the blind lady on the bus

Last Monday I took the bus home. It was one of those rides where I waited 20 minutes for the bus to arrive, and when I boarded by the MRT Ortigas Station there were only five people in the bus. When we got to Crossing barely 5 minutes later, people were already standing in the middle of the bus. And Monday was a non-working holiday.

In Guadalupe a lady came to the bus, accompanied by a couple of friends. The conductor shouted, "Standing na!" One of the companions said, "Naku, hindi po sya nakakakita." Then they helped her up the bus steps and left her.

I was surprised. The lady obviously was used to traveling alone, because she boarded the bus confidently. The conductor said, "Paano yan, tatayo ka na."

The man sitting beside me, on the window side, immediately stood up and gave his seat to the lady. It would be a long ride; I would be one of the first to get off, and that's an hour away. The man was the kind of person I'd pay close attention to. He didn't look like someone I could trust. He had been eating when I sat beside him, and he was eating when he gave up his seat; empanada with catsup, peanuts, crackers. (But then, I don't trust anyone when I'm commuting. Even innocent four-year-old seatmates can vomit in your lap.)

The lady felt her way to the seat and I helped her. She started feeling around for her things; a wrist purse, a large bag from where she pulled a foldable cane, her phone. She called the phone and told someone she's on the bus; I noticed she used speed-dial.

She had a pleasant face. She had long eyelashes. You wouldn't notice that she was blind, only that she felt everything around her, the bus window ledge, the curtain, the bar in front of her, before she settled down. Then she pulled out a hundred-peso-bill. She asked me, "Ma'am, how much is this?"

The conductor eventually came, loud and overbearing, and she asked him where the last stop is. She wanted to know if the bus would stop by a certain subdivision near SM Dasmarinas. The conductor said no, the bus would stop only along the highway, and the subdivision is on the other side of the road.

It was quiet in the front of the bus as the people digested this. One person said it would be good if another passenger would take the same stop, so she could be helped. Another said that maybe there would be a traffic enforcer to help her cross.

The conductor counted out her change and gave it to me, along with her ticket. I counted the money again, told her how much it is, and gave her the ticket. She carefully put it in her purse, and thanked me.

Then the conductor said the bus could stop near the subdivision, and he would take her across the road. He then shouted to the driver if that was ok. The driver shouted back that it was.

The lady smiled and said thanks. Everyone looked relieved. Some of us were smiling.

Every now and then the lady would ask where we were now. A man, squeezed behind the bus door with his face almost in the glass, would answer. Near MOA. Coastal Road.

It was an unusual thing: a blind lady who takes the bus alone at night. But the more striking thing about it is the response of the people, people like me who are so used to the uncaring atmosphere of jampacked buses, the rude drivers and conductors who would scold you if you had too many bags, the men who looked like thieves or sex maniacs, your seatmate who gave you dagger looks if your kid wouldn't stop whimpering or-- heaven forbid-- vomited.

We all had worries, but for the moment, we were all diverted to the concern of one woman who had to get safely home, who entrusted her well-being to everyone around her. I had to get off the bus, and I told her so. I told her to take care. Another woman took my seat, and she told me that she could tell the blind lady if she was nearing SM Dasmarinas already. We smiled at each other, and I was gone.

It takes one blind lady on the bus, and you can still believe in the basic goodness of people.

do mosquitoes have souls?

"Mama, do all living things have souls?"

This is the question I have from my daughter at 5am today. We just woke up and technically I am brain-dead until I've had coffee. I could have answered a quick yes, but experience has taught me to be cautious; children's questions have a tendency to crucify people thrice their age.

I said, "Some people say yes; some people say no. It depends on what you believe in." Then I held my breath for the follow-up.

"Well, then, do mosquitoes have souls? What happens when we kill them?"

Oh, God.

Let's start with pets. If your puppy dies, Mama would console you and say that he goes to heaven. Same with rabbits and kittens. I, in my thirty-four-year-old wisdom, offer a quick prayer every time I see dogs and cats run over by cars in the road. It's always "Oh-God-let-the-poor-thing-be-in-doggie-heaven-and-thank-you-that-I-haven't-had-breakfast-yet." We get outraged over videos of little animals being tortured to death, and we have PAWS to defend animal rights.

Then how about the chickens and pigs and cows that we kill for food? We don't feel guilty about that, although as a child I never could eat chicken that my grandfather has slaughtered, because I had seen it flopping headless in the dirt, spraying blood all over the yard. But in India cows are sacred, so does that mean the issue of a cow's soul is in question?

How about crocodiles and snakes? They can kill human beings, so if we kill them, does that negate the question of having a soul?

Let's go to insects. When ants and spiders bite, we swat them. I gleefully spray insecticide on a cockroach while it waves its legs in the air. But I disapprove of children who take joy in pulling off the wings of a fly.

So in our roundabout way, we have established that we perceive an animal has a soul if it exhibits intelligence. When we see that a pet exhibits emotions and can relate to us, we assume that it has the same immortal spirit. When someone refuses to step on a spider, however, we equate it to the Yuck factor rather than the morality of killing animals.

Then, my daughter has concluded, if an animal does not help humans, or it doesn't love us back, it doesn't have a soul. A mosquito brings us dengue, so its life brings us no good. It doesn't have a soul.

I could argue that somewhere in the food chain of little animals, mosquitoes probably provide nutrition, so does that make it 'good?' But I'm exhausted. I am also confused.

Now, at 11am, I'm still contemplating the question. I think I'll go around, pretend I'm ten years old, and ask people the same question.

the lovelife of gohan the cat

Aside from the Siamese, we have another cat who lives in the garage. His name is Gohan, he is gray-and-white, and he has this tough, slightly dirty, kanto boy look typical of stray cats. He is forbidden to enter the house because he offends the tender sensibilities of Chloe the Siamese cat. He is sweet, though, and when someone steps on his tail he would just howl in indignation, unlike the Siamese who will bite, eyes flashing.

Well, life was peaceful until Gohan acquired a girlfriend. It was another tough, slightly dirty feline with a squinty eye who always looked pregnant. Now this girlfriend had taken to spending nights with Gohan in the garage, sharing his dinner of leftovers. And she has been with Gohan so often that my daughter has given her a name, Girlfriend. Gohan and Girlfriend would cuddle on top of the washing machine, or crowd inside the dog house with Andrew the Whippet. (The whippet is another strange dog; he actually sleeps with the cats.)

Girlfriend looks positively ugly to me. I don't know about cats' standards of attractiveness, but she must be hot, because for some reason she got another suitor, a much uglier orange tabby with an evil temperament. We called him Kalaban. This Kalaban is so shameless that he would come at night and actually drive Gohan away from his own food bowl. Sometimes I'd have to watch over the cats as they ate dinner, with a broom in one hand, while Kalaban glares at me from outside the gate.

And then they'd start their courtship. You'd be peacefully dreaming at 2 am when the cats would start to howl in discordant harmony, each one trying to outdo the other in bass, soprano, and falsetto Meeeooowwww. Since they're in our garage, it has become our obligation to go down and disrupt the proceedings.

We'd often find Gohan crouched behind Andrew the dog, howling to his heart's content, while Kalaban does his macho posturing in the middle of the garage. Girlfriend would be watching from the sidelines, purring and grooming herself. Then my husband would try to hit Kalaban with whatever is handy: a plastic chair, a slipper, a dustpan. He always missed, and Kalaban would run away, grinning. As a result of these nocturnal skirmishes, we now have a plastic chair with a broken seat, a long knife with a broken point, a chipped baseball bat, a broken pot. All for the sake of Gohan's lovelife.

Thankfully, the courtship has ended. Gohan, battle-scarred over Girlfriend, is now healing his numerous scratches. He has a sore on his neck that my nanny declares will develop into skin cancer if untreated, so we've resorted to applying Solcoseryl whenever we catch him. Kalaban rarely shows his grinning face, but it still irritates the hell out of us when we see him on the streets.

Girlfriend is, of course, pregnant. She doesn't visit so often now. The nanny has threatened to evict both cats if she gives birth in the garage. My daughter and I are waiting to see if she'd appear one day with the kittens. She'd be welcome in the garage if she comes with little gray-and-white kittens, but not little orange tabby ones.

my daughters' education

A long time ago, I have decided that both of my daughters will attend Ateneo. One is ten; the other is three. And so it turns out that this particular mother is preoccupied with computing how much she has to save in the years before they'd go to university, while she still has Promil Kid in the grocery list and PSP in the Christmas wish list discreetly posted in the cork board by the library.

My older daughter often forgets to do her homework. I can sense my husband's disapproval that I am not strict when it comes to schoolwork, and it translates to my daughter's lack of discipline. Sometimes whole weekends would go by and we have not opened a single book in my daughter's school bag, but we found the time to cook together.

My three-year-old can identify letters in the alphabet, but for some reason refuses to say the letter 'E.' She can count, but she only counts going up and down stair steps. The older relatives say it's too early to send her to school, but if it means she'll learn to share and make friends I'd gladly pay her Nursery tuition for another year, and never mind if she sings the alphabet without the 'E.'

And so it also turns out that I think I will be ready for Ateneo, but my daughters might not be. I sometimes remember that at 10 years old, I was studying alone, and my art projects always got the highest grades. I also won all the Spelling contests, because my grandmother expected nothing less. I was also a stressed-out, grade-conscious, anxious child with chewed-up fingernails, but I cannot tell my daughter that. When I was 10, all I had to amuse myself were old issues of Life magazine and Reader's Digest, and comic books, which were forbidden but which we smuggled in the house anyway. My daughter amuses herself by doing Pizap on Facebook, and she has declared herself bored with Angry Birds. She spends hours practicing the flute, and when we go to the mall she stays in Tom's World while I do the groceries.

I have not asked her what she wants to be when she grows up. I do not want her to be pressured with school, but I realize that she should not grow up in the shadow of my ambitions. When she goes to university and someone asks her, 'Why Ateneo?' do I want her answer to be 'My mother had decided that when I was five years old' ?

And so it has turned out that in contemplating my desire to provide for a good education for my children, I have overlooked the necessity to provide them with a choice. My job, it turns out, is to be there whatever school they may choose, and not freak out when they decide to be deep-sea divers or hairdressers.

Their education is not the four years in Ateneo. Their education is the things I can teach them every day, as they grow up, how to be all that they can be.

dashboard special

I commute to work everyday. And today, for lack of colorful old ladies and inspiring radio music, what fell under my scrutiny was the driver's seat. Specifically, the windshield and dashboard. All of us who take public transport look towards the front of the jeep. Do you actually see what's usually there, or do you gaze blankly until it's time to yell "Para!"?



1. The rosary. It's a staple. It hangs from the rearview mirror. Not only on jeeps, but also on cars, buses, tricycles, and trucks. In some cases there's also a tasselled plastic medallion of Our Lady of Good Voyage. My husband, though not particularly religious, plays it safe. The dangling rosary is from Jerusalem, and the medallion is from the church of Our Lady of Manaoag in Pangasinan.

2. The sticker. Often it's related to #1, because it reinforces the prayer of everyone on the road: God bless our trip. No matter if the driver is a loud-mouthed, foul-mannered, reckless son of a bitch, the sticker right in front of him proclaims it: God bless our trip. I often whisper a P.S. at the end: Lord, let me reach my destination in one piece.

3. The other stickers. Let's recite them, shall we? Barya Lang Po Sa Umaga, on a sticker sponsored by Hotel Sogo. No Smoking. Victoria Court. 91.5 Big Radio. Yes FM. Love Radio. That's for the jeeps. For the FX and commuter vans, let's add Every Drop Counts, Universal Studios, the logo of the Playboy Bunny. And for the cars, that's where you boast Baby on Board, Lawyer on Board, Doctor on Call, and the various universities where you studied. I had to fight to have one sticker of Ateneo Graduate School of Business somewhere in my husband's van. He didn't want any sticker anywhere, aside from the ones issued by LTO and the subdivision. I won, though, but by a slight margin. He pasted it in the van's rear window, partially obscured by the wiper. And he promised to remove it as soon as I graduate, so I'm postponing my thesis.

4. The nodding, bobbing things. There's the plastic dog that bobs its head and tail. There's the gold cat that waves its paw. And there's the little flower that looks suspiciously like what you'd see in Plants vs Zombies, which waves its leaves around. You can buy them from vendors along Roxas Boulevard, along with feather dusters and windshield shades.

5. The hanging stuffed toys. They're more common in vans, FX and buses, but yes, even jeeps sport them. They're the ones that you get from Tom's World, where you drop a token in the slot and let those claws come down on one plush toy. You used to get teddy bears and little dogs and Hello Kitty. Now you get Ben 10 and Doraemon and Spongebob. The jeep I took this morning had a Dora, so grimy with dirt it's actually gray. My daughter would have a hemorrhage if she saw it; it actually looks like a voodoo doll. And the taxis? They used to have all seven of Snow White's dwarfs! Now it's-- ehem-- Angry Birds!!

6. The painted decorations. If you've ridden the long noisy jeeps that ply the routes of Antipolo, Cainta, and Tanay, you've seen them. Flashy painting on the jeep bodies, pounding music that rattles your teeth, dark interiors with eagles and dragons and tigers on the ceiling, alongside images of Mama Mary. But the ordinary jeeps and taxis have their walls and ceilings printed with the imaginative names of all their family members. Mario and Elena and Mario Jr. and Marlena and Mario III. I've ridden one Pasig-Quiapo jeep which took it one level up; it had logos of airlines in the ceiling: JAL and Thai Airways and PAL and Emirates. And you don't have to guess it: proclaimed on the side of the jeep, in bold colors, was KATAS NG OFW! Classic!

7. The witticisms. They're so commonplace you barely notice them. They hang on those little painted boards right behind the driver's head, along with the sign that says No Student ID, No Discount.

God knows Hudas not pay. (Oh, Lord, forgive us for being predominantly Catholic.)
Ang katok ay sa pinto, ang sutsot ay sa aso, ang para ay sa tao.
Forgive me my darling, kung ikaw ang aking naging ikalimang first love.

My jeep this morning had this classic invitation: Basta driver, sweet lover!
But I didn't count on the disclaimer below it:

Miss subukan mo akong ibigin, pag ika'y nagutom saka mo ako sisihin.

so how was your weekend?

They ask you that in the office on Monday morning. You grin and invariably say, "Good! I just stayed home, playing with the kids."



But, ladies and gentlemen, a real Sunday at home looks like this:

5:00 am. My 10-year-old is shaking me. She wants to jog and play badminton in the local park. I groan, tell her we’ll do it next week, and promptly fall asleep again.

6:00 am. I get up and prepare breakfast: rice topped with taba ng talangka, dried squid and fish, salted eggs, and lots of coffee. My husband has started applying glazing putty on the bare kitchen cabinets, part of the now month-long home improvement project.

8:00 am. I attack the laundry while the nanny attends to the 3-year-old who wants to jump into the soapsuds in the washing machine.

9:00 am. I go to the market with my 10-year-old while the nanny continues the laundry. The 3-year-old is now watching Dora on DVD.

11:00 am. Both kids are bathed. I am not. It’s time to prepare lunch. The 10-year-old has repeated four times that I promised we’d cook maja blanca today and has scattered Angry Birds playing cards all over the living room. I seriously consider being an Angry Bird.

1:00 pm. I sand the double deck in the children’s room, prior to repainting it. The nanny has both kids in our bedroom to get them away from the dust, where they're probably wrecking my little library.

3:00 pm. I peel and slice cassava, which I will cook in syrup and butter, for the afternoon merienda.

4:00 pm. The nanny rushes off to get a pedicure in her favorite salon while the 3-year-old is sleeping. I am applying a second coat of paint on the double deck. My husband, freshly bathed, goes into the bedroom and turns off the aircon. The 3-year-old promptly wakes and starts whining.

5:00 pm. We’re all watching Dora on DVD, and we’ve memorized the parts where Swiper the Fox appears, and we all recite “Oh, man!” so he will stop swiping. The 10-year-old, sick of Dora, hides in the bedroom with a laptop so she can download song lyrics to Korean pop songs.

6:00 pm. I prepare supper.

7:30 pm. The nanny comes back with a new haircut and purple toes, along with the ingredients for the maja blanca, which I had hoped my 10-year-old would forget.

8:00 pm. I start cooking maja blanca with my 10-year-old. We’re done in an hour, and they start eating it hot off the pan. My arms are aching.

9:00 pm. I eat my own supper while Dora (what else?) drones on and on in the background. It’s now playing in the portable DVD player so that the others could watch something else on TV. Dora and Boots get somewhat tiring after three dozen DVDs.

10:00 pm. The nanny is still returning freshly folded laundry in the closets, which means I cannot relinquish the 3-year-old to her yet. We draw lots of ABCs, count pens, and go up and down the stairs (hoping she’ll tire herself out and drop to sleep). By 11:00 pm I’m ready to drop and the kid is still bouncing around.

12:00 mn. The 3-year-old has a bad cold and cannot sleep, so I have to nebulize her. I’m only lying down on the bed when I see my 10-year-old’s PE pants that’s ripped in the crotch, which she has given me on Saturday to sew. So I bring out my sewing kit.

1:00 am. I cannot find my cellphone, which is important because I have to set the alarm for 4:45 am, so I can prepare breakfast. I realize it’s Monday already, and I remember I have not taken a bath.

elizabeth taylor's jewelry

The estate of Elizabeth Taylor is putting up her jewelry collection for auction in December. Its estimated total cost is $30 million. Among others, there's the 33.19 karat diamond known as the Elizabeth Taylor Diamond, a gift from Richard Burton. It's expected to fetch $2.5 to $3.5 million.

A portion of the proceeds will go to her AIDS Foundation. Very noble.

I wonder how it feels like to wear a diamond like that, a diamond that has its own proper name.

I have a friend who keeps her jewelry in a safety deposit box in a bank. She takes out one piece to wear for a few days, gives it back to the bank for safekeeping, and takes out another one.

I have another friend who wore these nice gold ball earrings, and at P20,000 they're the cheapest thing in her collection.

Still there's another friend who asks a jewelry maker to come to the office from time to time. She checks out jewelry designs in the internet, then asks the maker to customize pieces for her, in white and yellow gold. The jewelry maker sometimes comes with finished pieces, which she allows to be bought on installment basis. The prices don't come lower than P50,000. I got tempted one time to order a piece from her, a custom-made cat pendant, in white gold.

I love accessories, but I'm not overly fond of pricey jewelry, mostly because I don't have enough money to start a collection. :-) I admire women who own beautiful jewelry, but I don't walk around carrying this hidden desire to wear Bvlgari or Cartier pieces.

The women in my family treat jewelry with reverence. I received jewelry from my mother as gifts on very special occasions, but only when I was old enough to take care of them. And the expensive ones are kept hidden, to be used only to impress relatives during weddings or old classmates during high school reunions.

I like owning things that I can use on ordinary days. In Special Things, I said that I don't have pretty dresses that I save for special occasions. I do have some nice jewelry, but they're not the kind over which I'd lose sleep if I misplaced them, and definitely not the kind over which I'd get killed if I wore them on my way to the office.

But yes, sometimes I daydream of jewelry. I'd also like to give my daughters gifts of rings and necklaces when they grow up. I'd like diamonds. They'll never go down in value, and no matter how small, they catch attention. They wink fire. I like to think a woman should be like a diamond, never insignificant or unnoticeable, and treated just as precious.

And a woman like Elizabeth Taylor? Oh, she deserves a diamond as iconic as her.