Blue Blood of the Big Astana

IBRAHIM JUBAIRA

Although the heart may care no more, the mind can always recall. The
mind can always recall, for there are always things to remember: languid
days of depressed boyhood; shared happy days under the glare of the sun;
concealed love and mocking fate; etc., So I suppose you remember too.
Remember? A little over a year after I was orphaned, my aunt decided
to turn me over to your father, the Datu. In those days datus were supposed
to take charge of the poor and the helpless. Therefore, my aunt only did the
right in placing me under the wing of your father. Furthermore, she was so
poor, that by doing that, she not only relieved herself of the burden of
poverty but also safe-guarded my well-being.
But I could not bear the thought of even a moments separation from
your aunt. She had been like a mother to me, would always be.
Please, Babo, I pleaded. Try to feed me a little more. Let me grow
big with you, and I would build you a house. I will repay you some day. Let
me do something to help, but please, Babo, dont send me away I really
cried.
Babo placed a soothing hand on my shoulder. Just like the hand of
Mother. I felt a bit comforted, but presently I cried some more. The effect of
her hand was so stirring.
Listen to me. Stop cryingoh, now, do stop. You see, we cant go on
like this, Babo said. My mat-weaving cant clothe and feed both you and
me. Its really hard, son, its really hard. You have to go. But I will be seeing
you every week. You can have everything you want in that Datus house.
I tried to look Babo through my tears. But soon, the thought of having
everything I wanted tool hold of my childs mind. I ceased crying.
Say you will go, Babo coaxed me. I assented finally, I was only five
thenvery tractable.
Babo bathed me in the afternoon. I did not flinch and shiver, for the
sea was comfortably warm, and exhilarating. She cleaned my fingernails
meticulously. Then she cupped a handful of sand, spread it over my back,
and rubbed my grimy body, particularly the back of my ears. She poured
fresh water over me afterwards. How clean I became! But my clothes were
frayed
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Babo instructed me before we left for your big house: I must not forget
to kiss your fathers feet, and to withdraw when and as ordered without
turning my back; I must not look at your father full in the eyes; I must not
talk too much; I must always talk in the third person; I must notAh, Babo,
those were too many to remember.
Babo tried to be patient with me. She tested me over and over again
on those royal, traditional ways. And one thing more: I had to say Pateyk
for yes, and Teyk for what, or for answering a call.
Oh, Babo, why do I have to say all those things? Why really do I
have
Come along, son; come along.
We started that same afternoon. The breeze was cool as it blew against
my face. We did not get tired because we talked on the way. She told me so
many things. She said you of the big house had blue blood.
Not red like ours, Babo?
Babo said no, not red like ours.
And the Datu has a daughter my age, Babo?
Babo said yesyou. And I might be allowed to play with you, the
Datus daughter, if I worked hard and behaved well.
I asked Babo, too, if I might be allowed to prick your skin to see if you
had blue blood, in truth. But Babo did not answer me anymore. She just told
me to keep quiet. There, I became so talkative again.
Was that really our house? My, it was so big! Babo chided me.
We dont call it a house, she said. We call it astana, the house of
the Datu. So I just said oh, and keep quiet. Why did Babo not tell me that
before?
Babo suddenly stopped in her tracks. Was I really very clean? Oh, oh,
look at my harelip. She cleaned my harelip, wiping away her tapis the sticky
mucus of the faintest conceivable green flowing from my nose. Poi! Now it
was better. Although I could not feel any sort of improvement in my
deformity itself. I merely felt cleaner.

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Was I truly the boy about whom Babo was talking? You were laughing,
young pretty Blue Blood. Happy perhaps that I was. Or was it the amusement
brought about by my harelip that had made you laugh. I dared not ask you. I
feared that should you come to dislike me, youd subject me to unpleasant
treatment. Hence I laughed with you, and you are so pleased.
Babo told me to kiss your right hand. Why not your feet? Oh, you were
a child yet. I could wait until you had grown up.
But you withdrew your hand at once. I think my harelip gave it a
ticklish sensation. However, I was so intoxicated by the momentary
sweetness the action brought me that I decided inwardly to kiss your hand
every day. No, no, it was not love. It was only an impish sort of liking.
Imagine the pride that was mine to be thus in close heady contact with one
of the blue blood
Welcome, little orphan! Was it for me? Really for me? I looked at
Babo. Of course, it was for me! We were generously bidden in. Thanks to
your fathers kindness. And thanks to your laughing at me, too.
I kissed the feet of your Appah, your old, honourable. Resting-thewhole-day father. He was not tickled by my harelip as you were. He did not
laugh at me. In fact he evinced compassion towards me. And so did your
Amboh, your kind mother. Sit down, sit down; dont be ashamed.
But there were, plying Babo with your heartless questions: Why was I
like that? What happened to me?
To satisfy you, pretty Blue Blood, little inquisitive One, Babo had to
explain: Well, Mother had slid in the vinta in her sixth month with the child
that was me. Result: my harelip. Poor Jaafar, your Appah said. I was about
to cry, but seeing you looking at me, I felt so ashamed that I held back the
tears. I could not help being sentimental, you see. I think my being bereft of
parents in youth had much to do with it all.
Do you think you will be happy to stay with us? Will you not yearn any
more for your Babo?
Pateyk, I will be happy, I said. Then the tought of my not yearning
any more for Babo made me wince. But Babo nodded at me reassuringly.
Pateyk, I will not yearn any more forfor Babo.
And Babo went before the interview was through. She had to cover five
miles before evening came. Still I did not cry, as you may have expected I
would, forhave I not said it?I was ashamed to weep in your presence.
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That was how I came to stay with you, remember? Babo came to see
me every week as she had promised. And youall of youhad a lot of things
to tell her. That I was a good workeroh, beyond question, your Appah and
Amboh told Babo. And you, outspoken little Blue Blood, joined the flattering
chorus. But my place of sleep always reeked of urine, you added laughing.
That drew a rallying admonition from Babo, and a downright promise from
me not to wet my mat again.
Yes, Babo came to see me, to advise me every week, for two
consecutive yearsthat is, until death took her away, leaving no one in the
world but a nephew with a harelip.
Remember? I was your favourite and you wanted to play with me
always. I learned why after time, it delighted you to gaze at my harelip.
Sometimes, when we went out wading to the sea, you would pause and look
at me. I would look at you, too, wondering. Finally, you would be seized by a
fit of laughter. I would chime in, not realizing I was making fun of myself.
Then you would pinch me painfully to make me cry. Oh, you wanted to
experiment with me. You could not tell, you said, whether I cried or laughed:
the working of my lips was just the same in either to your gleaming eyes.
And I did not flush with shame even of you said so. For after all, had not my
mother slid in the vinta?
That was your way. And I wanted to pay you back in my own way. I
wanted to prick your skin and see if you really had blue blood. But there was
something about you that warned against a deformed orphans intrusion. All
I could do, then, was to feel foolishly proud, cry and laugh with youfor you
just to gratify the teasing, imperious blue blood in you. Yes, I had my way,
too.
Remember? I was apparently so willing to do anything for you. I would
climb for young coconuts for you. You would be amazed by the ease and
agility with which I made my way up the coconut tree, yet fear that I would
fall. You would implore me to come down at once, quick. No. You would
throw pebbles at me if I thus refused to come down. No, I still would not. Your
pebbles could not reach meyou were not strong enough. You would then
threaten to report me to your Appah. Go ahead. How I liked being at the
top! And sing there as I looked at you who were below. You were so helpless.
In a spasm of anger, you would curse me, wishing my death. Well, let me die.
I would climb the coconut trees in heaven. And my ghost would return to
deliver to deliver young celestial coconuts to you. Then you would come
back. You see? A servant, an orphan, could also command the fair and proud
Blue Blood to come or go.
Then we would pick up little shells, and search for sea-cucumbers; or
dive for sea-urchins. Or run along the long stretch of white, glaring sand, I
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behind youadmiring your soft, nimble feet and your flying hair. Then we
would stop, panting, laughing.
After resting for a while, we would run again to the sea and wage war
against the crashing waves. I would rub your silky back after we had finished
bathing in the sea. I would get fresh water in a clean coconut shell, and rinse
your soft, ebony hair. Your hair flowed down smoothly, gleaming in the
afternoon sun. Oh, it was beautiful. Then I would trim your fingernails
carefully. Sometimes you would jerk with pain. Whereupon I would beg you to
whip me. Just so you could differentiate between my crying and my laughing.
And even the pain you gave me partook of sweetness.
That was my way. My only way to show how grateful I was for the
things I had tasted before: your companionship; shelter and food in your big
astana. So your parents said I would make a good servant, indeed. And you,
too, thought I would.
Your parents sent you to a Mohammedan school when you were seven.
I was not sent to study with you, but it made no difference to me. For after
all, was not my work carrying your red Koran on top of my head four times a
day? And you were happy, because I could entertain you. Because someone
could be a water-carrier for you. One of the requirements then was to carry
water every time you showed up in your Mohammedan class. Oh, why?
Excuse the stammering of my harelip, but I really wished to know. Your
Goro, your Mohammedan teacher, looked deep into me as if to search my
whole system. Stupid. Did I not know our hearts could easily grasp the
subject matter, like the soft, incessant flow of water? Hearts, hearts. Not
brains. But I just kept silent. After all, I was not there to ask impertinent
questions. Shame, shame on my harelip asking such a question, I chided
myself silently.
That was how I played the part of an Epang-Epang, of a servant-escort
to you. And I became more spirited every day, trudging behind you. I was like
a faithful, loving dog following its mistress with light steps and a singing
heart. Because you, ahead of me, were something of an inspiration I could
trail indefatigably, even to the ends of the world.
The dreary monotone of your Koran-chanting lasted three years. You
were so slow, your Goro said. At times, she wanted to whip you. But did she
not know you were the Datus daughter? Why, she would be flogged herself.
But whipping an orphaned servant and clipping his split lips with two pieces
of wood were evidently permissible. So, your Goro found me a convenient
substitute for you. How I groaned in pain under her lashings! But how your
Goro laughed; the wooden clips failed to keep my harelip closed. They
always slipped. And the class, too, roared with laughteryou leading.
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But back there in your spacious astana, you were already being tutored
for maidenhood. I was older than you by one Ramadan. I often wondered
why you grew so fast, while I remained a lunatic dwarf. Maybe the poor care I
received in early boyhood had much to do with my hampered growth.
However, I was happy, in a way, that did not catch up with you. For I had a
hunch you would not continue to avail yourself my help in certain intimate
taskssuch as scrubbing your back when you took your bathhad I grown
as fast as you.
There I was in my bed at night, alone, intoxicated with passions and
emotions closely resembling those of a full-grown mans. I thought of you
secretly, unashamedly, lustfully: a full-grown Dayang-Dayang reclining in her
bed at the farthest end of her inner apartment; breasts heaving softly like
breeze-kissed waters; cheeks of the faintest red, brushing against a softpillow; eyes gazing dreamily into immensitywarm, searching, expressive;
supple buttocks and pliant arms; soft ebony hair that rippled.
Dayang-Dayang, could you have forgiven a deformed orphan-servant
had he gone mad, and lost respect and dread towards your Appah? Could
you have pardoned his rabid temerity had he leapt out of his bed, rushed
into your room, seized you in his arms, and tickled your face with his harelip?
I should like to confess that for at least a moment, yearning, starved,
athirst no, no, I cannot say it. We were of such contrasting patterns. Even
the lovely way you lookedthe big astana where you livedthe blood you
had Not even the fingers of Allah perhaps could weave our fabrics into
equality. I had to content myself with the privilege of gazing frequently at
your peerless loveliness. An ugly servant must not go beyond his little
border.
But things did not remain as they were. A young Datu from Bonbon
came back to ask for your hand. Your Appah was only too glad to welcome
him. There was nothing better, he said, than marriage between two people of
the same blue blood. Besides, he was growing old. He had no son to take his
place someday. Well, the young Datu was certainly fit to take in due time the
royal torch your Appah had been carrying for years. But II felt differently, of
course. I wanted No, I could not have a hand in your marital arrangements.
What was I, after all?
Certainly your Appah was right. The young Datu was handsome. And
rich, too. He had a large tract of land planted with fruit trees, coconut trees,
and abaca plants. And you were glad, too. Not because he was richfor you
were rich yourself. I thought I knew why: the young Datu could rub your soft
back better than I whenever you took your bath. His hands were not as
callused as mine However, I did not talk to you about it. Of course.

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Your Appah ordered his subjects to build two additional wings to your
astana. Your astana was already big, but it had to be enlarged as hundreds of
people would be coming to witness your royal wedding.
The people sweated profusely. There was a great deal of hammering,
cutting, and lifting as they set up posts. Plenty of eating and jabbering. And
chewing of betel nuts and native seasoned tobacco. And emitting of red
saliva afterwards. In just one day, the additional wings were finished.
Then came your big wedding. People had crowded your astana early in
the day to help in the religious slaughtering of cows and goats. To aid, too, in
the voracious consumption of your wedding feast. Some more people came
as evening drew near. Those who could not be accommodated upstairs had
to stay below.
Torches fashioned out of dried coconut leaves blazed in the night. Halfclad natives kindled them over the cooking fire. Some pounded rice for
cakes. And their brown glossy bodies sweated profusely.
Out in the astana yard, the young Datus subjects danced in great
circles. Village swains danced with grace, now swaying sensuously their
shapely hips, now twisting their pliant arms. Their feet moved deftly and
almost imperceptibly.
Male dancers would crouch low, with a wooden spear, a kris, or a
barong in one hand, and a wooden shield in the other. They stimulated
bloody warfare by dashing through the circle of other dancers and clashing
against each other. Native flutes, drums, gabangs, agongs, and kulintangs
contributed much to the musical gaiety of the night. Dance. Sing in delight.
Music. Noise. Laughter. Music swelled out into the world like a heart full of
blood, vibrant, palpitating. But it was my heart that swelled with pain. The
people would cheer: Long live the Dayang-Dayang and the Datu,
MURAMURAAN! at every intermission. And I would cheer, toomechanically,
before I knew. I would be missing you so.
People rushed and elbowed their way up into your astana as the young
Datu was led to you. Being small, I succeeded in squeezing in near enough to
catch a full view of you. You, Dayang-Dayang. Your moon-shaped face was
meticulously powdered with pulverized rice. Your hair was skewered up
toweringly at the center of your head, and studded with glittering gold hairpins. Your tight, gleaming black dress was covered with a flimsy mantle of
the faintest conceivable pink. Gold buttons embellished your wedding
garments. You sat rigidly on a mattress, with native, embroidered pillows
piled carefully at the back. Candlelight mellowed your face so beautifully you
were like a goddess perceived in dreams. You looked steadily down.
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The moment arrived. The turbaned pandita, talking in a voice of silk,

led the young Datu to you, while maidens kept chanting songs from behind.
The pandita grasped the Datus forefinger, and made it touch thrice the
space between your eyebrows. And every time that was done, my breast
heaved and my lips worked.
Remember? You were about to cry, Dayang-Dayang. For, as the people
said, you would soon be separated from your parents. Your husband would
soon take you to Bonbon, and you would live there like a countrywoman. But
as you unexpectedly caught a glimpse of me, you smiled once, a little. And I
knew why: my harelip amused you again. I smiled back at you, and withdrew
at once. I withdrew at once because I could not bear further seeing you
sitting beside the young Datu, and knowing fully well that I who had
sweated, labored, and served you like a dog No, no, shame on me to think
of all that at all. For was it not but a servants duty?
But I escaped that night, pretty Blue Blood. Where to? Anywhere. That
was exactly seven years ago. And those years did wonderful things for me. I
am no longer a lunatic dwarf, although my harelip remains as it has always
been.
Too, I had amassed a little fortune after years of sweating. I could have
taken two or three wives, but I had not yet found anyone resembling you,
lovely Blue Blood. So, single I remained.
And Allahs Wheel of Time kept on turning, kept on turning. And lo, one
day your husband was transported to San Ramon Penal Farm, Zamboanga.
He had raised his hand against the Christian government. He has wished to
establish his own government. He wanted to show his petty power by
refusing to pay land taxes, on the ground that the lands he had were by
legitimate inheritance his own absolutely. He did not understand that the
little amount he should have given in the form of taxes would be utilized to
protect him and his people from swindlers. He did not discern that he was in
fact a part of the Christian government himself. Consequently, his subjects
lost their lives fighting for a wrong cause. Your Appah, too, was drawn into
the mess and perished with the others. His possessions were confiscated.
And you Amboh died of a broken heart. Your husband, to save his life, had to
surrender. His lands, too, were confiscated. Only a little portion was left for
you to cultivate and live on.
And remember? I went one day to Bonbon on business. And I saw you
on your bit of land with your children. At first, I could not believe it was you.
Then you looked long and deep into me. Soon the familiar eyes of Blue Blood
of years ago arrested the faculties of the erstwhile servant. And you could
not believe your eyes either. You could not recognize me at once. But when
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you saw my harelip smiling at you, rather hesitantly, you knew me at least.
And I was so glad you did.
Oh, Jafaar, you gasped, dropping your janap, your primitive trowel,
instinctively. And you thought I was no longer living, you said. Curse, curse. It
was still your frank, outspoken way. It was like you were able to jest even
when sorrow was on the verge of removing the last vestiges of your
loveliness. You could somehow conceal your pain and grief beneath banter
and laughter. And I was glad of that, too.
Well, I was about to tell you that the Jafaar you saw now was a very
differenta much-improvedJafaar. Indeed. But instead: Oh, DayangDayang, I mumbled, distressed to have seen you working. You who had
been reared in ease and luxury. However, I tried very much not to show
traces of understanding your deplorable situation.
One of your sons came running and asked who I was. Well, I was, I
was.
Your old servant, I said promptly. Your son said oh, and kept quiet,
returning at last to resume his work. Work, work, Eting. Work, son. Bundle
the firewood and take it to the kitchen. Dont mind your old servant. He
wont turn young again. Poor little Datu, working so hard. Poor pretty Blue
Blood, also working hard.
We kept strangely silent for a long time. And then: By the way, where
was I living now? In Kanagi. My business here in Bonbon today? To see
Panglima Hussin about the cows he intended to sell, Dayang-Dayang. Cows?
Was I a landsman already? Well, if the pretty Blue Blood could live like a
countrywoman, why not a man like your old servant? You see, luck was
against me in sea-roving activities, so I had to turn to buying and selling
cattle. Oh, you said. And then you laughed. And I laughed with you. My
laughter was dry. Or was it yours? However, you asked what was the matter.
Oh, nothing. Really, nothing serious. But you see And you seemed to
understand as I stood there in front of you, leaning against a mango tree,
doing nothing but stare and stare at you.
I observed that your present self was only the ragged reminder, the
mere ghost, of the Blue Blood of the big astana. Your resources of vitality and
loveliness and strength seemed to have drained out of your old arresting
self, poured into the little farm you were working in. Of course I did not
expect you to be as lovely as you had been. But you should have retained at
least a fair portion of itof the old days. Not blurred eyes encircled by dark
rings; not dull, dry hair; not a sunburned complexion; not wrinkled, callous
hands; not
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You seemed to understand more and more. Why was I looking at you
like that? Was it because I had not seen you for so long? Or was it something
else? Oh, Dayang-Dayang, was not the terrible change in you the old
servants concern? You suddenly turned your eyes away from me. You picked
up your janap and began troubling the soft earth. It seemed you could not
utter another word without breaking into tears. You turned your back toward
me because you hated having me see you in tears.
And I tried to make out why: seeing me now revived old memories.
Seeing me, talking with me, poking fun at me, was seeing, talking, and joking
as in the old days at the vivacious astana. And you sobbed as I was thinking
thus. I knew you sobbed, because your shoulders shook. But I tried to appear
as though I was not aware of your controlled weeping. I hated myself for
coming to you and making you cry.
May I go now, Dayang-Dayang? I said softly, trying hard to hold back
my own tears. You did not say yes. And you did not say no, either. But the
nodding of your head was enough to make me understand and go. Go
where? Was there a place to go? Of course. There were many places to go to.
Only seldom was there a place to which one would like to return.
But something transfixed me in my tracks after walking a mile or so.
There was something of an impulse that strove to drive me back to you,
making me forget Panglima Hussins cattle. Every instinct told me it was
right for me to go back to you and do somethingperhaps beg you to
remember your old Jafaars harelip, just so you could smile and be happy
again. I wanted to rush back and wipe away the tears from your eyes with
my headdress. I wanted to get fresh water and rinse your dry, ruffled hair,
that it might be restored to flowing smoothness and glorious luster. I wanted
to trim your fingernails, stroke your callused hand. I yearned to tell you that
the land and the cattle I owned were all yours. And above all, I burned to
whirl back to you and beg you and your children to come home with me.
Although the simple house I lived in was not as big as your astana at Patikul,
it would at least be a happy, temporary haven while you waited for your
husbands release.
That urge to go back to you, Dayang-Dayang, was strong. But I did not
go back for a sudden qualm seized: I had no blue blood. I had only a harelip.
Not even the fingers of Allah perhaps could weave us, even now, into
equality.
SOURCE:
Cruz, Isagani, ed. The Best Philippine Short Stories of the 20th Century.
Manila: Tahanan Books,
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2000.

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