By Rex Catubig

MENTION San Roque during the monsoon season, and it conjures fear and flare-ups of goosebumps. A dam, sacrilegiously named after the saint, and notorious for unleashing water that turns into horrendous floodwaters as it cascades down the lowlands, is to blame for its ill repute—making it a trigger for shivers and synonymous with being a harbinger of catastrophe as opposed to its religious honorific as a beneficent healer.

In my childhood, San Roque was the revered patron saint of my barrio Calmay, and I grew up swearing by his efficacy in healing. He was the beneficent spiritual doctor we called upon when all else failed, aside from the “arbolario”, to deliver us from our malady. He is portrayed with a dog as companion, holding up the hem of his garment, showing a gaping wound on his thigh, symbolic of affliction.

For nine consecutive days in rainy August, ending on his feast day on the 16th, the cottagey wood “ermita” or small chapel, with clay ground for its floor, would be the center of our religious fervor. The chapel bell would clang at around three in the afternoon to announce that the prayers were about to start, summoning the residents to participate in the novena led by a group of elderly prayer women called “managpoon“, who wore “sapey”, the native garment, which had been retrieved from the “kaban” or wooden chest, and reeked of moldy scent that permeated the place.

The repeated clanging would rouse us children from our mandatory afternoon nap, “painawa” or “lirep“. We would spring up like stray cats from the “datal”, bamboo slatted floor, we slept on, and sans “suekos” or wooden clogs, scurry fast to follow the religious call—whipping a trail of dust as we sloshed through the dirt road.

But the excitement was not really prompted by holy devotion, more by the anticipated heavenly joy of getting handfuls of “galletas“– those coin-sized white sugar cookies, which were doled out from bags made out of torn pages of newspaper, as reward for our attendance at the “parasal”, and for screaming at the top of our lungs, the refrain of supplication:

   “Ilaban mo kami pa, San Roque,

    Ed talbay sakit’a onsabi!”

As the novena concluded, we would jostle one another with outstretched cupped hands to the altar, to claim our share of the manna from heaven, packing our little mouth with as many pieces as we could fill it with.

The rain pelting the roof of the chapel, would be the signal to rush back to our houses, feeling blessed, though the gospel truth was that the crumbly powdery cookies had parched our throat and made us thirsty, “apaet”. So, we would climb up to the “banggera” for a glass of cool water from the “buyog” or earthen jar.

This scenario would recur for nine consecutive afternoons, culminating with a “libot” or procession along the dirt road–going north to ”kailokoan”, then doing a u-turn, westward towards “sagor”, and finally ending back at the “basketbolan” where the chapel stood.

Then, just like that, the feast was over. The monsoon would intensify and dump more rainfall. But there was nothing scary about it, unlike now where it causes alarm. Rather, it was a joyful occasion for us to frolic in the heavy downpour, drenching our heads and frail bodies in the waterfalls from bamboo gutters of thatched roofed houses.

Folks believe that bathing in the rain is cleansing. It washes away sickness and reinvigorates spiritual health.

Whatever it does, it is a wondrous purification ritual–whose lasting spiritual spell appeases our soul-weary selves, as we re-echo that plaintive supplication.

“Ilaban mo kami pa San Roque

     Ed talbay sakit’a onsabi!”

August is gone in no time, but its transcendent spiritual charm remains in every random raindrop that, in another time, another clime, carries the song of hopeful plea for deliverance.

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