Where have all my ‘suki’ gone?
I loved going to the weekend market, especially during the summer. I would be there by 6:30 Saturday mornings, the sights, sounds, and smells of the market heady and making me giddy. I would walk quickly to the fruit section and get excited seeing the yellow and green mangoes, watermelons, rock melons, avocados, pineapples, and even star apples. Then off to the fish and shellfish section, the meat section, the vegetable section, the eggs section, followed by a visit to the daing stall as well as the longganisa stall. Sometimes, I would buy dusters or children’s pambahay from the clothing shops.
I would then go to the cooked food section, and buy dinuguan and puto, pork barbecue, fresh Chinese lumpia, guinataan bilo-bilo, taho, and whatever else caught my fancy to bring home. It was fun to see whole families enjoying their breakfast at the tables and benches set up to the side.
I wonder now, how are my suki vendors doing? I never knew their names, but they were all so familiar, and so dear.
There was the couple selling maliputo and hito, who I always had to bargain with. There was the lady who I bought longganisa and marinated Dagupan bangus from, who always volunteered to hold my plastic bags for me while I finished my shopping. There was the jolly middle-aged man who sold me mangoes, pineapples, and yellow corn; he always gave me an extra mango. And then there was this short slim gentleman who has a stall selling all varieties of rice; his eyes crinkled because he was forever smiling. I also had a suki for pork and beef who would indulge my every request for special cuts. Everyone was just so kind.
Are they all okay?
Have they managed to find other ways to sell their produce? Perhaps opened an online channel, accepting orders via Facebook and receiving payments via Gcash?
Are they blessed to have a roof over their heads, food on the table, comfortable clothes on their backs, Wi-Fi to while away the time, and able to isolate in separate rooms if needed?
Are they blessed and not worried about whether they will still have a job tomorrow? Or whether to close their small business now or hang on because maybe, just maybe, things will get better and life can get back to normal? Or whether they will be able to make the rent at the end of the month?
Or are they, right now, anxious and distraught, frustrated at everything that is going on around them?
Are they now among the hordes of people, some without masks, jostling their way to get their P1,000 ayuda from thoughtless organizers, not worrying about social distancing because their minds cannot work while their stomachs are growling?
Have they or their loved ones caught the virus? Are they searching for a hospital room, a bed at the ER, a chair at the tent outside, anywhere where some kind soul with a stethoscope can attend to them? Or worse, have they given up hope and are just waiting for death to provide relief?
We have learned painfully that this virus does not discriminate. The virus hits everyone the same way, stealthily like a thief in the night. Some do not even know they have it, others experience the worst symptoms. Many people recover, others unfortunately do not.
It seems that every day now, we hear of a friend or relative who has tested positive for COVID-19, or worse, who has succumbed to the virus. We are inundated with requests for prayers. We go on Zoom sessions to offer Masses or rosaries for infected loved ones or colleagues. We feel the virus getting closer and closer. Thankfully, the vaccines are also getting closer, but majority of us have yet to receive our first dose.
We can only pray, while exercising all precautions, that our turn to get the vaccine comes before our turn to catch the virus. We can only pray that someday soon we can resume our “old normal” lives.
I want to go back to my happy weekend market and have a reunion with my many suki. I pray to God that they will all still be there, and we can exchange survivor stories.
Gigi Bautista Rapadas is a 62-year-old retired IT executive. She is married with three sons and three grandchildren.
