Can you figure this out?

There's twelve of them. No wait! There's thirteen!! Where did the extra person come from?

Click here for the solution.

Against all odds. . .

Ilajna, caveboy and I went to watch Gordon Chambers perform at the BAM last night. As I listened to him, and to Alice Smith, who opened for him, I started to think about people who are so passionate about something that whatever adverse circumstances they face in their quest for that thing seem insignificant. Watching the performers on stage, I was struck by the thought of how difficult it is to make it as a musician or singer or actor--and that those who aspire to such goals need equal doses of passion and perseverance; that they'd rather endure the struggles and hardships inherent in the pursuit of that goal than live life without it.

There are few people in this world with the tenacity to be that passionate--because it involves much risk and heartbreak, and calls for a great deal of strength and sacrifice. And there are even fewer for whom that tenacity endures, and the difficulties along the way don't overwhelm them.

The object of that passion doesn't necessarily have to be a goal like making it as an artist. As I pondered this, the thought kept coming back to me. . .that I used to be that passionate--about my relationship with Christ. And I also realized that I'm not anymore. I thought back to my mid-teens, when I made the conscious decision for the first time to follow Him--and longed for that passion again; when waking up an hour earlier in the morning to pray (when I was already waking up at the crack of dawn) was a joy, because it meant I could spend that time with Him; when I had the ability to see everyone through Christ-tinted lenses; and when nothing mattered as much as being in His presence day and night.

Today, I am anything but that--I mean, I know in my head that I have a relationship with Christ, but my entire existence is dictated by my circumstances. I am constantly in a bad mood (you should see my subway face--and the number of random strangers who tell me to smile as I walk by!), and I certainly am not "joyful always" (I Thess 5:16); I often ignore that twinge of guilt as I badmouth someone. . . and vow that I won't do it again, already knowing that I will; and praying is more of a chore than a joy. And even when I attempt to get back that passion I once had, I already know that any twist I encounter ahead will derail me.

I drew some inspiration from the passion and commitment I imagined last night's performers must have possessed to come this far. And I'm trying to pick myself up once again, and put myself back on course--with a little help from above.

Remembering. . .

Memory is a funny thing, isn't it? I have training all this week at work, and have been struggling to find ways to keep myself gainfully occupied during the longish lunchtimes, as I usually don't take more than a 10-minute break--and, while I have many little things to do, can't do them while I'm at work. So today, on my longer-than-usual lunch break, I decided to take a walk (yes, in all the snow and slush, I decided I needed a jaunt). As I sauntered (waded) along, I found myself passing the library and decided to go in.

I fished around on the shelves for some quick, mindless reading, and soon found myself browing through books by an author whom I had not read, but who I knew wrote novels that fell into that category. I picked up the first book and turned to the synopsis. And I realized the story was familiar. Not just in a remote, vague kind of way either. I clearly remembered reading the book about 15 years ago. I remembered the plot, the main characters, and as I skimmed through the summary, realized that a vivid picture was forming in my mind of the story's very dramatic and surprising ending--even though the synopsis didn't even hint at it.

It was very strange. When I was a teenager, I used to read voraciously, my taste switching frenziedly between suspense paperbacks and hardbound classics. By the time I got to the third book, I'd already forgotten many of the details in the first one. So it was bizarre that I remembered so much about one of the random novels I zipped through during one of my reading marathons. My explanation is this-- the book is very VERY loosely based on Biblical events and prophesies (some would say blasphemously so), so maybe the fact that it is connected to something that is so much a part of my life is what made me remember it?

The thing though, is that there are certain books, events, even dreams, that I. . .we. . . remember clearly, for no apparent reason, while we forget other, seemingly more important details. Why is it that our minds latch on to certain memories, while carelessly, even eagerly, releasing others?

Water off a duck's back? Not so much. . .

Sigh! It's crabbiness galore in Ini-land these days. Things that I'd normally brush off have me seething--a bad choppy haircut (I can pull off a ponytail for a month or two, can't I?), earphones that don't fit in my ear while working out (I've always known that my ears were a earphone-unfriendly shape--why does it bother me now?) a couple of messages that have gone unreturned (that's certainly not new), and just getting on the subway everyday. Teeny tiny things that would normally slip right off my back, that I'd usually not even notice--after all, this is someone who was walking around blissfully unaware of sporting two noticeably-uneven eyebrows for two months--have me up in arms. It might be time for a change of scene . . .

Journalism at its worst?

In my humble opinion, the coverage of the story about Lisa Nowak-- the NASA astronaut who was arrested for allegedly attempting to kidnap and kill a female air force captain who she perceived as a rival for the love of a male NASA astronaut--is journalism at its worst. I finally learned late yesterday how to change the channel of my TV at work (which was set to CNN by my predecessor) and endured no less than 25 separate repetitions of the story throughout the day.

I understand the lure of the words "love triangle" for most human beings, but the level of coverage this story has gotten is nothing short of overkill. One very unhappy, confused, disturbed woman attempted to do something which I'm sure she'll spend the rest of her life regretting. Or perhaps not. But as I watched the story being repeated every half hour on what is supposed to be a serious news channel, I kept shaking my head in disbelief. There are floods in Indonesia, wars in Africa, a House panel inquiry into misuse of Iraq reconstruction funds, and new talks with North Korea about its nuclear program. And the biggest story of the past two days was a female astronaut who flew off the handle.

It is a big story, I don't disagree. But the biggest? Surely not! Or am I missing something?

Where has all my free time gone?

So I've been wondering. . . where on earth has all my spare time gone? My very deadline-oriented new job means that, while the 9 to 6 hours are biz biz bizy, once it hits 6:00, or a little bit later as I wrap up the assignment in progress, I can leave. So what have I been doing with myself? I haven't gone to the gym, I haven't watched much TV, I haven't stayed much past six at work, I haven't hung out much with friends, and I certainly haven't been pursuing my beloved passtime of blog reading:(. But I feel like I'm running around like. . . well, like I did when I was in college. . . when I was YOUNG and had lots of energy! It looks like there's one thing after another that needed to be done YESTERDAY. And I'm chasing my tail trying to catch up with myself.

In a couple of months, chapter six will be over. And then, maybe at the beginning of chapter seven, there'll be time to spare?

The new job

So, I'm sure my beloved readers have been waiting with bated breath to hear about my new job. Yes, yes, I know you have! At least you were before the waiting got to be too much and you couldn't take the fruitless checking any more. So I've decided to end the unbearable suspense and enlighten you!

For the first few days, I was drowning in new information. Lots to learn, lots to remember and memorize, a seemingly infinite number of little details to tuck away and as many minute tasks to remember to do. But as the days have passed, I have been learning--by watching, stumbling through the assignments. . . and making mistakes. Fortunately, in my eight days at The Wire so far, we've only had to put out a correction once for something I wrote. I know if that pattern keeps up, I'll rack up quite a number. But I prefer to see the glass as half full! My heart did jump into my mouth today when I got a new kind of assignment that I hadn't done before but fortunately, it ended up being too important for a rookie like me to do, so I ended up in the spectator role instead. Which suited me just fine--until the next time.

And I'm becoming quite the new junkie, what with the news on all day and the hundreds of stories flashing across my screen. So, whether it's the Boston "suspicious package" scare or Tyra Banks' weight woes, or the Fed's latest move (or lack thereof, as it turns out), I'm your woman!

The corporate culture at The Wire does take some getting used to. Because, while The Mag was also technically part of a big company, it had a distinct journalistic feel, and felt like a separate entity from the rest of the organization. The Wire, on the other hand, is much more integrated into the rest of the corporation--which might take a while to get accustomed to.

So overall, as we used to say in college: It's All Geeewwwd!

The answer. . .

In my last post, I wondered if happiness comes from giving or holding back. My perspective in that post was a worldy one. And I think I got some consensus that putting yourself out there, and givng and caring, you put yourself at risk of getting hurt. So should you still continue to give and love and care?

I found the answer over the weekend, while reading the book Mocha on the Mount for the Soul Per Suit an online Bible study recommended by LL Barkat. Mocha on the Mount is based on Jesus' teachings in His sermon on the mount, the "Blessed are the. . ." part of the Bible. The author, Sandra Glahn, distinguishes between happiness and blessing. Here is what caught my attention:

"Happiness depends on external circumstances--I got a new job, I got engaged, my relationships are going well. But blessing depends on being rightly related to God despite external circumstances. Horatio Spafford, though his daughters had just drowned in a boating accident, was still able to write, "It is well with my soul." I seriously doubt he felt happy. Yet he knew he was blessed. Lady Juliana of Norwich, writing in the fourteenth century, said, "All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.

"Jesus' message would never fly on Madison Avenue. Sigh up for the Christian life. Come, be poor and mourn and die!"

The author goes on to quote Ken Gire in The Reflective Life, who confesses that he wants to be like Christ in His glory, not Christ when he was hated, disgraced and spat on.

And as I thought more about this, I realized that my answer had been within my post, when I wrote that the world rejected and scoffed at Christ 2000 years ago.

Happiness in this world might require less love and caring, and more isolation and selfishness, but blessedness requires the opposite. I'm not saying that only in suffering and rejection do we find blessing--God absolutely rejoices in our happiness. But living by God's heart sometimes means loving and caring and giving even when we don't get much in return.

We still need to guard our hearts, and know when to step away and when there's nothing more we can do in a situation--after all, Christ calls us to love others AS we love ourselves. And, as a Christian, I realized that that is my part, and that is what I need to try my best to do--even if I don't always get the same in return.

Happiness comes from giving. . . or holding back?

Caveboy and I have been talking a lot about happiness lately--perhaps partly the effect of discoveringThe Happiness Project blog. He even wrote a blog entry about it as a guest blogger, but then refused to let me post it. So I decided to write my own, albeit slightly different one.

The idealistic notion of happiness is that the more you give, the more you get. If you give love and kindness and caring, you get it all back, many-fold. In other words, as Luke 6:38 puts it: "Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you."

This doesn't always hold true in the world we live in today--the more you give, the more you put yourself out there, the more you risk unhappiness--because you leave yourself vulnerable to being hurt, rejected, scoffed at, an open shot for those who are not willing to give as much. And you let your happiness be determined by others. But those who don't give, or choose carefully how much of themselves they do give, tend to be happier. They don't face as much hurt and rejection, because they protect themselves from it. Maybe they are less passionate, their loving a little less intense, but they are generally shielded from the hurt that comes from getting nothing or very little in return.

Take Dr. Izzy Stevens on the show Grey's Anatomy, for instance. She's actually my favourite character, because she gives abundantly but also expects much from those she gives to. But because she loves and cares so much, she also gets hurt the most. "But she was incredibly loved by Denny," Caveboy responded when I brought up the example. "Yes, and she lost him," I told him. "Well, um. . . he died," came the reply. But what was the guarantee? Maybe if Denny had gotten better and left the hospital and gone out into the world, he'd have fallen in love with someone else. And Izzy, for having loved him to the extent she did, would have been left to pick up the pieces.

Caveboy contends that those who are shallow, who hold back, are not really happy. Yes, they give less, so they get less. But they are also satisfied and content with less. Happiness is greater than contentment, Caveboy argued. Contentment beats heartbreak and misery, I shot back.

Ultimately, I don't think I am the pessimist I come across as. But I see, over and over, those who choose to go above and beyond in giving and loving get hurt and broken while those who hold back sail through, for the most part, intact. It happened 2000 years ago with Christ*, and not much has changed today. And in my own life, in every instance in which I've given completely, it's come back to bite me. Impulsive and hard-headed as I am, I have not learned from these experiences--much as I wish I had. I know that I will, in some instances, continue to care blindly, but the more it ends up backfiring, the more I wonder how much it is worth.

*I'm talking about the world's response to Him, not His coming into glory after His earthly death and the implications of that).

Convos with Caveboy--part II

On the first day of my internship at The Mag:

Caveboy: omg
tell me all
SPILL THE BEANS.
Ini: lol
not much to tell
C: i've been waiting
on the edge of my seat
THE EDGE.
it's scary, the edge.
Ini: lol
yes i can imagine
it's going pretty ok
i've been going to random meetings
editor's meetings, international section meeting
photo selection meeting
C: random! we like random!
it keeps you on your toes!
the edge of your toes!
oooh
sounds glam.
I: hehe, yes
editing a couple of things
editing comments
i'm getting my feet wet,
C: egads.
wet!
we love wet!
I: then we hope to be able to write something
C: and edge!
omg omg
too exciting.
I: :)
my ed is quite good
C: yayayayay
I: he always calls me to all the meetings
C: we <3 good editors
I: and shows me editing stuff
C: we <3 going to meetings
C: we <3 being showed editing stuff.
I: brb
C: ok dokey karaoke smokey

*************************


C: i need an emotional number.
that's what i need.
I: lol
don't we all?
C: nah
i like my emoticons.
they're cute, and i keep them tucked inside, and then when i want, i wear them on my sleeve
and they make me handsome.
oh god
i'm a freak.
I :S
C: SUPER FREAK.
I: indeed
i told you
realization is good
and acceptance is even better
:)
C: hilarious.
ur hilarious.
i'm awesome.

Two kinds of people

It takes all kinds to make a world, they say. If you boil that down to the most basic of denominators, you end up with two--those who make a difference and those who don't.

There are those who waltz into your life and never quite waltz back out. Years later, you find yourself telling your friends, your aquaintances, your grandkids about that person who made an indelible impression on you. People are drawn to them wherever they go--they're the life of the party, the glue of the group, the ones everyone falls in love with, and often leave a trail of broken hearts in their wake.

Then there are the others. The ones with whom you form a loose bond--or if you do manage a stronger one, it's usually temporary; the ones whom you see when they're there but don't particularly miss when they're not; the ones who stand on the fringes, never quite comfortable with themselves or anyone else; the ones who are easily forgotten and gotten over; the ones who are usually left, repeatedly, with the broken hearts.

I think most people are different in different circumstances, and can flit between these two categories, depending on whom they're with and what the situation calls for. But there are a few--very few, I believe--who fall squarely into one or the other, and don't quite manage to ever leave it. In which case, is it better to belong to the first or the second? And what does one do upon making the discovery?

Changes. . .

Today was my last day at The Mag. I take next week off to work on some freelance projects, finish up a couple of stories I've been working on for The Mag, gather my wits and my emotions together, and prepare myself for starting my new job at The Wire the following Monday.

The past couple of weeks have been a roller coaster ride. The Mag has been a haven for me, and leaving that security is daunting. I fear I will never work with such caring, accomodating souls again (although The Rock did present me with two scenarios: a. that I would be hired by The Mag in the future, or b. that I would come back and take his job--we'll see).

During the week before my departure from London, as I made my way down to my goodbye party with two colleagues, I told them that the beginnings and ends of the chapters of my life have always been clearly delineated. One closes unequivocally before another opens. I am now nearing the conclusion of chapter six. And I am worried and confused.

A job at The Wire means a lot more than just another new job(more on that later). And this time, an additional, personal, variable has made things even more confusing, and I hesitate. For, with this job comes a turn that is difficult to retrace my steps from. And while everyone else exclaims at the opportunities that lie ahead of me, all I can muster is a sigh and a "Yeah, I guess it'll be ok." Because I fear I may be giving up one opportunity for another--and in so doing, making a choice that will define the rest of my life.

Confusion begets worry and fear and frustration, and one result of all this is that I may have caused irreparable damage to a valuable friendship. Amid all the confusion, I felt wronged and hurt by this friend, and I told them so, not very pleasantly, without really considering their position. The conversation I'd imagined in my head went so much better than the actual one. The moment I'd uttered the words, I cursed myself for having said them. I learned the power of words--both good and bad--a long time ago, but forgot those lessons. And I also learned many years ago that, while work-wise, I may be thick-skinned, I am not so when it comes to those who mean much to me--and that what gets to me more than anything else is having something come between me and someone I care about, regardless of which side the fault lies with. I will joyfully take all the blame if it will bring reconciliation. And reconciliation I need now--as all my efforts to contact this friend have been fruitless.

So the close of this week finds me minus one internship, plus one job, possibly minus one friend, plus many doubts. But contradictory as this may seem, I also have an absolute, concrete-block kind of sense that this job, and the direction it will take me in, is part of God's plan for me. And yet, I can't shake the feeling that I'm losing something. . .

Convos with Caveboy--part I

I have decided to introduce a new section to my blog, to be updated intermittently. I am convinced that Caveboy is quite the joker (or possibly quite mad). So, I'm putting parts of our (insane) chat conversations on my blog, so the rest of the world can enjoy the benefits of knowing this complex and fascinating human being. Here's the first installment:

Ini: what r u up to?
Caveboy: i am waiting for
COUCH
I: ohhh yaay! finally
C: FINALLY
pray PRAY
that it fits.
PRAY.
I: hehe
ok
C: I have cleaned the apt
in anticipation.
I: lol
Viren: yes, "lol."
I: ru trying to impress the delivery guys?
C: no,
i am trying to introduce my apt
to the couch
gently


(for an update on Caveboy's couch problems, please visit his blog and read from Reports from New York on till the second last post in the blog.)
**************************************

I: Is it a circuit or a circuit breaker that you trip?
C: nope
I:?????

Fishie pictures, part deux

Here are more photos from the GA aquarium (continued from previous post):

Fishie pictures

Nev and I went to the Georgia Aquarium--the largest in the world--when I visited Atlanta over Thanksgiving. I finally got around to downloading the photos from that visit. There's something so surreal about every aquarium I've been to--the water, the incredibly, breathtakingly beautiful fish, and, if I could block out the hordes of noisy tourists, the unbelievable serenity that comes from just gazing into the tanks.

In 1998, when I left my parents in India for the first time (way after many of my boarding school friends), and went to Sri Lanka to apply for my student visa to come to the U.S. I'd never felt more lonely or afraid. In my cousin's house, where I stayed, there was a small fish tank with about three fish. I'd often stand in front of that tank when I became overcome by a wave of panic and homesickness, watching the fish swimming around, completely oblvious to the chaos that is this world. And I would inevitably find myself growing calmer and breathing easier.

Here are some of the pictures:




This picture of Nev is should be treasured, because it shows him smiling--and that is almost impossible to find in photos. Nev is a firm believer in scowling at cameras.

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.

Diet anyone?

I thought this might be fitting for this time of year. . . (I don't know why it's so small. Click on it to see full size).

Long lost twin?

This photo ran in The Mag this week, in a story that was held from the week after Thanksgiving. I've been waiting for it to show up ever since then, because of this conversation on my return from Atlanta.
The Rock to Crislin: So apparently they've decided to hold the story.
Crislin: Oh ok.
The Rock to spacey Me: So that means your picture won't run this week.
Me to The Rock: blank stare
Crislin: Oh yeah, that's true. Well, next week.
Me to Crislin: blank stare
The Rock and Crislin: Hahaha.
Me to both: blank stare
Finally The Rock deigned to explain: We chose a photo with a woman who we all think looks like you to run with the story.
Me: Ohhhh. Ok. (trying to act nonchalant, but secretly dying to see this photo, convinced it's not going to be a flattering resemblance--or worse, someone that I think I look nothing like, but everyone else thinks is a carbon copy.)
The Rock: Of course, everytime someone says you (generic you) look like someone, you always think they look nothing like you.
Me: Yeah, I know. (now nervously) Hehe.
Since then, as soon as the weekly email plopped into my inbox saying that latest issue was in, I'd run to the library to page through the mag to see if the story was there, not even entirely sure what I was looking for--just a photo of someone who might look kinda, sorta like me. But no. Last week, an email came from The Rock with the PDF of the story (it took me a while to figure out which story the photo was running with, but I did, finally). PDF=photo! I immediately opened it, and there it was finally--the photo of my supposed twin, albeit a profile. And to be honest, although I've examined it from every angle, I can't even tell if she looks like me or not. Although, truth be told, I'm not entirely disappointed.
So? Does she? Doesn't she? Shocked at the uncanny resemblance? Or going "what?!?!? How could they even think that?" Or as confused as me?

Kiddie party

Today, we had the kiddie version of our work Christmas party. As I am kiddie-less, I didn't go. But it is impossible to not notice some 20-odd bundles of energy darting about the hallways. I happened upon one of these--stationary this time--near the library. She was standing in the middle of the corridor, about two feet high, her tiny face in a half-frown, half-smile, palms up in a questioning gesture, demanding of the world-at-large: "Where's daddy? Where'd daddy go?" "Hmmm! Where DID daddy go?" I wondered. And, as I watched, the half-frown disappeared, to be replaced by a full grin, as daddy appeared. "There's daddy!"

I went into the kitchen, and stumbled upon another little guy, only slightly older, sitting at the dining table, picking at a piece of pizza, long gone cold, somberly absorbed in the news on TV. Someone came in and asked him where his parents were. He mumbled something shyly, and went back to playing with his food and watching the news. "Hah!" I thought. "A journo in the making!"

And as I walked back to my cubicle, one of The Rock's two daughters, and a boy of unknown parentage, shot past me shouting, "Hide! Hide!" (At first, I thought she was yelling "Hi! Hi!" and I was almost moved to tears that she remembered me.) They rushed into the empty office next to mine, and I tuned out. A few minutes later, my attention was drawn to them again as The Rock and Pendio, a senior reporter, approached the office.

"You know, Pendio here is the BEAR of the whole of The Mag," The Rock informed the kids. Pendio duly growled to show that he was indeed the bear of the office. "Yes, he's the BRAIN of this WHOLE place." Pendio puffed out his chest, and pointed to his head. "So you guys need to be quiet, so he can THINK!"

The kids were clearly unimpressed by Pendio's greatness. "Well, we're leaving now anyway," one of them informed The Rock, duly putting him and all of Pendio's bearness and braininess in place. And, after a little more high-pitched excitement, they did.

Ah, for peace and quiet. Although, I must say, it is fun to have little people around--for a little bit at least-- in such a very grown-up place.

My Christmas pet peeve

This is the season to be kind and giving and forgiving, and generally, I am (I like to think anyway:)If you disagree, SHHHHHH!!!). But one pet peeve that rears its head at this time of year concerns people who whinge about "having" to spend Christmas with their families.

Yes, I understand that families have their problems, and some worse than others. But they're still FAMILY. Unless they've done something horrendous that's scarred you for life, and seeing them is clinically traumatizing, this is the time to put aside your differences and enjoy them. And to be glad that you have them, and that you get to spend time with them. Not to continue to hold grudges and have a bad attitude, and join the throngs that complain about another Christmas at home.

Put these people far far away from their families, where they can't see them or spend time with them. . . and I'm willing to bet the farm* that the majority of them will be singing a different tune.

There! It's out now! My Christmas pet peeve!

Merry Christmas all!!

*I don't actually have a farm. . . but I'm willing to bet Weds instead, if you prefer. And you know he's worth more than any farm to me. . . and to Okia, his real owner--who I'm sure wouldn't appreciate me using her cat as a pawn in my betting!