The Pauper’s Heir

Fine, misty raindrops soak the street along Quiapo, Manila as I’m waiting for a bus under the waiting shed. I have a regular job now, and today is my fifth week as a janitor in a private school where I am planning to enroll my son this coming school year. Seeing the rainfall in summer, and the fact that I am here under the waiting shed–I couldn’t help but think about a story that happened here in Manila…

It began one drizzly summer morning. Every passerby, workman and student, was rushing to avoid the rain. All except the old man, whose steps were slow and short. Grease and dirt covered him from his shaggy hair down to the soles of his old slippers. As he limped towards the crowded waiting shed, people there were eyeing him with disgust. The poor man just ignored them and still sheltered himself under the little shed. People tried to avoid him by pushing their neighbors out into the rain, and when he moved even closer, they all walked away and chose to get wet instead of being near him.

“Hello, dear old man,” said the nine-year-old boy peddler, the only one who stayed with the pauper. “Here, take this.” He offered him a small, round rag, which he was peddling to the drivers. “It’s a magic rag.” He winked at the pauper. “It dries up easily because Mama sewed it with her warm hands.”

The old man, who was then sitting slouched on the ground, accepted the rag without a word.

The drizzle turned to a hard rain, and the pedestrians dashed towards the waiting shed. But when they saw the dirty pauper, they backed out to find another refuge.

“Why did those people run away?” the boy asked. He looked at the pauper, who seemed not to be listening, busy wiping his face and arms with the rag.

Another group of people came rushing. This time, they stayed under the shed but were standing at one side, keeping their distance from the pauper. The boy, who was standing closer to the old man, looked at the people while scratching his head. Later, when the rain stopped, and the sky became clear, people continued walking to their different destinations. Only the two of them were left under the waiting shed again.

“Aren’t you afraid of me?” the old man asked in his baritone voice–a kind of voice that was unexpected from a frail-looking old pauper.

“Why would I be, dear old man? Are you a bad guy?”

The old pauper smiled. Indeed, despite working at an early age, the boy was still innocent about the cruel world.

“Most people are afraid of beggars not because we are bad, but because we look different,” he explained to the boy.

“Where’s your family?”

“I’m poor for not having a family.” He shook his head in despair. “Well, once I was blessed with a happy family, but you see, I’m old now. My parents are gone, and I never had a wife and children. I’m all alone now.”

“Don’t you have a home? You must be hungry. I’m going home now–come with me. Mama’s soup always tastes good.”

The old man’s eyes that were as blue as the sky brightened upon hearing the boy’s kind offer.

“I want to, son. But if I come with you, your food wouldn’t be enough for your family.”

“No, dear old man. Mama said, the more you share your food, the more it will be blessed, and the more it will fill your hungry stomach.”

“Where do you live, son?”

“Just behind the big, yellow rice store over there.” The boy raised his pointer finger to the yellow-walled store near the stop light.

“Too bad, my feet are so tired, son.”

The boy’s big, dark eyes stared at the old man’s feet. “I see.” The boy pouted his lips. “I have an idea! Can you wait for me here? I’ll bring you food. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in a hurry.” And then he dashed away.

“Son, wait!” The old man got up, beckoning at the boy who was now crossing the street.

“Wait for me, dear old man!” The boy waved his hand when he reached the other side of the street. Then, he sprinted towards the direction of the store. He thought he heard the old man yell, “God bless you, son!” But it wasn’t clear because of the swishing sound of the air on his ears plus the noises of the car horns and engines around.

As promised, the boy returned with the food in a lunch box and a faded water jug, but the old man wasn’t there. The boy looked for the pauper the rest of the day but never saw him again.

Nine years had passed, and Jake Arwel–the kind boy who gave a rag to a pauper–had grown to be an intelligent, handsome, young man. Together with a lawyer, Jake was then entering the mansion owned by Don Herminio–his scholarship sponsor. The place was like a museum. Chandeliers hung from the tall ceiling; its lights were reflecting on the shiny marbled floor. Antique jars of different sizes and lively paintings by the masters decorated the hall, but what grabbed his attention the most was the portrait of a fine-looking man hanging on the center wall. Jake studied the portrait. The brown-haired man had noble brows, sky blue eyes, a pointed nose, and thin lips.

“Do you know that man, Jake?” the lawyer asked him. “He looks familiar, sir,” he said, staring at the man in the portrait, particularly at his blue eyes.

“He is Don Herminio.”

“My sponsor?” He turned his face to the lawyer. “I’ve always wanted to meet and thank him in person.”

The lawyer nodded. “Unfortunately, he passed away, Jake.”

“W-what? I thought he would meet me today, sir.”

“You already did. Remember this?” The lawyer showed him a small box.

Jake took the box and opened it. His forehead crinkled as he scrutinized the small, round rag it contained. “Looks like the ones Mama made.”

“It is, Jake. It was from you.”

“But I don’t remember selling a rag to a rich man.”

“You didn’t sell it. You gave it to a poor man. Remember? The poor, old man beneath the waiting shed.”

“Yes, I do.” He nodded twice. “But how did you get it, sir?”

“You gave it to him. The old man was Don Herminio who disguised himself as a pauper. That day, he was looking for a rightful heir and wasn’t disappointed because he met a kindhearted boy. He made sure his heir would have a good education, so that’s how he became your sponsor. And now that he’s gone, he left everything he possessed under your name, Jake Arwel.”

 

The story of Jake Arwel as “the pauper’s heir” became famous in Manila. He appeared on television and newspapers where he humbly told his story with the brightest smile on his face. His name and fortune were mentioned habitually in everyday talk, especially in depressed areas like the place where he once lived.

“Be like Jake Arwel,” the drunkard father said to his young son who was a rag peddler. “Turn your rags into riches, so I can taste a fine wine.”

Almost everyday, the son would hear that from his envious, frustrated, drunk father. One day, when the son went to the street with his rags, instead of peddling, he gave them for free to the beggars he met on the way. His mind was corrupted by an ambition of baiting a rich man.

“Give me your money,” his father demanded when the son reached their shanty home. He was drunk, but wasn’t as drunk as usual.

“I gave away all the rags to the beggars.”

“What! G-gave it away?” the father exclaimed as he pulled his belt out from around his waist. “You gave away my money?” His belt hit his son’s behind. “You fool!” He continued hitting him. “Why did you do that?”

The son cried, “You said, you said, I must be like Jake! You said, you want to taste a fine wine, and you want us to become rich. So, I did try!”

The father’s hand stopped in the midair; the spirit of alcohol seemed to escape from him. He was flustered, trying to analyze what his son had just explained to him. He put down his hand and deliberately sat on their wooden sofa, watching and hearing his son crying. He suddenly realized how selfish he was. He pitied his son for having a lazy, cruel father like himself–his son who received beatings for doing what he thought would please his father.

“Son,” he said, “Jake Arwel didn’t give his rag to get rich; he didn’t even know that the old man was a multi-millionaire, you know that?”

The son shook his head, still sobbing; his teary eyes looked intently at his father’s.

“He gave that rag out of his goodwill. He had no hidden intentions but purely concern for the old man.”

“He’s a–” the son sobbed, “good boy.”

“Yeah. A helpful, kind boy, that’s why he was rewarded with good fortune. Come.” He beckoned. As the son stepped forward hesitantly, the father knelt down on the rocky floor to give his child a hug. “Son, I know you also have a good heart, and I want you to use it right. I’m sorry for hurting you; I won’t do that again. Promise.”

After that day, the father started to change and never forgot the impact of Jake Arwel’s story in his life…

 

Yeah, he does change for the better. I know that. Because the son’s father has a job now, waiting for a bus under this shed while the fine, misty raindrops soak the street along Quiapo, Manila.