There once was a man who lived in abject poverty for his entire life. He farmed a plateau, high in the highest mountains where only a few crops would grow. He had an ox (the ox had him?) because when you go a mile up you stay close to your friends. They got up at dawn and ploughed the dusty field or took in the meager harvest or did whatever else needed done. Then when the last light faded and the sun fell away, the man put the ox in its yurt and went to his own, where he slept until dawn. He knew no want, for he knew nothing else. He knew no hatred, for there was no-one to hate. His mind, his soul, these things were as the changing of the winds; impassive, mysterious, unknowable. He never questioned, for what could be asked?
Was he enlightened?