The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Art of Purring

by David Michie

  Several times I saw her approach the phone at the reception counter, take out Sid’s card, and lift the receiver. On each occasion something else came up demanding her immediate attention. With the constant activity, the front of the café wasn’t exactly the best place to try to have a meaningful conversation. Which was when another thought seemed to occur to her.

  Taking out Sid’s card, she approached Kusali.

  “Bougainvillea Street?” she queried. “That’s the one that runs behind here, isn’t it?” she asked. “The one I take up to yoga?”

  “Yes, miss,” he confirmed. Then as he looked at the card, Kusali said, “Number 108. That is the one with the high, white walls and metal gate.”

  “Really?” She glanced over in my direction. “I know the place. Some sort of business premises?”

  He nodded. “I am thinking. There is always much coming and going from there.”

  I could see the direction her thoughts were taking, and my curiosity was instantly piqued. I remembered the rolling lawns and soaring cedars from the eternity I’d spent on top of the gatepost. I thought of the flower beds ablaze with color and fragrance, and the building that seemed to be substantial and rambling, with plenty of the nooks and crannies we cats so like to explore. I resolved to go visiting with Serena.

  Remembering the length of the hill and the challenge of its gradient—would I ever forget?—I decided to get a head start. Leaving the café and following the lane behind it, all the while on retriever alert, I began my climb up Bougainvillea Street in the direction of the property with the high, white walls. I took care to stay close to the buildings, glancing behind me frequently, ready to run for cover if I saw either the retrievers or Serena approaching. I knew that Serena wouldn’t let me follow her so far from the café. But if I simply appeared as she was about to make her entrance, what choice would she have?

  Which was why, when the pedestrian side gate was buzzed open after Serena announced herself on the intercom, I was there, quite casually, at her ankles. What a coincidence!

  We went inside.

  We followed a short, paved path to the house. There was a flight of marble steps to the front entrance, which was under a portico. With its columns and double French doors with polished brass hardware, the entryway had an air of formality.

  Serena opened one of the doors, and we found ourselves in a large foyer with wood paneling, Indian carpets, and a long, very old-looking table that smelled of furniture polish. Otherwise, the room was empty. But it wasn’t immediately apparent what sort of building we had stepped into. The entryway had neither the cold impersonality of an office foyer nor the welcoming warmth of a private home. Straight ahead was an open door leading into a corridor. To the left was another door that opened into a reception room. On the right was a flight of stairs.

  While we were contemplating all this, a middle-aged man in a shirt and tie emerged from the corridor and walked toward us.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” he asked, glancing with a somewhat startled expression at me sitting beside her.

  Serena nodded. “Is Sid available, please?”

  He looked bewildered.

  “Sid,” she repeated, seeking to dispel his confusion. “Perhaps he has something to do with IT?”

  “IT?” he repeated, as if this was the first time he had heard the term. He shot a worried glance toward the stairs, before starting out in their direction.

  “I will make a request,” he said.

  Before he had crossed the foyer, we heard a door opening somewhere above us, and then Sid appeared at the top of the stairs. Just as on the day before, he was wearing a dark suit and looking distinguished and important.

  “I was glancing out the window a moment ago. I thought it was you,” he said, sounding surprised. Pleased, too. But was there also a certain reserve?

  “Thank you, Ajit,” he said, dismissing the man who had greeted us.

  Ajit bowed briefly before scurrying away.

  As Sid descended the stairs, Serena glanced down at me and said, ‘‘I hope you don’t mind, but it seems I was followed. I don’t suppose you allow cats in here.”

  Reaching the bottom, Sid gestured with open arms. “Of course we do! Any time! An establishment that has no cat has no soul.”

  “I have some news I wanted to share with you in person,” Serena told him. Her eyes were bright. “I hope it’s all right coming to your office.”

  “Perfectly,” he said, smiling. “Let’s go somewhere where we won’t be disturbed. I am, however, expecting a phone call any minute, which I will have to take.”

  He ushered us into a room with sofas, bay windows, and gilt-framed paintings, then continued through a set of glass doors to a veranda overlooking the lawns and gardens I had seen before, from a very different perspective. The veranda was furnished with comfortable cane furniture.

  For a moment, Serena stood looking out, taking in the beauty of the grounds. There was a driveway hugging the perimeter of the property, shaded beneath tall pines. A flicker of movement through the trees caught her attention.

  “Oh, look,” she said, gesturing toward the white Mercedes moving toward up the driveway at a gracious speed. Behind the wheel was a distinctive figure in a dark jacket and gray cap. “Does he work from here?” Serena asked.

  “He does,” replied Sid, inviting her to sit.

  “A drink?” he offered.

  She shook her head. “I won’t be long.”

  As he pulled up a chair opposite where she was sitting, I sniffed at the legs of the furniture, which had a tang of wax about them. Standing on my hind legs, I inspected the fabric on the cushions, worn with use. Even though I had never been here before, I felt immediately at home. I hopped up on the chair next to Serena’s, so I could survey the scene around me.

  “Franc made a surprise appearance at the café late last night,” Serena began.

  “So soon?”

  She nodded. “He didn’t give advance notice because he doesn’t want to come back as manager. Not immediately. In fact”—a smile lit up her face—“he’s talking about job sharing. He’d like more time outside the café.”

  “Really?” Sid sat forward in his chair.

  “It gets better,” Serena confided. “The whole thing about him not liking the curry nights and spice packs was a misunderstanding.”

  “What?”

  “A classic,” she said, shaking her head. “Turns out he wrote I DON’T LIKE. I LOVE! on the bottom of a page, but the scanner didn’t pick up the last line.”

  Sid smiled, his features bright with possibility.

  “So in one short visit … ?”

  “Everything’s different.”

  An urgent knocking on the glass door made them both look up.

  A man in a shirt and tie looked at Sid imperatively, announcing, “Geneva is on the line.”

  “Sorry.” Sid got up quickly. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

  Serena sat looking out at the gardens, enjoying the sunshine. Her gaze swept across the verdant foliage then returned to the door through which Sid had left. Curiosity getting the better of her, she made her way back into the reception room. Do I even need to say that I soon followed?

  A massive fireplace with a mantle as high as Serena’s shoulder dominated one wall. Above it hung a large, gilt-framed portrait of an Indian man wearing a turban, a Nehru-collared suit with jeweled buttons, and a sword at his waist. He had a stern expression—and an unmistakable familial resemblance to Sid.

  A pair of curved, crossed swords sheathed in black leather and gold hung on another wall, alongside several silk banners embroidered with silver filigree. Serena took all this in before her attention was drawn to a highly polished occasional table with a cluster of framed family photographs on display. Some in sepia, others in full color, they showed generations of a family in single portraits and formal groups. There were several photographs of Sid with his parents, which she studied with close interest.

  One side of t
he table was devoted to photographs of a young woman. In some she was with Sid, and in others they were accompanied by a little girl. There were also pictures of the girl alone as she grew older.

  Near one of the bay windows there was a large painting of a palatial building with a golden dome. It was surrounded by high walls and sweeping palms—the kind of palace Serena had seen on the front of the glossy coffee-table books on Indian architecture that Sam sold in the bookstore. She stood looking at the painting for quite a while until the sound of voices outside caught her attention.

  From the windows overlooking the driveway, we could see the white Mercedes, now parked under the portico. Standing beside it was the man in the dark jacket and gray cap—the one she had thought was the Maharajah. Addressing him was the man who had summoned Sid to the phone. While we couldn’t hear details of the exchange between the two, it was clear that the one doing the talking was giving orders to the other man.

  Serena watched them, deep in thought, trying to make sense of her enigmatic exchanges with Sid. “Someone said he’s the Maharajah of Himachal Pradesh,” she had told Sid that night returning from yoga. Sid had replied, “I’ve heard the same thing.” He had been agreeing, she realized now, with what she had heard, not with whether it was true.

  Then there was the unexplained appearance of the Maharajah with the fire extinguishers, at the critical moment to save Ludo’s home and yoga studio. If someone had summoned him, his timely appearance would make more sense.

  Only yesterday, Sid had been at pains to give her his business card, and when he did, she had seen that it provided contact details but no name.

  Finally, there was the reaction of the staff member a short while earlier, when she told him she had come to see Sid.

  The feelings she had found in herself for Sid and his thoughtfulness and compassion for her had seemed real enough. But why all the mystery?

  There was the sound of footsteps descending the staircase, and then Sid strode across the hallway in our direction. He came to a sudden halt when he stepped into the reception room and found Serena in front of the family photographs.

  “So, you’re the Maharajah.” Her tone was more surprised than accusing.

  His expression solemn, he nodded once.

  “So why … ?”

  “At a very great cost I have learned the importance of discretion. I was planning to tell you directly, Serena. I didn’t expect you to come here like this.”

  “Evidently.”

  He gestured to a chair. “Please let me explain.”

  Once again, the two of them sat facing each other, she in a chair, he on a sofa. Once again, I sniffed the legs of the furniture, this time examining the curtains and ornate Indian carpets with intense curiosity. Here, too, everything seemed powerfully familiar.

  Even familial.

  “My grandfather inherited a vast estate when he was my age,” Sid was telling Serena. “Even by the opulent standards of the imperial maharajahs, he was a very, very wealthy man. His diamonds were counted by the pound, his pearls measured by the acre, his gold bars by the ton.

  “He also inherited a staff of over ten thousand, including forty concubines and their children, and over one thousand bodyguards. There were twenty people whose sole occupation was to collect drinking water for the extended family from the nearest well, some miles away.”

  Serena was listening with rapt attention. I jumped on the sofa and sidled over toward Sid, testing one of his legs with my right paw. When he made no objection, I climbed onto his lap, circled a few times to find the best position, then settled on his pinstriped trousers. Once I did, he stroked me reassuringly. It was as though we had sat together like this many times in the past.

  “Unfortunately,” Sid continued, “unlike our predecessors, my grandfather was not an astute man. Everyone took advantage of him: his advisers, his servants, even his so-called friends. Over the years he lost all his estates and money. I remember my father taking me to visit him on his deathbed. By that time the palace was ramshackle, stripped of most of its valuables, but even then it was overrun with people who had supposedly come to pay their respects. My father had a firm of private bodyguards put at the gates to search everyone on their way out.” Sid shook his head. “I can’t begin to describe the ‘souvenirs’ they found people trying to steal.

  “By the time my father became Maharajah, it was a title with very little else, except for a decaying building in the foothills of the Himalayas to which he never returned. He had little interest in commerce and devoted himself to spiritual pursuits instead. He leaned toward Buddhism, which is why he named me Siddhartha, after the Buddha’s birth name.”

  I purred.

  “Perhaps because he was so unworldly, my father didn’t realize what the loss of the family fortune actually meant. We still lived as though we had money, and there were always willing creditors because of the family name. He sent me abroad to be educated, and I got involved with a girl who was also under the illusion she was marrying an heir.

  “When the creditors finally lost their patience with my father and began threatening him, he died of a heart attack. My girlfriend left me. I came home to a grieving mother and a mountain of debt. So you see”—Sid met Serena’s eyes with a penetrating expression—“since then I have been very reluctant to use a title and family name that have been so … problematic.”

  Serena looked at him with compassion. “I’m very sorry to hear all that,” she said warmly. “How awful for you.”

  “It’s in the past.” He nodded briskly. “Since then I have enjoyed some success in business. Unlike my ancestors, I have focused on benefiting the community, as well as myself. That is why I am interested in, for example, fair-trade spices.”

  She smiled. “You’re being too modest.” With a gesture that encompassed the building and surrounding gardens, she said, “It seems to me you’ve been very successful. That must make you happy.”

  Sid considered this for a long time before saying, “I think it is actually the other way around. Happiness comes first, then success.”

  As Serena listened closely, he continued. “When I returned to India, I faced many challenges, but in my heart I felt sure of my purpose. I wanted to achieve the balance in my life that both my father and grandfather had lacked. Meditation practice and yoga for mental and physical well-being—of course. Business activities to generate money benefiting self and others—yes, that too. It didn’t matter so much that I lived and worked in a tiny, two-bedroom place right above the market. I already felt part of the community. In small ways I was able to help. When you have that contentment within, whether or not you achieve your goals, I think success becomes more likely.”

  “The paradox of nonattachment,” agreed Serena.

  “Not many people would understand.”

  Serena held his gaze for a long time before gesturing to the painting on the wall. “Is that your family home?”

  Sid nodded. “A painting from my grandfather’s era. It’s still much the same, but slowly, slowly we are restoring it to some of its former glory.”

  “It’s magnificent!”

  “The Palace of the Four Pavilions. In its day, it was sublime. These days, it’s only just habitable. My mother moved there a year ago from Delhi, along with her family of Himalayan cats. Just like this one.”

  I looked up inquiringly at Sid.

  Delhi. Where I was born. To the cat of a family believed to be wealthy, who had moved soon afterward, and no one had been able to trace.

  “You look very at home with her on your lap.”

  “Oh, yes. They are very special creatures, especially sensitive to people’s mood and energy.” Then after a moment he asked, “So am I correct in thinking we may be able to work together introducing the world to spice packs?”

  For a while they talked about distribution, supply chains, online marketing, and celebrity endorsements. But I could sense that beneath it all, something else was happening. That afternoon, with the sun�
�s rays reaching through the bay window, it was as though Sid and Serena were dancing.

  Then it was time for Serena to go and get ready for yoga. As we left the room, she turned, looking back at the painting. “I would love to see the Palace of the Four Pavilions. Would you take me there one day?”

  Sid smiled broadly. “It would be my great pleasure.”

  The three of us made our way to the door. Sid stood at the top of the steps and watched us go.

  Partway down the path, Serena turned around. “By the way … Siddartha,” she said, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun, “the night of the fire: my scarf was on the balcony, wasn’t it?”

  There was a long pause before he nodded.

  A late afternoon breeze carried with it the sultry promise of evening jasmine. Serena kissed the tips of her fingers and blew the kiss to Sid.

  With a smile, he brought his palms together at his heart.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The day of His Holiness’s return finally arrived! Waking from my 44th sleep alone on the yak blanket, I remembered that the Dalai Lama would be home within hours even before I opened my eyes. I hopped off the bed with glee.

  From early that morning, the whole of Jokhang was abuzz with preparations. From His Holiness’s study came the sounds of cleaners giving the place a final dust and vacuum. When I emerged from our apartment, having had a few mouthfuls of breakfast, fresh flowers were being delivered and placed in the reception areas, to welcome not only the Dalai Lama but also the many guests he would soon be receiving.

  In the executive assistants’ office, Tenzin’s chair was empty. He and the driver were on their way to Kangra Airport to meet His Holiness as he got off the plane. On the way back, Tenzin would brief the Dalai Lama on the most urgent and important matters requiring his attention.

  Across the desk, Yogi Tarchin had no sooner finished speaking to one person than another was making further demands. Far from showing any sign of irritation, he was easy, even playful, in the way he dealt with it all. A lightness pervaded the room.