sa pag-uwi ni Mylene. May apat na taon na mula nang umalis si Mylene at nanabik na rin siyang makitang muli ang kanyang kaisa-isang anak. Natatakot din naman siya na maghihirap muli ang kanyang pamilya, dahil sa paghinto ng malaking kita ni Mylene.

Pagkaraan ng isang buwan, umuwi nga si Mylene sa Maynila. Kailan lang ito, ilang buwan pa lamang ang nakararaan mula nang dumating si Mylene. Lima na ang mga dyipning pampasada namin ni Misis ngayon, kaya bumunot ako ng isa para gamitin namin nina Misis, Migs, Juanita, at Philip sa pagsalubong kay Mylene sa paliparan.

Ang daming tao sa paliparan nang sinalubong namin si Mylene. Isang katutak kasi ang mga umuwing OFW. Siyempre, ibayong dami pa ang sumalubong sa kanila. Halos isang oras naming hinanap si Mylene sa paligid ng paliparan bago namin siya nakita. Umiyak na tuloy si Philip sa pagod at sa init ng panahon.

Pambihira ang itsura ni Mylene nang nakita ko siya sa labas ng paliparan. May suot siyang puting bota de bursigi - ‘yun bang maikling bota na may mga puting balahibo pa sa loob na kaunti lang ang lampas sa kanyang bukungbukong. Nakatakip ng makapal na itim na leggings ang kanyang mga binti at hita. Ang palda niya’y ubod ng ikli – kung ang misis ko ang magsusuot noon ay siguradong sisipunin siya – at ito’y makintab na plastik na ang kulay ay matinding pula. Ang blusa niya’y mahaba ang manggas, puti, manipis at parang ginantsilyo, dahil butas-butas. Kitang-kita ang pula niyang bra sa ilalim ng blusa. May itim na scarf siyang nakapulupot sa kanyang leeg.

Nagkakaway at nagtatalon si Mylene nang nakita niya kami. Tumakbo siya papunta sa amin at napaiyak siya nang una niyang makita si Philip. Niyakap niya nang matagal ang anak niyang nahiwalay sa kanya nang apat na taon. Tuwang-tuwa rin si Mylene na makita ang kanyang mga magulang at pati na rin ako at ang aking misis. Nagalak kami ni Misis na hindi naman kami nalimutan ni Mylene, kahit matagal na siyang nag-abroad.

Ang dami niyang mga pasalubong! Dinalhan niya ako ng mamahaling T-shirt na tatak Lacoste at ang pasalubong niya kay Misis ay isang balat na bag na Christian Dior. Tatlo yata o apat na malaking laruan ang dala niya para kay Philip at marami pang baro. Dalawang T-shirt na tatak Polo ang regalo niya kay Migs at isang ternong bag at sapatos na Bally ang dala niya para kay Juanita.

Masayang-masaya ang kuwentuhan namin pauwi sa Parang upang ihatid ang pamilya ni Migs. Naiwanan muna kami ni Misis kina Migs para maghapunan at makinig sa mga karanasan ni Mylene sa Fukuoka. Hindi masyadong detalyado ang mga kuwento niya tungkol sa kanyang buhay sa Japan, ngunit ang pinalabas niya’y masaya naman siya roon at marami siyang naging kaibigang Filipina. Wala siyang binanggit na kaibigang Hapon.

Nang pauwi na kami ni Misis sa Cainta, sinabi ko sa kanya ang mga napansin ko tungkol kay Mylene: “Hindi ba tumaba si Mylene at nagsimula nang mahulog ang kanyang katawan? Subalit parang namayat naman ang kanyang mukha. Sa tingin ko’y masyadong matalas na ang kanyang ilong ngayon at ang mga buto niya sa pisngi. Nagkaroon pa siya ng maliliit na linya sa paligid ng kanyang mga mata. Mukhang ‘mestisang-bangus’ na siya, hindi ba, at parang mas matanda siya kaysa kanyang edad na beinte-kuwatro.

“Parang si Migs na lang ang medyo guwapo at mukhang bata sa kanilang pamilya, ano? Siguro gawa nang wala siyang problema dahil siya ang pinagmumulan ng mabibigat na suliranin ng pamilya.”

Natawa si Misis sa aking mga obserbasyon at sabi niya: “Nagpapatawa ka, Doming, pero tama ka tungkol kay Migs. Masama nga ang itsura ni Mylene. Baka ang dahilan nito’y ang malamig na klima sa Japan na nakakatuyo ng balat. Baka na rin ang kahirapan ng buhay ni Mylene roon, dahil alam naman natin na mga kriminal na Hapon ang may hawak sa mga Japayuki. Alam mo, nakaramdam ako ng malalim na kalungkutan sa kalooban ni Mylene, kahit masaya siya ngayong gabi.”

Sa mga sumunod na buwan, parang walang nagbago sa buhay ni Migs at ni Juanita sa pag-uwi ni Mylene. Lumuwag pa nga ang panahon nila dahil si Mylene na ang nag-alaga kay Philip. Laman pa rin ng mga sabungan si Migs at tuwing magkikita kami sa ibayo, nagkukuwento siya tungkol sa laki ng perang naipon ni Mylene at sa pagsisikap ng anak niyang makakuha muli ng mga papeles upang makabalik sa Japan.

Subalit nang ikuwento ko ito kay Misis, ang sinabi niya’y: “Tama na nga ‘yang si Migs. Puro sarili lang niya ang kanyang iniisip. Hindi ba niya napapansin na halos hindi na lumalabas ng bahay si Mylene? Sinabi niya sa akin na rito na lang siya sa bahay pumapasyal paminsan-minsan. Tuwing makikita ko naman siya, ang dumi-dumi ng kanyang siyorts at T-shirt. Parati pa siyang nakatsinelas lang. Hindi na siya nag-aayos ng sarili ngayon.

“Ang lungkut-lungkot pa niya. Palagay ko, napahirapan siya nang husto sa Japan. Pero ayaw naman niyang ipagtapat ito sa akin. Sabi niya, masama ang kanyang loob na agad-agad winawaldas sa sugal ni Migs ang kaunting naipon niya para kay Philip. Nagagalit din siya na parati siyang pinipilit ni Migs na bumalik sa Fukuoka. Ginagawa raw siyang palabigasan. Pero hindi na raw siya makakabalik sa Japan dahil gastado na ang kanyang katawan at pagmumukha. Kaya pala siya pinalayas doon.
“May duda ako na humihithit na si Mylene ng shabu at marijuana para malimutan ang kanyang mga sama ng loob.”

Tumpak na naman si Misis ukol sa kalagayan ni Mylene! Isang gabi, umuwi ako pagkatapos kong maghatid ng matamis sa bao sa paliparan. Naghihintay sa akin si Migs. Hindi ko ma-ispeling ang kanyang mukha. Para siyang namumutla sa takot at magulung-magulo ang isip. Hindi na siya bumati sa akin o ngumiti man lang, basta nagsabi siya ng: “Mang Doming, mag-inuman tayo dahil masyadong mabigat ang aking problema ngayon.”

Dito mismo sa ating mga inuupuan ngayon kami nagkuwentuhan ni Migs noong gabing iyon. Noong isang linggo lang ‘yon. Pambihira ang isinalaysay niya sa akin.

Noong isang hapon daw, pagkatapos nilang mananghalian, umalis nang maaga si Juanita at si Philip ay pinatulog niya sa kuwarto. Masyadong maaga pa para magsabong, kaya nanood muna siya ng “Scorpio Nights” sa telebisyon. Puro raw kahayupan na ST ang sineng iyon at nalibang siya sa kapapanood. Hindi niya napansin kaagad na si Mylene ay umupo sa sopa sa kanyang tabi at nagsindi ng maliit na sigarilyo. Lumingon siya kay Mylene nang napansin niya na naiiba ang amoy ng usok ng sigarilyo ni Mylene, at parang maanghit na matamis ito. Ngunit bumalik siya sa panonood ng “Scorpio Nights” dahil nagbobombahan na raw ang isang pares na guwapong lalaki at magandang babae sa sine.

Nabigla raw siya nang maramdaman niyang may humihimas ng kanyang hita pataas sa kanyang pagkalalaki. Paglingon niya, nakita niya na si Mylene ang humahaplos at siya’y naghubad na ng suot niyang mahabang T-shirt. Wala palang panti at bra si Mylene sa ilalim ng kanyang T-shirt, samakatwid, hubo’t hubad siya at nakabukaka pa raw ang mga hita niya para ipakita kay Migs ang kanyang mabalahibong kuweba.

Inamin ni Migs na sa unang sulyap, nilibugan siya dahil nasa “Scorpio Nights” pa ang kanyang utak. Tumigas daw ang kanyang titi sa kakahimas ni Mylene at sa pagtanaw niya sa suso at puki ng kanyang anak. Subalit, ayon kay Migs, ito’y nagtagal lamang nang ilang segundo.
Umiral ang kanyang pagkaama kay Mylene, itinulak ang balikat ng anak, at sinigawan niya: “Anong katarantaduhan ang ginagawa mo, anak! Nasisiraan ka na ba ng bait? Bastos ‘yan! Kahayupan ‘yan! Baka nalasing ka na sa hinihithit mo!”

Pagkabigkas niya nito, isinara ni Migs ang telebisyon at pinatay niya sa titisan ang sigarilyong marijuana ni Mylene.

Wala raw reaksiyon si Mylene sa kanyang kasisigaw. Tiningnan lamang siya at tumawa. Lumapit muli si Mylene sa kanya at sinimulang muli ang paghahaplos sa kanyang ari. Hinimas din ni Mylene ng kaliwa niyang kamay ang kanyang suso, nginitian ang tatay niya at nagtanong: “Bakit, Migs, hindi ka ba nae-L sa akin?”

Hindi na raw napigilan ni Migs ang kanyang sarili at sinuntok niya si Mylene sa panga.

Nagalit si Mylene – tumayo, at nagsisigaw: “Putang-ina mo! Sige, suntukin mo ako at pangaralan mo pa! Magpanggap ka ngayon na tatay mo ako! Pagkatapos, nakawin mo ang ibinibigay kong pera para sa aking anak at isugal mo! Kunin mo ang lahat ng inipon ko sa pagpuputa sa mga Hapon at waldasin mo sa sabong! At saka takutin mo ako at pilitin mo akong magputa na naman sa Japan!”

Isterika raw si Mylene, habang ibinubuhos niya ang kanyang matagal nang naipon na sama ng loob kay Migs. Sabi pa raw niya: “Akala mo kung sino ka! Kunwari nabibigla ka pa sa ginagawa ko at tinatawag mong bastos at kahayupan! Anong itatawag mo sa ginawa mo sa akin pagkatapos kong madisgrasya kay Philip? Ang aking pagkakasala’y nanggaling sa pagmamahal! Nang pinilit mo ako na maging puta ay hindi pagmamahal, kundi pagsasamantala, ang nasa puso mo!

“Masahol ka pa sa mga bugaw kong Yakuza sa Japan! Wala silang responsibilidad sa akin. Ang tingin nila sa akin ay isa lang akong mahirap na dayuhan na puwede nilang apihin. Kung nalalaman mo lang ang ginawa nila sa akin doon. Ang panggagahasa! Ang panggugulpi! Ang pananakot! Ang pagtrato sa akin na parang animal! Akala mo ba, ipinamigay pa ako nang libre sa mga kaibigan nila at kinunan ako ng bidyo, habang kinakantot ako ng tatlong Hapon!

“Ayaw mong ipasok ang titi mong ‘yan sa kiki ko dahil nadudumihan ka! Dahil anak mo kasi ako, ano? Bakit, akala mo ba sa puki lang ako kinantot ng mga Hapon? Hoy, walang butas sa aking katawan na nakawala sa kanila, pati puwit ko, bunganga ko, pati tainga ko yata’y kinantot nila!

“Pero ikaw lang ang kumantot sa aking damdamin! At tatay pa kita! E, di kantutin mo na rin ako ng titi mo! Lubusin mo na ang pang-aapi mo sa akin! Huwag na tayong maglokohan dito. Tutal iyan din naman ang ginawa mo kay nanay, ah! Ginawa mo rin siyang puta! Hindi ba?”

Sa wakas, may nakaabot din sa puso ni Migs. Hindi ko pa nakitang umiyak ang kaibigan kong ‘yan, kahit noong ginulpi ‘yan ng kanyang tatay noong bata pa siya. Ngunit sabi niya sa akin, itinago niya ang mukha niya sa kanyang mga palad at humagulhol siya, habang minumura siya ni Mylene. Napakatindi raw ng naramdaman niyang awa sa kanyang kaisa-isang anak at pagsisisi sa kanyang mga kasalanan.

Nang huminto na sa pagmumura si Mylene, tumayo siya, malambing niyang niyakap ang kanyang anak, at, dahan-dahan, isinuot niyang muli kay Mylene ang T-shirt niya. Matagal daw nag-iiyak nang mahinahon si Mylene, habang nakapikit ang kanyang mga mata. Iniupo ni Migs si Mylene, habang yakap-yakap niya ang kanyang anak at idinuyan niya sa kanyang mga braso – kamukha noong gawain nila nang maliit pa si Mylene, hanggang nakatulog na ang kaawa-awang bata.

Matagal na matagal silang magkayakap sa sopa. At habang magkayakap sila at natutulog si Mylene sa kanyang mga braso, sinabi ni Migs na naunawaan niya, sa wakas, ang katotohanan ng kanyang pagkatao at ng situwasyon ng kanyang pamilya. Ang sinabi niya’y: “Ang mga tao’y parang mga gagambang nakakapit nang mahigpit sa sanga ng puno ng buhay. Ang gagambang mabuti’t masuwerte’y unti-unting umaakyat sa puno. Ang malas na gagamba naman ay pababa sa puno ang paglalakbay. Ang masamang gagamba ay nabibitawan ang sanga’t nahuhulog sa madilim na bangin ng kamatayan.

“Sa wakas, nakita ko, na ang damdamin ng tao’y katumbas ng mga paa’t kamay ng gagamba. Ginagamit ang mga ito sa pagkapit sa sanga upang maiwasan ang pagkahulog sa madilim na bangin. Ang mga positibong damdamin gaya ng awa, pakikiramay, pagkahabag, pakikipagkaibigan, pakikiisa’y malalakas na paa’t kamay na maaaring gamiting pangkapit sa sanga. Kahit ang negatibong damdamin, kamukha ng galit, ay maaari pa ring gamitin para kumapit sa sanga, kahit mas mahina ito.

“Naunawaan ko, habang kandong ko si Mylene, na ang malaking kasalanan ko’y hindi ang pagwaldas ng kuwarta ng pamilya, kundi ang paglustay ng aking tunay na damdamin sa aking asawa at dalawang anak – dahil sa kalamigan ng aking puso. Ito’y lumason sa damdamin nila sa akin at sa isa’t isa.

“Nakita ko na rin na, kung baga sa gagamba, ang pagmamahal ay ang sapot ng tao. Ito ang kinakailangan upang makagawa tayo ng mga tulay sa ating paglalakbay paakyat sa puno ng buhay sa pamamagitan ng paglipat-lipat sa iba’t ibang sanga. Lumabnaw ang sapot ng aking pagmamahal dahil sa kapabayaan, samakatwid, nawalan na rin ng sapot sina Juanita at Mylene.

“Tinanggap ko na ang katotohanan na lahat kami’y malapit nang makabitaw sa sanga, at mahulog sa bangin.”

Inumaga kami ni Migs, kahit hindi naman kami halos uminom. Doon ko unang natanto na si Migs pala’y nag-iisip din, at may nakatagong pagmamahal sa kanyang asawa’t anak. Inalok ko siyang magmaneho ng isang dyipni ko para may kitain at nang maalagaan niya ang kanyang pamilya. Ang sagot niya’y pag-iisipan daw muna niya at magulo pa ang kanyang utak.

“At diyan, pareng Jun, nagwawakas ang ating telenobela ngayong gabi. Sana’y naaliw ka, pare, para hindi mo naman ako sisihin dahil hindi ka nakapanood ng ‘Marimar.’ Uminom ka pa ng isang serbesa bago ka umuwi. Gusto mo pa ba ng pulutan?”

“Thank you na lang, Mang Doming,” sagot ni Jun, “pero mag-uumaga na at nagtitilaukan na ang mga manok. Ang galing mong magkuwento. Kinilabutan ako! Bago ako umalis, itatanong ko lang: Sa tingin mo ba’y may pag-asa pang magbago ang isang imbudo sa sugal kagaya ni Migs? Alam mo naman na walang disiplina ang mga sugarol na ‘yan at ang hanap nila’y puro pahapi-hapi lang.”

“Aywan,” sabi ni Doming. “Ngunit, sana naman mabago ni Migs ang landas ng kanyang buhay.”

Posted on Month December 5, 2008

Chris Martinez Wins Movie Awards!

2008-07-22T17:05:00.000-07:00

Chris Martinez Wins Cinemalaya Awards

Milflores author Chris Martinez won Best Director and Best Screenplay for his movie "100" at the recent Cinemalaya film festival.

Mylene Dizon won Best Actress for her role in "100" and her co-star, Eugene Domingo, won Best Supporting Actress.

"100" also won the Audience Choice Award at the festival.

Congratulations to Chris and his collaborators in "100"! For news story and photo, click on:

http://guides.clickthecity.com/movies/?p=3356

Chris wrote the best-selling Milflores book, Laugh Trip/Dalawang Komedya.

Posted on July 23, 2008

ANOTHER READER REVIEW

2008-07-20T13:30:00.000-07:00

Check out reader review of Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan by Vlad Bautista Gonzalez http://creamsandme.multiply.com/reviews/item/17

Also check out Vlad's own blog, http://dirtypopmachine.multiply.com/journal/item/123

READERS REVIEW MILFLORES BOOKS

2008-07-19T19:34:00.000-07:00

Readers have good things to say about Milflores books SPOOKY MO by Marivi Soliven Blanco and TALES OF FANTASY AND ENCHANTMENT edited by Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo. Check them out.

http://weirdwella.multiply.com/journal
April 3, 2008 and May 16, 2008

http://don2earth.multiply.com/journal
March 3, 2008

Posted on July 20, 2008

Chris Martinez Directs "100"

2008-07-09T18:06:00.000-07:00

Chris Martinez Debuts as Film Director

Milflores author Chris Martinez has directed his first film, "100." There was a gala screening of his full-length movie on Tuesday, July 15, at 6:15 pm at the Cultural Center of the Philippines Main Theater to an enthusiastic full house. The imaginative story line is about a young woman who is determined to do the 100 things she most wants to do in life before ... well, before. You should see it!

Chris wrote the screenplays for the critically acclaimed movies "Bridal Shower" and "Bikini Open." He has won Palanca awards for his plays. He authored the best-selling Milflores book, Laugh Trip/Dalawang Komedya.

Posted on July 16, 2008

Screening of Vince Groyon's Movie

2008-07-03T18:39:00.000-07:00

Vince Groyon's Namets to be Screened at the CCP and UP

Miflores author Vince Groyon wrote the screenplay for the Negrense indie film Namets, which was a finalist in the full-length feature category of the 2008 Cinemalaya Philippine Independent Film Festival. It was directed by Jay Abello and stars Christian Vazquez, Angel Jacob, and Peque Gallaga.

Namets will be screened at the Cultural Center on the following dates:

* Tuesday, July 15 - 6:15 pm - Tanghalang Huseng Batute

* Wednesday, July 16 - 9:00 pm - CCP Main Theater
* Friday, July 18 - 3:30 pm - MKP Hall

* Friday, July 18 - 6:15 pm - CCP Main Theater

* Saturday, July 19 - 12:45 pm - MKP Hall;

and at U.P. Diliman on Wednesday, July 30, at 7:00 pm at the Cine Adarna.

Vince conceived and edited the Miflores flash fiction anthologies, Mga Kuwentong Paspasan and Very Short Stories for Harried Readers.

Posted on July 4, 2008

Marivi Soliven Blanco reads from "Suddenly Stateside"

2008-06-18T18:58:00.000-07:00

Marivi Soliven Blanco reads "Flips of Fury" from Suddenly Stateside

Click on http://www.dimestories.org/ to hear Marivi Soliven Blanco read a selection from her best-selling book Suddenly Stateside: Funny Essays on Pinoy Life in America.

Posted on June 19, 2008

June-August Read Magazine features 2 Milflores books

2008-06-10T17:39:00.000-07:00

The June-August 2008 issue of Read Magazine, a PowerBooks publication, is out. It features selections from two recent Milflores books: Mga Kuwentong Paspasan and Very Short Stories for Harried Readers.

Both books are a collection of flash fiction. The first book is comprised of stories in Filipino and the second, of stories in English. The two books contain different stories by different authors.

Vicente Garcia Groyon edited both anthologies. He won the Palanca Grand Prize for the Novel for his The Sky Over Dimas.

This issue of Read Magazine also features a selection from Profiles Encourage: Ordinary Filipinos Making an Extraordinary Difference, edited by Anna P. Hidalgo and Alejandra Otamendi. Anna P. Hidalgo is the daughter of Milflores founder, Antonio A. Hidalgo, and Milflores author, Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo.

Posted on June 11, 2008

Read Magazine to feature Milflores books

2008-06-05T17:05:00.000-07:00

Read magazine of PowerBooks, Inc. will feature SAWI:Funny Essays, Stories & Poems on All Kinds of Heartbreaks, edited by Ada J. Loredo, BJ A. Patino, and Rica Bolipata-Santos, and OhMyGosh! The Unbearable Lightness of Being Burgis by April Timbol Yap in its September-November 2008 issue.

There will be 800-word excerpts from each of the above books in the magazine's issue. Read magazine is available at all PowerBooks branches.

Posted on June 6, 2008

Tony Hidalgo and Vlad Gonzales interviewed on TV

2008-06-02T16:00:00.000-07:00

Tony Hidalgo, Milflores founder, and Vlad Gonzales, author of the latest Milflores book, Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan, were interviewed on Tuesday, June 3, at 8-9 a.m. on the show, "She-Ka," on the National Broadcasting Network (NBN) Channel 4.

As part of the interview, Vlad read selections from his book and Tony read Reyna Mae Tabada's "Starbucks Roulette" from the flash fiction anthology, Mga Kuwentong Paspasan.

Aside from Vlad's best-selling book, the show also featured the other 2008 Milflores titles: Spooky Mo: Horror Stories, by Marivi Soliven Blanco (who has won the Phils. Free Press Literary Awards); Tales of Enchantment and Fantasy, an anthology edited by Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo (who has won the Palanca Grand Prize for the Novel); Very Short Stories for Harried Readers, an anthology edited by Vicente Garcia Groyon (who has won the Palanca Grand Prize for the Novel); and Mga Kuwentong Paspasan, another anthology edited by Vicente Garcia Groyon.

Posted on June 2, 2008

MILFLORES AUTHORS HONORED IN SYDNEY

2008-06-01T17:00:00.000-07:00

On May 23, 2008, the Philippine Consul General in Sydney, Australia, Ma. Theresa Lazaro, hosted a dinner in honor of 2 Milflores authors, Butch Dalisay (Man Overboard) and Jose Wendell Capili (Mabuhay to Beauty), who represented the Philippines at the 2008 Sydney Writers' Festival, held from 19 to 25 May 2008.

This is the 9th year of the Sydney Writers' Festival and brought together 70 guests from all parts of the world.

Consul General Lazaro said that the "participation of Dr. Dalisay, Dr. Capili and the other distinguished Filipino-Australian writers is Australia's recognition of the rich literary and cultural heritage of the Philippines". Butch's new novel, Soldedad's Sister was shortlisted for the Man Asia Prize, and Wendell has just received his PhD from the Australia National University.

Photo shows Wendell (2nd from left) and Butch (5th from left), with Filipino-Australian writers, including Merlinda Bobis (beside Butch).

Posted on June 1, 2008

CAPILI LAUNCHES BOOK IN SYDNEY

2008-06-01T14:00:00.000-07:00

Jose Wendell P. Capili at the book signing of Salu-Salo: In Conversation with Filipinos - An Anthology of Philippine-Australian Writings (edited by Wendell and John Cheeseman and published by Casula Powerhouse & Blacktown ARts Centre) held in Blacktown Arts Center, 24 May 2008.

An earlier book by Wendell, Mabuhay to Beauty, was published by Milflores.

Posted on June 1, 2008

COMMENT ON TARA'S REVIEW & ON OUR BLOG

2008-06-01T13:00:00.000-07:00

Pierra Calasanz wrote:

(Pierra does guest editing for Lifestyle Asia Travel and used to be an editor of Meg magazine.)

Just read Tara's review, and I must say, reviews like that will get your books sold in a jiffy--am about to head to a bookstore now after shooting off this email! (Great idea, your website.)I'm intrigued by the book, especially since Tara says she tried to stall while reading it (a surefire sign that she didn't want her reading experience to end!). I'm most curious to see how the author pulls off writing about her personal life--like Rica, I am incapable of lying on paper, but I don't have the guts to be that vulnerable...yet. So I cheat by writing poems about heartbreak instead--you don't have to spill details or reveal names, and people can still look you in the eye, ha ha!

... Anyway, just wanted to tell you that I really enjoyed Tara's review (oh wait, I'll text her and tell her myself!). Hope you're doing well!:) Pierra

Posted on June 1, 2008

Tara Sering reviews Milflores book

2008-05-27T17:43:00.000-07:00

TRUTH BE TOLD - A review of Love, Desire, Children, Etc.; Reflections of a Young Wife
by Tara Ft. Sering

Last year, Alfred A. Knopf published a collection of Nora Ephron’s personal essays entitled I Feel Bad About My Neck and Other Thoughts on Being a Woman. Among the pieces was one called “Considering the Alternative”, previously published in American Vogue, in which Ephron laments turning 64, and all that it implied—fewer options in swimwear, the possibility of illness, the death of friends.

At a time when even fashion magazines are trotting out regular specials on “looking good at any age”, and offering clothing options for women at every decade of their lives—all the way to 80—Ephron dares to express her true feelings about getting old, and they’re by no means upbeat nor are they punctuated with the grateful, “But! I have no regrets.” On the contrary, Ephron reveals she has many regrets, and asks, “Why do people write books that say it’s better to be older than younger? It’s not better.”

Bleak views on aging aside (for which one Vogue reader took the time out to write the editor and express her dismay over Ephron’s pessimism), I Feel Bad About My Neck smacks of the Ephron who penned the screenplay When Harry Met Sally…: witty, insightful, well-written, and thoroughly entertaining.

Ephron’s book rekindled my interest in nonfiction narratives, especially those written by women, and evidently, I am on the slow wagon. Among last year’s bestselling books is the hugely popular Eat, Pray, Love (Penguin Books) by Elizabeth Gilbert, a chronicle of the author’s year of soul-searching in various countries whose names quite aptly begin with I (Italy, India, Indonesia). Millions of readers have enjoyed Gilbert’s book that is, all at once, diary/confession/travelogue/history. Perhaps one of Gilbert’s biggest fans is my sister, who has taken to giving copies of the book as gifts, and who reports that it is always sold out at PowerBooks and Fully Booked.

Suitably inspired to explore the art of the tell-all, I decided that, for an upcoming session, the National Book Development Board’s Book Club, of which I’m moderator, would be discussing a collection of nonfiction narratives by Rica Bolipata-Santos, whom I had met at a recent writing workshop. At the workshop, Rica and I chatted incessantly over coffee, then tea, then platters of pasta, about each other’s personal lives like old friends with a lot of catching up to do. She told me about growing up in a family of artists, in the formidable shadows cast by her celebrated musician brothers. I told her about my ill-researched weight loss strategies. She also told me she was simply incapable of lying. I told her, “That’s just crazy.” “That’s why nga I write nonfiction,” she explained.

I mostly write fiction and spend much of my time slopping fictional dough over my characters so that no one in my family, or my circle of friends, can categorically accuse me of revealing their dark secrets. (Instead, I sometimes get long, thoughtful stares that at some point turn hostile).

So last Saturday afternoon, I received my copy of Rica’s Love, Desire, Children, Etc: Reflections of a Young Wife (Milflores Publishing, Inc) sent by the NBDB, and with a hot mug of green tea, I curled up to read and prepare notes for the group discussion. It is a slim volume with a purple cover, and on the cover is a rather festive and colorful illustration of a mother and her child. Pretty sweet, friendly stuff, and I figured I would be done in a couple of hours. Six hours later, I had read nine out of the13 beautifully written essays and had run out of little sneaky ways—re-reading passages, unearthing old diaries to look for similar sentiments, making more tea, pacing, thinking, staring into space—of prolonging the read.

There are some books you don’t want to end, and this one of them. And then there are some books by women that, for their humor, insight, and sheer honesty (especially if you relate to it as a woman, and if the author is someone you’ve actually met) can be a bit of a challenge to read (“You did what?!” best describes the general feeling you might get when you hit certain passages). This is also one of them.

For me, the idea of writing confessional nonfiction (read: spilling the beans, airing your laundry in public, baring your soul, swinging the spotlight on your life and your startled family—artfully) holds the same charm as crossing Ayala Avenue on a busy Monday morning wearing nothing but a poker face and a pair of platform stilettos. I would love to do such a wildly daring feat, but only if I knew for sure that everyone who witnesses it will develop blanket amnesia, and that I get to keep the shoes.
While reading Love, Children, Desire, Etc, I must have gotten up from my seat at least a dozen times, and consumed approximately a liter of tea. The first piece, entitled “A Bow to My God”, explores the author’s relationship with her larger-than-life mother, and how that relationship has shaped the author’s own path as a writer. It also details the author’s childhood attempt at writing, and how what she initially perceived as her mother’s disapproval of her work led her to forget about writing for many years thereafter. Mother-daughter relationships are often incredibly complex, and oftentimes it is from this complexity that the beautiful emerges. When, at the end of the essay, Rica writes, “I cannot promise to be unlike my mother”, I got up, took a long sip of tea, and thought, “My sentiments exactly.”

And then the book gets even more exciting—or challenging, depending on what kind of reader you are—especially when the author delves into the history of her own sexuality, beginning in grade school (when she wanted to be a Trappist nun), all through high school (when she completely forgot about the nunnery, preoccupied as she was with other, more intriguing things such as high school dances and boys), all the way to married life.

At certain points, I found myself reluctant to flip to the next page out of a sense of delicious suspense. As a teenager, I always knew when things were heating up in a Sweet Dreams book, and I could sense a kiss, or a makeout session, happening somewhere from several pages away.

Love, Desire, Children, Etc., which has won the Madrigal-Gonzalez First Book Award, becomes truly affecting when the author wades through her adventures and misadventures as a wife and, more importantly, a mother. The essays, in all their honesty, and despite their detail, seem to reflect a broader experience that isn’t often talked about. For instance, of the complicated joys of motherhood, the author writes, “Still, I would have preferred unblinking honesty. I would have appreciated it if someone sat me down and told me how much my heart would have to take. I would have been grateful beyond all telling if someone sat me down and told me outright that there would be real moments when I would hate having children. I would have saved myself an enormous amount of guilt if someone had told me that grieving would be part of the landscape.”

And that is exactly what you get from Rica’s book—unblinking honesty amid the familiar experiences, the truths that resonate, and the humor that turns a pain to something tender.

(The National Book Development Board’s Book Club will meet to discuss Rica Bolipata Santos’s Love, Desire, Children, Etc.; Reflections of a Young Wife (Winner of the prestigious 2007 Madrigal-Gonzalez First Book Award) on May 30, 2008, at 4:00 pm, at Cafea, Sgt. Esguerra St, Quezon City. Rica will be around to answer questions and sign books. Interested in joining the discussion and meeting the author? Call the NBDB at 9268238 or e-mail oed@nbdb.gov.ph.)

Posted on May 28, 2008

Rica Bolipata-Santos Reviews Miflores books

2008-05-25T18:15:00.000-07:00

Summer Reading
by Rica Bolipata-Santos

Summer is a good time to play catch-up: catch-up on sleeping, catch-up with loved family members, catch-up with old friends and most especially, catch-up with one's reading. This summer, make a real effort to get some reading done!

STRESSED IN THE CITY by April Yap

There are many idiosyncratic things about being "Filipino." For example, April Yap, author of this deliciously funny and witty collection of short essays about living in Quezon City, notices that it is only in the Philippines where you can go shopping while caught in traffic! While traveling from school to Church, you can buy: water, candy, fruits, toys, rugs, phone chargers, strawberries, guapples, peanuts, and even umbrellas! Delight in the observations of this sensitive writer about our practices as Filipinos and at the end of this slim volume be grateful too that you are Filipino!

SAWI: FUNNY ESSAYS, STORIES AND POEMS ON ALL KINDS OF HEARTBREAKS Edited by Ada J. Loredo, BJ Patino and Rica Bolipata-Santos

Ada, BJ and I are all teachers and one day over coffee after a day of endless teaching, we conceptualized this anthology. Over more and more years of teaching, at the end of three long years, this anthology finally saw the light of day and was published in 2007.

It is a collection of both young and established writers' takes on love and its necessary twin, heartbreak. What causes heartbreak? Can a heart truly break? What can one do if one's heart gets broken? Can one ever truly heal from being heartbroken?

Enjoy your summer reading!

(From Star Teacher)
(Rica Bolipata-Santos is the author of Love, Desire, Children, Etc.; Reflections of a Young Wife, which won the presitigious 2007 Madrigal-Gonzalez First Book Award)

Posted on May 26, 2008

Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan

2008-05-22T19:59:00.000-07:00

The Manila Bulletin announced the release of "Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan" by Vlad Bautista Gonzales. The Bulletin story on p. G-3 on May 17, 2008 featured the author's collection of funny, wildly imaginative, and insightful essays in Filipino.

The book is available at all National Book Stores, PowerBooks, and other major book stores at P195 per copy.

Posted on May 23, 2008

NBDB FEATURES MILFLORES BOOK

2008-05-20T19:51:00.000-07:00

NBDB BOOK CLUB TO DISCUSS "LOVE, DESIRE, CHILDREN, ETC.," WINNER OF MADRIGAL-GONZALES FIRST BOOK AWARD

Posted on May 21, 2008

AUDIO LINK FROM MARIVI SOLIVEN BLANCO

2008-05-18T18:47:00.000-07:00

Milflores author Marivi Soliven Blanco sent us a new link of her reading another story from her Spooky Mo, "Talunang Manok" (translated as "Rooster Stew"). Click below.

http://www.dimestories.org/

Posted on May 19, 2008

'ASTIG' BOOK OUT NOW

2008-05-18T18:26:00.000-07:00

MILFLORES RELEASES ASTIG BOOK

Milflores Publishing, Inc. has released “Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan,” a collection of funny, wildly imaginative, and insightful essays in Filipino by Vlad Bautista Gonzales.

Most of the essays were originally written for the author’s blogspot on the Net. They cover a wide variety of forms and subjects—from his fantastic friend, Mhia, who performs naked in public and juggles fifteen basketballs, soccer balls, and volleyballs while twirling her majorette baton, to his hilarious adventures while training to be a cadet officer in college, to a script for a TV reality show featuring his zany barkada.

There are also absurd dialogues between the author’s lola and other close relatives and ludicrous, yet touching, scenes featuring his parents and siblings.

Vlad is a master, at a remarkably young age, of the literary art of making the familiar fresh and interesting and the impossible familiar and accessible.

Some senior writers think that Vlad is the voice of a whole new generation by virtue of his inventive use of street Taglish and other literary skills.

The author teaches Malikhaing Pagsulat, Panitikan at Kulturang Popular at University of the Philippines Diliman and has taught at the Kagawaran Filipino at Ateneo University on Katipunan.

He says that he likes making his readers laugh and even when he tries to be serious, his readers laugh, anyway.

He spends a lot of his time watching anime, old local TV movies and telenovelas, and reading comics. If he were one of the characters in the anime “Naruto,” he says he would be a lazy Shikamaru or a moody Gaara.

The in-your-face cover of the book was designed by Arnold Ramos and the layout was done by Zenaida Ebalan.

“Isang Napakalaking Kaastigan” is available at all National Book Stores, PowerBooks, Books for Less and other major book stores at P195 per copy.

Call 721-6431, e-mail: milflores@pldtdsl.net, or visit http:\\milfloresonline.blogspot.com.

From the Lifestyle Section of the Philippine Daily Inquirer, E4, May 19, 2008

Posted on May 19, 2008

HIDALGO INDUCTED INTO BDAP BOARD

2008-05-17T03:49:00.000-07:00

Antonio A. Hidalgo, president and CEO of Milflores Publishing, was recently inducted into the Board of Trustees of the Book Development Association of the Philippines (BDAP). Tony was re-elected for a second 2-year term as chair of the ways and means committee.

The new board, led by its president Lirio P. Sandoval, took their oath of office before Dr. Dennis T. Gonzalez, chairman of the National Book Development Board (NBDB), at Albergus in Quezon City.

Aside from Tony, the newly inducted officers are: Mylene A. Sazon, vice president, internal; Karina A. Bolasco, vice president external; Atty. Manuel D. Yngson Jr., corporate secretary; Rolando R. De Vera, treasurer; Ramon A. Rocha III, auditor; Jose Maria T. Policarpio, committee chair for advocacy textbooks; Dr. Ma. Luisa T. Camagay, committee chair for advocacy trade books; Ani Rosa S. Almario, committee chair for public relations; Gwenn B. Galvez, committee chair for events and conferences; and Bezalie Uc-Kung, committee chair for programs.

During his speech before BDAP’s officers and members, Dr. Gonzalez said that like BDAP, the NBDB wants to develop and professionalize the book publishing industry so that it becomes a world-class and globally competitive industry, contributing something of value to Philippine society.

The organization’s new members were presented to the group later in the evening. The event was also a general membership meeting,

BDAP was incorporated in 1979, and is the moving force behind the country’s celebrated Manila International Book Fair and the prestigious Gintong Aklat Awards. NBDB, for its part, is the lead government agency mandated to support the Philippine book publishing industry.

In the photo above, Tony is at far right. NBDB's chair, Dr. Dennis Gonzalez is at far left.

Posted on May 17, 2008

Comments on Milflores Online

2008-05-09T18:39:00.001-07:00

E-mail from writer, Robin Rivero:

From: Christine C. Rivero
To: milflores@pldtdsl.net
Sent: Monday, May 05, 2008 9:46 AM
Subject: Happy to see the new site :)

Hello, The new Milflores site looks great. Will there be a mailing list too for site updates and publication announcements? I'd love to sign up for one :) Cheers!

Best regards

CHRISTINE C. RIVERO
Email: 9rivercc@ph.ibm.com

Paul_Abellera@abs-cbn.com wrote:

Good evening. I finally visited Milflores Online. It's very interesting. I didn't know that you have published so many books in less than a decade. Among the blog's contents, the papers on publishing are actually the most informative and the most interesting. I just hope you will add a feature where readers can post reviews of the book. As a book buyer, I am easily influenced by user reviews. I find them more "honest" than critics' reviews. Also, I hope you can add an "About Milflores Publishing" page so that readers will know the history, the present status and the owner/s of the company. A search database will also be helpful for users who want to search by author, subject or title. Lastly, while the white background makes it easy to read, I find it unexciting. I'm saying this from the point of view of someone who is used to reading blogs with beautiful backgrounds, illustrations and photos. Maybe your graphic designers can jazz it up a bit. That's all! Congratulations for putting up the blog!

Posted on May 10, 2008

Marivi Soliven Blanco Reads from Her New Book

2008-05-09T02:01:00.000-07:00

Marivi Soliven-Blanco sent us this link. Click to listen to Marivi reading from one of her stories, "Nightmare," from her new book, Spooky Mo, at a Writer's night in San Diego.

[via http://www.dimestories.org/]

Posted on May 9, 2008

NBDB Book Club to discuss "Love, Desire, Children, etc."

2008-05-06T17:58:00.000-07:00

The NBDB Book Club invites you to a reading and discussion of Rica Bolipata-Santos' Love, Desire, Children, etc.: Reflections of a Young Wife on May 30, 2008, 4 p.m. at Cafea located at Sgt. Esguerra St., Quezon City.

Tara FT Sering will serve as the book club moderator.

For more details, call the NBDB Secretariat at 926-8238 or e-mail us as oed@nbdb.gov.ph or muwah_hahah@yahoo.com

Admission is free!

Posted on May 7, 2008

Spooky Stories

2008-05-04T13:15:00.000-07:00

Milflores Publishing, Inc. has recently released Spooky Mo: Horror Stories, a collection of scary short stories in English by Marivi Soliven Blanco.

The nine stories in the book are all truly horrific and unpredictable because they are so imaginative. They feature the Seven Deadly Sins that we were all warned against when we were young—Pride, Envy, Anger, Avarice, Sloth, Gluttony, and Lust. The sins are committed in tandem by the characters in most of the stories, causing an eighth sin—revenge—and endings that provide the reader with a gleeful shock.

Most of the stories portray ghouls from Filipino folklore, from the cheeky “Manananggrrrl,” to the duwendes in “Child’s Play,” and the sawa of the urban legend in “Consumption”. One tale features the vagina dentata myth that recurs in several South American cultures through a Japayuki character. They are all fast-paced, satisfying reads.

Marivi Soliven Blanco won the first prize in the 1998 Philippines Free Press short story awards. Her collection of funny essays on immigrant life, Suddenly Stateside, is a bestseller. She has authored books on pregnancy, on living life as a single female, and a number of books for children, two of which won Palanca awards.

The eye-catching cover was designed by Blooey Singson, and the layout was by Zeny Ebalan.

Spooky Mo: Horror Stories is available at all National Book Stores, PowerBooks, Books for Less and other major book stores at P260 per copy.

Call 721-6431, E-mail: milflores@pldtdsl.net, or visit the Milflores website at milfloresonline.blogspot.com.

From the Lifestyle section of the Philippine Daily Inquirer, May 5, 2008

Posted on May 05, 2008

Comments on Milflores Online

2008-05-04T13:10:00.000-07:00

Email received from playwright, Nick Pichay:

From: F.D. Nicolas B. Pichay
To: milflores@pldtdsl.net
Sent: Friday, May 02, 2008 12:11 PM
Subject: Fw: Congrats!

Stopped by your website and, by golly, what wonderful book covers on your
Milflores books! More beautiful than the flowers of May (at least in Manila). I
sent the Milflores website address to my friends here and abroad in the hope of
widening the audience.

Warm regards.

Nick

Email received from writer and publisher, Norma O. Miraflor, from Singapore:

Miraflor & Ward wrote:

We are about to leave again for Malaysia but thought I'd drop a quick note to say thank you for giving the Milflores link. Very impressive blog, so well-presented. Publishing interests me greatly and so I read through the three essays by Tony. Spot on. I cannot agree more about
overheads, niche marketing, efficient distribution. This last bit is the mother of all horrors. Add to this the statements to authors. Something meaty to discuss. Thank you again and cheers.

Posted on May 05, 2008