The Day Ben Kingsley Made Me Cry

[I have always liked and respected Ben Kingsley, and I will always remember him for his phenomenal performance in "Gandhi". I suppose almost everyone else who has heard of Kingsley thinks like I do. It's been more than 25 years since "Gandhi" came out in the moviehouse; yes, it's been a long time. I wrote this when I was in Hong Kong, in August of 2007, while I was sitting by the sidewalk and watching people go by. I am not too sure what circumstances made me suddenly write about Ben Kingsley. More often than not, the truth is a lot lot stranger than fiction ... even stranger than this story....]


Moviehouse somewhere in Manila, 1983. My eyes transfixed on the big screen, marveling at the man playing a revered historical character. To my right, my mother, equally awed. To my left ... was it my sister? Or was it just my mother and I watching? At any rate, the person seated to my left seemed hardly interested.

Then came the scene that etched a lasting impression in my pre-pubescent mind. A frail, bespectacled, shaven man in loin clothes, fronting a large congregation of Indians, confronted by soldiers. His voice rang like a decisive bell in the theatre hall.

"My name is Gandhi. Mohandas K. Gandhi."

Mohandas Gandhi. The great Mahatma Gandhi. Of course, I had heard about this man and his incredible deeds, for I had read his biography long before I saw Richard Attenborough's masterpiece. In my mind, Gandhi's greatness was a given.

What intrigued me more, however, was the competent actor who gave life to Gandhi's character onscreen. I did not mind that the film lasted forever: the actor captivated me the whole time. By the time the credits started rolling, I eagerly waited. The name then appeared in the cast list.

Ben Kingsley.

Ben Kingsley! I have never heard of this actor before, I said to myself. What would he be like in his other films...but wait, he is supposed to be new to the movies. Oh, then maybe he is a theatre actor. I resolved to find out who Kingsley is ...

... but to no avail. Back in those days, it was hard to do research. There was no such thing as the World Wide Web. The school library subscribed only to local periodicals, and no foreign magazines, much more foreign celebrity magazines, were on the shelves. It was a frustrating game of hide and seek, with me playing "It" to minuscule (if at all existent) articles on Ben Kingsley in the showbusiness section of the newspapers.

That is, until the list of nominees for the American Academy Awards came out on a teaser for the awards night on television. Kingsley was a strong contender for the best actor award.

How my young heart lept! I will finally see how Kingsley looks like off-screen. Taking note of the date and time of the awards ceremony, I started to rush to my mother who was preparing dinner at that time.

Halfway down the stairways, I stopped, apprehensive.

I know my mother quite well....

*****

Ever since I started figuring in the honors list in my second year of primary school, my mother slowly but surely imposed a great deal on my study habits.It started with long examinations, then progressed to include even those short subject quizzes. She pored onto my written examinations, and if I did not get a perfect score, I would be lucky if I get just a harsh scolding. Obtaining the results that she wanted, my mother imposed more. Television time was reduced, and admonitions became more and more severe. If I wanted to watch television badly, I had to ask permission from my mother, and be ready for corresponding justifications.

*****

What the heck, I though to myself. Just how often did I ask her permission to see some fancy show show on television? Five? Six? As seldom as thunderstorm on a Good Friday?

"Ma?"

"O?" came the response. She was still busy in the kitchen.

"Ma, puwede ba ako manood ng TV sa Linggo? (Ma, can I watch TV this coming Sunday?)" As I was saying this, I walked towards my mother until she was in full view.

My mother was only in her mid-thirties, but already her beautiful face was scarred by years of hard work, bitterness, and an aggressive aspiration to rise above the humdrum middle class lifestyle our family was trapped in.

Without looking at me, my mother asked. "Ano'ng panonoorin mo? (What are you going to watch?)"

I sat by the dinner table. "Ma, naaalala mo yung Gandhi, yung pinanood natin dati? (Ma, do you remember Gandhi, the film we saw recently?)"

"O?"

"Na-nominate yung actor na Gandhi, si Ben Kingsley. Gusto ko sana siyang mapanood sa Oscars. (Ben Kingsley, the actor who played Gandhi, was nominated. I wish to see him in the Oscars.)"

My mother raised her head and looked at me. "Ows? (Really?)" To which I nodded.

"Sige (Alright)", she said. "Panoorin natin. (Let's watch the program together.)" It seems that my mother was interested in watching Kingsley, too.

And this made me happy. Very happy.

*****

It was Sunday afternoon, at least that is what I remember. I could hardly contain my excitement. This is a delayed telecast of the awards night, and I did know that Kingsley bagged the Best Actor award, but I just had to see him on television. I thought, I will finally get to watch Ben Kingsley who was said to have shaved his head and shed substantial weight to fit in the role of Gandhi. Admirable, my young impressionable self gasped, at the same time frowning on matinee idols who play too safe with their choice of roles.

All these concerns had suddenly turned me into some star-struck fan, and I was half-amused at the thought.

Suddenly, a loud angry voice ripped my reveries apart.

"Halika nga rito! (Will you come here!)"

It was my mother. Oh God. I went to her room extremely worried.

There she was, squatting in front of my schoolbag which she sneaked out of my room, all of my text books and notebooks lying open on the floor. My heart pounded hard.

"Ma?" My voice quivered.

"Ano ito? (What is this?)" Her eyes were ablaze. She was holding a piece of paper right in front of my nose, waving it frantically. I peered tentatively.

My quiz.

My quiz! Was it in Current Events or in Science? My imperfect quiz. My cursed imperfect score written on the right-hand corner of the paper in decisive red ink. I choked.

"Bakit hindi mo ipinapakita ito? (Why aren't you showing this to me?)", my mother demanded.

At that moment, all facilities for verbal self-defense escaped me. For all I knew, I might have actually kept the quiz from her on purpose. A stupid quiz should not come in the way of watching Ben Kingsley. I tried to speak but not even a whimper came out of my throat.

A barrage of words came flying like angry daggers. Accusing, demeaning words stung my ears and eyes. Then came everything else. Books, clotheshangers, paperweights, footwear all hurtled at my direction.

Helplessly I shielded myself from my mother's wrath, tears falling profusely from my eyes. I dashed for the door as my mother was shouting "Lumayas ka! Lumayas ka! (Get out! Get out!)" She ran after me but I had already gotten out of her room. I was too horrified to even think about television at that point.

As my mother was about to slam the door, she bellowed, all of her life's hurt and disappointment lacing every word she uttered.

"Hindi ka manonood ng TV ngayong gabi! (You are not going to watch TV tonight!)"

I sat in the corner of my room, sobbing my heart out.

*****

Many years have passed.

Steven Spielberg shot an ambitious project in black and white. The movie: Schindler's List. The actors: Liam Neeson, Ralph Fiennes, Ben Kingsley.

I went to the moviehouse, wanting to know what made this film controversial, and if it was worth all the hype that was built around it.

Ben Kingsley's role demanded little, but there he was, his performance muted yet effective still. My mind moved back and forth in time. My chest hurt in the process.

No tears were shed this time. Just an indescribable, hollow feeling that will hound me for as long as Kingsley continues to perform onscreen.

Human Soul In My Hands

*****[Disclaimer: This story appeared for the first time in Trash Radio Manila. I was creating a mood for a playlist and thought of putting this up. Wrong venue, I figured out later on. *shrugs*
So I thought of reprinting my crude attempt at story-writing here. Je, bless his soul, the very talented writer that he was, had told me that my writing style is too "clinical" (I do not know what he meant, and I think I mentioned this in my past post), but he admitted to having enjoyed reading this story. To my classmates in primary school who may come across this piece, I changed some details just a wee bit, but this actually happened...go do the guessing now.]*****


At six years of age, I, semi-autistic cartoon-preoccupied Catholic school girl in my first year in primary school, had a very little inkling of what a human soul is like. I only knew that a soul is what comes out of the human body at death, yet another concept that was alien to me. And that I could not, pity my feeble brain, theoretically distinguish a soul from a spirit, or a ghost perhaps.

But what did I care then? I was living in comfort world, studying in a school just adjacent to a church, the school canteen annexed strategically to a funeral parlour. At recess time we just had to look at the windows to know if there was an ongoing wake; the reflection of the candles and incandescent bulbs on the window glass said it all. We would get our lunchboxes and eat and gleefully exchange stories, unmindful of what was at the other side of the wall.

Now we had a classmate named Rachel (not her real name) who was new to our school. We found Rachel to be rather unusual. For one, she hardly talked: the infrequent questions that went her way, most probably by accident, were returned with a sly smile and nothing more. She was never seen to use a handkerchief, so oftentimes she went around with snot dried up over her lips, which did not help to flatter her white face. Her school uniform always bore creases in all places, and if one was lucky he may be able to identify a number of areas that required reinforcement with numerous stitches. Her straight brown hair was unkempt at all times and needed de-lousing.

But most of all, we never saw her bring food, or buy snacks at the canteen for that matter. During recess time, Rachel would approach the richer kids, palm up, and hiss, her voice coming off a mouth most likely filled with saliva: Pahingi.

[Pahingi, this wretched Tagalog word which can mean a lot depending on the person saying it or the circumstance during which this is uttered, translates to "Can I have...". In this case, Rachel was always seen to ask for food.]

So it was no surprise that Rachel never joined one group, nor was welcomed by any. She would just mosey along, or stay near the sink for the most part of snack time, fidgeting with the contents of her pockets.

One day, the class was having an art activity. I asked permission to go to the canteen to drink from the tap faucet. My teacher agreed.

I descended onto the few steps of stairs that led to the canteen. The windows of the funeral parlour shone brightly as I walked.

Rachel was standing by the sink when I got there. Her hands were wet, the left holding a few one peso coins. She gave me a crooked smile. I whispered a tentative “hello” then leaned onto the faucet.

Rachel bent towards me and hissed.

“Gusto mo makakita ng kaluluwa? (Would you like to see a soul?)”

I straightened my back and wondered what she meant.

“Ano yun? (What did you say?),” I asked. Maybe I heard her wrong.

Rachel’s almond brown eyes gleamed. “Eto o. Hawak ko ang kaluluwa ng lola ko (Here, I am holding my grandmother’s soul),” and she opened her right hand. I looked at her palm and squinted my eyes.

I saw a few pieces of smooth white wafer-like material, like scraps of cement. Except that Rachel’s had a matte, powdery appearance to it. There were no traces of white residue or soap suds on her palm. Rachel was then grinning, her mouth revealing dirty, uneven set of teeth. The yellow light from the window was shining on her right cheek, rendering a rather grotesque appearance to her face. I got a bit scared, but my sense of curiosity prevailed.

“Nahahawakan mo kaluluwa ng lola mo? Paano? (You are actually able to hold your grandmother’s soul? How is that possible?)’ Then pointing at Rachel’s right palm, I asked. “Paano mo nakuha ito? (How did you get this?)”

Rachel beamed.

“Nang namatay ang lola ko, nilibing siya. Noong hinukay siya, nakita namin ito.” (When my grandmother died, she was buried. When her body was exhumed, we found this.) Rachel then went towards the faucet, and as water dripped from the tap, so did questions flow in my head. I found her tale to be too incredible.

She then continued.

“Tapos kinuha ko to. Binasa ko siya kasama ang mga piso. Naging makikintab sila. Tingnan mo! (Then I got this and washed my peso coins with it. Look how shiny they’ve become!)” Rachel shook the shiny coins on her left hands. “Gusto mo subukan natin sa piso mo? (Would you like to try to do the same thing on your peso coin?)” she excitedly offered.

I touched the glistening coins on her palm, running my fingers on the embossed figures. I frowned.

“Sabon naman yan eh! (That must be soap!)” I snorted, as I thought to myself how stupid I was to even start to think about believing her tall tale.

“Hindi ito sabon! (This is not soap!)” Rachel insisted, drool threatening to escape from the corners of her mouth. “Kaya nga pahiram ng piso mo, ipapakita ko sa iyo na kikintab yun ng walang bula (That is why I’m borrowing your peso coin, I will show you that it is going to be shiny without creating any soapsuds.)” The shadows on her pale face were getting more and more grotesque. I would rather not wrong this girl since she was becoming creepier by the minute.

Hesitantly, I dug into my pocket. Taking out my dainty wallet, I clicked it open and picked out some dirty coins. Rachel, having kept her own set of shiny coins in her pocket, was nearly breathless, posed in her favorite gesture of supplication, as I was giving her my coins.

She tossed the coins and the “soul” and shook them together in her palms cupped upon another. Rachel then brought her hands to her mouth and muttered what seemed to be a spell. She placed her hands directly beneath the faucet, which continued to spew water.

I watched intently as Rachel mumbled more unintelligible words while gently wiping the coins and the “soul” alternately. My coins, and the soul of Rachel’s grandmother, in the hands of one girl so earnest to prove that she was not pulling my leg. The coins started to catch the reflection of candles and light bulbs from the window. No bubbles to diffuse the eerie glint of the coins, no words to break the morbid silence enveloping this irreverent ritual.

Finally, Rachel spoke.

“Ayan, makintab na. (Here, they’re already shiny.)”

She brought the coins up close to my eyes.

“Ang kintab nga! (Shiny indeed!)” I conceded as I started to pick up my coins from her palm, trying to avoid touching the white matter beneath.

Rachel, her face glittering with her little victory, inched nearer. Her white forehead, her glistening nose, the top of her upper lip smeared with sweat and snot, her crooked smile, her dirty, uneven teeth – for the first time, I had seen her countenance in full detail. I felt an unexplainable sense of fear.

“Sige (Go ahead),” she urged, “Hawakan mo ang kaluluwa ng lola ko. (Touch my grandmother’s soul.)”

As if by trance, I lifted my right hand. I shivered as I tried to feel the “soul” that Rachel was alluding to. The white wafer remained matte, not at all slippery. The whole experience was making me sick on the spot.

With the little courage left in me, I spoke.

“Rachel, baka hinihintay na ako ni Miss Aldaba. Baka magalit siya. (Rachel, Miss Aldaba, might be waiting for me. She might get mad at me.)”

Having said this, I quickly left, scurrying past the sink, past the sickening reflection off the window, past the short flight of stairs. I could no longer bear the sight of Rachel, palms up, holding her grandmother’s soul, anymore.

Reaching the classroom, I nodded to my teacher who then gestured me to my desk. I picked up my artwork with trembling hands, my heart throbbing hard and fast, my thoughts running crazily in my mind.

No. I had not seen a human soul before, but I had just touched one.

I shut my eyes tight.* * * * *

Rachel stayed in school for only a few months. We would still see her during snack time, fidgeting by the sink and talking to herself. I never got to talk to her again, nor did I tell my groupmates about my fateful encounter with her.

Sometimes, while I eat lunch with the group, I would catch Rachel looking at me, her little form illuminated by yellow light coming off the window of the funeral parlour….

Then she was gone, and no one has ever gotten to know where she went.

Human Soul In My Hands
16 August 2007

Photo credit: Grad pic courtesy of my good friend AL Bjornstad.