The
Gentle Rain
AS I’m writing this it is raining outside.
The kind that gently patters on the roof reminding me of my childhood days in
the village south of Albuera town. We
used to huddle with friends in my grandmother’s house across the street
watching the gravel dirt road fill its puddles into pools while listening to
radio “dramas” such as “Handumanan sa Usa ka Awit”. Our pulses would throb with
anticipation greeting the program’s signature music as the “announcer” reads
the sender’s life story in letter form with unforgettable feeling and pathos.
I am also conscious that a friend and
elementary classmate of mine from the village died last week and will be buried
tomorrow, leaving behind a young family of seven children, the eldest having
just graduated from high school. He was Rosalito, a dark-skinned man with
slightly stocky build from our village’s fishing sitio called Cabatuan. I
remember him coming from that place ever since elementary days and it was also
there where he grew up, got married and died. During those times especially
after typhoons, we would sneak out with friends and go to sea to “collect”
washed up but “usable” plastic debris and toys. I always asked where those
things - some faded flowers, tumblers and toys- scattered ashore came from and
wondered if they were from sunken ships.
After grade 3, my parents decided to
transfer my studies to Ormoc. From that time on I seldom saw or heard from
elementary chums in the barrio. I heard some went to Manila— one was said to
have worked as domestic helper of the Enrile household while another one, the
girl with the brightest eyes of them all in elementary, with the possible
exception of her twin sister, died of pimple infection. Of course, I have no
way of knowing whether these were just myths or truth. We hear all sorts of
stories—some tall tales—once in a while from friends in the barrio.
I was already a lawyer when Rosalito
started seeing me again, sometimes in our house or in the office in the city.
He would bring fresh catch from his fishing trips and would tell me stories
about his growing children and how his “poverty” prevented him from buying them
even a dictionary. According to him his children were honor students back home.
I accompanied him to Mancao bookstore where we bought a medium size dictionary.
He told me other things as well, but what stuck in my mind to this day was his
unflinching, unusually intense concern towards his children’s formal education.
My mother who used to teach in our place told me Rosalito always managed to
find ways to pay the “amutans” and equip his kids with required school
paraphernalia. He also made sure his kids attended school with clean though
simple clothes. Who knew if he was hounded with premonition that soon he would
go in his sleep and not wake up? And this, before his kids could finish school.
I did not realize how difficult life was
for Rosalito, his wife and children until the day I visited their place when
news reached me of his death. His house was small and spare with no modern
conveniences, the ones most of us take for granted. It was said he put off
buying things since “all” his earnings from subsistence fishing went to his
children’s upkeep and education. Understandably he was concerned he might not
be able to send off his eldest son for college education. He told me he planned
to enrol him to VISCA for a two-year course. The cut out picture displayed on
his coffin was when he went on stage to accompany his boy receiving honors from
school. How happy he must be that time, I thought to myself, though he didn’t
smile in the picture. I myself have never attended closing or graduation
ceremonies of my children and honestly I have reasons to envy this man who took
time out to be with his kids during their school recognitions. I noticed my
friend was wearing T-shirt in his death. I regretted asking his wife if they
could have found a barong. I realized his white T-shirt, simple in its quiet
dignity was the best he could wear under the circumstances. It had some prints
with a quotation: “Life is a basketball, the more you dribble the more you
fumble. But if you hold the ball firmly and determine to shoot, it will surely
hit the goal”.
Estrella D. Alfon wrote a story entitled
the Gentle Rain first published in the Sunday Tribune Magazine in January 1937,
where we find this: “See it commences to rain. They say when it rains just when
somebody has died, it means that the dead one did not yet want to leave this
world. Is not life like the gentle rain? The gentle rain that overflows the
river and that washes away its banks. The gentle rain from which springs so
many forms of life, and through which as many others are destroyed”. Just like
Maring in the short story, my friend never mentioned any sadness. Only being
happy and wanting to be happy, although in his case I know for one how he
already gave all his happiness—to his children.
15 June 2012
amutan – contribution
handumanan sa usa ka awit – remembrance from
a song
No comments:
Post a Comment