To Pasūra

"Here alone is purity" — so they say.

No purification in other teachings, they declare.

Praising what they rely on,

they are many, settled in their separate truths.

Hungry for debate, they plunge into the assembly —

each takes the other for a fool.

Relying on backers, they speak in contention,

hungry for praise, claiming to be skilled.

Locked in debate in the middle of the assembly,

wanting praise, they're tense.

When refuted, they're embarrassed;

stung by criticism, they look for the flaw.

When the judges call his argument defeated,

shot down —

the loser wails and grieves,

moaning, "He got past me."

These disputes have risen up among ascetics —

in them, elation, and then deflation.

Seeing this, refrain from contention —

there is no benefit but praise and gain.

But if he is praised there,

having stated his argument in the assembly,

he laughs and swells with pride —

the goal reached, exactly as he intended.

But that swelling-up is the ground of his downfall —

he speaks from conceit, from arrogance.

Seeing this too, one shouldn't dispute —

for that, the skilled say, brings no purity.

As a warrior, fattened on the king's rations,

roars and goes seeking another warrior —

go off, Sūra, to where he is.

Here, as before, there's nothing to fight for.

Those who dispute, gripping their view,

saying "this alone is true" —

debate them. Here, when dispute arises,

there are no opponents to fight.

But those who go their way unaffiliated,

not countering view with view —

what would you gain from them, Pasūra,

who hold nothing here as supreme?

And so here you come, lost in thought,

turning views over in your mind —

you've yoked with the Cleansed One.

You cannot proceed.