Isang Sampaguita para kay Kathryn

Isa na namang makulimlim na hapon ng pagtitinda ng sampaguita ang sumalubong kay Bo. Pero sa totoo lang, hindi naman iyon ganun ka importante dahil umaraw man o umulan, kuripot pa rin ang mga pasahero sa SM Fairview. Ang pinagkaiba lang ay kung maliligo ba siya sa nagbabadyang ulan o sa pawis niya habang makailang ulit na iniilingan nang hindi man lang sinusulyapan.

Pagkakita pa lamang sa papalapit na yagit niyang suot at sa mga tali ng puting halimuyak sa kanan niyang kamay ay lumalayo na ng tingin ang iba. Ang pag-iwas tingin na ito ay sinasamantala ng iba niyang kakilala para buksan ang zipper ng bag at makanakaw ng gamit, o di naman kaya’y makanakaw tingin man lang lalo na kung babaeng maganda.

Kaya gayon na lamang ang pagkamuhi ni Bo sa mga kapwa niya sampaguita boys na nakadudungis ng kanilang karangalan – o atlis, ng kanyang karalangan, dahil malinaw na hindi lahat ay kagaya niyang mayroon pang dangal. Sa buhay kalsada kabobohang turing ang karangalan, dahil dito, hari ang diskarte at reyna ang para-paraan.

Pero hindi na iniinda ni Bo ang pagtawag sa kanya ng bobo ng kaniyang mga kaibigan, dahil hindi lang ang kanyang mga kaklase ang gumagawa nito, ni ang nanay ng kanilang kapitbahay, kundi mismong nanay na niya ang nagsasabi sa kanya na siya ay isang ‘bobo.’ At hindi lang bobo, kundi ‘bobo talaga.’

Ngunit si Bo ay hindi lubos na naniniwala rito, dahil may dalawang taon na rin ang nakalipas nang may nagsabi sa kaniya na siya raw ay ‘matalino.’ Nasagot niya kasi nang tanungin siya ng isang balyenang kanyang binebentahan, “anong scientific name niyan?” Ang balyenang ito ay yung tipo ng babae na tagilid pa kung umupo sa jeep na wari’y lata na ng sardinas, hindi nag-aabot ng bayad, at maraming komento at sermon sa lahat ng nagaganap sa kalsada. Dapat raw kasi ang mga bata raw ay nasa eskwelahan at nag-aaral, at hindi nanlilimos at pinababayaan ng magulang, at kung ano-ano pang masakit sa loob ang sinabi ng matandang matabang balyenang iyon.

“Jasminum sambac po,” ang sagot ni Bo sa napahiyang balyena, sabay pahabol pa ng “Dalawahin niyo na po.” At nasabihan nga siya ng “Ang talino nito ah,” ng magandang dalagang nursing student na kasunod sa pila ng balyenang namumula na sa hiya. At mula noon ay hindi na naniwala si Bo na siya ay isang ganap na bobo, kundi kalahating bobo lamang.

Nasaktan ng husto si Bo sa sinabi ng balyena, dahil nagtitinda nga siya ng sampaguita imbis na nanlilimos, at pinapakain naman siya ng kanyang nanay araw-araw. At lalo naman na araw-araw siyang pumapasok sa eskwela tuwing a las sais ng umaga para makita ang crush niyang si Kathryn Mendoza. Yun nga lang, section 1 kasi itong si Kathryn at siya naman ay section 2. Kaya naman ganoon na lamang ang pagsusumikap ni Bo, hindi lang sa pagtitinda ng sampaguita upang mabuhay, kundi pati na rin sa pag-aaral upang mabuhay ng masaya. Ano nga ba naman ang malay niya kung ang buhay pala niya ay pang kalyeserye o telenovela?

Kaya ganoon na lamang din ang hiya niya sa sarili nang naturang hapong iyon.

Walang malay niyang itinuloy ang kanyang pang-araw-araw na diskarte: suot ang kanyang kaawa-awang yagit na damit, dahan-dahan siyang nakayapak na lalapit at titig sa mata ng mga mukhang maawain, na kalimitan nga’y mga babae. Makatapos tumanggap ng siyamnapu’t siyam na iling bago makapagtinda ng isang tali ay nalapitan niya ang balyenang ito.

Hindi niya alam; paano nga ba niya malalaman? Hindi nga ata talaga maiiwasan; mangyayari’t mangyayari din. Marahil mas nakakagulat na makalipas ang ilang taon ay noong hapon lang na iyon nangyari ang kanilang pagtatagpo.

Hinding-hindi niya malilimutan ang mukhang iyon, ang mukhang minsa’y nagpakulo sa marangal niyang dugo. Hindi niya malilimutan ang tangos ng ilong at tabas ng labi ng balyenang ito, na minsa’y nang-insulto sa puso niyang may nais pang patunayan sa sarili, kahit na noon ay unti-unti na rin siyang nawawalan ng pag-asa sa bawat-araw ng pagtitinda na hindi naman lumalaki ang kita.

Nang makita niya ang balyenang iyon ay agad niyang nilapitan para bentahan at, aba! Inulit pa niya.

“Bili na po kayo, Jasmin sambac po. Dalawahin niyo na po.”

Binanggit ni Bo ang huling pangungusap ng dahan-dahan. At bumakas nga sa mukha ng balyenang ito, sa kanyang mapungay na kilay, mga matang nanlalaki, at sa pamumula ng likod ng kaniyang tenga, na bumabalik sa kanya ang alaala ng kahihiyan ng dalawang taong nakalilpas.

Ngunit bago pa man nakapagsalita ang balyena ay nalingat ni Bo ang batang babaeng kasama nito, na walang iba kundi ang pambansang crush ng bayan ng kanilang eskwelahan na si Kathryn Mendoza.

At nagtagpo ang kanilang mata.

Sa lahat ng panaginip ni Bo sa gabi at pangarap sa umaga ay ni minsan hindi niya hiniling na ganito ang kanilang unang pagkikita: na nagtitinda siya ng sampaguita sa yagit niya at kaawa-awang damit, habang pinapahiya niya ang nanay ng babaeng kanyang nagugustuhan.

Tumigil ang mundo ng dalawa’t kalahating segundo, habang nagkatitigan ang tatlo. Ang balyena kay Bo, sa naungkat na kahihiyan; si Bo kay Kathryn, sa mga nasirang pangarap; at si Kathryn kay Bo, sa kawalang malay at kawalang-paki. Umasa si Bo na sana’y naroon din sa likod ang mabait na nursing student noon, ngunit walang sumabat sa tahimik na pag-uusap ng tatlong pares ng mga mata.

Umihip ang malamig na hangin dala ang simoy ng nagbabadyang ulan at hinudyat ang muling pagtakbo ng oras.

Si Bo na kalahating bobo ang unang kumilos: yumuko, lumapit, at binigyan niya ng isang tali ng sampaguita itong si Kathryn sabay takbo palayo, habang nagbaka-sakaling hindi siya makilala at hindi maalala nito ang ilang segundo ng kanilang kahiya-hiyang pagtatagpo.

Sa bawat padyak ng kanyang mga paa, dahan-dahang lumalakas at lumalaki ang patak ng ulan. Hinayaan ni Bo na tumilamsik sa kanyang paa at bumuhos sa kanyang katawan ang naiipong iyak ng langit sa lupa, sa baka-sakaling mahugasan ang kanyang yagit na damit mula sa halimuyak ng kanyang dala-dalang mga sampaguita.

Imagination

I woke up to her sweet calling accompanied by three gentle knocks on our bedroom's wooden wall. The faint smell of garlic pervaded the still air. "Fried rice," I thought, "and fried fish," as I remembered last night's sarciado. She always cooks the leftovers, never wasteful of a single grain. I loved that about her.

She was waiting by the door, her smile brighter than the golden sunrays piercing through the window grills and the half-opened curtain behind me. She was just as beautiful as she was 20 years ago. I loved that about her too.

I sat up as our 4-year-old son John was pulling my left leg, wanting me to carry him. Without much of a thought I put my arms around his waist, and in one swift swing carried him to my shoulder.

After my morning rituals, I joined them for breakfast. John was almost done filling up his small appetite, while my wife sat quietly, waiting for me to finish. I had just barely put down my spoon and fork on my empty plate when she asked, "So, what is it?" staring at me expectantly, while the spoon and fork still rang the plate.

I drank my bitter coffee, waking my groggy mind up, thinking how to say it. Glancing to my right, I saw John quietly drawing something, while his scribbles come to life, floating up the table then squiggling and moving around the house. I had gotten used to this by now.

"It's Saturday now. You promised to tell me."

"Yes, I did." I was hesitating. It all sounds logical, yet totally incredulous.

She raised an eyebrow. She knew. She always did. She knew me like I knew myself, and she was the only one who ever did. I really loved that about her.

"Okay, I know I've been acting weird recently, and you probably think I'm going crazy-"

"You ARE crazy." She was smiling, squinting a little. Normally, it would be hard to tell what kind of smile was behind that lovely face, but I knew her like she knew herself. We've been together for so long now. I could easily see the shifts on the curve of her lips and quickly recognize when her eyes squint slightly whenever she gives one of her teasing smiles.

I smiled back. "I'm not. This time, I'm not."

Her eyes widened a little, and her smile was now a smirk.

"I think I can see ghosts," I said as cool and as relaxed as I could. She'll think it's just a joke.

But she didn't laugh. Although she was still smiling, I could see the corner of her lips withdraw a little and her eyes widen just as much, almost as if she was giving a sad smile. I've never seen her smile sadly before. Not in the past 20 years. She reached out her right hand as she stood up, and pat my head right where it hurts.

"Ouch!" I said. The wound is still healing.

Just last month a reinforcement steel bar hit that side of my head as I was inspecting the construction site. I was wearing my hard hat and safety glasses, but I was nevertheless hit right on the foreheard. I was knocked unconscious and immediately rushed to the hospital. Needless to say, when I had regained my senses, I immediately fired that new recruit who had not enough wits to not swing the reinforcement steel bars he was carrying on his shoulders. He wasn't even supposed ot be carrying them in the first place.

The head trauma wasn't very severe. I woke up the night after the accident; I was unconscious only for about 20 hours. What drove me crazy was what I woke up to. On the first few waking moments of that Thursday night I found a nurse checking my blood pressure, only to find a second nurse to come a few minutes later and get my blood pressure again. I asked the second nurse who the first one was, but apparently she had no clue. I brushed it off as my imagination, but then I realized the door hadn't opened at all when the first nurse left. That same night I saw a woman with a deformed face as if molten by acid, a child with broken arms and feet crawling through the floor, and a man with guts cut open, blood dripping, and intestines dangling, going in and out of my room through the pale, dirty white walls. I saw them all while I was alone in my room. With the door closed.

I was more than convinced that I was going crazy. They looked so real that I could no longer tell who's a ghost and who's not until they pass through the wall. That time, I hoped they were just side effects of whatever drugs or anaesthesia they injected to me. But now... now I hope I really am just crazy.

I kept telling the nurse I was hearing voices and seeing... things. Gross things. All she said was the typical "they're not real," "they're only in your imagination" and "they're all in your head," etc. I wanted to believe her despite vividly seeing and hearing my nonexistent old wardmate gasping for breath as the nurse was trying to calm me down.

On Friday afternoon my wife brought along my son as she paid me a visit. She must've waited for him after school before coming. She said she came yesterday too, but I was asleep. Always so thoughtful and caring. I loved that about her.

My wife was worried to death, questioning me what and how things happened, her eyebrows knit with concern. But as I watched John, I could hardly even hear her talking. I simply nodded and smiled through most of her questions, because right there, before my very eyes, I could see John's scribbles come to life before he draws them. Later I also saw the imaginary friend my son always talks about exactly as he described him - or it, whatever that penguin-shaped figure was.

And then it dawned on me. The nurse was right. At least, partially. The ghosts really were in my head, but it wasn't just mine. One way or another, I could see the imagination of my son. Perhaps I wasn't seeing ghosts. Maybe that white lady by the lamp post in front of our house and that etched face on the mirror on our bathroom were simply the imagination of other people. Maybe the imaginary world is actually connected in some way.

From then, I developed a theory on the existence of the "Imaginary Plane." There reside all the imaginations of all people; it is colored by hopes and wishes, fleetingly filled by dreams at night and daydreams by day. There materialized are desires and wishes of the future, and regrets and longings past. I don't know how, but now I can see clearly through that plane as if it was real. I just need to focus to see either reality or imagination, as if my eyes were simply adjusting to a different distance.

These are some ideas from my observations regarding the rules that govern this Imaginary Plane. First, a person can only see through the Imaginary Plane as far as his imagination takes him. One normally cannot see someone else's imaginations. This is why mediums need a picture or a description or an old item of a person in order to see "souls" of dead people, which aren't really souls, but only an imagination, a fragment or a residue of the real person. This is also why you feel you see ghosts after hearing their respective horror stories. The more you know, the more you see. This also means that people with bigger imaginations see more ghosts: aka kids, drunk men, or people who lack sleep. And this is why ghosts appear at night: because darkness is a playground for the active mind. However, I do not know why I can see through the Imaginary Plane. I haven't heard of anything or anyone like this before. If you are like me, or you know someone who is, then give me a heads up.

Second, imagination creates objects and beings in the Imaginary Plane, and these ghosts exist as long as someone is imagining them. This is why ghosts appear exactly as we imagine them, or exactly as someone else imagined them. I confirmed this when I saw my child's imaginary friend and "living" scribbles for the first time. Being creatures of imagination, I surmise that this is also why ghosts can apparently hear our thoughts. Lastly - I'm not sure about this - I think this is why we evolved to forget our dreams when we wake up.

Third, beings in the Imaginary Plane desire to maintain their imaginary existence. I think it is similar to the human survival instinct. In order to do this, ghosts haunt places where people know them (remember rule 1) until it becomes associated with them. That way, people generations apart corrobate their stories so they continue to exist and do what they have been imagined to do. I think this is also why Greeks and Romans and Aztecs and Chinese and Mesopotamians had different ghosts and different gods: from the very first imagination, their respective myths have been handed down and modified from generation to generation through the Imaginary Plane.

Fourth, beings and objects in the Imaginary Plane can cross over to the Real Plane, or reality, provided that someone believes that they exist. And usually, they do, because to them, existence is a privilege they do not have. However, they can only interact with those who believe in their existence. This explains why ghosts scare people. You can't be afraid of something you know that doesn't exist. Fear drives away all emotion and rationality, and this allows the ghost to become real for a moment. This is why they can no longer touch me; because I know they are all imaginary.

I thought of these in only a month, and there are so many questions left unanswered, and so many things still to be discovered. If I'm wrong, then I'm the craziest man alive. But if not, then I would be the greatest discoverer of all time. But either way, she'll understand. She always did. I really loved that about her. And either way, I wanted her to be the first to know. That's why I told her.

I shouldn't have.

She stood there, smiling that lovely smile that never once faded in the last 20 years of our lives. She was lovely and perfect. She was everything I could ever dream of. Quickly, she held my face and kissed me.

I wondered why she was in a hurry. Then John told me, "Daddy, you can see them too?"

"I thought you could only see mama."