While casually talking about weekend plans over lunch the other day, one of my new colleagues said she was going to her friend’s house to play Mahjong. She’s 26. I was surprised. I’ve always thought of Mahjong as a game old people play. It reminded me of my late grandfather who used to frequent the Mahjong-ans in town.
Before my Lolo retired from his work, he played Mahjong regularly. I think it was when I was between the ages of six and nine. Whenever he didn’t come home from work right away, my Lola would turn frantic. She hates gambling of any form. She thinks it’s immoral. Naturally, the thought of my grandfather squandering money away in a game of Mahjong made her indignant. At each passing hour that Lolo didn’t show up, she would grow even more displeased until she would call me over in annoyance and announce “dali sa Trisha, apason nato imong Lolo!”. I grew up in a household were Bisaya and Ilonggo were both spoken. The former on account of my grandparents hailing from a small town in Lanao Del Norte, the latter because it was the language predominantly spoken in Marbel. Anyway, with that kind of tone, my legal name forcefully pronounced, I can only dutifully oblige.
My Lola would pakyaw a tricycle to take us to the houses where she thinks my Lolo could be. There were only three that I remember – Passi Blacksmith along Gensan drive, the one residence in Arellano, and the other residence we referred to as Arorong’s somewhere in Bonifacio near the public cemetery. My Lola would remain in the tricycle, she never dared go in so she would ask me to go inside and look for Engr. Soria. If I don’t hear the clacking of the Mahjong tiles as I go in, I wouldn’t be so hopeful. I would return to my Lola also annoyed by this time and mutter “wala man sya diri!”. Onward we would keep looking. Whenever I found him, Lolo would never seem surprised. It seemed like he knew his time was up. My Lola would instruct me to discreetly whisper to my Lolo to come home right away. I would do so but not before I reach for a twenty peso bill in the drawer right side of the table where I know money is stashed, sometimes fifty pesos if I’m feeling greedy! I would also be instructed not to leave his side until he gets up. It’s a trick my Lola used to guilt trip my Lolo into coming home. He knew it was not right for a child to be out late at night, worse so in a place where people gamble.
When Lolo retired and moved to the farm with my Lola, he stopped going to Mahjong games too. He moved on to buying LOTTO! When he passed on, we joked about looking for the winning lottery ticket he might have left for us. We miss him dearly.
Here’s a photo collage of my sweet grandparents over the years. Lolo might be the gambler that he was but he was always so affectionate to my Lola and generous to all of us.
