Knowing her is knowing me

By Emmanuelle

Let us imagine that this conversation did take place:

Inay:  From now, you keep away from your so-called friends Ada, Ana and Ara. Ada is the snooty kid of a nouveau riche whose riche comes from who knows where.

Ana is a lesbian. Ara shows sure signs of insanity.

Inday: Why? (Defiantly.)

Inay:  I’ve already enumerated why. Show me who your friends are, and I’ll show you who you are. That is why.

Inday:  My enemies are the school bullies, the exam cheaters, the people-users, the substance-users. Show me not your friends but your enemies, and I’ll show you not only who but what you are.

Inay: (Tameme.) 

If mataray si Inay, higit na mataray si Inday. This is another of those instances when a saying runs contrary to that of another of parallel thought. Much along the artery-vein relationship. Love me, hate me. Sniff my perfume, kiss my foot just off my shoes.

Anyway, this   is a happy-sad story, so sorry. It started happy. I was chortling over one of Inday’s growing up-growing old mishaps. Then I stumbled and fumbled at a crossing. Literally, figuratively. And the mood took a dive. Let me tell you why, why not?

Yesterday, at early dawn, I was aboard a slow taxi on my way to the Pasay terminal of Victory Liner via Osmeña Highway (formerly South Superhighway). Osmeña was the normal people’s usual no-other-choice route to the terminal, shortest and fastest. Early dawn is the most advisable time of travel from the city to the hometown for the brave at heart but weak at the seat. Without the hassle of daytime traffic, travel time is cut down to four hours rather than seven.   

At the intersection of Arnaiz Street (formerly Pasay Road) and Osmena, the taxi slowed further still. People were running across the highway, unmindful of speeding vehicles, which at the time, can be counted with less than ten fingers.

Curious, the taxi driver braked and kept the machine idling beside the wall dividing south from northbound. He was obviously the usi-kind. He opened his door and was instantly halfway out, totally forgetting his back passenger kneading her fingers in impatience and impotence. It was a dangerous hour, remember, and she was utterly alone. Not helpless, though. She has these long, sharp nails, which were now busy not kneading but scratching the skin off the back of her hands, in impatience and impotence.

Mama, alis na po tayo. Two o’clock po ang aking bus. Bumalik na lang po kayo kung gusto ninyo mag-usyoso. I said to him politely but firmly. Startled to shame, he did so. I got to the terminal. The bus left on time. I made it to my eight o’clock appointment, with an hour to spare for bath and breakfast. From 8:00 in the morning Thursday morning to Friday lunchtime, I was promptly happily lost in files and websites, courtesy of all things Microsoft, Webmaster and Bitstop.    

One hour before lunch was energy-saving time. Time to switch-off the air-conditioning, to log-off the friendly monitor face. Slowly, I dragged my feet out the door for a breath of fresh warm air after a cold lifetime of more than twenty-four hours. Somewhere, I picked up the paper.

And read about the accident where I was, unknowingly, a fringe participant.

And learned about Dulce’s death on the spot, less than five meters where I sat, kneading fingers and scratching skin.

And re-lived the past. The years of street protests, with Rene and Dulce among the leaders of the pack. Rene’s senatorial campaign. My friends dropping by the house with a still dark-haired Rene and Dulce, to pick me up for the spine-breaking, feet-numbing hand-shaking of the poker-faced North.

We were the young ones, the couple was the young once, but we trusted them as we never got to trust the traditional politicians again.

When Rene became senator, my friends got the better deal. They turned unreachable. I turned off. When the former Senator began to represent the most unlikely clients, I felt it was most unlikely of him. And Rene and Dulce became just figures from and of the past. 

I am still shaken, shocked, with the near crossing of our paths. I could have said goodbye, and touched still-warm fingers. And we could have said her last prayers together.

Forgive me, Ma’am Dulce. I didn’t know you were there across that wall. I didn’t know that as I was rushing after time, for you it had just rushed out.

(For past columns, click http://sundaypunch.prepys.com/archives/category/opinion/feelings/
Readers may reach columnist at jingmil@yahoo.com . For reactions to this column, click “Send MESSAGES, OPINIONS, COMMENTS” on default page.)

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