By Rex Catubig

 

THE fascination with chance is rooted in my boyhood. But it is not all related to the DNA chain. Juvenile flirting with the bewitching flytrap of luck is the plausible excuse.

It was the fun-filled Fifties. In the corner sari-sari store of Nana Pacing which I would pass by on my way to school, was this chart the size of a small calendar that was hung from the ceiling. Suspended in air, it would flutter as if waving at you. You could not miss it since it was really attractive and was meant to catch your covetous eyes.

The upper part held a variety of goodies that were guaranteed to tickle a kid’s fancy. They were tied or pasted in place: toy guns, balloons, masks, candies, bubble gum, even paper money—real one, not the Mickey Mouse play money. And they were individually numbered.

Below these, are neatly pasted rows of rolled paper wrapped in red, looking like miniature rounds of ammunition.

Therein lay the magic that would unfold untold fortune. And from wherein this prospecting game of chance derived its name: ‘Kulkuldit’, from the phrase “to pick”. Elsewhere in other Asian countries, it is known as ‘tikam tikam’.

For the price of five centavos, you pick your choice of the rolled lots—which may or may not carry a number that would correspond to an item displayed on the upper chart.

If you drew a blank, you ended up with nothing. And you either heave a sigh, doggedly dig more coins in your pocket until it’s empty, or accept the bad luck and go home, nurse a broken dream and wish tomorrow would carry a winning streak.

It was, indeed, chancy with the hundreds of lots for picking as against the dozen or so giveaways. But no matter the inequity, it’s all fair game. And for a kid, who would sacrifice a few pieces of ‘inlambong ya ponti’ or a paper cone of  ‘insangngil ya mani’ to save the nickel for a better investment, Kulkukdit was the leitmotif of the pipe dream of hitting the jackpot.

If it had happened in oft-told tales, it could also happen to me. ‘Siak met lagi, popped the balloon in my head.

So I would end the day with a prayer as I lay restless in my ‘ikamen, with the fervent wish that tomorrow “Let me win, please, Lord!”. “Manalo ak komun”. Said under one’s breath but with such an ardor as to shake the steadfast fortitude of saints.

However, action speaks louder than words. And soon enough, my constant asking for nickels and frequent trips to the sari-sari store, stirred the curiosity of my father. He found out what I was up to. And my flirting with chance, a boy’s dream of the chance of a lifetime, was crushed to pieces by parental wrath.

I would outgrow kulkuldit. But our bucolic barrio was a gambler’s paradise. When my parents thought I had moved on, and I had grown up, here came jueteng seductively soliciting and prying loose the hidden numbers in my dreams.

But that would be another story to be plucked from my Pandora’s box.

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