The brahmin Akkosaka Bhāradvāja arrived angry and did not warm up first. He had heard that a man of his own clan had left home to follow the ascetic Gotama, and he came to the grove to say what he thought of that, at length and at volume, in front of whoever was there.

The Buddha let him finish. Then he asked about something else entirely: did visitors ever come to the brahmin’s house? Sometimes, yes. And did he set food in front of them? Of course he did. And if a guest were offered the dish and would not take it — if the food sat there untouched between them — whose food was it then?

Mine, said the brahmin. It comes back to me.

That was the whole answer. You have brought me something. I am not taking it. It stays with you, and you will carry it home.

We do the same thing today with a phone in one hand. Someone who does not know you writes eleven words about you, and within a second your heart rate is up, your mouth is dry, and you are drafting. Then redrafting, sharper. An hour later you are still in a conversation with a stranger who has already gone to lunch — carrying a dish across town, having been handed it by someone who was glad to be rid of it.

Receiving is not the same as accepting. The message arrives whether you like it or not; what happens next is a separate act, and it is yours.

Sometimes you must answer. A lie needs correcting, someone weaker needs defending, silence is not always the honourable choice — the Buddha himself answered, he simply answered from somewhere other than the insult. But before you reach for it, ask one question.

Do I want to carry this home?

Not everything offered has to be taken.

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