The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow (19 page)

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?”

“There must be a misunderstanding,” Mr. Patel protested.

A lengthy silence followed before Sid said, “The only thing I don't understand is why you're doing this, Mr. Patel.”

“Doing what?” He tried appearing combative but only came off sounding feeble.

“I've had my lawyers look over our construction contract. They tell me I would have a very high likelihood of success if I were to sue you through the Courts for Deceptive Conduct. Breach of contract. Unconscionable behavior. Violation of several building codes.”

The builder lowered his face to his hands, leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees, and exhaled heavily.

“I'm guessing someone put you up to this. Paid you off . . . ?”

“Not paid.”

“Something else, then?”

“Threatened.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I can't afford to lose their business.”

“You may not have to, if you tell me who they are.”

Mr. Patel looked up, surprised.

By this time it wasn't only Sid who was staring at him. It was Serena, Zahra, and me, too.

“You can keep this project, too,” Sid told him, “if you commit to finishing it by the end of the month. But first I need a name.”

When the builder made his confession, he didn't so much say it as breathe it. He held his head in his hands so the word was barely audible, but it came as confirmation nonetheless.

“Wazir,” he whispered.

If either Sid or Serena were surprised by this revelation, they didn't show it. But Zahra was distraught. Wriggling away from under me, she rushed to her father and threw her arms around his shoulders.

“Why, Daddy?” she cried. “Why is Granny being so horrible?”

“It's all right, my petal,” he told her, holding her close to him. “No lasting harm done.” As he said this, however, his eyes met Serena's. The expression in them seemed to form an acknowledgment—along with a fiery determination.

Within a few minutes Mr. Patel was on his way back to his van, his apologetic gait very different from the bravado with which he'd arrived. Zahra was still clinging to her father, and Serena sat looking out across the garden with far greater equanimity than might be expected of someone whose darkest suspicions had just been confirmed. In her eyes was a meditative expression. I realized that her composure was cultivated deliberately—a technique she had learned from a visitor to the Himalaya Book Café several weeks before.

The revelation that Mrs. Wazir had been behind the complaint to the local Council about my presence at the Himalaya Book Café had left Serena stunned. She had been on shift at the café that afternoon, and the unflappable Kusali had needed to step into the breach to cover her tables after the visit from the inspector. For all her usual equanimity, Serena had been shocked to the core to discover that she, personally, had become a target of Mrs. Wazir's malevolence.

Serena happened to be sitting at the rear banquette, nearest the kitchen, deep in contemplation—as it happened, the banquette that was also closest to the magazine rack whose top shelf I currently occupied—when Ani Drolma made one of her infrequent visits to the bookstore. Despite the Tibetan name, Ani Drolma was an Englishwoman who had visited the Himalayas in her early twenties—and decided to live here permanently. Famous for having spent more than a decade meditating alone in a cave above the snow line, in recent years Ani-la, as she was affectionately known, had established a nunnery not far from Dharamsala so that young women from all over the Himalaya region might have the same opportunities as their male counterparts. “Ani,” her adopted name, meant “nun” in Tibetan. Despite her birdlike figure in her red robes, diminutive stature, and shaven head, Ani-la was a force to be reckoned with. Vital, energetic, clear eyes seemed always to penetrate to the very heart of things. Ani-la also had the most compassionate presence.

“How is your lovely mother?” she had inquired as she approached Serena, who rose to her feet so the two could exchange a warm hug. “I heard about her being in the hospital.”

“Much better now, thanks,” Serena told her. Mrs. Trinci and Ani-la went way back. “She's on beta-blockers for blood pressure. She's even meditating regularly now, too.”

“Very good!” Ani-la's eyes sparkled. “I have no doubt she will benefit.”

“She already has.”

“And
you
, my dear?”

“Oh, um, generally well,” she said as she glanced at the floor. “But I've just had some disturbing news.” Serena knew there was no point in pretending with Ani.