1.

A Flowchart for the Queen by Dominic Dayta (Philippines)

When she returned to her office, a rainy Monday morning late in August, after two whole months deployed on official business
in New York, Adrienne Alcazar, vice president and head of the Corporate Quality Control division, was brimming with
excitement. Humming off-tune to some indecipherable song, she handed her dripping umbrella to Pam, her executive assistant,
and greeted her good morning in singsong.

Pam handed her a pile of sticky notes bearing messages accumulated since the morning, one of which was an alert from one of
the executives that plans were being fulminated towards restructuring the company, but it scarcely diminished Alcazar's good
mood. She gave each message no more than a cursory glance, then slipped them into one of the pockets on her suit. She
continued into her office – hopping, Pam noted. She was so excited she hardly bothered to close the door behind her. Her
assistant stood dumbfounded in her wake, eyes wide with growing terror.

At her desk, Pam roused her laptop from sleep and found the messaging app used by the office. On a group message where she
and the rest of the employees on the floor communicated without visibility to Alcazar, she hastily typed her warning.

"We have a problem," she said.

The rest of the employees, knowing about Alcazar's return from her overseas deployment, already had an inkling of what may
be ahead. Joan, manager in charge for data analytics, was quick to confirm the details: "How's the boss?"

"Excited," replied Pam. "Very excited."

"Was she humming?" seconded Isagani, manager-in-charge for customer care.

"Very off-key."

"This is going to be a problem."

The reason for everyone's alarm was that Alcazar returning from her deployments in such state meant she had attended another
one of those corporate conferences which she so adored, and had come out of it with another of her 'big ideas'.

Sometimes those 'big ideas' were harmless, such as when she attended a Safe Workplace conference in Tokyo and on her return
decided to dedicate an entire week to workplace safety appreciation, wherein all work was halted so that they could learn from
paid speakers about workplace safety regulations and attempt, in cases both staged and surprise, the building's fire exits and
earthquake protocols; sometimes they were also a little beneficial, as when she attended a Financial Management conference
in Dubai and decided the following month to have a speaker from a local investing firm teach the office the basics of investing,
whereupon everyone had a brokerage account opened for them with a minimal fee of two thousand pesos.

Every now and again, however, given exactly the right kind of conference, Alcazar would come home with an idea so wild, so
ambitious in scope that it was almost admirable, and the entire office would be conscripted into a day, a week, in rare cases
even a month, of activity that bordered on the Faustian, the Borgesian, the Kafkaesque. To this day, everyone in the office hired
prior to 2012 still live through the traumas physical, emotional, and otherwise borne out of their ghost hunting activity in Baler,
all due to an 'Inject Some Adrenaline To Team Buildings' talk some misguided bloke gave at a conference in Boston.

After half an hour getting her makeup retouched and returning a few missed calls, Alcazar was out of her office and directing
everyone on the floor to stop all work and come into the meeting room immediately. There, she revealed to everyone her latest
idea. She even had a PowerPoint prepared.

"I don't know if you agree," Alcazar began. "But I find that our processes here in our division to be quite inefficient. I ask for
a report today, and I'll only get it at the end of the week. Sometimes it wouldn't even reach me at all. But when it does, it's so
messy and incomprehensible."

Her managers in charge for division functions sat silently in the front row. Those behind in the lower ranks murmured various
complaints for why they were experiencing such inefficiencies, all having to do with their managers. Photos included with the
PowerPoint revealed the latest culprit seminar: a process excellence conference given in New York, where an unheard-of firm
introduced an innovation that apparently was "shaking" the industry to its foundations.

"Today, our priority is to correct that," Alcazar continued, "and at the conference last week, I discovered exactly what we need."

Alcazar beamed. "Flowcharts," she said. "We're going to make flowcharts."

Granted, the idea was simple. The division handled a number of different processes in line with its mission and vision, which
in turn was aligned to the company's mission and vision, from auditing supplier facilities to conducting trainings, documenting
protocols to be followed down the corporate hierarchy, and assessing everyone's – including their own – compliance to such
protocols. There were also the processes done internally, such as collecting and storing data, developing and calibrating tools,
generating reports, and conducting internal trainings. What Alcazar wanted was to have each of these functions mapped out
using flowcharts, highlighting process dependencies, required platforms, and lead times. She wanted to identify which steps
were value-adding and which were non-value-adding, and she wanted risk assessment done for each step of the way. Then she
wanted each process linked to assess hierarchy and complexity, starting with the Vice President's own processes (hers) and
branching out from there.

What's more, she wanted it done on easel sheets, so that they could be posted on the bulletin board outside the meeting room
for everyone to consult every day, so that they would be aware and could appreciate the value they gave to the company. "Each
of us," she emphasised in her speech, "is a key player in the company's success, and it's important for us to remember that in
order to stay motivated in our work. Knowing we're a part of something big – doesn't that motivate us more than salaries or
awards?"

Her managers all nodded a resounding yes. Those in the lower ranks murmured that, actually, a little salary increase would not
be unwelcome.

Finally, Pam came in carrying a year's worth of easel sheets and a big bucket of permanent markers. She dumped all of these
in the table in front of everyone. Alcazar, more excited than ever now that they can carry out the vision which she'd been turning
over since the long flight from the United States, took the first easel sheet and a marker from the bucket. "Alright," she said.
"Let's begin."

The activity easily took the better part of the day. Charts were made, only to be later scrapped. Sometimes a process, upon
being mapped out, turned out to actually be two processes together, so another easel sheet had to be brought in. Certain stages
seemed to loop with each other endlessly, and managers fought tooth against tooth on how they got anything done at all in that
state. They discovered that steps supposed to lead to step A actually branched out to step B instead, and that angered a number
of people in high positions. When Alcazar came to inspect their work, she complained that the flowcharts lacked certain details,
that certain independent steps had been combined, some omitted, and demanded they start over, this time making sure every
step was specified in minute detail. The original stack of easel sheets ran out too soon and Pam had to dash to the nearest office
supplies with her revolving fund to buy a new one.

When the flowcharts were done at last, it was time to connect them together. This proved to be a much more complicated
activity than the first. Some flowcharts were not laid out properly on their easel sheets to connect with the others, so the makers
had to revise them. When connecting one process to another, other intermediary steps, even intermediary processes at certain
points, were discovered, and flowcharts had to be made for those as well. Sometimes, a process known to link from process B
also happened to link to processes C and D, so someone had to make copies for that flowchart.

At the strike of five o'clock, Alcazar's flowchart was ready. But by that point it had gotten so large, so complex, that it extended
out of the meeting room, into the office, over everyone's desk, in the pantry, and even into Alcazar's own office. They had
designed a flowchart so detailed; it covered up the entire floor of Corporate Quality Division. On their way home, everyone
had to crawl under the patchwork of taped-up easel sheets to reach the door, and on subsequent office days, everyone continued
their work slumped under the flowcharts like little children in their blanket forts. Alcazar couldn't even marvel at the grandeur
of her creation, for she too was underneath the flowchart, but from the traces she could make out on the easel sheet through the
light of the florescent lamps on the ceilings, she could see the details on the flowchart they'd made, at least the section of it that
was right on top of her, and thought that it was good.
2. Morning in Nagrebcan by Manuel E. Arguilla (Philippines)
It was sunrise at Nagrebcan. The fine, bluish mist, low over the tobacco fields, was lifting and thinning moment by moment. A
ragged strip of mist, pulled away by the morning breeze, had caught on the clumps of bamboo along the banks of the stream
that flowed to one side of the barrio. Before long the sun would top the Katayaghan hills, but as yet no people were around. In
the grey shadow of the hills, the barrio was gradually awaking. Roosters crowed and strutted on the ground while hens hesitated
on their perches among the branches of the camanchile trees. Stray goats nibbled the weeds on the sides of the road, and the
bull carabaos tugged restively against their stakes.

In the early morning the puppies lay curled up together between their mother’s paws under the ladder of the house. Four puppies
were all white like the mother. They had pink noses and pink eyelids and pink mouths. The skin between their toes and on the
inside of their large, limp ears was pink. They had short sleek hair, for the mother licked them often. The fifth puppy lay across
the mother’s neck. On the puppy’s back was a big black spot like a saddle. The tips of its ears were black and so was a patch
of hair on its chest.

The opening of the sawali door, its uneven bottom dragging noisily against the bamboo flooring, aroused the mother dog and
she got up and stretched and shook herself, scattering dust and loose white hair. A rank doggy smell rose in the cool morning
air. She took a quick leap forward, clearing the puppies which had begun to whine about her, wanting to suckle. She trotted
away and disappeared beyond the house of a neighbor.

The puppies sat back on their rumps, whining. After a little while they lay down and went back to sleep, the black-spotted
puppy on top.

Baldo stood at the threshold and rubbed his sleep-heavy eyes with his fists. He must have been about ten years old, small for
his age, but compactly built, and he stood straight on his bony legs. He wore one of his father’s discarded cotton undershirts.

The boy descended the ladder, leaning heavily on the single bamboo railing that served as a banister. He sat on the lowest step
of the ladder, yawning and rubbing his eyes one after the other. Bending down, he reached between his legs for the black-
spotted puppy. He held it to him, stroking its soft, warm body. He blew on its nose. The puppy stuck out a small red tongue,
lapping the air. It whined eagerly. Baldo laughed – a low gurgle.

He rubbed his face against that of the dog. He said softly, “My puppy. My puppy.” He said it many times. The puppy licked his
ears, his cheeks. When it licked his mouth, Baldo straightened up, raised the puppy on a level with his eyes. “You are a foolish
puppy,” he said, laughing. “Foolish, foolish, foolish,” he said, rolling the puppy on his lap so that it howled.

The four other puppies awoke and came scrambling about Baldo’s legs. He put down the black-spotted puppy and ran to the
narrow foot bridge of woven split-bamboo spanning the roadside ditch. When it rained, water from the roadway flowed under
the makeshift bridge, but it had not rained for a long time and the ground was dry and sandy. Baldo sat on the bridge, digging
his bare feet into the sand, feeling the cool particles escaping between his toes. He whistled, a toneless whistle with a curious
trilling to it produced by placing the tongue against the lower teeth and then curving it up and down.

The whistle excited the puppies; they ran to the boy as fast as their unsteady legs could carry them, barking choppy little barks.

Nana Elang, the mother of Baldo, now appeared in the doorway with handful of rice straw. She called Baldo and told him to
get some live coals from their neighbor.

“Get two or three burning coals and bring them home on the rice straw,” she said. “Do not wave the straw in the wind. If you
do, it will catch fire before you get home.” She watched him run toward Ka Ikao’s house where already smoke was rising
through the nipa roofing into the misty air. One or two empty carromatas drawn by sleepy little ponies rattled along the pebbly
street, bound for the railroad station.

Nana Elang must have been thirty, but she looked at least fifty. She was a thin, wispy woman, with bony hands and arms. She
had scanty, straight, graying hair which she gathered behind her head in a small, tight knot. It made her look thinner than ever.
Her cheekbones seemed on the point of bursting through the dry, yellowish-brown skin. Above a gray-checkered skirt, she wore
a single wide-sleeved cotton blouse that ended below her flat breasts. Sometimes when she stooped or reached up for anything,
a glimpse of the flesh at her waist showed in a dark, purplish band where the skirt had been tied so often.

She turned from the doorway into the small, untidy kitchen. She washed the rice and put it in a pot which she placed on the
cold stove. She made ready the other pot for the mess of vegetables and dried fish. When Baldo came back with the rice straw
and burning coals, she told him to start a fire in the stove, while she cut the ampalaya tendrils and sliced the eggplants. When
the fire finally flamed inside the clay stove, Baldo’s eyes were smarting from the smoke of the rice straw.
“There is the fire, mother,” he said. “Is father awake already?”

Nana Elang shook her head. Baldo went out slowly on tiptoe.

There were already many people going out. Several fishermen wearing coffee-colored shirts and trousers and hats made from
the shell of white pumpkins passed by. The smoke of their home-made cigars floated behind them like shreds of the morning
mist. Women carrying big empty baskets were going to the tobacco fields. They walked fast, talking among themselves. Each
woman had gathered the loose folds of her skirt in front and, twisting the end two or three times, passed it between her legs,
pulling it up at the back, and slipping it inside her waist. The women seemed to be wearing trousers that reached only to their
knees and flared at the thighs.

Day was quickly growing older. The east flamed redly and Baldo called to his mother, “Look, mother, God also cooks his
breakfast.”

He went to play with the puppies. He sat on the bridge and took them on his lap one by one. He searched for fleas which he
crushed between his thumbnails. “You, puppy. You, puppy,” he murmured softly. When he held the black-spotted puppy, he
said, “My puppy. My puppy.”

Ambo, his seven-year old brother, awoke crying. Nana Elang could be heard patiently calling him to the kitchen. Later he came
down with a ripe banana in his hand. Ambo was almost as tall as his older brother and he had stout husky legs. Baldo often
called him the son of an Igorot. The home-made cotton shirt he wore was variously stained. The pocket was torn, and it flipped
down. He ate the banana without peeling it.

“You foolish boy, remove the skin,” Baldo said.

“I will not,” Ambo said. “It is not your banana.” He took a big bite and swallowed it with exaggerated relish.

“But the skin is tart. It tastes bad.”

“You are not eating it,” Ambo said. The rest of the banana vanished in his mouth.

He sat beside Baldo and both played with the puppies. The mother dog had not yet returned and the puppies were becoming
hungry and restless. They sniffed the hands of Ambo, licked his fingers. They tried to scramble up his breast to lick his mouth,
but he brushed them down. Baldo laughed. He held the black-spotted puppy closely, fondled it lovingly. “My puppy,” he said.
“My puppy.”

Ambo played with the other puppies, but he soon grew tired of them. He wanted the black-spotted one. He sidled close to Baldo
and put out a hand to caress the puppy nestling contentedly in the crook of his brother’s arm. But Baldo struck the hand away.
“Don’t touch my puppy,” he said. “My puppy.”

Ambo begged to be allowed to hold the black-spotted puppy. But Baldo said he would not let him hold the black-spotted puppy
because he would not peel the banana. Ambo then said that he would obey his older brother next time, for all time. Baldo would
not believe him; he refused to let him touch the puppy.

Ambo rose to his feet. He looked longingly at the black-spotted puppy in Baldo’s arms. Suddenly he bent down and tried to
snatch the puppy away. But Baldo sent him sprawling in the dust with a deft push. Ambo did not cry. He came up with a fistful
of sand which he flung in his brother’s face. But as he started to run away, Baldo thrust out his leg and tripped him. In complete
silence, Ambo slowly got up from the dust, getting to his feet with both hands full of sand which again he cast at his older
brother. Baldo put down the puppy and leaped upon Ambo.

Seeing the black-spotted puppy waddling away, Ambo turned around and made a dive for it. Baldo saw his intention in time
and both fell on the puppy which began to howl loudly, struggling to get away. Baldo cursed Ambo and screamed at him as
they grappled and rolled in the sand. Ambo kicked and bit and scratched without a sound. He got hold of Baldo’s hair and ear
and tugged with all his might. They rolled over and over and then Baldo was sitting on Ambo’s back, pummeling him with his
fists. He accompanied every blow with a curse. “I hope you die, you little demon,” he said between sobs, for he was crying and
he could hardly see. Ambo wriggled and struggled and tried to bite Baldo’s legs. Failing, he buried his face in the sand and
howled lustily.

Baldo now left him and ran to the black-spotted puppy which he caught up in his arms, holding it against his throat. Ambo
followed, crying out threats and curses. He grabbed the tail of the puppy and jerked hard. The puppy howled shrilly and Baldo
let it go, but Ambo kept hold of the tail as the dog fell to the ground. It turned around and snapped at the hand holding its tail.
Its sharp little teeth sank into the fleshy edge of Ambo’s palm. With a cry, Ambo snatched away his hand from the mouth of the
enraged puppy. At that moment the window of the house facing the street was pushed violently open and the boys’ father, Tang
Ciaco, looked out. He saw the blood from the toothmarks on Ambo’s hand. He called out inarticulately and the two brothers
looked up in surprise and fear. Ambo hid his bitten hand behind him. Baldo stopped to pick up the black-spotted puppy, but
Tang Ciaco shouted hoarsely to him not to touch the dog. At Tang Ciaco’s angry voice, the puppy had crouched back snarling,
its pink lips drawn back, the hair on its back rising. “The dog has gone mad,” the man cried, coming down hurriedly. By the
stove in the kitchen, he stopped to get a sizeable piece of firewood, throwing an angry look and a curse at Nana Elang for letting
her sons play with the dogs. He removed a splinter or two, then hurried down the ladder, cursing in a loud angry voice. Nana
Elang ran to the doorway and stood there silently fingering her skirt.

Baldo and Ambo awaited the coming of their father with fear written on their faces. Baldo hated his father as much as he feared
him. He watched him now with half a mind to flee as Tang Ciaco approached with the piece of firewood held firmly in one
hand. He is a big, gaunt man with thick bony wrists and stoop shoulders. A short-sleeved cotton shirt revealed his sinewy arms
on which the blood-vessels stood out like roots. His short pants showed his bony-kneed, hard-muscled legs covered with black
hair. He was a carpenter. He had come home drunk the night before. He was not a habitual drunkard, but now and then he drank
great quantities of basi and came home and beat his wife and children. He would blame them for their hard life and poverty.
“You are a prostitute,” he would roar at his wife, and as he beat his children, he would shout, “I will kill you both, you bastards.”
If Nana Elang ventured to remonstrate, he would beat them harder and curse her for being an interfering whore. “I am king in
my house,” he would say.

Now as he approached the two, Ambo cowered behind his elder brother. He held onto Baldo’s undershirt, keeping his wounded
hand at his back, unable to remove his gaze from his father’s close-set, red-specked eyes. The puppy with a yelp slunk between
Baldo’s legs. Baldo looked at the dog, avoiding his father’s eyes.

Tang Ciaco roared at them to get away from the dog: “Fools! Don’t you see it is mad?” Baldo laid a hand on Ambo as they
moved back hastily. He wanted to tell his father it was not true, the dog was not mad, it was all Ambo’s fault, but his tongue
refused to move. The puppy attempted to follow them, but Tang Ciaco caught it with a sweeping blow of the piece of firewood.
The puppy was flung into the air. It rolled over once before it fell, howling weakly. Again the chunk of firewood descended,
Tang Ciaco grunting with the effort he put into the blow, and the puppy ceased to howl. It lay on its side, feebly moving its
jaws from which dark blood oozed. Once more Tang Ciaco raised his arm, but Baldo suddenly clung to it with both hands and
begged him to stop. “Enough, father, enough. Don’t beat it anymore,” he entreated. Tears flowed down his upraised face.

Tang Ciaco shook him off with an oath. Baldo fell on his face in the dust. He did not rise, but cried and sobbed and tore his
hair. The rays of the rising sun fell brightly upon him, turned to gold the dust that he raised with his kicking feet.

Tang Ciaco dealt the battered puppy another blow and at last it lay limpy still. He kicked it over and watched for a sign of life.
The puppy did not move where it lay twisted on its side.

He turned his attention to Baldo.

“Get up,” he said, hoarsely, pushing the boy with his foot.

Baldo was deaf. He went on crying and kicking in the dust. Tang Ciaco struck him with the piece of wood in his hand and again
told him to get up. Baldo writhed and cried harder, clasping his hands over the back of his head. Tang Ciaco took hold of one
of the boy’s arms and jerked him to his feet. Then he began to beat him, regardless of where the blows fell.

Baldo encircled his head with his loose arm and strove to free himself, running around his father, plunging backward, ducking
and twisting. “Shameless son of a whore,” Tang Ciaco roared. “Stand still, I’ll teach you to obey me.” He shortened his grip on
the arm of Baldo and laid on his blows. Baldo fell to his knees, screaming for mercy. He called on his mother to help him.

Nana Elang came down, but she hesitated at the foot of the ladder. Ambo ran to her. “You too,” Tang Ciaco cried, and struck at
the fleeing Ambo. The piece of firewood caught him behind the knees and he fell on his face. Nana Elang ran to the fallen boy
and picked him up, brushing his clothes with her hands to shake off the dust.

Tang Ciaco pushed Baldo toward her. The boy tottered forward weakly, dazed and trembling. He had ceased to cry aloud, but
he shook with hard, spasmodic sobs which he tried vainly to stop.

“Here take your child,” Tang Ciaco said, thickly.

He faced the curious students and neighbors who had gathered by the side of the road. He yelled at them to go away. He said it
was none of their business if he killed his children.

“They are mine,” he shouted. “I feed them and I can do anything I like with them.”
The students ran hastily to school. The neighbors returned to their work.

Tang Ciaco went to the house, cursing in a loud voice. Passing the dead puppy, he picked it up by its hind legs and flung it
away. The black and white body soared through the sunlit air; fell among the tall corn behind the house. Tang Ciaco, still
cursing and grumbling, strode upstairs. He threw the chunk of firewood beside the stove. He squatted by the low table and
began eating the breakfast his wife had prepared for him.

Nana Elang knelt by her children and dusted their clothes. She passed her hand over the red welts on Baldo, but Baldo shook
himself away. He was still trying to stop sobbing, wiping his tears away with his forearm. Nana Elang put one arm around
Ambo. She sucked the wound in his hand. She was crying silently.

When the mother of the puppies returned, she licked the remaining four by the small bridge of woven split bamboo. She lay
down in the dust and suckled her young. She did not seem to miss the black-spotted puppy.

Afterward Baldo and Ambo searched among the tall corn for the body of the dead puppy. Tang Ciaco had gone to work and
would not be back till nightfall. In the house, Nana Elang was busy washing the breakfast dishes. Later she came down and fed
the mother dog. The two brothers were entirely hidden by the tall corn plants. As they moved about among the slender stalks,
the corn-flowers shook agitatedly. Pollen scattered like gold dust in the sun, falling on the fuzzy· green leaves.

When they found the dead dog, they buried it in one corner of the field. Baldo dug the grove with a sharp-pointed stake. Ambo
stood silently by, holding the dead puppy.

When Baldo finished his work, he and his brother gently placed the puppy in the hole. Then they covered the dog with soft
earth and stamped on the grave until the disturbed ground was flat and hard again. With difficulty they rolled a big stone on top
of the grave. Then Baldo wound an arm around the shoulders of Ambo and without a word they hurried up to the house.

The sun had risen high above the Katayaghan hills, and warm, golden sunlight filled Nagrebcan. The mist on the tobacco fields
had completely dissolved.
3. All Over the World by Vicente Rivera Jr. (Philippines)
ONE evening in August 1941, I came out of a late movie to a silent, cold night. I shivered a little as I stood for a moment in
the narrow street, looking up at the distant sky, alive with stars. I stood there, letting the night wind seep through me, and
listening. The street was empty, the houses on the street dim—with the kind of ghostly dimness that seems to embrace
sleeping houses. I had always liked empty streets in the night; I had always stopped for a while in these streets listening for
something I did not quite know what. Perhaps for low, soft cries that empty streets and sleeping houses seem to share in the
night.

I lived in an old, nearly crumbling apartment house just across the street from the moviehouse. From the street, I could see
into the open courtyard, around which rooms for the tenants, mostly a whole family to a single room, were ranged. My room,
like all the other rooms on the groundfloor, opened on this court. Three other boys, my cousins, shared the room with me. As
I turned into the courtyard from the street, I noticed that the light over our study-table, which stood on the corridor outside
our room, was still burning. Earlier in the evening after supper, I had taken out my books to study, but I went to a movie
instead. I must have forgotten to turn off the light; apparently, the boys had forgotten, too.

I went around the low screen that partitioned off our “study” and there was a girl reading at the table. We looked at each
other, startled. I had never seen her before. She was about eleven years old, and she wore a faded blue dress. She had long,
straight hair falling to her shoulders. She was reading my copy of Greek Myths.

The eyes she had turned to me were wide, darkened a little by apprehension. For a long time neither of us said anything. She
was a delicately pretty girl with a fine, smooth. pale olive skin that shone richly in the yellow light. Her nose was straight,
small and finely molded. Her lips, full and red, were fixed and tense. And there was something else about her. Something
lonely? something lost?

“I know,” I said, “I like stories, too. I read anything good I find lying around. Have you been reading long?”

“Yes,” she said. not looking at me now. She got up slowly, closing the book. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you want to read anymore? I asked her, trying to smile, trying to make her feel that everything was all right.

“No.” she said, “thank you.”

“Oh, yes,” I said, picking up the book. “It’s late. You ought to be in bed. But, you can take this along.”

She hesitated, hanging back, then shyly she took the book, brought it to her side. She looked down at her feet uncertain as to
where to turn.

“You live here?” I asked her.

“Yes.”

“What room?”

She turned her face and nodded towards the far corner, across the courtyard, to a little room near the communal kitchen. It
was the room occupied by the janitor: a small square room with no windows except for a transom above the door.

“You live with Mang Lucio?”

“He’s my uncle.”

“How long have you been here? I haven’t seen you before, have I?”

“I’ve always been here. I’ve seen you.”

“Oh. Well, good night—your name?”

“Maria.”
“Good night, Maria.”

She turned quickly, ran across the courtyard, straight to her room, and closed the door without looking back.

I undressed, turned off the light and lay in bed dreaming of far-away things. I was twenty-one and had a job for the first time.
The salary was not much and I lived in a house that was slowly coming apart, but life seemed good. And in the evening when
the noise of living had died down and you lay safe in bed, you could dream of better times, look back and ahead, and find that
life could be gentle—even with the hardness. And afterwards, when the night had grown colder, and suddenly you felt alone
in the world, adrift, caught in a current of mystery that came in the hour between sleep and waking, the vaguely frightening
loneliness only brought you closer to everything, to the walls and the shadows on the walls, to the other sleeping people in
the room, to everything within and beyond this house, this street, this city, everywhere.

I met Maria again one early evening, a week later, as I was coming home from the office. I saw her walking ahead of me,
slowly, as if she could not be too careful, and with a kind of grownup poise that was somehow touching. But I did not know it
was Maria until she stopped and I overtook her.

She was wearing a white dress that had been old many months ago. She wore a pair of brown sneakers that had been white
once. She had stopped to look at the posters of pictures advertised as “Coming” to our neighborhood theater.

“Hello,” I said, trying to sound casual.

She smiled at me and looked away quickly. She did not say anything nor did she step away. I felt her shyness, but there was
no self-consciousness, none of the tenseness and restraint of the night we first met. I stood beside her, looked at the pictures
tacked to a tilted board, and tried whistling a tune.

She turned to go, hesitated, and looked at me full in the eyes. There was again that wide-eyed—and sad? —stare. I smiled,
feeling a remote desire to comfort her, as if it would do any good, as if it was comfort she needed.

“I’ll return your book now,” she said.

“You’ve finished it?”

“Yes.”

We walked down the shadowed street. Magallanes Street in Intramuros, like all the other streets there, was not wide enough,
hemmed in by old, mostly unpainted houses, clumsy and unlovely, even in the darkening light of the fading day.

We went into the apartment house and I followed her across the court. I stood outside the door which she closed carefully
after her. She came out almost immediately and put in my hands the book of Greek myths. She did not look at me as she
stood straight and remote.

“My name is Felix,” I said.

She smiled suddenly. It was a little smile, almost an unfinished smile. But, somehow, it felt special, something given from
way deep inside in sincere friendship.

I walked away whistling. At the door of my room, I stopped and looked back. Maria was not in sight. Her door was firmly
closed.

August, 1941, was a warm month. The hangover of summer still permeated the air, specially in Intramuros. But, like some of
the days of late summer, there were afternoons when the weather was soft and clear, the sky a watery green, with a shell-like
quality to it that almost made you see through and beyond, so that, watching it made you lightheaded.

I walked out of the office one day into just such an afternoon. The day had been full of grinding work—like all the other days
past. I was tired. I walked slowly, towards the far side of the old city, where traffic was not heavy. On the street there were old
trees, as old as the walls that enclosed the city. Half-way towards school, I changed my mind and headed for the gate that led
out to Bonifacio Drive. I needed stiffer winds, wider skies. I needed all of the afternoon to myself.
Maria was sitting on the first bench, as you went up the sloping drive that curved away from the western gate. She saw me
before I saw her. When I looked her way, she was already smiling that half-smile of hers, which even so told you all the truth
she knew, without your asking.

“Hello,” I said. “It’s a small world.”

“What?”

“I said it’s nice running into you. Do you always come here?”

“As often as I can. I go to many places.”

“Doesn’t your uncle disapprove?”

“No. He’s never around. Besides, he doesn’t mind anything.”

“Where do you go?”

“Oh, up on the walls. In the gardens up there, near Victoria gate. D’you know?”

“I think so. What do you do up there?”

“Sit down and—”

“And what?”

“Nothing. Just sit down.”

She fell silent. Something seemed to come between us. She was suddenly far-away. It was like the first night again. I decided
to change the subject.

“Look,” I said, carefully, “where are your folks?”

“You mean, my mother and father?”

“Yes. And your brothers and sisters, if any.”

“My mother and father are dead. My elder sister is married. She’s in the province. There isn’t anybody else.”

“Did you grow up with your uncle?”

“I think so.”

We were silent again. Maria had answered my questions without embarrassment. almost without emotion, in a cool light
voice that had no tone.

“Are you in school, Maria?”

“Yes.”

“What grade?”

“Six.”

“How d’you like it?”

“Oh, I like it.”

“I know you like reading.”

She had no comment. The afternoon had waned. The breeze from the sea had died down. The last lingering warmth of the sun
was now edged with cold. The trees and buildings in the distance seemed to flounder in a red-gold mist. It was a time of day
that never failed to carry an enchantment for me. Maria and I sat still together, caught in some spell that made the silence
between us right, that made our being together on a bench in the boulevard, man and girl, stranger and stranger, a thing not to
be wondered at, as natural and inevitable as the lengthening shadows before the setting sun.

Other days came, and soon it was the season of the rain. The city grew dim and gray at the first onslaught of the monsoon.
There were no more walks in the sun. I caught a cold.

Maria and I had become friends now, though we saw each other infrequently. I became engrossed in my studies. You could
not do anything else in a city caught in the rains. September came and went.

In November, the sun broke through the now ever present clouds, and for three or four days we had bright clear weather.
Then, my mind once again began flitting from my desk, to the walls outside the office, to the gardens on the walls and the
benches under the trees in the boulevards. Once, while working on a particularly bad copy on the news desk, my mind
scattered, the way it sometimes does and, coming together again, went back to that first meeting with Maria. And the
remembrance came clear, coming into sharper focus—the electric light, the shadows around us, the stillness. And Maria, with
her wide-eyed stare, the lost look in her eyes…

IN December, I had a little fever. On sick leave, I went home to the province. I stayed three days. I felt restless, as if I had
strayed and lost contact with myself. I suppose you got that way from being sick,

A pouring rain followed our train all the way back to Manila. Outside my window, the landscape was a series of dissolved
hills and fields. What is it in the click of the wheels of a train that makes you feel gray inside? What is it in being sick, in
lying abed that makes you feel you are awake in a dream, and that you are just an occurrence in the crying grief of streets and
houses and people?

In December, we had our first air-raid practice.

I came home one night through darkened streets, peopled by shadows. There was a ragged look to everything, as if no one
and nothing cared any more for appearances.

I reached my room just as the siren shrilled. I undressed and got into my old clothes. It was dark, darker than the moment
after moon-set. I went out on the corridor and sat in a chair. All around me were movements and voices. anonymous and
hushed, even when they laughed.

I sat still, afraid and cold.

“Is that you. Felix?”

“Yes. Maria.”

She was standing beside my chair, close to the wall. Her voice was small and disembodied in the darkness. A chill went
through me, She said nothing more for a long time.

“I don’t like the darkness,” she said.

“Oh, come now. When you sleep, you turn the lights off, don’t you?”

“It’s not like this darkness,” she said, softly. “It’s all over the world.”

We did not speak again until the lights went on. Then she was gone.
The war happened not long after.

At first, everything was unreal. It was like living on a motion picture screen, with yourself as actor and audience. But the
sounds of bombs exploding were real enough, thudding dully against the unready ear.

In Intramuros, the people left their homes the first night of the war. Many of them slept in the niches of the old walls the first
time they heard the sirens scream in earnest. That evening, I returned home to find the apartment house empty. The janitor
was there. My cousin who worked in the army was there. But the rest of the tenants were gone.

I asked Mang Lucio, “Maria?”

“She’s gone with your aunt to the walls.” he told me. “They will sleep there tonight.”

My cousin told me that in the morning we would transfer to Singalong. There was a house available. The only reason he was
staying, he said, was because they were unable to move our things. Tomorrow that would be taken care of immediately.

“And you, Mang Lucio?”

“I don’t know where I could go.”

We ate canned pork and beans and bread. We slept on the floor, with the lights swathed in black cloth. The house creaked in
the night and sent off hollow echoes. We slept uneasily.

I woke up early. It was disquieting to wake up to stillness in that house which rang with children’s voices and laughter the
whole day everyday. In the kitchen, there were sounds and smells of cooking.

“Hello,” I said.

It was Maria, frying rice. She turned from the stove and looked at me for a long time. Then, without a word, she turned back
to her cooking.

“Are you and your uncle going away?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Did he not tell you?”

“No.”

“We’re moving to Singalong.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well, anyway, I’ll come back tonight. Maybe this afternoon. We’ll not have to say goodbye till then.”

She did not say anything. I finished washing and went back to my room. I dressed and went out.

At noon, I went to Singalong to eat. All our things were there already, and the folks were busy putting the house in order. As
soon as I finished lunch, I went back to the office. There were few vehicles about. Air-raid alerts were frequent. The
brightness of the day seemed glaring. The faces of people were all pale and drawn.

In the evening, I went back down the familiar street. I was stopped many times by air-raid volunteers. The house was dark. I
walked back to the street. I stood for a long time before the house. Something did not want me to go away just yet. A light
burst in my face. It was a volunteer.

“Do you live here?”

“I used to. Up to yesterday. I’m looking for the janitor.”

“Why, did you leave something behind?”

“Yes, I did. But I think I’ve lost it now.”

“Well, you better get along, son. This place, the whole area. has been ordered evacuated. Nobody lives here anymore.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “Nobody.”

4. Impeng Negro by Rogelio Sikat (Philippines)
"BAKA makikipag-away ka na naman, Impen."

Tinig iyon ng kanyang ina. Nangangaral na naman. Mula sa kinatatalungkuang giray na batalan, saglit siyang napatigil sa
paghuhugas ng mumo sa kamay.

"Hindi ho," paungol niyang tugon.

"Hindi ho...," ginagad siya ng ina. "Bayaan mo na nga sila. Kung papansinin mo'y lagi ka ngang mababasag-ulo."

May iba pang sinasabi ang kanyang ina ngunit hindi na niya pinakinggan. Alam na niya ang mga iyon. Paulit-ulit na niyang
naririnig. Nakukulili na ang kanyang tainga.

Isinaboy niya ang tubig na nasa harap. Muli siyang tumabo. Isinawak niya ang kamay, pinagkiskis ang mga palad at
pagkaraa'y naghilamos.

"Dumaan ka kay Taba mamayang pag-uwi mo," narinig niyang bilin ng ina. "Wala nang gatas si Boy. Eto ang pambili."

Tumindig na siya. Nanghihinamad at naghihikab na iniunat ang mahahabang kamay. Inaantok pa siya. Gusto pa niyang
magbalik sa sulok na kanyang higaan. Ngunit kailangang lumakad na siya. Tatanghaliin na naman bago siya makasahod. At
naroon na naman marahil si Ogor. Kahit siya ang nauna ay lagi siyang inuunahan ni Ogor sa pagsahod.

Umingit ang sahig ng kanilang barungbarong nang siya'y pumasok.

"Nariyan sa kahon ang kamiseta mo."

Sa sulok ng kanyang kaliwang mata'y nasulyapan niya ang ina. Nakaupo ito, taas ang kaliwang paa, sa dulo ng halos dumapa
nang bangko. Nakasandig ang ulo sa tagpiang dingding. Nakalugay ang buhok. Bukas ang kupasing damit na giris,
nakahantad ang laylay at tuyot na dibdib. Kalong nito ang kanyang kapatid na bunso. Pinasususo.

"Mamaya,aka umuwi ka namang...basag ang mukha."

Bahagya na niyang maulinigan ang ina. Nakatitig siya sa tatlo pa niyang kapatid. Sunud-sunod na nakatalungko ang mga ito
sa isa pang bangkong nas atagiliran ng nanggigimalmal na mesang kainan. nagsisikain pa.

Matagal na napako ang kanyang tingin kay Kano, ang sumunod sa kanya. Maputi si Kano, kaya ganito ang tawag dito sa
kanilang pook. Kakutis ni Kano ang iba pa niyang kapatid. Marurusing ngunit mapuputi. May pitong taon na si Kano. Siya
nama'y maglalabing-anim na. Payat siya ngunit mahahaba ang kanyang biyas.

Hinalungkat na niya ang kahong karton na itinuro ng ina. Magkakasama ang mga damit nila nina Kano, Boyet at Diding. Sa
may ilalim, nakuha niya ang kulay-lumot niyang kamiseta. Hinawakan niya iyon sa magkabilang tirante. Itinaas. Sinipat.

"Yan na'ng isuot mo." Parang nahulaan ng kanyang ina ang kanyang iniisip.

Isinuot niya ang kamiseta. Lapat na lapat sa kanya ang kamisetang iyon noong bagong bili ngunit ngayo'y maluwag na.
Nagmumukha siyang Intsik-beho kapag suot iyon ngunit wala naman siyang maraming kamisetang maisusuot. Mahina ang
kita ng kanyang ina sa paglalabada; mahina rin ang kanyang kita sa pag-aagwador.

Nagbalik siya sa batalan. Nang siya'y lumabas, pasan na niya ang kargahan. Tuluy-tuloy niyang tinungo ang hagdan.

"Si Ogor, Impen," pahabol na bilin ng kanyang ina. "Huwag mo nang papansinin."

Naulinigan niya ang biling iyon at aywan kung dahil sa inaantok pa siya, muntik na siyang madapa nang matalisod sa
nakausling bato sa may paanan ng kanilang hagdan.

Tuwing umagang mananaog siya upang umigib, pinagpapaalalahanan siya ng ina. Huwag daw siyang makikipagbabag.
Huwag daw niyang papansinin si Ogor. Talaga raw gayon ito: basagulero. Lagi niyang isinasaisip ang mga biling ito ngunit
sadya yatang hindi siya makapagtitimpi kapag naririnig niya ang masasakit na panunuksyo sa kanya sa gripo, lalung-lalo na
mula kay Ogor.

Si Ogor, na kamakailan lamang ay bumabag sa kanya, ang malimit magsisimula ng panunukso:

"Ang itim mo, Impen!" itutukso nito.

"Kapatid mo ba si Kano?" isasabad ng isa sa mga nasa gripo.

"Sino ba talaga ang tatay mo?"

"Sino pa," isisingit ni Ogor, "di si Dikyam!"

Sasambulat na ang nakabibinging tawanan. Pinakamatunog ang tawa ni Ogor. Si Ogor ang kinikilalang hari sa gripo.
Noong una, sinasagot niya ang mga panunuksong ito:

"E ano kung maitim?" isasagot niya.

Nanunuri ang mga mata at nakangising iikutan siya ni Ogor. Pagkuwa'y bigla na lamang nitong kakayurin ng hintuturo ang
balat sa kanyang batok.

"Negrung-negro ka nga, Negro," tila nandidiring sasabihin ni Ogor. Magsusunuran nang manukso ang iba pang agwador. Pati
ang mga batang naroon: Tingnan mo ang buhok. Kulot na kulot! Tingnan mo ang ilong. Sarat na sarat! Naku po, ang
nguso...Namamalirong!

Sa katagalan, natanggap na niya ang panunuksong ito. Iyon ang totoo, sinasabi niya sa sarili. Negro nga siya. Ano kung
Negro? Ngunit napapikit siya. Ang tatay niya'y isang sundalong Negro na nang maging anak siya'y biglang nawala sa
Pilipinas.

Ang panunuksong hindi niya matanggap, at siya ngang pinagmulan ng nakaraan nilang pagbababag ni Ogor, ay ang sinabi
nito tungkol sa kanyang ina. (Gayon nga kaya kasama ang kanyang ina?)

"Sarisari ang magiging kapatid ni Negro," sinabi ni Ogor. "Baka makatatlo pa ang kanyang nanay ngayon!"

Noong kabuntisan ng kanyang ina sa kapatid niyang bunso ay iniwan ito ng asawa. Hindi malaman kung saan nagsuot. At
noon, higit kailanman, naging hamak sila sa pagtingin ng lahat. Matagal-tagal ding hindi naglabada ang kanyang ina,
nahihiyang lumabas sa kanilang barungbarong. Siya ang nagpatuloy sa pag-aagwador. At siya ang napagtuunan ng sarisaring
panunukso.

Natandaan niya ang mga panunuksong iyon. At mula noon, nagsimula nang umalimpuyo sa kanyang dibdib ang dati'y binhi
lamang ng isang paghihimagsik: nagsusumigaw na paghihimagsik sa pook na iyong ayaw magbigay sa kanila ng
pagkakataong makagitaw at mabuhay nang payapa.

Sariwa pa ang nangyaring pakikipagbabag niya kay Ogor, naiisip ni Impen habang tinatalunton niya ang mabatong daan
patungo sa gripo. Mula sa bintana ng mga barungbarong, nakikita niyang nagsusulputan ang ulo ng mga bata. Itinuturo siya
ng mga iyon. Sa kanya rin napapatingin ang matatanda. Walang sinasabi ang mga ito, ngunit sa mga mata, sa galaw ng mga
labi nababasa nya ang isinisigaw ng mga paslit: Negro!

Napapatungo na laamang siya.

Natatanaw na niya ngayon ang gripo. Sa malamig ngunit maliwanag nang sikat ng araw, nakikita na niya ang langkay ng mga
agwador. Nagkakatipun-tipon ang mga ito. Nagkakatuwaan. Naghaharutan.

Sa langkay na iyon ay kilalang-kilala niya ang anyo ni Ogor. Paano niya malilimutan si Ogor? Sa mula't mula pa, itinuring na
siya nitong kaaway, di kailanman binigyan ng pagkakataong maging kaibigan.

Halos kassingulang niya si Ogor, ngunit higit na matipuno ang katawan nito. Malakas si Ogor. Tuwid ang tindig nito at halos
hindi yumuyuko kahit may pasang balde ng tubig; tila sino mang masasalubong sa daan ay kayang-kayang sagasaan.
Nang marating niya ang gripo ay tungo ang ulog tinungo niya ang hulihan ng pila. Marahan niyang inalis sa pagkakakawit
ang mga balde. Sa sarili, nausal niyang sana'y huwag siya ang maging paksa ng paghaharutan at pagkakatuwaan ng mga
agwador.

Nakakaanim na karga na si Impen. May sisenta sentimos nang kumakalansing sa bulsa ng kutod niyang maong. May isa pang
nagpapaigib sa kanya. Diyes sentimos na naman. Kapag tag-araw ay malaki-laki rin ang kinikita ng mga agwador. Mahina
ang tulo ng tubig sa kanilang pook. At bihira ang may poso.

Tanghali na akong makauuwi nito, nausal niya habang binibilang sa mata ang mga nakapilang balde. Maluwag ang parisukat
na sementong kinatitirikan ng gripo at ang dulo ng pila'y nasa labas pa niyon.

Di-kalayuan sa gripo ay may isang tindahan. Sa kalawanging medya-agwa niyon ay nakasilong ang iba pang agwador. May
naghubad na ng damit at isinampay na lamang sa balikat. May nagpapaypay May kumakain ng halu-halo.

Sa pangkat na iyon ay kay Ogor agad natutok ang kanyang tingin. Pnilit niyang supilin ang hangaring makasilong. Naroon sa
tindahan si Ogor. Hubad-baro at ngumingisi. Mauupo na lamang siya sa kanyang balde. Mabuti pa roon, kahit nakabilad sa
init. Pasasaan ba't di iikli ang pila? naisip niya. Makasasahod din ako.

Kasalukuyan siyang nagtitiis sa init nang may maulinigan siyang siga mula sa tindahan:

"Hoy, Negro, sumilong ka. Baka ka pumuti!"

Si Ogor iyon. Kahit hindi siya lumingon, para na niyang nakita si Ogor. Nakangisi at nanunukso na naman.

"Negro," muli niyang narinig, "sumilong ka sabi, e. Baka ka masunog!"

Malakas ang narinig niyang tawanan. Hindi pa rin siya lumilingon. Tila wala siyang naririnig. Nakatingin siya sa nakasahod
na balde ngunit ang naiisip niya'y ang bilin ng ina, na huwag na niyang papansinin si Ogor. Bakit nga ba niya papansinin si
Ogor?

Tinigilan naman ni Ogor ang panunukso. Hindi pa rin siya umaalis sa kinauupuang balde. At habang umiisod ang pila,
nararamdaman niyang lalong umiinit ang sikat ng araw. Sa paligid ng balde, nakikia niya ang kanyang anino. Tumingala siya
ngunit siya'y nasilaw. Nanghahapdi at waring nasusunog ang kanyang balat. Tila ibig nang matuklap ang balat sa kanyang
batok, likod at balikat. Namumuo ang pawis sa kanyang anit at sa ibabaw ng kanyang nguso. may butil na rin ng pawis sa
kanyang ilong.

Itinaas niya ang tirante ng kamiseta. Hinipan-hipan niya ang manipis na dibdib. Di natagalan, isinawak niya ang kamay sa
nalalabing tubig sa balde. Una niyang binasa ang batok---kaylamig at kaysarap ng tubig sa kanyang batok. Malamig. Binasa
niya ang ulo. Kinuskos niya ang kanyang buhok at nabasa pati ang kanyang anit. Binasa niya ang balikat, ang mga bisig. May
nadama siyang ginhawa ngunit pansamantala lamang iyon. Di nagtagal, muli niyang naramdaman na tila nangangalirang na
naman ang kanyang balat. Kay hapdi ng kanyang batok at balikat.

"Negro!" Napauwid siya sa pagkakaupo nang marinig iyon. Nasa likuran lamang niya ang nagsalita. Si Ogor. "Huwag ka
nanag magbibilad. Doon ka sa lamig."

Pagkakataon na ni Ogor upang sumahod. At habang itinatapat nito ang balde sa gripo, muli niyang nakita na nginingisihan
siya nito.

Napakatagal sa kanya ang pagkapuno ng mga balde ni ogor. Napabuntong-hininga siya nang makitang kinakawitan na ni
Ogor ang mga balde. Sa wakas, aalis na si Ogor, naisip niya. Aalis na si Ogor. Huwag na sana siyang bumalik.

May galak na sumusuno sa kanyang dibdib habang pinagmamasdan ang pagkapuno ng sinundang balde. Susunod na siya.
Makaka sahod na siya. Makakasahod na rin ako, sabi niya sa sarili. pagkaraan ng kargang iyon ay uuwi na siya. Daraan pa
nga pala siya kay Taba. Bibili ng gatas.

Datapwa, pagkaalis ng hinihintay niyang mapunong balde, at isasahod na lamang ang sa kanya, ay isang mabigat at
makapangyarihang kamay ang biglang pumatong sa kanyang balikat. Si Ogor ang kanyang natingala. Malapit lamang pala
ang pinaghatidan nito ng tubig.
"Gutom na ako, Negro," sabi ni Ogor. "Ako muna."

Pautos iyon. Iginitgit ni Ogor ang bitbit na balde at kumalantog ang kanilang mga balde. Iginitgit din niya ang sa kanya,
bahagya nga lamang at takot na paggitgit. "Kadarating mo pa lamang, Ogor, nais niyang itutol. Kangina pa ako nakapila rito,
a. Ako muna sabi, e," giit ni Ogor.

Bantulot niyang binawi ang balde, nakatingin pa rin kay Ogor. Itinaob niya ang kaunting nasahod na balde at ang tubig ay
gumapang sa semento at umabog sa kanilang mga paa ni Ogor. Uuwi na ako, bulong niya sa sarili. Uuwi na ako. Mamaya na
lang ako iigib uli. Nakatingin sa araw, humakbang siya upang kunin ang pingga ngunit sa paghakbang na iyon, bigla siyang
pinatid ni Ogor.

"Ano pa ba ang ibinubulong mo?"

Hindi n a niya narinig iyon. Nabuwal siya. Tumama ang kanan niyang pisngi sa labi ng nabiawang balde. Napasigaw siya.
Malakas. Napaluhod siya sa madulas na semento. Kagyat na bumaha ang nakaliliyong dilim sa kanyang utak. Habang
nakaluhod, dalawang kamay niyang tinutop ang pisngi. Takot, nanginginig ang kanyang mga daliri. Dahan-dahan niyang
iniangat iyon. Basa...Mapula...Dugo!

Nanghilakbot siya. Sa loob ng isang saglit, hindi niya maulit na salatin ang biyak na pisngi. Mangiyak-ngiyak siya.
"O-ogor...O-ogor..." Nakatingala siya kay Ogor, mahigpit na kinukuyom ang mga palad. Kumikinig ang kanyang ulo at
nangangalit ang kanyang ngipin. "Ogor!" sa wakas ay naisigaw niya.

Hindi minabuti ni Ogor ang kanyang pagsigaw. Sinipa siya nito. Gumulong siya. Buwal ang lahat ng baldeng nalalabi sa pila.
Nagkalugkugan. Nakarinig siya ng tawanan. At samantalang nakadapa, unti-unting nabuo sa walang malamang sulingan
niyang mga mata ang mga paang alikabukin. Paparami iyon at pumapaligid sa kanya.

Bigla siyang bumaligtad. nakita niya ang naghuhumindig na anyo ni Ogor. Nakaakma ang mga bisig.

"O-ogor..."

Tumawa nang malakas si Ogor. Humihingal at nakangangang napapikit siya. Pumuslit ang luha sa sulok ng kanyang mga
mata. Nasa ganito siyang kalagayan nang bigla niyang maramdaman ang isang ubos-lakas na sipa sa kanyang pigi.
Napasigaw iya. Umiiyak siyang gumuglong sa basa at madulas na semento. Namimilipit siya. Tangan ang sinipang pigi, ang
buong anyo ng nakaangat niyang mukha'y larawan ng matinding sakit.

Matagal din bago napawi ang paninigas ng kanyang pigi. Humihingal siya. Malikot ang kanyang mga mata nang siya'y
bumangon at itukod ang mga kamay sa semento.

Si ogor...Sa mula't mula pa'y itinuring na siya nitong kaaway...Bakit siya ginaganoon ni Ogor?

Kumikinig ang kanyang katawan. Sa poot. Sa naglalatang na poot. At nang makita niyang muling aangat ang kanang paa ni
Ogor upang sipain siyang muli ay tila nauulol na asong sinunggaban niya iyon at niyakap at kinagat.

Bumagsak ang nawalan ng panimbang na si Ogor. nagyakap sila. Pagulung-gulong. Hindi siya bumibitiw. Nang siya'y
mapaibabaw, sinunud-ssunod niya: dagok, dagok, dagok... pahalipaw... papaluka...papatay.

Sa pook na iyon, sa nakaririmarim na pook na iyon, aba ang pagtingin sa kanila. Marumi ng babae ang kanyang ina. Sarisari
ang anak. At siya isang maitim, hamak na Negro! Papatayin niya si Ogor. papatayin. Papatayinnn!

Dagok, dagok, dagok...Nag-uumigting ang kanyang mga ugat. Tila asong nagpipilit makapaibabaw si Ogor. Tila bakal na
kumakapit ang mga kamay. Sa isang iglap siya naman ang napailalim. Dagok, dagok. Nagpipihit siya. Tatagilid. Naiiri.
Muling matitihaya. Hindi niya naiilagan ang dagok ni Ogor. Nasisilaw siya sa araw. Napipikit siya. Mangungudngod siya,
mahahalik sa lupa. Ngunit wala siyang nararamdaman sakit. Wala siyang nararamdamang sakit!

Kakatatlo ng asawa si Inay. Si Kano...si Boyet...si Diding...At siya...Negro. Negro. Negro!

Sa mga dagok ni ogor, tila nasasalinan pa siya ng lakas. Bigla, ubos-lakas at nag-uumiri siyang umigtad. napailalim si Ogor.
Nahantad ang mukha ni Ogor. Dagok, bayo, dagok, bayo, dagok, bayo, dagok...Kahit saan. Sa dibdib. Sa mukha. Dagok,
bayo, dagok, bayo, dagok, dagok, dagok...

Mahina na si ogor. Lupaypay na. Nalalaglag na ang nagsasanggang kamay. Humihingal na rin siya, humahagok. Ngunit
nagliliyab pa rin ang poot sa kanyang mga mata. Dagok. Papaluka. Dagok, bayo, dagok, bayo, dagok...

Gumagalaw-galaw ang sabog na labi ni Ogor.

"Impen..."

Muli niyang itinaas ang kamay.

"I-Impen..." Halos hindi niya narinig ang halingling ni Ogor. "I-Impen...s-suko n-na...a-ako...s-suko...n-na...a-ako!"

Naibaba niya ang nakataas na kamay. Napasuko niya si Ogor! Napatingala siya Abut-abot ang pahingal. makaraan ang ilang
sandali, dahan-dahan at nanlalambot siyang tumindig, nakatuon ang mga mata kay Ogor. Wasak ang kanyang kamiseta at
duguan ang kanyang likod. May basa ng dugo't lupa ang kanyang nguso.

Marmaing sandaling walang nangahas magsalita. Walang makakibo sa mga agwador. Hindi makapaniwala ang lahat. Lahat
ay nakatingin sa kanya.

Isa-isa niyang tiningnan ang mga nakapaligid sa kanya. Walang pagtutol sa mga mata ng mga ito. Ang nababakas niya'y
paghanga. Ang nakita niya'y pangingimi.

Pinangingimian siya!

May luha siya sa mata ngunit may galak siyang nadama. Luwalhati. Hinagud-hagod niya ang mga kamao. nadama niya ang
bagong tuklas na lakas niyon. Ang tibay. Ang tatag. Ang kapangyarihan. Muli niyang tiningnan ang nakabulagtang si Ogor.
Pagkaraa'y nakapikit at buka ang labing nag-angat siya ng mukha.

Sa matinding sikat ng araw, tila sya ang mandirigmang sugatan, ngunit matatag na nakatindig sa pinagwagihang larangan.
5. A Choice of Two Salads by Heng Siok Tian (Singapore)
Martin, full-blooded male that he was, made no bones about his attraction to Cherry, who took all his advances in her own
stride, although she was confused and nervous about the whole dating game with a much older, single expatriate who had no
lack of willing coquettes or sarong party girls throwing themselves at him.

Martin was not going to jeopardise the prospect of a wholesome, meaningful relationship with Cherry. He had sowed enough
wild oats to recognise the value in Cherry - her as-yet untainted, uncynical, trusting nature, her intelligence and willingness to
learn, her unspoiled ways, given her orphan background, which also meant no meddling, troublesome in-laws. What a breeze
that would be!

He had also gained sufficient experience to suspect that she would be one of those who would be impressed with a man willing
to cook for her and, for that matter, likely too to appreciate healthy foods. So he had decided to start his seduction by cooking
for her.

Thanks to his bachelor days and backpacking travels as an undergraduate, Martin was able to whip up simple meals. His best
bet though would be salads. He had a choice of two salads – actually, the only two he knew. He could impress Cherry with an
old-fashioned potato salad or a mixed-greens salad. He decided to err on the side of prudence with Cherry and made up his
mind to prepare both salads for her.

Martin had gone to some length to ensure that their first evening together at his apartment would make some indelible mark on
Cherry. He had done his grocery shopping two days before the evening, bought all his vegetables and ingredients at the
neighbourhood supermarket, and taken a few hours off from the office to get back early to the apartment to prepare his salads.
He would only grill the steak after Cherry arrived so that she could see him in the kitchen.

Cherry found her way to his apartment with little difficulty given his ability to give clear instructions. Dressed in a casual smart
white tee, trendy and body-fitting, as well as her signature pair of Levi's jeans, Cherry looked like a pin-up model when she
stood at his threshold of the door. His first instinct was to hold her by her slim waist and lift up her nubile body just to gauge
how much effort he would need if he wanted to hold her up. Fortunately, he had just enough wits about him at that point to
control himself and welcomed her with the demeanour of a well-bred rascal.

He offered her a glass of apple juice as she declined any alcoholic drinks, although he joked that she should start learning to
take them. Maybe later, she had acquiesced. When he asked if she preferred old fashioned potato salad or mixed greens, she
joked that she would like Caeser’s salad instead. For a split second, he was taken aback but when she smiled, he recovered, and
regained his composure when she said she would eat either of the salads.

When he started to put his marinated steak onto the grill, she joined him in the kitchen and offered to set the table. Every of her
movement sent some thrill rippling through him. He had to focus very hard on getting the right ingredients in at the right time.
He could feel the heat close by. He was psyching himself not to do anything that might blow the evening away. Cherry in her
freshness did not help when she hovered close and watched him watched the grill, brushing by him ever so softly when she
turned here or there. She would ask questions about his work, his travels which he answered innately but all the while had to
restrain himself from wanting to reach out and grab her body towards him.

Things improved for him at dinner as he became more relaxed with his drink and food. Cherry enjoyed his salads, which pleased
him very much. Then she suggested watching some TV. The evening ended most pleasantly for both of them after Martin took
Cherry home in a taxi.

He also began to visit Cherry at her guardian Aunt Lee’s home. Six months later, Martin popped the question to Cherry, who
agreed. Aunt Lee gave her blessing on condition that Cherry go on to complete her University degree while she was married to
Martin, to which he was perfectly agreeable.

On their honeymoon in Bali, Cherry was the perfect Asian bride that Martin had always fantasized about - sweet and petite,
intelligible and intelligent English, accommodating, unbrash, a virgin. As a couple, they made heads turn because she carried
herself so well next to his middle-age bulges.

After the honeymoon, they returned to Martin’s apartment, where married life would begin.

After they had settled in, when the flush of idyllic, edenic romance became a subdued tinge of blurry-eyed memories, Martin,
slouching on the couch watching TV, turned to look at Cherry, who was at the kitchen table completing a term essay for her
university course. As he watched the small screen, he reminded her of their first date, when he invited her over and cooked her
salads, and she didn’t make a choice of the two salads but ate both. He confessed it was his way of seducing her, and smiled to
himself obviously pleased with his triumph. Cherry remained quiet.
Later in bed, after their love-making, as he turned over to sleep, Cherry snuggled up to him and said he really needn’t have
tried so hard to seduce her with salad. Salads would not have impressed her. She had already made up her mind to marry him,
for Aunt Lee had approved of him when she had met him as the new expatriate in the office where she was one of the secretaries
and where Cherry was a part-time front-door receptionist.

When Martin shut his sleepy eyes, he said to himself, so this was to be his story, after he had spent years escaping the clutches
of commitment by backpacking and running away from his suburbia ennui and highschool sweetheart to discover the frontiers
of exotic Asia.
6. A Lost Boy by O Thiam Chin (Singapore)
My grandson loves to hang around young girls, especially those below 10 years old. He befriends these girls easily, giving them
pieces of sweets or a small gift like a pencil or bookmark. They are usually my neighbours' kids, still in primary school. He
likes to touch their hair and make them laugh. I thought it's common for boys to like girls, a fact of life, nothing unusual about
it. He is only 13. Everything seems normal, at least, from how I see it.

I take care of my grandson because my daughter has to work two different jobs every day. My grandson takes his looks after
my daughter: oversized eyes, thick soft lips and a petite frame. But how he talks and walks often reminds me of his father, who
has deserted the family three years ago, with his latest girlfriend, hiding somewhere in Ipoh, his hometown. My grandson talks
at a fast speed, as if he can't wait to get all the words out of his mouth, to say everything all at once, a condition which becomes
worse when he's anxious or frightened. He is a good imitator, able to pick up the distinct nuances of voices and mannerisms of
the people he sees on TV, a charming, disarming trait he uses to good effect, to his advantage. He likes to make people laugh,
to feel at ease with him, to like him.

Especially, he wants young girls to like him, and to this end, he works in a determined fashion, with an unwavering eagerness
to please. By skipping ropes with them, or playing catching. By telling them jokes and riddles. He likes to tease them, and to
draw giggles from them by tickling their ears and armpits and pinching their waists. Sometimes, he hugs and kisses them.
My daughter thinks there's nothing wrong in a boy showing affection to young girls – "You want him to like boys, is it?" – just
as long as there are limits and boundaries. What limits, what boundaries, I ask her, but she conveniently ignores my question.
Her being blase makes me anxious, fidgety. A few days ago, I walked past by grandson's room, and through the gap in the door,
I noticed that he was watching something on his computer, a grainy video with the volume set to low. It took a few seconds
before I registered what the video was about, an act between a young-looking girl and two men. My grandson was so engrossed
that he didn't notice my presence, his body hunched before the screen, riveted. When he started moving his hand in front of his
shorts, I turned and walked away, my body recoiling from a deepening sense of shame and disgust. I had to sit on the sofa for
a long while to gather my thoughts and whip my mind into a functioning state.

A memory surfaced, dislodged from the mass of conflicting thoughts, and presented itself anew in my mind: the image of a
young woman, shoulder cropped hair with razor-straight bangs, a black-hole of a mouth, cosmos in her eyes. Her laughter, hard
and cold, resounded in my ears, and try as I might, I couldn't block it out. In my mind, I had confused her with the girl in the
video.
*
I came from a big family, with seven other siblings, and being the oldest child, my parents tasked me with the care of my
younger brothers and sisters while they were at work in the vegetable fields. This was back in the early '70s, and we were living
in a kampung, in a tiny wooden hut, surrounded by large families in similar circumstances, living with the bare minimums.
During the afternoons, when my younger siblings took their siestas, I would get out of the house and take long walks around
the kampung. Most of the huts would be quiet, since the adults were out at work and the children were sleeping off their lunches.
The only sounds were the occasional dog barks and the erratic clucking of chickens kept in small compounds bordered with
mesh wire. I liked the stillness of a drowsy afternoon, where all human activities took a temporary pause and nature exerted its
lonesome presence – the gentle waving of leaves on knobby trees, sharp blinks of light through the latticework of branches, the
humming of the forest. Everything seemed subdued in the heat of the day: the dogs that hid under the stilts of the huts, the
laundry hardening on the wire clothesline. Walking through the kampung was like walking through a desolate place devoid of
people, removed from time.

The hut next to ours was the Lims'. They were poultry farmers, rearing chickens, ducks, gooses and a handful of turkeys that,
to me, looked like fatter, uglier gooses. If they were not around, I'd pick up one of their yellow ducklings from the enclosed
compound and cup it in my palms, holding it tight while the duckling struggled to break free from my grasp. One time, I brought
the duckling to a large earthenware jar and let it loose in the dirty water, testing to see whether it would stay afloat. It put up a
wild, insignificant fight, its tiny wings useless in the water. I waited till the very last second – its body was almost fully
submerged, giving up – before I pluck it out, wet and exhausted in my hand. I would pat it dry with my shirt and stroke its head
with my finger. When I put the duckling back to the compound, it lay on the ground, too weak to move its webbed feet.

Thinking back, I didn't necessarily see my actions as bad or cruel; I did what I did, mostly out of curiosity, to see how far I
could go before it becomes too late to change. I didn't mean any harm to anyone, not even Pig-Face Soo. How could one know
the consequences of one's action at the moment when an act is committed?

Whenever I look at my grandson, I see a part of my younger self in him, a part that I wish I could eradicate, wipe it clean.
Instead I look away, choosing to use reason and rationale to explain away my unspoken fears. I tried to distract him by
encouraging him to play more sports, like basketball, during his free time after school. He played with the ball I bought him
for a few days, to please me, but his heart was never in it. He much preferred his own company when he's at home, his face
always behind a book or magazine. He was a quiet, solitary boy, which I somehow mistakenly equated to reticence and good-
naturedness.
*
Because my parents worked most of the day, and I was put in charge of my siblings, I had to grow up fast, to take up certain
responsibilities, even before I was ten. I was left to make decisions for my younger brothers and sisters, a role that I relished as
it gave me authority over them, to make them do the things I said. Most of the time, they obeyed my instructions, and when
they didn't, I'd slap their faces or give their thighs a hard pinch. If they cried, I'd threaten them with worse punishments, like
throwing them down the deep well or locking them up in the chicken coop and feeding them chicken shit. Once, when my third
younger brother refused to clear up a bowl of rice he had overturned, I heated a kettle on the stove and brought his hand to the
hot surface. He yelped and cried until he passed out. Yet even after what I did, he didn't tell on me, but from that day, he kept
his distance and avoided getting into any trouble.

In the same vein, this was how I had brought up my only daughter, Lena, with tough words and a strong, steady hand. I kept
her by my side from young, telling her what to do and what not to do, lacing my threats with a few well-chosen words. When
my husband and I were divorced, when Lena was nine, I came down even harder on her, not wanting her to take the blunt of
my failed marriage. In a way, unconsciously, I was shaping her to become like me: firm, decisive, taking charge. It went well
for a few years, but when she hit puberty, she became a completely different person, a shadow of the daughter I wanted her to
be. She rebelled and resisted, contouring herself into something that was unrecognizable to me, and before she was sixteen, she
was already pregnant with my grandson, the father missing.

So with my grandson, I felt I had a second chance to redeem myself, to make things right. I offered to look after him, to take
care of him when my daughter looked for a job to support herself and the boy. I gave my full attention to my grandson, but this
time, I made sure not to exert any rigid control over him, to give him what he asks for, but of course, always within reason and
limits. It was already so hard growing up without a father, and it just didn't make any sense to deny him what was lacking in
his life. In spite of this, he was an undemanding child, uncomplicated in the things he wanted – a watch, a school bag, a new
Wii game. In many ways, he was much easier to bring up than my daughter, Lena.
*
In recalling the past about Lena, there is a pressing need, on my part, to make a confession, to set the records straight. I had
Lena when I was sixteen, a decision that was hastily made and stuck to without much thought about what I was going to do
with her, or what would become of us. Lena was the accident that happened after my luck ran out, a regrettable mistake. The
boy who had gotten me pregnant was someone I had loved once, and later, grown a revulsion towards. He was the son of the
owner of the hardware store in town, and he was the one who initiated me into the murky realm of sex and dark urges. Through
him, I got the first taste of love, its longings and complexities, but also, later, of shame and guilt, the attendant servants.

Back in the days, sex wasn't something one talked about openly, definitely not at home or in school, which, naturally, became
a point of fascination for me. I heard stories from friends in school about the numerous things a boy could do to a girl, but it
was hard to match and reconcile the stories told with the images in my head. I knew, of course, what a penis looks like, since I
had to shower my younger brothers every day, but to hear what it could do – swell, penetrate, spurt – was unimaginable to me.
My close friend back then, Ah Kim, told me about the time she saw her uncle pulling 'his thing' in his room – "He looks like
he's in pain, his face all scrunched up." I made the requisite sound of disgust, but inwardly I was curious. On some nights, half
an hour after lights off, I could hear movements and pockets of noise coming from my parents, and even when I tried to make
sense of the soft grunts and moans they were making, I was none the wiser at the end of it. But that's your charm, your sweet
naivety, Chong, the boy, told me later, after we had been going out for a while.

When it finally happened – that is, sex – I was slightly underwhelmed. So this was it, I had thought then, this fumbling and
tossing, the baring and penetrating, the whole works. The urgency of it, the stickiness of the bodies, the secretions – it was
nothing like how I had expected it. The first few times I had sex with Chong, my mind was often adrift somewhere else,
circumventing the discomfort and pain with thoughts of escape, of relief.

It took some time before I could wrestle any pleasure out of it, and when I did, I was living for it.
*
I wasn't surprised at what my daughter did when she was in her rebellion stage: excessive sex, hard drinking, lying, stealing.
From where I stood in her life, always from a distance, I could understand some of the things she did, why she did them, and
even then, it was hard for me to acknowledge this fact to myself, let alone to her. She would come home in the arms of a
different boy every other week, drunk and occasionally high, and make a big show of her indifference and nonchalance. I'd put
up a fight or slap her in the face, but nothing changed her. She would leave used condoms on the floor in her room, and later,
pregnancy test kits, for me to throw out. She stocked up bottles of Jim Beam and Absolut in her cupboard, and filled up an
empty fish tank with wine corks. She went about her life with a resolute recklessness that sometimes left me breathless with
paralysing dismay, and also stupefying bewilderment.

On the other hand, my grandson is a different story. He never caused any serious problem – the only time he got into trouble at
school was over name-calling; apparently a classmate had called him a dirty pervert for accidentally walking into the girls'
toilet, and in retaliation, he had punched the boy in the face. When I asked him about the incident, he remained mum, not
wanting to explain anything. At home, he keeps a tidy room, with everything in place. Whatever he does, he would clean up
after himself, not leaving any traces of his past activities, and I would put it down as part of his nature, his fastidiousness, his
need to maintain a certain amount of order and control. Maybe, I thought, some boys are born this way.
*
The walks I took when I was just a young girl, before things started to change, were something I looked back with a bittersweet
nostalgia, in which nothing was asked of me, just observation and full immersion in the quiet moments where life was at a
standstill. I walked with no purpose in mind, hours lost in the minutiae. Sometimes, during these walks, I'd come upon Pig-
Face Soo, who, too, ambled aimlessly around the kampung. She was two years younger than me, but her body was already in
the flush of puberty, her breasts like those of a nursing sow, huge and saggy. She had a giant head with two tiny slits as eyes,
and was slow in the head. Because her parents were out in the fields, like my parents, during the day, she was allowed to roam
freely, doing whatever she felt like. Nobody in the kampung bothered her in any way, though I had heard stories told by my
neighbours of how Pig-Face Soo would let anyone touch her breasts as long as there was food in the bargain. One time, I
chanced upon her peeing in the bushes, though she didn't see me at all. I was too stunned to move away, or hide myself,
transfixed by the unruly black bush of pubic hair between thick swathes of pale, layered flesh. And in the weeks that followed,
I gave her a wide berth, unable to lift my eyes to her.

A few times she had surprised me with her sudden appearances, when I was distracted with a stray thought or preoccupied with
a task. She would giggle and mumble something unintelligible, and sometimes in her excitement, hop and gesticulate wildly.
I'd calm her down with anything I had in hand: a candy, a flower or a song I sang to my siblings to lull them to sleep. She would
grab my hands and put them on her face, in a gesture of unforced intimacy, and I'd keep them there for as long as I could.
Sometimes she would slip my hands down to her huge breasts and move them around. The first time it happened I cupped one
of her breasts abstractedly in my hand, feeling its softness, its fullness; when she did it the next time, I jerked my hand back
and rebuked her, as gently as I could muster, saying no, no, no. She looked crestfallen, as if I had spit in her face. She would
not have been able to understand her actions, but for me, it was enough to shake me up for a long time, this blunt, unthinking
display of another woman's sexuality.

There was another time I saw her near the stream at the outskirts of the kampung, taking sips from the water, and out of an
unexplainable compulsion, I decided to follow her. Though she didn't do anything out of the norm – the exact same things I'd
have done on my own: plucking mangos or rambutans off the trees, chasing after butterflies and squirrels, talking to herself –
the thrill of following her and taking in everything she did was strangely intoxicating, as if I were allowed a long uninterrupted
look into another person's hidden life.

I felt the same buzz, that familiar sickening knot in the gut, when I followed my grandson one afternoon after school. I had
seen him at the void deck with a girl in school uniform, talking and laughing, and immediately hid behind a wall, straining to
hear their conversation, which was mostly about the girl – her friends, favourite Korean bands, a new smartphone she wanted
to get. I saw my grandson putting his hand on the girl's lap and later over her shoulder. After half an hour, my grandson led the
girl to the stairwell beside the multi-storey car park. I kept my surveillance till the very moment before it became too
conspicuous. They went up the flight of stairs and the last thing I saw was the young girl's Bata shoes that were pristine white.
I waited for a long time, waiting for them to come down again, but they never did. And since I couldn't bring myself to walk
up the stairs, I left and went back home, to prepare an afternoon snack for my grandson.
*
With Chong, I became a different kind of person, one that was separate from the life I had at home. With him, I discovered
another side to my body, one that was sensual, secretive, pleasure-serving as well as giving. I drank deep from my body, yielding
to its depth, thirsty beyond any understanding. I gave full rein of it to Chong, who though was only three years older than me,
possessed a secret knowledge and experience that went beyond his years. He knew the right angle for me to arch my body
when he wanted to enter me from behind, the spread of my legs to bring me faster to that elusive, explosive joy that always
reduced me to purely nerves and flesh. Once, I brought him home in the afternoon, and we did it under the covers, beside my
sleeping siblings. My youngest sister had woken up in the middle of our act, and stared at me with an open-mouthed puzzlement.
I held her stare without letting go, not even after Chong came inside me. Finally, she forced her eyes shut, and turned away to
face the wall. Later, when I tried to bring this up with her, she acted like she had completely forgotten about it.
*
When my grandson was six or seven, I'd often find him crying in bed after a nightmare; if the nightmare was worse than usual,
he would run into my room, eyes swollen from the tears, seeking the safety of my body. He would hold onto my body as if it
were his last refuge, and a stream of mutilated words would pour forth from his mouth, mostly about a bear or a tiger chasing
after him, or a witch attempting to tear off his arm or leg. And then, there was this time he dreamt about my daughter, Lena,
locking him up in a cage and throwing it into a well. "She doesn't want me, Ah Ma, she doesn't want me. She wants to throw
me away. Why does Mummy want to do that?"

Without answering him, I cleaned his wet face with a towel and changed him into a dry set of pyjamas. I cooed to him, and
patted his arm, getting him to sleep again. He struggled to stay awake, his flighty eyes gradually losing their intensity, and
eventually he dropped off into the deep end of sleep.
*
That day was like any other day. Chong and I were lying on the grass patch by the stream, cooling off after one of our afternoon
sessions. Out of the blue, he brought up the topic of Pig-Face Soo whom he had seen that morning at the kampung well, openly
taking a shower. On my back, looking up at the leaden sky, I glanced at Chong who had propped himself up with his arms, a
stem-stalk dangling from his mouth. Like boys his age, he had trained his face to be expressionless, tough.

"They should do something with her, and not let her run around like that," he said.

"Why? Who can take care of her? Her parents have to work, and her siblings are too young."

"They can lock her up at home, or something."

"They did when she was much younger, and she burnt the hut down, remember? I think it's better this way." I recalled the night
of the fire, when I was eight, which my father, along with the other men in the kampung had to form a line from the well to the
hut, passing along buckets of water, which did nothing to douse the fire. Everything was consumed in the end, blackened and
skeletal.

"She's too old to behave like that, like a bloody kid," Chong said.

"She's one anyway, at least in the head." A cloud lingered over us, the shade a brief balm, before it moved away. The features
on Chong's face darkened as he mulled over some thoughts in his head. Then he reached over and slipped his hand into my
shirt, pulling at my nipple. Edging towards me, he climbed on top of me, breathing into my face.

"You want it again?"

"No, I'm tired. Let me rest, don't disturb me."

"You sure? Your body's telling me something different."

My nipple was hardened under his teasing. He lifted my shirt, and began to lick it. I pushed him away, with little resolve. My
thoughts boiled down to a single carnal act – the flicking of Chong's tongue. From the undergrowth, a giggle sounded out.
Chong stopped, and looked over his shoulder. I quickly covered myself, and turned towards the person who was trying to move
away from us, a flurry of movements. Chong let out a curse, and gave chase. From the bulk and shape of the retreating figure,
I knew it was Pig-Face Soo.

"You idiot, come back!"

Chong leapt at Pig-Face Soo and knocked her down, putting his full body weight on her. Despite her size, Pig-Face Soo was
too weak to put up any resistance, her face grinding on the rocky ground. She coughed a few times, in an attempt to scream.
Chong slapped her hard on her cheeks, and silenced her.

"Sneaking up on us? How dare you?" Chong grabbed her hair and slammed her head to the ground. A line of blood appeared
on Pig-Face Soo's forehead. She started to whimper. I stood apart from both of them, feeling removed from the scene before
me, like a third party intruding an intimate encounter.

"Chong, let her go. Just let her go."

"No, she spied on us, this stupid whore."

Turning her body around, Chong straddled Pig-Face Soo's chest. He looked down at her, his eyes crazed and fired-up. Then he
grabbed the neckline of her shirt and tore it down the middle, exposing her huge breasts. She let out a gasp. Chong grabbed the
breasts and kneaded them roughly. A confusion of looks streaked across Pig-Face Soo's face. She stopped sobbing and looked
at me, as if hoping to read an answer from my stare. I turned away.

When Chong started to pinch her nipples, Pig-Face Soo closed her eyes, a blush blossomed across her face. Her nipples became
erected, and a strange expression took over her face. When Chong brought his mouth to them, I saw her mouth break open into
a perfectly-shaped 'O'. Everything at the moment felt unhinged, unfettered to any semblance of reality, as if I were watching
something terrible and life-changing taking place before me, slow frame after slow frame

"Come here," Chong threw his words at me. I edged towards the tangle of bodies. "Hold her," he said. Without any
comprehension, I held down Pig-Face Soo's arms, which were clammy with sweat, cold. By then, she was offering hardly any
resistance, her arms limp by her sides. I could have let go, and she wouldn't have done anything. But still, I did exactly as I was
told, as if it were the only thing I could do.

When Chong pulled down her shorts and did what he did, I was no longer there. I had slipped away somewhere in my mind.
When Pig-Face Soo tried to catch my eyes with hers, I couldn't bring myself to look away. In the dark, dead pits of her eyes, I
caught a reflection of myself, enlarged and distorted, filling her vision. What did she see? Whatever she saw in me, she didn't
flinch or relent to it; instead she took it in and made it her own, swallowing it whole.
*
I left the kampung shortly after what happened, sent to live with a distant auntie in a new housing estate in the north, to pick
up the skill and trade of dressmaking from her. My family needed the extra income, and I couldn't wait to leave the place, to
start anew. At that point, Chong and I had not spoken to each other for a while, which seemed to me inevitable yet necessary.

Some months after I left, I heard the news from my mother. Pig-Face Soo had gone missing one night and was later found in
the well. It was naturally assumed that she had accidentally fallen in and drowned. Her family hushed up the whole incident,
and she was given a quick burial, on a small plot of land outside the kampung. Nobody spoke of her again. She was a mistake
from the start, my mother said, and now that she's gone, it's for the better. What do you mean? I had asked my mother. But she
didn't explain, and I couldn't bring myself to ask any further.
*
The past is a beast that comes at you from every direction, waiting to eat you alive. For years, I have made myself forgetful, to
let my mind skim lightly over the surface of my memories, so that I could be at peace with the person I have become. But
sometimes the past can sneak up so suddenly, so ravenously, appearing not in a nightmare or a random thought or a suppressed
fear, but as a person, in the acts of a loved one, abominable, inexplicable.

When my grandson came back home that afternoon I had followed him, the first thing he did was to wash his hands thoroughly
with the liquid hand soap. He saw me looking at him, and told me he was hungry. I set the plate of ham-and-cheese sandwich
before him on the dining table, and asked him about his day. It's fine, I had to stay back in school for a project, he said, taking
a bite into the sandwich. I stared at him, and I sat at the table until he had finished everything on the plate.

I waited, as if for a reply, though I had not said anything while my grandson was eating. When he was done, he walked up to
me and gave me a kiss on my forehead. Thank you for everything, Ah Ma, he said.
7. Blown by the Wind by Dina Anak Along (Brunei)
Sarrah enjoyed reliving her childhood memories. Of particular importance to her were the memories of her friend Tasya, who
had lost her life by cancer. Sarrah found meaning and strength in her life by revisiting her childhood experiences with Tasya.

One evening, Sarrah was asked by her son, to tell a bedtime story. His mother could not summon any old story to her mind, but
suddenly Tasya’s memories came flooding. She began to talk about her dear, long lost friend who had a strong will to live, even
though she didn’t have a long time.

Tasya and Sarrah spent most of the time together studying, hanging out together, and sharing their love life stories with each
other. No matter how many bad experiences they had been through, they never ever had any argument with each other. Not
even once did they backstab each other. Even while going out with each other’s dates, they never left the other person out, not
even a single time, so they would get to know the person whom their best friend went out with.

One day, Sarrah and Tasya went out to look for Sarrrah’s wedding dress. They were having a good time together browsing
through all the dresses, looking for the best and suitable one for Sarrah’s wedding. Tasya chose hers. Soon after Sarrah had
changed to her wedding dress, she called Tasya who was changing in the dressing room right next to her. However, there was
no response from Tasya. Sarrah knocked on the door; still no reply. Then she asked the staff to check if they had the key to
open the door. When the door was opened, Sarrah was shocked to see that her best friend had collapsed on the floor. She
panicked and called the emergency number.

With great anxiety, Sarrah waited in the waiting room as the doctor checked Tasya. He then asked to see Sarrah, and talked to
her at length. The doctor told her the dreaded news, and Sarrah was in despair.

After Tasya gained consciousness, Sarrah looked after her. Together, they decided that they would continue to live a normal
life, even though Tasya’s time on earth was limited. Tasya only wanted to see Sarrah, her best friend, happy.

Tasya, it turned out, lived long enough to see her best friend get married, and even more surprisingly, even her first-born baby.
What made Sarrah happier was to see her best friend being her first son’s godmother. That was Tasya’s gift to Sarrah: her will
and struggles to live that long.

In her short life, Tasya left enough beautiful memories for Sarrah, to cherish for a lifetime. Now she was sharing those memories
with Tasya’s only Godchild… her son.
8. Wrapped-Ash Delight by Outhine Bounyavong (Laos)
When Nang Piew finished washing, the sun had not yet set behind the mountain. Its yellow rays shone overthe treetops beside
the river, glittering on the rippled water flowing softly down below. She draped the well-wrung cloth over her forearm and
prepared to climb back up the riverbank. Then a shiny object on the ground caught her eye. She picked it up to look at it more
closely. It was heavy ...valuable - it was a silver belt!

She looked around. A few steps away, down by the river, two or three people were bathing: They weren't paying any attention
to her, so she hid her find under the wet cloth and continued her walk up the slope toward home, her heart thumping unsteadily.
She hadn't decided yet whether she should go looking for the rightful owner ofthe belt or keep it for herself. However, her first
reaction was to get away from that area by the river as quickly as possible before anybody saw her there.

As soon as she was over the bank, she bumped into Nang Oie, who was halfrunning and half walking to the river with a worried
look.

"Have you seen my silver belt?" asked Nang Oie.

"Oh no!" Nang Piew answered automatically, trying to keep her voice as calm as possible.

Nang Oie continued on her way to the river without any more questions, for she was in a hurry to find her lost possession.

When she arrived home, Nang Piew caressed the belt with shaky hands. She was not used to stealing or finding lost valuables.
After wrapping the belt around her waist, she turned left and right in front ofthe mirror. She looked at her reflection in the
mirror and saw an unhappy face full ofworries, suspicion...full ofquestions.

"Maybe people will find out I have it," she thought first. "There's no way they can know, because a lot ofpeople use that place
by the river for bathing. In fact, almost everybody in the village uses that spot," she assured herself, trying to regain control of
her thoughts.

"Should I tell Father and Mother about it?" she wondered.

"Well, if! do, they'll probably make me return it. But I've already told Nang Oie I haven't seen it. It's not a good idea to turn my
words around now."

Nang Piew racked her brain but could not come up with the right answer. On the one hand, she wanted to return the silver belt,
but on the other, she wanted very much to keep it for herself. She was the daughter of a peasant couple whose life lacked a
good many luxuries. Ifshe kept the belt, she would have to wait a long time before she could wear it, as she lived in a small
rural village where everybody knew everybody else. When a person borrowed something from another person, everyone in the
village knew about it right away. It would take a while for everyone in the village to forget about this missing object. And when
that time came, how would she explain the belt to her parents? "Where did you get that belt?" they would ask. The problem
seemed to get bigger and bigger. What lies would she have to tell her parents in order to convince them?

She thought about Nang Oie, who lived farther up the street at the other end ofthe village. She was a young teenager and began
wearing her silver belt little more than a year ago. Before that, she'd worn an ordinary belt. She had not been allowed to use
the silver one for fear that she might lose it. Nang Oie's mother died when she was only ten years old. Four years later, her
father remarried. It was now two years since the new wife had moved in. Nang Piew remembered well the passing of Pa Soi,
Nang Oie's mother. She died after hemorrhaging in childbirth, leaving six small children as orphans. It had been a sad time for
the whole community.

As she remembered this period of sorrow, Nang Piew wanted to return the belt. But another thought prevented her from doing
so: nobody knew. Nobody had seen her with the belt, so it didn't matter ifshe decided to keep it. If there was a problem later,
she could always sell the belt at a jewelry store in town. However, her conscience kept reminding her that failing to return other
people's belongings isn't right. It is a sin. She hid the belt in a secure place and left the room. She looked left and right with the
worried thought that Nang Oie might have followed her home.

On that same evening, the lawn bahn' called for a meeting at his house. Those who had gone bathing before sunset at that
particular area by the river were asked to attend. Loong Pong's family, whose house was located by the riverbank, had witnessed
a number ofpeople bathing at the time. Among them were Nang Piew and four or five elders ofthe village. The kuan bahn and
the senior members explained the situation, then admonished whoever had found the belt to return it to its rightful owner. There
was a heated discussion. When it was over, nobody had admitted to the crime.
The kuan bahn was compelled to come up with another strategy. He told everyone involved to wrap ashes in a package of
banana leaves. Everyone should bring his or her package the following evening to the kuan bahn s house. This would give the
culprit time to reconsider his or her mistake.

On the way home, Nang Piew tried to keep her behavior as normal as possible, but the harder she tried, the more abnormal she
became. It seemed to her that many eyes followed her wherever she went. If she coughed, the cough sounded unusual. When
she smiled, the expression seemed dry and empty. When she spoke, her speech seemed insincere.

Her heart was heavy. She was not very happy. She was constantly afraid that people were going to come and search her house
for the belt. The following day, while she was sitting inside, deep in thought about the silver belt and wondering what to do
with it, she heard Nang Oie's voice at the gate.

"Hello! Anybody home?" Nang Oie called.

Nang Piew was startled. She moved closer to the wall and, peeping through a hole, saw Nang Oie enter the yard. Suddenly
Nang Piew's mother, who was busy dyeing cloth in the back, called out to Nang Oie, "I’m over here!"

"Oh, I thought nobody was home because it was so quiet. My mother asked me to come and borrow a ladder from you, Auntie,
to collect betel leaves. She plans to visit relatives and would like to take some betel as a gift."

"Go right ahead. The ladder is stored on the side of the barn. By the way, Oie, has your belt been found yet?" "No, Auntie. I'm
afraid it's lost forever. Mother is very cross with me. She thinks that I'm irresponsible."

Up in the house, Nang Piew listened quietly. When she was sure that Nang Oie was not there to inquire about the belt, she felt
a little relieved and went down to meet her in the yard.

"Where's your mother going, Oie?" asked Nang Piew, trying to keep her voice as calm and friendly as possible.

"She said she was going to Bahn Lak Sao to ask a relative for some help in finding a soothsayer who can tell us the whereabouts
of my belt. She may leave tomorrow or the day after."

Upon hearing this, Nang Piew felt more worried and, in quite a hurry, guided Nang Oie to the barn where the ladder was kept.
She helped Nang Oie by carrying the other end of the ladder and walking behind her.

"So you haven't found the belt yet?" asked Nang Piew.

"No, Piew.I've looked everywhere. Oh, I miss it so much."

"Maybe it fell in the river." Nang Piew tried to deflect Nang Oie's belief that someone had really taken it.

"No, I don't think so. I searched through the water all over that area and I haven't found it."

The two arrived at the front gate. Nang Piew released her end of the ladder and let Nang Oie carry it home by herself as it was
not very heavy.

After dinner that evening, there was another gathering at the kuan bahn s house. The crowd that gathered this time was bigger
than usual. People came to watch, to witness the event. The people who were supposed to bring ashes each walked to an empty
room with his or her package inside a covered basket. This way, nobody knew which package belonged to whom. Each person
left his or her package in the room, then came out to sit and wait with the rest of the crowd. Nang Piew put her ash package
among the others. Each package, wrapped in banana leaves, contained ashes and chili, symbols of fiery pain for those who
steal. After the last package had been carried in, the kuan bahn brought them all outside and placed them in front of the crowd.
This was the very moment everyone had been waiting for: the opening of the packages.

An elder had the honor of opening the packages. He unwrapped each one carefully and calmly. First, he pulled out the stick
that held the package together, then he opened the banana wrapper, and at last he stirred the ash slowly with a stick. The crowd
held its breath in mingled anxiety and anticipation. The first package contained only ash and chili, and the second was exactly
the same. Starting with the third one, the elder stirred the ashes only two or three times. He didn't need to poke through it too
much because the belt was a big object. As soon as the package was opened, one could easily see whether or not it was there,
unlike a ring or an earring, which would require a thorough search.

The unwrapping of the packages captured the interest of the crowd. Everybody watched attentively. No one spoke, or even
blinked an eye. It was like uncovering a pot of gold that had just been dug out of the earth. The opening of packages continued
steadily through fifteen packages, but the object in question did not appear. Many people thought this all might indeed prove
to be a waste of time. The sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth packages were the same. The elder felt a little discouraged,
but he was obliged to go on with the job. When he pulled out the stick that held the nineteenth package and opened the leaves,
a big pile of ash came tumbling down to reveal a shiny object. Everyone cheered with delight. There were screams of happiness
from those who had come to witness the event as well as from those who had brought the ash, including the one who had
returned the belt, whom no one could name. The loudest scream of all was from Nang Oie, the owner of the belt, who was
choked with happiness. The noisy commotion symbolized the love, solidarity, sincerity, and brotherhood that had been shared
by all in this village from many generations.

The opening of the packages ended with the nineteenth. Although five remained, no one felt it was necessary to continue.