The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow

by David Michie

  “You!” he exclaimed now, recognizing the fluffy gray boots and tail protruding from between two bags of wood shavings.

  I began to tremble, my whole body quaking with fear. At any moment I expected to feel his full wrath for trespassing in the shed.

  “Come on, HHC. Out of there!” he commanded in a tone that was firm but, I noticed, not hostile. And he’d used my official title.

  I wriggled briefly but found I was jammed. My shoulders, thrust between the sacks in an adrenaline-fueled burst, were somehow too broad to be coaxed into reverse. My legs could find no purchase on the smooth concrete floor. I was stranded and at the mercy of a man who appalled me.

  “Looks like you’re stuck,” he observed, lowering himself to his haunches. He shoved one of the sacks aside, immediately easing the pressure on my body. I hastily wriggled into reverse, scrambled between his boots, and hurried outside.

  Following me, he leaned down to stroke my head. “There you are,” he murmured reassuringly.

  I looked up at him, startled and confused.

  Where was the bully of my imagination, the one who was about to give chase? The ogre who had casually bestowed on me the one and only name I detested?

  He stepped back into the shed and resumed his business. Meting out punishment for catching me inside didn’t seem to be part of his plans. In fact, he was humming the melody of a current Hindi hit in a way that suggested his thoughts had already moved on. He was, I understood now, the figure I had seen in the past from a distance but hadn’t recognized. I had never made the connection between the garden—now my garden—and the driver. As he emerged from the shed again wearing gardening gloves and carrying a small bucket and a weeding tool, I understood that it was he who often turned the soil I would use as my toilet from time to time. He raked away the leaves and other detritus and kept the lawn so neatly trimmed.

  He made his way over to one of the flower beds and got down on his hands and knees. I watched as he carefully removed the weeds that were poking through the surface, digging deep into the soil to remove the whole plant, roots and all. His work was steady, careful, methodical. There was a calm flow about it that drew me closer.

  Sensing this, he glanced over his shoulder and noticed me sitting just out of reach.

  “It gives the old ones some pleasure, seeing a well-tended garden.” He tilted his head in the direction of the nursing home. “And you volunteer, too. Fertilizer! An important part of gardening.”

  So he knew about those visits.

  “I hope you like the catnip. I planted it just for you. I know you don’t have a garden next door, at Namgyal, and I thought you might like to make this place your own.”

  I could hardly believe what I was hearing. The driver—of all people—had planted the catnip. Especially for me! I hardly knew what to think.

  He continued working in silence for some time, edging closer to me on his hands and knees.

  “Like meditation, gardening,” he said.

  I wondered if he meant that gardening was something he found useful to help him focus on the present moment. Did the scents of loam and pine bring him back to the here and now?

  What he said next, however, couldn’t have surprised me more.

  “The mind is like a garden,” he told me. “You choose what to grow: weeds or flowers.”

  In a single sentence, he seemed to have captured the essence of what His Holiness had said that very morning. Weeds or flowers? Mindfulness provided us with the option to choose.

  The driver came even closer; I followed his movements.

  And I realized I had misunderstood him completely. He may appear rough and ready, but he had a very good heart. He may be large and strong, but he could be very gentle, too. And what he had just said revealed a level of insight that was utterly unexpected.

  Leaning down, I placed my right shoulder on the grass, then flopped completely over and onto the ground. I reached out my arms and legs, stretching them as far as they’d go, then rolled onto my back.

  Looking down, the driver chuckled. He placed a single, glove-covered index finger under my chin and stroked me softly.

  “I think you like to grow sunflowers, Mousie Tung,” he said.

  And do you know what, dear reader? For the first time, I didn’t even mind him calling me that.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  My visits to the garden became more frequent after my encounter with the driver. The welcoming catnip and the recognition that the driver was actually quite a special person both made me feel at home. The garden was no longer a place I visited only occasionally—it became part of my territory.

  One afternoon, I was coming down the steps after a roll in the catnip when something occurred to me that I should have worked out long before. Was it not on this same road, only somewhat farther down, that Serena had said Sid bought a bungalow? I realized I was only a short walk away from the renovation project that had become the cause of her recent unhappiness.

  A thought suddenly struck me: should I explore a little to see if I could find it?

  Do cats eat tuna?

  Or, to put it another way: is the Dalai Lama a Buddhist?

  With an added spring in my step, I continued along the road. Even though I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, I found the possibility of discovering Serena and Sid’s new home intriguing.

  Past the nursing home, there was a ragtag row of shops. After that, the road became more suburban. Driveways snaked off the side of the road toward houses that were set back far from it, some behind fences, others in the open for all the world to see. Few people were walking along the pavement there, and as I explored beyond the farthest point I’d ever been, I noticed how the mood of the place seemed to change. It felt like you were no longer in a town but had segued into the country. The road at this point, I noticed, was called Tara Crescent.

  Huge pine trees whispered surreptitiously to one another across the road. The verges were lush with verdant foliage and the exotic perfumes of a dozen unknown flowers had my nostrils twitching with interest. At the entrance to one property, Number 21, was a sign for Patel Construction. Looking down the driveway, I could see no house, but I noticed a Dumpster filled with building refuse. Among the assorted pieces of plasterboard and concrete was a cardboard cup branded with the logo of the Himalaya Book Café.

  Discarded on a visit by Serena, perhaps?

  Cautiously, I ventured inside. The driveway was made from gravel, so I walked beside it, along the flattened grass that bordered it. I peered around, but the whole place was overgrown. The grass was long and the shrubs were growing wild, so it was impossible to see where I was going. Then the driveway turned, the wild undergrowth fell away, and I found myself looking at a most unusual sight. In front of me was a raised, rambling bungalow with white walls and a spacious wraparound veranda, which looked charmingly old-fashioned and eminently explorable. A crenellated tower that rose from one wing of the house immediately caught my attention. It stretched up two stories and was shrouded with ivy. Near its top was a room with wide picture windows on all four sides. The perfect viewing platform, I imagined, from which to observe the sun, moon, and stars commune with the ice-peaked Himalayas that ranged above and behind the house.

  For a long while I paused, taking everything in. The house was set in an established garden featuring tall palms, bougainvillea bushes with cascades of crimson and purple flowers, and a plantation of pine trees to the back. The landscape suggested all manner of hidden arcadian treasures. Even though the property was deserted—and evidently had been for some time—it had a curiously bewitching quality.

  I continued along the driveway and up a few sandstone steps to the veranda. A layer of fine concrete dust and footprints of boot tread seemed to confirm that this was the house Serena and Sid were having renovated. A few old cane chairs sat near the entrance; I sniffed at one and instantly detected Serena’s perfume.

  I began imagining the two of them living here, in a house with a tower, j
ust a short distance along the road from Namgyal and my garden. It seemed almost too good to be true. Another instance of the deep, karmic bond that held Serena and I together playing out. I had yet to discover what my connection to Sid was, but I had no doubt that it was equally powerful: I had felt drawn to him from the very first time our eyes met.

  Glancing about with the keenest curiosity, I couldn’t help but notice that a short distance away, along the wall, was a half-open window. It was angled out just enough to accommodate a small—if somewhat fluffy—body. I soon made my way to it and hopped up onto the ledge, then jumped inside and landed with my usual ungainly thud.

  I found myself in a room that was large, vacant, and musty. With nothing of interest to a cat, I headed toward an open door, a patina of dust gathering on the velvet pads of my paws. A corridor outside, similarly stark, led through the house. I followed it and soon began to lose track of time as I wandered through empty chambers, up and down short flights of stairs, around corners, and onto different levels. I occasionally branched out into other passageways that seemed in some way promising. The house had the feel of a place that had been there since time immemorial—a home of great antiquity. Once it was furnished, it would be transformed into a labyrinth of curiosities. Every cat’s dream.

  In one room I discovered French doors that led to a small courtyard. It was open to the sky, with a pond—currently stagnant—in the center. Fish? I wondered. Through the glass, I stared at the clouded, green water, searching for a glint beneath the surface. In another large, oval-shaped room, I found a piano like Franc’s, except it stood on three legs and was draped in a heavy canvas cover. This must be a “grand,” I decided, recollecting the kind used by performers at the Royal Albert Hall during the BBC World Service broadcasts I watched with Tenzin.

  I was in a different, empty room when an extraordinary encounter occurred. I had crossed the room to inspect the fireplace, wondering if it might yield some olfactory clue about the previous occupants, when I heard a rustle behind me. I turned to see a little girl in a white dress standing in the hallway. She was the most exquisite creature I’d ever seen. But was she real? It felt, almost, as if I was seeing a ghost—although one of the most delightful kind. There was something so powerfully familiar and yet spectral about her appearance that I hardly knew what to make of her. With her glowing brown eyes, cute snub nose, and dark, shoulder-length hair, she seemed to be everything that was beautiful gathered into one.

  I am not, dear reader, a fan of children. My wonky rear legs make it painful for me to be mishandled—being dropped as a kitten by a street urchin in Delhi caused the wonkiness in the first place. My usual reaction when seeing a child is to make myself scarce.

  My feeling now, however, couldn’t have been more different. I stood staring at her—and she at me—for the longest time. I had the most curious sensation, and I know it was the same for her, too. It was a palpable shiver of recognition.

  Then she was racing across the room to me. Instead of scrambling away, I waited eagerly for her approach. As she drew closer, Serena appeared in the doorway behind her.

  “Careful, Zahra, or she’ll run away.”

  Zahra scooped me into her arms and held me belly up, like a human baby. It was a pose from which I’d usually wriggle free—but not now. Not with her looking down at me. Leaning down to kiss my forehead.

  Shyly, she looked up to where Serena, who had been joined by Sid, was watching. She realized they were witnessing something most unusual.

  “You know her?” asked Zahra.

  “It’s Rinpoche. HHC. I’ve told you about her.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never seen her up here before. I wonder how she got in.”

  “Maybe she knew you were bringing me to see my house,” Zahra said, placing me down on the ground with the utmost sensitivity.

  “Maybe.”

  Sid crossed to open doors that led out onto the veranda. “What do you think so far?” he asked his daughter.

  “I love it!” Happiness seemed to burst from within her. She wasn’t looking around at the house when she replied, though. She was staring at me.

  “She doesn’t come with the house, you know,” Sid said, smiling.

  “You must persuade the Dalai Lama to give her to me.”

  The two adults chuckled as they stepped onto the veranda. Zahra followed them only when she saw I would accompany her.

  “I wish I could go up the tower,” she said when all four of us were sitting on the cane chairs outside, me on Zahra’s lap.

  “It’s not safe until the stairs are fixed,” said Sid. “Something to look forward to next time.”

  Stroking me, Zahra asked, “When will next time be?”

  “Not at half term, because we’ll be on vacation in Goa,” Sid explained. “And next break, you’ll be with Granny Wazir for the first two weeks . . .”

  I felt Zahra go tense.

  “Why don’t we just enjoy being here right now?” prompted Serena, unzipping a small cooler bag she had brought with her. “Ice cream, anyone?”

  This time, Zahra’s tension made her squirm. “No thanks.”

  “Zahra?” Sid’s astonishment had an edge of concern to it. “It’s one of your favorites . . .”

  “I know. It’s just . . .” She leaned over me, and her hair formed a curtain around our faces as she peered into my eyes.

  Serena and Sid undid the wrappers around their cones and began to nibble. The two of them discussed some of the changes that were to be made to the house. Evidently, the builder was due to arrive shortly for a site meeting.

  “Daddy, do you always have to keep a secret?” Zahra suddenly interrupted their conversation and sat bolt upright.

  Sid glanced over. “Interesting question,” he replied, brow furrowing as he considered it. If he was surprised by the randomness of the question, or the intensity of Zahra’s tone, he wasn’t showing it.

  “I suppose there are circumstances in which you don’t have to,” he said thoughtfully. “Coercion would be one. Or if keeping the secret would lead to greater harm than not keeping the secret.”

  “What’s coercion?”

  “If something’s forced on you. Like if someone says, ‘You must keep this a secret, or else—’”

  “‘I’ll be very unhappy with you,’” Zahra finished.

  “Emotional blackmail,” confirmed Serena.

  Zahra nodded solemnly, leaning over to stroke me again. As she did, Serena and Sid exchanged a meaningful glance.

  Namdev Patel arrived a short while later in a van spattered with plaster and laden with building equipment. A short, stocky man in suit trousers and a white polo shirt, he approached the house with the swagger of the self-made man who worshipped his creator.

  “Thank you for meeting us here today,” began Sid, after pleasantries had been exchanged and Mr. Patel was sitting on one of the cane chairs. “I wanted to ask you more about what you told Serena last week about the completion date being pushed back a further six months.”

  Evidently anticipating the question, Mr. Patel began to reel off an impressive list of the kitchen appliances that would need to be imported, the convoluted process required to secure each item, the challenges faced by mid-tier building companies such as his—along with a brief foray into Indian macroeconomics and some side references to the volatile rupee.

  Once he’d finished, Sid confirmed, “So the delay really hinges on the availability of appliances?”

  “You have to understand—the agency we use is overwhelmed at the moment. It’s not simply a matter of walking into a shop and ordering stock items.”

  “All right,” replied Sid before the builder could continue. “But it is only about the appliances?”

  The builder was nodding vigorously.

  “Fortunately, one of my companies is in the import business,” Sid told him. “I asked the manager to make some inquiries.” From a folder, Sid extracted a sheet of paper on which a list of items had been
checked.

  “We found an alternative supplier who can provide these items within two weeks.”

  Mr. Patel reached over to take the list.

  “Good news, no?” confirmed Sid.

  Mr. Patel stared at the page, then replied with the utmost reluctance. “I am expecting there would be cancellation charges for the order we have already placed,” he began.

  “I’m sure there won’t be,” Sid countered smoothly.

  “We can’t just be cutting and running,” he blustered. “Someone in your position, sir. A builder with a reputation like Patel Construction . . .”

  “Why would reputation come into it?”

  “We can’t be seen to be playing fast and loose with suppliers . . .”

  “Are you seriously suggesting that we should wait six months to avoid the possibility of disappointing a Delhi import agent?”

  “That’s only part of it, sir.” Mr. Patel’s eyes were roving wildly from side to side.

  “You mean . . . ?”

  “There’s a lot more to this than meets the eye.”

  “Okay . . .” Sid remained calm. “What have I missed?”

  The builder squirmed in his chair. “I had to assign my subcontractors elsewhere.”

  “They can’t be reassigned?”

  “You’re placing me in a most difficult position!” Mr. Patel’s voice rose.

  “I am placing you—” Sid replied coldly. “I was supposed to move into this place months ago. There’s been nothing but delays and excuses. Frankly, I’m fed up with it.”

  “The agent is very difficult to work with, sir. These people in Delhi—”

  “My manager also placed a call to your agent.”

  Mr. Patel flinched.

  “He asked about the items you allege will take months to get here. What would you say”—Sid’s voice turned slow and precise—“if I was to tell you that your agent can also have them available in two weeks?”