The Dalai Lama's Cat (6 page)
“Oh, no—
non troppo!
Not much.”
In His Holiness’s presence, Mrs. Trinci was a changed woman. The towering Brunhilde from one of Tenzin’s Wagnerian operas, who dominated the kitchen, was nowhere to be seen, replaced instead by a blushing schoolgirl.
“We don’t want you to have too much stress.” The Dalai Lama looked at her thoughtfully for a moment before telling her, “It was a very interesting lunch. We were saying how happiness, contentment—this does not depend on circumstance. Mrs. Trinci, you are single and you seem happy to me.”
“I don’t want another husband,” declared Mrs. Trinci, “if that’s what you mean.”
“So being single is not the cause of unhappiness?”
“No, no!
Mia vita è buona.
My life is good. I am very fulfilled.”
His Holiness nodded. “I feel the same.”
At that moment, I knew what the Dalai Lama meant about prisons of our own making. He hadn’t been talking only about physical circumstances but also about the ideas and beliefs we have that make us unhappy. In my own case, it was the idea that I needed another cat’s company to be happy.
Mrs. Trinci walked toward the door as though to leave. But before opening it, she hesitated. “May I ask you a question, Your Holiness?”
“Of course.”
“I have been coming here to cook for more than twenty years, but you have never tried to convert me. Why is that?”
“What a funny thing to say, Mrs. Trinci!” His Holiness burst out laughing. Taking her hand gently in his, he told her, “The purpose of Buddhism is not to convert people. It is to give them tools so they can create greater happiness. So they can be happier Catholics, happier atheists, happier Buddhists. There are many practices, and I know you are already very familiar with one of them.”
Mrs. Trinci raised her eyebrows.
“It is the wonderful paradox,” he continued, “that the best way to achieve happiness for oneself is to give happiness to others.”
That evening I sat on my windowsill, looking out across the temple courtyard. I would try an experiment, I decided. Next time I caught myself yearning for another cat in my life, I would remind myself of His Holiness and Mrs. Trinci, who were both very contentedly single. I would deliberately set about making some other being happy, even if it was as simple as bestowing a kindly purr, in order to shift the focus of my thoughts off myself and onto others. I would explore the “wonderful paradox” the Dalai Lama spoke about to see if it worked for me.
Even in the act of making this decision I found myself unaccountably lighter—feeling less burdened and more carefree. It was not my circumstances that were causing me distress but my belief about these circumstances. By letting go of the unhappiness-creating belief that I needed another cat, I would convert my jail into a monastery.
I was contemplating this very thought when something caught my eye—a movement next to a large rock in the flower bed on the other side of the courtyard. Darkness had already fallen, but the rock was illuminated by a green light that burned all night on a nearby market stall. For a long while I paused, staring across the distance.
No, I wasn’t mistaken! Transfixed, I began to make out the silhouette: large, leonine, like a wild beast that had emerged from the jungle, with watchful dark eyes and perfectly symmetrical stripes. A magnificent tiger tabby.
With fluid grace he slipped onto the rock, his movement purposeful and mesmerizing. From there he surveyed Jokhang, as a landowner might survey the far pavilions of his empire, before his head turned to the window where I sat. And paused.
I held his gaze.
There was no obvious acknowledgment of my presence. He had seen me, I was sure, but what was he thinking? Who could tell? He gave away nothing at all.
He stayed on the rock for only a moment before he was gone, disappearing into the undergrowth as mysteriously as he’d come.
In the falling darkness, squares of light appeared in the windows of Namgyal Monastery as the monks returned to their rooms.
The night seemed alive with possibility.
Can you become famous by association?
Although I had never asked the question, I discovered the answer within a few months of arriving in McLeod Ganj, on the outskirts of Dharamsala. My ventures into the outside world had become bolder and more frequent, as I became familiar not only with the Dalai Lama’s quarters and the temple complex but also with the world down the hill from Jokhang.
Immediately outside the temple gates were stalls selling fruit, snacks, and other fresh produce, mainly to the locals. There were also a few stalls for tourists, the biggest and most resplendent being “S. J. Patel’s Quality International Budget Tours.” The proprietor carried the widest range of goods and services, from local tours around Dharamsala to trips to Nepal. At his stall, visitors could also buy maps, umbrellas, mobile phones, batteries, and bottles of water. From early in the morning until long after the other stalls had closed, Mr. Patel could be seen hustling tourists for trade, gesticulating excitedly as he spoke into his mobile phone or, from time to time, dozing in the reclined passenger seat of his pride and joy, a 1972 Mercedes that was parked nearby.
Neither Mr. Patel nor the other stall holders had much to interest a cat, so it wasn’t long before I ventured farther down the street. There I found a clutch of small shops, one of which immediately had my nostrils twitching with the bouquet of enticing aromas that wafted from its doors.
Flower boxes, sidewalk tables, and jaunty yellow-and-red umbrellas bedecked with auspicious Tibetan symbols lined the entrance to Café Franc, a brasserie from which emanated the scents of baking bread and freshly ground coffee, interlaced with even more appetizing suggestions of fish pie, pâté, and mouthwatering Mornay sauce.
From a flower bed opposite the restaurant, I observed the ebb and swell of tourists who frequented the outside tables each day: the earnest hikers gathering around their laptops and smartphones, planning expeditions, sharing photographs, and speaking on crackling connections to the folks back home; the spiritual tourists visiting India in search of mystical experiences; the celebrity hunters who had come here hoping for a photograph of the Dalai Lama.
One man seemed to spend most of his time at the place. Early in the morning he would pull up outside in a bright red Fiat Punto, incongruously new and polished for a ramshackle street in McLeod Ganj. Springing from the driver’s door, his head entirely bald and polished, his clothing tight, black, and stylish, he was closely followed by a French bulldog. The two strutted into the café as though taking to the stage. During different visits I noticed the man both inside and out, sometimes barking orders at waiters, sometimes sitting at a table poring over papers while keying numbers into a glistening black smartphone.
I can’t, dear reader, explain why I didn’t work out immediately who he was, or where his cat-versus-dog proclivities lay, or the evident folly of venturing any closer to Café Franc. But the truth is, I was naïve to all this, perhaps because, at the time, I was little more than a kitten.
The afternoon of my fateful visit, the chef at Café Franc had prepared a particularly enticing
plat du jour
. The aroma of roast chicken wafted all the way up to the gates of the temple—an invocation I found impossible to resist. Padding down the hill as fast as my unsteady gait would allow, it wasn’t long before I was standing directly beside one of the boxes of scarlet geraniums at the entrance.
With no strategy beyond a vain hope that my mere presence would be enough to conjure up a generous serving of lunch—it seemed to work with Mrs. Trinci—I ventured toward one of the tables. The four backpackers sitting there were too intent on their cheeseburgers to pay me the least attention.
I must do more.
At a table farther inside, an older, Mediterranean-looking man glanced at me with complete indifference as he sipped his black coffee.
By now quite far inside the restaurant, I was wondering where to go next when suddenly there was a growl. The French bulldog, only a matter of yards away, stared at me menacingly. What I should have done was nothing at all. Held my ground. Hissed wrathfully. Treated the dog with such lofty disdain that it didn’t dare come a step closer.
But I was a young and foolish kitten, so I took off, which only provoked the beast further. There was a thundering of paws as it bolted across the wooden floor toward me. A flailing of limbs as I scampered as fast as my legs would allow. Sudden, hideous growling as it bore down on me. Panic and pandemonium as I found myself cornered in the unfamiliar room. My heart was beating so fast I felt I would explode. Ahead of me was an old-fashioned newspaper rack with some space behind it. With no other option and the beast so close I could smell its foul, sulfuric breath, I was forced to jump up and over the rack, landing on the floor on the other side with a thud.
Victory snatched so abruptly from its jaws, the dog went berserk. It could see me only inches away but couldn’t get closer. As it yapped hysterically, human voices were raised.
“Huge rat!” exclaimed one.
“Over there!” cried another.
In moments, a black shadow loomed above me, along with the powerful scent of Kouros aftershave.
Next I felt a curious sensation, one I hadn’t experienced since life as a newborn kitten. A tightening around the neck, the sense of being lifted. Picked up by the scruff, I found myself looking at the shiny bald pate and baleful hazel eyes of Franc, into whose café I had trespassed and whose French bulldog I had enraged and who—most important of all—was evidently no lover of cats.
Time stood still. Enough for me to observe the anger in those bulging eyes, the pulsing blue vein that ran up to his temple, the clenched jaw and pursed lips, the glittering gold Om symbol that dangled from his left ear.
“A cat!” he spat, as though the very idea of it was an affront. Looking down at the bulldog, he said, “Marcel! How could you let this … thing in here?” His accent was American, his tone indignant.
Marcel slunk away, cowed.
Franc strode to the front of the brasserie. He was clearly going to eject me. And the idea suddenly filled me with terror. Most cats are capable of leaping from great heights without the least harm. But I am not most cats. My hind legs were already weak and unstable. Further impact could cause them irreparable harm. What if I could never walk again? What if I could never find my way back to Jokhang?!
The Mediterranean man still sat impassively with his coffee. The backpackers were bent over their plates, shoving French fries into their mouths. No one was about to come to my rescue.
Franc’s expression was implacable as he made his way to the roadside. He lifted me higher. He drew his arm back. He was preparing not simply to drop me but to launch me like a missile into the street beyond his premises.
This was when two monks walked past on their way up to Jokhang. Catching sight of me, they folded their hands at their hearts and bowed slightly.
Franc swung around to see who was behind him. But finding no lama or holy man, he looked curiously at the monks.
“The Dalai Lama’s cat,” one of them explained.
“Very good karma,” his companion added.
A group of monks coming along behind them repeated the bowing.
“You’re sure?” Franc was astonished.
“His Holiness’s Cat,” they chorused.
The change that overcame Franc was immediate and total. Drawing me to his chest, he placed me carefully on his other arm and began stroking me with the hand that only moments before had been poised to throw me. Back into Café Franc we went, crossing to a section where a display of English-language newspapers and magazines lent a cosmopolitan flair to the establishment. On a broad shelf, there was an empty space between
The Times
of London and
The Wall Street Journal
. It was here that Franc placed me, as delicately as if I were a very fine piece of Ming dynasty porcelain.
“Warm milk,” he ordered from a passing waiter. “And some of today’s chicken. Chop, chop!”
Then, as Marcel trotted over, baring his teeth, his owner warned, “And if
you
so much as
look
at this little darling”—Franc raised his index finger—“it’ll be
Indian
dog food for you tonight!”
