Es Dhammo Sanantano #63

They wear the garb of yogis,
people look so forlorn.
Faces rinsed in the dew of pain
seem like grass upon tombs.
From where will the morning sun arise?
In the tavern, wagers are cast.
You too are weary of life,
you too look like a Devdas.
Alas, the eyelids are bloodied;
dreams lie shattered like glass.
You have not reached that one,
yes, but you seem somewhere near.
The body is a storm of longings;
people look like drifting cotton-floss.
They keep no mirrors near them;
all happiness looks like Surdas—blind.
As if after murdering someone they flee,
people look so distraught.
They wear the garb of yogis,
people look so forlorn.

Man is sad. So sad that not only his so‑called worldly life is sorrowful, even his religious life is drenched in sorrow. That is why the yogi’s attire has become the emblem of a desolate man. Yogi has come to mean: defeated, broken, miserable, dead while alive—one in whose life no stream of rasa flows, only a desert.
But the truth is the reverse. It is only in the yogi’s life that the current of rasa flows; all else are deserts. Only in the yogi’s life is there a glimpse of Paramatma. Only in the yogi’s life does the inner sun dawn. So the yogi’s life will be filled with bliss, with dance, with song—even if you fail to recognize it. For the songs you recognize will not be found there; and the joy you have known is counterfeit. There, the true coins are.
Swami Ram used to say: Dharma is cash and real coin.
Here, everything has been turned upside down. Here you have almost come to accept sorrow, gradually, as happiness. What else to do if you won’t accept it? One has to console the mind. Meet the saddest of men and ask: How are you? He will say, All is fine, all goes well, by God’s grace. And the face says something else, the eyes say something else, the lips say something else. His words belie his being. Even the most funereal face says, All is well. Perhaps you are not even aware when you say it. Where is everything well? If all were well, what would remain to be said?
Yet your predicament is forgivable. If you did not declare this to be fine, how would you live? How would you sleep, get up, sit? Each moment a thorn would prick. Life would become impossible. So, little by little, you call this very thing happiness.
We are all very happy,
yet there is nothing of happiness to speak;
we are all very unhappy,
yet the cause of sorrow is unknown.
These pairs lost in love-talk
in the shadows of rocks,
as if one sought truth
amid false rumors;
these hollow empty words
repeated again and again;
being cheated over and over
by bogus beliefs;
prisoners in the pleasure-chamber of the body,
cursed, thirsty souls—
no cloud ever casts its glance upon them.
We are all very happy,
yet there is nothing of happiness to speak;
we are all very unhappy,
yet the cause of sorrow is unknown.

There is neither happiness in life, nor have we wanted to peer into the causes of sorrow. We are afraid: if we search for the cause of suffering, perhaps we will suffer more. So we avert our eyes from sorrow.
Notice this: where there is no happiness, we imagine it—because we have to live by some pretext; and where sorrow is, we look away, out of fear that if we look it may grow. Then we gaze far off, into dreamworlds where happiness will come ‘someday’. And there we err. Look closely at sorrow. If the cause of sorrow is found, the door for happiness opens.
Buddha said: There is sorrow; there is a cause of sorrow; there is a way to end sorrow; and there is a state of freedom from sorrow. These four, Buddha called the Arya Truths—the fundamental truths, beyond which nothing is more fundamental. The first: There is sorrow.
You have not accepted even this; you go on denying. You say, Sorrow? No, I am happy, I have everything.
People come to me and say, By God’s grace I have everything—children, wife, home, wealth—everything; but… Then what is this ‘but’? If by God’s grace you have everything, what is the ‘but’? See how we go on lying—and we drag God into our lies: ‘By His grace!’ If this is His grace—what is happening in your life—then stop calling Him gracious. Let us call it a demonic process hidden behind the name ‘God’ that torments you.
No—because you are false, your God too becomes false. Whatever you touch becomes false. And where does the first step of untruth begin? Exactly where you refuse to call sorrow ‘sorrow’ and label it ‘happiness’. If you have named illness ‘health’, why would you go to a physician? Why would you seek the cause of the ailment? Having denied sorrow, you missed. You have been missing for lifetimes right there.
Hence Buddha says: the first noble truth is: there is sorrow. Do not deny it; do not run; do not close your eyes. Closing your eyes will not remove sorrow—because you have kept them closed, sorrow has multiplied. Open your eyes. Search for the cause. There is sorrow; there is not a drop of true happiness. Happiness is a mental assumption; sorrow is a fact. So seek the cause of sorrow.
And as you search, you will be amazed: the moment the cause is in your hands, a unique key is yours. Then it is up to you: if you wish to be miserable, be so; if not, don’t. Who would choose misery, once the doorway is seen? Who will break his head against a wall when the door is known?
But you keep calling the wall a door. Then, of course, the door will not be visible. You collide again and again and yet do not awaken, you keep inventing new excuses: the door is here, surely; some mistake happened.
Once the cause is understood, freedom from sorrow is in your hands. And who in his senses desires sorrow? As soon as the cause is clear, the means to end sorrow is found. With that, slowly the hour begins to dawn—at times a glimpse, a ray descends; sometimes it lingers a little longer—when happiness is. The absence of sorrow is happiness.
Understand Buddha’s insight.
People asked Buddha: In Moksha will there be happiness? In Nirvana, at least happiness will be there, no? Buddha said: Do not speak of happiness; I can only say this much—sorrow will not be.
Buddha is astonishing. He knew you are so cunning that you will start pursuing ‘happiness’ even in Nirvana. That very pursuit is your worldly blunder—that you chase happiness and refuse to face sorrow. That chase is your slip, your fall.
If told, Moksha is bliss—as the Hindus say, Ananda; as the Jains say, supreme bliss—you will take ‘bliss’ to mean pleasure; first, because you have never known Ananda; second, you have been seeking pleasure in the world, now you will seek it in Moksha. The very quest of pleasure is your delusion. Thus Mahavira’s language reflects his own state—he attained bliss, so he says Moksha is supreme bliss. Buddha, however, crafted a language looking at you. He speaks in the language of the insane—to the insane—precisely to prevent the typical mistake you make.
Jaina scriptures even say: when Moksha‑Ramani will choose you—the Bride of Liberation! The words are correct, yet the fellow who has been mad after actresses will be thrilled—Moksha‑Ramani! What image will arise in his mind? He will search in Moksha what he has been seeking here.
No, Buddha uttered not a single word that could let you be deceived again. His language is wondrous. What restraint it required—I know the difficulty. When delight is showering within, to keep from speaking of delight is hard. When within one truly enjoys union with the ‘Bride of Moksha’, it is difficult to remain silent; a slip could happen. But Buddha did not slip. He spoke for forty years, weighing every word.
Mahavira, they say, places each footstep carefully on the ground; Buddha places each word carefully on the tongue. Asked a thousand times in a thousand ways, he always said only this: sorrow’s cessation. I can promise only that sorrow will not be. Will there be happiness? That you may discover. From my side, this much is sure: sorrow will not be.
Hence Buddha’s impact fell upon the truly intelligent—not upon the dull. The dull said: What kind of goal is this—cessation of sorrow? It does not sound inspiring. Tell us what will be there! ‘Will not be’—we are already harried by sorrow and you say, sorrow will not be. The heart is not thrilled by such a goal—‘cessation of sorrow’! No thorn, no wound—yet Buddha does not say a flower will bloom, fragrance will be. He only says: the thorn will not be, that’s all.
Does the mind feel a wave at ‘no thorn’? Who will dedicate his life to ‘cessation of sorrow’? Who will say, I am searching for sorrow’s end! It does not form an image.
So Buddha’s teaching influenced the most discerning. As soon as he departed, the influence waned—because the crowd is mindless. Buddha’s dharma was the most scientific religion on earth, yet it vanished—even from the land of its birth. One reason: all other Indian religions speak the language of bliss—Sat‑Chit‑Ananda, Moksha‑Ramani, rain of supreme joy—whereas Buddha said only: sorrow’s cessation.
But I tell you: if you understand Buddha, you can ascend the steps of the temple. Cessation of sorrow is the path to bliss. When sorrow is no more, what remains is called Ananda. The absence of sorrow is Ananda.
A flower does bloom—surely it blooms. But the one who hunts for happiness only enlarges the world. The one who hunts for sorrow’s causes begins to cut the world’s roots. As causes fall away, sorrow falls away; as sorrow falls, the world falls. Once the diagnosis is made, treatment is easy.
Buddha is a physician. He said so: I am a Vaidya. As Nanak said, I am a Vaidya, so too Buddha often said: I am no philosopher, no scholar; I am a physician. You are sick; I am the healer.
You go to a physician. He removes your illness. Health he does not and cannot give—who can bestow health? Health requires no gift: when disease is gone, what remains is health. Swabhava and Svasthya arise from the same root—Swa. When only the Self remains, you are Svastha; when nothing alien remains, you are whole.
So health no one can give. If you tell a doctor, Give me some health, he will ask, What is the disease? You say, There is none; I seek health. He will say: if there is no disease, you are healthy already. Health cannot be given; disease can be removed.
Buddha analyzed disease. He dissolved it with precise reasoning. Then the flower blooms.
Not a boat—these are lips,
by which the lake smiles.
Who knows how many long miles
this life must go.
In this wooden body,
broken are the doors.
Behind—desert; ahead—
rising are the hills.
From the corner the sunlight
splits like a torn letter.
Evening looks as if
the face of a widow.
Men of raw clay,
village like a kiln;
floor of coals,
and the shade of smoke.
At twelve the hands together met—
Time bows in greeting
with the joined hands of a clock.
Yellow are the eyes of sun,
thousands of blue pains;
perhaps in the fall
love turned green.
City of guile and deceit,
people razor‑edged;
prickly pear’s disease
caught even the friends.
Chains of relationships,
faces stand accused;
birds of the eyes have flown,
free of bondage.
Thieves who stole the moon—
thieves of darkness gone;
patrols the little constable—
this dawn.
Wearing the sun’s lehenga,
evening stepped into waters;
the old banyan whispered,
With closed eyes—Ram.
Loaded with innumerable faces
this blue sky is;
for years I searched and found not
my own crimson palash.

For years? For lifetimes I searched and did not find my own crimson blossom within. Until that is found, nothing is found. Whatever you accumulate is a burden; whatever you seek is futile. You wander deserts; the oasis is not found. And you don’t wish to admit it, so you pretend you have found it. Consolations are comforting. Only when you wake from consolations does truth happen.
Your so‑called sadhus and sannyasis give you consolations. Truth comes when consolations are taken away. I am working to strip you of every consolation. If all consolations are removed, your sorrow is enough to awaken you. It has not awakened you because you have plugged your ears with cotton—consolations. The alarm of sorrow keeps ringing, but you do not hear it; and you prefer not to, so you add more cotton.
The sole purpose of Dharma and the Master is to remove all cotton from your ears. Buddha did that amazing surgery for forty years—and many attained truth near him. If one longs for truth, one should not postpone. Do not say, Tomorrow I will take the cotton out. If you leave it for tomorrow, it may never be removed.
Let me append one more recollection—
O my history, wait a moment!

We are stopping every single thing. We say, Just a little while—let me gather a little more money, a little more mind, a little of this, a little of that.
Let me append one more recollection—
O my history, wait a moment!
We would say the same even to death. Death does not listen—that is the difficulty. Otherwise we would say to death too: Wait just a bit—let me add one more memory.
I thought I knew you mine,
more than myself I held you;
yet after all this doing,
did I truly know you?
You still seem as ever—
just as you always were.
Let me append one more recollection—
O my season of honeyed months, wait!
The night does not please, nor the dream delights,
the day is not like day when it goes.
It seems I once too was something,
but now nothing comes to memory.
Truth has become so helpless,
fared so far from itself.
Let me add one more forgetting—
O my faith, wait!
Only this little tale of ours—
the warders of Beginning and End stand guard.
Once we may have wished to blossom,
now we prepare to be extinguished.
The mind once longed to weave a new creation,
now it strives to avoid all striving.
Let me add one more veiling—
O my sannyas, wait!
Let me append one more recollection—
O my history, wait a moment!

Buddha did not do that. The day he saw death, the day he saw old age, the day he saw that life is sorrow—he left all that very night. And the vow he took that night is worth understanding: Even if only my skin, tendons and bones remain, even if my body’s flesh and blood dry up, I shall not cease until I attain Samyak‑Sambodhi.
For without that, life has no meaning. Samyak‑Sambodhi is the sole treasure. It means: I shall not remain asleep. I will stake everything, but I will not live in sleep any longer. Where death is, one who sleeps is heedless. Where death will snatch all, one who accumulates is mad. No more.
So Buddha wagered everything. He undertook long austerities—six years of extreme tapas. His bones and marrow dried up, ribs stood out; they say his belly met his spine. He fought an extraordinary battle, took a ferocious resolve—and at the climax, beyond which man’s doing can do no more, the doer fell away. The ego dissolved. What remained is Buddhahood.
Now, the sutras of today are linked to a story; let me first tell the situation in which Buddha uttered the first two verses.
The two verses—
Yassa jitaṁ na vajīyati, jitam assa no yāti koci loke;
Taṁ buddhaṁ anantagocaraṁ, apadaṁ kena padena nessatha?
Yassa jālinī visattikā taṇhā na atthi kiñci netave;
Taṁ buddhaṁ anantagocaraṁ, apadaṁ kena padena nessatha?
‘Whose victory cannot be undone, and to whose victory none in the world can reach—such a Buddha, seer of the limitless, footless—by what path will you lead him?’
‘He whom clinging craving—the net that ensnares all—cannot disturb, that Buddha, seer of the limitless, footless—by what path will you lead him?’
These two were spoken in a special situation you too will meet. Buddha had practiced austerity for six years, did all that could be done—left nothing undone. Whatever any Master suggested, he did with his whole heart, body and breath. Not a grain did he hold back; he staked all.
At the last hour, at the peak of resolution, when one is about to be free of mind, the mind launches its final assault. Naturally. The mind that has owned you for lifetimes will not easily give up its ownership. Even a servant is hard to dismiss; how will the owner release his ownership? And if by mistake a servant has sat on the throne as master, it is far harder to unseat him. That is our mind: a servant who became master.
I have heard: a whimsical emperor once asked the court jester, I am pleased—ask what you will. The jester asked to be emperor for twenty‑four hours. Granted. Within hours he overturned everything: first he ordered the emperor hanged—the emperor protested, You made me emperor! The jester replied, I know—you will be the one to depose me. Finish it now—no delay, it’s only twenty‑four hours! He jailed courtiers, replaced generals, seated his own men. For a slave who becomes master knows: this is temporary—if I do not use it now, I will be a slave again.
So when a seeker reaches the ultimate crest, the mind fights the decisive war—Kurukshetra. Many traditions symbolized it. Muslims say: Satan attacks. Christians say: the Devil, Beelzebub. Hindus: Kamadeva. And their story is the subtlest: Kama is Ananga—bodiless. Just like mind. The mind has no body; thus it travels instantly—no trains, cars, planes. If it had a body, time would be needed. The legend says: when Kama troubled Shiva excessively, Shiva opened the third eye and Kama’s body was burned to ash—hence he became bodiless. The meaning: when the inner eye opens, desire burns away; while the inner eye remains closed, desire has power.
Buddhists call the same ‘Mara’. As Buddha reached the final summit, Mara tried to topple him—assaulting from all sides, for there was no time to lose before the third eye opened. But Mara was defeated. Then he sent his three daughters—the last resort.
Why three? Because woman is manifold; morning, noon, evening—ever changing. The Ganga, Yamuna, and the invisible Saraswati meet at Prayag—so too in woman something invisible works. Where arguments and anger fail, tears win. Thus the story says Mara sent three daughters—reason, wrath, and weeping—encircling from three sides.
Buddha remained silent, unmoved. He neither assented nor refused. If you say ‘no’, you are caught; if you panic, you are caught; if you run, you are caught. He remained as he was—as if nothing were happening. Exquisitely beautiful maidens, fragrance in their bodies—but he sat, alone as if none were there. Neither deluded nor angry.
Remember, the worldly are seduced; the ascetics are enraged. Either seduction or anger—and in both, one is defeated. Of Buddha it is said: neither delusion nor anger. Where neither, there a great void arises—how to entice the void?
Buddha held Upeksha—equanimity, ‘no‑expectation’. He did not even expect that the women should not be there; even that would bind the mind. He stayed on the bank, as if watching a river flow—people passing on the road; what is that to the one standing aside?
Finally he spoke only this much: Move aside, you poor mad ones! For what are you toiling so hard? What do you see here? This body is bones, flesh dried; inside there is no one. Whom will you charm? The one to be charmed is gone. Have you never met a Vitaraga—one beyond passion? Know this: the Tathagata is rid of raga; how will you bind him? You will only tire yourselves—go home, rest.
And then he uttered the verses—
‘Whose victory cannot be undone, and to whose victory none can reach—such a Buddha, seer of the limitless, footless—by what path will you lead him?’
Note the insights. If you conquer by repression, it can be undone. But that which is consumed by Bodha—awareness—cannot be undone. Buddha’s process is never to suppress; look with awareness, and in that flame the passion is burned. Then what remains is reliable.
‘And to whose victory none can reach in the world’—only a Buddha can reach to that summit; these maidens cannot. From the trenches you may make noise; it changes nothing.
‘That footless Buddha—by what path will you take him?’ Buddha says: even if you want to drag me back into craving and the world, my feet are gone—apada. Have you noticed? It is craving that walks you; craving is your feet. The Atman never goes anywhere; it is always at home. Craving roams, never returns home. The Atman abides. As long as you live under craving’s spell, you ride on its shoulders, wandering.
‘He whom the net of craving cannot unsettle—that Buddha, limitless in vision, footless—by what path will you lead him?’ I have seen, with open eyes, that there is nothing in the world. My gaze has become anantagocara—without boundary. Once the speck of delusion is gone from the eye, how will you lead me? The blind needed you—because they seek a prop. My eyes are open.
The third verse—
Ye ñāṇapasuttā dhīrā, nekkhammūpasame ratā;
Devāpi tesaṁ pihayanti, sambuddhānaṁ satīmataṁ.
‘Those steadfast ones absorbed in meditation, delighting in the peace of renunciation—of such mindful, fully awakened ones even the gods feel longing.’
Buddha calls truly wise only those engaged in Dhyana. The scholar accumulates knowledge; the wise gather experience through meditation. Nirvana, in Buddha’s tongue, is supreme peace—where the lake of mind falls silent, no wave remains—no taṇhā, no vāsanā, no kāmanā. There the Self is.
He spoke this after a rains‑retreat in Shravasti during which he remained absorbed for three months—no discourses, no appearances. The chronicles say he was not on earth those months—he was in heaven. When he emerged, countless devas stood with humans to welcome him—an unimaginable confluence. Sariputra said: Never have I seen or heard such a sight—devas yearning for you! Buddha replied: Sambodhi is the ultimate event; beyond it there is nothing. Naturally, even devas yearn for it. And then he uttered: ‘Those steadfast in meditation, delighting in the peace of renunciation—of such mindful Buddhas even the gods feel longing.’
Do not be troubled by the word ‘deva’. India alone has plumbed meditation’s depths and seen that man is not the top. There are states of consciousness above man—call them devas. As below man are animals and birds, above man are devas. It is reasonable: why should evolution stop at man? Man is a crossroads; behind lies a long journey, ahead a long journey. What lies ahead is unseen because it has not yet occurred. Hence devas are invisible—our possibilities.
Yet another discovery: even devas are not the end; Buddhahood is. For Buddhahood, one must pass through the human crossroads; even devas must return as man. From the crossroads alone can you change roads.
Buddhahood means mind has ended. Deva means subtler, lovelier waves of mind than man’s. Naraka means waves have fallen lower and pain intensifies. Two people in the same situation—one happy, one unhappy—what differs is the tuning of their chitta.
Aldous Huxley had amassed rare books. One day, fire consumed his library. His wife feared he would collapse—for a torn page would once keep him awake at night. But she was astonished: he stood silently, almost with a trace of delight. He said: I too am surprised—I feel a burden drop. Never have I felt so light. God’s grace—the weight is gone, the attachment burnt. That is a deva‑like chitta—one that catches bliss even out of sorrow.
Mulla Nasruddin won a lottery—one lakh rupees. He rushed home: Rejoice! Dance! His wife, gossiping with neighbors and slandering him, said: Forget the lottery; first tell me where you found the money to buy the ticket? This is a naraka‑like mind.
You too drift—sometimes angelic, sometimes infernal. At times vast, generous—at times miserly; sometimes everything seems light—sometimes all is a burden. Do not think devas live only in the sky and hell‑dwellers underground—you taste both. A deva is one who abides on those heights steadily. Yet even devas are not final. Where there is happiness, the possibility of sorrow remains—for day implies night. Buddhahood is beyond both.
Therefore, when someone attains Buddhahood, all become eager—animals, men, and devas. If only the ‘good’ gather, it is a saint; if only the ‘bad’ gather, it is a criminal; where both gather, there is someone awakened—for both glimpse a doorway there. Where all opposites gather, a transition is at hand.
Another verse—
Kiccho manussapaṭilābho, kicchaṁ macchāna jīvitaṁ;
Kicchaṁ saddhammasavaṇaṁ, kiccho buddhāna uppādo.
‘Rare is human birth; rare is the life of mortals; rare is the hearing of the true Dhamma; rarer still is the arising of Buddhas.’
First, human birth is rare—count the stones, the birds, the beasts—endless! Among these, one becomes man. Still rarer: to live as a human being. Many are human in face and form, but within, animality reigns. Rarer still: to be able to listen to Saddharma—because a little humanity gives birth to ego; one begins to think, I am knowledgable, I am virtuous… and listening becomes impossible. And even if one is capable of listening, the appearance of a Buddha—one whose very hearing transforms—is most rare.
Then—
Sabbapāpassa akaraṇaṁ, kusalassa upasampadā;
Sacittapariyodapanaṁ—etaṁ buddhāna sāsanaṁ.
‘Do not commit any evil; cultivate the wholesome; keep purifying your own mind—this is the teaching of the Buddhas.’
Whatever clearly feels wrong—do not do it. Whatever clearly feels right—let your life’s current flow that way. And do not stop there—go on cleansing the mind, every day, through Dhyana. As the mind is cleansed you will be amazed: what seemed good yesterday may now appear coarse; finer good reveals itself. Peaks beyond peaks appear.
Next—
Khantī paraṁ tapo titikkhā, nibbānaṁ paraṁ vadanti buddhā;
Na hi pabbajito parūpaghātī, samaṇo hoti paraṁ viheṭhayanto.
‘Patience and forbearance are the highest austerity; Nirvana is the supreme, say the Buddhas. One who injures others is no renunciate; one who harasses others is no shraman.’
You may refrain from anger—good; but when someone else gets angry at you, then what? Receive it with patience; see that the poor fellow burned within—why let it become a thorn in you? Buddha says: only Nirvana is worth striving for; praise and blame are not worth a glance.
Finally—
Anupavādo anupaghāto, pāṭimokkhe ca saṁvaro;
Mattaññutā ca bhattasmiṁ, pantañca sayanāsanaṁ;
Adhicitte ca āyogo—etaṁ buddhāna sāsanaṁ.
‘No slander, no harm; restraint according to the Pāṭimokkha; moderation in food; love of solitude in dwelling; and devotion to the higher mind—this is the Buddhas’ teaching.’
We delight in slander because by painting others black we look fair by comparison. The renunciate has no interest in pulling others down—his energy is for lifting himself. Do not injure; that energy can become meditation.
‘Restraint according to Pāṭimokkha’—accept the guidance of the awakened as working hypotheses; experiment, then know. ‘Moderation in food’—Buddha insisted: avoid excess—neither gluttony nor starvation; the middle way. ‘Solitude’—seek aloneness whenever possible; even in crowds, remain inwardly alone. ‘Devotion to the higher mind’—turn the current of consciousness away from objects toward Dhyana, Yoga, Moksha.
These last sutras Buddha spoke to a serpent‑king. Buddha was meditating in a forest when the serpent‑lord, jeweled hood raised, bowed at his feet and begged: How long must I crawl through dark gullies and crevices? I saw you fly—teach me to rise! To him, Buddha gave these precepts.
We, too, are serpents, crawling the desolate paths. Why serpent as symbol? Because the serpent is born with a knot of poison—to injure others—just as we are born with the urge to hurt. Christians say the serpent deluded Eve; Hindus speak of Kundalini, serpent power coiled at the base that, when it rises and strikes the crown, opens the thousand‑petalled lotus. The symbol is apt: the serpent has no bones yet stands erect; so too your energy can stand without support—when it strikes above, the ultimate center opens.
When you see that you are exhausted from crawling, then you bow at the feet of a Buddha and ask: Is there a way to rise?
There is. Do not seek happiness; look at sorrow. Find its cause. Knowing the cause, the way of release is found; and once found, who will not use it? Use it—and sorrow’s cessation happens. That state is Nirvana.
Enough for today.