The Art of Purring (The Dalai Lama's Cat 2)

“That’s right. Heinrich arranged an introduction to the Dalai Lama very soon after Ludo came to McLeod Ganj. It is said that he and His Holiness are good friends. In fact, it was His Holiness who encouraged Ludo to set up the yoga studio.”

“I didn’t know that,” Serena said. Glancing at Sid, she was suddenly aware of how much he knew of local affairs. After a few moments, she decided to test this further. “There’s a guy walking behind us in a dark jacket, felt cap,” she said under her breath. “Someone said he’s the Maharajah of Himachal Pradesh. Is that true?”

They continued down the hill for a while before Sid discreetly glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve heard the same thing,” he said.

“I’ve seen him around here quite often,” Serena said.

“So have I,” observed Sid. “Perhaps he usually takes a walk at this time of day?”

“Could be,” mused Serena.

The very next day I was padding along the corridor of the executive wing when Lobsang called out to me. “HHC! Come here, my little one! There’s something you’ll want to see.”

I ignored him, of course. We cats are not given to kowtowing to every plea, entreaty, or even humble petition made by humans. What good would it do? You are so much more grateful when we do eventually throw you a bone—if you’ll excuse the whiff of dog about that particular metaphor.

Lobsang was not to be deterred, however, and moments later I was being picked up, taken to his office, and placed on his desk.

“I’m Skyping Bhutan,” he told me. “And I spotted someone I thought you’d like to see.”

His computer screen revealed a sumptuously furnished room and to one side of it, a window seat on which a Himalayan cat was lying on her back, sunning her tummy. She had her head tilted back, her eyes closed, and her legs and bushy tail splayed in what Ludo might have termed “the pose of the starfish.” For cats, this is the most defenseless, trusting, and contented of all poses.

It took me a few moments before I realized … Could it really be? Yes, it was! But how she had grown!

“Her official title is HRHC,” Lobsang told me. “Her Royal Highness’s Cat. So one more letter than HHC. And they tell me she is as adored at the palace there as you are here at Namgyal.”

I watched the rise and fall of Snow Cub’s tummy as she dozed in the sun, remembering how miserable I’d been just days earlier when Chogyal had removed the beige blanket from the bedroom and with it had deprived me of the tender memories of my little girl.

Or so I’d felt at the time.

Since then I had come to learn that my unhappiness had been inflicted not by Chogyal but, unintentionally, by myself. By wallowing in my own nostalgic memories, spending so much time thinking about a relationship that had moved on, I had been needlessly carrying pain. Suffering.

Meanwhile, Snow Cub had grown into a new life as the beloved palace cat of the queen of Bhutan. Could any mother wish for more?

Turning, I stepped closer to where Lobsang was sitting at his desk and bent down to massage his fingers with my face.

“HHC!” he exclaimed. “You’ve never done that before!”

As he responded by scratching my neck, I closed my eyes and began to purr. Ludo was right: happiness was not to be found in the past. Not in trying to relive memories, however beguiling.

It could only be experienced in this moment, here and now.

CHAPTER THREE

What would happen, dear reader, if you were to achieve your most longed-for dream? What if you were to succeed in your chosen ambition, beyond your wildest hopes?

There’s no harm in contemplating this happy prospect, is there? Imagine, for example, opening the front door of a beautiful home and discovering your family inside, a picture-book image of familial bliss and pleasing demeanors, with delightful aromas wafting from the kitchen and no squabbling over the TV remote.

Or, in my own case, venturing into the cold storage room of the kitchen downstairs to discover 10,000 portions of Mrs. Trinci’s diced chicken liver, stowed in pristine condition and awaiting my personal delectation.

What an enchanting prospect! How alluring the image!

Little did we know down at the Himalaya Book Café that someone who had achieved something equally amazing was about to enter our midst.

We barely noticed him at first. As it happened, his initial arrival coincided with one of my own late-morning appearances. It was shortly after 11 when I made my way down the road from Jokhang at the exact moment he happened to be striding toward the café. He was a rugged-looking, middle-aged man with auburn hair graying at the temples, a craggy face, beetle brows, and inquisitive eyes. There was a marked contrast between his face, lined and lived-in, and his expensive outfit—cream linen jacket, cream pants, gleaming gold watch. He was walking faster than the meandering stroll of most tourists and carrying several guidebooks on the travel highlights of northwest India.

I made my way through the café, pausing to touch noses with Marcel and Kyi Kyi in their basket under the counter. With Franc’s departure and the arrival of Serena and Sam, it was as though an invisible thread had drawn us nonhuman denizens of the café closer. Having been through all the changes together gave us a shared experience, a common bond. Not that it went any further than a touch on the nose and polite inquiry. You wouldn’t expect me to climb into their basket with them, would you? I’m not that kind of cat, and, dear reader, this is certainly not that kind of book!

Taking up my usual position on the magazine rack, I observed our nattily dressed visitor as he made himself comfortable on one of the nearby banquettes. Summoning a waiter with an imperious hand, when he spoke it was with a Scottish burr: “Has lunch service started?”