The two Buddhist monks’ maroon and saffron
robes looked like they had been color coordinated with the orange and yellow
seats of the 7 train that was taking them over the Queensborough Bridge into Manhattan .
The young monk, who
was his older companion’s guide and translator on this trip, had spent two
years in New York as a Tibetan exchange student before deciding to enter the
monastery in Ladakh at eighteen. Now, only nine years into his studies, he was
honored to be repaying his debt of gratitude to his mentor by pointing out to
him where the Mets played and where to get the best bialy in the city. The
older monk, whose olive skin, shaved head and inviting almond shaped eyes, made
him look enough like the young monk to be his grandfather, had never been to
New York. His English, learned mostly from speaking to American visitors to the
monastery and from his decades long subscriptions to Time and Foreign
Affairs, was passable but not reliable. He was able to understand it better
than he could speak it, and in an attempt to brush up before the meeting, he was
thumbing through a wrinkled copy of Cosmopolitan that he had found on
the seat next to him with the words “How to Have Multiple Orgasms” written to
the left of the bosomy cover girl.
The monks had been
instructed by their hosts in Queens to transfer to the D once they reached 5th Avenue and 42nd
Street on the 7. “D like
Dharma,” was what they were told, and what the younger of the two monks
repeated in a failed attempt at a New York accent, as he led his older
companion to the D platform.
It was the D that
was taking them on the final leg of their journey to where the lama, before his
passing, had prophesied they would find his reincarnation. They were to seek out
their teacher in his new home, which according to the prophesy, was a place
whose inhabitants were deeply spiritual, where men hid their faces under long
hair and their heads under big fur hats, where women were modest yet fruitful.
It was a place they’d have to reach by a mode of transport that could travel underground,
below the river, and above a great city in which many of the earth’s languages
were spoken. The great oracle had confirmed the lama’s vision, and had added
that the lama had been reborn the lone son of a spiritual teacher, who lived in
a brick house that was four stories high. This boy, though he would be found in
an intensely insular community in the Northeast of America, the oracle
envisaged, had inherited the lama’s fascination with space travel. It was the
oracle lake, however, that had pinpointed the area the monks needed to search
by reflecting in its waters an image of Yidel’s grocery store, which sat near
the steps of the Fort Hamilton
Parkway station of the D
train in Borough Park , Brooklyn .
The
Tibetans garnered barely a glance from their fellow subway riders, whose
earbuds, smart phones, and racing minds kept them distracted from the two
smiling monks travelling with them. Not until the robed men descended the
stairs from the over ground station in Borough Park did they
get their first wary look. Their journey that had started with a trek down from
their hilltop monastery, and had extended across continents and through
subterranean tunnels, was now culminating in an old Hasid waving his hand
dismissively and muttering, “Meshuganehs,” as he passed them on his way up the
stairs.
The
monks entered Yidel’s grocery store in search of information and refreshment.
The hot August morning had left them parched, and the young monk grabbed two warm
cans of Mayim Chaim Old Fashioned Seltzer from a loud, overworked refrigerator
in the back. Mrs. Kailish, a wigged, rotund woman in her sixties, and the only
other customer there, kept a safe distance, as she watched them walk through
the store.
“Vat
should I know vere dey came from?” she whispered nervously into her flip phone
in a Yiddish accent, using a display of canned pickles to shield herself from
the monks. “Dey look like two bald Chinamen wearing shmatehs like from de
ancient Romans.”
Yidel, his long
brown payis wrapped around his ears, his tzitzis hanging over his
white collared shirt and thin, puny frame, hid behind the cash register and the
scraggly beard that looked like it had taken most of his thirty-four anxious years
to grow. He watched every move the monks made, like he did with all the other
outsiders, his phone in his hand, ready to speed dial 911 if necessary. When
the Mexican kids got off the train and came in to buy their chazerai
after school, he watched; the same for the blacks and all the other goyim. He’d ring them all up in his head
before they even got to the counter, so they’d pay quickly and leave. He wasn’t
sure what to make of these two, but he certainly wasn’t about to listen to any
of their Hare Krishna or Moonie nonsense, if that’s what they had planned.
“Two-thoity-seven,” Yidel said curtly in the
accented English of one born in Brooklyn but raised in Yiddish, the instant the young monk put the cans on
the counter.
The
young monk reached into the cotton maroon bag he was carrying over his shoulder
that until then was indistinguishable from his robe, and pulled out a five. Yidel,
anticipating the likely change he’d have to make, had the two-sixty-three ready
– two singles in one hand and sixty-three cents in the other in case they gave
him only three dollars. Yidel put the change on the counter.
“That
is not necessary,” the young monk said, smiling.
Puzzled, Yidel pushed
the money closer to the young monk. “It’s two-sixty-tree change, nu!”
“That
is for you and your family, my friend,” the young monk said.
Yidel
was used to the goyim trying to steal from him, but to pay more than
they needed to was beyond his comprehension.
“I’ll
give to tzedukah. Charity,” Yidel
proposed, stuffing some money into each of the three collection cans that sat
on the counter.
The
monks smiled, approving of his decision. The older monk then grabbed at the
young monk’s robe and said something in Tibetan, gesturing toward Yidel.
“We
wonder if we could ask you a question,” the young monk said.
“I’m
Jewish,” Yidel responded abruptly, letting them know he had neither the time
nor the desire to buy whatever religion or chachtkes
they were selling.
“We
have great respect for the traditions and spiritual beliefs of your people,” the
young monk responded.
Yidel
cut him off before he could say, “but.”
“Listen,
tonight is Shabbos and I need to prepare de store so de people can come and buy
vat dey need. The challah delivery is already an hour late, and I have a
lot vat to do yet.”
“We
understand. We mean not to interfere with your commerce. We wonder if you could
tell us, though, who the spiritual teacher is in this area.”
“De
rebbe you vanna know about?” he asked, feeling more at ease. They weren’t here
to steal or to brainwash him, he thought. And if their intention was to steal
from or brainwash the rebbe, they wouldn’t get within five feet of him once his
students saw these two coming.
“If he is a teacher of your people, then yes,
we would like to see him,” the young monk said.
Mrs.
Kailish had covertly inched closer to the register and was now crouched behind the
nine dollar bottles of kosher wine, clutching a loaf of frozen gefilte fish she’d
pulled from her cart to use in self-defense if things got out of hand.
“There
are many teachers and many people here, but mein teacher is not
necessarily mein neighbor’s teacher. Only on mein block, we have
Bobov, Belz, Munkatch and Vizhnitz Chasidim. Each has his own rebbe,” Yidel
said.
“Does
your teacher have a son?”
“Finally,
after tvelve daughters. Knei Nehora.”
“And
the boy is how old?”
“Almost tree.”
“The
teacher we seek has a son around that age and lives in a house made of brick
that is four stories in height. Perhaps you can direct us where to find him.”
The
old monk spotted Mrs. Kailish, her wig askew from all her furtive attempts at spying.
He returned her frightened look with an amiable smile.
“De
old von sees me,” she said, trying not to move her quivering lips, while
continuing to provide a play by play to the person on the other end of her
phone. But the old monk’s kind insistent gaze forced her to drop her phone in
the cart, so she could hold the loaf of gefilte fish with two hands. If this
bald headed Chinaman wanted to look, she’d give him something to look at
alright. She took a spastic practice swing to let the old monk know she meant
business, and the wet loaf slipped out of her hands onto the floor. The old
monk sprightly moved toward her to pick it up.
“Shema Yisroel
Adonai Eloheinu,” she prayed with her eyes closed, hoping that when she
opened them, the old monk would no longer be advancing, and this whole incident
would be nothing more than a frightful story she could tell the other ladies on
her block about something that once happened when she went shopping for Shabbos.
The old monk bent
down, held his robe in place, and grabbed the fish off the floor. He offered it
to Mrs. Kailish, who shook her head no and motioned for him to put it in the
cart. She was as blind to his simple desire to help her, as he was to the
prohibition against her touching a man who was not her husband, even if through
a loaf of frozen carp. The old monk bowed and walked back to the young monk’s
side after he delicately placed the fish back in the cart, as if he were
handling a loaded gun, reverent of its unrealized potential to have ended his
current incarnation, if only Kailish had a better grip. She grunted a reluctant
thank you before straightening her wig and moving behind her cart just to be
safe. One second they’re nice, the next they’ll stick a knife in you, she
thought. You could never tell with these shkotzim, especially bald men
in robes who bowed to people. Bowing you only did before Hashem, and
someone who didn’t understand that was someone you didn’t turn your back on,
even if he did pick up your fish.
“Why do you wanna
speak to a Jewish teacher?” Yidel asked the young monk, ignoring Kailish frantically
gesturing behind the monks’ backs, silently imploring Yidel to show them the
door already. Yidel was now much more curious of the monks’ motives than he was
eager to get rid of them.
“We would like to
ask permission to see to his son,” the young monk said.
Yidels’ sickly pallor,
typical of those who spent most of their lives sheltered from the world and the
sun, instantly turned deathly. It was one thing to humor two goyim who paid more than they needed to for warm seltzer,
but he wasn’t going to lead them to the son it had taken forty years and two
marriages for his rebbe to conceive. Who knew what kind of craziness these meshuganehs
with robes were up to, wanting to speak to a little Jewish boy, not even three
years of age.
“Out, or I’ll call
de police!” Yidel shrieked, waving his phone in one hand, while keeping his big
black yarmulke from falling off his shaved head with the other, as he convulsed
in frightened rage. “Take your money,” he pleaded, as he put the five dollar
bill on the counter.
“Yeah, out!”
Kailish echoed, now brandishing an oversized cucumber. If the main ingredient
in her famous cucumber salad needed to wind up splattered all over the bald
heads of these two troublemakers to protect the rebbe’s son, her family would
make do with only lukshen kugel for a side dish.
With a bow, the
Tibetans signified that they meant no harm. They left the store with the
refreshment and information they sought securely in Yidel’s possession, armed
only with the contents of the young monk’s bag – two Metrocards, a few dollars,
a small bell and a pen that belonged to the lama, and some other small trinkets.
If the child they sought was indeed their reborn teacher, he’d be able to select
the lama’s possessions from amongst the other trifles.
They spent the
entire morning and much of the afternoon walking through the streets of Borough
Park in search of the house the oracle had envisioned, receiving suspicious and
frightened looks along the way from bearded men in long black coats and white
stockings, and from stroller pushing women so modest only their faces and hands
were exposed to the hot summer air. Mothers frantically shouted from balconies
for their young children, who were playing freely throughout the neighborhood,
to run home, as if Yidel and Mrs. Kailish had flashed some sort of Yiddish Amber
Alert in the skies above Borough Park , warning its inhabitants that two strange men were on the loose in
search of a young Jewish boy. The monks were less bewildered that not a single doorbell
they’d rung was answered than by the fact that they’d now covered around a five
block radius and almost every house was four stories high and made of brick.
“You
two. Stop right dere!” a voice more confident than Yidel’s, but with the same
Yiddish accent, suddenly boomed from behind the two monks, as they approached
another door.
The
monks turned around to find two Hasids in their early twenties – one tall, one
short – cigarettes dangling from lips barely visible under scraggly beards, holding
what looked to the monks like blue pillow cases covered in plastic bags. The Hasids
walked toward the monks with the deliberation of expert gunslingers sizing up
their targets, clutching the pillow cases at their sides like they were six
shooters to be unloaded at the slightest provocation. Within seconds, these
four anachronisms of fashion, representing centuries of wisdom and erudition, stood
face to face in front of a brick house with a half dozen pair of tzitzit
drying over the railing on the fourth story’s balcony. The short Hasid, the one
who had ordered them to stop, flicked his cigarette into the street, exhaled
out of the side of his mouth and began menacingly twirling his side curls. The
tall Hasid did the same, while the monks simply smiled.
“Nu,
you don’t speak?” the short Hasid asked, looking them up and down. “You only
smile?”
The
taller Hasid, enchanted by the colorful robes, slid his hand over the fabric covering
the older monk’s left shoulder. “Vus is dis, velvet?” he muttered.
“Is
this your teacher’s home?” the young monk asked.
“For
vat you vanna know?” the Hasid with the Napoleon complex replied.
The
old monk stood calm and still, almost encouraging the tall, simple Hasid to try
and figure out what the robe was made of.
“Polyester?
Shimshon, give a kik,” he said, requesting that his shorter companion
help solve the mystery.
“Avrumi,
nu!” Shimshon grunted, waving off his friend. “Vat do a couple Hare
Krishnas vant mit de rebbe’s son?” he asked the monks.
“We
are Buddhists, dear friend,” the young monk responded. “We’re in search of our
teacher.”
“This
is a neighborhood for Jewish people, not Buddhists,” Shimshon said, spit
foaming on the hairs around his mouth, barely able to bring himself to the even
say the word “Buddhists.” “You don’t got any teachers here. Go look in Chinatown .”
Unfazed, the monks
began walking toward the front door of the house until Shimshon quickly blocked
their path.
“Nu, go!”
Shimshon insisted, mimicking a Kung-Fu ready stance he’d learned secretly
watching web clips of Bruce Lee on the old laptop he kept hidden in his
basement. The videos he’d sneak away to watch had convinced him that all slant
eyed men were experts at martial arts and all slant eyed women were experts at
things he only dreamed of asking his wife and mother of his four kids to do. He
was now glad he’d ignored the Yiddish signs hanging throughout the neighborhood,
warning that use of the Internet was punishable by excommunication. He was
confident the sin of daring to peer out into the world beyond Borough Park,
which had racked him with guilt until now, would be at least partially pardoned
by god, since he was using some of the knowledge he’d gained to protect the
rebbe’s son.
“Yeah, go from
here,” the tall Hasid declared, grabbing hold of and then releasing the old
monk’s robe. “And take vit you your shmatehs!”
Before the monks
needed to decide their next move, a deep authoritative man’s voice admonished
the two Hasids in Yiddish to let the monks in. The Hasids immediately cleared
the path to the door, as if the voice had come from the heavens and not from a
cheap looking intercom taped to the door post just below the mezuzah.
“Please come in,
gentleman,” the voice continued, and the monks were buzzed in.
They entered a narrow
hallway whose walls were adorned with ornately framed pictures of pious looking
men – all of whom seemed to be closely watching the Tibetans’ every move, like
bearded Mona Lisas in fur hats. The monks made their way into a large modernly
furnished dining room where they were greeted by the man who had intervened on
their behalf – a gray bearded, potbellied Hasid in his early sixties, who
instantly seemed more at ease with the monks than any of his fellow Hasids did,
including the ones in the pictures. Rabbi Leibel Klein sat at the head of the large
table with his back to a wall to wall, ceiling high bookcase filled with leather
bound books. A white embroidered tablecloth lay under a dozen formal place
settings. Klein shook their hands and invited the monks to sit.
“I’m Rabbi Klein. Can
I offer you gentleman a cold drink maybe?” he inquired in a lilting tone, his English
unencumbered by an accent that turned his fellow Hasids’ “what”s into “vat”s
and their “there”s into “dere”s.
“That is very
kind. No thank you,” the young monk responded.
As the young monk
was about to introduce himself and his consort, the Rabbi interrupted.
“It’s no trouble. You
must be thirsty from all that walking. We have juice, soda, water. Don’t worry,
it’s all kosher,” he said smiling.
The young monk
grew impatient. It was now obvious to him that he and his partner had been
followed from the moment they had stepped out of Yidel’s grocery store. For all
he knew, these untrusting, frightened people might have been following them
from the moment they had gotten off the plane at JFK, or even from the moment
they had gotten on the plane in India . Too
much of their time had been wasted already, and he wasn’t about to let another
man hiding behind a beard delay the reunion with their teacher. The old monk
sensed the young monk’s frustration. He offered his companion some calming
words in Tibetan, and then told him to get on with it.
“Are you the
teacher with the young son?” the young monk asked, trying his best to remain
composed.
“I am a teacher
and I have a son. Five in fact. But they’re all around your age. And all
married, thank god, with sons of their own,” the Rabbi said.
“Then we’ve come
to the wrong home,” the young monk said, as he abruptly stood up. “We apologize
for inconveniencing you.”
“No, no. I’m sure
you’re in the right home,” the Rabbi said matter-of-factly.
The old monk
motioned for the young monk to sit, and at the old monk’s urging the young monk
asked, “How can you be sure? We haven’t told you why we’re here.”
“You’re looking
for a boy around three years old who’s the lone son of a teacher, yes?”
“Yes,” the young
monk said. “Your community is obviously quite skilled at relaying information
quickly, but you’ve just told us there is no such child in your home.”
“You mistakenly
assume that this is my home,” Klein said.
“Even if a young
son of a teacher lives here, why are you so confident that he is the child
we’re looking for?”
“Because on the
night before he passed, the grandfather of the boy you’ve come to see, our
former rebbe, predicted your arrival. He said that after years of his son, our
current rebbe, attempting to father an heir to the dynasty, he would succeed
with his second wife. This boy, he said, would be endowed with wisdom beyond
his years and would become a great leader. But before the boy’s third birthday,
strangers would come and try to claim him as one of their own.”
The monks
exchanged knowing glances.
“Who then are
you?” the young monk asked.
“I am the rebbe’s
secretary,” Klein said.
“Would it be
possible for us to speak to your rebbe?” the young monk asked, trying
awkwardly, as a matter of respect, to pronounce the word “rebbe” with a Yiddish
accent, as Klein had.
“I’m afraid he’s
not available,” Klein said.
After the old monk
spoke in Tibetan, the young monk translated: “This child’s wisdom is the result
of countless lifetimes of practice and virtue. With proper training, he can
help many people. We don’t wish to claim him as one of our own. We wish to help
him share his knowledge with all who suffer, so that they may change their
karma.”
“With respect,
gentleman, you might think us a simple, provincial people who fear even the
most tangential interaction with the outside world, but despite what you may
have experienced during your brief time amongst us, our philosophy is quite
universal. We believe that through cultivating an experiential individual
connection with God, one can repair the entire world by helping others move
beyond what you call ‘their karma.’ And given the gifts the boy has received, undoubtedly
from God, and possibly as a result of past virtue, as you suggest, we
acknowledge that his role in repairing the world is crucial. But to do so he
must receive proper Jewish training,” Klein responded.
“According to the
Buddhist view, the seeds we plant, whether virtuous or not, will ripen when
circumstances permit,” the young monk responded, now speaking on his own. The
old monk listened like a proud grandfather. “Karma is not anything we can escape
by connecting to something external. It simply is, and can only be transformed through
an understanding of the mind brought about by diligent practice. Our recently
deceased teacher, who we believe has been reborn as your teacher’s son, had
reached levels of awareness only possible through eons of such practice. It is
imperative that this awareness be nourished in an environment designed for this
purpose, and then shared with the world.”
“Even if I accept
your view on the nature of things as correct, perhaps the seeds planted by your
teacher in his previous life ripened as his rebirth as a future leader of our
people,” Klein said. “In which case, the boy’s fate has been sealed, and your
mission to return him to where you believe he belongs is unnecessary.”
Before the young
monk could respond, the old monk gently placed his hand on the young monk’s,
letting him know he was ready to participate directly in the conversation. “Fate
imply predetermination by outside force. But law of cause and effect say we choose
our current path through causes created by our past thoughts, words and actions,”
he said.
“So then the boy
is on the path he’s chosen,” Klein said. “Why seek him out to try and put him
on a path you’ve chosen for him?”
“Boy also chosen
for us to come in search of him, just as we’ve chosen to participate in that
search,” the old monk said. “Boy’s karma works interdependently with ours, as
does yours. That is why we are sitting here talking to you.”
“So then we share
a belief in the interdependence of all things,” Klein said. “At least we can
agree on that.”
“You understand
emptiness, Rabbi,” the old monk exclaimed. “But this is not belief for us,
rather observation of how things are. Our faith is in natural law, not in a
power outside ourselves.”
“So how do you
explain how things came to be the way they are, if you don’t believe in a power
that created all this?” Klein asked.
“All phenomena are
dependently originated and empty of inherent existence, including causes and
conditions that created the phenomena,” the old monk explained. “For us,
creator is simply not necessary.”
“Then even
emptiness is empty,” Klein posited.
“You sure you not a little bit Buddhist?” the
old monk asked, chuckling. “Maybe you would feel more comfortable in robe.”
“That’s how I know
there is a creator, and that he’s merciful and meant for me to be a Jew.
Because me in a robe without pants is not something anyone should see,” the
Rabbi said. “Besides, I find it difficult to believe that this world with all
its beauty and all its suffering isn’t governed by a greater force whose
actions we can’t control or always understand.”
“This is exactly
the cause of suffering, Rabbi,” the young monk explained. “When we believe we
are at the mercy of forces we can’t control.”
“Forgive me, my
friends, but is it not the height of arrogance to assume that we alone can create
heavens, earth, seas, and everything in them, including ourselves, all by our
mere thoughts and actions?” asked Klein.
“Is it not
arrogant to assume that we can not?” the old monk asked. “To accept full
responsibility for our lives, for the very fact that we exist, is what humble
us and allow us to make changes necessary to achieve happiness.”
“You may find me
superstitious, a believer in fairy tales even. But to me, happiness is achieved
through bonding with my creator by striving to see his divinity in all things,
including you two gentlemen,” Klein said.
“This is actually
very compassionate view and very much in accord with our principle of seeing
the unlimited potential in all beings. Perhaps, after all, it is not you who is
a little bit Buddhist, but we who are a little bit Jewish,” the old monk said, laughing.
“You can’t be just
a little bit Jewish. It’s like being pregnant, only instead of morning
sickness, there’s heartburn,” Klein said. “But who knows? Maybe in a previous
life you were both great torah scholars.”
“And maybe in a
previous life you looked good without pants. All things are possible,” the
young monk offered.
“Maybe not all
things,” Klein retorted.
“Our main concern right
now is with the child in this lifetime,” the old monk interjected.
“Look, fellas, we
can debate emptiness versus creationism, Buddhism versus Judaism from now until
the moshiach comes, or until we all achieve enlightenment, whichever
comes first. But we all know how this is gonna end,” Klein said politely.
“Besides, you’ll shave his head, put him in funny outfits, and immerse him in
rigorous study for years. We’ll do the same, but when he’s around eighteen,
we’ll marry him off and he’ll start making babies. And I gotta tell you, our
path sounds a lot more fun.”
The three men
laughed.
“Can we at least
see the child?” the young monk asked.
The monks had been
warned that their attempts to convince the child’s family to even consider
allowing the child to enter the monastery would almost certainly fail. Their goal
instead was to confirm as best they could that the child was their reborn lama
by speaking to him and checking to see if he recognized any of the lama’s possessions.
If they could plant a seed in the boy’s mind that might one day ripen as a
decision to pursue his true calling, they’d consider their mission a success.
“I’m sorry you
traveled all this way for nothing, but the boy is in very good hands. Of that I
am sure,” Klein continued, evading the young monk’s request.
“So why bother seeing
us at all, Rabbi? Why not ignore us like the others?” the young monk asked.
“Are you not
enjoying our chat?” Klein asked.
“We very much are,”
the young monk answered, while the old monk nodded in agreement. “But it would
have been easier for you to simply not answer the door, and we would have moved
on without ever finding where the child lived.”
“If I wanted to live life the easy way, I
wouldn’t be a Chasideshe Jew,” Klein said. “This outfit I’m wearing is
murder in the summertime. If I can handle this, what’s a little visit from a
couple of Buddhists?”
Klein’s
elusiveness bemused the monks. Was he biding time while an angry mob, desperate
to teach these unwanted visitors a lesson about messing with their children,
dispersed? Was he stalling, while the child they sought was being whisked away
somewhere safe? Was he merely eager to remind himself of the merits of his
faith by defending it to an audience that wouldn’t blindly accept what he said?
Was it a combination of all three?
The old monk
sensed the young monk’s desire to pursue his questioning of Klein, but instead thanked
Klein for his hospitality and motioned to the young monk that it was time to go.
No good would come from overstaying their welcome and making their host regret
his decision to speak to them.
Klein led the
monks through the narrow hall to the front door where they noticed a framed photo
that sat atop an adjacent mantle. Their backs had faced the photo when they
walked in, and they were now staring admiringly at a boy of around two, who was
gleefully piloting a red coin operated space ship that was chained to the front
of a store. Their lama looked nothing like this jubilant boy with long blonde hair
curling wildly over his shoulders under a large, black embroidered yarmulke, but
his compassionate eyes and beatific smile eased any doubts that this was their
teacher. Klein let the two robed men bask in admiration for a few moments
before interrupting. “He woke up this morning, crying in Yiddish, ‘My friends
are here. Be nice to my friends.’”
As the monks
walked back to the D train under the suspicious gazes of those bold enough to
share a sidewalk with them, and those merely daring enough to peek through
drawn blinds, they knew that their teacher, who had in a short time opened the
heart and mind of his newest disciple, was exactly where he belonged.
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