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

As I leaped up the first few steps, I could sense that my usual energy was failing me. I made it to steps two and three, but instead of accelerating, something seemed to be holding me back. The usual buildup of momentum just wasn’t happening.

At the critical moment, when I was about to reach the midpoint of the flight, instead of sprawling on the landing in a safe, if undignified heap, I found myself in midair, paws flailing desperately for contact. In surreal slow motion, I was tumbling backward and onto my side. I landed heavily, half on one step, half on the step below. Then, lurching lopsided and backward down the staircase, I made a terrifying and ignominious descent, only coming to a halt at His Holiness’s feet.

Within moments the Dalai Lama was carrying me to our room. The vet was summoned. A towel was draped over His Holiness’s desk, and I was subjected to a full examination. Dr. Guy Wilkinson didn’t take long to conclude that while I was physically unharmed by the fall, and in every other respect the very model of good health, there was one particular area in which my health was seriously off kilter: I was carrying far too much weight.

How much was I being fed every day? he wanted to know.

That was a question none of His Holiness’s staff could fully answer and not one I cared to respond to d

irectly. Humiliated enough by the tumble, I had no wish to embarrass myself further by revealing the full extent of my uncurbed appetite.

But the truth came out.

Tenzin made a few well-directed phone calls, and by the end of the day, he reported to the Dalai Lama that in addition to the two meals a day I was supplied at Jokhang, I was eating three elsewhere.

A new regime was soon agreed on. Henceforth, Mrs. Trinci and Café Franc were directed to feed me half portions. I was to receive no food at all from Mrs. Patel. In the course of a few hours, my daily regime had been subjected to drastic and permanent change.

How did I feel about all of this? Had I been asked about my eating habits, I would have admitted that they should be improved. I would have readily conceded that yes, five meals a day was an excessive amount for one small—but not small enough—cat. I had known all along that I should cut down. But my knowledge had been intellectual until my humiliating tumble. Only then did that understanding become a realization that would change my behavior.

Life, post-tumble, would never be the same again.

That night, in the cozy darkness of bed, I felt His Holiness’s hand reach out. All it took was his touch, and I’d purr with contentment.

“It’s been a hard day, little Snow Lion,” he whispered. “But things will get better from here. When we see for ourselves there is a problem, change becomes much easier.”

And indeed it did. After the initial shock of smaller meal portions and the absence of any food at all outside Cut Price Bazaar, it was only a matter of days before I began to feel less lethargic. Within weeks, there was a new spring to my wobbly step.

Soon, I was again able to hop up on the kitchen bench. And never again did I tumble down the stairs to our quarters at Jokhang.

One Friday morning, a rectangular polystyrene box addressed to Mrs. Trinci arrived at Jokhang by courier. It was taken directly to the kitchen, where she was preparing a meal for the prime minister of India to the accompaniment of Andrea Bocelli. Surprised by the unexpected delivery, she called out to that day’s sous chef, “Bring me a knife to open this, will you, Treasure?”

It was the term she now typically used—only sometimes through gritted teeth. While her effusive manner was much the same as it always had been, her anger arose more in the form of lightning flashes of irritation than in volcanic eruptions.

And in a curious way, it seemed that she was already being rewarded for her self-restraint. Just recently she’d heard from her daughter, Serena, who had trained as a chef in Italy before spending several years working at a variety of Michelin-starred restaurants in Europe. Mrs. Trinci was beyond pleased to learn that Serena had decided she’d had enough of Europe for a while. In just a few weeks she would be back home in McLeod Ganj.

Knife in hand, Mrs. Trinci sliced the wrapping tape and protective covering of the mysterious delivery, opening the package to reveal a frosted plastic container of bright red liquid—and an envelope with her name on it.

“Dear Mrs. Trinci,” read the short note. “My grateful thanks for the wonderful Ayurvedic meal I enjoyed recently with His Holiness. I was sorry to hear that you were unable to prepare the raspberry sorbet you had planned. So I hope you enjoy the enclosed, made according to a favorite Ayurvedic recipe. May it bring you and your guests good health and much happiness.”

“Mamma mia!” Mrs. Trinci stared at the letter. “How amazing! What generosity!”

Moments later she was opening the lid and sampling the contents.

“Exquisite!” she pronounced, eyes closed as she ran the mixture ruminatively around her mouth. “So much better than I could have made.”

She picked up the container to see how much there was. “And it will do perfectly as a palate-cleanser today.”

Later, I heard Tenzin and Chogyal discussing that day’s lunch. The great political accord of the occasion had been assisted, in no small measure, by the wonderful food. The prime minister, unable to believe that His Holiness’s cook was not Indian, had called her upstairs to offer his congratulations. Apparently, he had gone into raptures over the raspberry sorbet.

“Isn’t it interesting the way these things work out?” Tenzin remarked to Chogyal. “Mrs. Trinci is so much calmer and more contented these days.”

“That’s for sure!” Chogyal’s agreement was heartfelt.

“And of all the days she could have offered it, serving raspberry sorbet today was a masterstroke.”

“Indeed it was.”

CHAPTER NINE