The Voices in the Bus

The next passenger to sit by her side was an old man with rags for clothes and dead mice for breath and Lydia swore to herself to ignore the stranger.

“So where are you going now?” he asked. I guess you finally took my advice to bring that child to your parents in the province. It’s about time…”

He was referring to Becky, 4 years old, the little girl sleeping in Lydia’s lap. She had expended all her energy crying the whole day. She asked for food, begged for water. Pulled Lydia’s hair and even peed on her lap but her mother wouldn’t say a thing. Even now, while already reeking of urine, her eyes were transfixed into the distance and while occasionally she would smile, Lydia’s eyes wouldn’t stray from whatever it is she was looking at, which seemed far and away and unreachable.

But the old man was persistent. “That child has not seen her grandparents, in fact, not a single one of your relatives. You wouldn’t like her to grow up a stranger to her own family don’t you? Lovely child. I bet she tastes good.”

He licked his chops at the mention of the last words and Lydia fought the terror creeping into her with pretended outrage. “Back off, you ugly beast!” she screamed, startling the other passengers as well as the driver himself who accidentally sent the bus into a throttle. But immediately they pretended not to hear a thing. They all knew the woman sitting at the farthest seat in the back had a serious problem. It's just that there's nothing they can do about it.

Lydia on the other hand, knew the people in that bus are aware of her condition, but they just pretend not to care. She had actually seen the old man before. In the bedroom at the stroke of midnight while she slept with Medel. At the hospital while she was giving birth to Becky and the whole time during her confinement at the ward. Lydia struggled to get hold of herself screaming anew. “You are not real. You are just a figment of the imagination. Stay away from me”. She was shocked at the suddenness of her recollection of the entry in the doctors’ notes, which she only read once and in great hurry one time while she was lucid during the time the doctor inadvertently left his papers at Lydia’s bedside at the ward in Mandaluyong. She regretted why she escaped. Medel would be mad at this that’s for sure.

A headless woman walked through the aisle, her bloody skirt brushing Lydia lightly in the knees jolting her and the old man let out an eerie laugh, forked tongue wagging in the air. He was drooling. Craving for the sleeping child. The passengers looked and seemed normal except for the horns that suddenly appeared on their heads. As soon as they reached the next bus stop, Lydia jumped out and scampered into the night.

It was not until ten months later that Medel finally found his wife wandering aimlessly along the highway in Lucena. A walking naked skeleton of a human being covered with filth and grease. She was totally incoherent and violent and in permanent conversation with her ghosts about how the devil ate her child.

That Thing We Do

Today, I break my own rules.

When I started this blog, my intention is to put nothing but short stories to it. But on this particular occasion there will be none of those things that terrify or make me depressed and insecure or make me question my purpose for being, in short the very thoughts that had lead others to say I had been all along afflicted with a kind of chronic negativity, whatever that means. Part of the reason for the change of heart, to tell you the truth is I am running out of stories to tell, and the other part is the audacity of that one great belief that after only a few months of blogging, I have already earned the right to do my own rants, which I used to abhor when people do it unabashedly, especially for purposes of self-promotion. Well, I am doing the same thing now and I would be willing to earn the devil's wrath because well maybe I deserve to.

I was glossing over the discussion forum the other day and a question struck a chord. It wasn't a particularly intelligent or emotional or controversial topic but on the contrary, the question was rather commonplace and I am sure the asker was nowhere near the first to think of the question, which in fact may have already been asked a million times at various interactions happening in every corner of the worldwide web. What makes you think this life is still worth living? In most cynicial times, I would have cringed. Just another subtle shot at pontification. So I must admit I answered it by a spur of the moment's thought, the idea merely to get some attention from those browsing on the same page. I don't even remember now what my answer was and I doubt if I can still find the said thread in the discussion forum, until it appears again in some other form or permutation but for now I only wish I had been more incisive and level-headed in my answer or if not, to at least make sense and deliver a valid point.

As an afterthought, and to perhaps undo what had already been done, I would say that for as long as people do the things that they do out of love, then life would be worth it. Sometimes, I would surprise myself for the great lengths that I would be willing to go, and for the sheer energy of my resolve to do the things that would actually contribute absolutely nothing to my personal happiness but would bring fulfillment to someone else even to a complete stranger. And those are the moments when I feel most proud just to be me. I am sure a lot of folks also know the feeling. Because when you become the recipient of an act of kindness, that means you must have done something truly special in your past that makes you deserving of a return favor. The law of karma had simply rewarded you the opportunity to reap what you planted, in a way you didn't imagine and because of that you will become more inspired to plant the seed of kindness all over again keeping the cycle of sharing perpetually in motion, touching more people's lives.

That we are somehow equipped with a consciousness of the other person's needs and more importantly, the initiative to try to fill that need is such a wonderful thing. It should rank among the greatest miracles on earth. For so long we have hailed the greatest inventions, the most profound achievements, the extraordinary feats yet the small acts of kindness that happen on a daily basis practically go unnoticed precisely because you see them everywhere anytime. But imagine what kind of a world we will all have if people would stop caring?

Maybe we should all remember that we are as much a product of what good deeds people do and have done for us out of responsibility, as those small favors that they did out of love. I would even dare say that the latter kind of favor has far greater and more lasting effect on the life that we choose to live. There is more to parents giving up so much of their own happiness and enduring unbelievable pains than simply because they are parents. There is more to the lowly-paid worker taking the extra mile, and staying at it beyond his watch than simply because it is the work he does and he just had to do it. There is more to the friends, and even the strangers who care to listen to you and willingly give you sympathy in moments when you needed it, than for sheer reason that it is just the kind of gesture expected of every man.

What does it make of you when you succeed in performing all your responsibility to the letter? Well, you just prove to be a truly responsible person and a credit to humanity. But everytime you perform a service that were never meant to be your responsibility to render and in doing so you do it with a sense of joy and purpose, then be proud that you have just set the highest example about love and caring and compassion, and because of that and because of people like you, it is indeed a much better world.

Thank you Ma'am Ria, if you happen to read this...