A Tribute to Jay

•April 11, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Your eyes were gloomy after an entire night of work. You were stressed-out communicating with American counterparts who were so much blessed with the gift of sarcasm. The graveyard shift you are into right now is literally sending you to the grave. All that you wanted to do was to go to bed and get some sleep while the rest of mankind are up and awake—but no. You wouldn’t get sleep just yet. You were headed for something else.

The familiar scent caught your senses as you opened the door of that three-by-three meter room. The heat inside the room made your body hair stand on their ends, but your body is already accustomed to the heat that you no longer cared. You did what was usual—removed your shoes, changed to your boxers, and went to bed with him who was pretending to be asleep but was actually waiting for you. There was deafening silence in the pitch-dark room.

Then your fingers started to linger. It went over that familiar body contour, and it did what it knows doing best—to tickle the sleeping one. Soon after, your fingers were joined by your lips, and your lips went to that familiar spot that when you kiss, it’s a sure damned thing that he could no longer resist—a feeling he said, only you could give. Then he was awake. Very much awake.

Skin-to-skin.

Sweat in-between.

You both waited for this—you after a night of excruciating work, and him after waiting for you to enter the room’s door.

Slapping sound.

Sound of moaning.

There’s just no way would the two of you would stop— not now that he has already found his way into you.

Saliva and sweat.

Lube out of the tube.

Both of you kept on calling one another with that three-lettered name that you call yourselves with. You were almost there as the pump gets harder and the moaning gets louder. Your body started to feel numb and the only sensation left in you was the sensation that both of you were getting. Almost there. Euphoria is coming.

Then, someone knocked on the door—and the gentle knock eventually turned into a fistful rage, forcing its way inside the room.

It was Jay.

Jack-in-the-Box

•January 24, 2012 • Leave a Comment
Now I hate that jack-in-the-box I placed under you seat
	the box was supposed to surprise you
		to make you scream at the very least
	then both of us will have a good laugh about it

Now I hate that jack-in-the-box I placed under your seat
	it started creeping me
		goose bumps and nightmares in the darkness of despair
	no good laughs—it appears
		just frustrations and endless rants
		of plans and dreams never attained

Now I’ll keep that jack-in-the-box I placed under your seat
	no, I’ll destroy it
		crush it until no piece is left
	and never will I ever again place a box that would
		creep me out and give me fear
		that I never had before

Praetorium

•January 16, 2012 • Leave a Comment

You are there standing, with hands bound tightly at your back. You cannot move. You cannot run. You definitely cannot escape from the condemnation imposed upon you. Your head, hands, feet—virtually all parts of your body, of your entity—are bleeding. Blood clots are all over your skin. Your eyes are half-shut due to the innumerable punches, kicks and slaps you have received on your face, not to mention your tormented inner-being slammed by all the mockery and calumny the self-righteous bastards hurl against you. You have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Anytime now they will impose judgment upon your soul so weary and tired of all the pain life has unjustly placed upon your way.

Quid veritas est? 

You surely do not know the answer to that question. You yourself are so uncertain of what the truth is. All the things you used to believe about yourself, the people around you and the world you live in, are no longer dependable. They are lies. Dark lies. Pure, sinister lies.

You once looked-upon yourself as a great man, capable of doing great deeds; or if not, at the very least you know that you are a man capable of doing small deeds with great dedication and love. You made it a point that all things are in order—oh yes; you are a man of order. You are so careful with each move you take, lest something falls out of its place. Yet despite all of the things that you have done for yourself and for those around you, despite your compulsive drive to put everything in order with your canon of structural and mechanical mantras, you ended-up misunderstood for messing things up. You are accused of destroying rhythm and order when rhythm and order are the only ones you ever wanted on the first place. Those you held so dearly, they are now slowly slipping away from you, slipping away so slow that you just get tormented all the more. How you wish you would just lose them all together in an instant, hence ending your agony immediately.

Certainly, there are things that could never be undone. You may say your apologies for your mistakes over and over again, and you may hear words of consolation to just forget it and move-on; but still you know that people are so stingy when it comes to real and authentic forgiveness. They would forgive you now, but try to get through their nerves again and they would unearth your previous trespasses, making you guilty once more of a crime from which they themselves absolved you a long time ago. It’s a dead end.

Now you are being asked, Quid veritas est? You do not know the answer—not anymore. Hence, like the Son of Man, you kept your peace—no matter how hard—and maintained your silence. You ignored all the people around you. You ignored all the confusion, the chaos and the looming disorder.

Of course, no one understood.

Ecce Homo

You are a man. You are definitely capable of doing mistakes, and you are so vulnerable. No one understands your vulnerability though. Perhaps it’s because you are a bit different from anyone else. You are so prone to emotional mishap. You see offense even when nothing is intended. Inquisitiveness is your term for suspicion. At some point reason leaves you behind, and you become nothing but a fatalistic paranoid—a walking epitome of psychological lapses.

You do not feel sorry for yourself though. At some point there are those who believed in you and held you in high esteem, making you feel and believe that you are accepted, understood and loved. However, they too got weary. Tired. Fed-up. Little by little you started to feel that they are no longer willing to listen to your words. Whatever you say—no matter how right—is rubbish to them. Shallow squabble.  Mere babble. Endless gibberish.

You then turn and look at your self. You see the wounds—the skin cuts which turn painful whenever sweat mixes with blood. You see your wounded, broken self. You see nothing in your swollen eyes but pain and suffering. Then you tell those present, Ecce Homo!

They just laughed.

Innocens ego sum a sanguine iusti huius

You are there standing, with hands bound tightly at your back. You cannot move. You cannot run. You definitely cannot escape from the condemnation imposed upon you. Your head, hands, feet—virtually all parts of your body, of your entity—are bleeding. Blood clots are all over your skin. Your eyes are half-shut due to the innumerable punches, kicks and slaps you have received on your face, not to mention your tormented inner-being slammed by all the mockery and calumny the self-righteous bastards hurl against you. You have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Anytime now they will impose judgment upon your soul so weary and tired of all the pain life has unjustly placed upon your way.

In the midst of your condemnation, you being damned in the eyes of those around you and in your own eyes, having lost your truth and your humanity, you decided that once and for all, you need to set yourself free. In your tormented weakness, you managed to unshackle yourself. You used your remaining strength so that your hands are free once again. People did not notice it though. They are still busy preparing your Via Dolorosa. By all means, they want you to be in the spotlight of their final show—an act of ultimate humiliation wherein you are the only one who has a role to play.

Nevertheless, you are determined that you will not give them what they want. With your eyes swollen and half-shut, your arms trembling and bleeding, your feet so painful and tired, you ran. You ran as fast as you can, so fast that you yourself cannot believe that after all that you have gone through, you still have the power to ran that fast. You never looked back. You just kept on running. The people behind you, it was too late when they realized that you have left the Praetorium. Definitely they are running after you, but you would never let them get their hands on you. You ran, because you know you deserve no condemnation from anyone.

You realized that the only thing you are guilty of is your being innocent. You have finally made-up your mind and decided that it’s about time—alas it is time—that you leave behind all the fetters of condemnation you have received in your life. In some way you could be guilty of some misdeeds, making you somehow worthy of your wounds and pains, but no, this time you are not going to submit to anyone else. You will never say any apology again. You are now free, running away from denunciation, and there’s no way you are going back.

After all, even Pilate washed his hands.

Allegory of My Cave

•September 5, 2011 • 1 Comment

“At first, when any of them is liberated and compelled suddenly to stand up and turn his neck round and walk and look towards the light, he will suffer sharp pains; the glare will distress him, and he will be unable to see the realities of which in his former state he had seen the shadows; and then conceive some one saying to him, that what he saw before was an illusion, but that now, when he is approaching nearer to being and his eye is turned towards more real existence, he has a clearer vision—what will be his reply?”

-The Allegory of the Cave in Plato’s The Republic

At some point in our life, we really have to take some risks. Yes, risks. It defines us—or at least, me. Just a while ago, it defined me. It somehow released the burden I have been hiding deep within my soul—that irksome little devil who keeps on poking holes on my very thin and fragile peace of mind.

What exactly did I get from the risk I took? Going back to Plato’s allegory above, the risk I took is comparative to the plight of the cavemen who were fettered inside the cave, seeing only shadows of the things that could otherwise be perceived clearly. It didn’t continue that way though. When one of the cavemen eventually broke free from his shackles, he found his way outside the cave to be greeted by a painful light of reality. Yes, painful yet enlightening; painful yet real.

For quite sometime I made myself believe that I was living in a reality that I could fully grasp, only to find out that I am totally out of way in fully understanding the things happening around me. Unfortunately for me, I am not the master of my own house—my emotions just simply do not wish to follow what my mind asks it to do. I continued looking towards the direction of the shadows and allowed myself to be absorbed by the indulgence it brings about. Somewhere along the line, though, there was a break—a rupture in what was otherwise placid and complacent shadow-watching. The rupture brought about a great discomfort in me that in turn brought about a drive to break free from the shackles enslaving me. Compulsive as I am, I know I have to break free, and I did break free. Upon removing my fetters, I turned my head away from the shadows and rushed to the opening of the cave—then there was light. And pain.

What’s beyond the opening of the cave? After the pain that was wrought upon me disappears, what should I expect? Changes, of course. I hate changes. They are incompatible with my programmed, structured and mechanical lifestyle. Now I have to brace myself for a rough ride ahead, should the things I am used to do start to change one by one. It’s not as easy as you might perceive it, and I cannot blame you. Addiction-obsession-compulsion is my game, a game that most people do not really understand. I live with the canon—a messed-up schedule, a misplaced item, a rearranged room, or simply a missed activity in my daily routine—drives me crazy. Petty things to drive me nuts, huh? Fatal.

Where hence, does the consolation of being able to go out of the cave lies? Well, this time around, I no longer have to look helplessly towards the direction of the shadow, fettered and enslaved. The pain of adjustment is there, yes, but eventually the eyes that were used to see the shadows in the dark will be accustomed to see the more vivid details of reality in light. The darkness of the cave is definitely not the place for me—it should never be. I shall embark on a journey outside of the cave as soon as the pain that the light brought upon my eyes is gone. Once outside the cave, I will realize that the world is so big that I will eventually find my place in the greater scheme of things.

My place now may not be in someone’s life, but it maybe in someone else’s—or just not now.

Kaisipang Bitin

•August 31, 2011 • Leave a Comment

Sinasabi ko na magulo ang isip ko nitong mga nakaraang araw, pero kung susuriing mabuti, hindi naman talaga ang isip ko ang naguguluhan. Kailan pa naging magulo ang isip ng isang tao kung tiyak naman siya sa tumatakbo sa loob ng bao ng kanyang ulo? Kung walang alinlangan ang nananakbo sa kanyang gunita?

Siguro nga hindi ang isip ko ang magulo? Ano kaya kung gayon? Ang aking damdamin kaya ang may suliranin? Hindi rin yata. Kailan pa itinuring na naguguluhan ang isang damdamin na tiyak ang bawat itinitibok? Na batid kung para saan o para kanino nakalaan ang bawat pintig ng kanyang puso?

Mahiwaga raw ang pag-ibig. Leche. Bakit ba sinasabing mahiwaga ito? Sa palagay ko, isa itong malamyang palusot ng mga tao na hindi nakukuha ang gusto nila sa pag-ibig. Pwede mo lang sabihing mahiwaga ang pag-ibig kung sa edad mong ‘yan, naniniwala ka pa rin sa mga palakang nagiging prinsipe, mga diwata at lambanang umiibig sa mga taga-lupa, at mga mangkukulam na nagpapanggap bilang magagandang dilag. Sa halip na tawagin itong mahiwaga, mas mainam siguro na gamitin ang salitang masalimuot. Tutal, hindi naman talaga masama ang salitang masalimuot. Sa Ingles, complicated—at hindi naman lahat ng kumplikadong bagay, masama. Oo, masalimuot ang pag-ibig. Sa sobrang salimuot nito, tila ako napasok sa isang madilim na yungib na walang lagusan palabas samantalang hindi na rin maaring tahakin ang daan pabalik.

Heto na. Magsisimula na ‘kong palabasin ang dragon mula sa bulkan.

Sawi

•August 28, 2011 • Leave a Comment
Kapiling ang isang tasa ng kape
     at puting usok ng sigarilyo
Nilalamon ng gabing malamig
     ang aking puso

Pusong sugatan
     marupok
     luhaan

Pusong niyurakan ng labis na kalungkutan
     kabiguan
     kasiphayuan

Kape at usok ang kapiling
Nakatanaw sa karimlan
Ninanasa na balang araw
     sasapitin ako ng iyong pag-ibig—
          isang palasong humahaginit
          sa lawak ng papawirin

Pulitika, Prinsipyo, Pansit***

•March 6, 2011 • Leave a Comment

Nagwagi ang akdang ito ng UNANG GANTIMPALA sa ginanap na Peace and Equity Foundation National Creative Writing Contest noong taong 2007. Pinarangalan ito noong ika-3 ng Disyembre 2007 sa Glorietta Activity Center, Lungsod ng Makati. Isinulat ko ito dala na rin ng kalunus-lunos na kalagayan ng moral na aspeto ng ating bansa na nagpapasahol pa sa kahirapan.

***Copyright Registration No. O2010-345, issued by the National Library of the Philippines

Nanunuot sa balat ni Domeng ang init ng araw. Tumatagaktak na ang pawis ng pobre, ngunit matiyaga pa rin niyang hinahawakan ang isang plakard kung saan nakasulat ang mga katagang “Palayain si Idol!” Sa gitna ng dagat ng ‘di magkamayaw na mga tao sa paligid niya; sa gitna ng ingay, usok, alikabok at init; at maging sa gitna ng mga nagpupuyos na damdamin, tangan-tangan ni Domeng ang kanyang plakard bagaman at lumilipad naman sa kung saang alapaap ang kanyang isip.

Hindi naman talaga naniniwala si Domeng sa nakasulat sa kanyang plakard. Unang-una, wala naman siyang personal na kaugnayan kay Idol. Bagaman at batikang aktor ang huli, taong 1998 lamang nang mag-krus ang kanilang mga landas. Tandang-tanda pa ni Domeng ang araw na iyon; panahon noon ng kampanya at sa lahat ng mga kumandidato, tanging si Idol lamang ang sumuot sa kanilang masangsang, madilim at maputik na eskinita. Higit sa lahat, nakamayan siya nito. Maputi ang kamay ni Idol at malayung-malayo sa maitim at madalas na nanlilimahid niyang mga kamay. Mahigpit ang pakikipag-kamay sa kanya ng nangangampanyang pulitiko at ngumiti pa ito sa kanya. Noong mga oras ding iyon, nabuo ang pasya ni Domeng na si Idol ang kanyang iboboto. Batid niya na sa mga pelikula, si Idol ang nagtatanggol sa mga inaapi at pinahihirapan, kung kaya’t naibulalas niya sa kanyang sarili na ganoon din ang gagawin ng naturang aktor-pulitiko sa tunay na buhay. Umasa nang husto si Domeng.

At bakit nga ba hindi aasa si Domeng gayong pagasa rin ang nagtulak sa kanya upang lisanin ang Albay at makipagsapalaran sa Kamaynilaan? Labingwalong taong gulang lamang noon si Domeng, at dahil ikatlong baitang lamang ang natapos at walang ibang alam hawakan kung hindi kopra, dyanitor sa isang kainan sa Binondo ang kinabagsakan niyang trabaho. Sa kainan ding iyon niya nakilala ang kaherang si Merced. Tahimik na tao si Merced. Tubo siyang Bohol at gaya ni Domeng, ang pagasang maka-ahon sa hirap ang nagtulak sa kanya patungong Maynila. Likas siyang mahiyain at tila mailap sa ibang tao. Kung hindi pa si Domeng ang gumawa ng paraan, maaaring hindi sila kailanman nakapag-usap; buti na lamang at malakas ang loob ni Domeng. Naging malapit sila sa isa’t isa hanggang mauwi sa pag-iibigan. Bagaman at hindi sila naipagtaling-puso ng kasal, itinuring nila ang kanilang mga sarili bilang mag-asawa at nagpasyang magsama sa ilalim ng iisang bubong. Nanirahan sila sa isang maliit na silid sa Tondo na itinuring nilang tahanan kung saan magkasama nilang idinibuho ang kanilang mga pangarap. Maayos ang unang mga buwan ng kanilang pagsasama. Kahit noong magsilang na ng dalawang supling si Merced, nagawa pa rin nilang pagkasiyahin ang kanilang kinikita mula sa kainan sa Binondo. Nagsimula ang kalbaryo nilang mag-asawa nang apat na ang kanilang mga anak. Halos buwan lamang ang pagitan ng bawat anak nila kung kaya’t unti-unting bumigat ang buhay para sa kanila. Lalo pang tumindi ang tinatahak nilang masalimuot na landas nang dahil sa kumpetisyong likha ng mga modernisado at kolonyalisadong kainan, nagsara ang kanilang pinapasukan sa Binondo. Wala na silang nagawa at napilitang lisanin ang silid na tinutuluyan upang makipagsapalaran sa mas malupit na uri ng pamumuhay. Sa tulong ng mga naging kapit-bahay, nagtayo si Domeng ng isang bahay sa isang bakanteng lote sa isang looban: isang makipot, madilim at maamoy na eskinita. Gamit ang mga lumang tabla, yero, karton at kinakalawang na pako na napulot sa kung saan-saan, at ilang mga hiram na gamit mula sa mga kaibigan, nagtiyaga si Domeng na magtatag ng isang tahanan kung saan isisilong ang kanyang pamilya.

Marahil upang tumakas sa abang kalagayang kinasasadlakan, umalis si Merced nang walang paalam. Naiwan kay Domeng ang bigat ng pasanin upang buhayin ang kanilang mga anak. Mula sa pangongopra sa Bikol hanggang sa pagiging dyanitor sa Binondo, nauwi si Domeng sa panggagalugad ng bundok ng basura. Kung noon, puno ng pagasa ang bawat paggising ni Domeng sa umaga, hindi na mula nang lisanin siya ni Merced. Naging bangungot ang bawat pagdilat ng kanyang mga mata, at kung hindi lamang dahil sa apat niyang mga anak, mas nanaisin niyang huwag nang magising pa.

Sa pagkakataong ito ng kanyang kasadlakan sa dusa nang mag-krus ang landas nila ni Idol. Umasa si Domeng na sa oras na maupo si Idol sa rurok ng kapangyarihan, isa siya sa maaambunan ng magandang buhay. Ngunit tulad ng mas nakararami, nagkamali si Domeng. Lumipas ang panahon subalit walang nagbago sa buhay niya at ng kanyang mga anak; kung mayroon man, lalo silang nagdusa. Kung dati-rati siya lamang ang nanggagalugad sa tambakan, kasama na niya ngayon ang kanyang mga anak.

Unti-unting naisip ni Domeng na maaaring nagkamali siya nang iboto niya si Idol, at napagtibay niya ang kanyang kaisipan nang mapaalis ito sa pwesto. Sa kasagsagan ng tensyon sa pulitika noong mga panahong iyon, nagkikibit-balikat lamang si Domeng. Hindi iyon dahil sa kinakampihan pa rin niya ang taong minsan niyang pinagkatiwalaan ng kanyang boto, kundi dahil sa nawalan na siya ng tiwala at pagasa na maiaangat ng kung sino pa mang nanunungkulan ang kanyang abang kalagayan.

Lumipas pa ang panahon at marami nang nangyari kay Idol, ngunit wala pa ring magandang nangyayari sa kanyang buhay. Katorse anyos na ang kanyang panganay na anak at nuwebe anyos naman ang bunso, subalit walang isa man lamang sa kanila ang nakatuntong ng paaralan. Damang-dama ni Domeng ang lalong paghirap ng buhay.

Isang araw, samantalang nakaupo si Domeng sa may pintuan ng kanilang bahay na may tagpi-tagping haligi at gula-gulanit na bubungang yari sa yero, tabla at karton, dumating ang kanyang kaibigang si Rudy. Nagiisa noon si Domeng sapagkat nasa tambakan ang kanyang mga anak.

“Kumusta na pare?” bati ni Rudy kay Domeng na noon lamang natauhan mula sa pagkakatulala.

“Uy pare, tuloy! Kumusta? Kagaguhan kung sasagot ako na mabuti ang kalagayan ko. Wala na ‘kong pagasa. Mukhang mamamatay na lang ako na dilat ang mata,” tugon ni Domeng habang nakatingin sa labas ng tinitirahan.

Ngumisi si Rudy. “Huwag kang ganyan pare. Ang totoo niyan, may trabaho ako para sa’yo kaya ako nagpunta rito.”

“Ano ‘yun?” patanong na tugon ni Domeng na naging mas interesado na sa usapan bagaman at medyo nagdududa.

“Natatandaan mo noong 1998? Hindi ba’t si Idol ang ibinoto natin noon? Nakalulungkot lang isipin na napagkaisahan siya ng mga mayayamang taong ‘yan at naikulong. May lumapit sa’kin na kontak na nagtatrabaho sa kampo ni Idol. Hinihingi nila ang suporta natin sa isang rali sa araw ng pagbababa ng hatol, d’yan sa Komonwelt, patungong Sandigan. Bibigyan daw tayo ng pansit at isandaang piso.”

Nanlaki ang mga mata ni Domeng sa narining. “Teka pare! Unang-una, pinagsisisihan ko nang ibinoto ko si Idol. Ang buong akala ko, maiaahon niya ‘ko at ang pamilya ko sa hirap, pero tingnan mo ko ngayon! At ikalawa, pansit at isandaang piso? Iyon na ba ang halaga ng prinsipyo ngayon? Pupunta ako sa piket na ‘yun upang ipaglaban ang isang taong hindi naman ako natulungan na umahon sa hirap? Sa halaga ng pansit at isandaan?”

“Nakakatawa ka pare,” sagot ni Rudy. “Sa kalagayan mong ‘yan, may nalalaman ka pa palang prinsipyo?”

Hindi natuwa si Domeng sa sinabi ng kaibigan, at sinabi niya na bagaman at mahirap siya, hindi niya bibitawan ang kanyang prinsipyo, ang kanyang paninindigan.

Napa-iling si Rudy. “Kung kanina, nakakatawa ka, ngayon, nakakaawa ka na! Pare, tumingin ka sa paligid mo, sa tirahan mo, sa pamilya mo, sa sarili mo! Iniwan ka ng asawa mo dahil kumalam ang sikmura niya. Ngayon, kumakalam ang sikmura mo at ng mga anak mo. Sabihin mo nga sa’kin Domeng, bubusugin ba kayo ng sinasabi mong prinsipyo? Ibabalik ba ng prinsipyo mo si Merced? Pagagandahin ba niyan ang buhay mo?”

Matagal na hindi umimik si Domeng. Sa pagkakataong iyon, nagtalo ang kanyang diwa. Nagkaroon ng digmaan sa loob ng kanyang pagkatao: tunggalian ng prinsipyo laban sa sikmura; nagaalab na damdamin laban sa kumakalam na tiyan. Naputol ang kanyang pagmumuni nang magpaalam na si Rudy. “Sige pare, pag-isipan mo ang alok ko.”

Wala nang nagawa si Domeng kung kaya bagaman at nanunuot sa balat niya ang init ng araw, at bagama’t tumatagaktak na ang pawis niya, matiyaga pa rin niyang hinahawakan ang isang plakard kung saan nakasulat ang mga katagang “Palayain si Idol!” Sa gitna ng dagat ng ‘di magkamayaw na mga tao sa paligid niya; sa gitna ng ingay, usok, alikabok at init; at maging sa gitna ng mga nagpupuyos na damdamin, tangan-tangan ni Domeng ang kanyang plakard—plakard na prinsipyo ang naging kabayaran.

Bago pa tumirik nang husto ang araw, isang tao ang umakyat sa entablado. Ipinahayag niya sa mga tao sa rali na guilty ang naging hatol kay Idol. May mga umiyak at may mga nagalit at nadismaya, ngunit pumasok lamang sa isang tainga ni Domeng at lumabas sa kabila ang mga katagang binitiwan nung tao sa entablado. Para sa kanya, sa wakas at tapos na. Makauuwi na siya.

Magiikalawa na ng hapon nang makauwi si Domeng sa kanilang abang tahanan. Masigla niyang tinawag ang kanyang mga anak, “Madali kayo’t magsasalo tayo!” Inilabas niya mula sa isang puting supot ang isang papel na balot at binuksan ito sa harap ng nasasabik niyang mga anak.

“Pansit! Wow! Saan galing ‘yan ‘tay?” tanong ng kanyang bunsong anak.

Nagbingi-bingihan si Domeng at sadyang hindi sinagot ang tanong ng anak. “Magpakabusog kayo ha. Pagsalu-salohan n’yo na ‘yan. Busog pa naman ako.”

Naupo sa isang sulok ng tinutuluyan nila si Domeng at pinagmasdan ang namumuhalang mga anak. Gutom na gutom ang mga iyon at mababakas sa kanila ang kasiyahan at pananabik sa bawat subo ng pansit. Gayon pa man, hindi ang kasiyahan at pananabik sa bawat subo ng mga anak ang nakikita ni Domeng. Sa bawat subo ng nanlilimahid niyang mga anak, umaalingawngaw sa kanyang gunita ang mga salitang binitiwan ni Rudy.

“Sabihin mo nga sa’kin Domeng, bubusugin ba kayo ng sinasabi mong prinsipyo?”

 
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