Kapit sa patalim: The last blade keeper

Once a familiar fixture in barangays and public markets, the distinct ring of the mananasa's bell — signaling a traveling knife sharpener’s arrival — is slowly fading into memory.

Mario Mauricio, one of the last few mananasa still pushing his pedal-powered grinding wheel through neighborhood streets, knows the trade is on its final stretch.

With every blade he sharpens and every whetstone he wears down, he admits in Filipino, “Our time is almost up.”

At 70, Mario knows it’s only a matter of time before he parks his old, rickety bicycle for good — the same one carrying the worn sharpening tools passed down from his late father, along with decades of stories etched into every spin of the wheel.

The third of eight children, Mario quit his job as a construction worker to continue his father’s work.

“My father chose me to continue his work,” he says while running the blade across the rotating stone from heel to tip in smooth, even strokes.

Mario, his wife, and their three children squeeze into a cramped, rented room in Project 8, Quezon City — no bigger than a full-size SUV. It’s a tight, makeshift space where beds double as storage, and every square inch is a reminder of the life they've built through grit and sacrifice.

This is the same home of his late father who left their hometown in Mangatarem, Pangasinan.

“Since we were eight children, some of us had to sleep in our neighbors’ houses,” Mario recalls.

He says he earns an average of P500 a day — just enough to get by, with a chunk of it going to their P2,500 monthly rent. What’s left is stretched thin for food, water, and whatever else the day demands.

Whatever little they had managed to invest over the years was washed away by floods — including their prized possession, a washing machine that once made life a bit easier.

After 40 years in the trade, Mario admits he’s grown weary — his weathered face a quiet testament to the struggle and sacrifice of raising three children through years of hard, honest work.

His eldest son has completed high school and is applying for a factory job. His youngest is still in Grade 6.

Rest is the last thing on his mind as he hunches over a battered pair of scissors — one of three he's carefully refurbishing that morning. With practiced hands and tired eyes, he inspects the blade's edge under the light, chasing sharpness like it’s purpose itself.

Two knives and three pairs of scissors — all sharpened to a gleaming edge in just 30 minutes, the same amount of time it took for Mario to share the story of his fading craft, his family, and the quiet dignity of a life spent honing blades and surviving one day at a time.