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Nostalgia and Suicidal THoughts Under the Searing heat of the Afternoon Sun








The overpass that one must pass in order to get to Trinoma, a gargantuan box of a mall, from SM North, a much older gargantuan box of a building, is colored pink. The cement stairs are littered with plastic cups, plastic wrappers of candies, cigarette butts and all the other tiny garbage one finds in the cement steps of a public place heavy with human traffic. An old beggar, dressed in rags that looks like it has been soaked in automobile oil, coated with a layer of dust and then left to dry for several weeks, squats in the step halfway to the top of the stairs. He stares at that empty space a few feet beyond his eyes as if hypnotized by an invisible magical fairy. He thrusts out his right arm, at the end of which is a grime-covered hand holding a transparent plastic cup. Inside the cup are several coins. His other hand lazily scratches the sole of his left foot. A few steps upward are two beggar children attired the same way, one is asleep and the other is seated beside the sleeping one, muttering to himself while stroking the sleeping one's hair.

The sea of people climbing the steps just ignore them and they walk on briskly, quickly, as if one must not linger in this space longer than a few milliseconds or the whole tapestry of the universe will unravel, as if the whole order of the world depends on their getting to wherever it is that they are supposed to be going at this present important moment. Several of the people wear shades and earphones, shutting out the glare of the afternoon sun, the magic of veiling the afternoon world in a pleasant shade by simply putting colored pieces of glass or plastic in front of one's eyes; shutting through popular music blaring through their skulls the noise of the trucks, jeepneys, buses, motorcycles, private vehicles, flowing underneath the overpass like a sea of howling metal mechanical monsters on rubber tires. The smell is something that they cannot totally shut out unfortunately. The carbon monoxide from the exhausts, the dust rising from the surface of the cement steps, saturates the air and together with the smoke from someone's cigarette completes the mixture that enters their lungs and fills their air sacs with life-giving air.


Several years ago, back in the province where I came from, our teacher told us about her experience in Manila. One image that really stuck with me was of how she would clean her nose with a white handkerchief and that part of the handkerchief which she cleaned her nose with, she told us, would come out darkened with grime from the smoke she inhaled while walking through the streets of the city. That's how terrible the air there is, she told us. And now, standing here, I realize the truth of her words. I have been in the capital of the country for more than two years now and through all that time, the only beautiful spot that I know of are the tree-lined streets of the Academic Oval of the University of the Philippines Diliman. Maybe it's the nostalgia seeping in, all those memories at my father's farm, lying on a hammock under the shade of trees, the leaves filtering the rays of the sun.

Every now and then someone will be kind enough to drop a coin into the old man's cup. When this happens, the old man mumbles something. It could be a prayer, an incantation, a very short song, an apology, or simply words of gratitude. Or it could simply be nonsense spouting out of a brain, dried and hardened throught constant exposure to the rays of the merciless urban sun. It could be the conditioned reflex of a Pavlovian dog trained by the clinking of coins, by the minute addition of weight in the plastic cup, to produce vibrations in his voicebox. But then maybe not and maybe I'm the one hallucinating here because of the heat.