A thing for fiction

'A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction'.

 These days, I am left pondering the truth of this statement at times.

Writing fiction has always been a distant dream for me. Distant because at no point in my life have I possessed a skill for story telling. Its not as if I have never ever written a story; there must be about a dozen manuscripts amid the chaos I call my stuff. Thing is, they all have extremely boring and clichéd and predictable story lines. If presented in a competition, they tend to fall at a place that may range from n to exp^n.

 Story reading, on the other hand, has been my *sole* interest in life, for the greater part of it. Story writing, on the other hand, still eludes me.

There has been an idea for a story in my mind for a couple of days, but I have not yet found the time to weave them in a story due the numerous ghams of  rozgar. (Hint: reference to the first requirement, as laid down by Woolf).

Why I should write the story down: Some loyal friends might be amused and entertained.

Why I should not: I was simply not meant to be a story teller. Sigh.

'A room of one's own' does seem like a nice find. I shall read it at first opportunity,as soon as that arrives.

P.S. It seems an unexpectedly awesome find, for I do not count myself a fan of Virginia Woolf or/and To the Lighthouse, her only work I have read so far.

The perks of parallel processing

Yesterday was a dukkhi day. Dukhi because sad simply falls short of the expressing our grief  and dismay require.

I might have mentioned it earlier, but let me emphasize this  again : The writer has an extraordinary talent for destruction, be it biryani or a beagle board that has the misfortune to fall in her hands. 

Technically speaking, this is the middle of the end, since we are halfway through fyp. Sometimes I realize that I am going to miss my college enormously. The holidays, to be exact. How I am going to play truant in the future is a source of constant worry to me. I also picked up some like-minded and almost-as-dim-witted-as-me people there, who have always dissuaded me from suicidal plans, albeit half-heartedly.

On the day before yesterday, I was a happy elf. A free elf, almost. Working with a beagle board xm has been a very interesting and rewarding experience, and it has rekindled an old dream, of being an embedded system designer. I might even write a couple of posts about the general outlines for working with it, as well as the problems we encountered and are still encountering, provided that I can summon the energy.

This time, we decided to divide the work among our three selves. Being the person who finds the most faults with literally everything, I have been appointed as the official choota (sans the public dealing, thankfully). While the others watch and record videos and do interesting stuff, I try to impress people with the fact that a complete os can run on 5 V on a 3x3 inch board. 

To the point now.

Thing is, parallel processing might be the thing for actual processors, but it certainly isn't for us. What doing 3 different things in parallel has brought us is the chance to get stuck at three different points simultaneously.

When working as a group, we usually have one problem at a time, so this is a new achievement for us. In a way.

Rants aside, I should document my problems.

As the icing on the cake, I received a new and strange 'kernel panic' error yesterday. Since then, my work is officially on standstill. Maybe I need to change my focus for a couple of days. Middlemarch might be a choice, for I am a fan of George Eliot and Dorothea's story can not be more tragic than mine.

یہ پیارے میر صاحب کی زباں ہے

آخر کار ہم نے بھی انگلی کٹوانے کا فیصلہ کر لیا۔

انگلی اس باعث کہ نام لکھوانے کے لیے اتنا ایثار تو لازم ہے، کچھ یہ بھی کہ ہماری اردو کے ایک حد سے زیادہ متحمل نہ ہم خود ہو سکتے ہیں اور نہ ہمارے مبینہ قارئین۔(اگر وہ بالفرض وجود رکھتے ہیں تو)۔

امر واقعہ یہ ہے کہ اردو ہماری زبان پر تو چڑھی ہوئی ہے مگر ہمارے قلم پر نہیں اور یہ بالقصد ہے کہ ہم اردو کو اس موذی کی چیرہ دستیوں سے محفوظ رکھنا چاہتے ہیں ، مبادا موجودہ زمانے کے کوئی میر صاحب ادھر آ نکلیں اور اپنی زبان کو محفوظ رکھنے کی خاطر اپنے ڈیسکٹاپ کی تار یا لیپ ٹاپ کی بیٹری کھینچ کر نکال دیں۔

ویسے بھی ہمارے بلاگ کی زندگی کا بنیادی مقصد اپنے تعلیمی ادارے کی زندگی کو بے خوف و خطر برا بھلا کہنا ہے۔ یہ الگ بحث ہے کہ اس کہنے میں بھلے کا فقدان اور برے کی بہتات ہے۔ اب ایسا بھی نہیں کہ ہماری یونیورسٹی سراپا شر ہے۔ وہاں سے ہم نے جس قدر سیکھا ہے، اور کہیں سے نہیں سیکھا۔ بات صرف اتنی سی ہے کہ ہم پیدائشی نقاد واقع ہوئے ہیں مگر بول اٹھنے سے خوف کھاتے ہیں۔جب لوگ اظہارِ تاسف کرتے ہیں کہ ہماری موجودگی ان کی بے مثال حسِ مزاح کے آڑے آ جاتی ہے تو ہمارا جی تو بہت چاہتا ہے کہ کہہ ڈالیں : 'جنابِ عالی! آپ اپنی ظرافت کے آگے بند نہ باندھیے، ہم پانچ منٹ کو تصور کر لیں گے کہ ہم کسی سڑک کے کنارے کھڑے ہیں' مگر ہماری زبان بند رہتی ہے۔ پس جب ہم لوگوں کے طعن و تشنیع، ریشہ دوانیوں، بے مروتی اور قطعی پوائنٹ لیس جوکس کا، جن کا نشانہ ہماری مسکین ذات ہوتی ہے، برملا اور دوٹوک جواب نہیں دے سکتے، جو اپنے تئیں ہمیں بہت اچھی طرح دینا آتا ہے، تو ہم انھیں اپنے دل اور بلاگ میں سخت سست سنا کر اپنا اعتماد بحال کر لیتے ہیں۔ اردو میں لوگوں کو برا کہنا ذرا معیوب معلوم ہوتا ہے۔

پھر یہ بھی کہ اردو ادب کا ہم اردو کتب کی گراں قیمتی کے باعث دور دور سے ہی ادب کرتے ہیں۔ اوسطاََ اردو کی ایک کتاب کی قیمت میں تین انگریزی کی کتب آ سکتی ہیں۔

اردو کے خطرے میں ہونے کا نعرہ ہم  ہمیشہ سے سنتے آئے ہیں۔ تواتر سے ذکر کیا جاتا ہے کہ اردو کو قومی زبان کا درجہ تو دے دیا گیا مگر یہ سرکاری زبان نہ بن سکی۔ اردو کی زبوں حالی کے تذکرے کے ساتھ ساتھ انگریزی کی مذمت کرنا بھی ضروری ہے۔ پھر اس پر ہماری ذہنی غلامی اور احساسِ کمتری میں مبتلا ہونے کے طعنے کا تڑکا بھی لازمی ہے۔

احساسِ کمتری کے موضوع پر اگر بحث کی جائے تو بہت ہی دور نکل جائے گی، لہذا اس معاملے پر ہم فی الحال خاموش رہتے ہیں۔

بات جو ہماری کم کم استعمال ہونے والی عقل میں آتی ہے وہ یہ ہے کہ زبان صرف زبان ہوتی ہے، تبادلہء خیال کے لیے ایک آلہ۔ کسی بھی آلے کی طرح اس کا مثبت استعمال بھی ممکن ہے اور منفی بھی۔ کسی غیر ملک اور علاقے کی زبان سیکھنے سے انسان کو وہاں کی تہذیب و تمدن ، رسوم و رواج، طرزِ معاشرت اور اندازِ فکر کا مطالعہ کرنے اور سمجھنے کا نادر موقع ملتا ہے، جس کا نعم البدل ڈھونڈنا ایک عام انسان کے لیے قریباََ قریباََ ناممکن ہے۔ ہم میں سے کتنے افراد دور دراز مقامات کا سفر کرنے، قیام کرنے اور مقامی لوگوں میں گھل مل کر ان کے طرزِ زندگی کو جاننے کی استطاعت رکھتے ہیں؟ تو جس شے کو انگریزی زبان سمجھ کر مطعون کیا جاتا ہے وہ دراصل انگریزی کلچر ہے۔ اور اگر ہم من حیث القوم اپنا کلچر تبدیل کر رہے ہیں تو اس کا سیدھا سادا مطلب یہ ہے کہ یا تو ہمارے کلچر میں کوئی مسئلہ ہے یا ہم میں۔

ہمیں جذباتی ہونے یا انگلیاں اٹھانے کے بجائے سنجیدگی سے مسئلہ ڈھونڈنے اور اس کی اصلاح کرنے کی ضرورت ہے۔

ہم کہنا یہ چاہ رہے تھے کہ اگر اردو ہمیں پسند ہے تو لازمی نہیں کہ ہم اسے دفتری زبان کا درجہ دلوانے پر سارا زور صرف کریں۔ ضرورت اس امر کی ہے کہ ایسا ماحول پروان چڑھایا جائے جہاں ہر شخص اپنی مرضی کی زبان بلا کسی احساسِ کمتری یا برتری کے بول سکے اور تعصب سے بالاتر ہو کر دوسروں کو بولتے ہوئے سن سکے، چاہے وہ زبان اردو ہو یا عبرانی۔

اردو کی ترویج اور اشاعت کا آج کے زمانے میں یہی طریقہ ہے کہ عوام کو اچھی اردو بولنے، پڑھنے اور لکھنے کی طرف راغب کیا جائے۔

البتہ ایک معاملہ جس میں ہم تعصب برتنے پر مجبور ہیں ، وہ رومن اردو کا ہے۔ رومن اردو پڑھنے کو ہم کارِ گراں اور لکھنے کو کارِ عذاب سمجھتے ہیں۔ مگر گزشتہ عرصے میں اردو کے رسم الخط کی مناسب سپورٹ نہ ہونے کے باعث اس نے عوام و خواص میں اپنی جڑیں تشویشناک حد تک گہری کر لی ہیں۔ اب کچھ عرصے سے صورتِ حال بہتر ہو رہی ہے، اردو کے کچھ ایسے شیدائیوں کے باعث جو ہمارے برعکس باتیں بنانے اور تقاریر جھاڑنے کے بجائے کام کرنے پر یقین رکھتے ہیں۔

بحث ایک طرف مگر سیدھی سی بات ہے کہ اردو ہماری اپنی زبان ہے۔ بے شک ہم نے اسے سی پلس پلس اور ویری لاگ کے ساتھ باقاعدہ طور پر اپنی پسندیدہ زبانوں کی فہرست میں نہیں رکھا ہوا مگر اس کے متعلق ہمارے احساسات کچھ ایسے ہی ہیں جیسا کہ اپنی اماں کے متعلق۔ ہر چند کہ انھیں ہماری بات سننے کی عادت نہیں مگر جس حوصلے سے وہ ہمیں برداشت کرتی ہیں وہ انھی کا خاصہ ہے۔ ہم اردو سے بھی ویسی ہی وسیع القلبی کے متمنی ہیں ، جبھی تو اپنا قلم اور کی بورڈ اس پر تیز کر رہے ہیں۔

A reservoir of coolness

It is cool to be cool, but one can be too cool, especially during the winters. Particularly when the cool person has an exam to consider.
For some time, I have been thinking about trading off my calm, at least some of it, with someone, anyone.Anyone who might be willing to trade off some anger, some restlessness.
Getting angry at the right person at the right moment to the right degree might be extremely difficult, but getting angry at least a couple of times a month is necessary. The guilt or innocence of the object at which one's anger is directed is totally irrelevant and does not matter at all. Otherwise, one is in the danger of completely forgetting the noble and necessary art of being angry, which is very much required in this inconsiderate world.
The case of being calm is similar. Most of the time, it is quite nice, feeling at rest with life, the universe and everything while blood pressures are getting high left right and center. But at critical times, the lack of adrenaline is dangerous.
I seldom attend college but when I do, I make sure that I go on a day when going is a complete waste of time. College is not a waste of time all the time; various functions are held, too. Occasionally, I attend one of these, too. Again, I ensure that I miss every function that is worth attending.
Afterwards, I envy the people who got the chance to meet the chief guest. I am not exactly a die-hard fan, but I have never met a scholar of his stature in real life.
So I guess I'll just construct some dreams for laying the foundation of the morn, in accordance with his advice.
Missing the interesting part of a literary session is an old habit with my royal friend and me, nothing new in that.
These days I am a fan of Hafiz. Some of the things I do regularly these days are :1. Wish I was literate enough to read him. 2. Recite these line with varying amplitude (warning: poetry ahead, kindly skip the rest of the post if you don't enjoy it):

دل میرود ز دستم صاحب دلان خدارا
دردا کہ راز پنہان خواہد شد آشکارا
در کوئے نیک نامی ما را گزر نداند
گر تو نمی پسندی تیغیر کن قضا را
سرکش مشو کہ چون شمع از غیرتت بسوزد
دلبر کہ در کف او موم است سنگ خارا

The Road Goes Ever On and On

Normal people are scared of fire. Abnormal ones, like yours truly, see fire trails in their nightmares.

Ever since I read The Hobbit, I have sometimes dreamed of gathering my belongings, tying them in a bundle at the end of a stick and going out to explore the big, beautiful world with the stick over my shoulder and an apple in my hand, whistling as I walk along the road. The only hurdle is that I don't know how to whistle-yet.Practically, persistent lifts are a hurdle too, but let us forget about that at the present.

In spite of my horror of social gatherings, large crowds and missing the bus, my friends dragged me to a party that was scheduled at a place quite above sea level. To be exact, I had to drag myself on the mentioned day, since they were too busy dragging their own selves; all the dragging they did to me was done beforehand. We decided to walk there of our own free will.

Walking was the easy part. Then came a wall of rocks and stones; the angle it made with the horizontal was closer to 90 degrees than 75 degrees. It was the fire exit, and I embarked on this vertical path.

I mean no offense to the fire trail; for all I know, it might have been an excellent fire trail as fire trails go. Since I am no expert on the subject, I cannot offer an opinion here. However, the fire trail and I had some serious compatibility issues. My attire did not support the high rate of respiration that an ordinary hibernator requires during such strenuous aerobic exercise. To make matters worse, it had to be supported by a hand all the time; one precious hand that was absolutely required to clutch rocks and stones all the time. My shoes were utterly raaang for the type of walk I undertook. It was while on that trail that I realized how much easier it must be for animals to climb.

I don't remember much about the actual trail itself, except that I made more stops then steps. Quite  a number of time, I liked some particular stop so much that I wanted to stop there for a long, long time. At one of those, I contemplated closing my eyes and sleeping till the evening with my back against a stone. There were some points I took a fancy to, so much so that I considered living there.

The only thing that made me get up was the look of patience on the faces of the people who were unfortunate enough to be the rear guard. I tried to shake them off a number of times, but they were way too decent to leave us alone on a trek. They did not show the dismay and irritation they must and should have felt. They did not mention the word 'drama', and they did not laugh when their laughter would have been perfectly justified. They tried to motivate me to walk on, blissfully ignorant of the fact that I am simply not made of the stuff that gets motivated.

All I can say is this: decent people get eaten alive without a knife and fork in this world.

A couple of my friends helped me by giving me their hand. Smothering the voice of their heads, they helped me up when it told them to kick me down. They did not take advantage of my blind trust, which is a novelty (the trust thing, let me clarify) and led me along the right path when they could have led me anywhere.

That trail went ON, and forgot to get OFF.Maybe it had a volatile memory and its power went out.

After I had truly understood the meaning of forever, it ended suddenly, reinstating my maxim that all things end eventually; I had begun to be rather suspicious of its validity. Ghalib's thousand journeys to the raqeeb's door might or might not have been an infinite loop, but this one had seemed close enough to one.

The rest of our adventure consisted of more walking then climbing. The view was nice at times. One could see lots and lots of trees with beautifully symmetric leaves. The houses in the valley looked as far away and small as ordinary life. We did not come across any form of animal life, not even birds. At some places,the path was hardly three feet wide. I looked down and thought about how easy and convenient it was to fall down from such a place. It was there that I started compiling a list in my head, a list of people whom I intend to take with me to that place one day.

During our walk, for fifteen exciting minutes, we thought we were lost, since there was not a single human being in sight . Twice, we had to decide between two paths, all by ourself. But eventually we again caught up with the rear guard, or maybe they caught down with us. Some old-fashioned people e.g. parents consider walking alone in such places to be highly perilous. In a logical world, I should have been able to show my unscathed self as a counter proof. However, this being a highly illogical world, I must remember to edit my story when I tell it to my mother.

In a logical world, four girls would not be counted as being alone either, I guess.

So-we walked. And walked, and walked. Then we walked some more. Still, we were far, far away from the destination. We tried all manners of walking : slow, fast, with hopes in our hearts, with a dejected tread. We walked as if in a daze; we walked with a painfully clear mind. The gist of the story is: we walked.

Eventually, we  reached the place where the party was being held. We spent most of the time staring grudgingly at other people who were receiving their orders.We discussed the merits and demerits of many people as eatables.  We all remembered that we had forgotten our breakfasts. Though I hadn't forgotten mine (never have, never will), I pitched in just for the sake of unity. We thought about our lunch-to-be for such a long time that Hafeez's words seemed to come truly from our hearts (and stomachs):

اگر تو اتفاقاَ مل بھی جائے

تری فرقت کے صدمے کم نہ ہوں گے

Our lunch finally arrived and we wolfed it down it with a number of human timers ticking on in the background. Then we raced downwards, dragging another innocent person away from his lunch.

At a traffic signal, we encountered a child of about seven or eight who was selling a bouquet of flowers. The roses were red and fresh; the child was pale and dejected. He must have been cold too, since he was not appropriately clad. The pessimist in me smiled at the bitter irony. At times, I fail to see the entire point of human civilization for a fraction of a second. Then I conveniently shut my mind down.

The most interesting thing on the way back home was a possibility in the plan that I might have to wait by a road for some time in the dark of the night. There are always a number of people willing to offer a lift to one in such places, provided that one is a lone woman, but it is not considered socially correct to accept their offer. My mother is the only person I am ever afraid of, but a more socially apt friend of mine who was following my plan detested the idea of me waiting on a road.However, her nightmare (and my adventure) was averted, since I did not have the opportunity to wait at the stop.

There is one thing I can say with certainty now: it was definitely an adventure as adventures go, and it involved a lot of planning and cooperation from a number of people whom I did not bother to thank. Being a natural critic, I see the rest of the world through mistake-tinted glasses. Really, its not my fault.

 

Metamorphosis

Change is the only constant factor in this world, and it brings at least some spark to lives which are otherwise tightly clamped at a dc level.
Great changes often occur quietly and modestly, and without any prior warning of any kind.
Personally, I have noticed a tendency to revert back to old habits on a periodic basis. Had I still been a fan of self-made theories, I would have hypothesized that people change significantly after every ten years, but I have completely lost the ability to tolerate arguments without any logic behind them and theories without any proof. You know it is a sad world when people list logical arguments under the 'barriers to effective communication'. A recent mental bug I have caught says that people who have opinions must express some of them at least.
It has been some time since I embraced the ideology of 'think nothing, hear nothing, speak nothing'. While the strategy is recommended in particular situations, adopting it as an all-time maxim is dangerous in many ways. Simply putting your thinking and speaking processes on hold can act as a drug that numbs the senses more and more every day.
When you do not express your opinions clearly and articulately, people assume that you have none. When you do not use your tongue, it is generally understood that you do not possess one. Gradually and slowly, you just become a colourless, voiceless creature who is just a creature that lives and breathes; nothing more, nothing less.
Regard about others' opinions of my self has not been a sore point with me for most of my life, but due to a strange combination of hollow reasons, I altered my manner of thinking. Completely unnecessary, I tell you.  with other people and learning about the world.
To while away the time during the recent exams, I started watching the Bond movies. Casino Royale is my most favourite one so far.
Maybe I'll elaborate the hazards of keeping quiet all the time one of these days. Right now, I must sleep since I have to watch Skyfall afterwards.
I considered the idea  of saying one sensible thing for every ten senseless ones I say. The problem is, if I impose such a restriction upon myself, I will have to keep quiet all of the time.
The world will be a less cheerful place, then.
A nice shair I recently came across is:

مصیبت کا پہاڑ آخر کسی دن کٹ ہی جائے گا

مجھے سر مار کر تیشے سے مر جانا نہیں آتا

The minimal path problem

Finding the minimum path in a graph is a problem that occurs frequently in different situations. A well known algorithm for solving this problem is Dijkstra's algorithm.
To get an understanding of this algorithm, I tried watching a couple of lectures and reading some descriptions on a number of sites. The most detailed and easy-to-understand material I found was a sample question, explained thoroughly at Dijkstra's Algorithm example . Before stumbling across it, I did have some idea about this algorithm, but it did not have much to do with the real thing. (Update: this link doesn't seem to be working any longer.Pity)
I was introduced to Wodehouse by a friend while in school and I have been an avid fan since. The Jeeves books are the best of all, but I have not been able to find all of them in the local bookshops I usualy haunt.
Incidentlly, I was also introduced to Agatha Christie by the same friend. Now there are a number of her books that I have seen in every bookshop in Saddar, my usual resource, and none besides. When I had finished all the available ones, I searched for others and recognized the pattern. There are some including Black Coffee, 4:50 from Paddington, Nemesis that one can find in every shop.
Talking of books that one can find in every bookshop, there is sometimes a book-of-the-time that every shop offers you. Some time ago, it used to be the twilight series. The last time I went, there were A Song of Ice and Fire books in the most noticeable places. There was some other vampire series too, vampire diaries I guess, that had glossy black covers.The covers were nice.