Peace...

Stunning lotus flowers at the market street leading to the Temple of the Tooth in Kandy, Sri Lanka...

The White Tiger

For some time now, I have consciously stayed away from books "on India". I had my fill of pages filled with nostalgia, or the gushing of foreigners who claim India had changed their lives. I was also really not in the mood to read non-fiction and deepen my awareness of reality. Call it a phase of escapism (YES, I did read the whole "Twilight" series during that "phase" and yes feel free to laugh!). Nothing prepared me for the brutal shock of this book by Aravind Adiga. For two days, my child, my home and husband were severely neglected. Laundry piled up and I even read for hours in an unmade bed (and I hate unmade beds!!). Although some of the reviews claim this is a thriller, I would not call it so and this is not why it kept me on tenderhooks. It is the sudden and brutal recall of the reality I had chosen to stay away from, consciously, that prevents me to sleep at night ever since I turned the last page. I knew India has a side which is beyond my wildest imagination, even after living here for 10 years. But Adiga's insight into the minds, souls and lives of those who live in the "Darkness", or the poor, surpassed everything I had seen, or heard of, or guessed. I was really not prepared to read about all this, especially now that I am about to bring up two children in this country.

Balram is one of the anonymous faces I pass on the street every day. He could be the delivery boy of my neighbourhood pharmacy, or even my own driver. And now, maybe, somehow, I know a bit more about what is happening behind the smiling, or sometimes openly resentful, face of my neighbourhood Balram. What he probably thinks of me, how he eavesdrops on my life and probably knows about me much more than I would want him to. Of how, within the huge jungle of casts that India is, there are sub-casts even at his level, and the acute consciousness he has about the difference between him and other "servants". Of the kind of family he has left behind in the village. Of the kinds of pressures he may be subjected to, beyond his poverty.

I would really like to meet Aravind Adiga one day and ask him, did he actually live in a village like Balram's, how many Balrams did he interview and how did he go about his research to come up with such a raw, graphic and confident account of the life of this villager turned tea boy turned driver turned entrepreneur. His keen observations and the minute details he delivers are so staggering, that one has to actually remind one's self that he/ she is not reading "Lord of the Rings", but about a dark world that actually exists under our own windows.

Why this book was really good for me to read:

- I don't think I will ever look at my housekeeper, nanny and driver in the same way ever again. I will be a bit more conscious of what is important to them, even if from my position it seems really stupid and trivial.

Why this book was really bad for me:

- It leaves me hopeless that the Darkness these people come from will never change.

- It confirms the fact that there is a whole fraction of society out there that has a vested interest in keeping things the way they are.

- And yes, again, I will never look at the people who work for me the same way, but I will also never be able to shake off the spark of suspicion and fear about what is going on in their minds, that this book ignited in me.

Winter setting in in Chandigarh

Motherhood has made me extremely sensitive to absolutely anything to do with children. I don't know if it is the hormones, or it is this little creature that gives me so much happiness every day, but the sight of a suffering or crying child makes me sick...

So I guess you will understand why this news - http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090928/ap_on_re_as/as_australia_homeopathic_death that i first read in The Times Of India this morning has been hounding me all day long.

It is about an India-born Australian couple who let their 9-month old daughter die of acute eczema, because they refused to treat her with conventional medicine, and kept giving her homeopathy. I am a very big fan of homeopathy. I swear by my homeopathic doctor and trust her enormously. And I would use it, for sure, if Ravi was to get ill.

However, it was obvious that it did not work in this little girl's case. But the parents continued, even after her hair turned white, even after she got weaker and weaker, even after an infection started eating at her cornea...

I wonder how could they wake up every morning and see their baby in so much pain (she had to be given morphine in the hospital!). How could they watch her slowly fade away? How could they look in these big innocent eyes and keep on stubbornly feeding her something which obviously was not working.

Everyone makes mistakes. But a mistake that lasted for so many months, a suffering that went on and on pointlessly... I wonder how a family member, a neighbour or a friend did not make them see reason! I wonder how this mother did not go insane seeing her child in so much pain?

Not only I am happy they are going to prison, but I really feel it is not enough!

Children do not ask to be born in this world. They are an expression of OUR desire, of our love for another human being. For months, years, we are their universe. They live through and for us. They have no other vehicle than us to express their feelings and needs. They have no one else to make sure they are loved and healthy. We should look after them well not just because we love them, but because it is our responsibility and there is no scope for error with someone so small and fragile.

Bulgarians are everywhere!

Yes, it's true! We are just about 8 million of us, but wherever you go in the world, you would meet at least one. It is a mystery how exactly we do it and yet survive as a nation. The phenomenon of 'brain leakage' out of the country has been written about ever since I can remember myself. And one Bulgarian out of three you meet on home soil will definitely share with you an elaborate plan or at least a dream of living abroad. I guess it is in our genes. Maybe because we have always been a people on a crossroad, and our very DNA fabric is made of migrating tribes (which is why in Bulgaria, on such a small territory, you will find people who look like Indian gypsies, alongside people who look like nordic Vikings).
As a Bulgarian, I have to always be careful what I do or say at international airports, because you never know where a compatriot will be lurking and listening. I have myself been a 'victim' of flirty lines in the Parisian metro by two guys who thought I don't understand them. I just missed a violin concert by a Bulgarian musician visiting Mumbai from France. I have met countless people from countless countries who either have Bulgarian friends or have studied with one.
I have been asked many times if I am the only Bulgarian married to an Indian in Mumbai. To which I had always replied that in a 16-million people city, you never know. But as far as I know, I was... There are a few ladies married to Indians living in Delhi, whom I had met. There are plenty of Indians studying in Bulgaria, and a few of them had also found their life partners there. Women of different generations, who had gone through different stages of the development of India. An elderly one, married to a veterinary doctor, remembers stitching her own kaftans upon arrival in Delhi. Another bubbly girl married into a traditional Sikh family and her beturbaned husband speaks better Bulgarian than me! I have heard of a couple of others who are married into such staunch families, that they don't even come to the receptions at the Bulgarian embassy despite being invited.
So while I was highly amused, I was not very surprised when the other day a French friend of mine smsed me: "Your child's position as a Punjabi-Bulgarian interpreter at the UN is compromised! I just met a friend whose brother-in-law is married to a Bulgarian girl!"
So now I know - since 8 months I am not the only one!
"A" met her Punjabi husband in New York while they were both studying together. They also had a tumultuous long distance relationship before she finally shifted here 8 months ago. We met over dinner at my French friend's friend place and had a fun dinner sprinkled with lots of alcohol (I was just watching, of course) and laughter. I discovered that most Punjabis are the same - they love driving (our host had done something that till now I could attribute only to Gurtaj - driving to Goa for 11 hours just to have a beer on the beach and head back), drinking, stupid jokes... So even there I am not the only one!
A was curious to know how the first few months of my arrival in Mumbai were. She is not working currently, and finds it extremely difficult to be independent in a city where someone has to drive you everywhere. She is still very rough at edges where I have softened - like unexpected and endless family visits. And she has a big advantage over me - she has the guts to drive here!
She has come to India at a very different time. Nine years ago when I arrived here, Bombay was not the same city. There was strictly nothing to do and nowhere to go out, except to 5-star hotels. Foreigners were a rarity and I was cheated and ogled at everywhere I went. Finding food I like was nearly impossible. It was tough.
I tried to explain this to A and tell her how lucky she is to have come at a much more exciting time.
She also shared my views of living here with candid and upfront honesty. Difficulties that I tend to brush under the carpet and things she does not agree with. So I wondered if I am compromising too much with what I believe in. I was shocked to realize how Indianised I have become (I am not saying this is a bad thing) and as our hosts admired my Indian accent, I wondered how much of myself I have lost along the way, how much I have forgotten and mutated to fit in.
It was great to have this sort of a mirror in front of me which brought upon all these reflections again. I hope I can meet A again and get in touch with my inner Bulgarian more often.

Careless whispers...

I just love this time of the day. It is 6.30 pm, and the light is glorious and dim, the sky is buring in orange and hot white, and the evening descends gently, easing up the frown on my forehead. The crows have gone 'to bed', so instead I see groups of sparrows, and little green parrots flying in twos or fours, very close to the balcony. Their excited screams make them sound like little kids let loose by their parents to play ball after a whole day at home. And they do endless rounds of the building, in perfect sync. I am listening to a Celine Dion CD. It's so soothing... I could be anywhere in the world. This light makes every big city look alike. I could be happy anywhere in this light and cool breeze. I feel so calm, that I could let anything go, anyone walk all over me, anything happen... I can feel my heart overpouring with love for my family and friends. It is when I think of the most. And hope they are happy and fine, and thinking of me too. It's beautiful!

Marathi power

This morning, I woke up to a whole new neighbourhood. When heading to work, I realised that there was something changed about the shop signs and billboards all over Colaba. The local Vodafone store had its name plastered in Marathi right accross the original (which was something like 'translating' Coca Cola??), a tailor had hastily glued a piece of paper with the Marathi equivalent of his already Marathi name under the original signage, and even the local pet shop owner was furiously scrubbing off the Marathi sign that he had mistakenly fixed upside down. And if you are sitting down, you may also want to know that the Colaba branch of McDonald's also had a sign in Marathi right underneath the original. Some shops had more permanently-looking signs, no doubt from the previous wave of violence inflicted by the Shiv Sena fascist party on the war path of saveguarding Maharashtra only for Maharashtirans, and reviving the 'pride' in the Marathi language.
I am all for local languages and their flourishing. I am all for Maharashtrians speaking their mother tongue and being proud of it. I am all for the preservation of local culture and expression. I think every language is beautiful and unique. And I have all intention is speaking Bulgarian to my kids one day.
However, I think Marathi now will forever have a negative connotation for me, because of the 'methods' Mr Raj Thackeray is employing to convince people to do just that. Breaking shops and property of people who are feeding a family with their businesses; treatening; going on a rampage; lecturing and imposing on others what they think is 'right'.
Mr Thackeray, if you are so hell-bent on saving the Marathi language, why don't you fight for teacher's salaries to become more adequate? Why don't you sponsor a few marathi-medium schools with the same amount of money which gets wasted in the chaos and destruction your 'men' cause? Why don't you encourage Marathi book stores, search for talented writers in your native language, spread leaflets promoting the beauty and importance of it, start a magazine... I heard that you are now putting pressure on TV channels to start programmes in Marathi. Will you pay for the air time they may lose if those programmes are not watched? Will you compensate all these shop owners for whom it may be detrimental to have their business names displayed in Marathi? How can you force any private initiative to change its name to suit your purpose?
I can sit here and endlessly think of constructive ways and means to achieve your purpose. But of course, it is so much easier to break and destroy; it is so much more 'profitable' incensing a band of not very intelligent 'men' with nothing better to do in life, to go on a rampage and take out their frustration on people who actually work, call them your 'party workers' thus almost giving them a legitimate 'designation' allowing them to throw their weight around.
However, I really think the cherry on the cake was when your 'men' demanded that the Bombay Scottish school, a hundreds of years old institution, change its name to Mumbai Scottish. You are a genius, Mr Thackeray. I will not be surprised if tomorrow you send your 'men' to all public libraries and ask them to destroy all historical or age-old volumes which still mention 'Mumbai' as 'Bombay'.
With what guts do you think, Mr Thackeray, that you will be able to change a nation's history, an essential part of which is the English language, thanks to which now your compatriots can study in the best universities abroad, land profitable jobs, travel the world and communicate, read literature, and have such a big advantage over other Asian countries (completely underutilised, but this is a different subject). You are like a bully in a school yard, loathed solely because of your 'muscle power'. Only in your case this power is combined with lethal intelligence, able to manipulate people in following you in your destructive and power-hungry aspirations.
I will not be surprised if soon you demand Maharashtra's independence from the rest of India and proclaim yourself the king.

The 'imported' daughter-in-law diaries?

This week, my very talented brother-in-law Raj Patel (Gurtaj's sister's husband) launched his much-acclaimed book, Stuffed and Starved (www.stuffedandstarved.org), in Delhi. And while Harper Collins India made a mess of the whole exercise (topic of another post), there were a few light moments. One of the panelists started with a speech about Indians wanting everything foreign. He started with the lowest creature in the food chain - the worm. He bemoaned how worms are killed with pesticides, and then 'we' import worms from Mexico to do vermiculture. He continued with the more noble seeds and grains, went through the vegetables, and reached the sacred cow - which, it seems, we also cross breed like mad, or just import, with disregard to our biological heritage. "But that's not all," he raised his voice even more, with a glint in his eyes, proud of having found another soundbyte, "We are now not happy with Indian daughters-in-law, and prefer to get foreign ones!!!" He could have not known that the girl turning crimson red on the first row was an 'imported' daughter-in-law, but there were Gurtaj's friends (some of them with a lethal sense of humour), Dr Vandana Shiva whom I had interviewed, my in-laws, a bunch of relatives, the culprit who 'imported' me, my in-laws AND of course Raj. They all bursted out laughing (some of them going as far as pointing at me) - with double the strenght they would have usually - because the pun was oh-so-unintended. And the speaker beamed even more, proud of having cracked the joke of the evening.
So now, friends, it is good to know where I stand in the Indian tree of life:
worm
seed
grain
vegetable
cow
daughter-in-law (imported)
Or should I say, in the food chain of essential consumatives???
Thank you, sir!!!

The recent blasts in India

I was far removed from any 'reality' when the bomb blasts happened. I was in the peaceful island of Bintan, in Indonesia, basking in the sun and the warm Chinese Sea. When the blasts in Bangalore were flashed on the internet, it gave us a heavy heart, but we continued partying. The next day, we logged on to follow up on the Bangalore investigations, but instead whet the screen was screaming at us was '17 blasts in Ahmedabad'!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The feeling was nothing short of shattered. What is happening to our country?! Aren't we ridden enough with dirt, poverty, diseases, overpopulation, and now this? And why do such things always seem to moslty affect the common guy, out there to earn an extra buck, taking the train to go back to his family, or barely making ends meet. The guy far removed from any agenda other than what to put on his family's plates the next day... I know I sound populist and naive here, but I feel there is complete disconnect between means and ends, as misery is added to more misery. And human life seems to be so cheap...
People due to travel to India were scared... But honestly, today, this could happen anywhere, even in the most developed country. I was in London when the subway and bus blasts happened.
What personally scares me here is that when something similar happens in India, you never know if an ambulance will reach you or not. You don't know what hospital you will be taken to. I am scared of the fact that chaos breeds more chaos. Bodies are being lifted without concern for the kind of injury they have and whether this would make it worst. People are left to fend for themselves and do with whatever resources they have on their disposal. I am sure the police does a great job, but sometimes they just seem so archaic and so pathetically underpaid and undisciplined. Uneducated crowds gather immediately to stare or to help, which completely destroys a lot of evidence. Cameramen step all over each other to get this shot of a torn off leg or arm, or a splatter of blood, which channels will repeat in a loop again and again and again.
What also scares me is the sophistication and arrogance of the attacks - they did not even wait for a few days before hitting Ahmedabad!

THE COMPANY OF WOMEN

I am not going to be discussing Khushwant Singh’s book here, but I can’t think of a better title! Because this is what is happening to me here! From a household dominated by a man and a male housekeeper, I am now in an oestrogen-filled apartment in Sofia – my aunt, her two daughters (pictured here), my grandmother, and the dog – female! Somewhere in between all this – my uncle, always nervously smoking in a corner.
Flashback to an episode of Friends I saw some time ago – the one where Rachel is moving out as Chandler is moving in with Monica. The two of them are remembering the good times and the little signs of attention they used to give to each other, and the small ways in which they took care of each other. It all ends with Monica letting out a teary wail: ‘You are moving out! And now I have to live with a booooooyyyyy!’
Yep… living with other women has its advantages. You can borrow anything – from cellulite gel to tweezers. If you say you need hair volumiser they actually know what you are talking about. They empathise when you say you did not sleep the whole night as this new slimming product makes you pee every 15 minutes, and they notice the impeccable stitching and finish of your new dress. They can tell that 3 months ago you had blond highlights which still look not that bad, and they can tell you whether your khaki or green shoes go better with your trousers – to a man, both would look exactly the same! They know the difference between normal sugar, brown sugar, raw sugar and sweetener. And the difference between slow carbs, fast carbs and fibre. They know the latest celebrity gossip and don’t mind discussing it with you as if their lives depended on it. They don’t think you are nuts if you cry watching the latest Brazilian TV series. And yes, they understand why, when you see a pile of dirty clothes on the floor or a stain on the tablecloth, you feel like someone is wrenching your guts!
In this house, we can walk around half naked without a worry in this world, pointing out each other’s flaws without taking it personally and feeling like s…t for days. We can take cleaning and storage tips from each other. We can bitch about men and feel human. We can discuss what the gyanec said last time we went for a checkup, without fear that someone will get turned off.I LOVE this time spend with them… Until the day I have to take the plane to Bombay and go back to ‘living with a booooooyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!'

NOSTALGIA

I have been in Sofia for almost five days now. I am mostly home looking after my grandmother. So every time I step out for a breather, it is like a brainwave of nostalgia. It is funny how the people we have been slowly vanish into some secret compartment of our brains, which gets unlocked by the strangest of things. In my case, songs I hear on the radio while in a cab, names and faces in newspapers (now mostly gone white and wrinkled), ad jingles, old book covers, old jokes… And suddenly I am 15 again, carelessly walking the streets of ‘this town where I was born’ (another old song I heard in a cab today). I am my old lanky and carefree self. Memories flow in and I almost have the feeling I am peeking into someone else’s life. I look at the people around me, and I can see how their dreams, lives have changed since I have been away. And I realise how far removed from all this I have become. And honestly, I can’t decide if this is wrong or right… I feel home, and yet I feel completely lost. I realise that my brain takes more time to process information delivered in Bulgarian. I ask people to repeat things and explain again. They must be thinking I am retarded or something! When Gurtaj calls me on the phone, I suddenly get an Eastern European accent I have never had before, and I feel I speak English with a Bulgarian sing song in it.

THE WORLD FROM THE AIR

I am on a flight from Bombay to London (final destination – Sofia) and I am flying over the most amazing landscape of arid mountains, gorges and plateaus. As far as the eye can see, all there is, is brown land, at places creased and wrinkled like old cardboard. No water. A lonely little town is in the distance, and I can see a long, straight road cutting through, going into the unknown. Ashkhabad and Mashhad. This is all the tangible information I can get from the map provided on my screen. Never very good at geography, I am clueless as per what country I am flying over. I will definitely have to look it over as soon as I get an Internet connection. My heart swells as I look down at this land so far removed from my reality, and from the reality of most passengers on this airplane. I am trying to imagine the lives of those living underneath, how they cope with this unforgiving landscape. I wonder what animals live down below… Will I ever visit this place in my lifetime? We are soon going to fly over Baku, Yerevan (and several other ex-Soviet strongholds with exotic names) and Kiev… Then on to Vienna, etc. etc. The world is so incredibly big! So much to see! So many stories and different lifestyles, most of them never to be known to me! It is amazing and sad at the same time. A strange feeling of insignificance and loneliness also creeps in. I feel a particle of something far beyond full understanding.

A FEW DAYS LATER: And here is some information on Ashkhabad:

It is the capital and largest city of Turkmenistan, a country in Central Asia. It has a population of 695,300 and is situated between the Kara Kum desert (which I must have seen from the plane) and the Kopet Dag mountain range. Ashgabat has a primarily Turkmen population, with minorities of ethnic Russians, Armenians and Azeris. It is 250 km from the second largest city in Iran, Mashhad (another name I saw on the electronic route map). The name is believed to derive from the Persian Ashk-ābād meaning "the City of Arsaces." Another explanation is that the name is a dialect version of the Persian عشق (eshq meaning "love") and آباد (ābād meaning "cultivated place" or "city", etymologically "abode"), and hence loosely translates as "the city of love."Ashgabat is a relatively young city, growing out of a village of the same name established in 1818. It is not far from the site of Nisa, ancient capital of the Parthians and the ruins of the Silk Road city of Konjikala, which had been destroyed either by an earthquake in the first decade BC, or by the Mongols in the 13th century. It remained a part of Persia until 1884. In 1869, Russian soldiers built a fortress on a hill near the village, and this added security soon attracted merchants and craftsmen to the area. Tsarist Russia annexed the region in 1884 from Persia under he terms of Akhal Treaty, and chose to develop the town as a regional center due to its proximity to the border of British-influenced Persia. It was regarded as a pleasant town with European style buildings, shops and hotels. It was re-named Poltoratsk under Soviet rule. A merciless earthquake in 1948 killed 2\3rd of its population... Pictures on the Internet show a beautiful city with gold cupolas and impressive buildings, nothing to do with the arid landscape I saw...

Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans

I love this quote (which today I found out is from a John Lennon song) and I find it is so true! You just have to look at all the disasters happening around in the world and realise how fickle any sort of major life plan is, even if it is for a short period of time.
I am talking about another sort of disaster here. While I was busy planning a blissful first month in our new home, in complete privacy (with the cook, driver and maid on leave!), my grandma in Bulgaria fell (after a very strong dizzy spell which caused disorientation – yet not diagnosed why) and injured her back. She is bed-ridden now and my aunt has been looking after her. My mum, just a few months before retiring from the Bulgarian embassy in Delhi, has been grounded by me – I have put my foot down that she can’t travel now. So to make her feel less guilty, I am heading to Sofia to spend time with my granny. Life happened, with all my other plans going into flames.
I have been strangely stressed about leaving, almost feeling like I will be traveling ‘abroad’ and thus uprooting myself from my Bombay life. And of course, having to face some harsh realities:
- my family getting older and frailer
- rubbing in the distance factor
- domestic issues that are so well taken care of here, which drive my family and friends in Bulgaria insane
- complete lack of control and comfort in the country that used to be my own
- my mother being in the same position one day and me being the only child
Weird realizations…

The good thing is that the control freak in me is finally starting to lay lower, understanding that the more I want to control something, the more life is amused to throw a wrench in the wheel of my just about steady bicycle wheel. So all of you control freaks out there, remember: hope for the best but be ready for the worst; if you have the chance to finish off something, do it NOW; if you want to do something positive for yourself or others, just jump at the deep end, don’t start with endless excel sheets and daydreaming – just do it if you have the time.
Another positive thought: the definition of ‘luxury’ for me today is the fact that I can just get up and go because I have to and because I want to. I can lean back on an incredibly supportive husband and a really cool boss, and I don’t need to worry financially. I am so grateful for that!

So now my plans are to spend quality time with granny and finally get around to doing that book on childhood recipes that make me feel home; catching up on reading and on the latest gossip in my cousin’s lives; going on a diet while I am there (!!!) and of course loading up on my favourite Bulgarian designers whenever I get the time to go shopping!

And by the way, here’s John Lennon’s song with the above quote:

BEAUTIFUL BOY
Close your eyes
Have no fear
The monster's gone
He's on the run and your daddy's here
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
Beautiful boy
Before you go to sleep
Say a little prayer
Every day in every way
It's getting better and better
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
Beautiful boy
Out on the ocean sailing away
I can hardly wait to see you come of age
But I guess we'll both just have to be patient
'Cause it's a long way to go
A hard row to hoe
Yes it's a long way to go
But in the meantime
Before you cross the street
Take my hand
Life is what happens to you
While you're busy making other plans

DAY DREAMING

At office... My soul feels like a trapped bird. Today I want to...
- feel winter air in my lungs
- look at fresh blossoms
- plant basil on my kitchen window sill
- browse a shop for vintage clothes
- sit in the Tuilerries garden and sip on a Perimenthe
- hug a dog
- walk and feel the fresh spring air in my face
- explore a city with a camera in hand
- see something excruciatingly beautiful and feel my heart swell
- take black and white photos of Gurtaj
- have coffee with my mother
- arrange flowers
- learn to mambo
- eat strawberry sorbet at Ile Saint Louis
- visit my grandmother and talk about the old times
- run my fingers through her white curly hair
- create a beautiful living room
- rinse my hair with diluted apple vinegar for extra shine
- look at a clear blue sky and feel like crying with joy
- take a bus and miss my stop, just because I felt like
- I want to be greeted with a smile and smell of cinnamon at the neighbourhood baker
- sit on a wooden planks floor and listen to jazz while leafing through magazines

Thought of the day...

Virginia Woolfe's interpretation of incandescence in ‘A Room of Her Own’:
Being independent and owing nothing to anybody is essential to achieve the state of mind necessary to produce great art. With material and financial independence, "no force in the world can take from me my five hundred pounds. Food, house and clothing are mine for ever. I need not hate any man; he can not hurt me. I need not flatter any man; he has nothing to give me" Material independence grants its owner an emotional independence, it allows one to be free of "grudges and spites and antipathies," to have one's mind unclouded by "alien emotions like fear and hatred". Woolf calls this state of mind "incandescence".