Honestly, for the past quite a few days, I’ve been summarily in that (Marathi) “sun-saan” mood. … Yes, in that mood, and for quite a few days…. Continuously at a stretch, in fact.
Sometime during the initial phase of this mood, somewhere at just the sub-surface level, I did idly think of trying my hand at writing blog posts, just so as to come out of it. Then, exactly at that same sub-surface level, with exactly that same shade of that idle nothing-ness in which I was engulfed, I also saw these thoughts pass me by. …
… It never happens. … I mean, at least with me, it never so happens that I can bring myself to writing something, anything, even just a blog post, when I am trapped in that mood of not wanting to do anything in particular. … I actually end up doing nothing in such times.
No, you can’t call it the writer’s block; it would be too narrow a description. The point is, when it happens, it is “everyone’s and everything’s block.” I mean, at such times, I can’t do even just plain arm-chair thinking. …
Thinking is an active verb, not passive. And, the gloom-some passivity is such that I don’t find myself even thinking about the gloom-some things, even if these go on registering with me. You know, things like the HDD crash, the continuing jobless-ness, etc.
… But, no, nothing happens when I am in that mood. N o t h i n g.
[No, at such times, I am not day-dreaming, even. Not even just hibernating. And, I certainly am not even in that meditative frame either. [I know meditation. I have done it, too.]]
So, all in all, I am being extraordinarily accurate when I say: nothing happens.
This time round, the mood lasted for a few days. Until this morning.
No, no one else had any role to play in my coming out of it. None. None whosoever. I myself did. Rather, I just passively observed myself coming out of it, and then, actually having come out of it. Right this morning. Just a few hours ago.
Yes, before that, I did watch some TV these past few days. But, no, not even retards (or American psychologists) could possibly level the accusation that watching TV lets one “come out” of such moods. Certainly not, when it is me. TV is incapable of affecting me too much, one way or the other. I am being honest here. That’s actually how my bodily constitution is made up like. TV does not affect me too much, for the better or for the worse. It always remains just plain boring, in a mild sort of a way. That’s all.
Anyway, that’s about all I can write about the recent experience, by me, and of that mood.
Now, what is it that I did to come out of… Wrong! Invalid line of thought!!
So, what is it that I did after I came out of it?
I did some search on something and browsed a few URLs. What in particular? I will jot it down right in this post, but before that, allow me a moment to explain the title of this post.
Those among the English-speaking peoples who are fortunate enough to be playing cricket, there is a peculiar circumstance that used to happen in the one-day 50 overs cricket matches, about 20—30 years ago. The circumstance would occur once a match progressed to the late 30s in the overs.
… In terms of overs, the game from about the late teens to the late 30s could easily go replicating my mood above. But, somehow, either the bowlers or the batsmen or both would come out of it, sometimes even in a virtual snap of sorts, though it would happen mostly only gradually, once they arrived in the late 30s in the overs. May be, perhaps, as a result of the spin and the medium-pace bowlers being taken off and the fast bowlers being brought back in, for their second (and last) spell.
Then. Suddenly. Zzzoooooom. A good-length ball, left alone by the batsman (almost as a matter of habit); it safely lands in the gloves of the fumbling wicket-keeper, who should have been prepared but is still taken by a bit of a surprise. Zzzooooom. A second ball, now on the off-stump, swinging ever so slightly out the off-stump. Oh yes! There still is some swing left in this wicket! The batsman does something like waving his bat at it, fumbles, but is lucky enough to survive. Then, a very fast-paced short-length ball, in fact a bouncer! The batsman ducks. The wicket-keeper stretches all the way back, but manages to catch it. Finally, the batsman is found adjusting his gear, esp. his helmet. Yet another good-length delivery, somewhat slower in pace, slightly outside the off-stump, again with just so slight an outswing. Well-collected by the wicket-keeper. No changes in the fielding. And then, finally, comes The Ball. This time, it’s a furiously paced one, right on the leg—yorker! Within a split-second, stepping aside on the front-foot…
The cricket-knowing people [whether English-speaking or otherwise] could easily complete the last sentence above.
Among the commonly available options, the one I like to imagine here is this: Dancing down the wicket, leaving all the stumps in the open, the batsman makes room for himself, and hits at the ball hard, with his full strength. The ball connects with the meat of the bat, and the next instant, it is seen racing past the extra-cover boundary. No, you have not been able to catch how or where the ball went, really speaking. All that your visual field has in the meanwhile registered is the whitish figure of that fielder in the covers first rising up in a contorted fashion in the air, with both his hands wildly outstretched out and up, and just when that slim figure of that talented fielder begins—almost as if unbelievably by now—to go down, you instinctively strive to look past beyond him. And then, you see it. The ball has taken the first harsh bounce past the fielder, not caring a whit for the grass, and it is now racing… no, in fact it already has gone past the boundary line, for a four… [To me, such a four is more appealing than an artful but wily hook off a leg-side delivery for a sixer. The latter somehow appears almost meekish, as compared to this brawnishly—even if not very artfully—executed cover drive. That is, when such a cover drive is an answer to a yorker. Even if the yield to the side is only 4, not 6.]
Well, I left watching cricket roughly in the mid-1990s. When someone says “cricket” or “cricketers,” about the only match that I somewhat remember (after a 5–10 second gap or more), or the “last” complete match I probably saw, was the one in which both Rahul Dravid and Sourabh Ganguly were either brand new, or at the most only 2–3 matches old. I haven’t watched much cricket after that. May be two or three matches (in full), and some more matches, some half-way through or so. None of these matches, I remember any more. And, I am completely certain that (except for some irritating times when I am only gone to a restaurant for a drink and some good food, and yet, cricket finds a way to pounce on me off a big glaring screen) I have not watched any cricket over the past 10+ years. Whether India was playing Pakistan or not. Whether Sachin Tendulkar was in form or not. … You get the idea.
But still, some visuals and phrases have remain etched in the memory. One of them is: “Making room for himself.”
If the going has not been so good, and yet, it has also not been very particularly bad either, if you have been in that greyish or slumberish sort of a mood of not wanting to do anything, or in an even worse mood: in that (Marathi) “sun-saan” mood, then: Once you find yourself having come out of it, the first thing you gotta do, IMO, is: Make room for yourself.
So, I did. Right this morning. (A few hours ago.)
I re-realized that one application of CFD is in the computer graphics and games programming field. (I had well-realized this point in the past, of course, but all the downloaded materials and sources had gone in that HDD crash.)
So, this morning, I spent some time browsing the ‘net for CFD simulations for computer graphics. … Interesting!
I need to add “Fluids simulation for computer graphics” as one of my active research interests, while updating my resume.
Should I conduct a course on Fluids Simulation for the CS folks, esp. for those working in the IT industry in Pune or Mumbai? Would someone be interested? Drop me a line. I am all ears. And, I am serious. (I will even simplify the maths while presenting the topics, and I will also supply some elementary codes. The students must, however, bring both their laptops and minds to the class.))
Let me know—before I possibly slip back once again into that yawnish/slumberish/worse—(Marathi) “sun-saan” (i.e. in English, roughly, tomb-silent) kind of a mood…
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A Song I Like:
(Hindi) “jeenaa ye koi jeenaa to nahin”
Singer: Shailendra Singh
Music: Bappi Lahiri
Lyrics: Gulshan Bawra
[Yes, IMO, here, it’s Shailendra Singh’s version that easily outdoes Lata’s. [But then, honestly, isn’t the tune here better suited to a male voice?]… And, yes, IMO, here (as also on many other under-appreciated occasions), this “RD Clone” has managed to actually deliver on the goods! When I was in college, the intellectuals back then had this tendency to smirk at even just a passing mention of Bappi Lahiri’s name. But, even back then, I would think that he didn’t deserve it—even if he indeed was, for much part, an RD (and many others) Clone. Yes, I would also air this opinion of mine, back then. Anyway, this is certainly one of his best songs; see if you like it, too.
And, if you do, notice two points: (i) Consider the tune and the music for the “antaraa” part, esp. near the end of the first half of the “antaraa.” That is, the point where the line “bahon mein jab ho baahein” (in the first “antaraa”), or “gar koi yaar naa ho” (in the second “antaraa”) ends. Now, stop here. You already know the “mukhaDaa”. So, think for a moment, how you would land at the repeating “mukhaDaa,” starting from this point in the “antaraa.” Think about it for a while. You can easily think of connecting these two points in some melodious way, perhaps even in many different ways—the tune is simple enough that even a layman could easily attempt doing that. Or, if you cannot imagine any ways to make the connections, then at least spend some time imagining how most of the well-regarded music directors (including RD) might have habitually connected the two. Then, consider how the transitioning actually occurs in this song. I bet that all the imagined transitionings would be far more direct than what happens to be the actual case here. … The most beautiful path isn’t always the shortest one. … Here, the music takes something of a little detour, choosing to make the transition at the more lingering and meandering “o mere saathi” phrase, rather than at any other possible connecting phrase. …. It’s (at least) this transitioning here—from the half point in the “antaraa” to the appropriate phrase in the “mukhaDaa”—that should have left no doubt even in an intellectual’s mind that, yes (even) Bappi Lahiri is, actually, a gifted composer. (ii) Another point. This is a bit silly, but since I am in a mood today to write at length without saying much anything, let me continue. Try humming the “mukhaDaa” of this song, starting with the “jeenaa ye koi” line, but without using any words. Attempt just humming. (Or, whistling.) You would find that you can easily do it—humming the entire “mukhaDaa” well. Now, try adding words to your mere hummings. Then, compare the way you sang the words of the “mukhaDaa,” with the (superlative) way in which Shailendra Singh has actually sung it. In particular, notice how easily, softly—in fact almost imperceptibly—he utters, but swiftly passes over, the word “ke,” while singing the phrase “pyaar ke binaa”. And, how you fumbled at this particular place, when you were asked to sing it aloud. …You mean to say, you had never tried it before? Go ahead, give it a try! It’s fun!]
An editing touch is sure due; may or may not get effected. Done. Expect more posts of a similarly long-winding and pointless nature, at least in the near future.]