I was humming an OPM song while standing
outside the gate. I usually ride tricycle going to school. This day, my class
was at 8:30 but I needed to go early to finish my project.
A green
rustic tricycle stopped in front of me. I hesitated for a moment, wishing our
neighbor Mang Ponce who drives his brand new tricycle would pop out to save me
from riding this old one. But since I wasn't certain if Mang Ponce was still
around and realizing I was being maarte, I stepped into the tricycle.
The road heading to the national
highway was slippery due to the heavy rain last night. The driver, a
40-something man, might’ve noticed my scrutiny because he smiled shyly and
said,
“Pasensiya na, Miss. Magre-retire na
ang traysikel ko pero kelangang kumayod.”
Then a bump made the hanging picture
to fall down in front of me. I immediately got it and quickly glimpsed at the
thin boy holding a yellow toy gun.
“Si Balong yan, apo ko.”
I nodded and noticed that instead of
pride that usually shines in the eyes of grandfathers when they talk about
their grandsons or grandchildren, I saw pity and sorrow. It was not hard for me
to realize why those emotions were present in his eyes. The stained jacket over
faded Marlboro shirt, torn jeans and the thin dark slippers on his crooked feet
were the proof that poverty is his daily companion.
“Tiyak naghihintay na yun sa akin,”
he said in a lower voice that was almost a whisper; it’s as if he’s talking to
himself. It was then it hit me; he’d buy their breakfast from his early pasada-
including my fare. But what if it wouldn’t be enough, would they have to wait
until noon time?
I really didn’t know what went
through me. It might have been the sorrow I saw in his eyes. Or I was carried
away by the pity I felt after seeing his clothes as rustic and as old as his
tricycle....I really didn’t know. All I really felt were excitement when I
asked him to stop for a while, then graciousness when I entered the bakeshop
near a grocery store.
That graciousness turned into joy as
I went back into the tricycle with him waiting patiently. As soon as we arrived and I paid him, I stepped out and walked toward
our school gate.
“Miss, naiwan niyo po ang dala
niyo,” he shouted, in his hands were the bags containing bread and groceries I
bought. I smiled and went back.
“Para po yan sa inyo,” I said. I saw
shock registered into his lined face before his eyes welled with tears.
“S-Salamat” was all he could say in
his soft, broken voice. His face was a picture of gratitude.
I never saw him again as days passed
by. I became busy with the examination and projects that I failed to share that
memorable day with my family and friends.
One Friday night we celebrated our
Linguist Club Anniversary. It was a couple of minutes past eleven in the
evening when my friends and I went out of the gym. It was raining hard, the
street glistening with puddle. Then a
familiar green rustic tricycle approached us. Confident I was in safe hands, I
parted from my friends.
While heading home, I was not able
to make a conversation with him due to the heavy rain. But as soon as we
arrived in our gate, he flashed me his greatest smile.
“Kahit sa ganitong paraan man lang
ay mapasalamatan kita sa kabutihan mo,” he said. He didn’t accept the coins I
offered. After I said my thanks, I ran into our gate. Then he waved before
driving off.
I was cold and wet all over when I
entered our living room. There I saw my father and Mang Ponce deeply engaged in
a conversation. My mother ushered me into the kitchen but not before hearing
what Mang Ponce said.
“The Cooperative will be taking care
of his family. The accident was so horrible he died at around ten this
evening.”
“What’s his name?” my father asked.
“Caloy Ragado. And he owned that
old, green tricycle. I saw Jea rode him two weeks ago.”
I dropped the towel my mother gave
me when it hit me. A dead tricycle driver drove me home just to repay the
kindness I once shared.
