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

Tenzin gestured to the chair where Chogyal used to sit, before returning to his desk, so that they were facing each other.

“His Holiness holds you in the highest regard,” Tenzin told Yogi Tarchin. “In particular he would greatly value your help with several sensitive monastic appointments he needs to make on his return.”

I remembered how difficult Chogyal used to find these decisions. Monastic politics could be highly complex, and matters like scriptural authority, personality, and lineage had to be finely balanced.

But Yogi Tarchin merely chuckled. It was a laugh that instantly reminded me of someone else—His Holiness himself! It seemed to suggest that whatever the apparent gravity of a decision, when viewed from a perspective of abiding bliss and timelessness, it could be lightly worn.

“Oh, yes,” said Yogi Tarchin. “When decisions are made for the good of all, they are easy. But if there is ego—quite difficult!”

Sitting opposite him, Tenzin seemed to be responding to the yogi’s relaxed presence. I noticed him leaning farther back in his seat than usual, and his shoulders were less stiff.

“We do a fair amount of correspondence on the computer,” Tenzin said, gesturing toward Chogyal’s screen. “We can get someone to help you with the technical side.”

“Very good,” Yogi Tarchin said, swiveling the desk chair so he faced the screen, then grabbing the mouse and, with the ease of familiarity, flicking it about a few times. “Before my last retreat I used Microsoft Office. And who doesn’t have an e-mail account? But no, apart from that, I’m not very computer literate.”

Tenzin’s expression was one of amazement. No doubt he was realizing that one should never be too quick to

judge the capabilities of a yogi. After all, a mind that could penetrate the subtlest truths about the nature of reality was more than capable of creating a Word document.

As I adjusted my position on the filing cabinet, Yogi Tarchin looked up from his screen. “Oh—Little Sister!” he exclaimed, getting up from his chair and coming over to stroke me with great tenderness.

“That is His Holiness’s Cat, otherwise known as HHC,” explained Tenzin.

“I know. We have already met.”

“Why Little Sister?”

“Just a name. She is my little Dharma sister,” said Yogi Tarchin.

But both of us knew that he was making a reference to my relationship with Serena, the meaning of which was no clearer to me now than it had been when he had first said it. But it seemed, in that moment, that we now shared a secret, an understanding, the truth of which would be revealed in the fullness of time.

After Yogi Tarchin had returned to his desk, Tenzin glanced up at me and smiled. “I think you are friends,” he observed.

Yogi Tarchin nodded. “For many lifetimes.”

I noticed the difference the moment I stepped into the Himalaya Book Café: the basket under the counter was vacant. For the first time in my memory the café was canine free. I paused, more out of surprise than anything else. Strange though this confession may seem, for a moment I was actually quite disappointed. While Franc was away, the dogs and I had become good friends. But then I remembered Franc’s surprise appearance the night before—how ecstatic the dogs had been to see him—and I was happy for them. No doubt they were back at home with Franc right now; all was well in their world.

That was how it felt inside the café, too. Last night’s visit from Franc may have lasted only ten minutes, but it had the same effect as a breaking thunderstorm. All the tension that had been building during the previous days had been released in a single, cathartic moment. Serena was walking with a fresh spring in her step. Sam was bustling about, arranging a new, permanent display of spice packs. There even seemed to be a buzz among the waitstaff. No question, things were on an upswing at the Himalaya Book Café. And there was one person, more than any other, with whom Serena wanted to share the good news.

Several times I saw her approach the phone at the reception counter, take out Sid’s card, and lift the receiver. On each occasion something else came up demanding her immediate attention. With the constant activity, the front of the café wasn’t exactly the best place to try to have a meaningful conversation. Which was when another thought seemed to occur to her.

Taking out Sid’s card, she approached Kusali.

“Bougainvillea Street?” she queried. “That’s the one that runs behind here, isn’t it?” she asked. “The one I take up to yoga?”

“Yes, miss,” he confirmed. Then as he looked at the card, Kusali said, “Number 108. That is the one with the high, white walls and metal gate.”

“Really?” She glanced over in my direction. “I know the place. Some sort of business premises?”

He nodded. “I am thinking. There is always much coming and going from there.”

I could see the direction her thoughts were taking, and my curiosity was instantly piqued. I remembered the rolling lawns and soaring cedars from the eternity I’d spent on top of the gatepost. I thought of the flower beds ablaze with color and fragrance, and the building that seemed to be substantial and rambling, with plenty of the nooks and crannies we cats so like to explore. I resolved to go visiting with Serena.

Remembering the length of the hill and the challenge of its gradient—would I ever forget?—I decided to get a head start. Leaving the café and following the lane behind it, all the while on retriever alert, I began my climb up Bougainvillea Street in the direction of the property with the high, white walls. I took care to stay close to the buildings, glancing behind me frequently, ready to run for cover if I saw either the retrievers or Serena approaching. I knew that Serena wouldn’t let me follow her so far from the café. But if I simply appeared as she was about to make her entrance, what choice would she have?

Which was why, when the pedestrian side gate was buzzed open after Serena announced herself on the intercom, I was there, quite casually, at her ankles. What a coincidence!

We went inside.