The Dalai Lama's Cat (The Dalai Lama's Cat 1)

CHAPTER TWO

Even though cats spend most of the day dozing comfortably, we like our humans to keep busy. Not in a noisy or intrusive way—just active enough to entertain us during those periods when we choose to remain awake. Why else do you think most cats have a favorite theater seat—a preferred spot on a windowsill, porch, gatepost, or cupboard top? Don't you realize, dear reader, that you are our entertainment?

One of the reasons why it’s so congenial living at Jokhang, as the Dalai Lama’s temple complex is known, is for exactly this reason: there is always something going on.

Before 5 A.M. each morning, the temple complex comes alive with the sound of sandaled feet on the pavement as the monks from Namgyal Monastery converge for their morning meditations. By this time, His Holiness and I have been meditating for two hours, but as I become aware of the stirring outside, I like to get up, stretch my front legs luxuriantly in front of me, and perhaps take a few limbering-up scratches of the carpet, before heading over to my usual position on the windowsill. From there I watch the reassuring circadian performance begin to be reenacted, for in monastic life, almost every day is the same.

It begins with golden squares flickering to life across the horizon, as lamps are lit in the temple and the monks’ quarters. In the summer, the early morning breeze carries clouds of purple incense—along with dawn chants—through the open window, just as the sky begins to light up in the east.

By the time the monks emerge from the temple at nine in the morning, His Holiness and I have both eaten breakfast, and he is already at his desk. Morning briefings with his advisers follow, and down in the temple, the monks return for a well-ordered daily routine that includes reciting texts, attending teachings, debating points of philosophy in the courtyard, and meditating. These activities are interrupted only by two meals and come to an end around 10 o’clock at night.

After that, the younger monks are expected to return home and memorize texts until midnight. More is demanded of the older ones, who frequently study and debate until one or two in the morning. The period in the middle of the night when there is no activity at all lasts only a few hours.

Center stage in His Holiness’s suite, meantime, there is a constant procession of visitors: world-famous politicians, celebrities, and philanthropists, as well as those who are less well known but sometimes more intriguing, such as the Nechung Oracle, whom His Holiness sometimes consults. A medium between the material world and spiritual realms, the Nechung Oracle is the State Oracle of Tibet. He warned of difficulties with China as early as 1947 and continues to help with important decisions, going into an induced trance state, sometimes as part of an elaborate ceremony during which he offers prophecies and advice.

You would think that finding myself in such a stimulating and comfortable environment would make me the happiest cat that ever played the cello, as we cats refer to that most delicate part of our grooming regimen when we attend to our nether regions. But alas, dear reader, in those early months living with the Dalai Lama, you would be wrong.

Perhaps it was because I had, until so recently, only ever known what it was like to be one of a litter of four. Maybe it was an absence of contact with any other sentient being blessed with fur and whiskers. Whatever the reason, I not only felt very alone but also came to believe that my happiness would be complete only with the presence of another cat.

The Dalai Lama knew this. Taking care of me from that first moment in the car with the utmost tenderness and compassion, he nurtured me through those early weeks, constantly attentive to my well-being.

Which was why, one day soon after the mouse incident, when I was loitering in the passage, feeling lost and uncertain of what to do, he caught sight of me on his way to the temple and turning to Chogyal, who was accompanying him, said, “Perhaps little Snow Lion would like to come with us?”

Snow Lion?! I loved the name. As he picked me up in his robed arms, I purred with approval. Snow lions are celestial animals in Tibet, representing unconditional happiness. They are animals of great beauty, vibrancy, and delight.

“We have a big day ahead,” His Holiness told me as we went downstairs. “First a visit to the temple to watch the examinations. Then Mrs. Trinci is coming to prepare lunch for today’s visitor. And you like Mrs. Trinci, don’t you?”

Like was hardly the word. I adored Mrs. Trinci, or to be more specific, Mrs. Trinci’s diced chicken liver—a dish she made especially for my delectation.

Whenever catering was required for a special occasion or visiting dignitary, Mrs. Trinci was called in. More than 20 years earlier, someone in the Dalai Lama’s office, while planning a banquet for a high-powered delegation from the Vatican, had discovered the Italian widow living locally. Mrs. Trinci’s culinary flair had quite effortlessly transcended all previous catering, and she was soon installed as the Dalai Lama’s favorite chef.

An elegant woman in her 50s, with a penchant for flamboyant dresses and extravagant costume jewelry, she would sweep into Jokhang on a wave of nervous excitement. Assuming instant control of the kitchen from the moment she arrived, she pulled everyone present, not just the kitchen hands, into her vortex. On one of her earliest visits, she had ordered the abbot of Gyume Tantric College, who happened to be walking past, into the kitchen, where she immediately tied an apron around his neck and set him to dicing carrots.

Mrs. Trinci knew no protocol and brooked no dissent. Spiritual advancement was of little relevance with a banquet for eight to prepare. Her operatic temperament was the very opposite of the calm humility of most of the monks, but there was something about her vivacity, her intensity, her passion that they found utterly beguiling.

And they loved her generous heart. She always made sure that along with His Holiness’s meal, an appetizing stew was left on the stove for his staff, and apple strudel, chocolate gateau, or some other heavenly confection was left in the fridge.

The first time she saw me, she declared me to be The Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived, and from that day on, no visit to the Dalai Lama’s kitchen was complete without her producing, from one of her many grocery bags, some succulent morsels brought especially for me. Placing me on a countertop, she would watch me closely, her amber, mascara-lashed eyes swooning as I noisily devoured a saucer of chicken pot-au-feu, turkey casserole, or filet mignon. I was contemplating exactly this prospect as Chogyal carried me across the courtyard toward the temple.

I had never been inside the temple before and could think of no better way to make my first entrance than in His Holiness’s entourage. The temple is an amazing, light-filled building with very high ceilings, vivid wall-hangings of deities in richly embroidered silks, and multicolored victory banners cascading down the walls. There are large Buddha statues with rows of gleaming brass bowls set out before them, along with symbolic offerings of food, incense, flowers, and perfume. Hundreds of monks were seated on cushions, waiting for the exams to begin, and the low buzz of their chatter continued even after the Dalai Lama arrived. Usually he would make a formal entrance at the front of the temple, taking his place on the teaching throne amid an awed hush. But today he slipped in the back, not wanting to draw attention to himself or distract the monks who were about to be examined.

Every year, novice monks compete for a limited number of places to study for the Geshe degree. The highest qualification in Tibetan Buddhism, in some ways like a doctorate, the Geshe degree takes 12 years to complete. It demands flawless recall of core texts and an ability to analyze and debate subtle philosophical differences, not to mention many hours of meditation practice. For most of the 12 years of the course, geshe trainees work 20 hours every day, following a rigorous schedule of study. But despite the very great demands placed on them, there are always more novice monks seeking entrance than there are places available.

At today’s exam, four novice monks were being tested. In accordance with tradition, they began by answering the examiners’ questions in front of the assembled Namgyal community, an arrangement that was daunting but also open and transparent. Watching the proceedings was good preparation for the younger novice monks, who would one day also have to stand before their peers.

In the back row of the temple, sitting next to the Dalai Lama on Chogyal’s lap, I listened as two Bhutanese brothers, a Tibetan boy, and a French student all had the chance to impress their audience by answering questions about subjects like karma and the nature of reality. The Bhutanese brothers gave correct, rote answers and the Tibetan boy also quoted directly from the assigned text, but the French student went further, demonstrating that he had not only learned the concepts but also understood them. Throughout all of this, the Dalai Lama smiled warmly.

Next, in debate with several senior monks who tried to catch the students with clever arguments, the same pattern was followed. The Bhutanese and Tibetan students stuck carefully to textbook answers, while the French boy launched provocative counterarguments of his own, prompting quite some amusement in the temple.

Finally it was time to recite texts, and again the Himalayan students were flawless in their recall. Asked to recite the Heart Sutra, a short text that is one of Buddha’s most famous teachings, the French student began in a clear, strong voice. But for some reason, midway through he faltered. There was a long, puzzled silence—and, it seemed, some whispered prompting—before he began again, somewhat less confidently, only to lapse completely. He turned to his examiners with an apologetic

shrug. They gestured for him to return to his seat.

A short time later the examiners announced their verdict: the Bhutanese and Tibetan novices were accepted for Geshe studies. Only the French boy was unsuccessful.

I could feel the Dalai Lama’s sadness as the announcement was made. The examiners’ decision was inevitable, but even so …

“There is less emphasis on rote learning in the West,” Chogyal murmured to His Holiness, who nodded in agreement. Asking Chogyal to take care of me, His Holiness had the disappointed-looking French novice taken to a private room at the back of the temple, where he revealed to the young man that he had been present throughout the examination.