The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Art of Purring (25 page)

Only yesterday, Sid had been at pains to give her his business card, and when he did, she had seen that it provided contact details but no name.

Finally, there was the reaction of the staff member a short while earlier, when she told him she had come to see Sid.

The feelings she had found in herself for Sid and his thoughtfulness and compassion for her had seemed real enough. But why all the mystery?

There was the sound of footsteps descending the staircase, and then Sid strode across the hallway in our direction. He came to a sudden halt when he stepped into the reception room and found Serena in front of the family photographs.

“So,
you’re
the Maharajah.” Her tone was more surprised than accusing.

His expression solemn, he nodded once.

“So why … ?”

“At a very great cost I have learned the importance of discretion. I was planning to tell you directly, Serena. I didn’t expect you to come here like this.”

“Evidently.”

He gestured to a chair. “Please let me explain.”

Once again, the two of them sat facing each other, she in a chair, he on a sofa. Once again, I sniffed the legs of the furniture, this time examining the curtains and ornate Indian carpets with intense curiosity. Here, too, everything seemed powerfully familiar.

Even familial.

“My grandfather inherited a vast estate when he was my age,” Sid was telling Serena. “Even by the opulent standards of the imperial maharajahs, he was a very, very wealthy man. His diamonds were counted by the pound, his pearls measured by the acre, his gold bars by the ton.

“He also inherited a staff of over ten thousand, including forty concubines and their children, and over one thousand bodyguards. There were twenty people whose sole occupation was to collect drinking water for the extended family from the nearest well, some miles away.”

Serena was listening with rapt attention. I jumped on the sofa and sidled over toward Sid, testing one of his legs with my right paw. When he made no objection, I climbed onto his lap, circled a few times to find the best position, then settled on his pinstriped trousers. Once I did, he stroked me reassuringly. It was as though we had sat together like this many times in the past.

“Unfortunately,” Sid continued, “unlike our predecessors, my grandfather was not an astute man. Everyone took advantage of him: his advisers, his servants, even his so-called friends. Over the years he lost all his estates and money. I remember my father taking me to visit him on his deathbed. By that time the palace was ramshackle, stripped of most of its valuables, but even then it was overrun with people who had supposedly come to pay their respects. My father had a firm of private bodyguards put at the gates to search everyone on their way out.” Sid shook his head. “I can’t begin to describe the ‘souvenirs’ they found people trying to steal.

“By the time my father became Maharajah, it was a title with very little else, except for a decaying building in the foothills of the Himalayas to which he never returned. He had little interest in commerce and devoted himself to spiritual pursuits instead. He leaned toward Buddhism, which is why he named me Siddhartha, after the Buddha’s birth name.”

I purred.

“Perhaps because he was so unworldly, my father didn’t realize what the loss of the family fortune actually meant. We still lived as though we had money, and there were always willing creditors because of the family name. He sent me abroad to be educated, and I got involved with a girl who was also under the illusion she was marrying an heir.

“When the creditors finally lost their patience with my father and began threatening him, he died of a heart attack. My girlfriend left me. I came home to a grieving mother and a mountain of debt. So you see”—Sid met Serena’s eyes with a penetrating expression—“since then I have been very reluctant to use a title and family name that have been so … problematic.”

Serena looked at him with compassion. “I’m very sorry to hear all that,” she said warmly. “How awful for you.”

“It’s in the past.” He nodded briskly. “Since then I have enjoyed some success in business. Unlike my ancestors, I have focused on benefiting the community, as well as myself. That is why I am interested in, for example, fair-trade spices.”

She smiled. “You’re being too modest.” With a gesture that encompassed the building and surrounding gardens, she said, “It seems to me you’ve been
very
successful. That must make you happy.”

Sid considered this for a long time before saying, “I think it is actually the other way around. Happiness comes first, then success.”

As Serena listened closely, he continued. “When I returned to India, I faced many challenges, but in my heart I felt sure of my purpose. I wanted to achieve the balance in my life that both my father and grandfather had lacked. Meditation practice and yoga for mental and physical well-being—of course. Business activities to generate money benefiting self and others—yes, that too. It didn’t matter so much that I lived and worked in a tiny, two-bedroom place right above the market. I already felt part of the community. In small ways I was able to help. When you have that contentment within, whether or not you achieve your goals, I think success becomes more likely.”

“The paradox of nonattachment,” agreed Serena.

“Not many people would understand.”

Serena held his gaze for a long time before gesturing to the painting on the wall. “Is that your family home?”

Sid nodded. “A painting from my grandfather’s era. It’s still much the same, but slowly, slowly we are restoring it to some of its former glory.”

“It’s magnificent!”

“The Palace of the Four Pavilions. In its day, it was sublime. These days, it’s only just habitable. My mother moved there a year ago from Delhi, along with her family of Himalayan cats. Just like this one.”

I looked up inquiringly at Sid.

Delhi. Where I was born. To the cat of a family believed to be wealthy, who had moved soon afterward, and no one had been able to trace.

“You look very at home with her on your lap.”

“Oh, yes. They are very special creatures, especially sensitive to people’s mood and energy.” Then after a moment he asked, “So am I correct in thinking we may be able to work together introducing the world to spice packs?”

For a while they talked about distribution, supply chains, online marketing, and celebrity endorsements. But I could sense that beneath it all, something else was happening. That afternoon, with the sun’s rays reaching through the bay window, it was as though Sid and Serena were dancing.

Then it was time for Serena to go and get ready for yoga. As we left the room, she turned, looking back at the painting. “I would love to see the Palace of the Four Pavilions. Would you take me there one day?”

Sid smiled broadly. “It would be my great pleasure.”

The three of us made our way to the door. Sid stood at the top of the steps and watched us go.

Partway down the path, Serena turned around. “By the way …
Siddartha,
” she said, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun, “the night of the fire: my scarf
was
on the balcony, wasn’t it?”

There was a long pause before he nodded.

A late afternoon breeze carried with it the sultry promise of evening jasmine. Serena kissed the tips of her fingers and blew the kiss to Sid.

With a smile, he brought his palms together at his heart.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

The day of His Holiness’s return finally arrived! Waking from my 44th sleep alone on the yak blanket, I remembered that the Dalai Lama would be home within hours even before I opened my eyes. I hopped off the bed with glee.

From early that morning, the whole of Jokhang was abuzz with preparations. From His Holiness’s study came the sounds of cleaners giving the place a final dust and vacuum. When I emerged from our apartment, having had a few mouthfuls of breakfast, fresh flowers were being delivered and placed in the reception areas, to welcome not only the Dalai Lama but also the many guests he would soon be receiving.

In the executive assistants’ office, Tenzin’s chair was empty. He and the driver were on their way to Kangra Airport to meet His Holiness as he got off the plane. On the way back, Tenzin would brief the Dalai Lama on the most urgent and important matters requiring his attention.

Across the desk, Yogi Tarchin had no sooner finished speaking to one person than another was making further demands. Far from showing any sign of irritation, he was easy, even playful, in the way he dealt with it all. A lightness pervaded the room.

That feeling was not, alas, in evidence somewhat farther down the corridor when I paused at Lobsang’s door. His typically serene presence was curiously altered. For a while I watched as he tidied his shelves, sorted through a number of files before placing several neatly on his desk, and glanced about his office in a distracted manner. It was a while before I realized what he seemed to be feeling: it was apprehension.

No such concerns troubled others at Jokhang. Instead there was a celebratory frisson in the air. His Holiness would soon be back among us, and with him our whole purpose for being here would return. A flurry of couriers arrived bearing gifts, parcels, and important correspondence. In the staff room voices were raised with urgency, and laughter echoed down the hallway as people discovered fresh meaning in their work. From the kitchen came the unmistakable aromas of Mrs. Trinci’s cooking, as she prepared lunch for His Holiness’s first visitors.

As a cat with well-developed feline intuition, I knew exactly when the Dalai Lama would be getting home. So instead of lounging on the filing cabinet in the executive assistants’ office, I opted for my favorite spot when His Holiness was in residence—the windowsill of the main reception room. It was here that he spent so much of his time, and here that I eavesdropped on the most intriguing conversations. And, of top priority to a cat, it was here that I could observe all the comings and goings in the courtyard below.

Not every single coming or going was
closely
observed. After all, what’s the point of breakfast if it isn’t followed by a postprandial nap? Not to mention that the gentle breeze blowing through the open window had the most delightfully soporific effect. So a short while later, I was roused by the sound of applause coming from the corridor outside. The door of the reception room opened, and the security men made a final check. Suddenly His Holiness appeared.

He entered the room and looked directly at me. The instant our eyes met, I was suffused with happiness so great it was almost overwhelming. Leaving his entourage of staff and advisers behind, he came straight over and lifted me into his arms.

“How are you, my little Snow Lion?” he murmured. “I have missed you!”

He turned so that together we were looking out the window and down Kangra Valley. In that Himalaya morning it seemed as though the air had never been so crisp, the sky never so clear, the scent of cypress and rhododendron never so strong. Gazing down at the stone paths cushioned with pine needles, I was in wordless communication with His Holiness.

As I purred, he chuckled softly, recollecting our last conversation before he left. Did he even need to ask if I had explored the art of purring?

He did not.

Nor did I have to tell him, because he knew my experiences with greater clarity and compassion than I did myself. The Dalai Lama was well aware of what I had learned during his time away. He knew that in listening to the famous psychologist down at the Himalaya Book Café I had come to realize that despite all our ideas about what will make us happy, much of the time our expectations are wrong. He knew, too, that Viktor Frankl’s observation that happiness arises as a side effect of one’s dedication to a cause greater than oneself was resonant with meaning for me.

From Ludo at the yoga studio, I had discovered that happiness isn’t to be found in the past. Gordon Finlay had proven that it shouldn’t be expected in some mythical future either. And if I was to learn anything from Chogyal’s early death, it was that only by developing a keen sense of life’s evanescence would I be able to experience each day for what it is—a miracle.

Sam Goldberg and his Happiness Formula had convinced me that whatever our circumstances or temperament, each of us has the capacity for greater happiness through practices like meditation. Not to mention that when we help others, we ourselves are often the first beneficiaries. Could there be a better reason to purr?

Through Namgyal Monastery’s disciplinarian I had come to understand how often mood is linked to food. And the personal crises faced by Serena and Sam that had prompted one of Geshe Wangpo’s surprise interventions had served as a practical lesson in how to cultivate equanimity.

Siddhartha, the Maharajah of Himachal Pradesh seemed to be living proof that the relationship between happiness and success is the reverse of what many people assume.

But it was Yogi Tarchin who had made me see what a limited view I had of my own mind as well as my potential for happiness. And the British biologist had offered hope to all us
sem chens
in explaining that the capacity for panoramic understanding is something possessed by all sentient beings. What a breathtaking shift occurs when we see ourselves as consciousness capable of human, feline, or even canine experiences, rather than as people, cats, or dogs capable of conscious experience.