The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow (14 page)

“Wonderful!” I told him. Then, wanting to confirm just how closely I was connected to him, I bragged, “I sleep on his bed at night.”

“Me, too,” replied the dog. “I mean, I sleep on
my
Holiness's bed.”

“He lives very simply,” I continued.

“Mine, too.”

“Spends a lot of time meditating each morning and reading texts.”

“Mine, too.”

Was he going to keep on doing this?

“What does your Holiness teach about, mainly?” I decided to test him.

The other raised a hind leg and scratched his ear thoughtfully before replying, “Love and compassion.”

“Mine, too,” I said.

For another long moment we sat, staring at each other, unsure what else to say. Then HHD declared with an unexpected generosity of spirit, “Have to say, you're quite cool for a cat. Most cats are so high and mighty.”

“Thank you, HHD,” I purred. “And for a dog, you're very . . .” I wondered what word Tenzin would use in similar diplomatic encounters before I thought of it. “Charming.”

He opened his mouth. His great, pink tongue lolled out untidily. “That would be the Irish in me,” he said.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

How often, dear reader, do you have the chance to inspect a rare and sacred treasure of great antiquity at very close proximity?

I thought so.

I'm in much the same position—which was why I followed the Dalai Lama across the courtyard to a room adjoining the Namgyal temple late one morning. I had the prospect of being able to do exactly that. His Holiness had also invited several senior monastery lamas to join him in receiving a guest. That this morning's visit clearly concerned a matter of potentially great significance.

The visitor, Lobsang Rabten, was in his early twenties and had escaped from Tibet only the week before. He was extremely nervous. To begin with, he couldn't even bring himself to make eye contact with any of the lamas. Emaciated and wearing threadbare clothing, it was clear that his flight from Tibet—like that of most refugees—had been a most harrowing ordeal. On a low table in front of him he had placed a very battered cardboard box.

Observing Lobsang's agitation, His Holiness ordered Tibetan butter tea from the Namgyal kitchen. Then he sat next to him and asked a few questions about his home village. His visitor began to relax after discovering that the lamas were familiar with several of his village elders and, in particular, that his late father had been known to the Dalai Lama for his accomplishments as a meditator. Sitting next to His Holiness, my presence unquestioned, I was as curious as the others in the room about the contents of the cardboard box.

“After the Chinese invasion of Tibet in 1959, my father removed the altar in our home and set up a shrine in a nearby cave,” Lobsang told the lamas once the butter tea had been served and the Dalai Lama's presence had begun to take its ever-powerful effect. “He knew the mountains very well. There is one particular cave with a narrow, concealed entrance that opens out into a large, dry chamber. It is perfect as a chapel. It was here that my father arranged the family statues and hung the thangkas.

“For sixty-five years, the cave was his own small temple. One night a few months ago, there was a small tremor. Father went out to the cave the next morning, feeling anxious. When he came back, he told us the cave was untouched—except for a place near the back, where a piece of rock had fallen to the floor. The rock had been crumbling away from the top, and he had been using it as a shelf, but he kept nothing of value there, only a few sticks of incense.

“It was only days later, as he was inspecting the damage more closely with a flashlight, that he noticed a dark object at the very back, next to where the rock had fallen away. He discovered it to be a leather bag that contained a very old-looking metal tube. Sealed.”

Lobsang was now able to look directly at the Dalai Lama. The Dalai Lama's eyes mirrored his own excitement.

“My father was convinced it was a rare text or prophecy. He decided, there and then, that he must make the journey to present it to you, Your Holiness. But a few weeks later, after a short illness, he died. After he passed away, I knew I must honor his wishes.”

“And we are very grateful,” the Dalai Lama said, bringing his palms to his heart.

For a few minutes more, His Holiness and the lamas asked the young man questions about the precise location of the cave, what monasteries were in the area, and who else might have known about it. I stared at the cardboard box, fascinated.

Over the years, I had heard occasionally about the tradition of hidden texts known as
terma
. Many were written by meditation masters with perfect clairvoyance and were concealed. They believed the texts would be discovered and would provide revelations at the very time when they would give the greatest benefit. That time may even have been hundreds of years into the future. The idea that this tube might contain a terma was intriguing!

Lobsang began opening the cardboard box, tearing away the brown tape he had used to secure the top of it and folding open the flaps. Next, he removed several layers of paper and cloth. Finally he reached an antique white scarf. He said that his grandfather had once presented the scarf to His Holiness's predecessor, the 13th Dalai Lama, and that it had been draped over the central Buddha in his father's cave shrine. Despite its age the ancient scarf, or
katag
, was still white; it was clearly woven of the highest-quality cloth. It was embroidered with auspicious symbols in fine gold thread.

Wrapped inside it was an ancient leather pouch about the size of a medium-size tote bag. It was bound, tightly, in heavy-duty twine. The young man struggled briefly to untie the knot before the cord unraveled and fell away from the leather, freeing the flap that could be drawn back to reveal the bag's contents.

There was an awed silence in the room, a sense that some extraordinary event was taking place. The young man reached inside the pouch and drew out an ancient-looking metal tube. It was pewter in color and free from rust, but blackened with age at each end. It seemed to be sealed at the center, where a ridge of red-brown wax encircled the cylinder.

Bowing with the greatest respect, Lobsang offered the tube with both hands to the Dalai Lama, murmuring, “In accordance with my father's wishes, please accept this.”

Receiving the tube with both hands, His Holiness bowed so deeply that their foreheads touched—the same gesture of special reverence that I had seen Geshe-la bestow upon Franc. For a while they both sat, foreheads together, looking down at the metal tube. Then, sitting upright, the Dalai Lama inspected it closely in silence. He eventually handed it over to one of the lamas.

“Geshe Lhundup has the greatest experience with these things,” he explained to Lobsang.

Everyone watched as the aging Geshe turned the tube over in his hands.

“Do you think it belonged to Guru Rinpoche?” asked Lobsang in a whisper.

Guru Rinpoche, or Padmasambhava, had lived more than 1,000 years ago and was one of the most famous teachers associated with termas and prophecies.

Geshe Lhundup shrugged. “It may be more recent. But it is a very long time since I have seen one in such good condition.”

“Is it safe to open?” prompted another of the lamas.

“I think so.”

The Dalai Lama waved his hand to suggest he should do just that.

Geshe Lhundup produced a satchel of tools. From it he extracted a short, broad-bladed knife as well as a box of matches and a candle. We watched in silent anticipation as he lit the candle and heated the blade over it for a while. Then two of the other lamas held the tube firmly in front of him. Where the hot blade touched the seal, it melted easily. Soon the whole red-brown circle of wax curled away and fell to the floor, revealing a join where one half of the tube slid into the other. Geshe Lhundup inspected this closely, taking the tube in both hands and trying to tug it open—gently at first, then more vigorously.

“Sometimes there is a pressure point,” he noted. He squeezed first the right-hand side near the join, then the left-hand side. After doing this for some time, there was an audible click.

Geshe Lhundup looked up, a glint in his eye. He pulled at the tube from each end. This time, the two halves slid apart to reveal cloth-wrapped pages. Placing them on the table, he lifted the cloth away. As is traditional, the pages were not bound, but held between slim boards of wood that served the purpose of covers. Lifting away the top board, Geshe Lhundup revealed a page covered in Tibetan writing that, while yellowed with age, was still clearly visible.

In the silence of the room, we all heard his sharp intake of breath.

I watched his eyes race across the lines of text. He soon turned the page and continued reading. After a pause, he looked up at the Dalai Lama. “I would need to check this thoroughly, but I think the script may be from the time of the Great Fifth.”

I could
feel
a charge in the room like an electric current when he said that. The “Great Fifth” was the name given to the Fifth Dalai Lama, who had lived in the 17th century and had unified Tibet. He was revered as both a spiritual and political leader.

“We lost almost all the texts from his time when the Chinese invaded Tibet in 1959,” Geshe Lhundup explained to Lobsang, his eyes alight. “If this turns out to be from that era, it will be a rare jewel. If it contains something new and prophetic . . .”

He seemed lost for words trying to describe that possibility.

Lobsang glowed with happiness. Then, remembering the company he was with, he looked modestly down at the floor.

“We will need to check,” the Dalai Lama told him. “That could take some weeks. In the meantime, let us make sure you have a good place to stay.” Reaching over, he squeezed Lobsang's arm. “You are part of our community. We will look after you.”

“Thank you,” Lobsang whispered. After a few moments, his gaze moved from His Holiness to me. “Is this Your Holiness's cat?” he asked respectfully.

The Dalai Lama nodded as he reached down to stroke me.

“They speak of her in Tibet.”

“Really?” His Holiness seemed as surprised as I was by this revelation. “Do they know her in this form, or as Little Sister?”

“HHC,” confirmed Lobsang.

I was astonished by what I had just heard. “Little Sister” was the phrase Yogi Tarchin had used to describe me. Not just once, but several times in the past. And always in conversation with Serena. I had thought it meant something to do with the strong relationship I had with Serena. What His Holiness had just said seemed to suggest broader possibilities.

With the meeting evidently coming to a close, Lobsang reached out for the white scarf on the table and, with the utmost respect, presented it to His Holiness. The Dalai Lama took it from him, closed his eyes, and chanted a prayer. This imbued the scarf with fresh, auspicious imprints every bit as real as the ornaments embroidered on it. After he'd finished, he reached over and placed the scarf around Lobsang's neck.

Lobsang looked up at him, eyes bright with tears, not daring to speak.

The Dalai Lama beamed. “Now your scarf has been blessed by two different versions of the Dalai Lama!”

A short while later, the meeting ended and everyone moved to leave the room. Geshe Lhundup carried the metal tube and the precious text it contained inside one of the cloths Lobsang had used as lining. The leather pouch in which the text had remained hidden through the centuries would be archived. Geshe Lhundup placed it back in the box and said he would send a monk to collect it.

As soon as the humans left the room, I hopped onto the table.

There are few things more delightful to a cat than an empty cardboard box. When that cardboard box has inside of it an empty leather pouch of extraordinary antiquity—one quite possibly handled by a previous incarnation of the Dalai Lama—the impulse to get inside it becomes irresistible. As I raised myself up onto my hind legs and sniffed the edge of the box, I didn't think. I merely acted. A quick leap and in a moment I was inside the pouch, within the box, looking around me.