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

His Holiness nodded in agreement. “You have very good motivation—giving without expecting to receive something back.”

“Oh, I’m not concerned about that. I feel lucky to be able to give.”

As the Dalai Lama chuckled, she regarded him inquiringly. “Don’t you think so?”

“Very fortunate,” His Holiness agreed. “But lucky? Perhaps not so much. In Buddhism, we follow the principle of karma, the law of cause and effect. There can be no effect, such as success, without a cause.”

“I have worked at my career for many years,” she conceded. “I’ve been through some pretty rough times.”

“We would call things like hard work ‘conditions,’” the Dalai Lama said, “not causes. Conditions are needed, certainly, for karma to germinate, just as a tree requires soil and moisture and heat to grow. But without a karmic cause, without that initial seed, it doesn’t matter how favorable conditions are, there can be no effect.”

The actress was following the Dalai Lama’s words closely. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, as it often does when His Holiness senses that someone would benefit from a particular insight.

“If hard work is only a condition, then what is the karmic cause for success?” she asked.

His Holiness gave her a look of immense benevolence. “Generosity,” he answered. “The success you currently enjoy arises from your past generosity. And the generosity you are practicing now means that you will enjoy more success in the future.”

We had been walking along the path for some minutes—farther than I had ever ventured on my own—when we came to a place where the forest suddenly stopped, giving way to a scarred moonscape of bald rock and sandy soil, with only a few, long-dead tree stumps left of what had once been lush vegetation.

His Holiness and the actress paused for a moment. Several holes had already been dug in preparation for a tree-planting ceremony. Pine saplings stood beside the holes, along with some wheelbarrows of soil. Journalists were assembled in readiness, cameras trained on the pair as they made their way out of the forest and across the wasteland.

As cameras whirred and members of the entourage closed in behind us, I felt a sudden need to attend to the call of nature. Being a cat of customarily high standards when it comes to such matters, I decided to look for a place that offered privacy and loose soil. A large banner bearing the logo of the actress’s charity was stretched across the area where photos would be taken later. It seemed to provide the perfect screening.

Unnoticed, I ducked behind the banner. In the quietness back there, I discovered row upon row of fir saplings, just like the ones about to be ceremonially planted. Rising behind them was every cat’s dream—a large mound of rich, loamy potting soil.

The very sight of it made me spring into action and scamper up the side with kittenish glee. I scattered soil this way and that as I clambered toward the summit, relishing my discovery. Once atop the mound, I sniffed at the earth, searching for a place of maximum comfort.

It was calm and quiet under the forest canopy as I sat meditatively. The early morning air—crisp, pine-scented—was bright with the mellifluous chorus of dawn birds. In the distance, I could hear a voice—the actress’s?—making an announcement, followed by a smattering of applause.

And then it happened. The banner, and all my privacy, suddenly fell away. A moment of planned drama designed to reveal the full scale of the reforestation project instead was focused on me.

Don’t get me wrong. We cats are not prudish. But nor do we like to make an exhibition of ourselves—especially not in front of the assembled world media.

For a moment the only sound was the clicking and whirring of cameras. Then a ripple of laughter passed through the gathering. His Holiness was one of the first to chuckle. Then the actress said something about the soil now being well fertilized.

My only concern, however, was to get away as fast as possible. I descended the earth mound even faster than I’d climbed it and scrambled into the undergrowth. Without pausing, I rushed back toward the temple and across the courtyard to the safety of home.

I had discovered a way of gaining access to the quarters I shared with the Dalai Lama that didn’t involve waiting for anyone to open a door. Slipping into the ground-floor laundry, I hopped up onto a shelf and then walked along a ledge to a window that opened into the dining room. There, exhausted by the early morning exertions, I curled up in a large armchair and fell asleep.

I was awakened by the delicious aroma of grilled steak, prepared in the way that just one person could possibly cook it. Only when I lifted my head did I become aware that the dining room was now occupied. The Dalai Lama had returned to other duties, but he had left the actress and several members of the reforestation entourage in the care of Tenzin and Lobsang, the translator, and the translator’s assistant. They were now sitting around the table eating a hearty breakfast of steak and eggs, while Mrs. Trinci fussed over them, offering extra servings of fried mushrooms, onion rings, and French toast. Seeing me stir, she soon returned with a small, white china dish on which she had thoughtfully arranged several bite-size portions of steak. She placed it on the floor beside me.

As we all attacked our breakfast with gusto, the conversation at the table moved from the tree-planting ceremony to the reforestation campaign and the actress’s busy calendar for the rest of the year. Then, after a pause, she mused, “I had the most interesting conversation with His Holiness earlier about karma. It’s not a subject we know much about in the West.”

Tenzin had been following the actress ever since his days as a student at Oxford, and he relished the opportunity to talk to her. “Yes, that has always struck me as a little strange. The law of cause and effect is the assumed basis of all Western technology. Nothing is causeless; everything occurs as the result of something else. But as soon as one ventures beyond the immediate, material realm, Westerners talk about luck, fate, or divine intervention.”

The group digested this in silence. “I suppose,” continued Tenzin, “the difficulty is that karma is not instantly apparent. It can take time for causes to yield effects. Because of this, it may seem that there is no relationship between cause and effect.”

“Yes,” agreed the actress. “His Holiness was saying that whatever wealth or success one enjoys in the present moment arises from previous generosity, not from hard work, or taking risks, or pursuing opportunities that are conditions rather than causes.”

“True,” agreed Tenzin. “For karma to ripen, you need both—both the causes and the conditions.”

“It’s no secret among our little group here”—the actress gestured to her fellow campaigners—“that a curious thing happened the year I made a significant financial donation to the reforestation campaign.”

There were knowing smiles around the table.

“I made the donation in May. Then, in December, I received exactly the same amount in a dividend I could never have foreseen. A lot of people said it was karma.”

Everyone at the table laughed.