The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Art of Purring

by David Michie

  That feeling was not, alas, in evidence somewhat farther down the corridor when I paused at Lobsang’s door. His typically serene presence was curiously altered. For a while I watched as he tidied his shelves, sorted through a number of files before placing several neatly on his desk, and glanced about his office in a distracted manner. It was a while before I realized what he seemed to be feeling: it was apprehension.

  No such concerns troubled others at Jokhang. Instead there was a celebratory frisson in the air. His Holiness would soon be back among us, and with him our whole purpose for being here would return. A flurry of couriers arrived bearing gifts, parcels, and important correspondence. In the staff room voices were raised with urgency, and laughter echoed down the hallway as people discovered fresh meaning in their work. From the kitchen came the unmistakable aromas of Mrs. Trinci’s cooking, as she prepared lunch for His Holiness’s first visitors.

  As a cat with well-developed feline intuition, I knew exactly when the Dalai Lama would be getting home. So instead of lounging on the filing cabinet in the executive assistants’ office, I opted for my favorite spot when His Holiness was in residence—the windowsill of the main reception room. It was here that he spent so much of his time, and here that I eavesdropped on the most intriguing conversations. And, of top priority to a cat, it was here that I could observe all the comings and goings in the courtyard below.

  Not every single coming or going was closely observed. After all, what’s the point of breakfast if it isn’t followed by a postprandial nap? Not to mention that the gentle breeze blowing through the open window had the most delightfully soporific effect. So a short while later, I was roused by the sound of applause coming from the corridor outside. The door of the reception room opened, and the security men made a final check. Suddenly His Holiness appeared.

  He entered the room and looked directly at me. The instant our eyes met, I was suffused with happiness so great it was almost overwhelming. Leaving his entourage of staff and advisers behind, he came straight over and lifted me into his arms.

  “How are you, my little Snow Lion?” he murmured. “I have missed you!”

  He turned so that together we were looking out the window and down Kangra Valley. In that Himalaya morning it seemed as though the air had never been so crisp, the sky never so clear, the scent of cypress and rhododendron never so strong. Gazing down at the stone paths cushioned with pine needles, I was in wordless communication with His Holiness.

  As I purred, he chuckled softly, recollecting our last conversation before he left. Did he even need to ask if I had explored the art of purring?

  He did not.

  Nor did I have to tell him, because he knew my experiences with greater clarity and compassion than I did myself. The Dalai Lama was well aware of what I had learned during his time away. He knew that in listening to the famous psychologist down at the Himalaya Book Café I had come to realize that despite all our ideas about what will make us happy, much of the time our expectations are wrong. He knew, too, that Viktor Frankl’s observation that happiness arises as a side effect of one’s dedication to a cause greater than oneself was resonant with meaning for me.

  From Ludo at the yoga studio, I had discovered that happiness isn’t to be found in the past. Gordon Finlay had proven that it shouldn’t be expected in some mythical future either. And if I was to learn anything from Chogyal’s early death, it was that only by developing a keen sense of life’s evanescence would I be able to experience each day for what it is—a miracle.

  Sam Goldberg and his Happiness Formula had convinced me that whatever our circumstances or temperament, each of us has the capacity for greater happiness through practices like meditation. Not to mention that when we help others, we ourselves are often the first beneficiaries. Could there be a better reason to purr?

  Through Namgyal Monastery’s disciplinarian I had come to understand how often mood is linked to food. And the personal crises faced by Serena and Sam that had prompted one of Geshe Wangpo’s surprise interventions had served as a practical lesson in how to cultivate equanimity.

  Siddhartha, the Maharajah of Himachal Pradesh seemed to be living proof that the relationship between happiness and success is the reverse of what many people assume.

  But it was Yogi Tarchin who had made me see what a limited view I had of my own mind as well as my potential for happiness. And the British biologist had offered hope to all us sem chens in explaining that the capacity for panoramic understanding is something possessed by all sentient beings. What a breathtaking shift occurs when we see ourselves as consciousness capable of human, feline, or even canine experiences, rather than as people, cats, or dogs capable of conscious experience.

  The Dalai Lama and I shared our understanding of all this as we enjoyed the Himalaya morning together. And, as he had promised before leaving on his trip, the moment had arrived for him to share his thoughts about the true causes of happiness—to pass on the message intended specifically for me and for those with whom I have a karmic connection. Since you have stayed with me for this long, dear reader, that includes you!

  “There is a special wisdom about happiness,” His Holiness told me. “Some texts call it the Holy Secret. Like much wisdom, it is simple to explain but not easy to live. The Holy Secret is this: If you wish to end your suffering, seek to end the suffering of others. If you wish for happiness, seek the happiness of others. Exchanging thoughts of self for thoughts of others—this is the most effective way to be happy.”

  I absorbed the significance of his words along with the morning air blowing through the open window. The idea of thinking about others nearly as much as I thought about myself was, indeed, challenging. HHC, the Snow Lion, Rinpoche, Swami, the Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived—it is she who is at the center of my consciousness from the moment I wake every morning until I go to sleep at night.

  “Thinking too much about oneself is a cause of much suffering,” the Dalai Lama said. “Anxiety, depression, resentment, fear—these become much worse with too much attention to the self. The mantra Me, me, me is not so good.”

  Now that he had pointed it out, I realized that the times when I had been the unhappiest were the times when I had been the most preoccupied with myself. When I became angry with Chogyal for ordering the cleaning of my blanket, for example, no one else’s happiness had been in my thoughts at that moment—certainly not Chogyal’s!

  And then there was another all-important teaching His Holiness imparted: “It is not necessary to end the suffering of all beings in order to end your own suffering, or for all beings to be happy in order for you to be happy. If that were the case,” he said with a chuckle, “then all Buddhas would have failed!

  “We can all learn to use this marvelous paradox,” he told me, looking deep into my sapphire blue eyes. “Be wisely selfish, little Snow Lion. Gain happiness for yourself by giving it to others.” He was silent for a moment, stroking my face with exquisite tenderness. “You do this already, I think, each time you purr.”

  His Holiness’s return was more than enough excitement for one day. But things were to get even better. Because high-level delegates from the United Nations were staying for lunch, I would be able to visit Mrs. Trinci in the kitchen. And true to form, she rewarded my visit with a reminder of my incomparable beauty, as well as a generous portion of succulent shrimp garnished with a goat’s cheese sauce. Such was the delicious creaminess of the latter that it took me quite a while to lick the saucer clean.

  Afterward, I sat in the dappled afternoon sunshine outside the kitchen, washing my face, feeling replete and contented. His Holiness was back in residence. Mrs. Trinci would, once again, be a regular visitor. All was as it should be in my world.

  And there was something else to look forward to: a short ceremony that evening to mark the reopening of the balcony at the Downward Dog School of Yoga. In recent days, the front of Ludo’s house had been teeming with workmen replacing fire-damaged beams with more robust steel suppor
ts. I had heard Serena speak with enthusiasm about the newly refurbished balcony, which was stronger and wider than the one before and furnished with a beautiful hand-woven carpet given to Ludo by his students. As the balcony had yet to be used, Ludo had decided to mark the occasion with an official rededication, to be presided over by a mystery guest.

  Moving in the rarefied circles I do, dear reader, I knew exactly who the mystery guest was to be. And as one of my intimates, I’m sure you have a pretty good idea, too. Since the occasion would find so many of my favorite people gathered under one roof, I decided that I, the Swami of the Downward Dog School of Yoga, should be in attendance.

  I began making my way up Bougainvillea Street in the late afternoon, passing the spice shop that had been the scene of such panic and mayhem some weeks ago. I walked along the stretch of sidewalk where I had felt so trapped. And it was as I was walking by the high, white wall of Sid’s property that it happened—again. The same two canine monsters appeared from nowhere, charging directly toward me. Only this time was different. Worse. There was no possibility of escape.

  A more robust cat might have darted across the road, scaled a wall, and made good its escape. But I knew my limitations. There was no way out.

  I turned toward my pursuers and, at the very moment they reached me, sat down. My action caught them totally by surprise as they romped toward me, in anticipation of a hot pursuit. They shoved their paws out in front and came to a scrambling halt. As they towered over me, I was enveloped in hot and sulphorous panting. Tongues lolling and saliva dribbling from their mouths, they thrust their noses toward me.

  What did I do? I snarled. Opening my mouth as wide as possible, I hissed with the fury of a wrathful deity a thousand times their size. My heart was thundering, my hair was standing on end. But as I bared my fangs and whipped my mouth back and forth from left to right, the two great beasts pulled back, cocking their heads in surprise.

  This was not the reception they had expected. Nor one they particularly liked. One of the monsters drove his snout to within an inch of my face. Like a flash of lightning I lashed out with my paw in stinging rebuke. The beast let out a high-pitched yelp, abruptly pulling back in pain.

  We were at a stalemate. They had cornered me—something they hadn’t exactly planned. And now that it had happened, they didn’t know what to do. My display of ferocity had thrown them completely off their game.

  Just in time, the tall man in the tweed jacket arrived. “Come on, you two,” he called out in a jocular tone. “Leave that poor cat alone.” They seemed only too relieved to be put back on their leashes and led away.

  Watching them go, I found, to my great surprise, that I was a lot less traumatized by the encounter than I had expected. I had faced down my worst fear and discovered I could cope. I was stronger than I thought. It had been a testing experience, but I had successfully held my own against the two slavering hounds.

  As I continued on my way, I recollected something His Holiness had told me—that thinking too much about oneself is a cause of suffering and that fear and anxiety become worse when we focus on me. Suddenly I wondered if I had ended up smeared with spices and trapped on the wall all those weeks ago not because of the dogs but rather because I had focused on nothing but saving my own fur. Would I have fared better if I had stood my ground and stared down my pursuers? Could so-called self-preservation sometimes backfire and become the very cause of pain?

  Having fought off the two beasts, I felt more robust and assured as I continued up the hill. I might be one small, somewhat crippled cat, but I had the heart of a Snow Lion! I had confounded my shadows. I was Swami, Vanquisher of Golden Retrievers!

  Ludo’s house was looking festive for the occasion. A new display of vividly colored Tibetan prayer flags fluttered under the eaves, carrying countless prayers on the wind. The hallway had been redecorated and smelled of fresh paint. The Downward Dog School of Yoga had been restenciled over the entrance.

  The studio was packed with more people than I’d ever seen there before. All the regular yogis and yoginis were there, including Merrilee—sans hipflask—Jordan, and Ewing, while many of the others looked as though they had never seen the inside of a yoga studio before but were intrigued by the promise of Ludo’s mystery guest. I recognized patrons of the café and McLeod Ganj locals I had passed in the street—even Ludo’s next-door neighbors, in whose house the fire had started. As I picked my way through the rows of yoga mats to my usual spot, my arrival was duly noted.

  I was glad to find one person in the back row who, although out of context, was warmly familiar. It was Lobsang, and the moment I saw him, I thought how relieved he looked. Sitting quietly on his own, he was a monk unburdened. His serenity had returned, and as he reached out to stroke me, his eyes were filled with peace.

  At the front of the room, the sliding doors were wide open, revealing the spectacular vista of the Himalayas. The new balcony lay behind a ribbon of four interwoven colors—blue, green, red, and gold—that stirred gently in the late afternoon, ready to be cut in the official opening ceremony.

  There was a bustle of activity at the door, then Serena arrived. Looking around, she spotted Lobsang alone in the back and immediately came over to him.

  “How did it go?” she whispered, sitting down and reaching over to touch his arm.

  He smiled and nodded. He seemed to be finding it hard to speak.

  Serena’s expression was warm. “You’re okay, then?”

  “I didn’t even need to ask him,” he eventually managed to say. “When I went to see him, he spent a few minutes telling me how much he liked my work on the new book. Then he looked directly at me and said, ‘You are still a young man, with many talents. Perhaps it would be a good idea to try something new, if you like.’”

  “Oh, Lobsang,” she said, turning to hug him.

  “I finish in six weeks,” he told her, his mouth curled with emotion. “After that, I am free to travel.”

  “Have you thought about where?”

  “His Holiness has offered me an introduction to the abbot of a monastery in Thailand.” His eyes flickered with excitement. “I think my adventures may begin there.”

  I absorbed what Lobsang was saying with strongly mixed feelings. He had always been a serene presence at Jokhang, and I had taken for granted that he would remain there. I was sad that he was going. But in recent months I had also known that something wasn’t quite right. Despite the great value of his work, he had felt restless and in need of a new direction. It was a further reminder that the only constant is change.

  Moments later Sam pushed his way through the bead curtain. After taking in the stunning panorama for the first time, he looked around the room. Serena waved, and he came over to join her, followed moments later by Bronnie.

  As they sat beside her, Serena took a close look at them. “I’m glad to see you two here together,” she said.

  “Kathmandu has a lot going for it,” murmured Bronnie, “but it doesn’t have Sam.”

  Serena nodded. “So you’re staying in India?”

  As Bronnie shook her head, Sam cut in. “Three-month contract. Bronnie will be on her own for the first two months. I’ll join her for month three. Then we’ll both come back here.”

  “Sounds like a good arrangement,” Serena said.

  “This way we both get to see more of the Himalayas,” explained Bronnie. “Though I think Sam is more interested in checking out the Kopan Monastery bookstore.”

  “Habit of a lifetime,” observed Serena.

  “Once a geek …,” said Sam.

  “Super-geek,” corrected Bronnie. Reaching over, she took his hand in hers.

  Ludo appeared from the hallway and made his way to the front of the studio, leonine and supple as ever. Wearing a white cotton tunic and white yoga pants, he was more smartly dressed than usual but ready to lead what would turn out to be a very gentle yoga session, one intended to introduce newcomers to some of the basics of the practice.

 
It was while Ludo was explaining Tadasana, Mountain Pose, that Sid arrived, uncharacteristically late. He spotted Serena at the back and headed her way. Without being asked, Sam and Bronnie moved over so that he and Serena could sit together.

  They were right in front of where I was sitting. I watched them move through a sequence of stretches, balancing on one leg with their arms toward the ceiling, followed by twists, first to the right, then the left. At one point, Serena turned the wrong way by mistake, so that she and Sid were facing each other. Instead of staring at a point in the distance, they met each other’s eyes and held the gaze for a minute of unexpected, unwavering intimacy.

  Ludo took the class through a handful of seated postures. It was while they were all tucked in Balasana, Child’s Pose, that two security men appeared. They checked the room then nodded to Ludo, who told everyone to sit up.

  Smiling, he said, “I know the real reason that many of you are here. And it is my great privilege and heartfelt pleasure to invite our honored guest, His Holiness, the Fourteenth Dalai Lama of Tibet, to rededicate our yoga studio.”

  Gasps of happiness greeted the announcement. As His Holiness appeared in the hallway, out of respect everyone started to stand, but he waved them to stay as they were. “Please, sit,” he said, then brought his palms together at his heart and bowed, as he met the eyes of everyone in the room.

  When the Dalai Lama walks to the front of a room full of people, he doesn’t walk past them but engages many of them on the way. This evening, as he headed toward Ludo he squeezed Ewing’s shoulder and chuckled as he looked into Merrilee’s eyes. When Sukie placed her hands together and bowed, he gently reached out and held her hands briefly in his. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  By the time His Holiness reached Ludo, who was standing at the front, there was an awed hush in the room. Everyone felt the energy he exuded unceasingly and without effort. It was an energy that could move you beyond your usual limited sense of yourself to an awareness of your boundless nature and the reassuring knowledge that all is well. Pausing in front of the open doors, the Dalai Lama gave himself over to the spectacular view.