WET FIELDS

“I saw my wife… she had her eyes close. She was naked from her waist down to her parted legs. A man was on top of her with his pants and briefs pulled down to his knees…” Life is full of mystery. We are not sure what tomorrow will bring and how can we connect the past to what we are having at the moment. They tell me that we are mere slaves to fate. That our fate was already written long before we are born. We can do nothing but to live the moments as dictated by our fate. What is written on the lines of our fate will happen whether we like it or not. “The field was wet, It was rainy season, There was a pretty girl who asked me; If I needed help; Planting in the fields. I told her no my darling, I don’t want to see The mud in your slippers…” This classic Philippine folk song reminded me of Lissa, the wet fields, my struggles over the delicate act of balancing work and married life, and the women I met along the way. I met Lissa when I was at a crossroad. I was in my forties, married and had a seven-year-old daughter. A registered Agricultural Engineer, I was connected with the Bureau of Agricultural Extension or BAEX, a government agency under the Department of Agriculture. My main task was to help the DA implement its program to introduce mechanized farming, hybrid palay cultivation, and scientific methods of soil preparations as well as pest and weeds control and management. As such, I was also tasked to established pilot projects in different farming communities in Luzon area. These pilot projects were actually demo-fields where we demonstrate the benefits of modern farming against the traditional methods. My work was tedious and time consuming. I needed to work in remote areas where sometimes it was still so backward and life was without the modern necessities like running water and electricity. And my job required me to be away from my family for a prolonged period of time. But though the work was hard and challenging, I found a curious fascination in working with nature. I found it enjoyable working in the fields. The wet rice paddies, the seed beds, the smell of palay and the glorious grains, was a world I learned to love and felt a deep affinity. They say that “Life begins at forty. In those times I was not a believer of this adage. Life for me had started with my early struggles getting a good education while working my way to college. I was orphaned at an early age. My parents died in a tragic accident. The ferryboat they were riding capsized in a freak storm. I was only ten years old then. And being an orphan, for me, life was a continuing struggle. In these struggles, I needed to arm myself. The rule of the jungles reigned supreme. Survival of the fittest and elimination of the unfit. This is what Darwin’s evolution theory is all about. I had to be the best of what I am. This was my motto. This was my goal in everything I do. So, while working in BAEX, I enrolled myself for a doctorate in Agriculture. I was writing my dissertation while I worked on the fields. My demo-fields offered me an excellent opportunity to gather my data, experiment, and validate my findings. Working on my pilot projects at BAEX was hitting two targets in one stone. I met Lissa when I was assigned in Caranglan town in Nueva Ecija. The Nueva Ecija province in Luzon was considered as the rice granary of the region. It had vast tracts of lands dedicated to palay cultivation. And Mang Usting, Lissa’s kindred father had three hectares of wet land he was farming. His wet land was one of the pilot projects I had in central Luzon. This same project was also the subject of my dissertation which was a study on cross-breeding of hybrid palay seeds and soil nutrients enhancement base on organic fertilizers. “This is the house I mentioned yesterday, Engineer,” Mang Usting showed me the small house adjacent to a bigger house. “You can stay here while you are here in Caranglan,” he added. Mang Usting was quite tall and lanky. I noticed he was always in his smiles. It seemed he was always showing off his gold tooth in his front teeth. I had guessed he was on his five decades. “I am already sixty years old Engineer,” he corrected me when I told him about his age. He smiled in simple amusement when I scratched my head having mistaken about his age. I could feel the good-natured side of Mang Usting. It was giving me a good vibe. And I remembered my own departed father. He looked much younger than his age. Perhaps because of the long toils under the sun tilling the wet fields and planting rice crops that fed the whole country. I always have this cringy attachment to simple farm folks like Mang Usting. Was it because I really feel love with the soil and the wet fields? Even loving the mud clinging to my feet and the amorseko attaching themselves at the hem of my pants walking in those muddy and grassy paths of the rice paddies. “This house belongs to my eldest daughter Oreng who had migrated in Australia,” he explained about the house. “It is a bit in disarray as she is planning to erect a better and big house here. But it is clean. Lissa has been using this house as her sewing place,” he further told me. I found out that it was indeed clean and his description of the house being in disarray was a bit exaggerated. It had a room with only a white curtain to cover its interior. Inside the room was a small wooden bed with a thin mattress. Apparently, this was the bedroom. Outside the bedroom was a small sala with an old dresser. There were two old wooden seats with their coats of varnish long faded. And there was an ancient looking foot-pedaled sewing machine sitting idly on a corner. A makeshift concrete counter top with a stainless sink was the main feature of the small kitchen. There was no running water in the house. And there was also a small, round dining table with four old wooden chairs. The house had a small toilet adjacent to the bedroom which also doubled as a bathroom. “There is still no water utility connection here,” Mang Usting seemed to be apologetic as he brought a gallon of mineral water inside. “We buy drinking water in the store just a hike from here.” I saw that the water they were using was coming from a pitcher-type hand pump nearby. They called this artesian well. Some three or four pipes were buried in the ground to pump out the water from underground springs. “Before the commercialization of filtered water, we drink the water coming from this pump,” he told me. I took note mentally that I needed to do something about this as soon as I settled myself here in Caranglan. My project needed at least two planting seasons to finish. It could take me a year to demonstrate and validate the feasibility of raising the palay production through cross-breeding. “The water utilities service company is already in some adjacent barangays,” Mang Usting informed me. “It won’t be long that we can have running water here.” After putting down my things, I decided to write my report using my laptop. I always bring with me my portable internet modem. It was a necessity. I was not hungry yet. But I had some noodles already cooked at the stainless pot. Mang Usting provided a portable gas range together with the gas tank. I was reviewing the data and the notes I gathered from the control fields where we had already planted usual variety of seeds used by the local farmers in the area, when I saw her coming. “So, you are the agriculturist Ama is talking about,” she spoke so fast that I found it a bit hard to follow what she was saying. She spoke with an accent and the colloquialism, distinct in the province. Different places in the tagalog regions had their own distinctive colloquialism of the Filipino language. My very first impression of her was that; she was not a shy person. She was candidly frank. And she was like her father; always with a ready smile. Though I wondered how was it that her father was tall and she was a petite girl standing no more than five feet tall. Mang Usting too had fair skin despite his daily exposure in the fields. Lissa was of Malayan skin, like most of typical Filipinos. Her skin was brown but rather smooth. She was a simple farming community lass. Not exactly pretty but more like a typical lass you could find in a farming community in the region. She was a little bit chubby. But I noticed, she had a beautiful pair of brown eyes. “I’m Lissa. Annalissa is my full name,” she said introducing herself. “I don’t know why my late mother gave me a very long name. It is hard to spell.” I felt her hand was cold when we shook hands. “Just call me Greg. Gregorio Silvestre,” I likewise introduced myself. “You are the agriculturist assigned in Caranglan?” she repeated her question she had asked a minute ago. Looking at her more closely, I felt my first impression on her was quite a bit off. She exuded a beauty which was entirely her own. And it was reflecting on her exciting and bubbly personality. I grew up having no siblings. She was half my age. So, I felt I was admiring a younger sister talking to me. “I’m an Agricultural Engineer. I graduated here in Nueva Ecija. In Central Luzon State University.” I told her closing my laptop after finishing my report while we were having our conversation. “Are the two not the same?” She asked. She was asking about the difference between an agriculturist and an agricultural engineer. “It’s the first time that I hear about engineering course in agriculture.” “I finished BSAE which is five years and requires passing a board exam. An agriculturist has BSA which is a four-year course and requires no government licensure,” I explained. “An agriculturist works on the land. Agr-Engineers work both outside and inside the land. It includes studies in land and soil conservations and the effects of artificial soil enhancement. as Agricultural Engineering also concerns itself with soil erosion mitigations and the effects of climate changes. It quantifies and measures these effects to formulate steps and methodologies to mitigate and control these effects.” I tried to explain at length the difference between the two. “So, you are a board passer, that makes me sad,” she said scoffing at what I told her. “How is that? Why it makes you sad?” I asked. “I also graduated here in NE. In Wesleyan University in Cabanatuan City.” She confessed. “Really?” I did not hide my amazement. I was looking at the ancient sewing machine. I thought she was a seamstress. That showed how judgmental I could be. She nodded. “I graduated BS in Social Works some two years back…” she said sounding remorseful. “What is bad being a graduate of Social Work?” I asked her. “The board. I flunked twice on the board exams for registered Social Workers…” she bit her lower lip and I noticed she toyed with her rubber slippers spinning the one on her left foot on the concrete floor. “Ateng was expecting I could hurdle the board exam.” She said softly as if she was telling it only to herself. ‘Ateng’ was how they called their older sisters. I felt bad for her too. The licensure was scheduled every year. She could have entered a review school before taking the exam. A failure would mean lost opportunity and resources. “I admit it, I don’t have the brain to make it. It is better for me to sew dresses or feed pigs.” She said sounding bitter at herself. “Look here,” said I, “ in everything there is a technique.” “You can hurdle it just like me.” “Are you saying that you are a flunker too before you passed the board?” She was wide eyed. I watched the expression of her face. I had to make a white lie. I belonged to the top ten hurdling my board exam. I had to be the best. It was a personal goal. But I had to build her confidence in her ability. I nodded and sat at the other wooden seat facing her. “I will show you my technique in finally hurdling my board exam after two tries like you.” We stared at each other eyes to eyes. Her gaze was locked on mine. “The exam usually is in multiple choice, right? ” She nodded. “First you try to answer only those items where you are confident with your answers. Skip those that you have doubts about. Then go back to the ones that you have skipped.” I took out my ballpen and ripped a clean sheet of paper from my notes. “You hold the tip of your ballpen and point it to the choices.” I stopped for a second to see if she was listening. She was looking at me intently. Her mouth was wide open that a fly lying nearby could mistook as an open cave. “Pay attention,” I urged her. “I am,” she averred. “Okay, ask this to yourself as you point your ballpen to the choices.” I spoke this holding the point of the ballpen to the paper I have written the suppose test choices. “What is the correct answer? Is this one or this one? This one?” “Let us try, Repeat after me.” I emphasized urging her. “What-is-the-correct-answer-is-rhis-one-or-this-one-this one? Then circle the letter in the multiple choices where your ballpen ended.” She was rolling in laughter. And she was almost teary-eyed looking at me. “You sure you passed this way?” she asked in disbelief. I nodded but I broke into a wide grin too. I can’t help it. I let out a laughter. We were laughing all the while, enjoying the joke, when it suddenly rained. “The rains!” she exclaimed. “My laundry!” she darted outside for her laundry strung outside to dry, as the huge drops of rains suddenly poured outside. It was a needed rain. The parched paddies welcome the rains like a thirsty man on a desert. “Where are you going?” she asked me. That was after lunch, exactly two weeks of my first stay in Caranglan. “I will go and visit my family in Bulacan,” I told her. It had been two months since I was home. I missed my wife and our daughter. “I’ll be away for a week.” “Are you missing your wife?” she asked again. “Yeah, of course,” I answered as I slung my back pack on my shoulder while holding the bag of my laptop and my gadgets with my right hand. “You missed cuddling her each night, eh?” she uttered this with a naughty grin. “Okay enjoy!” she said with a thumbs up in my direction. “Can I sleep in your bed while you are away?” she shouted. I had walked some fifty meters away from the house. “No, the bed is unkept. The pillows and the sheets surely smell of me!” I shouted back. “I won’t mind. I’ll clean them for you!” she shouted again. I did not reply back. I was thinking of my wife. My wife was herself a university professor. She was teaching in a state university in our hometown. Jenny, our daughter, was enrolled in the elementary department of the university where her mom was teaching. She would bring Jenny to school in the morning and they would go home together in the afternoon. We had no house helper as Mer was budget conscious. Jenny used to have a nanny. Bur Mer decided that she could take care of our daughter herself when she was seven years old. She scheduled her teaching classes so that she could bring Jenny to her class and fetch her in the afternoon. I knew it was not an easy task for her to care for Jenny while working herself. But she insisted on doing it. Mer was an only daughter too. Her mom was a widow who was living in another town not very far from where we lived. I had told her many times that we should ask her mom to live with us so that they had a companion at home whenever I was away. But she would always tell me that it was rather hard for her mom to leave the house left behind by her deceased father. Mer was beautiful and attractive. She had a fair complexion and her skin was smooth as silk. I loved her soft brown eyes which at times had that expression of crying. She had a slender yet lithe body frame on her height of five feet and six inches. She had a rich black flowing hair reaching almost her buttocks. My wife was a combination of beauty and brain. I was told that she was a consistent scholar and in the dean’s list when she graduated in college. This was the reason why I encouraged her to pursue her MA in Education while we were already married. It was a love at first sight that struck me. I was so smitten by her that when she accepted my courtship, I proposed marriage at once. She was the very first woman in my life. I was very busy being a self-supporting student during my college days. I didn’t have the time to indulge in romantic pursuits even in mere flings. Mer was my first girlfriend. And when we married, she was my first on our first night. It was already dark when I arrived in our house. The front door was closed and it looked like there was nobody at home. I felt suspicious about this. Yet when I turned the door knob, it was not locked. There was a curious dread filling me as I quietly entered our house. Jenny was nowhere in sight. At this hour she used to be at our sala watching tv. And there was no sign of Mer either. There was a pair of men’s shoes scattered near the door of our bedroom. I tiptoed my way to the door of our bedroom. The door was partially ajar. I gently pushed the door. And the scene that caught my eyes made me dizzy. I froze at the door to see my wife lying flat on her back. She was naked from the waist down, to her parted legs. Her boobs were exposed from her blouse pushed to her neck. She had her eyes closed, as a man was on top of her with his pants and briefs pulled down to his knees. The man was grunting as he humped my spread-eagled wife. But their hot copulation ended when Merhama opened her eyes and saw me frozen at the door. She immediately pushed the man, who quickly jumped from the bed and darted through me. He slightly pushed me to make his way to the front door. I felt myself lead-legged. I saw the man unable to put on his shoes leaving them behind as he took flight. Mer had already dressed-up when she sidled near me. I was still standing at the door like a dead log. My mind had gone blank. It was our defense mechanism when we were being confronted with scenes that were unacceptable and horrible. “Greg, please…forgive me. He forced on me,” my wife sobbed. “I was seduced. I fell prey to his advances.” “Who is he? How long this has been going on?” I found my voice hoarse and defeated. “There is nothing between us. He is my new colleague at the university. He was here because he said he wanted to see the minutes of the meeting we had yesterday…” She tried to hug me as she was explaining. But I pushed her aside. “He forced on me when he saw I was alone. He hugged me and kissed me. And I was not able to resist him. I was afraid he would do something worst if I resist.” I clenched both of my hands and gritted my teeth. I tried to calm my nerves. I needed to think clearly. But pain was clouding my thinking. “I want the truth, Mer. Where is Jenny?” “I am telling you exactly what had happened. It’s the truth.” Her sobs were beginning to be a cry. “Mom fetched her this afternoon. She said she will bring her back tomorrow as it is Sunday.” “You asked your mother to take Jenny for you to be free with your paramour.” I accused her gritting my teeth in between the words. “No, Greg. That is not true. He is not my paramour. I objected for Mom to take Jenny, because you may go home and you will be looking for her.” She cried. “But Mom insisted as she said it will be only for a night. She promised to bring back Jenny here tomorrow. She said she wanted to stay with us a little longer.” She stood up again and tried to embrace me. “Please Greg…please give me another chance. I swear to God, that was the first time. And I am ashamed of how weak I am…” At this point, I felt a little bit calmer. I was returning to my senses. I knew I love Merhama. I still do. And I built up our marriage and our family for more than a decade. She and our daughter were the suns, my planet was revolving. I felt I need to forgive. I need to let go of my pride. What happened was a nightmare. It was always good to wake up. “Dress up,” I ordered her. I put down my backpack and my laptop at the table near our bed. I also put down the bag of native delicacies I bought for them. “Where are we going?” My wife asked timidly as I opened our garage to take out our owner-type jeep. “We will go and fetch Jenny.” I made sure my voice was sans of emotions. “You will tell Mom?” she asked looking deep at me. “Please Greg. Please give me a second chance. Please forgive me.” She was starting to cry again as I closed the gate of our garage after backing out our vehicle. She cringed and clung to me when I took my seat in front of the steering wheel. I could feel her warmth filling me. Her scent was giving me a hard on. I missed her. And I really wanted her. How I wanted to hug her myself and kiss her. But I need to suppress my feelings. “Put on your seatbelt. Let us talk it over in your mom’s house.” I pushed the jeep’s pedal, changed gear and pushed the gas. She looked away as we sped past the neighborhood. I felt the bleak night darker than the color of black itself. TO BE CONTINUED…