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For Par Patacsil It was
only six o’ clock in the morning but Quiapo was already bustling with life.
The streets and thoroughfares were filled with cars, jeepneys and buses
moving at sloth pace. People of all kinds – from vendors with toothless
smiles to professionals with frowns to hide their dentures – fought for space
in the overcrowded sidewalks. The combination of various city sounds – cars
honking, preachers shouting, beggars crying – threatened to break any sound
barrier. It was only six o’ clock. All signs
of morning life in Quiapo were lost on a young boy sleeping outside the doors
of the Church of the Black Nazarene. He was shivering in his sleep. How the
rags he was wearing could have protected him from the harsh cold was a
mystery to everyone walking past him. He was dirty; his face and limbs
covered with numerous bruises. In his sleep, he brushed his dirty hand across
his dirty face, smearing his cheeks with the mucus flowing steadily from his
nostrils. The young
boy awoke with the sensation of someone tickling his sole. He opened both
eyes and stared at the morning sky. The bright rays of the sun greeted him
but they could not radiate enough warmth to keep his body from shivering. He
looked at his feet and saw the source of the tickling sensation – a limp and
dirty dog, a beggar like himself, was busy licking the sores at his foot. He
kicked the dog away, and even threw a stone at it. The poor dog scampered
away whining. He sat up, scratching the mosquito bites on his legs until they
bled. Involuntarily his stomach growled. He suddenly remembered that he had
not eaten since lunch yesterday. He willed his weak body to move and went to
the nearest garbage can. He scavenged through it, sifting the pile of trash
thrown by people comfortably placed on the opposite end of the economic
bracket. He soon found what he was looking for – a big, empty can of Del
Monte pineapple juice. He sniffed at it – the smell of pineapples was lost in
the mix of hamburgers, chocolates, gums and feces. Holding
the can firmly, he dragged himself to the doorway of the church. He leaned
forward to catch a glimpse of the church’s interior. He stared in awe at the
various icons of spirituality dressed in majestic robes and decorated with
multi-colored gems. The pious ones, clutching faded plastic beads of the
rosary, walked on their knees towards these icons. In a slow, trance-like
way, they wiped these icons’ limbs with their handkerchiefs, which moments
ago wiped away the sweat and mucus from their faces. The boy
gathered his strength and ran towards the start of the line. Lacking a
handkerchief, he rubbed his dust and soot-covered fingers across the Virgin
Mary’s pristine white robes and ivory-smooth feet. For each smear of his
fingers, he breathed a prayer for a better life. He closed his eyes and
imagined the Virgin Mary leaning down to catch every wish that fell from his
lips. Suddenly,
he felt someone grab his shirt. He opened his eyes, and saw two burly men in
white barong dragging him out of the church. He tried to clutch at the Virgin
Mary’s robes, but she was moving farther from him. The burly man dropped him
at the church’s doorway. He tried to get in again, but they refused to let
him in. The boy
finally gave up. He went towards the throng of people outside the church, and
stretched out his can to the old men with canes and the old women with veils.
He silently prayed to the Black Nazarene for these devotees to pity him and
give him some of their copper, silver and gold coins. He closed his eyes and
prayed harder that some would be kind enough to give him folded bills instead
of coins. Three-quarters
of an hour had passed but not even once did hear a single coin drop in his
can. He shook the can, hoping to hear something move inside it. Nada.
Tired and hungry, he sat down and leaned back on the church door. He observed
the various kinds of people walking, running before him. It was during
moments like this that he felt separated from the rest of society. He knew he
was different, especially from the cigarette-puffing college students. With
their good looks, clean uniforms and gadgets of all types, these students
seem superhuman to him. They were fair, wingless angels walking on the dirty
streets of Quiapo, answering the calls of heaven through their cell phones.
How he envied them! How he wanted to be one of them! Then, perhaps, he would
be able to leave his miserable life in Quiapo and start anew in the gold and
marble laden halls of heaven. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself
as one of those angels – puffing blue seal cigarettes and sending text
messages to his fellow angels. Even
through his closed eyelids, he can sense something blocking the sunlight. He
opened his eyes and saw a tall man looming over him. The man was
fair-skinned, with blond hair and an expensive camera hung around his neck.
The man was saying something but he could not understand him. The language
was different from the one he learned while growing up. The man
brought out a magazine and pointed at the cover where he saw a pair of
African children asking for alms. The man repeatedly pointed at the camera,
the magazine cover and at him. Finally, he realized that the man wanted to
take his picture. He immediately stood up and nodded his head excitedly. He
arranged his rags and smiled at the camera. It surprised him when he saw the
man vehemently shaking his head. He watched as the man stretched out his hand
and made a pitiful face, just like those of the African children. He then
understood that the man wanted to take his picture as a miserable child, not
as a happy one. Pretending to be one of the African children, he stretched
out his hand and made a pitiful face. The flash blinded him for a moment. Afterwards the man took a bill
from his wallet and gave it to him. His dirty and callused fingers tightly
gripped the bill. He watched the man leave, eventually losing sight of him in
the crowd of people. He then opened his fist and saw the crumpled ten-peso
bill. He smiled and looked upwards to the skies. Suddenly, he knew how it
felt to be an angel. With the money in his hand, he thought of the five days’
worth of cigarettes he could finally buy. Published in The Sunday Times Magazine (July 20, 2003) |
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Quiapo |
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Pagod na ang pusong laging sinasaktan. |
