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

PROLOGUE

The idea came about one sunny Himalayan morning. There I was, lying in my usual spot on the first-floor windowsill—the perfect vantage point from which to maintain maximum surveillance with minimum effort—as His Holiness was bringing a private audience to a close.

I’m far too discreet to mention who the audience was with, except to say that she’s a very famous Hollywood actress … you know, the legally blonde one, who does all the charity work for children and is quite well known for her love of donkeys. Yes, her!

It was as she was turning to leave the room that she glanced out the window, with its magnificent view of the snow-capped mountains, and noticed me for the first time.

“Oh! How adorable!” She stepped over to stroke my neck, which I acknowledged with a wide yawn and tremulous stretch of the front paws. “I didn’t know you had a cat!” she exclaimed.

I am always surprised how many people make this observation—though not all are as bold as the American in giving voice to their astonishment. Why should His Holiness not have a cat—if, indeed, “having a cat” is a correct understanding of the relationship?

Besides, anyone with a particularly acute power of observation would recognize the feline presence in His Holiness’s life by the stray hairs and occasional whisker I make it my business to leave on his person. Should you ever have the privilege of getting very close to the Dalai Lama and scrutinizing his robes, you will almost certainly discover a fine wisp of white fur, confirming that far from living alone, he shares his inner sanctum with a cat of impeccable—if undocumented—breeding.

It was exactly this discovery to which the queen of England’s corgis reacted with such vigor when His Holiness visited Buckingham Palace—an incident of which the world media were strangely unaware.

But I digress.

Having stroked my neck, the American actress asked, “Does she have a name?”

“Oh, yes! Many names.” His Holiness smiled enigmatically.

What the Dalai Lama said was true. Like many domestic cats, I have acquired a variety of names, some of them used frequently, others less so. One of them in particular is a name I don’t much care for. Known among His Holiness’s staff as my ordination name, it isn’t a name the Dalai Lama himself has ever used—not the full version, at least. Nor is it a name I will disclose so long as I live. Not in this book, that’s for sure.

Well … definitely not in this chapter.

“If only she could speak,” continued the actress, “I’m sure she’d have such wisdom to share.”

And so the seed was planted.

In the months that followed I watched His Holiness working on a new book: the many hours he spent making sure texts were correctly interpreted; the great time and care he took to ensure that every word he wrote conveyed the greatest possible meaning and benefit. More and more, I began to think that perhaps the time had come for me to write a book of my own—a book that would convey some of the wisdom I’ve learned sitting not at the feet of the Dalai Lama but even closer, on his lap. A book that would tell my own tale—not so much one of rags to riches as trash to temple. How I was rescued from a fate too grisly to contemplate, to become the constant companion of a man who is not only one of the world’s greatest spiritual leaders and a Nobel Peace Prize Laureate but also a dab hand with a can opener.

Often in the late afternoon, after I feel His Holiness has already spent too many hours at his desk, I will hop off the windowsill, pad over to where he is working, and rub my furry body against his legs. If this doesn’t get his attention, I sink my teeth politely but precisely into the tender flesh of his ankles. That always does it.

With a sigh, the Dalai Lama will push back his chair, scoop me up into his arms, and walk over to the window. As he looks into my big, blue eyes, the expression in his own is one of such immense love that it never ceases to fill me with happiness.

“My little ‘bodhicatva,’” he will sometimes call me, a play on bo

dhisattva, a Sanskrit term that in Buddhism refers to an enlightened being.

Together we gaze out at the panoramic vista that sweeps down the Kangra Valley. Through the open windows a gentle breeze carries fragrances of pine, Himalayan oak, and rhododendron, giving the air its pristine, almost magical, quality. In the warm embrace of the Dalai Lama, all distinctions dissolve completely—between observer and observed, between cat and lama, between the stillness of twilight and my deep-throated purr.

It is in these moments that I feel profoundly grateful to be the Dalai Lama’s cat.

CHAPTER ONE

I have a defecating bull to thank for the event that was to change my very young life—and without which, dear reader, you would not be reading this book.

Picture a typical monsoonal afternoon in New Delhi. The Dalai Lama was on his way home from Indira Gandhi Airport, after a teaching trip to the United States. As his car made its way through the outskirts of the city, traffic was brought to a halt by a bull that had ambled into the center of the highway, where it proceeded to dump copiously.

Several cars back in the traffic jam, His Holiness was calmly gazing out the window, waiting for the traffic to start up again. As he sat there, his attention was drawn to a drama being played out at the side of the road.