What went wrong?

I know I've sadly neglected this blog (and haven't read any others in ages -- will remedy that soon!).

I'm still recovering from my trip that was good, bad, confusing, guilt-ridden, joyful, tense, scary, exhilarating, tearful, fun, restful and exhausting (physically and emotionally), all rolled into one.

Can a simple change of scene bring about a drastic change in personality? I can count the number of times I've cried or yelled at someone since I moved to Tokyo on one hand (in fact I don't think I've yelled at anybody. . . I just stew inside). But when I was in Sri Lanka, I felt like I had absolutely no control over myself. . . I'd be talking about something, get slightly emotional, and the waterworks would start (I cry when I'm really angry which is very frustrating). I yelled and screamed, threw tantrums, swore and acted like a diva.

I had a great deal of control over how this trip went, and how much my parents and I enjoyed my stay there -- but I just felt like a puppet in the hands of an evil version of myself. I tried to explain to my parents why I am just a Christian and not a Catholic like them or any particular denomination, but I was constantly conscious of how unChristian my behaviour was. I tried to point out to them how wrong some of their attitudes towards their lives were, but felt completely unqualified when my outlook didn't seem any better.

I'm back in Tokyo now, feeling stragely detached, as if I'm remembering someone else's memories, and devoid of emotions, as if I used up all my quota during my trip, and now have none left over. And I'm wondering who I really am . . . the person I was on this trip or the relatively nice, relatively cheerful person I seem to be here?

New Year's money

We have a charming little New Year's tradition in my part of the world that I've missed for the past nine years (gosh, it's been that long?!?!). Parents and other adults would give their children and other youngsters cash--without being asked! It wouldn't be much--just five rupees, upped to 10, then 20, as age and inflation necessitated--not even enough to buy a candy cane on sale here.

But it was the whole build up to it, trying to guess how much would be forthcoming, and figuring out which adults could be milked for the money that was fun; and the well-laid plans afterwards for spending it. Plus, it was all done very surreptitiously--I've never quite figured out why. Usually we'd go to midnight mass, after which we'd come back home, eat, drink and make merry. At some point, there'd be hugging and kissing and wishing, and in the middle of all the swishing of new clothes and whirling of newly-done hair, somehow the cash would change hands. . .and before I knew it I would be standing there, 10 rupees richer.

There was a catch though--we had to keep the new money until the end of the year. Of course, we could use the cash from the previous year. But if it was a year when we got 10 rupees, but had only received five the previous year, we did feel a bit jipped. But the thought of five extra rupees to spend the following year kept us going.

I never quite asked why or how the tradition started. I guess the obvious answer is that it was a wish for prosperity and happiness for the following year. To me, at that time, it was a treasure that I would safely keep in my little red plastic purse, take out and look at occasionally, and plan carefully--taking into account the depreciating value of the currency and what world events were affecting inflation and all, of course--how I was going to spend it come next New Year's.

Six months at The Mag

As of this past Tuesday, I've been at The Mag for six months. SIX MONTHS! These same six months last year seemed to drag on forever. Time indeed passes quickly when you're having fun. And fun it has been. When I've worked at huge companies and publications in the past, I've often felt lost and confused, more superfluous than anything else, like an unwanted pet that has to be taken care of, and that care given grudgingly.

When I started at The Mag, that was what I feared--no, was sure--would happen. The tight deadlines, the layoffs which had happened a few months earlier, and the fact that it's part of a huge corporation, all made me sure that I would be no more than a pain amidst the hustle and bustle of life here, and that busy editors would see me as more of a hindrance than help. And I fretted and worried.

But I've been proved so wrong. I've been taken seriously, given daily responsibilities, stories to work on, and encouraged to develop my own ideas, even outside of my assigned section. I've pitched stories to editors, who have painstakingly worked with me to develop and shape them into comprehensive stories. When my job offers were being rescinded, editors joined together to ensure that I had enough work to keep me on while I figured out my next move. When I've helped reporters on stories outside of my section, I've had more than one editor say, "If they don't give you a byline for that story, let me know, and I'll deal with it." I've felt depended on, useful, and anything but unwanted.

These have been a strange six months. But this job has been a haven, and I believe, in God's own way, the withdrawal of the other job offers was a good thing after all.

NOTE: I try to stay away from work-related entries, but since I am at my six-month point, thought I would be justified in making an exception.

Confession

For the past few weeks, I've strayed. I took a conscious step off the narrow path towards God, and chose the wide, free road, away from Him. Not that I did anything drastic or acted any differently. But on the inside, something changed. I told Him, "Goodbye God. I don't need you. You go your way, I'll go mine."

I did it because I wanted--demanded--results, changes in my life. And He wasn't giving me any. So one day, I decided I'd had enough. I stormed into my apartment, took down crucifixes, packed up Bibles and dumped them into a box inside my closet. I deleted the part about my being a Christian from my blog profile. I stopped going to church. The elimination was quick and systematic.

And it was easy. Boy, was it easy. In the past few weeks, I've felt no guilt, no worry that I was hurting Him, no pang that I would have felt before when I was lazy about talking to Him, reading His word, or doing anything I knew was against His will. I realized that the further I got from Him, the easier it became to ignore Him, and to do my own thing.

But I also felt a sense of emptiness. Even during my self-imposed isolation, I caught myself a couple of times, telling Him: "Jesus, I miss you." But I was captivated with the ease of life without God, without accountability to Him, without the need or desire to do Someone else's will.

Until the emptiness overcame me this week -- just like that. Nothing happened. It just occurred to me that, no matter what, my life wasn't much without Him. So, I'm slowly retracing my steps. It's tough going, back uphill to the narrow road. Knowing that I won't be able to brush off straying as easily as I have over the past few weeks. But I also know that, while I was on my own on the wide and easy road, Someone will go with me on the narrow one.

I prayed last night for the first time in weeks. It wasn't terribly heartfelt or eloquent. I was sitting on the bus home, looking out the window, and quietly said I was sorry and asked him to come back to me. It wasn't a desperate longing -- yet. That will come. What I felt was the first hazy rays of what I know will become a much stronger need.

So the "Christian" part of my profile is back up, and the crucifixes and Bibles come out tonight. Pray for me.

Mediocrity

Warning: pessimistic post follows. . .

When asked what would be the one thing they would not want people to define them as, people say various things -- some say boring, others say ordinary, yet others say stupid or ugly. After much thought, I decided, relatively recently, that my undesirable quality of choice is mediocrity.

I've never been the smartest in my peer group, but not the dumbest either. I haven't been the best-looking, but not the worst either. And I haven't been the life of a party, but I haven't been the wallflower either. Under these circumstances, the tendency to slip into mediocrity has been ever-present, ready to drop at any minute.

And I've tried to battle it tooth and nail. Particularly career-wise, I've tried to stave off mediocrity by praying as hard as I could, working just as hard, and by taking chances that held the promise pf results that would remove me as far as possibile from any chance of slipping into mediocrity.

Now, moving away from mediocrity doesn't mean making millions or becoming famous or even being the absolute best in what you do -- at least not by my definition. Rather, it is living a life that makes a significant difference in the lives of others. And translating that into my chosen career, it means being a reporter who seeks the truth in areas I'm most passionate about, and exposing the way the less fortunate parts of the world live to the more privileged ones.

But lately, the question of whether it is possible to escape the mediocrity that has been hanging over you your whole life has been weighing on my mind. And with the latest blow that has succeeded in almost crushing me, my faith and my quest, I am almost convinced that one's own efforts are not enough to escape mediocrity. You can work harder than you've ever worked. You can force yourself out of your element, your comfort zone, into strange and confusing worlds. And you can endure all kinds of heartache in your quest.

But, despite your best efforts, I am almost convinced that the way your life turns out is beyond your control. At the end of the day, what matters is not always how hard you work (although it does make a difference when combined with other favorable factors) the career path you've chosen, the qualities you already possess -- a brilliant mind, for example -- and, ultimately, the colour of your passport.

The September song. . . or just plain knuckles?

I was reading This Fish's post today, in which she writes that she has to sing the September days song to remember how many days each month has. And I realized that my way of figuring out how many days each month has is slightly different. And I'm not sure if it's something that most people are familiar with -- or if it's just a quirky thing that we do in my village or in Sri Lanka or South Asia.

I make a fist with my hand, and assign the bone of my index finger to January. Then the pit beside the bone is February. Then back up to the bone of the middle finger. That's March. . . and so on. When you get to the bone of the little finger, you return to the index finger and continue. All the months for the raised bones have 31 days, and all the months in the pits have 30 days (except for February, of course, but if you need a method to figure that out, you've got other problems). Anyway, you do it this way, and lo and behold, you get 31 days for both July and August, the only two consecutive months that have 31 days. Because of this, when I was little, I used to think that people who decided the days and months and all did it using their knuckles, and that's why they let July and August have 31 days -- because when you get to the last raised bone, you have to come back to the first raised one! It just made sense.

PS: I am annoyed -- I just called Nev to see if this is actually quite a common practice and I'm making a hoopla about something that everybody knows about. I asked him how he figures out how many days there are in each month, and he said he uses the September song. Then I asked him if he knew the other way, and he vehemently said no.

So I started trying to explain it to him, but every time I started talking, he'd interrupt me with a very abrupt "I don't know what you're talking about," the way he does when he thinks I'm being a "FOB" (that's "fresh off the boat" to anyone who doesn't know desi-talk, as in people who aren't cool or westernized enough).

Finally, exasperated, I said, "Well, that's why I'm trying to explain it to you."

To which, he replied, "Well, I know what it is."

"Then why did you keep saying that you didn't know what I was talking about?" I retorted.

"Well, I know what it is, but I use the September song," he said.

I hung up.

Loss. . . and healing

Have you ever really sat down and come to the realization that life really is what you make of it? Not in the cliched, off-the-cuff way that people say it to make you feel better about things. . . but in a serious, eureka kind of way.

I've found that many times, when something you've had slips away from you, it's because you were so afraid to believe that you actually had it and are so filled with fear that you are going to lose it, that you either cling too tightly to it, or don't hold on to it tightly enough. You are either afraid to claim it because of the loss you are convinced will inevitably follow, or you do take it and worry so much that you are going to lose it than you end up creating a situation where do lose it.

And when that loss finally comes, it's almost a relief, because the anxiety and the waiting for the inevitable is finally over, and you can get on with the business of dealing with it -- of telling yourself that you were never meant to have it in the first place and you always knew you were going to lose it, and you were right, and now you can move on.

But even with loss, life goes on, doesn't it? You pick up the pieces, and you trudge on, and you learn to live life without that all-important thing/person. And that's the thing about humans. . . that we do move on, we do get used to what seems even the most un-get-used-to-able things, and we are healed by time. We might occasionally feel a little tug at the mention of a name or a circumstance that brings back a poignant memory, but at the end of the day, we can get used to anything. . . and we can even learn to be happy with something that one day we thought we could never settle for, or be happy without something we thought we could never live without.

Cheesy and sappy as this is, these extracts from this poem by Veronica Shofffstall do make some sense, so don't look down your nose at me (Caveboy and Nev -- I can almost see the rolling eyes)!!

After a while you learn the subtle difference
between holding a hand and chaining a soul
And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning
and company doesn't always mean security
And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts
and presents aren't promises
And you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and eyes ahead . . .
And you learn to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans
and futures have have a way of falling down in mid-flight. . .
And you learn that you really can endure
that you really are strong
and you really do have worth
And you learn and you learn
with every goodbye you learn..

Looking back. . .

I have just realized that, by this time next month, all my classes will be finished. The final version of my last story for by Business and Economics reporting class is due on May 9. The final story for Columbia News Service will be done on April 28. And I have no idea what's happening in my Computer Assisted Reporting class, and don't care much, to be honest.

So, a year. . . somewhat turbulent and horrible at times, but also one where I've learned a great deal, personally, academically and professionally, is coming to an end. I suppose my feelings throughout this year have been primarily negative, mostly because of the sheer stress of depending on others to determine how well I do, and not having the strength of a real publication behind me to lend me some credibility. It's been tough at times. . . heck, most of the time. . . but it's been a sort of baptism by fire. It is one of those experiences that are difficult while going through it, but afterwards, you look back and realize how much it helped you grow. Approaching the end of this year, I am looking back and realizing that I am coming out having learned a lot more than I expected, and prepared to learn a lot more as I go on. In some ways, I'm tougher, both as a person and as a journalist; in others, I'm a lot softer, more empathetic, more aware of the state of affairs in the world, and wanting to make a difference.

For a long time, I lived -- somewhat deludedly -- telling myself, "Je ne regrette rien," perhaps because I did have a lot to regret, but chose not to face it. But now, I accept that there are many things I wish could have done differently during the past year, in school, work and in relationships. . . most of which were within my control. But since there is not much to be done about these, the key is to look forward. I still have one more month, and as I look at my bookshelf full of unread books, the freelance stories I never got around to writing or selling, and the friends I never managed to make -- or managed to lose -- I tell myself. . . I still have a month to do all these things. Will it happen? I don't know. Probably not. But, one can always try. . .

*If you are wondering what the point of this vague post is, I'm not entirely sure myself. Just looking back and randomly reminiscing. . .

The last sign of Christmas. . .

I was walking down Columbia's College Walk today, from Broadway, where I live, to Amsterdam Avenue, where I work, and noticed a couple of workers taking down the Christmas lights that have been up on the trees (the tree trunks to be precise, since there are no leaves), since a couple of weeks before Christmas. I felt a twinge - of sadness, nostalgia, I'm not sure, as I saw the last holdout from the holidays disappearing. It's silly really, considering that Christmas was over two months ago, but in some way seeing those lights as I walk through school gave me some comfort, representing as they did the last reminders of the Christmas spirit and cheer.

As I watched them come down, I thought back to my past Christmases. I know March is a little late to be reminiscing about Christmas, but for most of us, the hustle and bustle of the holidays don't allow for much thinking at the time itself.

When I was living in India, I used to watch American and British shows, and always feel that our Christmas celebrations weren't adequate, weren't real. There was no snow, no Christmas lights in shops and gaily wrapped presents in store windows, no need for wandering around in coats, hats, boots and scarves. We had our different celebrations: setting up a tree - albeit a pretty scraggly one most of the time (one time Nev and I dubbed it "our Christmas branch"), getting out the little creche my father had built himself when I was about six or seven years old, and the tiny statues of baby Jesus and Mary and Joseph and the shepherds and the Wise Men and the animals, many with limbs and other body parts broken off and glued back together.

But when I moved to the U.S., I realized how wrong I'd been to translate the outer signs of Christmas as representative of Christmas itself. I had all that - the snow (too much of it, in fact - it was Minnesota, after all), the Christmas lights and presents, the coat, hat, boots, scarf. But my family wasn't here, and in most of the celebrations, I realized that the real reason for Christmas was absent as well - was, in fact, taboo.

I was never alone at Christmas. Especially from my second year onwards, I had my host family, who went completely out of their way to wrap me in love, and include me in all their family traditions, so I would experience both the real American Christian Christmas and deal with being away from home at the time when it bites the most. And in London, there were always my cousins and aunt to spend Christmas with.

But as grateful as I am for their openness and generosity, and happy as I was to finally have what I'd always considered the ideal Christmas, I always felt a little like the outsider, that I was looking in at someone else's family Christmas. I had a picture in my head - I think it came from reading The Little Match Girl when I was little - standing outside in the cold looking into other people's warm homes, and their happy Christmas celebrations. I'm being completely melodramatic here, because my life was perfect compared to hers, but I felt a little bit like her, like this was all fascinating, but that I wasn't supposed to be a part of it. . .

Despite what seemed to be lacking, however, that time of year still holds a special place - particularly because I've realized how precious the Christmases at home were, and how much people went out of their way for me here and in London. So, as I watched the lights come down, and the little bit of the security I'd felt - that even after the Christmas presents and Christmas trees were long gone, there was still this one reminder - evaporated, I realized that it really is time to get on. After all, it is Lent now, and I suppose it is a little inappropriate to have Christmas lights up at this time. And I also realized that, for the lights to go up again, they have to come down first. . .

What if. . .

As I lay in bed the other night, engaged in my pre-slumber musings, a strange thought occured to me. It has actually come to my mind many times before, but I've never completed the thought. And it was: what if everything over the past four years or so has been a dream, and I wake up and I'm back to a day four years ago? I chose the four-year mark, because that was a pretty big turning point in my life.

I wondered if, having seen everything unfold in my life in the past four years, (in my supposed dream) I would make the same decisions I have made so far, or if, knowing the consequences, I would choose to go a different route. And it occured to me, that, despite hind sight being 20-20 and all, I would probably have made the exact same decisions. Not really because things couldn't have been better than the way they've turned out - quite the contrary, in fact. But because I think I would dismiss my "dream" as being just that - a dream, and hence of little consequence. And because I would convince myself that, in real life, things could not possibly work out the way they did in my "dream".

I would overestimate my strength, and my ability to deal with problems, and think that, in places in my "dream" where I fell apart, I would be able to cope just fine. I would overestimate my wisdom and the ability to do "the right thing", and believe that I would act with caution, and know when to get out of a sticky situation. And I would overestimate my levelheadedness (which, dream or no dream, would have been a far-fetched assumption!), and think that I would always remain rational and think with my head.

But I think most people would do the same, no? I don't believe in destiny and all that, but I do believe that we are all somehow wired to make certain kinds of choices, and that these choices are what lead us to the situations we get into, and ultimately to the kind of life we lead. So, when it comes to making decisions, we will almost always choose to go a certain direction.

Which is why, no matter what happens, and how many "dreams" I have, I will always remain an impulsive character that, when faced with a choice to think with my head or my heart, will throw caution to the winds (pardon the cliche) and choose that wretched heart, and inevitably land up in trouble.

Farewell:-(

I hate goodbyes. Well, I guess there aren't many people who actually enjoy them. But, Emsten left today, to go back home to her sunny little island, and the apartment really feels empty. Today of all days, I had class all day, so I woke up early and made my specialty, aubergine (eggplant, brinjal, whatever!) curry, and had a last croissant and coffee with Emsten before rushing off to class.

Rushed back from class for lunch with Emsten, and Okia, who joined us, and little Wednesday, who, as usual, kept trying to eat us AND our food. I got Emsten her last black bubble tea from Cafe Swish where I took her about five or six times in her four weeks here, and we chatted about Emsten's little twin sisters, and this, that and the other. Rushed back to class after lunch, and rushed back home, with a few minutes to spare before the car came to pick her up and take her to the airport.

We chatted for a bit as Emsten, incredibly organised, had already finished packing (Me, I would have been stuffing things into my suitcase until the last minute, but she had everything perfectly folded and packed, and even a little rectangular space just the right size for her toiletries kit, which went in last). So we checked around for the last time, chatted a bit and took her stuff down. When the car came, we said goodbye, with promises to meet up again on her sunny island, and heartfelt wishes for her upcoming wedding(!!!) and she left. It seemed almost anti-climactic. Such a quick goodbye, to such a good friend.

When I came back to the apartment, it felt so empty. I'd gotten so used to it being the four of us in our apartment, and now it feels strange to have my room to myself again. We hardly even saw each other during the week, but just knowing that she was around, and a quick hi and bye as we dashed in and out of the apartment, still made it nice, more homey somehow. I wished I could have done more, hung out with her more, that we'd had more little chats, but both of us were busy and life has a habit of just taking over sometimes, and you end up doing what you have to do at that moment, not what's important in the larger scheme of things.

When I saw Okia later, she commented too that it felt strange not to have Emsten around. "I already miss her," she said. "Me too," I replied:-(

And Emsten gave me an early birthday gift that left me speechless - a nano!! I had been going on about how it would be so nice to have one for when I'm in the gym and just to listen to - but really, do you need an excuse to have an nano? - and the other day, we were downloading our favourite songs onto my comptuer and listening to them, and reminiscing. . . and the next thing I know, the woman goes and gets me a nano!!

But that's Emsten! Emsten, if you read this, I hope you had a safe flight, and are back safe and happy, and are blissfully planning your wedding. And tell your parents girl!

Men are motormouths!!

After the Gifford Miller incident, FMP and I proceeded to a very artsy, very cool cafe called Cafe des Artistes (I know it had a Cafe and an Artistes, just not sure about the des or pour or whatever in between)! Anyway, as we were chatting about various things, we got to talking about volunteering information.

"You don't tell people things unless you are asked, do you?" I asked her. "I've noticed."

"I know. I don't. I'm really closed," she admitted.

We started talking about how we don't volunteer information about ourselves unless we are asked, and how Caveboy, Rohinton, Nev and Oiram (all boys) talk about what's happening in their lives without being asked, and don't always realise that we expect them to ask us about ourselves, thus leaving us with the impression that they don't care.

"Caveboy is really good about intuiting what I need and asking me," Ficali said. "That makes a big difference."

But, like Nev and Oiram with me, Rohinton expects her to volunteer information, because that's the way he functions. Nothing wrong with that, of course, except that we see them asking as a sign of them caring. Ergo, them not asking is a sign of them not caring.

"Yeah, Nev tells me this is happening, that's happening, blah, blah, blah," I told her. "And I'm on the other end of the phone, seething 'coz he hasn't asked me what's going on with me!"

Ficali understood exactly what I was saying. "We're such losers!" was her pronouncement.

But it really got me thinking. Guys, who are normally supposed to be reticent, are the ones who find it easier to talk without being poked and prodded for information (of course, the four we talked about are BY NO MEANS a representative sample). But still, it seems it's us, the girls, who wait to be asked before we tell. Yet another example of turning stereotypes on their heads?!?!?