The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow

by David Michie

  He brought his palms together and bowed toward her, signaling that their brief meeting was at an end.

  They both stood, and Mrs. Trinci made her way out of the room. At the door, she paused.

  “Thank you, Your Holiness, for everything you have done for me and for Serena.”

  His glow filled the room.

  “You might like to know that she will soon be moving quite close to you. Just down the road,” she said, gesturing in the direction of the bungalow. “She and Siddhartha are making a home there.”

  The Dalai Lama nodded. “I think she mentioned . . . some delays?”

  “Sì, sì. But no more. The builder has promised to be ready. They are having a housewarming party in a few weeks. I know you don’t visit people at home usually, but I thought I should mention it, because the house is just ten minutes from here.”

  “A near neighbor,” confirmed His Holiness.

  “It would be a wonderful surprise for Serena and Sid if you would consider blessing their new home . . .”

  A week later, at the end of the working day, there was a knock on His Holiness’s door. Tenzin and Oliver appeared, and in their hands they held printouts of the completed census. For some time the three men sat at a low coffee table, poring over the figures, comparing the latest results with those from previous years and noting some of the more interesting finds—including the long lives enjoyed by the devoted meditators of Herne Hill.

  It was only after they had finished going through the report and were leaning back in their chairs that Tenzin glanced over at Oliver as though seeking his permission before clearing his throat.

  “Your Holiness, we have a suggestion to make about the arrangements in your executive assistants’ office.”

  “Go on.” His Holiness nodded.

  “It is only an idea, at this point. But you know how much difficulty we’ve had trying to find a replacement for Chogyal’s position.”

  “Indeed.”

  On the sill, I raised my head and turned to regard them closely. Exactly who would sit in Chogyal’s seat was a matter of great importance not only to the Dalai Lama but also to me. Some of the candidates Tenzin had considered had not been what you’d call cat friendly. Venerable Monkey-face—a name I had given to one very gnarled and wizened contender—had made a point of studiously ignoring me. Even when I jumped up to the middle of his desk, he tried to pretend I wasn’t there.

  Then there had been the Giant Cat Crusher, a mountain of a monk whose idea of a gentle stroke had pulverized my whole body. Less than a half hour in his presence had persuaded me to avoid going anywhere near the executive assistants’ office for as long as I heard his voice booming down the corridor.

  “Working together on the census has made me realize that I have some of the knowledge and skills necessary for the monastic position,” offered Tenzin. “At the same time, Oliver’s language abilities in some ways make him more highly qualified than me for my own job.”

  “I see . . .” The Dalai Lama wore an earnest expression.

  “It really is only an idea, at this stage,” said Oliver. “And we haven’t discussed it with anyone else yet. But it may be easier to find someone to take on as a translator—”

  “The young monk from Ladakh?” Tenzin offered.

  “I’m sure he would grow into the role very well,” observed Oliver.

  His Holiness looked from Oliver to Tenzin carefully. “A monk as a diplomat, and a layperson as a monastic adviser,” he mused.

  The two men exchanged a glance.

  “Usually, this arrangement could not work,” the Dalai Lama said, shaking his head. “But with the two of you . . .” He gestured, opening both hands while a smile appeared on his face. “I think . . . very good!”

  Oliver and Tenzin left the room, closing the door behind them. The Dalai Lama came over to where I was sitting and watching twilight fall over the courtyard.

  “I’m pleased they came to that recognition,” he murmured, stroking my neck.

  I looked up and noticed the twinkle in his eye. Among the wisest of beings, the Dalai Lama could see things that most others couldn’t—although he often kept his observations to himself. But there were times, like right now, when it felt like he was letting me in on a secret. Sharing a path, the direction of which had long been self-evident to him. Others had to be nudged along the way.

  “I wanted to suggest the same thing,” he confirmed as I purred my appreciation. “But sometimes it is better for people to reach a conclusion for themselves.”

  So that’s why he had asked Oliver to help Tenzin with the census! It had been less a request for a helping hand than a way of getting the two men to work together and to arrive at a solution already obvious to him. “Skillful means” is a practice much admired in Buddhism, and I was delighted not only by how skillful the Dalai Lama had been but also that he was entrusting me with his confidences.

  I rolled over, stretching my arms and legs as far as they would go, muscles quivering. I offered His Holiness the luxuriantly fluffy arc of my tummy.

  “Oh, little Snow Lion!” He chortled, rubbing his hand up my tummy. “You know I like this.”

  I did know this, dear reader, very well.

  Skillful means.

  Later that evening, I contemplated how so many things could be achieved with a positive mind, patience, and skill. I was with the Dalai Lama when he went to sleep each night. With him, too, when he rose every morning. I sat on his sill for much of the day. And I never saw him stressed out, self-serving, or trying to dominate and control. His intentions were always benevolent, and he wished only for the well-being of others. And from this place of boundless compassion, sometimes the most amazing, even magical things would arise.

  His Holiness’s last visitor that day was Geshe Lhundup.

  “We’ve now had the results back from the carbon dating, graphologists, and some of our most learned scholars,” he reported, his eyes gleaming. “They all agree. The middle section of the terma is the personal writing of the Great Fifth.”

  “Wonderful!” Across the table from him, the Dalai Lama smiled enthusiastically. “And an original piece of writing?”

  “Indeed.” Geshe Lhundup nodded. “It may not be a long text, but it is on a new subject. We have identified three different authors of the terma. It appears that the Great Fifth asked for contributions from two leading scholars at the time, and each approached the same message from a slightly different perspective.”

  “A message highly relevant today.”

  “A terma in every respect,” agreed Geshe Lhundup. “Had it been discovered even thirty years ago, the document would have been too far ahead of its time.”

  “Yes, yes. I will have to think carefully about what to do with it. I would like to engage Western scientists.” I remembered how utterly absorbed His Holiness had that night when Geshe Lhundup had first delivered the copy of the text to him.

  “It seems to apply ideas similar to quantum science to the field of healing.”

  “Exactly,” agreed the Dalai Lama. “Even though scientists have long understood that matter is also energy, it is only in recent years that they have asked how this applies to medicine. How to seek healing not of a body, but of an energy field.”

  “I have been studying the text ever since it arrived. It is so clear! So profound!” Geshe Lhundup’s excitement was infectious. “I think it could be the most important new text I have ever had the privilege of studying. It could help to change the fundamental way that healing is approached.”

  For some time the two men discussed the content of the Fifth Dalai Lama’s text. Their discussion was much like the one I’d overhead between Tenzin and Oliver on how the meditators at Herne Hill lived such long lives because of the qualities of their minds. The new terma seemed to take the idea further, affirming that every thought has a biological effect. How certain states of mind are associated with physiological changes. How, instead of treating matter with matter, it can be treated in
stead with the energy of mind.

  This conversation, however, moved onto something of far greater personal significance.

  “As you know, I sent the metal tube and leather pouch away for carbon dating,” Geshe Lhundup told His Holiness. “But I didn’t say anything about cat whiskers.”

  The Dalai Lama chuckled.

  “They are rigorous at the laboratories. Very thorough. It turns out that they found two whiskers, which they also carbon dated. One found inside the pouch, I’m guessing”—he glanced in the direction of the sill—“is from HHC, because of the date. The other was found between the pages of the text itself.”

  His Holiness raised his eyebrows.

  “Three hundred and fifty years old.”

  “The Fifth Dalai Lama also had a cat?”

  “Not just any cat.” Geshe Lhundup leaned forward. “The report says that the genetic coding of the older whisker was nearly identical to HHC’s.”

  “That means . . . a very similar cat?” confirmed His Holiness.

  Geshe Lhundup nodded.

  “A Himalayan?”

  “Perhaps even an ancestor of HHC.”

  Both men turned to look at me where I sat, staring out at the courtyard, seemingly oblivious to their conversation. In fact, I was tuned into every word that they said.

  In recent weeks I had spent a lot of time mulling over the implications of my recent dream as well as the revelation about Norbu and the impression made by the mysterious, powerful man who had rescued me during my lifetime as the Dalai Lama’s dog. Geshe Lhundup’s revelations from four centuries before came as yet another extraordinary revelation: an earlier reincarnation of His Holiness had also had a feline companion who had been a Himalayan.

  A 17th century incarnation of me?

  It was only later, when we had both gone to bed and the Dalai Lama was about to turn out the light that he confirmed what I suspected. He leaned down to where I was settled at the bottom of his bed, on my special blanket.

  “So, HHC, science has caught up with us. Friends through the centuries. How fortunate for me to have such a wonderful companion.”

  In the darkness that followed, I purred gratefully. I was still getting used to the idea that I had lived before, during His Holiness’s current lifetime—even if it was as a dog. The idea that the two of us had been companions for centuries in the past came as another confounding revelation. One that seemed to give this lifetime a much more panoramic perspective.

  How different life seemed when seen as part of a much larger story. How much more meaningful, if causes created in one lifetime could be seen to manifest in the next. Especially causes like starting to meditate, and for the first time discovering you could take charge of your own consciousness.

  “That’s right, little Snow Lion,” the Dalai Lama whispered to me in the dark. “Through lifetimes, we grow and change. But one thing will never change: you and I will always be friends.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Down at the Himalaya Book Café, excitement was growing about an event that promised to be the social highlight of the year: Serena and Sid’s housewarming party.

  Since that decisive site meeting with Mr. Patel of Patel Construction, the bungalow had become a hive of activity. Serena told her colleagues she had never seen anything like it. Suddenly the house was swarming with carpenters, electricians, plasterers, and decorators. Mr. Patel, obligated to meet his new and dramatically shortened deadline, adopted a commanding presence as he directed operations.

  Even kitchen appliances began to appear. The selfsame items that Mr. Patel had only recently told them would be virtually impossible to obtain were delivered and installed without fanfare. All the bedrooms and reception rooms were cleaned and freshly painted. The staircase leading up to the tower was repaired and completed in short order. Only Sid had been up to the top so far—as man of the house, he insisted on being in charge of decorating and furnishing the upstairs room so it would be just right for Serena and Zahra’s first ascent.

  “Must be a maharajah thing,” Serena observed drolly.

  The housewarming party was a source of keen anticipation down at the café for one more very good reason: everyone was involved. For the first time ever, on a Saturday night, the Himalaya Book Café would be closed for dinner. Jigme and Ngawang Dragpa, the restaurant chefs, would be relocated to the new bungalow to prepare canapés. They spent considerable time with Serena beforehand, designing a menu that, like those for similar events at Buckingham Palace, consisted of tempting morsels that could be eaten in a single, delicate bite. Kusali and a handpicked team of the longest-serving waiters would be on hand to circulate the carefully designed fare.

  Meanwhile, Franc was planning the entertainment. It was to be some form of subdued soiree. It also involved several visits to the bungalow, accompanied by Ewing Klipspringer, to try out the grand piano and work out logistics. The two of them refused to tell Serena exactly what they had planned, except to say that it would “reach out to everyone in the community”—a deliberately vague promise. From their chortling and guffawing as they discussed plans for the evening like two naughty schoolboys, however, Serena sensed that something was afoot.

  As for the Wazirs, things with them had taken an interesting turn. According to Serena, when Sid phoned Mrs. Wazir and told her he would have no more of her meddling, his ex-mother-in-law had been stunned to silence, shocked at having being so blatantly caught in the act. For the first time ever, she hadn’t even attempted to deny her machinations. Instead, in her frosty response on the other end of the phone line, he detected a grudging acceptance to his conditions: if she wanted to see her granddaughter ever again, she was going to have to abide by a very different set of rules.

  Zahra phoned her grandmother the following weekend, and the old lady was diplomatic but distant. I heard this for myself, because I was sitting on Zahra’s lap when she related the tale. Enjoying a weekend break from boarding school, she visited the café one Saturday afternoon. Before long, Zahra and I were on one of the sofas in the bookstore. Serena sat opposite us, and the two ladies discussed that most important of subjects: what they would wear for the housewarming party. Various options were debated and rejected. Serena suggested a shopping trip later that afternoon, for accessories.

  Inevitably, talk turned to the subject of Zahra’s call to her maternal grandmother.

  “She didn’t want to speak to me,” said Zahra. “It was like she hasn’t been able to get what she wants, so I’m just . . . whatever.”

  “Well, I won’t pretend to like her,” said Serena. “But all relationships go through ups and downs. Don’t put too much importance on a single call.”

  “She was just so . . .” She shrugged.

  Serena reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not,” Zahra replied immediately. “I know that she was just trying to use me. I don’t need people like that. I already have all the nice people I need.” She leaned over me, touching my nose to hers. Her hair once again fell like a dark curtain around our faces. “Anyway,” she mused, thinking aloud, “Mrs. Trinci is much better than Granny Wazir.”

  There was a pause while Serena digested the significance of this remark. After a while she said quietly, “Well, she’s certainly different.”

  “No. Better.” Sitting up, Zahra shook her head.

  “Can you really say that one person is ‘better’ than another?”

  “She makes better chocolate-chip cookies. Granny Wazir can’t even boil a kettle—she has to get a servant to do it.”

  Serena smiled. “Mum is a wonderful baker!”

  “She’s more fun to be with. Mrs. Trinci is always . . .” She stretched her arms up in the air and waved them around with a flourish. “La, la-la, la-la.”

  “She certainly is!” Serena snorted. “But because someone can make you laugh and bake cookies doesn’t seem like the most important reasons to like her over someone else.”

  “She loves my little Rinpoch
e,” said Zahra, her tone growing serious. “Granny Wazir is allergic to her. That says it all.”

  Serena didn’t reply to that. For a while Zahra sat in silence, stroking me. Then she said, “It would be good if Rinpoche could come to the housewarming.”

  “That’s a nice thought, sweetie, but I don’t think a party like that is any place for a cat.”

  Oh, wasn’t it? Even the most well-intentioned humans could sometimes get it so wrong!

  “But we’ll bring her to the house soon?” asked Zahra.

  “I’m sure she’ll come visiting when she knows we’ve settled in.”

  Why would she think I’d wait that long? There were few things more enticing to a cat than a houseful of packing crates . . .

  Late that afternoon, I was at my usual place on the sill. His Holiness worked at his desk. He’d received no visitors, and all during the afternoon hours while I’d enjoyed my siesta, followed by some meditation, followed by a catnip excursion next door, he had remained at his desk, studying.

  I decided he’d done enough.

  Hopping down from the sill, I padded over to where he sat concentrating on a text, expecting that my mere presence would distract him.

  It didn’t.

  I stretched past his right ankle and back again around the left, massaging his feet with the extravagant luxuriance of my thick coat. He completely ignored me.

  For a moment I contemplated sinking my teeth into the most tender part of his ankles, before deciding to take a different tactic. From beside his desk, I looked up at him with my big sapphire eyes—and I meowed.

  “Oh, little Snow Lion!” He responded immediately, “Have I been ignoring you?” He pushed the chair back from his desk, bent down and picked me up, and carried me over to the window.

  “The power of meow,” he murmured softly as the two of us stood looking out at the dusk settling across the Namgyal courtyard.