Pista Senyor
For the first time in decades, not only was I able to attend the novena masses leading up to the feast of the Sto. Niño or Pista Senyor but I was able to complete all nine of them. And for the first time as well after about the same length of absence, I was able to join the procession even if I failed to go the entire route on account of my lower back giving way to elderly pain.
But there was a time when these activities were a cinch to complete. And not only because we sincerely wanted to but, more compellingly, because we had to. As a student at the Colegio del Sto. Niño, these were obligations of service from which there was no escape, from grade school when we were Boy Scouts, to high school when we were PMT cadets.
In the 1960s though, things were pretty simple and uncomplicated. The terrorists against which any potential attack had to now be met with such an all-consuming security clampdown were probably not born yet. The biggest potential threats we faced in the day were small wax fires caused by wayward candles.
The army was never called in in our day, only the police, and in just enough numbers to man mostly pedestrian traffic. There wasn’t much of vehicular volume to cause a traffic jam even if anyone wanted to. The rest of the concerns approximating security was taken care of by Boy Scouts, and by PMT and ROTC cadets.
The procession then went only as far as Colon. It has not grown to the humongous proportion that it has become now. And it is truly amazing and thought-provoking how the devotion to the Sto. Niño has grown. Believe me, but daily masses then were so few the gates to the Sto. Niño compound were closed most times of the day during school hours.
My recent rediscovery of a faith that had been nudged to the side in favor of the time-consuming demands of a profession in journalism also led to little side rediscoveries of small pleasures I have long forgotten. Over the past week or so that I had been attending the novena masses, I also found myself now having the time to get reacquainted with carenderias.
In the mall-less Sixties, even restaurants were for special occasions. No special occasion, you eat in a carenderia. And eat again I did after the entire nine-day novena masses. Never had “mais kan-on and mongos and pritong isda and bihon” tasted so good. And for something like less than P150. And that already includes the Coke.
One thing though that is infinitely more beautiful now is that, having been away for so long, you never know how much you missed the Sto. Niño until you inexplicably get moved to tears just by the sight of Him. In our time, with Him so permanently in our midst, it came almost natural to take Him for granted. Until the boys grew up and left and came back again as old men.
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