Room Of Three Mats, Part I

Interior Spaces

This series recreates the sleeping areas in the house I grew up in on Fountain Street. The house still stands, remodeled, and has become Fourth Brother's residence in his adult years. In this entry, I'm ten years old, eldest of six siblings at the time. Last Brother, the final one in the brood, will be born two years after. 

The living room is small and sparse. 

Narra hardwood chairs with cane-covered seats and a glass-topped table are on its central space. On a floating shelf on the right wall is a Philcoa radio. On the adjacent wall are a small bookcase and a glass estante for showcasing a plate service inherited from Lola Maria. The latter's lower pane is cracked and badly mended with tape. The top-half of the opposite wall consists of a partition with shelves on which climbing philodendron in water-filled glass bottles thrive indoors year-round without complaint. 

Dadee has just gulped a cup of his after-dinner tsaa with an embarrassing slurp. Six children have been fed, a few curses said, hurts nurtured, dishes put away, and personal libations completed. 

Thereafter, the transformation begins. The living room becomes the 'Room Of Three Mats.' 

After shoving table and chairs aside, Dadee orders jovially, Get the mats, will you? Eldest Brother dutifully assents with a prim nod over his shoulder. He retrieves the rolled woven banig standing like sentinels from the corner of the room. With appropriate flourish, Second Brother and he spread them out - one, two, three! - on the wood floor, each arrowing toward the radio.

Mum offers lumpy pillows like a prize. Please put this blanket by Fourth Brother, she says softly to me. It smells like him.

Mosquito nets, looking like rectangular parachutes, are held up on each of their four corners. With pointy lips toward a nail on the wall, Eldest Brother tells Third Brother, articulating with precision, Hang this over there.

The netted sides are afterward temporarily rolled up, forming canopies. Underneath, in small groups on the mat, we sit like spectators in a theatre box or figures around a campfire about to reenact some ancient, complex ritual.

Is it time yet? we ask all at once, exchanging small anxious glances. Soon, Dadee says, with an airy wave of the hand. I fold my arms, leaning against him.

Then, we wait for the magic to begin. 

(To be continued)