The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow (The Dalai Lama's Cat 3)

“Your father was a Buddhist?” asked Tenzin.

“Oh no!” Oliver chuckled. “A vicar. Still is. I was brought up very Church of England.”

“Intriguing!” Serena raised her eyebrows.

“Services three times every Sunday. High days and holy days. Bible verses to learn by rote. When I was growing up, everyone thought I’d follow in my father’s footsteps.”

“And instead . . . ?” prompted Tenzin.

“Instead I studied languages, including Sanskrit, and found myself drawn to Buddhism.”

“How did your parents react?” asked Tenzin.

“It was a gradual thing. They had plenty of time to get used to the idea. The paradox is that I go home and find half my Buddhist books in Dad’s study—he goes through them to pinch ideas for his sermons.”

As the three of them laughed, I decided to find out if there might be an afternoon refreshment in the office for me. I stepped into the room and behind Chogyal’s old chair, currently occupied by Oliver.

“Is there anything that you miss?” asked Serena.

“About the Church of England?” asked Oliver. “Not anymore. In my very early days as a Buddhist, I used to miss the music. All that glorious orchestral work. And the sacred choral pieces—especially from the baroque period. Even some of the hymns, which form part of my earliest memories. Music is incredibly powerful, almost magical in the way it marries consciousness to energy. Different music carries different vibrational qualities, and just listening to it can change one’s own energy and mood—it’s like alchemy.

“When I first began practicing the Dharma, I felt I’d turned away from all that, but then my understanding of Buddhism deepened and I came back to sacred music with a fresh appreciation. What is it, if not an attempt to express the inexpressible?”

The late-afternoon sun, sliding toward the horizon, reflected from a window opposite and filled the office in a glow of ethereal light. It seemed obvious now why the Dalai Lama had chosen Oliver as his new interpreter. Not only for his understanding of Tibetan, English, and a half dozen other languages. It was also for his radiant intelligence—one that seemed, quite comfortably, to straddle East and West, Buddhism and Christianity, outer and inner realities. Oliver was not only a translator of words. He was also spiritually multilingual.

“So I no longer miss the music,” he continued. “It has returned to my life as a source of great joy.”

Serena and Tenzin had been listening intently as I hopped from the floor to the desk and approached the tea tray. I leaned over it, nostrils twitching, to confirm that more than a smidgen of milk remained in the jug. Then, sitting purposefully, I looked directly at Serena and meowed softly.

The three humans seemed to find this amusing.

“Oh, HHC, would you also like something to drink?” Serena asked unnecessarily, glancing at Tenzin. “Do you usually . . . ?”

“She hasn’t joined us in the past.” Standing, Tenzin pushed aside letterhead marked with the heraldic crest of Kensington Palace to make space for a saucer from the tea tray. “First time for everything.”

“A very polite meow,” observed Oliver, sipping his tea.

“Rinpoche is a darling cat,” said Serena, leaning forward to stroke me.

“Rinpoche?” Oliver’s eyes sparkled. “I thought she was HHC?”

“Oh,” Tenzin said, chuckling, “she is a cat of many names. His Holiness calls her Snow Lion. That’s his personal term of endearment.”

“To my mother, she is the Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived. And at the Downward Dog School of Yoga, she is revered as Swami,” Serena added.

“Swami?” Tenzin reacted with surprise. “I didn’t know that one.”

I could tell the direction his thoughts were taking by his tone of voice and shot him a glance. There was, dear reader, another very different name that had been bestowed on me during my earliest days at Namgyal. It wasn’t one I approved of, and it had been given to me in this very office by the Dalai Lama’s driver—a rough sort of fellow. It was one of those nicknames that captures your behavior at its very worst, to everyone’s amusement but your own.

Understanding my glance, Tenzin fixed his features into his diplomat’s poker face. “Swami . . . ,” he repeated. “She’s been called worse.”

“We usually bestow different names on those whom we love,” observed Oliver. I looked over at him, taking in the eyes sparkling behind the spectacles, the aura of niceness about him. Oliver and I were going to get along well, I decided.

“Think of the Dalai Lama,” said Oliver. “When he was reinstated on the lion throne in the Potala Palace, he was given many names. The Lotus Thunderbolt. Great Precious Prince of the Soft Voice. Mighty in Speech. Excellent of Knowledge. Absolute in Wisdom. The One Without Equal. Powerful Ruler of Three Worlds. Of course, most of us know him simply as the Presence.”

“Kundun.” Ten

zin used the Tibetan word.