The Dalai Lama's Cat (16 page)
As I thought about my time at Chogyal’s, which took on the quality of a remembered dream, I also had to admit what a fool I had been to spend three whole days under the duvet. Such a missed opportunity! What a waste! I could only imagine what might have happened if I had emerged on day one, instead of day four. What experiences I could have had, and how the relationship with the cat of my dreams might have developed. Instead, I had robbed myself of that opportunity with my ridiculous self-pity.
The Dalai Lama arrived home the next day. He only needed to step into the room, and all was well once again. Relationship angst and self-recrimination—all such trauma seemed utterly irrelevant now that His Holiness was here. Before he said so much as a word, his presence of blissful tranquility seemed to dissolve negative thoughts of all kinds, leaving only an abiding feeling of profound well-being.
Led by Tenzin and Chogyal through his redecorated chambers, the Dalai Lama beamed with delight. “Very good! Excellent!” he kept saying, as they pointed out the new brass doorknobs and improved security measures.
As soon as they had gone, he came over to stroke me. I felt a familiar glow of happiness as he looked into my eyes and whispered a few mantras.
“I know you’ve had a difficult time,” he said after a while. “Your good friend Mrs. Trinci is coming to make lunch. I am sure she will have something delicious just for you.”
Even if I had never heard of His Holiness’s guest that day, I would have realized he was someone very special, for along with the delicate fragility of the small, elderly man in monk’s robes, there was a remarkable power in his poise. It seemed that his travel plans had been disrupted by a trade union strike in France. As the Dalai Lama led him to a comfortable armchair, he sympathized with his visitor on the challenges of travel.
But Thich Nhat Hanh—pronounced Tick Nyut Han—Zen master, teacher, beloved guru, and author of many amazing books, shrugged off the difficulties. “Who knows what opportunities may arise as a result of the delays? I’m sure you are familiar with the Zen story of the farmer and his horse?”
His Holiness gestured for him to go on.
“The story is set in a bygone era in Japan, when a horse was not simply a horse, it was also a measure of wealth.”
The Dalai Lama nodded. By now, Thich Nhat Hanh had my full attention, too.
“This farmer acquired his very first horse, and all the local villagers came around to congratulate him. ‘How proud you must be to own such a magnificent horse!’ they all said.
“But the farmer, understanding something about the importance of equanimity, simply smiled and said, ‘We’ll see.’
“Soon afterward, the horse broke out of the paddock and ran into the countryside. The villagers commiserated with the farmer. ‘What a terrible tragedy! What a great loss! How is it possible to recover from such a thing?’
“Again, the farmer simply smiled and said, ‘We’ll see.’
“Less than a week passed, and the farmer woke to find that the horse had returned—accompanied by two wild horses. With the greatest of ease he led them into the paddock and closed the gate behind them. The villagers could hardly believe what happened. ‘This is amazing good fortune! A cause for great celebration! Who could have believed such a thing was possible?’
“Of course, the farmer only smiled and said, ‘We’ll see.’
“His son began the work of breaking in the two wild horses. It was dangerous work, and during the course of it, he was thrown from one of the horses and broke his leg. This happened shortly before harvest, and without his son’s help, the farmer faced a great challenge in collecting his crops. ‘How difficult is your hardship,’ the villagers told him. ‘Losing your son’s help at a time like this—there could be few greater misfortunes.’
“‘We’ll see,’ is all the farmer said.
“A few days later, the Imperial Army sent troops to every village to round up fit, able-bodied young men. The Emperor had decided to go to war and was rallying the troops. But because the farmer’s son had a broken leg, he was excused from service.”
Thich Naht Hanh smiled. “So it goes on.”
His Holiness looked at him with an appreciative smile. “A beautiful illustration.”
“‘Yes,’” agreed his visitor. “So much better than constantly reacting to change as if we are caught up in some kind of egocentric melodrama. Up and down like a roller coaster.’”
“Indeed,” said the Dalai Lama. “We forget that it’s only a matter of time before there is change—and, once again, a shift in perspective.”
As much as it pains me to admit it, while listening to the conversation between these two great spiritual leaders, I found it hard to avoid reacting to the recent changes in my own circumstances. How furious I’d been with poor Chogyal when all he wanted to do was take care of me. At the time, I’d even imagined him to be like a murderous revolutionary!
Then there was my subsequent reaction—wallowing in bed for three days. How pathetic had that been? I already knew about the opportunity I had missed by burying myself under Chogyal’s duvet.
Egocentric melodrama. If I were to look at myself with unflinching but compassionate honesty, would this not accurately describe the way I spent so much of my life?
“Very often,” His Holiness was saying, “when I meet people—business leaders, entertainers, and others—they tell me that what seemed to be the worst thing that could ever happen to them turned out, with the benefit of hindsight, to be the very best.”
“We are forced to forge a new path,” said Thich Nhat Hanh. “One that may lead to greater congruence and fulfillment, if we allow it.”
“Yes, yes,” agreed His Holiness.
“Even when circumstances turn for the very worst,” continued his visitor, “we can still find fresh opportunities.”
The Dalai Lama looked pensive for a moment before he said, “The darkest moment in my life was having to leave Tibet. If China hadn’t invaded our country, I would still be in Lhasa. But because of the invasion, I am here, and many other monks and nuns came, too. And in the past fifty years, the Dharma has spread throughout the world. I think it has made a useful contribution.”
“I’m quite sure of it,” replied Thich Nhat Hanh. “It is probably because of that event fifty years ago that we’re meeting here today.”
And that I am HHC
, I thought.
And that you, dear reader, are holding this book.
That evening, with a belly full of Mrs. Trinci’s delicious diced chicken liver, I sat on my newly cushioned sill, looking out at the green light glowing on the other side of the square. A gentle breeze carried the subtle fragrance of pine forests and lush rhododendron, along with the haunting chants of monks at prayer.
I found myself looking at the empty rock on which I’d first seen the tiger tabby. My tiger tabby. The one I very much hoped …
Hold on a minute
, I checked myself. Was this not a prime case of egocentric melodrama?
I was rather pleased that I had caught myself before going any further. And then I realized that being rather pleased with oneself also probably falls into the category of egocentric melodrama.
Oh, this Buddhist mind training! Can’t we deceive ourselves about anything? Not even a teensy weensy bit?
I remembered Thich Nhat Hanh: his poise, his strength, his simplicity.
I stared out meditatively into the darkness, at the green light burning at the other end of the square.
We’ll see.
If you are an especially astute observer of the feline condition, you may have gleaned a deeply personal insight about me. Not one I have consciously tried to convey. But like it or not, a writer betrays herself subliminally, not just in the words on the page but by leaving behind other subtle clues. A trail of psychological breadcrumbs, if you will, or perhaps, more accurately, a trail of flaked salmon. Ideally garnished with dill, or drizzled in a light but tangy dijonnaise.
Of course, you may not be reading this book in an environment that lends itself to forensic analysis. That is why I’m just going to come out with it and tell you the straightforward truth, which is—and it isn’t easy to bring myself to this confession—that I am a cat who enjoys her food. And when I say enjoy, I am not, regrettably, talking about being a gourmet.
I, dear reader, am a glutton.
I know, I know—it
is
hard to believe, isn’t it? You wouldn’t think of it to look at me, with my chocolate-box good looks and blue-eyed sophistication. But my lustrous pelt conceals a stomach that, in the past at least, was too large to be healthy and that used me as its slave.
I am certainly not proud to have been so much in thrall to food. Is there any culture on Earth that admires the greedy guts, the sybarite, the unfettered hedonist? But before you rush to judgment, let me ask you this: Have you ever tried to imagine what it would be like to spend a day in the life of a cat?
There's no thrilling anticipation of the day’s first cup of coffee, something I see written on the faces of Café Franc customers in the mornings. Nor the eye-closing delight of that first swallow of sauvignon blanc in the evening. We cats have no access to everyday mood-enhancing substances. Apart from humble catnip, there is no pharmaceutical refuge if we’re suffering from boredom, depression, existential crisis, or even an everyday headache.
All we have is food.
The question is, at what point does enjoying one’s sustenance turn from a healthy pleasure into a life-threatening obsession?
In my own case, I remember that day quite clearly.
His Holiness had been in town for more than six weeks without travel, during which his days had been filled with VIPs, some of whom were entertained at lunch. Mrs. Trinci had been a constant, operatic presence in the Jokhang kitchen, striving, with each day’s performance, to reach new heights of perfection.
Through all this she never forgot the needs of The Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived. Not only was I treated to a constant supply of delicacies, but over time I also collected an ever-growing list of new appellations.
Dolce mio
—my sweet—she’d coo, holding me to her generous bosom and kissing my neck.
Tesorino
—little treasure—she’d croon, setting a bountiful dish of diced chicken liver before me. For Mrs. Trinci, food was a physical manifestation of love, and she was effusively generous with both.
I established something of a routine. Breakfast would be provided in our private quarters, prepared for the Dalai Lama. Then, around midmorning, I’d head down to Café Franc, where Jigme and Ngawang Dragpa were at work on the lunchtime menu. Prepared by noon, the first and finest morsels of the
menu du jour
were reserved for Rinpoche. I’d eat my meal with relish before sleeping it off for an hour or so on the top shelf. By the time I made my appearance at Jokhang between 3 and 4
P.M.
, Mrs. Trinci would be finishing up in the kitchen. As I hopped up on the kitchen bench, all it took was a single meow, and she’d bring me a meal, along with bountiful reassurances of my refined good looks, charm, intelligence, breeding, and any other of my numberless superior qualities that struck her at that particular moment.
