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

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.”

CHAPTER TEN

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.

“Must be a maharajah thing,” Serena observed drolly.

The housewarming party was a source of keen anticipation down at the café for one more very good reason: everyone was involved. For the first time ever, on a Saturday night, the Himalaya Book Café would be closed for dinner. Jigme and Ngawang Dragpa, the restaurant chefs, would be relocated to the new bungalow to prepare canapés. They spent considerable time with Serena beforehand, designing a menu that, like those for similar events at Buckingham Palace, consisted of tempting morsels that could be eaten in a single, delicate bite. Kusali and a handpicked team of the longest-serving waiters would be on hand to circulate the carefully designed fare.

Meanwhile, Franc was planning the entertainment. It was to be some form of subdued soiree. It also involved several visits to the bungalow, accompanied by Ewing Klipspringer, to try out the grand piano and work out logistics. The two of them refused to tell Serena exactly what they had planned, except to say that it would “reach out to everyone in the community”—a deliberately vague promise. From their chortling and guffawing as they discussed plans for the evening like two naughty schoolboys, however, Serena sensed that something was afoot.

As for the Wazirs, things with them had taken an interesting turn. According to Serena, when Sid phoned Mrs. Wazir and told her he would have no more of her meddling, his ex-mother-in-law had been stunned to silence, shocked at having being so blatantly caught in the act. For the first time ever, she hadn’t even attempted to deny her machinations. Instead, in her frosty response on the other end of the phone line, he detected a grudging acceptance to his conditions: if she wanted to see her granddaughter ever again, she was going to have to abide by a very different set of rules.

Zahra phoned her grandmother the following weekend, and the old lady was diplomatic but distant. I heard this for myself, because I was sitting on Zahra’s lap when she related the tale. Enjoying a weekend break from boarding school, she visited the café one Saturday afternoon. Before long, Zahra and I were on one of the sofas in the bookstore. Serena sat opposite us, and the two ladies discussed that most important of subjects: what they would wear for the housewarming party. Various options were debated and rejected. Serena suggested a shopping trip later that afternoon, for accessories.

Inevitably, talk turned to the subject of Zahra’s call to her maternal grandmother.

“She didn’t want to speak to me,” said Zahra. “It was like she hasn’t been able to get what she wants, so I’m just . . . whatever.”

“Well, I won’t pretend to like her,” said Serena. “But all relationships go through ups and downs. Don’t put too much importance on a single call.”

“She was just so . . .” She shrugged.

Serena reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” Zahra replied immediately. “I know that she was just trying to use me. I don’t need people like that. I already have all the nice people I need.” She leaned over me, touching my nose to hers. Her hair once again fell like a dark curtain around our faces. “Anyway,” she mused, thinking aloud, “Mrs. Trinci is much better than Granny Wazir.”

There was a pause while Serena digested the significance of this remark. After a while she said quietly, “Well, she’s certainly different.”

“No. Better.” Sitting up, Zahra shook her head.

“Can you really say that one person is ‘better’ than another?”

“She makes better chocolate-chip cookies. Granny Wazir can’t even boil a kettle—she has to get a servant to do it.”

Serena smiled. “Mum is a wonderful baker!”

“She’s more fun to be with. Mrs. Trinci is always . . .” She stretched her arms up in the air and waved them around with a flourish. “La, la-la, la-la.”

“She certainly is!” Serena snorted. “But because someone can make you laugh and bake cookies doesn’t seem like the most important reasons to like her over someone else.”

“She loves my little Rinpoch

e,” said Zahra, her tone growing serious. “Granny Wazir is allergic to her. That says it all.”

Serena didn’t reply to that. For a while Zahra sat in silence, stroking me. Then she said, “It would be good if Rinpoche could come to the housewarming.”