The Dalai Lama's Cat (22 page)
Deep furrows had returned to Raj Goel’s forehead. But this time they were furrows of perplexity.
“I thought you would agree that these are important responsibilities.”
“What—because I am a Buddhist monk?” chided Lobsang. “Because I’m a religious person who wants to uphold the status quo? Is that why you sought my advice?”
Raj Goel looked abashed.
“You are an intelligent, inquisitive young fellow, Raj. You have been presented with the opportunity of a lifetime. A chance to become a man of the world and to get to understand a lot more not only about America but also about yourself. Why would you
not
seize this opportunity?”
Lobsang posed this as a serious question, and it was some time before his visitor answered. “Because I’m scared of what may happen?”
“Fear,” said Lobsang. “An instinct that prevents many people from taking actions that they know, deep down inside, would liberate them. Like a bird in a cage whose door has been opened, we are free to go out in search of fulfillment, but fear makes us look for all kinds of reasons not to.”
Raj Goel stared at the floor for a while before meeting Lobsang’s eyes. “You are right,” he admitted.
“The Indian Buddhist guru Shantideva had some wise words on this very subject,” Lobsang said. He began to quote: “‘When crows encounter a dying snake, / They will act as though they were eagles. / Likewise, if my self-confidence is weak, / I shall be injured by the slightest downfall.’
“Now is not the time to be weak or to let your fears overwhelm you, Raj. You may find that if you face your fears head-on, things may not be as bad as you think. Perhaps, after your parents get used to the idea, they won’t be so disappointed. The arranged marriage can wait. Or maybe in two years’ time, there can be a different match. In the meantime, there are many, many things to look forward to. I am sure you will find America an amazing place.”
“I know,” Raj Goel said, this time with conviction. Leaning forward in the chair, he picked up his briefcase and practically jumped up with newfound purpose. “You are definitely right! Thank you very much for your advice!”
The two men shook hands warmly.
“You may even meet a movie star,” suggested Lobsang.
“Which is why I must feel the fear,” Raj Goel declared with fervor, “and do it anyway!”
It is interesting how, once you have decided to strike out on a new course of action, events often transpire to help you. Not always in an obvious fashion, or immediately. And sometimes in ways you would never have considered.
That night, as inspired by Lobsang’s advice as Raj Goel had been, I decided to head across the temple courtyard to where the green light burned at the end of Mr. Patel’s market stall. No longer would I allow silly excuses to keep me pining on the windowsill. The fear of failure or of rejection was not for me. I wasn’t some silly budgerigar sitting in a cage with an open door.
The expedition was not a success. Not only did my tabby fail to materialize, but as I casually strolled through some of the lanes, I found myself getting more and more lost. It was only thanks to a Namgyal monk who recognized me as HHC and returned me to the door of my home that the evening didn’t end in a complete fiasco.
But the following afternoon, after my post-lunch siesta, I was passing out of Café Franc when who should suddenly appear at my side but my mackerel-striped admirer.
“I can’t believe you just did that!” he exclaimed, referring to my brazen visit to the emporium of a supposed cat-hater.
“Oh,” I said with a shrug, not only thrilled that he had appeared but also that he had done so at a moment when I possessed an almost impossible savoir faire. “It’s the way you do these things.”
“Where are you going?” he wanted to know.
“Jokhang,” I replied.
“You’re a member of the household?”
“Something like that.” I would reveal the truth of my lofty status in my own time. “As it happens,” I told him enigmatically, “I have an important lap to sit on in twenty minutes.”
“Whose lap?”
“I couldn’t possibly say. When people have an audience with the Dalai Lama, it’s
completely
confidential.”
The tabby’s eyes widened visibly. “At least give me a clue!” he pleaded.
“My professionalism forbids it,” I told him. Then, after we’d walked some distance, I added, “Let me just say that she is a blonde American talk show host.”
“There are so many.”
“You know, the one who is always getting her audiences to get up and dance. She’s a very good dancer herself.”
But the tiger tabby just wasn’t getting it.
“The one married to that stunningly beautiful actress who is a patron of stray cats.”
“Which stunningly beautiful actress is a patron of stray cats?”
Subtlety, I was discovering, was not my admirer’s middle name.
“Let’s not go there,” I said, refusing to abandon all my discretion. At the same time, I didn’t wish to seem completely standoffish. “Tell me, what is your name?”
“Mambo,” he replied. “And yours?”
“I have a lot of names,” I began.
“Pedigrees usually do.”
I smiled, letting the misunderstanding pass. Isn’t it only because of circumstances that my impeccable family background is not formally documented?
“But you must have a usual name.”
“In my case,” I replied, “they’re initials. HHC.”
“HHC?”
“That’s right.” We were approaching the gates of Jokhang.
“What do they stand for?”
“That’s your homework, Mambo. You’re a streetwise cat.” I watched his muscled chest swell with pride. “I know you’ll work it out.”
I turned in the direction of Jokhang.
“How can I find you?” he called out.
“Look for me when you’re under the green light that burns all night.”
“I know the one.”
“And bring your gold hat.”
He was there the next night. I was on my sill but pretended not to see him. It wouldn’t do to be that easy. I wanted to test how devoted he really was.
When he meowed two nights later, I relented and went downstairs.
“I worked it out,” he told me when I was still some distance away from the stone he was sitting on—the same place he’d been when I caught my first glimpse of him.
“Worked out what?”
“His Holiness’s Cat. That’s who you are, isn’t it?”
For a moment the whole world seemed to pause, holding its breath, waiting for the great mystery of my identity to be revealed.
“Yes, Mambo,” I confirmed eventually, fixing him with my big, blue eyes. “But don’t make a big thing of it.”
His voice sank to a whisper. “I can’t believe it. Me, from the slums of Dharamsala. You with your own initials. I mean, you’re practically royalty!”
“A cat might be … ” What could I say without seeming impossibly vain? His Holiness’s Bodhicatva? Café Franc’s Rinpoche? Mrs. Trinci’s Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived? Chogyal and Tenzin’s Snow Lion? (Or, heaven forbid, the driver’s Mousie-Tung?) “A cat might be HHC,” I said finally, “but she is still … very much … a cat.”
“I hear what you’re saying.”
I very much doubted it. I wasn’t entirely sure myself what I meant. “So what did you have in mind for tonight?”
I will, dear reader, spare you the details of all that occurred on that and subsequent nights. I am not that kind of cat. This is not that kind of book. And you are most certainly not that kind of reader!
Suffice it to say that not a day passed that I didn’t, with all my heart, thank Lobsang for his words of wisdom. Shantideva, too. And Dharamsala Telecom for sending their disgruntled technical support services representative to Jokhang.
About two months after Raj Goel’s visits, I was in my customary spot on the filing cabinet in the executive assistants’ office when Lobsang came by.
“Something for you got caught up in our post today,” Tenzin told him, flicking through some envelopes on his desk before retrieving a glossy postcard of a glamorous female celebrity.
“Raj Goel?” Lobsang scanned the card and read the signature, trying to place the name. “Oh,
that
Raj!”
“Friend?” inquired Tenzin.
“Remember the fellow from Dharamsala Telecom who came to check our line fault a couple of months ago? Turns out, he now works for one of the biggest phone companies in America.”
Tenzin’s eyebrows flickered upward momentarily. “I hope he’s improved his manners, or he won’t be working there very long.”
“I am sure his manners are much improved,” said Lobsang, “now that he’s escaped his own fear of failure.”
He chuckled as he continued to read the card. “Just last week he repaired the telephone of this one.” He held up the postcard.
“Who is she?” asked Chogyal.
“A very famous American actress who is also something of a patron saint of stray cats.” He turned to look at me with a knowing expression that belied his claim not to have any special qualities.
“This postcard closes the circle on our meeting with Raj Goel very nicely, wouldn’t you say, HHC?”
Is there a downside to being the Dalai Lama’s Cat?
Simply asking the question may seem preposterous or suggest such base ingratitude that you many want to dismiss me this instant as an overpampered wretch, one of those flat-faced, long-haired felines whose expression of icy hauteur gives the impression that nothing ever will be quite good enough for them.
