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

“Not as a rule,” he said. “But seeing that she is your little sister …”

Little sister? It was said that Yogi Tarchin, like other realized masters, was clairvoyant. Or was he speaking metaphorically? Whatever the case, I required no further invitation. Launching myself toward him, I hopped up on his daybed and sniffed at his shirt. It smelled of cedar with perhaps a whiff of leather, as though it had been hanging in a cupboard for a very long time.

Just being physically close to Yogi Tarchin was an extraordinary experience. Like His Holiness, he seemed to emanate a particular energy. Along with a sense of oceanic peace he also conveyed a feeling of timelessness, as if this state of exalted wisdom had always existed just as it existed now, and always would exist.

As he asked after Serena’s mother, I confirmed that his was a lap I wished to sit on. I settled down on the blanket stretched across his legs, and he stroked me gently. The sensation of his hand against my fur sent a shiver of contentment through my whole body.

“Twelve years is such a long time,” Serena was saying. “Four retreats in a row. May I ask why you decided to continue?”

A cuckoo sounded through the late afternoon air.

“Because I could,” Yogi Tarchin said simply. Then, seeing Serena’s perplexed expression, he added, “It was the most precious opportunity. Who knows when I may encounter such circumstances again?”

She nodded. She was considering the implications of 12 years with no human contact, no TV, radio, newspapers, or the Internet; 12 years with no dining out or entertainment, no birthdays, Christmases, Thanksgivings, or other festivities. Most people would consider such sensory deprivation a form of torture. But Yogi Tarchin had willingly undertaken it, and the transcendental effect on him was palpable.

But another, more negative undertow was troubling Serena. “I suppose as an advanced meditator”—she bowed to Yogi Tarchin—“such training is very useful. But for someone like me …” It was as though she couldn’t bring herself to express her reservations.

Smiling, Yogi Tarchin leaned forward and touched her hand. “Which is better,” he asked, “a doctor or a first-aid worker?”

She looked surprised by the question.

“A doctor,” she answered immediately, and then hesitated. “But if someone just needed minor attention …”

“Both are useful,” he confirmed.

She was nodding.

“To train in first aid takes how long—a few days? But a medical doctor?”

“Seven years. Longer if they specialize,” Serena said.

“Is that not a waste of time? Seven years when instead they could be out helping people within days?”

There was a pause while Serena absorbed the real meaning of what he was saying.

“All these meditators,” he said, with a gesture that encompassed the Himalaya region and beyond. “Why are they not working for charity? This is how some people think. Much better they help distribute food and build shelter for the homeless instead of sitting on their bottoms all day.”

Serena chuckled at this reminder of Yogi Tarchin’s direct manner.

“Very good to help humans and animals with charity. This is useful, like first aid. But a permanent solution to suffering requires something different: transformation of the mind. To help others achieve that we must first remove what is obscuring our own mind. Then, like the doctor, our capacity to help is very much greater.”

“There are some who would say that this is all just talk,” Serena said. She seemed glad for the opportunity to discuss her reservations frankly. “They would say that consciousness is just the brain at work, so the idea of transformation over many lifetimes …”

Yogi Tarchin nodded, eyes twinkling. “Yes, yes. The superstition of materialism. But how can something give rise to a quality that it doesn’t possess?”

Serena’s brow furrowed. “I don’t follow.”

“Can a stone create music? Can a computer feel sadness?”

“No,” she acknowledged.

He nodded once. “Can flesh and blood produce consciousness?”

She reflected on this for a while. “If the brain doesn’t create consciousness,” she said, “why is it that if the brain is damaged then the mind is also affected?”

Yogi Tarchin smiled broadly and rocked back on his cushion for a moment. “Very good! Very good that you are questioning! Tell me, if your television set is damaged and you can’t see anything except a black screen, does it mean that there is no more television?”

As her smile grew, he didn’t wait for an answer. “Of course not! Of course, if your brain is damaged it affects the experience of consciousness. Perhaps consciousness cannot be experienced at all. But the brain is only like a receiver, a television set. It’s … unfortunate to confuse the two.