Wish

It was only by accident that I found that place.  I was 5 years old, not yet in school, and we were playing hide and seek; I didn't want to be found out first because I despised being "taya."  I hated it when I had to count past 10, you know the numbers, teneleven, twelveteen,  twelthirteen -- and my playmates would count along with me, snickering the whole time.  It had its advantages though, finding out where they hid by sonar, the foremost.  


But it was not a good feeling searching for your playmates when your eyes are half-blind, clouded by tears about to fall.  And when I had to call out a name, "Bong, Kanuto!" -- I wouldn't be able to declare it clearly because the lump that has formed on my throat prevented clear enunciation, and we would have an argument that I did not mention his name properly so it was not a legitimate out.  It was a losing argument for me because, by then, I would be crying and I would be wailing away unintelligible words, in between sobs.


So I did my best no to be found out first.



At the edge of our bakuran were several cords of fallen Kakawate trees arranged to lean around and against a stout Santol tree.  My father, a farmer, placed them there to be replanted in the new rows of Paminta seedlings that he was preparing, not too far from our small house that was sitting on the land of a Canadian married to a Filipina.


I knew no one would look for me because we kids normally didn't stray there as the Santol tree had a nuno sa punso for a neighbor that was as high as I was tall.  We were scared of the wrath of the Duwende if we accidentally step on its toes.  But it's no fun being taya, so I said, "Tabi po Nuno, huwag po sana manuno," then I slid underneath the Kakawate poles.


The stubs of the Santol roots jutting out of  the ground  prevented me from having a decent sitting position.  But I soon realized that the root that jutted out the most offered a nice resting place for my small head, so I laid on the ground, and balled myself to a fetal position so that my feet wouldn't stick out where they can be seen.


The Kakawate poles formed what appeared to be an Indian teepee around me.  And because only little sunlight penetrated the inside, the earth was damp, and I felt half-muddied dirt clinging to the skin that touched the ground -- it was comforting on a humid mid-afternoon.


Inside my little nest I can smell the sweet, slightly vanilla-like scent of the freshly cut Kakawate poles, blending nicely with the coffee-esque musk of the ground.  I can get a glimpse of what's outside through the small openings in between poles, though I doubt if anyone outside can see me.  It was the perfect hiding place -- cozy, warm and secure.


I can hear the taya, calling out the names of my playmates one by one till only mine was left unheard.  He called on me several times, pleading for me to show up because there was a new taya and it was not me.  I did not feel the urge to come out of my shell, and they eventually started a new round of hide and seek, concluding that I already went home and no longer interested in playing.


I stayed there until it was almost dark.  I only went out when I heard my mother, home from selling assorted produce in the talipapa, looking for me.  Besides, I didn't want to wear out the Duwende's welcome by staying longer than dusk.


The next day, and the followings days after, I spent almost my entire waking period --and sometimes, napping time -- holed up in my own wooden tent, under the shade of the large Santol tree.  I was always left alone being the youngest son and my two older brothers were already in school and my parents had to go out to earn a living.




The Santol tree was just a few steps from our house.  My earliest recollections only had this house in this rural place.  But once, when I was alone, I curiously lifted the heavy wooden cover of my mother's baul and discovered photographs of my mother and father posing in front of what looked like a big building with plenty of people carrying bags and things.  They were wearing big, happy smiles, unlike now that when they smile, their eyes remain blank and it often comes with a deep sigh, "Hay, buhay."  


On some of the faded pictures, I can see my parents carrying three children, two on my father's arms who resembled smaller versions of my older brothers, and another on my mother's arms that I assumed was me, though the baby's face was partly covered by my mother's hand who was apparently telling the photographer not to shoot yet.


I also saw pictures of my father dressed nicely in blue polo barong, with the logo of a popular softdrinks, that was sold in a sarisari store across the horse and cattle farm, embroidered on his chest.  The way he was standing hautily in front of a truck that has many bottles of that popular drink, it's as if he was supported by able legs, unlike now that he can barely stand  without holding on to his cane.  He kept on complaining about how farming would be a lot easier if not for the accident, or that he wouldn't be farming at all if not again for that accident.


I didn't understand why kids my age bragged so much when they got to drink that colored water as if it was the best thing that ever happened since buko juice.  I tasted it once when a group of teenage boys, who were trying to look like the punk rockers in the poster that I once saw in a magazine, left without finishing their Litro.  So I took a gulp, nice and sweet at first, bubbly and pleasantly acidic next, but it ended with the bitter after taste of cigarette.  And the ash... oh, it collected on the top of my palate that I gagged and threw out the soft drinks, along with it the fleshy remains of the caimito that Tutit, a playmate, halved with me before I spotted the bottle.  


We had nothing inside our house, no appliances and creature comforts I often find in the houses of my playmates.  What we had were two wooden benches sandwiching a small center table, six wooden chairs set around a dining table that wobbled because of uneven feet, three banigs that we unrolled at night after setting aside the tables and benches, and my mother's old baul.  Underneath the center table were piles of old newspapers, old magazines and test papers that a suki of my mother, a nice old public school teacher, supplied her with to wrap the assorted  produce that she sold at the market.


I loved to draw so I always brought old test papers in my den, together with a No.2 Mongol pencil that my Kuya no longer used because the wood, covering the lead, was full of holes and dents caused by punctures from the pencil of another student.  My kuya said that pencil combat was a popular game in school but one that our mother strongly forbade him to play.


The old test papers usually only had one side with notes and writings on them, so the other half served as my canvas for my sketches of planes with armored chain wheels of tanks, sharks about to gobble boats, Voltes V, different angles of faces, sometimes bespectacled, at times bearded, or moustached or both.  I drew everything that my imagination fancied.  


At times, when I encountered silly stick drawings made by the student who owned the test paper in front of me, I would redraw the outline and supply it with more details -- the stick woman with bunned hair and oversized glasses would then have fuller cheeks, bigger horns and more menacing fangs to go with sturdy-looking legs that can support its oversized breasts.  I noticed that the test papers with the most drawings also had the least writing on them.  But it was nicely balanced off by big red marks of X's and a lot of 0's.


I only went out of my den when I felt the pangs of hunger, or when I had to relieve myself on the ginger plants that have began to flower, I suspect because of my frequent sprays.  I had no idea of time nor its importance, but when my stomach grumbled then  it must be noon, and I would go back to our house to feast on either tuyo, tulingan, or when I am lucky -- a sunny side up egg that was closer to brown than white and yellow because of the cooking oil that was used to fry last night's fish.  


And after lunch, a distinct craving would spur me to collect young langka fruits, the ones that still had what look like sawdust on them.  With a quick dusting and a dip on vinegar mixed with soy sauce and a piece of uncrushed labuyo which masked the somewhat bitter taste of the young fruit, and I would have a satisfying, sweat inducing merienda.  


Compared to my playmates, I had nothing but; I couldn't ask for more.  I was not even begging them anymore to include me in the games that we kids in our barangay played.




One morning I woke up to find that the poles were no longer leaning on the Santol tree, but instead were lined up in a patch of land where new Paminta vines were growing.  I was devastated that I ran crying all the way to my mother's corner at the talipapa.  Thinking that something terrible happened to my father, my mother hysterically cried and ran back towards home, with me running behind her, heart tearing because I no longer had my den.


When my mother found out that my father was fine and, in fact, gently tying the young paminta vines to the newly erected poles, she immediately pulled on my sideburns and gave me a sermon I never forgot.  From then on, amidst the tears that mixed with yellow sticky fluid from my nose which I generously smothered all over my face, I learned that playing does not bring food to the table, and that imagination only makes one a fool.


That day, I joined my mother to the talipapa and helped her wrap the sold goods with old news paper and  test papers that, as recently as yesterday, brought immense joy to my small world.  And also on that day, I discovered how business worked -- you produce something, convince buyers they're good and a good buy, accept the payment; do it all over again.


Going to the talipapa with my mother became part of my routine until the day that I had to go to school.  The first days were rough.  I was with other kids my age but we were never allowed to play inside the classroom.  I didn't understand that part.  It was like putting a bunch of goldfish in a bowl with water and then asking them not to swim.  Instead we were forced to make sense out of lines and curves that were called letters and numbers. 


At least, I learned what numbers followed 10 -- you know, eleven, twelve, thirteen.  I knew then that my hide and seek playmates could no longer make fun of me; but they were in higher grade levels so I can not simply go out of my classroom and invite them to a game,ako pa ang taya.  I got so excited about my new found counting skills that right there and then, with my teacher in front of the class, expecting that my classmates were feeling the same because they also kept on counting beyond ten, I brilliantly announced to the top of my small voice, "Tagguuuaaannn  ttaayyyooo!"


The  class, as if on cue, erupted in laughter, except for the teacher whose solitary voice rose above the din of hoots and guffaws.  Again, I learned another valuable lesson that day:  Playing hide and seek, or any game for that matter, are for people who do not have plans of succeeding.  Whatever that meant.


In school, I learned the value of money early on because I never had any.  But I did not see it as a problem that I can't avoid.  In fact, until I was in Grade III, I made it a habit to mysteriously disappear every time we would have our yearly class picture taken by the fat man with thick beard.  I knew the drill.  When other classes would be herded out of their rooms and see boys combing their hair, and girls combing their hair and biting their lips just enough to turn them red but not draw blood -- I knew it was the time for me to make an excuse to go to the comfort room.  But in reality, I would hurry to the back of the school where we spend our Thursday afternoons planting pechay.  No one would look for me there because no body went there except for our Practical Arts teacher who had the habit of harvesting our pechay and bringing them to his home, which was just outside the school gate.  It was only when I was in Grade IV did I realize that I can smile all I want together with my classmates even if I did not have any money to claim my mug shot.


School also afforded me to become more and more enterprising as I realized that I can make money with the things that I was good at.  I was an expert at catching spiders that I soon became "the" source of these critters, which I sold to the highest bidder at the back of the huge mango tree, which was the venue for almost everything illicit including showing off of pictures of our crushes, with dedications, supposedly written by the crush, exchanging of stories like who hid the teacher's chalk so that she could not write the lesson on the board, and settling of petty disputes through good old fashioned fistfights.


When spider season was over, the holen season and my expert marksmanship took over.  I would amass the marbles of my playmates that they had no choice but to buy back some of the marbles that they lost so we could play some more.  Holen season was followed by teks season, and I also rounded up the piles of teks of my playmates which they would, again, routinely buy back.  I knew I was destined for a future where numbers and money mattered.

I learned, and I learned fast.  I was counting beyond thirteen and did so many amazing things with numbers that not long after, I was representing our public school in math competitions across the municipality and even the province.  That was year after year until I reached high school.  By then, my parents already harbored high hopes for me as I was the only child left in school.  


My eldest brother went home one night with a girl that he said he was going to marry.  It was not really a surprise to my parents as it was normal for teenagers in our place to decide to marry the first person that they have feelings for, and vice versa.  Perhaps, they would also rear plenty of children, as is normal for couples in our place.  Our small family of three is a rarity, now that I am old enough, I know that the accident had, again, something to do with it.


My other brother, who was always good with his hands and who taught me how to destroy pencils with devastating force and precision, put his fast hands to good use and began working in the nearby ranch, collecting grass for the Canadian's horses and cows.  The Canadian said he has not seen anyone feed his animals so fast.


My parents never spoke about their dreams before but now they were talking about theirs for me -- I would be the first college graduate in the family; I would find a good job, perhaps work abroad, buy land and build a decent house for the family, maybe even  invest in a few heads of cattle for my father.  I liked their dreams, especially that I was at the center of it all.


I finished high school and, as class valedictorian, landed a scholarship for a course in Business Administration at the State University. From my experience at the talipapa, I knew how business worked, it was now time that I balanced my street smarts with book smarts.


But adjusting to life in the big city was tough, especially when I had barely enough money to support my daily sustenance. But it did not bother me.  Everything was big and new to me.  The campus was big and it had its own commuter transport system that I could not afford, so I made brisk walking a part of my daily routine long before it became fashionable.  And because I grew up in a household where not having full meals was normal, I made do with two -- brunch and late merienda, what I called the 4 o'clock half-eat.


These were the times in the day when the canteen was almost empty and I could ask the tindera to press the rice into the cup a bit harder so that my one cup of rice would be the equivalent of one and a half when spread out on the plate, and my half-order of ulam be splattered with a generous scoop of sarsa.  On occasions when there really was no money, I simply asked for sabaw to go with my one cup of rice, to which the tindera would "accidentally" scoop morsels of meat and vegetable bits.  


On some nights when my study load was light, I would g out to the dorm lobby to watch TV with other bored students.  These were occasions when I got to dip my hands into Pringles, Lays and chocolates of all sorts and sizes that were generously passed around by dorm mates who were only too happy to have company in the dead of night.  There were stories of ghosts appearing in that building that the free goodies became some sort of  a bribe, or a weird incentive, for others to stay.   I really wasn't bothered by the ghost stories, after all, I spent days sprawled near a nuno sa punso and nothing bad ever happened to me.


On other nights, I just went out to the lobby, not to watch a movie or even help myself to free late snack, but to simply sit and bask in the knowledge that there are other people around, not necessarily with me, but around.  I was lonely.  Being on a mission to fulfill somebody else's dream was no longer a pleasant feeling, it became a burden that I can't and won't unload.  I felt alone, distant.


But I did not complain.  For me, it was just what it was.  I would wake up the next day and know that I was a day closer to my parents' dreams.


They did not see me graduate from college.  In fact, I was not even in that cavernous hall to march with my batch mates.   A multinational venture capitalist, where I spent my internship, offered me a full time job abroad, in Singapore, and it was for immediate posting.


Though my parents dreamt of seeing me march, and I would if they wanted me to, they told me that I did not spend four years in college just to wear a toga.   So off I went to Singapore without celebrating, or even marking my right of passage.


Singapore was different.  Everyone was in a hurry, and everyone I dealt with meant business -- none of the small talk that preceded many Filipino transactions, which was to my liking because I was not really a sociable person, I did not have time to sharpen my people skills.


Soon enough, I was making a reputation as a no-nonsense negotiator and a ruthless financial analyst who had the uncanny ability to spot promising but ill-managed or under funded enterprises and turning them into sure fire moneymakers.  I was the star of the company, and I  was barely twenty four.


The big bosses recognized my value so I was paid handsomely.  Money, or anything to do with spending, was no longer an issue.  I bought a sizeable parcel of land for my parents; big enough so that it can accommodate whatever plants my father desired to plant, with plenty to spare for his cattle and goats to roam around.


I told him to get farm hands so he wouldn't do the dirty jobs himself, but he would have none of it.  He said that it was better that he worked by himself, just like he had always done.  And so that's what he did, despite his limp and growing years.  One day, while he was unrolling barbed wire to secure the perimeter of his farm, he lost his balance and fell into the awaiting sharp metal pricks  -- puncturing him all over his body.


He went home, blood oozing from wounds that littered him from head to foot, to a wife that was hysterical, reminded of the accident that turned our modest life into a miserable existence.  Mother fainted and when she came to, she was in the hospital with a nurse holding a piece of pungent cotton to her nose, and a doctor stitching up father  in the next bed.  She promptly began bawling, with father assuring her that it was nothing but flesh wounds that were far from fatal.


After that incident, my elder brother who was fast with his hands came to live with my parents.  By then his wife was five months into their third child in four years.  My mother was elated that my brother would take over my father's farming chores.  My father, in return began looking after my brother's two children.  He was however not too keen on doing the same to the soon to come grandchild.  


Though I already headed the company's Manila operations, I had barely time to see my parents.  But they never had to worry about any of their expenses, even the regular medical checkups of my father whose diabetes surfaced and began to eat away at his wounds.


During one of my rare visits to my old barangay, my car passed by a man whose face unmistakably belonged to Tutit.  I consider him my childhood best friend because he was the only one who cried more than me, so we had a natural affinity.  He was the smallest among all the neighborhood children though he was older than me.  He had protruding cheekbones that  pulled his meager cheek muscles so tight that his eyeballs seem to be on the verge of popping out.  His two front teeth -- why he was called Tutit -- were larger than most and protruded at an odd angle that I've never seen him with his mouth closed, even when he was done crying and only the occasional sobs lifted his shoulders halfway to his large, saucer-like ears.  To top it all, he had straight, thick hair that was cut into bangs that touched his bushy eyebrows.


The grown up Tutit is not too different from the young Tutit, except that he has grown a healthy mustache to frame his signature teeth.  He had a bright smile on when he first saw me, but this quickly dissipated into a respectful gaze, head bowed, when I reached out my hands to him.  It did not occur to me that I just stepped out of my SUV and he was holding on to a rope that ended on a loop tied around the neck of his milk-heavy goat.


I was genuinely thrilled to see him, I guess he felt the same way.  But his stuttering replies to my queries told me how he viewed my stature, and his.  I wanted so much to catch up with him, but he politely declined my invitation for coffee.  Instead, from the bushes appeared his young son, his carbon copy, tightly embracing two squirming baby goats that apparently got lost in the tall grasses.  Tutit's son beamed him an adoring look and asked him to carry him home.  Tutit dutifully used his free hand to gather his son who was still holding on to the baby goats, and with his other hand held the rope tied to the mother goat.  "Mauna na po kami," he bade.   I followed them with my gaze until they disappeared on the hill, the child imploring the goats to kiss Tatay Tutit.


I soon started a family of my own.  I met my wife in one of my dealings.  She owned the restaurant where I brought a client for a lunch meeting. She was an independent woman, which was good, because I had no time nor the patience to cater to the needs of someone who demanded more than my love.   Our relationship was more business like than romantic, we were straightforward with our feelings and our intentions to be together as husband and wife.


Her independence inspired me to be my own boss.  Though I made more money than anyone in the company, including the president,  I felt that I would find more success if I strike it out on my own.  My opportunity came when I spotted a local fledgling company that manufactured cheap but high quality cell phones and gadgets.  I was impressed by the knowledge and imagination of its young founders.  But talking to them and listening to their tentative body language told me that they were not sure how to make their business grow.  I immediately saw their weakness and they saw my strengths -- financial capital and the cold-blooded business savvy that was sorely missing in their group.


When I look back, there really wasn't much negotiation that ever took place as the founders eagerly jumped at the idea of selling majority of their shares to me and, essentially, becoming my employees.  I did not disappoint them.  I infused money into their Research and Development, invested in a high-tech laboratory and manufacturing plant, and hired the best people to take care of marketing.  Though I had to fire a popular pioneer of the company because he gave the work environment such a laidback atmosphere which wasn't really to my liking.  I want my employees to work hard and be goal oriented, and not be just some talented crew whose potential would never be maximized because they were not driven enough.  I can sense that my people resented my decision, but I knew it was for the best.


I had my hands full.  Luckily I had a staff that made my life as a boss manageable.  I used to love driving myself to and from my office but I had to give up that luxury and got myself a driver so that I could use my time on the road for more important matters.   My secretary travelled with me where ever I went.  She was always efficient and organized, keeping my appointments orderly and making sure that I came to each meeting prepared with the necessary documents and information.  She was every bit a professional.


But one night, when we had to rush back to the office after a convention at a hotel that ended with a dinner with a valuable supplier, I was uncharacteristically emboldened by the late night wine and made an indecent move that was welcomed with a smile on a half-bit lip, and wide open legs.  I regretted it as soon as we have finished.  She knew she also crossed the line.


We were both married.  And outside of work, she and her family were practically an extension of mine; they were always in our house whenever there was an important occasion.  Nothing was said after that incident.  And though we tried our best to reclaim our professional relationship, it was awkward and I had to let her go.  But not after giving her a substantial separation pay.


In three years, my company was outselling multinational brands not necessarily because we offered better technology, but we positioned ours as the brand that understood the local market best.  But our name was getting bigger by the day that going global ourselves was just a matter of time.


By then, I already had two children, a four year old boy and a one year old girl.  My boy had everything that he needed -- toys, gadgets and clothes.   But he is such an unpredictable child.  The few moments I have with him, I spend trying to prevent him from throwing his things or destroying his toys.   Doctors said he had Attention Deficit Hypersensitivity Disorder.  I love him dearly but I can't afford to devote my attention to him because my company, and the families of my workers depended on me to lead them.


I was also losing touch with my wife.  We would meet at night, but we barely had time to even eat dinner together or go out, just the two of us.  Our conversations consisted of obligatory "how was your day" that would be answered with lifeless, "same old, same old."  Though I never forgot to bring her gifts on special occasions and she never failed to bring home my favorite dishes from her restaurant, we were emotionally disconnected.  We existed together but we shared no clear purpose nor direction other than to repeat each day into the next.


Recently, I got a call from my eldest brother.  He asked me if it was alright if he built his family's house in the land that I bought for my parents.  He was in and out of odd jobs which gave him more time to show his love for his wife, resulting in seven children in a span of 10 years.  It could have been more if his wife did not have a miscarriage twice.


I knew that it was not only permission he was asking for, but also the money to pay for his house and day to day to expenses.   I said no problem but on one condition.  That he would look after our father who, no longer fit for farming and tired of taking care of his grandchildren, turned to drinking alcohol to while away his time.  Mother could not nag her to stop.  Perhaps, he, as the eldest and favorite son, could.


A few months ago, I received correspondence from a representative of  the biggest cell phone manufacturer in the world.  At first. I thought it was just a joke.  But when he called and said that the company's Asia-Pacific manager wanted to see me, I knew it was serious.


The manager was very warm but very assertive, and he did not mince his words about his company's interest in acquiring mine.  I only smiled at him, which I know could mean anything.  I got the dry smile from my parents who did it regardless of what they were feeling or thinking.  It made me harder to read and kept anyone in front of me always on the defensive.  I told him, in as calm a voice that I could muster, that there was no offer in this world that I cannot refuse.  I knew I had them on my strings.


The mood in my company is at an all time high.  I reserved the country's biggest theme park so that my employees, fresh from receiving a hefty bonus, and their families can enjoy our Christmas party.  Everyone was congratulating everyone, and every one was thanking me.


Earlier in the day, my marketing head hosted a program where gifts and other perks were raffled off.  I like the young guy, he is eager to please, and when I tell him that I am not satisfied with his department's work, he does not sulk and instead takes it as a challenge and he delivers, often beyond expectation.  Though he came from an upper middle class family and reared by exclusive Catholic schools from grade school to college, he is like me in many ways, and he thinks it is the highest complement when people notice so.


When he introduced me before I delivered my obligatory President's message, he was profuse in praise and admiration about how I rose from a small rural barangay in Batangas to become one of the most successful entrepreneurs of the land.  I was not really flattered because everything he said was true.


I thanked my employees for the success that our company has achieved, encouraged them to continue building on our gains, and gave them a generic goal of reaching for the skies -- things that were expected to be heard from me.  And I was applauded loudly, on erect legs.


I did not tell them that as early as the first quarter of the following year, the company that they are now working for will be under the world's largest telecommunications company, and that many of them will be out of work as the would-be owners indicated that they are only interested in the company name and technology, but not its people.


My disinterested smile, the one that hid what I truly felt, became my biggest asset when I forced the bidder to pull out all the stops to acquire my company.   I am also using this same smile to buy into a promising outfit that is slowly making its name in biofuels and natural energy development.


When the applause subsided, my marketing manager took the microphone to award me with a plaque of appreciation signed by all of my 983 employees.  He said that it was the most difficult challenge to find a gift to please a man who has it all, and can buy it all.


He is right.  There is nothing in this world that could possibly please me.  But there is one thing that I constantly wish for -- my wooden den under the Santol tree, where I was safe, secure and free from the pursuit of material things that have made my life joyless and eternally empty.