Love in the Rice Fields Read online

  “But why are you rejecting my offer to help out?” Pastor asked. When Pilang bent over to retrieve the other utensils from the basket, I saw Pastor casting a surreptitious glance at Pilang.

  I looked at Ore over my shoulders. He was sitting down, and it seemed that his eyes were exclusively fixed on the guyuran. Blood had rushed to his face.

  When Ka Punso joined us, we all turned our attention to Asyong’s carabao he had just purchased.

  Asyong could hardly answer our rapid-fire questions. “Did it really cost two and a half, Asyong?” “Will it work well in rice paddies?” “It looks alert! It’s got muscles in his limbs!” “Its face is dry.” “That carabao is bound to be useful.” “But it is not that large, don’t you think?” “What do you think, can he outrun Ka Pedro’s carabao?” “Where did you buy that?” “Who was with you when you bought it?”

  “It was Punso who went with him,” volunteered Ka Imong.

  We turned around to look at Ka Punso who stood at a distance, not joining the group excitedly talking about Asyong’s carabao. “Hey, chief,” we chorused, “that’s why you’re so smug, just because it was you who made an excellent discovery in this carabao.”

  Ka Punso chuckled. “What do you expect? I own the salt, should I still peddle it?” And we were convulsed with laughter.

  “Come here, now,” Ka Albina called out to us. “Coffee is ready. Drink up to warm your stomachs.”

  I sidled up towards the two young women serving cups of coffee and platefuls of fried camote. “May I help you?” I asked Nati.

  Nati suddenly thrust a cup of coffee into my hand. “Just eat and drink, young man. We asked you here to plow the paddies and not serve food.”

  Pastor was in front of Pilang. I noticed how he gently cupped the young woman’s fair fingers when he reached out for his coffee. The hot coffee almost spilled. “Thanks,” the naughty Pastor muttered. Pilang’s eyes seemed to sparkle but she remained tight-lipped.

  Ore came towards where I stood on my toes. Pilang was putting sugar into another cup of coffee. I thought that cup would end up in Ore’s hand. But Ore went directly to Nati. It was Nati who served Ore the fried camote and coffee.

  While we were eating, I occasionally threw glances at Nati, Pilang, Ore, and Pastor. Nati and Ore exchanged meaningful glances several times. On the other hand, Pastor’s eyes lingered on Pilang. Ka Ato’s daughter, with her head bowed, seemed focused on what she was doing. But when once she caught Pastor gazing at her, blood rushed to her face. And she wrapped her skirt tightly around her to hide her fair legs.

  We hitched our carabaos after we were done with eating. And Pekto suddenly arrived. Ka Gabino’s son was pulling a carabao already hitched to a plow. He yelled, “I was almost late for a feast … almost didn’t make it …” How exhilarated Pekto looked and how energetically he lifted the plow as he raced through the rice paddies. It was Pekto who told me that whenever people gathered in the field as a gesture of neighborliness, the occasion became a veritable feast. Pekto’s carabao was such an imposing and impressive beast.

  Ka Punso led the row of tillers. And we followed him; I was fifteenth in the line. I was next to Ka Imong. “Don’t use your whips on the animals. Let them get warmed up first,” advised Ka Imong.

  I turned around to look at Ore and Pastor. They were slightly behind us, by the stetch of a rope. The two men seemed overcome by an inexplicable shyness and diffidence.

  When I cast a glance at the two women, I saw them watching the parade-like formation of the carabaos.

  We had made five passes around the paddies when Toning began to smack the carabao, to egg it on. When he became splattered with mud, Filo also started to strike his animal. And when Asyong and Ka Punso heard the movement behind them, they looked over their shoulders. Etched on Ka Punso’s face was an amused smile. His carabao appeared to observe the rowdy scene. That carabao had seen countless scenes of jocularity among the farmers.

  Uwing, who as soon as he arrrived, began to prepare the third section composed of narrow strips of land, started yelling at us, “Go … go …” he ordered. From where I was, I thought I could get a glimpse of his two false front teeth comically slipping up and down. I could imagine how his teeth obstructed his speech. Then the image of Pilang’s even teeth, white and as shiny as mother of pearls, streaked across my mind. I cast a glance at Ore and Pastor. They still seemed exceedingly wary of each other.

  Ka Punso stretched out his whip and lashed at his carabao. His beast leapt with alacrity. Asyong hissed at his newly purchased carabao, spurring it on. We all followed suit—pushing and goading our beasts—guiding our carabaos in trampling the planting area until it was soggy enough to receive the rice seedlings. The carabaos’ thighs shook like giant waves of muscles. The plowpoints hissed and whizzed as they dug through the blobs of mud in the paddies, turning over soil. The ground almost split into two as the plowshare ploughed through it. The carabaos flung their heads in the air insolently. The beasts instinctively understood that they must not cause their masters’ humiliation.

  And suddenly, we completed work on the section assigned to us. But the sun was still up when we moved over to the part that Uwing had prepared.

  “Come here first,” Ka Albina yelled. “Take your snack before you begin work there.”

  “Here we come,” hollered Ka Punso, as he struck his carabao. Then a melee broke out as we, one after another, slapped our beasts, and excitedly shouted at the top of our lungs in a moment of intense hilarity and camaraderie. The carabaos broke into a ferocious run. The water in the paddie hissed, mounds of mud splattered the earth, the plowpoint and the plowshare glittered in the sun as they ran riot, digging sharply into the soil. How wonderfully alive we felt as we laughed and screamed with joy. And Pekto’s voice rang clear, “A feast … a farmers’ feast …”

  We had piping hot rice, coconut caramel, and chicken adobo for our snack. I was in a hurry to untie Bonita. But when we were about to partake of the food, we noticed that Pastor, Ore, and Tinong were engaging in a contest in the third section overlaid with dried rootstocks. Pastor was ahead, followed by Ore, with Tinong at the rear.

  “That Tinong is really a trouble-maker,” Ka Punso grumbled. “I’m sure it was he who induced them to compete with each other. Are the two having a tiff?”

  Asyong turned around. “I don’t think so. I haven’t noticed anything.”

  While Tinong kept yelling at his carabao, Ore and Pastor appeared oblivious to each other. Their pamitik were stretched taut, their grip on the rudder of their respective plows tight, the carabaos’ muscular thighs rippling with power.

  And as our hungry mouths lapped up the food, our minds and eyes were somewhere else. I threw a glance at the two women. Nati was watching, with a broad smile on her face. Pilang cast her eyes downward, as if busy with something. She barely glanced at the three men.

  “At the time I was wooing Juana, I had a chance encounter with the man from Dalig at the pasuyo of Tandang Lucio in Nabao,” Ka Punso began. “I knew he wanted to strut like a cock in Juana’s presence. His carabao looked formidable. It looked mighty impressive—if you’re lily-livered, you’d readily give up, bested by a superior rival,” Ka Punso’s eyes emitted a strange glimmer.

  Predictably, it was Pekto who pressed on. “What happened, Ka Punso?” Ka Gabino’s son asked excitedly. “Did you give him a fight?”

  “I was coming from behind. We had turned into a curve about ten times, but his carabao showed no signs of fatigue My carabao, sad to say, appeared ready to give up. His mouth was frothing. He was beginning to pant.”

  I looked at the three men in the race. Tinong lagged far behind. The carabaos of Ore and Pastor were almost in a dead heat, closely following each other.

  “When we’ve probably finished twenty passes, the man from Dalig suddenly struck his carabao with his whip. He probably thought that he could leave me behind. Can you imagine, without any warning, his carabao suddenly sprawled on the field, felled by that hea
vy blow? What a huge crater the large carabao made.” Pekto had the loudest roar.

  “And your carabao, Ka Punso?” I piped in. “Did he have an easy time?”

  “What do you mean easy time? He refused to budge the following morning when it was time for my father to cover up the soil. My father nearly clobbered me with a long stake.” The laughter became more uproarious. A grain of rice jumping from Ka Punso’s mouth suddenly hit my nose.

  Tinong had finally stopped. He watched the two men racing. They had made fifteen passes, but they managed to stay close to each other. I let out a deep sigh as Ore struck his carabao. From where we sat, I thought I could make out the expression on Ore’s face—furrowed eyebrows, clenched teeth, tightly pursed lips, deliberate and controlled grip on the rudder of his plow, and his left hand almost lacerated by the whip he held tightly. Each step taken by Ore’s beast almost made me jump from where I sat.

  And in a flash, a series of dramas staged in the rice fields and surrounding areas streaked, like a vision, before my eyes: Ka Punso and Ka Juana, Ka Imong and Ka Maria, Fermin and Gundang, Asyong and Auring, and … —a huge spectacle of cris-crossing scenes in the more significant drama of life.

  Ore struck his carabao again. His carabao charged forward. Pastor looked behind him, a self-satisfied and amused smile plastered on his face. He had not yet raised his whip, but Ore had already struck his animal twice.

  I threw a glance at Nati. Ka Albina’s daughter was watching the race, with her mouth wide open. Pilang had her head bowed as she washed the plates. Her cheeks were deep red.

  Then Pastor lashed at his beast. The carabao plunged forward. Ore was being left gradually behind. But his carabao stretched itself taut. It seemed to have a mind of its own, bent on pursuing Pastor’s carabao. One pamitik separated the two men and Pastor was several meters ahead of Ore. We were yelling and cheering the two men on.

  Ore struck his carabao and hissed at it. The muscles in the carabao’s thighs rippled powerfully. It sprang forward. Ore once again raised his whip and belted the beast. The carabao hastened its already ferocious pace. Ore was about to catch up with Pastor, only two meters separated them. Another stroke. Ore’s carabao was pushing itself forward mightily. Its mouth was frothing. Its head was bent as if to launch its whole body, it was giving its all. The sound of yelling shook the earth.

  Pastor looked behind. He saw Ore determined to keep pace. Pastor raised his whip. He hissed at his carabao. And then struck it with such ferocious, lacerating force. The carabao hurtled forward. Ore’s carabao stretched its body to its limit. Could this carabao lagging behind dig in to find sufficient strength for the final surge?

  And we roared when, after several back-breaking moves desperately fighting to best its opponent, Ore’s carabao staggered and suddenly stood still. Pastor’s carabao was truly impressive.

  “Untie the beasts” Ka Punso yelled. “The food is waiting …Pastor, loosen the rope up.”

  Pastor finally came to a stop. He untied his carabao. After dousing the beast, he strode towards the group, with a grin on his face. Ore was massaging the nape of his carabao that was gasping for breath.

  Pilang offered a plate to Pastor. Her cheeks seemed to be on fire.

  “Ore,” I called out, “join us. Why don’t you eat and I’ll douse your carabao with water.”

  Ore slowly walked towards us. His face was burning. And he kept rubbing his palms against his denim pants. His hands were spotlessly clean and still he kept stubbornly rubbing them against the pants. This prompted me to ask myself: Did his palms have traces of dirt that only he could see?

  “Pastor’s carabao is really powerful,” he said.

  Ore sat down, several steps away from Nati and Pilang. I cast a glance at Pastor—he was enjoying his food in the company of the two women.

  When I stood up to slosh Ore’s carabao with water, I saw Pilang walking gently towards Ore. And where Ore was seated—several feet away from where the rest of the group were—there Pilang offered him food. I caught a glimpse of Pilang’s teeth. I wondered what it was she was saying to Ore?

  When, after I had doused Ore’s carabao with water, I looked again at the couple, it seemed to me that Ore’s pain and suffering had left him. And from where I stood, Pilang’s fair legs seemed dazzling in their fairness.

  Dawn Breaking

  This is a nightmare. But I will wake up. I have merely fallen asleep. And I am having a nightmare.

  (The soldier gently rubs his forehead. He raises his head with its sunken cheeks, and lifts his eyes to the Moon. He gazes intently at the roundness of a full Moon.)

  This is a nightmare. A monstrous lie. A horrible lie the likes of which I have not seen in my life.

  The soldier is startled by the sound of his own voice. He is now all of twenty-four years. He has long passed the age when as a child, he spoke even when no one was around. He turns his head this way, that way, his eyes probing, searching for anything. Nothing stirs to break the silence around him. The Moon is radiant, the rays of its light like a mantle draped around the world in such breathtaking loveliness only a creature, on the brink of dying, has the good fortune to feast his eyes on.

  The light of the Moon radiates beauty (the soldier mutters to himself). (He is no longer surprised to hear his own voice. And an immense sense of well-being fills him as he speaks aloud. It is as if he was conversing with someone staying close to him in the dark hole where he has taken refuge.)

  Whenever I find myself in our village … how happy our village is.

  (He gently strokes his forehead again, now drenched with sweat. He touches the bandaged wound on his chest. Blood continues to ooze heavily. The blood has spread and clotted, sticking stubbornly to his shirt. He suddenly feels a gush of cold wind thrusting itself against his body. The soldier rests his head on the clump of earth in the hole where he is hiding.)

  I am hungry. I am hungry.

  (A shot pierces the silence. The soldier looks up. No more shots follow and the soldier once again leans on the wall of this hell hole. After a few moments, he kneels down and touches the faces of his comrades lying at his feet. In the dim light of the Moon, he tries to make out the bodies. His fingers gently probe the chest of each of his comrades. He stands up and once more surveys the surroundings. Letting out a deep sigh, he pulls himself down once more.

  If you only knew how lovely the night is, you would not leave me to stand guard by myself. How radiant the Moon is! How full of splendor the light is.

  (The soldier has a coughing fit. He presses his hand against his chest once more. Then he coughs again, expelling his saliva onto his hand. He stares at it in the dim light. He shakes his head. And takes a deep breath.)

  I am thirsty. My canteen is empty.

  (Another shot is fired. The soldier listens and observes. He tries to figure out, in the haze, if there is movement outside his hiding place. A few shadows stir. He climbs up the hole. He maneuvers his machine gun to face the shadows. He calculates the distance. Then a fierce round of machine gun fire shatters the silence … Exhausted, he is about to collapse as he slides down to join his dead comrades. He almost completely blacks out, and another fit of coughing attacks him. He presses his hand against his wound. He is breathing laboriously. He shuts his eyes. He remains still. Then he twists his severely weakened body to get a view of the spot he is manning.

  How lovely the Moon is … on this night of one’s impending death!

  (The soldier finds himself sighing deeply as his eyes take in the scenes in his surroundings. He speaks in a gentle voice as if everything his lips utter is meant to disclose a pleasure-inducing, delicious secret.)

  When the Moon is full, the young men and women in our village crowd the streets, heartily biting on their turnips, cracking jokes, laughing in fun, going a-courting, loving, displaying affection. The children are playing hide-and-seek, luksong tinik, and tubigan. The old folk sit comfortably by the window, others occupy the side of the road, and generally walk down memory lane,
to the dim and distant world.

  (The soldier wipes off the sweat on his forehead.)

  Wake up. Berto, Karding, Ponsoy. Look up the sky. How lovely it is. There the Moon glows like a brillant orb. Didn’t we use to play in the tubigan when the Moon shone brightly? We played hide-and-seek. You, Posoy? Do you recall how skillful you were at hiding? And you, Berto, you were our unrivalled tubigan player as we competed with other groups. How lightning-fast you were as you parried the opponent’s blow. Karding, come over here, and savor the beauty of this glorious scene in the light of the beaming Moon. Isn’t it truly lovely?

  Wake up. Please join me. Why do you not stir? Has your blood gone cold? Don’t sweet memories of our joyful camaraderie in the village no longer stream through your minds? Chayong, Naty, Osang, Nene, and Isyang—do they no longer dwell in your memories?

  Do you recall, Karding, there was a full Moon, just about this time, when Nene rewarded you with a sweet Yes? How recent was that? Two seasons past?

  You refuse to be roused from sleep. You are all indolent. Hoary old men who have given up on life, refusing to revel in its beauty, bent over as you sleep, whose bodies shrivel at the first taste of cold.

  (Hardly able to breathe, the soldier has another fit of coughing. He wipes his mouth with his sleeves. He fixes his glance straight in front of him. Silence hangs heavy everywhere, as his vision continues to dim; no danger lurks. The Moon radiates the light signifying death.)

  Have you forgotten … Iro? Sinziro, the son of Osima, who made charcoal at the edge of the woods.

  Where could Sinziro be? We called him Iro, a name he liked very much. When we called him Sinziro, he did not feel he was one of us.

  In the past, you and he were rivals, Ponsoy. Do you remember? Iro, unbeknownst to us, had fallen for Taling. But you, Ponsoy, had already begun to court Taling. The awkward part was when you, Ponsoy, discovered that you were both smitten with Taling, and you got mad, yes? You looked for Iro. You said: “Iro, I did not know you were a traitor. I’m wooing Taling, and you’re doing the same.”