Hunger
To get to the school from our house, I had to ride a tricycle, cross a footbridge, and ride another tricycle. The first ride ended at Batasan terminal in Quezon City, in front of which was an overpass that would take pedestrians to either side of Commonwealth Avenue.
That was the routine every morning back in high school, with the sun barely emerging from behind the horizon of houses and stunted buildings, the hubbub of footsteps and car engines, the air heavy with vehicle fumes. There was also that rush of movement as people headed to school or workplace — that glance at a wristwatch and that brush of shoulders with a fellow pedestrian. Everyone rushing, everyone moving, save for those who had reached their destinations—employees of the streets, sidewalks and other places ignored by passersby.
One of them was an old woman. I remember seeing her on the stairs of the bridge every morning, and in the afternoon when I headed home. She always sat on the stairs, holding a palm out, mumbling inaudibly to anyone who was passing by. She was always laden with plastic. Sometimes people handed her plastic bags of leftover food, which she’d put beside her like an army of limp little soldiers. Sometimes she held out a plastic cup, where people dropped coins.
I also remember averting my gaze as she looked at me whenever I ascended the bridge. Sometimes I had coins to spare, but that piece of modern wisdom got the better of me: We’re not helping beggars by giving them money.
One of my cotrainees in the company told me about a major fast-food chain’s anniversary promo: “Besh, if we buy a P159 boxed meal, we get another order of two pieces of chicken with rice for free.”
Though I was not a fan of that fast-food chain, the offer was inviting. Too inviting, in fact, that on the day of the promo she and I quickly went to a branch as soon as we were allowed to go out for lunch.
After 10 minutes, we emerged from the branch clutching a take-out meal of two scoops of rice and a total of five pieces of chicken each. Fair enough, considering that on ordinary days I wouldn’t have dreamed of ordering those meals which would have cost me my budget for an entire day. I was with the company for only a couple of weeks and I still had to rely on the budget my parents gave me every week.
“Besh” and I decided to eat in the pantry of our building with our cotrainees. Given the reputation of the fast-food chain, it was no wonder that I found the fried chicken scrumptious. Fried chicken glazed with honey garlic: My taste buds aren’t as experienced as those people who call themselves foodies, and so when I had that first bite of the chicken, I couldn’t help but heave a sigh of delight, which my cotrainee must have heard.
“Ang sarap, ’no, Besh?” Yummy, isn’t it? I wasn’t sure if it was a question or an affirmation, yet I nodded. “Let’s get another order later?”
I could only nod my head once more, as I was hypnotized by the savory sweetness of what we were eating, though something in the back of my head told me it was almost sinful — this sheer elation over a chop of a dead animal.
And true enough, I had to pay the wages of that sin.
I had finished only one generous piece of chicken and a cup of rice and already I felt light-headed and a bit nauseous. A serving of any oily and fried food always gives me that sensation. I stopped eating and returned the cardboard container to our take-out paper bag.
But that little episode didn’t stop me from returning to
the fast-food chain with my cotrainee. We bought another order of the P159 meal, another five pieces of chicken and two cups of rice.
“There’s a lot of people to feed in my house: my grandmother, father, siblings, and my nephews and niece,” she told me as we were walking back from the store.
For a moment I couldn’t think of something to say. There were only four of us in our house: my mother, my father, and my sister. Most of the time, Dad, a bodyguard, doesn’t even come home because of the nature of his work. Actually, the reason I bought another order was: It wasn’t every day that I, or my family, would be able and be willing to buy such food.
I just nodded my head to Besh.
Four years later, I still had to ride a tricycle to Batasan terminal. The woman was still there, by the terminal, though she would move somewhere at night. I saw her, for instance, sitting on a cemented staircase which served as one of the entrances to the terminal. It was the night I was taking home a total of four take-out meals from the famed fast-food chain.
As usual there were hordes of people, coming in and out of the terminal, carrying plastic bags from the nearby wet market or paper bags from distant groceries. It seemed that everyone was heading home that night, back to a waiting family.
And the woman was there, holding out her palm. People passed her by, perhaps seeing her, but not her need.
I was one of those people. There was food in my hands, more than enough for three people, but I didn’t pause in my walk. I didn’t even think about giving a single piece to her. My feet led me to the tricycle queue and I was swept toward my house.
Of course I didn’t realize the depth of my selfishness immediately. Not until later, when I was staring at the remaining pieces of fried chicken on the dining table.
“Ang dami, kuya, sana ipinamigay mo na lang,” my mother said. I should have given some away.
I had difficulty sleeping that night. My mother’s offhand comment felt like a blow to my head, and in my head I saw myself back at the terminal glancing at the woman by the staircase. The image seemed to have been frozen at the moment I passed her by, my hands holding paper bags of food and she was holding out an empty palm. Fast forward to the remaining pieces of chicken on our dining table, the excess.
How many of us would have spared the woman a small portion of our dinner? Could those people who passed her by sleep better than me? Did they really see her?
Another question hung in my head. It persists, even until now, months after that evening: How much hunger is there in every one of us?
* * *
George Deoso, 21, is a literature graduate.
