The Supplicant
Manuel Esteban’s back ached.
The road was riddled with holes, which made the ride bumpy, and because it had been raining the whole day, the asphalt had turned into little pools of brown muck, making it difficult to navigate under the setting sun. The dark, destructive typhoon season creeps upon the city, and commuters, vendors, and the poor-folk in general brace for the flood it will bring and the rats it will unleash.
But Manuel Esteban’s back ached. He had been living in Manila for three years now, and whether the sky rained dirt or boiled his sweat, it made no difference to he who must commute. Rather than think about the weather, which he could not possibly control, he shifted his focus to the job requirements he still had to pass and did a quick math of his expenses.
Inside his envelope, he had his birth certificate, the original copy of which cost him 200 pesos, he had some photos taken earlier (120 pesos), he recently got his NBI Clearance (this cost him 350 pesos) as well as a Police clearance, which the man next to him in the line at the agency swore was required if he was traveling overseas (300 pesos). A medical exam and certificate, which he decided to take tomorrow, would cost him some 850 pesos. His other documents cost him about 100 pesos to print. He ate beef stew (priced at 50 pesos), and even though he had not had his breakfast, he refrained from asking for additional rice, which would have cost him 20 pesos. So far, he has spent 100 pesos on commuting expenses. He did not know where he would eat tonight. He decided he did not want to sum up his expenses after all.
He shifted in his seat, which he shared with another commuter beside the jeepney driver. Even though there was clearly no more room at the front, the driver assured him he could seat one more passenger, and because Manuel Esteban wanted to get back to the room he was renting as soon as possible, he was now sitting uncomfortably with one leg resting on the step at the side of the vehicle. He cursed his luck as he tried (and failed) to shift into a more comfortable position.
He had had hundreds of lifetimes in Manila, for a day in this city was to suffer a lifetime: you were born at dawn, fight in the morning, grieve at sunset, and die at night—only to be reborn the next day. This perennial journey of his was his primary occupation, and neither the stifling humid air, nor the lifeless, cramped streets, nor his weary companions trudging through the muck, nor the dark, heavy sky full of microplastics and various viruses offered Manuel Esteban anything new other than a mild distraction from the fact that his back was sore and stiff because he had stood around all day at the agency only for the boss-man to postpone all applications until tomorrow.
He rubbed his back and thought about Maanhon, where he grew up on a farm his family worked for, and he cursed his father’s timidity and small-mindedness. He had a grandfather who tilled for the Oro family but died when drunk Ramon Oro mistook him for a bandit and fired his pistol at him. His father did not sue. He did not know how, and he could not read, much less write. So, Justiniano Esteban buried his father in the public cemetery, whose crammed tombstones jutted out like little gray teeth. The day after the funeral, itself a brief affair consisting of a few relatives singing the hymns, he was told to work twice as hard to make up for his loss, so little Manuel Esteban was conscripted to the rice fields. It was also this time that he met Helen Santos.
The jeepney hit a pothole, splashing brown scum on the students at the side of the road, and Manuel Esteban quickly shook off his nostalgia. Nostalgia, he found, was deadly in Manila. If he is not cautious, he might begin to delude himself that life would be better if he stayed in the province with its rivers and rice fields and debts and deaths and leases and landlords. But it won't be. And he knows this. So he shakes off his nostalgia and rubs his back instead.
At this time, dark clouds began to gather once more, threatening commuters with another deluge and rendering the setting sun moot. Manuel Esteban thought about Qatar, where he hoped to take on a job as a driver. He was told it was quite hot there and seldom rained, which he declared an improvement. But then he supposed he would have to suffer the burning sun every day, and he did not know which was worse. Crude oil was said to be cheaper than water over there. Thinking about it made him remember how thirsty he was, and he was about to reach inside his bag but remembered he had long drained the contents of the bottle he purchased hours ago.
The passenger next to him told the driver to drop him off at Vito Cruz, by the school, and Manuel Esteban hauled himself out of the jeepney to allow him to pass, wincing slightly. Another passenger got inside with him—a student with tattoos on her forearms and hair bleached to the roots. He shifted to the left to give her more space; they were both small in frame, so they at least fit this time, and his back did not hurt as much.
His thoughts shifted back and forth between Manila and Qatar. He did not know much about the country, only that it was dry there, it was a Muslim country, and apparently there was already a thriving Filipino community there. The pay would be good enough, and he might be able to get higher-paying jobs if his bosses liked him. A fresh start, he thought. Manila, on the other hand, this familiar, industrial template of unfulfilled job applications, this city of such cold sterility, try as he might not to think of, was, well, not home per se but something altogether familiar to him. And he supposed that was as close as he could get to a home right now.
He glanced at the girl a second time. She was attractive, and he fancied that she might look like her, but there really were no comparisons to be made. His futile efforts to forget persisted, but eventually his thoughts wandered back to Helen Santos. Once, when he was just starting to work in the fields, he had notions of being able to pay off their family’s debt and save enough money to buy some land to till. Then, he was going to work on the Santos’ small field for six months until harvest time before formally asking for their daughter’s hand. He declared all of this with a vigor known to the youth, and his father smiled weakly at him.
Last he heard, she was to be married to some farmer in the next barrio who actually owned the land he tilled. He supposed that for people of his lot in life, this was the best they could hope for. “Does she love him?” he wondered, but then he quickly got ahold of himself.
Love was the most foolish of human activities for people like them. It was one of his mother’s many lessons for him. Certainly, love alone would not have convinced the Santos patriarch that his daughter would be in good hands.
Manuel Esteban sat there, ruminating on all of that, while the jeepney made its way across the increasingly congested avenue. He kept thinking about Qatar, and he clutched his well-worn documents tightly—certificates that spoke of his unfinished education, insignificant recommendations that vouched for his character, and a list of unremarkable jobs he held in Manila. It was his only lifeline now. He remembered the consular officer whose eyes saw only shabby credentials from small holdings and weighed Manuel Esteban against visa quotas, economic policies, and the capricious whims of his own bosses. That had been a week ago and he wondered if his visa would be approved in time, if at all...
The sudden heavy downpour shook him out of his musings, and he looked outside, where the already chaotic road had turned into a muddy, waterlogged ordeal. A little rain was enough to flood Manila. His experience working in Quiapo and Tondo gave him the foresight to bring slippers and a plastic bag for his shoes during the wet season. He took a little comfort in the fact that his stop at EDSA would not be so flooded with this rain. He considered the rain, and he supposed he might be able to get a job at the warehouse near his lodgings. He won’t have to worry about commuting.
The vehicle stopped at a crowded intersection where, already, a flood was rising. A street vendor approached them, peddling cigarettes and some bread she carried from a box on one hand and a makeshift umbrella on the other. Manuel Esteban’s stomach growled, and he contemplated whether he could spare a few pesos for some bread but ultimately resisted the temptation. The vendor frowned, unable to sell any of her wares, and began to leave when a sudden gust of wind blew away her umbrella, and she chased after it as she and her wares were pelted by the rain. Manuel Esteban sighed after the ruined bread.
He thought about the paltry meals of fish and tofu his boss used to give them at the warehouse. He had claimed it built stamina, but the poor meals and the fact that the warehouse soaked up the fumes of a tanning factory beside it meant that workers regularly got sick. The boss just let them go and hired replacement workers. That’s how Manuel Esteban knew he could count on a job there.
The jeepney trudged on, and after some time, they finally reached the train station, and he got out of the jeepney and into the rain. There was a line forming on the stairs leading to the platform; he expected this already, and he quickly ran to get a spot inside, which offered some protection from the wet but not the cold. The weather made his joints ache, and his back echoed the same sentiment. He tried to rest his back against the wall, but the handrail prevented him from doing even that.
The line moved slowly. The storm worsened. As more and more people tried to get out of the rain and onto the platform upstairs, the line quickly dissolved into clamoring hands, pushing bodies, and muddy tiles. A guard went down and barked orders while shoving commuters back into lines and trying to restore some semblance of order. Manuel Esteban was swept roughly to the side. He went submissively and afterwards the line was going again.
He finally reached the platform, and soon he was past the turnstile and waiting for the train. He thought about the placement agency and the boss-man, his expenses, the consular officer, the girl he saw and Helen Santos, the storm and the flood, but most of all, he thought about his back, which had been aching the whole day. He thought about getting back to his poorly lit room. Then he thought about how his day had been a blur of lines, bills, and an uncertainty he had kept from feeling, which now resurfaced.
He thought about Maanhon with its rivers and rice fields and debts and deaths and leases and landlords. And his mother, who urged him to leave all that behind.
“Don’t come back,” she whispered sharply, seizing his hands and imparting one final lesson with her eyes.
He was now on the far side of the platform, on the left, to meet the train. The supplicant hears it coming at full speed, and he readies himself.
The road was riddled with holes, which made the ride bumpy, and because it had been raining the whole day, the asphalt had turned into little pools of brown muck, making it difficult to navigate under the setting sun. The dark, destructive typhoon season creeps upon the city, and commuters, vendors, and the poor-folk in general brace for the flood it will bring and the rats it will unleash.
But Manuel Esteban’s back ached. He had been living in Manila for three years now, and whether the sky rained dirt or boiled his sweat, it made no difference to he who must commute. Rather than think about the weather, which he could not possibly control, he shifted his focus to the job requirements he still had to pass and did a quick math of his expenses.
Inside his envelope, he had his birth certificate, the original copy of which cost him 200 pesos, he had some photos taken earlier (120 pesos), he recently got his NBI Clearance (this cost him 350 pesos) as well as a Police clearance, which the man next to him in the line at the agency swore was required if he was traveling overseas (300 pesos). A medical exam and certificate, which he decided to take tomorrow, would cost him some 850 pesos. His other documents cost him about 100 pesos to print. He ate beef stew (priced at 50 pesos), and even though he had not had his breakfast, he refrained from asking for additional rice, which would have cost him 20 pesos. So far, he has spent 100 pesos on commuting expenses. He did not know where he would eat tonight. He decided he did not want to sum up his expenses after all.
He shifted in his seat, which he shared with another commuter beside the jeepney driver. Even though there was clearly no more room at the front, the driver assured him he could seat one more passenger, and because Manuel Esteban wanted to get back to the room he was renting as soon as possible, he was now sitting uncomfortably with one leg resting on the step at the side of the vehicle. He cursed his luck as he tried (and failed) to shift into a more comfortable position.
He had had hundreds of lifetimes in Manila, for a day in this city was to suffer a lifetime: you were born at dawn, fight in the morning, grieve at sunset, and die at night—only to be reborn the next day. This perennial journey of his was his primary occupation, and neither the stifling humid air, nor the lifeless, cramped streets, nor his weary companions trudging through the muck, nor the dark, heavy sky full of microplastics and various viruses offered Manuel Esteban anything new other than a mild distraction from the fact that his back was sore and stiff because he had stood around all day at the agency only for the boss-man to postpone all applications until tomorrow.
He rubbed his back and thought about Maanhon, where he grew up on a farm his family worked for, and he cursed his father’s timidity and small-mindedness. He had a grandfather who tilled for the Oro family but died when drunk Ramon Oro mistook him for a bandit and fired his pistol at him. His father did not sue. He did not know how, and he could not read, much less write. So, Justiniano Esteban buried his father in the public cemetery, whose crammed tombstones jutted out like little gray teeth. The day after the funeral, itself a brief affair consisting of a few relatives singing the hymns, he was told to work twice as hard to make up for his loss, so little Manuel Esteban was conscripted to the rice fields. It was also this time that he met Helen Santos.
The jeepney hit a pothole, splashing brown scum on the students at the side of the road, and Manuel Esteban quickly shook off his nostalgia. Nostalgia, he found, was deadly in Manila. If he is not cautious, he might begin to delude himself that life would be better if he stayed in the province with its rivers and rice fields and debts and deaths and leases and landlords. But it won't be. And he knows this. So he shakes off his nostalgia and rubs his back instead.
At this time, dark clouds began to gather once more, threatening commuters with another deluge and rendering the setting sun moot. Manuel Esteban thought about Qatar, where he hoped to take on a job as a driver. He was told it was quite hot there and seldom rained, which he declared an improvement. But then he supposed he would have to suffer the burning sun every day, and he did not know which was worse. Crude oil was said to be cheaper than water over there. Thinking about it made him remember how thirsty he was, and he was about to reach inside his bag but remembered he had long drained the contents of the bottle he purchased hours ago.
The passenger next to him told the driver to drop him off at Vito Cruz, by the school, and Manuel Esteban hauled himself out of the jeepney to allow him to pass, wincing slightly. Another passenger got inside with him—a student with tattoos on her forearms and hair bleached to the roots. He shifted to the left to give her more space; they were both small in frame, so they at least fit this time, and his back did not hurt as much.
His thoughts shifted back and forth between Manila and Qatar. He did not know much about the country, only that it was dry there, it was a Muslim country, and apparently there was already a thriving Filipino community there. The pay would be good enough, and he might be able to get higher-paying jobs if his bosses liked him. A fresh start, he thought. Manila, on the other hand, this familiar, industrial template of unfulfilled job applications, this city of such cold sterility, try as he might not to think of, was, well, not home per se but something altogether familiar to him. And he supposed that was as close as he could get to a home right now.
He glanced at the girl a second time. She was attractive, and he fancied that she might look like her, but there really were no comparisons to be made. His futile efforts to forget persisted, but eventually his thoughts wandered back to Helen Santos. Once, when he was just starting to work in the fields, he had notions of being able to pay off their family’s debt and save enough money to buy some land to till. Then, he was going to work on the Santos’ small field for six months until harvest time before formally asking for their daughter’s hand. He declared all of this with a vigor known to the youth, and his father smiled weakly at him.
Last he heard, she was to be married to some farmer in the next barrio who actually owned the land he tilled. He supposed that for people of his lot in life, this was the best they could hope for. “Does she love him?” he wondered, but then he quickly got ahold of himself.
Love was the most foolish of human activities for people like them. It was one of his mother’s many lessons for him. Certainly, love alone would not have convinced the Santos patriarch that his daughter would be in good hands.
Manuel Esteban sat there, ruminating on all of that, while the jeepney made its way across the increasingly congested avenue. He kept thinking about Qatar, and he clutched his well-worn documents tightly—certificates that spoke of his unfinished education, insignificant recommendations that vouched for his character, and a list of unremarkable jobs he held in Manila. It was his only lifeline now. He remembered the consular officer whose eyes saw only shabby credentials from small holdings and weighed Manuel Esteban against visa quotas, economic policies, and the capricious whims of his own bosses. That had been a week ago and he wondered if his visa would be approved in time, if at all...
The sudden heavy downpour shook him out of his musings, and he looked outside, where the already chaotic road had turned into a muddy, waterlogged ordeal. A little rain was enough to flood Manila. His experience working in Quiapo and Tondo gave him the foresight to bring slippers and a plastic bag for his shoes during the wet season. He took a little comfort in the fact that his stop at EDSA would not be so flooded with this rain. He considered the rain, and he supposed he might be able to get a job at the warehouse near his lodgings. He won’t have to worry about commuting.
The vehicle stopped at a crowded intersection where, already, a flood was rising. A street vendor approached them, peddling cigarettes and some bread she carried from a box on one hand and a makeshift umbrella on the other. Manuel Esteban’s stomach growled, and he contemplated whether he could spare a few pesos for some bread but ultimately resisted the temptation. The vendor frowned, unable to sell any of her wares, and began to leave when a sudden gust of wind blew away her umbrella, and she chased after it as she and her wares were pelted by the rain. Manuel Esteban sighed after the ruined bread.
He thought about the paltry meals of fish and tofu his boss used to give them at the warehouse. He had claimed it built stamina, but the poor meals and the fact that the warehouse soaked up the fumes of a tanning factory beside it meant that workers regularly got sick. The boss just let them go and hired replacement workers. That’s how Manuel Esteban knew he could count on a job there.
The jeepney trudged on, and after some time, they finally reached the train station, and he got out of the jeepney and into the rain. There was a line forming on the stairs leading to the platform; he expected this already, and he quickly ran to get a spot inside, which offered some protection from the wet but not the cold. The weather made his joints ache, and his back echoed the same sentiment. He tried to rest his back against the wall, but the handrail prevented him from doing even that.
The line moved slowly. The storm worsened. As more and more people tried to get out of the rain and onto the platform upstairs, the line quickly dissolved into clamoring hands, pushing bodies, and muddy tiles. A guard went down and barked orders while shoving commuters back into lines and trying to restore some semblance of order. Manuel Esteban was swept roughly to the side. He went submissively and afterwards the line was going again.
He finally reached the platform, and soon he was past the turnstile and waiting for the train. He thought about the placement agency and the boss-man, his expenses, the consular officer, the girl he saw and Helen Santos, the storm and the flood, but most of all, he thought about his back, which had been aching the whole day. He thought about getting back to his poorly lit room. Then he thought about how his day had been a blur of lines, bills, and an uncertainty he had kept from feeling, which now resurfaced.
He thought about Maanhon with its rivers and rice fields and debts and deaths and leases and landlords. And his mother, who urged him to leave all that behind.
“Don’t come back,” she whispered sharply, seizing his hands and imparting one final lesson with her eyes.
He was now on the far side of the platform, on the left, to meet the train. The supplicant hears it coming at full speed, and he readies himself.
About the Author
J. Eli Occeño is a Filipino multi-disciplinary writer hailing from Roxas City, Capiz. He took up Bachelor in Culture and Arts Education in the Philippine Normal University and is currently a college instructor at the National Teachers College. He served as the Editor-in-Chief of The Torch Publications (2022-2023) where he has offered most of his writings and artworks in regular issues, magazines and other anthologies. He was awarded the Gawad Graciano Lopez Jaena for his services to the publication. He has contributed to The Manila Magnolia in their first Issue and his plays have been recognized by the Gawad Severino Montano. As a writer, he holds in high regard Alice Guillermo, Nick Joaquin and writings from national democratic mass organizations as his primary inspirations. He believes that writer's block is a bourgeois concept and all forms of writing should serve the people.