“Come Back!”

“Come back!”

He continued to walk towards the front door, pretending not to hear.

“Come back at once, I say!”

The handle of the front door turned. She clutched at her chest and let out an agonized shriek:

“You’ll cross that threshold over my dead body, you hear me?”

He paused and turned back, consternation on his face. She continued to clutch her chest and moan:

“You can’t walk out on me for your girlfriend. What has she ever done for you, compared to what I have done?”

He looked at her intently, and suddenly, his face cleared.

“Nothing.”

“Well? Then?”

“She hasn’t birthed me, or brought me up.”

“See?”

“And she hasn’t always tried to impose her thoughts on me. Hasn’t tried to own me body and soul.”

“What do you mean? You’re going to stay with me, aren’t you? Forget her, son…”

“You don’t understand, mom. I’m not going to her. I’m going away from YOU. In fact, I’ll be staying with friends at their PG, till I get some place of my own.”

“But why, if you’re not going to her? What happened all of a sudden?”

“It’s been building up, mom. And last night was the last straw. I’m earning enough to support myself and pay for my studies. I cannot go on like this. Believe me, it’s better this way.”

She clutched her chest even tighter and wailed:

“Even if it costs me my life? even if it breaks my heart?”

“Your heart is supposed to be on the left, mom – not the right … “

THE PRIEST’S DONKEY

(published in the ‘Exploring English’ series of English textbooks by HarperCollins India)

This story is part of the Panchatantra Tales, a collection of stories from ancient India. About 2300 years ago, a king had five sons who refused to study or learn anything that their teachers taught them. One day a new teacher named Pandit Vishnu Sharma arrived in court and promised the princes that he would not try to teach them or make them study. He would only tell them stories everyday. The princes gladly agreed. Vishnu Sharma thus imparted to the princes through these stories their entire education in the form of the five (pancha) principles (tantra) of living wisely: common sense, wisdom, ethics, justice and leadership. These and various similar tales are also famous in other ancient cultures as the Jataka Tales, Aesop’s Fables, etc. The Panchatantra, however, is the oldest recorded collection of these tales.

‘The Priest’s Donkey’ is one of the stories from the Panchatantra collection. In the original story it was a dog instead of a donkey.

A priest once performed an important prayer ceremony at a rich man’s house. The rich man was pleased and along with the fees for the ceremony, he also gave the priest a cow’s calf. The priest was thrilled. In those days cows were as valuable as gold. Also, it was very lucky for a priest to have a cow as it has always been considered one of the most sacred animals in India.

As the priest walked home to his village, carrying the calf across his shoulders, he was lost in a happy daydream. He would tend the calf well and she would soon grow into a fine cow. The cow would be very useful in his prayers. She would give milk for his family. His family would have all the butter and ghee they could wish for. Maybe, he could even sell some of the milk and become rich!

Now, four thugs (those who trick and rob people) saw the priest and wanted to take away the calf from him. Since he was a holy man, they did not dare to rob him by force. So, they decided to trick him into giving up the calf himself.

The thugs began to follow the priest at a distance. After a while the priest reached the road that went straight to his village. It was a long, lonely stretch with high hedges growing on both sides. The thugs kept pace with the priest, hidden amongst the hedges.

Soon one of the thugs came out into the road and started walking alongside the priest. He smiled and folded his hands politely in greeting.

“Namaste Panditji!”

“Jeete Raho,” said the priest, blessing him with a long life.

“You look tired, Panditji,” said the thug in a concerned voice. “Why don’t you ride the donkey instead of carrying it?”

The priest was startled. “What donkey are you talking about? There is no donkey. This is a calf that I got as part of my fees today,” he said.

“But Panditji, just look at it! It’s definitely a donkey!” the thug assured the priest.

The priest turned his head and looked at the animal across his shoulders. He saw the calf and was reassured. “You silly fellow! It’s a calf. Look!” he laughed at the thug.

The thug looked troubled. “No Panditji. This is a donkey,” he insisted. “If you don’t believe me, ask that fellow walking behind us.”

This was the second thug, who had come out of the hedges and started walking on the road. The first thug called him over, and he came.

“Namaste Panditji,” he said, bowing low respectfully.

“Tell me, kind sir, is this a calf that the respected Panditji is carrying, or a donkey?” asked the first thug.

“A donkey, of course,” replied the second thug. “In fact, I was wondering myself why a priest would carry a donkey across his shoulders.”

The priest started feeling a little uneasy, but looked around at the animal and saw that it was still a calf. He snorted angrily and started walking faster to get away from the two thugs. After a little while the third thug came out of the hedges and started walking with the priest.

“Namaste Panditji,” he greeted him. “Would you be interested in selling me your donkey? I will give you a good price. You see, I am a washerman and my old donkey died yesterday; I need another one to carry my loads.”

The priest was irritated. “This is a CALF, not a donkey!” he shouted at the third thug. “Can’t you see?”

“Okay! Okay!” said the third thug. “Don’t sell me your donkey if you don’t want to, but please don’t shout like this – it’s not good for you!” and saying this, he dropped behind.

Now the fourth thug emerged from the bushes and exclaimed: “Good Heavens! What do my eyes see? A donkey on a priest’s shoulders? God will surely punish him for carrying such a low, impure animal!”

Now, in those days, priests were the most respected people in society and it was considered unsuitable for them to touch any animal except the sacred cows.

So, when the fourth thug started shouting and exclaiming, the priest got really scared. He looked around at the animal on his shoulders. But by now he was so confused that he was not sure whether he was seeing a calf or a donkey. He felt that four separate people could not be wrong. So, he threw down the calf and ran away as fast as his legs would carry him.

The four thugs had a good laugh and took away the calf.

Do you think the priest should have stopped trusting his own eyes and mind because others laughed at him? What does this story tell you about looking carefully at facts before taking any action in spite of anything others may say?

Being a Parent

Of labour pangs and pain-filled haze;

Of sleepless nights and endless days;

Being more of a zombie, less of a mother;

Of just plodding on: one foot in front of the other.

Of an era of feeding, and changing, and screams;

A time when a nap is the stuff of dreams;

Of welters of soiled, stinky nappy and bib;

Of soft, fluffy pillows to line the crib.

Of trusting smiles and melting eyes;

Of a rush of love that all reason defies.

A kaleidoscope of emotions that shifts every instant;

The dawn of a new life: Being a Parent of an Infant!

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

Of potty training and three baths a day;

Of insanity just a nanosecond away;

Of playschool vans, of picture books of flowers;

Of colours and shapes, of blocks and towers;

Of animals and birds, of evenings in the park;

Of balloons and toys, young minds to spark;

Of candy and ice-cream, of the alphabet and numbers;

Of aching bones and much-needed slumbers;

Of catching butterflies, of making mud pies;

Rediscovering the world through a fresh pair of eyes.

Of feeling at times that you’re just a muddler;

The morn of a fresh life: Being a Parent of a Toddler!

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

Of homework and projects, of school drops and pick-ups;

Of the dawn of defiance, of twice-daily kick-ups;

Of cycling and football, of skating in the park;

Of laying down rules, of curfews after dark;

Of playdates and sleepovers, of bullies in the playground;

Of worrying that no one pushes your kid around;

Of TV and Internet, of smartphone and iPad;

Of PSP and Wii, of slowly going mad.

Of learning together: of tilling the soil;

Of discovering potential: like striking oil!

Of constant confusion, not knowing what you mean;

You’re more or less seasoned now: Being a Parent  of a Tween!

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

And now for the most dreaded time for a mom:

The Bluebeard’s Chamber of all Parentdom.

An era of pitfalls that seem like landmines;

Of struggling desperately to draw some lines.

Of the feeling of being in a constant fight

With yourself, of not getting anything right;

Agonizing over raising your divas, jocks, or nerds:

Gearing up to tell them of the bees and the birds.

And dreading that they might, somehow, already know:

Trying to keep them safe, and yet, letting them go.

Of the reign of madness, not knowing how to engage:

That’s just Being a Parent of a kid in Teenage!

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

The Super Salesman

Whenever I have to open the door to a salesperson or answer a telecall in the middle of a busy schedule, I try to remember grandma’s words: “They are doing a job most people avoid. Try not to be rude as a gesture of thanks for being able to earn money doing something you enjoy.” And so, I do my best to suppress irritation and decline the proffered treats, if not cordially, at least without being brusque.

And then, one sweltering June afternoon, the Super-Salesman happened!

He stood there on the doormat as I opened the door: a young boy in his late teens or early twenties with a thousand megawatt smile plastered to his sweat-soaked face, obviously fresh out of one of the sales institutes that have mushroomed all over the country over the last  decade and a half.

“Good afternoon Ma’am. I’ve come from XYZ Bank — about the women’s card.”

“What ‘women’s card’?” I ask, all at sea.

“The one our telecaller told you about. She told you I’d be coming over today to get your application form filled!” he says reproachfully.

I motion him into a garden chair and switch on the fan. I remember the phonecall he’s alluding to, and remember, equally clearly, informing the telecaller that I was not interested in the offer.

“I told your telecaller not to send anyone over because I do not want a women’s card.”

“How can that be, Madam?” he demands aggressively. “She told me you had asked her to send me over. And I’ve travelled right across Delhi in this scorching heat! It’s taken me an hour and a half to get here!”

“I sympathise with you for your wasted trip,” I tell him kindly, “but your telecaller made a mistake. I told her clearly that I do not want your product and that she should NOT send anyone over.”

“That is not possible!” he blusters at me. “You are lying!”

“Excuse me?” I suppress my irritation and ask glacially.

“Don’t take that hi-fi tone with me … Ma’am!” he says with awful emphasis. “You people sit in your air-conditioned houses and think it’s a joke to make us go around all over the city in this heat at your whims. I’m telling you, this will not work with me. You HAVE to take this women’s card!”

I stare at him in disbelief for a moment, and then summon to my aid all the authority of my experience with college kids in my workshops.

“Listen bachche (kid),” I put him in his place. “Trying to browbeat me isn’t going to get you anywhere. And since you are so stuck on Truth and lies, ask your telecaller to play for you the recording of her conversation with me from yesterday … I believe ‘all your calls are recorded for internal audit and training purposes’, as they keep telling us?”

He looks deflated. I take pity on him and tell him to sit while I get him some cold water to drink. I come back with the water, to find him talking busily on his phone—presumably to the telecaller who sent him here on this wild goose chase. I recall a friend who is usually brusque with salespersons and telecallers. I can just hear her saying: “See, that’s what comes of being polite where politeness is uncalled for. When everyone else is downright rude to them, they think anyone who is polite is a soft touch and can be bullied into falling in with them. That telecaller would never have tried to pull this on you if you hadn’t been so polite”.

The young man turns around and accepts the water with a grateful smile. His whole personality seems to have changed completely. He thanks me politely and apologizes for the misunderstanding.

“Er… Ma’am,” he says hesitantly. “I have a small request …”

“I do NOT want you women’s card …”

“No, no! I understand that. It’s just that since I’ve come all this way in such weather, could you at least respond to one of our surveys, so that I have something to show for this trip?”

“Of course,” I assure him. “Give me the form and I’ll fill it.”

“Oh no, Ma’am. Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll ask the questions and write your answers,” he says.

“All right,” I agree, and he proceeds to ask me a number of questions. They seem to be a little strange and unlike any survey I have ever come across, but I let that pass. When I refuse to answer personal questions, he does not press me. This done, he holds out the form to me and indicates a box at the bottom where I need to sign.

I’m perplexed. What kind of a survey form is this, that requires the signature of the respondent? I twitch the form from his reluctant hand and discover, to my wrath, that it is an application form for his damn women’s card!

“Just give me a minute while I call the police,” I tell him coldly.

He looks blank.

“You have filled out this application form on my behalf under false pretences and were trying to get it signed fraudulently. I don’t know what the exact penalty for this kind of fraud is, but let’s find out!”

“Hey Ma’am!” he calls out, alarmed, as I turn towards the house. “We have to do all this to sell our products. Otherwise how will we make a living?”

“By cheating and fraud?”

“Oh! What’s the use? You rich people can’t understand. What is one card more or less to you? But for me, it’s another commission. Just forget it!”

And snatching the form from my hand, he walks away as fast as his legs can carry him!

The Courier

The doorbell has rung seven times as I cross the expanse of fifty feet from my room to the front door. Does the idiot with the buzzer-happy finger think I have wings? Or a flunkey exclusively to answer the doorbell in a matter of seconds?

“I’m coming,” I snap as the chimes sound for the eighth time.

”What relation are you to XYZ?” calls out an impatient young voice from the gate, even as I open the front door.

“What?”

“I’m asking what relation you are to XYZ,” repeats the young man on the bicycle, his tone that of one addressing a mental retard.

“Wife,” I reply, affronted.

He scribbles something on a piece of paper, and as I reach the gate, hands me a couriered package addressed to hubby.

“Hold on!” I check him as he turns his bicycle to leave. “Aren’t you supposed to get the acknowledgement document signed when you deliver a package?”

“I’ve done it,” he waves the paper at me and starts to cycle away.

And all of it suddenly falls into place—the fifty thousand rupee cheque found under the construction debris when the drawing room flooring was being replaced, which my client claimed (in response to indignant questioning), had been sent by courier; the sodden fixed deposit receipt (we’d been away and it had rained), for which hubby had hauled the bank officials over the coals; a neighbour’s legal documents carelessly thrown into our backyard—it all made complete sense now. And here was a member of the fraternity of devious delivery boys, getting away right under my nose.

“Stop right there!” I yell with at least ten years worth of frustration over misdelivered documents in my voice.

The miscreant freezes in his tracks, and turns around, eyeing me as he would a sabre-toothed tiger, albeit with a touch of ‘what now?’

“How dare you sign my name on the acknowledgement document?”

“Well, you were taking a long time coming …” he starts.

“Don’t be ridiculous! People can’t fly on wings to answer the doorbell. You’re supposed to wait for a reasonable amount of time after ringing the bell.”

“Well, ma’am, people can take a long time to answer the doorbell,” he explains. “They might be doing something they can’t stop at once: they might be cooking, or in the loo, or taking a bath, or putting a baby to sleep. Or they might be old and need a long, long time to answer the bell. You can’t expect us to wait around all day at each house.”

“And that makes it all right for you to sign their names and throw their couriered packages into their yards and go away?”

He simply stares at me. He can’t understand what I’m trying to say.

“You either need to wait for the doorbell to be answered and get the acknowledgement document signed by the receiver, or go away without delivering the package,” I explain to him. “Signing someone else’s name is a punishable offense; you could even go to jail for it,” I add for good measure.

He looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “But then they’ll send us again to deliver the package another day!” he protests. “Besides, most courier guys do it. In fact, people tell us to do it because it is such a bother answering doorbells all the time, and most courier packages contain advertisements and other such nonsense anyway. This way, everyone is happy. You get your stuff without botheration and we don’t have to wait. And who cares about the signatures anyway?”

I’m reminded of Chekov’s ‘The Malefactor’ that we read as part of our course curriculum in Standard Nine. The boy, just like the protagonist of the story, is unable to make the switch from his reality to mine. I try again, in terms that he might be able to understand:

“Why do you think people send stuff by courier and not by normal post?”

“Oh! That’s because they want to show how rich they are. Sending stuff by post is cheap”.

Me First!

My favourite folk tale from Haryana …

‘Hmmm… something smells good!’

Chaudhary Maan Singh sniffed appreciatively as he entered the house, returning from his early morning chores on the farm. Having left at dawn with a thick leftover parantha and a glass of frothing milk, he was ravenous, and judging by the smell, Kalawati was frying some of her mouth-watering goodies! Ah!

He really was lucky, thought Maan as he washed his hands and feet at the pump in the courtyard. The Almighty certainly knew what he was doing when he matched a foodie like him with a fabulous cook like Kalawati. His parents too had left for the customary pilgrimage to Hardwar after his marriage, secure in the assurance that their daughter-in-law would take good care of their only son. And as for him, he just couldn’t get enough of her cooking, and had been systematically overeating ever since they got married, two months ago. Thanks heavens for farm work, or he’d have had trouble entering the house through the door!

In the kitchen Kalawati was frying gulgule and fuming: ‘Here he comes! I love cooking for him and like the fact that he loves my cooking; but he really is the limit—as long as there is anything special left, he just won’t stop stuffing himself! I cook in such enormous quantities, but not one bite do I get! I wish my duty as a wife did not forbid me to taste these gulgule before my husband, or I’d have sneaked a few before ever he set foot inside the house’.

‘GULGULE!’ exclaimed Maan as he entered the kitchen. He gazed adoringly, first at the mound of golden-brown balls of goodness piling up in the basket beside the stove, and then at his wife working her magic on the mundane flour and sugar. As he reached out for a couple, the unprecedented happened:

‘Don’t touch them!’ shrieked Kalawati.

‘Why?’ he was shocked. ‘I’ve washed my hands and feet!’

‘It’s not that …’, she hunted in her mind for a plausible reason … ‘They … they have to be taken to the temple for puja (ritual prayer) first,’ she blurted out.

‘What kind of puja?’ he asked, drawing back, disappointed.

‘Yesterday the panditji (priest) at the temple told me today is Ludhkan Chauth (ludhkan: to tumble; chauth: fourth day of the lunar month),’ she babbled, improvising wildly. ‘We fry gulgule and offer them up in prayers first. Then we bring them home and place them on the chhappar (the canopy that runs round the house). The ones that tumble down are to be eaten by the women and the ones that stay up are given to the men.’

She put out the stove and went to get ready for the temple, leaving Maan in a thoughtful mood.

‘Hmmm … that sounds peculiar! The chhappar slopes downwards, so obviously all the gulgule are going to tumble down … and she gets to eat the whole lot!!! And I’ll probably have to eat the khichdi (rice and lentil stew) or leftover paranthas she would have eaten after I was through with the gulgule … What nonsense!’

Rendered resourceful by the exigencies of his taste buds, he tied some bamboo poles all round the lower edge of the canopy. ‘There! Now let’s see how many gulgule are able to escape!’

Kalawati, meanwhile, went to the temple with the basket of gulgule and rendered prayers and apologies for her perfidy. ‘But I just can’t take it any more dear God,’ she pleaded. ‘I too have the right to eat good things for a change—something apart from the leftover paranthas that usually fall to my lot when my insensate lump of a husband is through guzzling on the goodies I make for him—I do think I have the right to at least a bite or two!’

Wending homewards, and feeling thoroughly guilty by now, she thought, ‘I can’t possibly eat all these. I’ll keep a few for myself and make up some kind of a tale and give him all the rest,’ when she saw from a distance, her Lord and Master, atop the roof with bamboo poles and ropes.

‘Oho! So it’s like that, is it?’ she thought, with the light of battle in her eye, taking in the situation at a glance. ‘Well, we shall see who wins: brain or brawn!’ By the time she reached home, Maan was back down, looking quite innocent and the bamboo poles were out of sight from the ground.

‘Hey! Good news for you,’ she chirped with a smile on her face. ‘Panditjisays he’d mistaken the lunar date. Today is actually Reh Reh Paanche(reh: remain behind; paanche: fifth day of the lunar month). So, that means, that the gulgule that remain on the canopy are eaten by the women, and the ones that tumble down go to the men…’

And she sailed away in triumph, to scatter the gulgule on the canopy …

How to make Gulgule

Ingredients: (8 to 10 pieces)

1 cup wholewheat flour (atta)
½ cup sugar
1 tsp powdered fennel (saunf)
A pinch of baking soda
Oil for frying
Procedure:

Mix the flour, sugar, powdered fennel and baking soda together. Dissolve in just enough water to get dropping consistency. Cover and keep for 5 minutes.
Heat the oil in the kadahi or deep pan. When it starts smoking, drop in tablespoonfuls of the batter and fry to a light golden.
Drain and remove from the oil on a newspaper or sheet of blotting paper to soak the excess oil.
Can serve either as finger snacks or in combination with kheer (see recipe in ‘Sweet Nostalgia’).

Gulgule and kheer as a combination is a traditional monsoon snack in many parts of North India.

Additional tips:

Can use crushed gur (jaggery) instead of sugar to make it more nutritious.
Can mash a small overripe banana into the mixture to increase fiber and mineral content.
Can add powdered almonds into the batter to make the gulgule crisper.

Madness at Midnight!

I wake up sweating and swatting (mosquitoes) in the middle of the night. Hubby is swearing under his breath, mindful of the 11 year-old making irritated noises from her bed at the other end of the room.

A power cut on a sweltering July night. I’d been sleeping like the dead after an especially exhausting day, but to judge by the vibes of irritation eddying about in the pitch dark, and from my own drenched and mosquito-bitten condition, the power must have been out for some time.

“About one hour,” growls hubby.

“What do they say at NDPL?”

“No idea  … haven’t called!”

“Why not?” I’m indignant. “Am I the only one who can call up and lodge a power cut complaint in this house?”

“Yes, because the number is saved in your phone and I didn’t fancy groping all over the house in the dark for it,” he says unanswerably.

“And whatever happened to the inverter?” I shrill. “At least the fans and light bulbs should be working!’

“The batteries dried up, remember? And you were out every day this week, so there was no one to get them serviced,” he reminds me.

Oh! So now it’s my fault! Typical!

“My night’s rest is ruined!” wails kiddo. “How will I ever wake up in time for school tomorrow?”

“Don’t even start!” I snub her. “You cannot stay home from school tomorrow.”

“Oh, but …”

“No buts … you are old enough to be able to do with a little less sleep for one day.”

As she subsides, muttering, I grumpily retrieve my phone from its nightly resting place under my pillow (for the morning alarm, as hubby should very well have known) and ring up NDPL.

“Good-Evening- NDPL- ‘XYZ’-here-How-may-I-help-you?” rattles off the voice at the other end, without break and without expression.

“I need to lodge a power cut complaint for ABC Colony, PQR Zone, New Delhi, India.” The process is outsourced now, so the call center guy needs to know the precise geographical location. And although I was told that the call center is at the other end of the city, it is better to play safe and provide complete information.

“Which part of ABC Colony are you calling from?”

Suppressing the urge to say, “the part between its ears”, I hold on to my patience and reply, “I’m calling from house no. 123, the residence of Mr. Goyal.”

“What is your exact location?” comes the next question and patience flies out of the window.

“Talk sense!” I snap. “I’ve told you the number of the house, the name of its owner, the colony, zone, city and country. What more do you want to know—the location of the room I’m calling from?”

“Sorry for the inconvenience, Ma’am,” the BPO operator reverts to the standard fallback.

“May I know your K number?” comes the next query.

“My WHAT?”

“K number—the 10 digit number on the top left corner of your electricity bill …”

“Why in heaven’s name do you need the K number?” I ask, amazed.

“Our system can track you and lodge your complaint only by your K number,” comes the deadpan reply.

I’m speechless.

“Then why were you badgering me about the minutae of my location?”

“What’s the problem?” asks hubby.

“They want our K number to lodge our complaint!”

Hubby takes the phone from my hand and says with awful patience: “Listen mister, it’s past midnight and pitch dark. The 10 digit K number is not something you remember off-hand. You have our name, address and phone number. Surely your system can register our complaint on the basis of these details?”

“Sorry for the inconvenience, Sir,” parrots the operator. “Your complaint cannot be lodged without your K number.”

Hubby disconnects the phone in dudgeon, muttering, “Go to hell!”

Half an hour elapses. The heat, humidity  and mosquitos are getting more and more unbearable by the minute. I get up, cursing, switch on the flashlight in the phone, stumble over to the chest of drawers and scrabble around for an electricity bill. Call up NDPL again.

“Good-Evening- NDPL- ‘XYZ’-here- How-may-I-help-you?”

“I’m calling from house no. 123, Mr. Goyal’s residence in ABC Colony, PQR Zone, New Delhi, India. I need to lodge a power cut complaint and our K number is ———-,” I say triumphantly.

“How long has the power been out at your place?”

“More than an hour and a half!”

But if I thought I had cracked the NDPL complaint system, I had another think coming.

“Is it just your place, or the whole colony?”

“Now, how the hell am I supposed to know that in the middle of the night?” I ask in exasperation. “Conduct a door-to-door survey?”

“NOW what do they want to know?” asks hubby resignedly.

“Whether the power is out at just our place or in the whole colony!”

Hubby takes over the phone.

“Mister, you have been provided all the details you need to lodge a power cut complaint, including the K number. Now please register our complaint and let us know the complaint serial number,” he instructs in his Senior MNC Manager voice. It apparently cuts no ice with the programmed automaton on the other end of the line.

“Sorry for the inconvenience, Sir, but …”

“DON’T KEEP APOLOGIZING,” bellows hubby, past patience now. “JUST REGISTER THE COMPLAINT SO THAT SOMEONE CAN DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!”

The instruction to ‘DO SOMEHTING’ is clearly not part of the automaton’s programming. It gets confused and promptly disconnects the line! We try again … and again … but the receiver is off the hook!