by David Michie
“Very nice.” He nodded to the two boys with a smile.
“She has grown into a beautiful cat,” said Tashi.
“A Himalayan,” Chogyal told them, bending to massage the velvety tips of my ears. “Usually, only wealthy people can afford cats such as this one.”
Sashi had a faraway look in his eye for a while before he said, “This cat’s mother was owned by wealthy people.”
“She was?” Chogyal raised his eyebrows.
“Even though we were in a poor area, we used to watch the mother walk along the wall from the big house—”
“Very big house,” interjected Tashi. “With its own swimming pool!”
“She went there to eat,” Sashi said.
“One day we followed her to the kittens—” Tashi began.
“That’s how we found them,” finished Sashi.
“They had several very shiny Mercedes at that house,” Tashi recalled. “And a servant whose only job was to keep them polished!”
Chogyal straightened. “How interesting. It seems that HHC may be a purebreed after all. But you know, it is our vow, as Buddhists, not to take anything unless it is freely given. I wonder if it is possible to contact the family she originally came from, to offer them payment.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Visits by heads of state almost always created a stir of activity at Jokhang. In the days running up to them, hatchet-faced intelligence officers would want to see the inside of every cupboard in the complex. Chiefs of protocol would meet to discuss the tiniest of details. Extraordinary lengths were taken to ensure that every contingency was accounted for, from the location of security detachments on nearby rooftops to the texture of toilet paper provided for the VIPs, should that particular need arise.
This was why I was caught completely unaware the day His Holiness received a visitor who was not just a national leader but a real-life queen.
There had been none of the usual elaborate preparation beforehand. Only a low-key security visit half an hour earlier, which was ironic, because I knew that this particular royal visitor was one whom His Holiness was especially eager to meet. I had overheard him speak of both the young queen and her husband very warmly in the past. Not only was she extraordinarily beautiful but she was married to the king of the only Himalayan Buddhist country in the world.
I am talking, of course, about the queen of Bhutan.
For those readers who didn’t spend their school days poring over atlases of the Himalaya region—do such people exist?—Bhutan is a small country east of Nepal, south of Tibet, and a bit north of Bangladesh. It’s the kind of place that might have escaped your attention had a flake of smoked salmon fallen from your bagel onto just the wrong spot on the map. The same point could be made about half the countries in Europe, but to have missed Bhutan would be a terrible oversight, because it is, quite simply, the closest place to Shangri-la on Earth.
A remote and secluded kingdom, impenetrable behind the Himalaya ranges, until the 1960s Bhutan had no national currency or telephones, and television only arrived in 1999. The focus of people’s lives has traditionally been on cultivating inner wealth rather than material well-being. It was the ruling King of Bhutan himself who, in the 1980s, set up a system that measured national advancement according to Gross National Happiness rather than Gross Domestic Product.
A land of gold-roofed temples perched on the unlikeliest cliff ledges, of prayer flags fluttering across deep, mountain chasms, and of monks chanting in incense-suffused seventh-century temples, Bhutan is pervaded by a magical quality. And there was an extraordinary presence to the young queen when she appeared in His Holiness’s suite.
I had been at my usual place on the windowsill, dozing in the morning sun, when I heard her announced by Lobsang. At the words “Her Royal Highness,” I rolled onto my back and let my head hang over the edge of the sill.
Even viewing her upside down, I could see she was the most exquisite of beings. Petite, golden-skinned, with long hair that was dark and lustrous, she had a captivating delicacy about her. In her traditional Bhutanese kira—an ornately embroidered ankle-length dress—she seemed almost doll-like. Yet the way she moved was natural and unaffected, suggesting great personal warmth.
I watched her present His Holiness with the traditional white scarf, her face bowed and hands folded together at her heart in a gesture of devotion. After the ceremonial exchange she glanced around the room before sitting down—and immediately caught sight of me.
Our eyes met and even though we held each other’s gaze for the briefest of moments, something important was communicated. I instantly knew that she was one of us.
A cat lover.
When she sat down, it seemed to me that she brushed her kira flat on her lap in anticipation of what would happen next. Rolling off the sill, I landed on the carpet and performed a sun salutation, luxuriantly stretching out my front paws, then a reverse sun salutation, tremulously shuddering my hind quarters with a shimmy of my tail, before making my way to where she sat. Hopping up onto her lap, I settled immediately, and she began stroking my neck, like the old friends we intuitively knew we were.
There is a rare minority of humans who possess an innate understanding of the changing moods of a cat: how what we might want at one moment may be quite different from what we wished for only moments before. Some people know that they should not keep stroking a cat until we are forced to turn around and deliver a sharp, incisive warning—usually focused on the index finger. A small proportion understand that just because we wolfed down a can of grilled turkey with lip-smacking relish one day it does not mean we have the slightest interest in even looking at the same food the next.
Was it not Winston Churchill who said that a cat is a riddle, inside an enigma, inside a delightful pelt of cuddliness? No? I could have sworn that just recently I read something to that effect in an article about him. And if he didn’t say it, he almost certainly thought it. Wikipedia should be told!
And then there’s Albert Einstein, who reportedly said that music and cats offer the only escape from the miseries of life. Note that on the subject of other species of domesticated animals, the greatest thinker of the 20th century remained curiously mute. I will leave it to you, dear reader, to draw your own conclusions.
We cats are not robotic beasts who can be conditioned to jump up or sit down or salivate at the utterance of a command or the press of a bell. Did you ever hear of Pavlov’s cat?
My point exactly. The very thought is unimaginable!
No, cats are indeed a mystery, sometimes even to ourselves. Most people are willing to treat us with the respect accorded to those who add so much to the sum of human contentment while making so few demands. Only a rare few truly understand us. And the queen of Bhutan is among that elite minority.
After a few getting-to-know-you strokes, she drew her fingertips together and massaged my forehead with her nails, sending shivers of exquisite pleasure all the way down my spine to the tingling tip of my tail.
I rewarded her with a deep-throated purr.
His Holiness, who had been making polite inquiries about the health of the king and other Bhutanese royals, looked over at me. It was his habit to ask visitors if they minded having me in the room. Some humans, it seems, are afflicted with an allergy that must be as devastating as a violent reaction to, say, Belgian truffles, Italian coffee, or Mozart. The queen was being so attentive to me that the Dalai Lama had no need to ask, but nodding in my direction, he did say, “This is quite exceptional. I have never known her to take to someone so quickly! She must like you very much.”
“And I like her,” Her Royal Highness replied. “She is magnificent!”
“Our little Snow Lion.”
“I’m sure she brings you much enjoyment.” The queen moved her fingertips to massage my charcoal ears with just the right degree of firmness.
His Holiness chuckled. “She has a great personality!”
Conversation moved on; the queen discussing var
ious Dharma practices. As they talked, she continued her delightful ministrations, and I was soon in a state of semiconscious bliss, with the conversation between the two of them passing above me.
In recent weeks I had been making a conscientious effort with my own daily meditations, after the stern wake-up call delivered by Geshe Wangpo. I had also taken myself off to the temple a number of times, attending the teachings of a variety of high-ranking lamas. Every time, a different aspect of Dharma practice was discussed. And on each occasion, the practice seemed very important.
Mind training is the foundation of all Buddhist activities, and we are encouraged to develop strong concentration not only when meditating but also by practicing mindfulness throughout each day. As one of the lamas explained, if we are not objectively aware of our thoughts moment by moment and instead engage with every one of them, how can we begin to change them? “You can’t manage what you don’t monitor,” he said. Mindfulness, it seems, is a foundation practice.
A different teacher explained how the six perfections are the very heart of our tradition. If we fail to practice generosity, ethics, and patience, to name just three, what is the point of learning texts or reciting mantras? Without virtue, the teacher said, none of our other Dharma activities would be very meaningful.
Yet another lama explained how wisdom about the nature of reality is what distinguishes Buddha’s teachings from all others. The way the world appears to us is illusory, he emphasized, and understanding this very subtle truth requires a great deal of listening, thinking, and meditation. Only those who understand the truth directly and nonconceptually can achieve nirvana.
As my thoughts continued to weave in and out of the conversation between the queen and the Dalai Lama, I remembered the teaching I had been to only the previous night. There in the soft-lit temple, with innumerable buddhas and bodhisattvas looking down on us in the form of statues and wall hangings, one of Namgyal Monastery’s most revered yogis had described the rich esoteric tradition of tantra practices, including those focused on White Tara and Medicine Buddha. Each of the practices came with its own text, or sadhana, to recite, along with visualizations and accompanying mantras. Certain tantras are of vital importance, the yogi explained, if we wish to attain enlightenment quickly.
Who doesn’t?
The more I was learning about Tibetan Buddhism, the more I realized how very little I knew. No question, the teachings were stimulating and engaging, and there was always some new and intriguing practice around the corner. But I was also feeling confused.
Only half aware of the conversation continuing above me, I returned to full consciousness when I heard the queen say, “Your Holiness, there are so many different practices in our tradition. But which of them is the most important?”
It was as if she had been reading my mind! That was my question, though I hadn’t put it in so many words. It was what I too wanted to know!
His Holiness did not hesitate. “Without question, the most important practice is bodhichitta.”
“The wish to attain enlightenment in order to lead all living beings to that same state,” she confirmed.
He nodded. “This mind of enlightenment is based on pure, great compassion, which in turn is founded on pure, great love. In each case pure means impartial. Without conditions. And great means benefiting all living beings, not just the small group of those we happen to like at the moment.
“From our perspective, the only way to enjoy a state of permanent happiness and avoid all suffering is to achieve enlightenment. This is why bodhichitta is considered to be the most altruistic of motivations. We wish to achieve enlightenment not only for ourselves but to help every other living being reach the same state.”
“A very challenging motivation.”
His Holiness smiled. “Of course! It is a lifetime’s task to turn the mind of enlightenment from just a nice idea into sincere conviction. When we begin, it can feel as if we’re only acting. We may think, Who am I fooling, trying to pretend I can become a buddha and lead all living beings to enlightenment? But step by step, we develop understanding. We find that others have done it already. We develop confidence in our own capabilities. We learn to become less self-focused and more other-focused.
“I once heard an interesting definition of a holy person: ‘A holy person is someone who thinks more of others than of themselves.’ This is useful, don’t you agree?”
Her Royal Highness nodded before musing, “Agreeing with the idea of bodhichitta is one thing. But remembering to put it into practice … ”
“Yes, being mindful of bodhichitta is most useful. We can apply it to so many of our actions of body, speech, and mind. Our everyday life is rich with possibilities to practice bodhichitta—and each time we do, as Buddha said, the positive impact on our mind is beyond measure.”
“Why so great, Your Holiness?”
The Dalai Lama leaned forward in his chair. “The power of virtue is much, much stronger than the power of negativity. And there is no greater virtue than bodhichitta. When we cultivate this mind we are focusing on inner qualities, not external ones. We are recollecting the well-being of others, not thinking only of the self. This is, you see, a panoramic perspective, not limited to the short-term future of this life. It goes against all our usual thoughts. We are setting our minds on a very different, very powerful trajectory.”
“You said that every day life is rich with possibilities to practice?”
His Holiness nodded. “Every time we do something nice for someone else, even if it is a routine thing they expect, we can do so with the thought ‘By this act of love, or of giving happiness, may I attain enlightenment to liberate all living beings.’ Every time we practice generosity, whether it is making a donation or nursing a cat, we can think the same thing.”
At that moment I yawned deeply. The Dalai Lama and the queen both laughed.
Then, as she looked down into my sapphire eyes, Her Royal Highness said, “It’s karma, isn’t it, that brings people and other beings into our lives?”
His Holiness nodded. “If there is a very strong connection, sometimes the same being can come back again and again.”
“Some people think it is silly to practice mantra recitation aloud for the benefit of animals.”
“No, not silly,” said His Holiness. “This can be very useful. We can create—how do you say?—a good karmic imprint on the mental continuum of a being that can ripen when it meets the right conditions in the future. There are stories in the scriptures of how meditators said mantras out loud to birds. In future lives, the birds were drawn to the Dharma and were able to find enlightenment.”
“So little Snow Lion must have some very, very good karmic imprints?”
The Dalai Lama beamed. “Undoubtedly!”
It was then that the queen said something that seemed most unusual. More unusual still, with the benefit of hindsight. “If she ever has kittens of her own,” she murmured, “it would be my very great honor to give one of them a home.”
His Holiness clapped his hands together. “Very good!” he said.
“I mean it!”
The Dalai Lama met her eyes with an expression of oceanic benevolence. “I will remember,” he said.
A few mornings later I sashayed into the executive assistants’ office. The phones were quiet, the day’s mail had yet to arrive, and during the unusual lull in activity, Chogyal had made cups of tea, which the two men were enjoying with several pieces of Scottish shortbread, courtesy of Mrs. Trinci.
“Good morning, HHC,” Chogyal greeted, as I rubbed my body against his robe-clad legs. He leaned down to stroke me.
Tenzin leaned back in his chair. “How long has she been with us, would you say?”
Chogyal shrugged. “A year?”
“Longer than that.”
“It was before Kyi Kyi.”
“Way before Kyi Kyi.” Tenzin bit into his sugardusted shortbread with diplomatic finesse. “Wasn’t it around the time of the visit from that O
xford professor?”
“I can tell you exactly.” Chogyal leaned forward to his computer and called up a calendar. “Remember? It was the day His Holiness got back from an American trip.”
“That’s right!”
“Which was thirteen, fourteen … sixteen months ago.”
“That long?”
“Impermanence,” Chogyal reminded him, snapping his fingers.
“Hmm.”
“Is there any reason—?”
“I was just thinking,” Tenzin said, “she’s no longer a kitten. When she had her vaccinations, they suggested we take her in to have her spayed. And a microchip implant.”
“I’ll make a note to contact the vet,” Chogyal said, adding this to his daily To Do list. “Friday afternoon I should have some time to take her in.”
That Friday afternoon found me sitting on Chogyal’s lap in the back of the Dalai Lama’s car as the driver—the less said about him the better—drove us from Jokhang to the modern veterinary surgery in Dharamsala. There was no need for cages, hampers, or uncivilized yowling. I am, after all, His Holiness’s Cat. On the way down the hill, I took a keen interest in the unfolding tableau, whiskers twitching with curiosity. If anything, it was Chogyal who required soothing, as he held onto me nervously, muttering mantras under his breath.
Dr. Wilkinson, the tall, rangy Australian vet, soon had me on the examination table, where he proceeded to open my mouth, shine light beams in my ears, and subject me to the indignity of a temperature check.
“Time seems to have gotten away from us,” Chogyal told him. “She's been with us for longer than we realized.”
“She had her initial jabs,” the vet reassured him. “That’s the main thing. Lost a bit of weight since the last time I saw her, which she needed to do. Coat is in excellent condition.”
“We’d like to have her microchipped. And spayed.”
“Microchip”—Dr. Wilkinson was massaging my body—“always a good idea. We have people bring in lost pets all the time, and we have no way of contacting their owners. Heartbreaking.”