The sea is still. The winds are quiet. Yet the phone still rings with unintelligible offers from the Hindustani recruiters.

There's something fishy about the whole business. These Indians do not speak good English. I do not think they are graduates of the University of Madras. They speak a kind of Basic Pidgin. They are always based in New Jersey, either in Bridgewater--a vast exurban swamp area south of Elizabeth--or in the vicinity of Newark. This is not to say they are physically there, but the tie-line travels through there, probably through some hovel of an office that a compatriot rents over a Mexican restaurant (run by real Mexicans).

It is quite possible they actually ARE in New Jersey, the same way a lot of desperate Bengalis are in Abu Dhabi. Somebody lured them over to work in a Balti House (wait--do we even HAVE Balti Houses in America?) and then took their passports away, and now they're imprisoned in a boilerroom and forced to make cold calls for 18 hours a day.

They do not leave phone messages. Some of the old Indians did, but these do not. I know of them only because I see these strange New Jersey numbers on the Caller ID, or because my husband picks up my line, and later says, "What's the story with these Indians?"