SINIGANG

by Marie Aubrey J. Villaceran

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“SO, what happened?”

She had finally decided to ask the question. I had been wondering how long my
Tita Loleng could contain her curiosity.

I continued to pick out tomatoes for the sinigang we were to have for dinner. I
wasn’t usually the one who assisted my aunt with the cooking. 
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She preferred my younger sister, Meg, for I knew far less in this area—not
having the aptitude, or the interest, I guess—for remembering recipes. That
didn’t matter today, though. This time, Tita Loleng wanted more than just an
extra pair of hands in the kitchen.

“Nothing much,” I answered offhandedly. “We did what people usually do

during funerals.” I reminded myself to tread carefully with her. Though I did
not really feel like talking, I could not tell her off for she took offense rather
easily.
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I put the tomatoes in the small palanggana, careful not to bruise their delicate skin, and carried them to
the sink.

“Did you meet…her?” Tita Loleng asked.

There came to me a memory of sitting in one of the smaller narra sofas in the living room in Bulacan. I
faced a smooth white coffin whose corners bore gold-plated figures of cherubs framed by elaborate
swirls resembling thick, curling vines. Two golden candelabras, each supporting three rows of high-
wattage electric candles, flanked the coffin and seared the white kalachuchi in the funeral wreaths,
causing the flowers to release more of their heady scent before they wilted prematurely. Through an open
doorway, I could see into the next room where a few unfamiliar faces held murmured conversations
above their coffee cups.
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“Are you Liza?” A woman beside me suddenly asked.

I was surprised, for I had not heard anyone approaching. Most of the mourners preferred to stay out on
the veranda for fear that the heat from the lights might also cause them to wither.

I looked up slowly: long, slim feet with mauve-painted toenails that peeked through the opening of a pair
of scruffy-looking slippers; smooth legs unmarred by swollen veins or scars—so unlike the spider-veined
legs of my mom—encased in a black, pencil-cut skirt; a white blouse with its sleeves too long for the
wearer, causing the extra fabric to bunch around the cuffs; a slim neck whose skin sagged just a little bit;
and a pale face that seemed like it had not experienced sleep in days. The woman looked to me like she
was in her forties—the same age as my mother.
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“Yes,” I had answered that woman—the same answer I now gave to Tita Loleng.

I gently spilled out all the tomatoes into the sink and turned on the tap. The water,
like agua bendita, cleansed each tomato of the grime from its origins.

“What did she tell you?” Tita Loleng asked.

“Nothing much. She told me who she was.”

“What did she look like?”

“She’s pretty, I guess.”

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She was. She looked like she had Indian blood with her sharp nose and deep-set eyes thickly bordered by
long lashes. Just like Mom, she still maintained a slim figure though she already had children. The
woman, upon seeing my curious stare, had explained, “I am Sylvia.”

All my muscles tensed upon hearing her name. It took all my self-control to outwardly remain calm and
simply raise an eyebrow.

My reaction caused a range of emotion to cross the woman’s face before it finally crumbled and gave
way to tears. Suddenly, she grabbed my hand from where it had been resting on the arm of the sofa. Her
own hands were damp and sticky with sweat. She knelt in front of me—a sinner confessing before a
priest so he could wash away the dirt from her past.
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But I was not a priest. I looked down at her and my face remained impassive.

When her weeping had subsided, she raised her head and looked at me. “Everyone
makes mistakes, Liza.” Her eyes begged for understanding.

It was a line straight out of a Filipino soap opera. I had a feeling that the whole
situation was a scene from a very bad melodrama I was watching. I looked around
to see if anyone had witnessed the spectacle unfolding in this living room, but it
was as if an invisible director had banned all but the actors from the set. Except for
us, not a soul could be seen.
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I wanted Sylvia to free my hand so I nodded and pretended to understand. Apparently
convinced, she let go and, to my shock, suddenly hugged me tight. My nose wrinkled as the
pungent mix of heavy perfume and sweat assailed me. I wanted to scream at her to let go but
I did not move away.

“Hmm, I think they’re washed enough na.” Tita Loleng said.

Turning off the tap, I placed the tomatoes inside the basin once more.

Then, as an afterthought, I told my Tita, “I don’t think she is as pretty as Mom, though.”
 Line 9

Tita Loleng nodded understandingly. She gestured for me to place the basin on the table where she already had the
knives and chopping board ready.

“Where was your Dad when she was talking to you?”

“Oh, he was sleeping in one of the bedrooms. Mom did not want to wake him up because they told her he had not slept
for two nights straight.”

Tita Loleng snorted. “Haay, your mother talaga,” she said, shaking her head.

I had to smile at that before continuing. “When he saw me, Sylvia had already been called away to entertain some of
the visitors.”
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Tita Loleng gave me a sympathetic look. “No choice then, huh?” She was forever baffled at
the way my mother could be such a martyr when it came to my father and such a tyrant to
her children.

Clack! Clack! The knife hacked violently against the board.

“Nope.”

When my Dad had come out of the room, I remembered sensing it immediately—the same
way an animal instinctively perceives when it is in danger. I had been looking at the face of
my dead half-brother, searching for any resemblance between us.
 Line 11
Chemotherapy had sunk his cheeks and had made his hair fall out, but even in this condition, I could see
how handsome he must have been before his treatment. His framed photograph atop the glass covering
of the coffin confirmed this. Lem took after my father so much that Dad could never even hope to deny
that he was his son. I, on the other hand, had taken after my mother.

I knew my father was staring at me but I refused look at him. He approached and stood next to me. I
remained silent.

“I am glad you came,” he said.

I gave him a non-committal nod, not even glancing his way.

Tita Loleng interrupted my thoughts with another one of her questions. “Did you cry?”

I shook my head vehemently as I answered, “No.”

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I took the sliced tomatoes, surprised to find not even a splinter of wood with them, as well as
the onions Tita Loleng had chopped and put them in a pot. “What next?” I asked her.

“The salt.” Then she went and added a heaping tablespoonful of salt to the pot.

“Is that all?”

“Uh-huh. Your Mom and I prefer it a bit saltier, but your Dad likes it this way.” Then she
gestured towards the pot, closing and opening her fist like a baby flexing its fingers.

I started crushing the onions, tomatoes, and salt together with my hand.
 Line 13
“He was an acolyte in church,” my father had said then, finally splintering the silence I had adamantly maintained.
“Father Mario said that we shouldn’t feel sad because Lem is assured of going to a better place because he was such a
good child.” Good, I thought, unlike me whom he always called “Sinverguenza”, the shameless daughter.

I finally turned to him. There was only one question I needed to ask. “Why?”

He met my gaze. I waited but he would not—could not— answer me. He looked away.
My mask of indifference slipped. It felt like a giant hand was rubbing salt into me, squeezing and mashing, unsatisfied
until all of me had been crushed.

“Stop it na, Liza!” Tita Loleng exclaimed. “Anymore of that mashing and you will be putting bits of your own flesh
and bone in there,” my aunt warned. She went to the refrigerator and took out plastic bags containing vegetables. She
placed them in the sink. “All of these will be needed for the sinigang,” she said. “Prepare them while you’re softening
the meat.” Then she took off her apron, “You go and finish off here. I will just go to my room and stretch my back out a
bit.” With a tender pat on my head, she walked out of the kitchen.
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I breathed a sigh of relief. The questions had stopped, for now.

I poured the hugas bigas into the mass of crushed onions and tomatoes and added the chunks of beef into the
concoction before covering the pot and placing it on the stove. I turned on the flame. The sinigang needed to simmer
for close to an hour to tenderize the meat.

In the meantime, I started preparing all the other ingredients that will be added to the pot later on. Taking all the plastic
bags, I unloaded their contents into the sink then washed and drained each vegetable thoroughly before putting them
beside my chopping board.

I reached for the bunch of kangkong and began breaking off choice sections to be included in the stew. When I was a
child, before Tita Loleng had chosen to stay with us, my mom used to do the cooking and she would have Meg and I sit
beside her while she readied the meals. I remembered that whenever it came to any dish involving kangkong, I would
always insist on preparing it because I loved the crisp popping sound the vegetable made whenever I broke off a stem.
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It was on one such occasion, I was in second year high school by then but still insistent on kangkong preparation, when
Mom had divulged the truth about the boy who kept calling Dad on the phone everyday at home.

Meg had also been there, breaking off string beans into two-inch sections. Neither of us had reacted much then, but
between us, I knew I was more affected by what Mom had said because right until then, I had always been Daddy’s
girl.

When the kangkong was done, I threw away the tough, unwanted parts and reached for the labanos. I used a peeler to
strip away the skin—revealing the white, slightly grainy flesh—and then sliced each root diagonally.

Next came the sigarilyas, and finally, the string beans. Once, I asked Tita Loleng how she knew what type of vegetable
to put into sinigang and she said, “Well, one never really knows which will taste good until one has tried it. I mean,
some people cook sinigang with guavas, some with kamias. It is a dish whose recipe would depend mostly on the taste
of those who will do the eating.”
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I got a fork and went to the stove where the meat was simmering. I prodded the chunks to test whether
they were tender enough—and they were. After pouring in some more of the rice washing, I cleared the
table and waited for the stew to boil.

A few minutes later, the sound of rapidly popping bubbles declared that it was now time to add the
powdered tamarind mix. I poured in the whole packet and stirred. Then I took the vegetables and added
them, a fistful at a time, to the pot.

As I did so, I remembered the flower petals each of my two sisters and I had thrown, fistful by fistful,
into the freshly dug grave as Lem’s casket was being lowered into it.

My dad was crying beside me and I recalled thinking, would he be the same if I was the one who had
died? I glanced up at him and was surprised to find that he was looking at me. His hand, heavy with
sadness, fell on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he had told me.

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I let the stew boil for a few more minutes before turning off the fire.

The sinigang would be served later during dinner. I pictured myself seated in my usual place
beside my father who is at the head of the table.

He would tell Mom about his day and then he would ask each of us about our own. I would
answer, not in the animated way I would have done when I was still young and his pet, but
politely and without any rancor.

Then, he would compliment me on the way I had cooked his favorite dish and I would give
him a smile that would never quite show, not even in my eyes.
SINIGANG
by Marie Aubrey J. Villaceran
The Brave
Tin Soldier
by
Hans Christian Andersen
HERE were once five-and-twenty tin soldiers, who were all brothers, for they had been made out of the same old tin
spoon.
They shouldered arms and looked straight before them, and wore a splendid uniform, red and blue.

The first thing in the world they ever heard were the words, “Tin soldiers!” uttered by a little boy, who clapped his
hands with delight when the lid of the box, in which they lay, was taken off.

They were given him for a birthday present, and he stood at the table to set them up. The soldiers were all exactly
alike, excepting one, who had only one leg; he had been left to the last, and then there was not enough of the melted
tin to finish him, so they made him to stand firmly on one leg, and this caused him to be very remarkable.

he table on which the tin soldiers stood, was covered with other playthings, but the most attractive to the eye was a
pretty little paper castle. Through the small windows the rooms could be seen. In front of the castle a number of little
trees surrounded a piece of looking-glass, which was intended to represent a transparent lake. 
Swans, made of wax, swam on the lake, and were reflected in it. All this was very pretty, but the prettiest of all was a
tiny little lady, who stood at the open door of the castle; she, also, was made of paper, and she wore a dress of clear
muslin, with a narrow blue ribbon over her shoulders just like a scarf.

In front of these was fixed a glittering tinsel rose, as large as her whole face. The little lady was a dancer, and she
stretched out both her arms, and raised one of her legs so high, that the tin soldier could not see it at all, and he
thought that she, like himself, had only one leg.

“That is the wife for me,” he thought; “but she is too grand, and lives in a castle, while I have only a box to live in,
five-and-twenty of us altogether, that is no place for her. Still I must try and make her acquaintance.”

Then he laid himself at full length on the table behind a snuff-box that stood upon it, so that he could peep at the little
delicate lady, who continued to stand on one leg without losing her balance.

When evening came, the other tin soldiers were all placed in the box, and the people of the house went to bed. Then
the playthings began to have their own games together, to pay visits, to have sham fights, and to give balls.
The tin soldiers rattled in their box; they wanted to get out and join the amusements, but they could not open the lid.
The nut-crackers played at leap-frog, and the pencil jumped about the table.

There was such a noise that the canary woke up and began to talk, and in poetry too. Only the tin soldier and the
dancer remained in their places. She stood on tiptoe, with her legs stretched out, as firmly as he did on his one leg. He
never took his eyes from her for even a moment. The clock struck twelve, and, with a bounce, up sprang the lid of the
snuff-box; but, instead of snuff, there jumped up a little black goblin; for the snuff-box was a toy puzzle.

“Tin soldier,” said the goblin, “don’t wish for what does not belong to you.”
But the tin soldier pretended not to hear.

“Very well; wait till to-morrow, then,” said the goblin.

When the children came in the next morning, they placed the tin soldier in the window. Now, whether it was the
goblin who did it, or the draught, is not known, but the window flew open, and out fell the tin soldier, heels over
head, from the third story, into the street beneath. It was a terrible fall; for he came head downwards, his helmet and
his bayonet stuck in between the flagstones, and his one leg up in the air.
The servant maid and the little boy went down stairs directly to look for him; but he was nowhere to be seen,
although once they nearly trod upon him. If he had called out, “Here I am,” it would have been all right, but he was
too proud to cry out for help while he wore a uniform.

Presently it began to rain, and the drops fell faster and faster, till there was a heavy shower. When it was over, two
boys happened to pass by, and one of them said, “Look, there is a tin soldier. He ought to have a boat to sail in.”

So they made a boat out of a newspaper, and placed the tin soldier in it, and sent him sailing down the gutter, while
the two boys ran by the side of it, and clapped their hands. Good gracious, what large waves arose in that gutter! and
how fast the stream rolled on! for the rain had been very heavy.

The paper boat rocked up and down, and turned itself round sometimes so quickly that the tin soldier trembled; yet
he remained firm; his countenance did not change; he looked straight before him, and shouldered his musket.
Suddenly the boat shot under a bridge which formed a part of a drain, and then it was as dark as the tin soldier’s box.
“Where am I going now?” thought he. “This is the black goblin’s fault, I am sure. Ah, well, if the little lady were only
here with me in the boat, I should not care for any darkness.”
Suddenly there appeared a great water-rat, who lived in the drain.

“Have you a passport?“ asked the rat, “give it to me at once.” But the tin soldier remained silent and held his musket
tighter than ever. The boat sailed on and the rat followed it. How he did gnash his teeth and cry out to the bits of wood
and straw, “Stop him, stop him; he has not paid toll, and has not shown his pass.“ But the stream rushed on stronger
and stronger.

The tin soldier could already see daylight shining where the arch ended. Then he heard a roaring sound quite terrible
enough to frighten the bravest man. At the end of the tunnel the drain fell into a large canal over a steep place, which
made it as dangerous for him as a waterfall would be to us.

He was too close to it to stop, so the boat rushed on, and the poor tin soldier could only hold himself as stiffly as
possible, without moving an eyelid, to show that he was not afraid. The boat whirled round three or four times, and
then filled with water to the very edge; nothing could save it from sinking. He now stood up to his neck in water,
while deeper and deeper sank the boat, and the paper became soft and loose with the wet, till at last the water closed
over the soldier’s head. He thought of the elegant little dancer whom he should never see again, and the words of the
song sounded in his ears—
“Farewell, warrior! ever brave,

Drifting onward to thy grave.”

Then the paper boat fell to pieces, and the soldier sank into the water and immediately afterwards was swallowed up by
a great fish. Oh how dark it was inside the fish!
A great deal darker than in the tunnel, and narrower too, but the tin soldier continued firm, and lay at full length
shouldering his musket. The fish swam to and fro, making the most wonderful movements, but at last he became quite
still.

After a while, a flash of lightning seemed to pass through him, and then the daylight approached, and a voice cried out,
“I declare here is the tin soldier.”

The fish had been caught, taken to the market and sold to the cook, who took him into the kitchen and cut him open
with a large knife. She picked up the soldier and held him by the waist between her finger and thumb, and carried him
into the room. 

They were all anxious to see this wonderful soldier who had travelled about inside a fish; but he was not at all proud.
They placed him on the table, and—how many curious things do happen in the world!—there he was in the very
same room from the window of which he had fallen, there were the same children, the same playthings, standing on
the table, and the pretty castle with the elegant little dancer at the door; she still balanced herself on one leg, and held
up the other, so she was as firm as himself. It touched the tin soldier so much to see her that he almost wept tin tears,
but he kept them back.

He only looked at her and they both remained silent. Presently one of the little boys took up the tin soldier, and threw
him into the stove.
He had no reason for doing so, therefore it must have been the fault of the black goblin who lived in the snuff-box.
The flames lighted up the tin soldier, as he stood, the heat was very terrible, but whether it proceeded from the real
fire or from the fire of love he could not tell.

Then he could see that the bright colors were faded from his uniform, but whether they had been washed off during
his journey or from the effects of his sorrow, no one could say. He looked at the little lady, and she looked at him. He
felt himself melting away, but he still remained firm with his gun on his shoulder.
Suddenly the door of the room flew open and the draught of air caught up the little dancer, she fluttered like a sylph
right into the stove by the side of the tin soldier, and was instantly in flames and was gone. The tin soldier melted
down into a lump, and the next morning, when the maid servant took the ashes out of the stove, she found him in the
shape of a little tin heart. But of the little dancer nothing remained but the tinsel rose, which was burnt black as a
cinder.
The Brave
Tin Soldier
by
Hans Christian Andersen