The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow (23 page)

A week later, at the end of the working day, there was a knock on His Holiness's door. Tenzin and Oliver appeared, and in their hands they held printouts of the completed census. For some time the three men sat at a low coffee table, poring over the figures, comparing the latest results with those from previous years and noting some of the more interesting finds—including the long lives enjoyed by the devoted meditators of Herne Hill.

It was only after they had finished going through the report and were leaning back in their chairs that Tenzin glanced over at Oliver as though seeking his permission before clearing his throat.

“Your Holiness, we have a suggestion to make about the arrangements in your executive assistants' office.”

“Go on.” His Holiness nodded.

“It is only an idea, at this point. But you know how much difficulty we've had trying to find a replacement for Chogyal's position.”

“Indeed.”

On the sill, I raised my head and turned to regard them closely. Exactly who would sit in Chogyal's seat was a matter of great importance not only to the Dalai Lama but also to me. Some of the candidates Tenzin had considered had not been what you'd call cat friendly. Venerable Monkey-face—a name I had given to one very gnarled and wizened contender—had made a point of studiously ignoring me. Even when I jumped up to the middle of his desk, he tried to pretend I wasn't there.

Then there had been the Giant Cat Crusher, a mountain of a monk whose idea of a gentle stroke had pulverized my whole body. Less than a half hour in his presence had persuaded me to avoid going anywhere near the executive assistants' office for as long as I heard his voice booming down the corridor.

“Working together on the census has made me realize that I have some of the knowledge and skills necessary for the monastic position,” offered Tenzin. “At the same time, Oliver's language abilities in some ways make him more highly qualified than me for my own job.”

“I see . . .” The Dalai Lama wore an earnest expression.

“It really is only an idea, at this stage,” said Oliver. “And we haven't discussed it with anyone else yet. But it may be easier to find someone to take on as a translator—”

“The young monk from Ladakh?” Tenzin offered.

“I'm sure he would grow into the role very well,” observed Oliver.

His Holiness looked from Oliver to Tenzin carefully. “A monk as a diplomat, and a layperson as a monastic adviser,” he mused.

The two men exchanged a glance.

“Usually, this arrangement could not work,” the Dalai Lama said, shaking his head. “But with the two of you . . .” He gestured, opening both hands while a smile appeared on his face. “I think . . . very good!”

Oliver and Tenzin left the room, closing the door behind them. The Dalai Lama came over to where I was sitting and watching twilight fall over the courtyard.

“I'm pleased they came to that recognition,” he murmured, stroking my neck.

I looked up and noticed the twinkle in his eye. Among the wisest of beings, the Dalai Lama could see things that most others couldn't—although he often kept his observations to himself. But there were times, like right now, when it felt like he was letting me in on a secret. Sharing a path, the direction of which had long been self-evident to him. Others had to be nudged along the way.

“I wanted to suggest the same thing,” he confirmed as I purred my appreciation. “But sometimes it is better for people to reach a conclusion for themselves.”

So
that's
why he had asked Oliver to help Tenzin with the census! It had been less a request for a helping hand than a way of getting the two men to work together and to arrive at a solution already obvious to him. “Skillful means” is a practice much admired in Buddhism, and I was delighted not only by how skillful the Dalai Lama had been but also that he was entrusting me with his confidences.

I rolled over, stretching my arms and legs as far as they would go, muscles quivering. I offered His Holiness the luxuriantly fluffy arc of my tummy.

“Oh, little Snow Lion!” He chortled, rubbing his hand up my tummy. “You know I like this.”

I did know this, dear reader, very well.

Skillful means.

Later that evening, I contemplated how so many things could be achieved with a positive mind, patience, and skill. I was with the Dalai Lama when he went to sleep each night. With him, too, when he rose every morning. I sat on his sill for much of the day. And I never saw him stressed out, self-serving, or trying to dominate and control. His intentions were always benevolent, and he wished only for the well-being of others. And from this place of boundless compassion, sometimes the most amazing, even magical things would arise.

His Holiness's last visitor that day was Geshe Lhundup.

“We've now had the results back from the carbon dating, graphologists, and some of our most learned scholars,” he reported, his eyes gleaming. “They all agree. The middle section of the terma is the personal writing of the Great Fifth.”

“Wonderful!” Across the table from him, the Dalai Lama smiled enthusiastically. “And an original piece of writing?”

“Indeed.” Geshe Lhundup nodded. “It may not be a long text, but it is on a new subject. We have identified three different authors of the terma. It appears that the Great Fifth asked for contributions from two leading scholars at the time, and each approached the same message from a slightly different perspective.”

“A message highly relevant today.”

“A terma in every respect,” agreed Geshe Lhundup. “Had it been discovered even thirty years ago, the document would have been too far ahead of its time.”

“Yes, yes. I will have to think carefully about what to do with it. I would like to engage Western scientists.” I remembered how utterly absorbed His Holiness had that night when Geshe Lhundup had first delivered the copy of the text to him.

“It seems to apply ideas similar to quantum science to the field of healing.”

“Exactly,” agreed the Dalai Lama. “Even though scientists have long understood that matter is also energy, it is only in recent years that they have asked how this applies to medicine. How to seek healing not of a body, but of an energy field.”

“I have been studying the text ever since it arrived. It is so clear! So profound!” Geshe Lhundup's excitement was infectious. “I think it could be the most important new text I have ever had the privilege of studying. It could help to change the fundamental way that healing is approached.”

For some time the two men discussed the content of the Fifth Dalai Lama's text. Their discussion was much like the one I'd overhead between Tenzin and Oliver on how the meditators at Herne Hill lived such long lives because of the qualities of their minds. The new terma seemed to take the idea further, affirming that every thought has a biological effect. How certain states of mind are associated with physiological changes. How, instead of treating matter with matter, it can be treated instead with the energy of mind.

This conversation, however, moved onto something of far greater personal significance.

“As you know, I sent the metal tube and leather pouch away for carbon dating,” Geshe Lhundup told His Holiness. “But I didn't say anything about cat whiskers.”

The Dalai Lama chuckled.

“They are rigorous at the laboratories. Very thorough. It turns out that they found two whiskers, which they also carbon dated. One found inside the pouch, I'm guessing”—he glanced in the direction of the sill—“is from HHC, because of the date. The other was found between the pages of the text itself.”

His Holiness raised his eyebrows.

“Three hundred and fifty years old.”

“The Fifth Dalai Lama also had a cat?”

“Not just any cat.” Geshe Lhundup leaned forward. “The report says that the genetic coding of the older whisker was nearly identical to HHC's.”

“That means . . . a very similar cat?” confirmed His Holiness.

Geshe Lhundup nodded.

“A Himalayan?”

“Perhaps even an ancestor of HHC.”

Both men turned to look at me where I sat, staring out at the courtyard, seemingly oblivious to their conversation. In fact, I was tuned into every word that they said.

In recent weeks I had spent a lot of time mulling over the implications of my recent dream as well as the revelation about Norbu and the impression made by the mysterious, powerful man who had rescued me during my lifetime as the Dalai Lama's dog. Geshe Lhundup's revelations from four centuries before came as yet another extraordinary revelation: an earlier reincarnation of His Holiness had also had a feline companion who had been a Himalayan.

A 17th century incarnation of me?

It was only later, when we had both gone to bed and the Dalai Lama was about to turn out the light that he confirmed what I suspected. He leaned down to where I was settled at the bottom of his bed, on my special blanket.

“So, HHC, science has caught up with us. Friends through the centuries. How fortunate for me to have such a wonderful companion.”

In the darkness that followed, I purred gratefully. I was still getting used to the idea that I had lived before, during His Holiness's current lifetime—even if it was as a dog. The idea that the two of us had been companions for centuries in the past came as another confounding revelation. One that seemed to give this lifetime a much more panoramic perspective.

How different life seemed when seen as part of a much larger story. How much more meaningful, if causes created in one lifetime could be seen to manifest in the next. Especially causes like starting to meditate, and for the first time discovering you could take charge of your own consciousness.

“That's right, little Snow Lion,” the Dalai Lama whispered to me in the dark. “Through lifetimes, we grow and change. But one thing will never change: you and I will always be friends.”

C
HAPTER
T
EN

Down at the Himalaya Book Café, excitement was growing about an event that promised to be the social highlight of the year: Serena and Sid's housewarming party.

Since that decisive site meeting with Mr. Patel of Patel Construction, the bungalow had become a hive of activity. Serena told her colleagues she had never seen anything like it. Suddenly the house was swarming with carpenters, electricians, plasterers, and decorators. Mr. Patel, obligated to meet his new and dramatically shortened deadline, adopted a commanding presence as he directed operations.

Even kitchen appliances began to appear. The selfsame items that Mr. Patel had only recently told them would be virtually impossible to obtain were delivered and installed without fanfare. All the bedrooms and reception rooms were cleaned and freshly painted. The staircase leading up to the tower was repaired and completed in short order. Only Sid had been up to the top so far—as man of the house, he insisted on being in charge of decorating and furnishing the upstairs room so it would be just right for Serena and Zahra's first ascent.