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I heard them differently from how the rest heard them. They were lonely tunes... no, in fact, more than melancholic. They were like dirge, like the last song of the cicadas at midday... They were funeral march for the death of my hopes for the next three years...
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The father looks lovingly upon his hungry children forced to sleep by the food, or the lack of it, they had for the night. The mother glides through the small shanty, fixing threadbare clothes on gin boxes avoiding the eyes of the father lest the tears are freed. Lumps in the throat ache, wanting to get free with a loud cry... She held the tears and continued on fixing his children's clothes on boxes of gin... tears flooded anyway.

Bagwang with two pesos tawyo with a little ajinomoto she afforded a week ago is the order of the day for pangodto and pamanggi for ages now. The handful rice cooked to almost rinanot to stretch it farther is served to the food-eager, uncomplaining little ones. The couple waits for the little ones' left over, if ever, before they had their share.

The father lies down painfully on the mat on the hard floor next to the heaven-and-stars-promised wife knowing he failed to give her even a twinkle, let alone the light of the moon. A blank stare on the sooty see-through roof is the only thing he can afford tonight coupled with a soft sigh... as soft as he can hide so as not to give away to the wife the ache of failure!

If only the typhoon did not strike, the children would have better food from the ice cream he peddles. If only the typhoon did not hit, his more fortunate neighbors would have a bit more money to allow his wife to go on washing their clothes in exchange for a wee bit more rice. The ice cream won't sell, laundry-work gone... yet they still have to eat... the little ones who do not complain need the food. It would have been a lot better if the little ones were complaining! But their acceptance of whatever is there, is an a accusation of his inability to provide!

At last, sleep offered the much needed anaesthetic cure to and escape from the pain piercing his soul. Only to be awakened by the pang of hunger. Ahhh, that is better. It is a punishment! He deserves it! He accepts it, lovingly, with spiritual resignation, with the thought that he robs the little ones of the hunger's pang of an empty stomach. He saved his little ones from the nocturnal empty stare of a hungry soul! Better him than the little ones... Better him than the little ones... Better him than the little ones... the thought kept repeating almost like a littany... a prayer... a mantra... that lulled him back to sleep. A tear fell without him knowing it... sleep, however light it is... sleep, the spiritual analgesic of a failed father!

The soft dreamy murmur of his wife roused him from the light sleep he could afford himself. The warm soft body pressed against him. He wanted to embrace her and assure her of a brighter tomorrow. He did. Ah... a tender embrace like this raised a different ache in the long gone past. Not tonight... with the same lump on the throat, he embraced her. Things will be better tomorrow... things will be better tomorrow... things will be better tomorrow... the thought kept repeating almost like a littany... a prayer... a mantra... that lulled him back to sleep. A tear fell the second time. Again, without him knowing it... for sleep, however light it is, is still sleep... the spiritual analgesic of a failed husband!

He woke up to the sweet aroma of coffe. Ah lucky he has a wife who knows how to stretch a small packet of instant coffee for the two of them for two days. It is five o'clock in the morning and the ritual of his wife preparing the coffee to warm the now empty stomach is also a signal for the start of the laborious ice cream making. He chunked the ice while the wife prepares all the ingredients in between sip of luxury... too light instant coffee without sugar careful to leave behind most of it for the little ones.

Eternal ice cream mixing till the sun is up. A promise of a meager peso to earn. A wan hope for a better sales. One more day of failed sales and they will run out of capital for ingredients. He pushed the thought aside to go on beating the now hardening ice cream. With each getting heavy beat, pictures of the little ones getting better food, better clothes, better smile flashed in his weary mind fueling his now tired body back to the grind. Glancing at the wife who by now is heating up the little amount of rice left and the Bagwang for the little ones, their eyes met. He thought the eyes were almost begging! The pain starts all over. The day has really started!

On the streets he heard the blaring of the songs. Songs promising better future and better life. Lyrics of promises the same as of three years ago. Cheap melody that of equally cheap promises. In two days time money will flood, the little ones will certainly have tinanglladan this time he promised. He has decided and more than promised to get every which way for his wife's and his name to be listed on all the pages possible that would accommodate them in exchange for some money: some decent food.

Doesn't matter what promises they make. What matters most is his promise to redeem his fatherhood! Ah, the spectre of tinanglladan. No! More than that, the vision of eager faces with thanks written all over their faces as they share the special food the money will buy. Fatherhood will be redeemed on that day. As he paddles his ice cream around, vision of what the money will bring unfolds to the tune of the bells he rings and the distant cheap music that promise many things... never mind the promise. He has decided to take the money. No it is not the promise he will take... he will take the money! Never mind the promise. He will take all the money from the persons behind the songs, behind the promises. No. It is not the promises of the song! It is food for now. It is redeeming his failed fatherhood.

As i see the husband disappear around the bend wearing that victorious smile, blissful smile with the tinanglladan in mind, i could not blame him. After all, at the end of the day when the counting of his sale proved not enough, it would be another cycle of pain for him. Another failed fatherhood. After all, at the end of those music, when the counting began and ended life will be the same. Those bastards will not be in their office to listen to how hungry their childre are, anyway. They will be away most of the time to run away from the hunger of his children. Well, better get the money!

If sleep is the analgesic of a hungry failed-father, then that money is the moment's anesthesia of the pain of his failed fatherhood.

He peddles on his ice cream with that decided blissful smile to the tune of the blaring songs. The songs are the moment's redemption of his failures. His smile turned to tunes in his head. The tunes turned to whistle! Ah, blissful day. I'll sign up for all sides for that tinaglladan! The thought fueled what his stomach cannot! Ah the music. Sweet music. Why can't it happen everyday, or at least every week, or maybe every month?? Or at the very least every year??

I heard them differently from how he hears them. They where lonely tunes... no, infact, more than melancholic. They were like dirge, like the last song of the cicadas at midday... They were funeral march to the death of my hopes for the next three years...

I know. The next three years will surely be decided by that husband and wife. Destiny is just! The father and the mother needs a day of victory in the eyes of the little ones. Destiny is Just! So the father and the mother should win.

And then... there goes tomorrow!

Posted by big_boj in http://big-boj.tabulas.com/ at 04:15 AM May 19, 2007