The Lake
Beside the backpack at rest on the cheap concrete ground, I stood under the large parasol that was fixed at the middle of a circular table to avoid the wrath of the mid-morning, mid-summer sun. A white paper cup whose contents I didn’t even consider to sip or at least take a look at was resting on the table within my reach. It seemed complacent under the shade enjoying the now-you-feel-now-you-don’t summer breeze coming from the overlooking fresh water lake. I was not. I was fiercely staring at the desecration of the lake that for years have provided livelihood to the people of my town. This was the welcome sight to my homecoming. A little later my brother on his scooter came. I supposed it was he I was waiting for. We greeted each other, “Tara?” That’s “How are you?” in our dialect. He took my backpack. I didn’t move. I was mad. My face didn’t lie. My brother could tell I was mad at something. He knew it was about him. “Ono man ta baga gasâ ika?” curiously and hesitantly he asked. That meant "Why do you look irate?" I didn’t answer. Curoiusly, he followed my line of sight. Now, there were two pairs of eyes that were fiercely and helplessly staring at the blatant vandalism of nature. Emaciated men, probably municipal jail inmates, half-naked from waist up, were dumping into the lake truckloads of household waste which they would cover with tons of chocolate brown earth. The “forced labor” work force, from our point of view, looked like they were dumping deep-brown filth into the stacked layer of mess using frayed shovels. The lake was still, not complaining. Even the occasional summer breeze couldn’t stir her serenity. Carbine-armed policemen in civilian clothes guarded the half-naked work force. That one of armed men was my father was not an issue; we thought it was part of his duty. Was it the presence of these callous sentries that had intimidated the lake? The calmness of the lake was so eerie that we had thought she must be brooding vengeance.
"It’d kill the fish,” I murmured. The last time I went home, the shoreline of the lake was only a meter or two from where we were standing. Now, it seemed that they had already reclaimed at least a hundred meters of land from the lake.
My brother answered, also in whisper, “They removed every living thing from the lake.”
"What?”
"They put everything in the sanctuary.”
"Where is that?” I was angrier.
"Binangcaan.”
"It’s too far. I haven’t been to that place.”
"It’s a paradise.” Without Adam and Eve, of course.
"What will happen to the fishermen?”
"They’re dumping thrash and earth into the lake.” He was referring to the half naked men who before our eyes were dumping thrash and earth into the lake.
"Who’s idea is this?”
"The mayor’s.”
"Who?”
"Rez Cortez.”
"That ... !” I said bad words that could only be addressed on a spur of the moment to a person you hated very much. Those were words that could humiliate the mayor.
The sound of gunshot made my tongue-lashing stop. My father fired at one of the naked men. He missed. The man, now running toward the parasol, was screaming obscenities. All the time he was running away he had his arms spread horizontally sideward flashing the dirty fingers. At this point my brother and I were already mounted on the scooter and had already left. We stopped for a while to witness the ruckus. Three armed policemen in civilian clothes - my father not included though – were going after the escapee. They fired at him and missed. They fired and missed. They fired and missed. When the escapee reached the parasol he dropped dead in exhaustion. The cup was no longer there.
Then a gurgling sound coming from the lake stole our attention. The policemen turned their heads to the direction of the lake. The “forced labor” work force stopped whatever they were doing and looked dumbfounded at what were forming before their eyes. As if roots have grown under our feet and planted us on where we respectively stood we couldn’t move. I screamed. A tidal washed us out. The wrath of nature sent me to waking life.
The cup that rest on the circular table was the very first thing that came into my conscious mind when I woke up. Next thing I recalled: the cup of hot chocolate that I accidentally spilled on the circular table with a parasol fixed at the middle of it. That was at City Café at 7-11 the night before I had this dream. It was raining lightly. It was also the night I talked to my brother, the one in my dream, on the phone. We were talking about our father.
"It’d kill the fish,” I murmured. The last time I went home, the shoreline of the lake was only a meter or two from where we were standing. Now, it seemed that they had already reclaimed at least a hundred meters of land from the lake.
My brother answered, also in whisper, “They removed every living thing from the lake.”
"What?”
"They put everything in the sanctuary.”
"Where is that?” I was angrier.
"Binangcaan.”
"It’s too far. I haven’t been to that place.”
"It’s a paradise.” Without Adam and Eve, of course.
"What will happen to the fishermen?”
"They’re dumping thrash and earth into the lake.” He was referring to the half naked men who before our eyes were dumping thrash and earth into the lake.
"Who’s idea is this?”
"The mayor’s.”
"Who?”
"Rez Cortez.”
"That ... !” I said bad words that could only be addressed on a spur of the moment to a person you hated very much. Those were words that could humiliate the mayor.
The sound of gunshot made my tongue-lashing stop. My father fired at one of the naked men. He missed. The man, now running toward the parasol, was screaming obscenities. All the time he was running away he had his arms spread horizontally sideward flashing the dirty fingers. At this point my brother and I were already mounted on the scooter and had already left. We stopped for a while to witness the ruckus. Three armed policemen in civilian clothes - my father not included though – were going after the escapee. They fired at him and missed. They fired and missed. They fired and missed. When the escapee reached the parasol he dropped dead in exhaustion. The cup was no longer there.
Then a gurgling sound coming from the lake stole our attention. The policemen turned their heads to the direction of the lake. The “forced labor” work force stopped whatever they were doing and looked dumbfounded at what were forming before their eyes. As if roots have grown under our feet and planted us on where we respectively stood we couldn’t move. I screamed. A tidal washed us out. The wrath of nature sent me to waking life.
The cup that rest on the circular table was the very first thing that came into my conscious mind when I woke up. Next thing I recalled: the cup of hot chocolate that I accidentally spilled on the circular table with a parasol fixed at the middle of it. That was at City Café at 7-11 the night before I had this dream. It was raining lightly. It was also the night I talked to my brother, the one in my dream, on the phone. We were talking about our father.
{May 27, 2009}
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