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

Who can say what words passed between the two of them that day? But after a few minutes, the French boy returned, looking both consoled and overwhelmed to have been the subject of the Dalai Lama’s attention. I was coming to learn that His Holiness has a very particular ability to help guide individuals to their highest personal purpose—one that would bring great happiness and benefit to both themselves and many others.

“Sometimes I hear people speaking despondently about the future of Buddhism,” His Holiness said to Chogyal, as we returned to his quarters later. “I wish they could come to the examinations to experience what we saw here today. There are so many novices, so committed and of such a high caliber. My only wish is that we had places for them all.”

By the time we had returned from the temple, Mrs. Trinci was in full command of the kitchen, to which I made my way directly. His Holiness had distracted me from my loneliness with the visit to the temple that morning. Now Mrs. Trinci continued the entertainment. She was wearing an emerald green dress with dangling gold earrings and matching bracelets that clanked together every time she moved her arms. Her long, dark hair on this visit seemed to have a reddish tinge.

Mrs. Trinci’s life rarely followed the same smooth regularity as that of the permanent residents of Jokhang, and today was no exception. The present crisis had been provoked by a 2 A.M. power cut. Mrs. Trinci had gone to bed believing she would wake to a crisp meringue base in her oven, which she had set to the prescribed low, overnight temperature. Instead she had woken to a soggy mess beyond redemption—with only seven hours before His Holiness’s VIP guest arrived.

There had followed the frantic whipping up of a new base, a high-risk ramping up of the oven temperature, and an elaborate plan to have the base couriered to Jokhang at 1 P.M.—long after she had arrived to prepare the main course but before dessert was to be served.

“Would it not be easier to prepare another dessert?” Tenzin had suggested, dangerously, on learning of the drama. “Something simple like—”

“It has to be a Pavlova. She’s Australian!” Mrs. Trinci flung a stainless steel spatula into the sink with a crash. She always incorporated an element of a guest’s national cuisine, and today was to be no exception. “What’s Australian about Melanzane Parmigiana?”

Tenzin took a step back.

“Or vegetable ragout?!”

“I was just suggesting—”

“Well, don’t suggest! Zitto! Hush! No time for suggestions!”

His Holiness’s executive assistant made a tactical retreat.

Despite all the histrionics, Mrs. Trinci’s meal was, as always, a gastronomic triumph. The Pavlova betrayed no hint of the crisis from which it had been brought forth; it was a perfect meringue base crowned by equally perfect individual meringues, filled with a cornucopia of glistening fruit and whipped cream.

And Mrs. Trinci had not forgotten The Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived. She treated me to a helping of leftover beef casserole so generous that I had to meow to be put down from the kitchen counter after eating, being too stuffed to jump down on my own.

Having bestowed several appreciative licks on Mrs. Trinci’s bejeweled fingers, I waddled through to the reception room in which the Dalai Lama and his visitor were now sipping tea. Our lunchtime visitor that day was the Venerable Robina Courtin, a nun who had devoted much time to helping prisoners rehabilitate their lives through her Liberation Prison Project. The subject of prison conditions in America was being discussed as I made my entrance and headed over to a favorite woolen rug to perform the customary post-prandial face-washing.

“Conditions vary greatly,” the nun was saying. “Some facilities lock up their prisoners for most of the day in cells that feel like basement cages with no natural light. We have to sit on one side of a small hole in an iron door to talk to a prisoner on the other side. In such circumstances, there seems little hope of rehabilitation.

“But there are many other facilities,” she continued, “where the focus is more positive—on training and motivating people to change. There’s no escaping the institutional atmosphere, but cell doors are open for more of the day, and there are sports and recreational activities, as well as TV, computer access, and libraries.”

She paused, smiling as she remembered something. “There was this group of lifers I got to know quite well when teaching meditation classes in Florida. One of them asked me, ‘What happens in a nunnery, day to day?’”

She shrugged. “So I told him that we get up at five in the morning for the first meditation session. Well, that was much too early for him! Roll call in the jail is a leisurely 7 A.M. I explained that our day is structured from the time we get up until we retire at 10 P.M., with a strong emphasis on learning and studying, and working in the nunnery gardens to grow the fruit and vegetables we eat.” She grimaced. “He didn’t like the sound of that either.”

The others were smiling.

“I said that we didn’t have a TV or newspapers or alcohol or computers. Unlike the prisoners in a jail, the nuns can’t earn money to buy special treats. And there are certainly no conjugal visits!”

The Dalai Lama chuckled.

“That’s when he came out with the most extraordinary thing,” she went on. “Without even realizing what he was saying, he suggested, ‘If it all gets too hard, you could always come and live with us here.’”

Everyone in the room burst out laughing.

“He actually felt sorry for me!” Robina’s eyes sparkled. “It seemed to him that conditions were even harsher in the nunnery than in jail.”

His Holiness leaned forward in his chair, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Isn’t that interesting? Only this morning at the temple, we saw novice monks competing for admission to the monastery. There are too many novices and not enough places. But turning to the jail, nobody wants to go there, even though the conditions are easier than in a monastery. This proves that it is not so much the circumstances of our lives that make us happy or unhappy but the way we see them.”

There were murmurs of agreement.

“Do we believe that, whatever our circumstances, we have the chance to live happy and meaningful lives?” he continued.

“Exactly!” agreed Robina.

His Holiness nodded. “Most people think that their only option is to change their circumstances. But these are not the true causes of their unhappiness. It has more to do with the way they think about their circumstances.”