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

“The painters finished their work early,” he explained, as though I should be delighted at what was happening. “Knowing how unhappy you were to be here, I thought you’d want to return as soon as you could.”

Unceremoniously, I was carted back to Jokhang.

There was no doubt that the redecoration had been a great success. The familiar rooms now gleamed with fresh paint, the fixtures were polished to a high gloss, and everything was as it had been before, but cleaner and refurbished. The only change made had been especially for me: two rectangular cushions had been covered in taupe-colored fleece and placed on the windowsill for my comfort.

Tenzin made a great fuss over me on my return, the scent of his freshly carbolic-washed hands a pungent reminder that I was home. My favorite brand of cat food was presented for my delectation. That afternoon, as His Holiness’s staff went home for the day, leaving me in peace, I should have been content that my trauma in the high-density suburb of McLeod Ganj was behind me.

Only I wasn’t.

I so wanted to be back there! I ached for tiger puss! What were the chances of us meeting again if I remained in my ivory tower at Jokhang? Would he think my sudden absence meant I had no interest in him? A tabby of his leonine magnificence would have quite a following. What if he gave up on me before we even had a chance?

As I thought about my time at Chogyal’s, which took on the quality of a remembered dream, I also had to admit what a fool I had been to spend three whole days under the duvet. Such a missed opportunity! What a waste! I could only imagine what might have happened if I had emerged on day one, instead of day four. What experiences I could have had, and how the relationship with the cat of my dreams might have developed. Instead, I had robbed myself of that opportunity with my ridiculous self-pity.

The Dalai Lama arrived home the next day. He only needed to step into the room, and all was well once again. Relationship angst and self-recrimination—all such trauma seemed utterly irrelevant now that His Holiness was here. Before he said so much as a word, his presence of blissful tranquility seemed to dissolve negative thoughts of all kinds, leaving only an abiding feeling of profound well-being.

Led by Tenzin and Chogyal through his redecorated chambers, the Dalai Lama beamed with delight. “Very good! Excellent!” he kept saying, as they pointed out the new brass doorknobs and improved security measures.

As soon as they had gone, he came over to stroke me. I felt a familiar glow of happiness as he looked into my eyes and whispered a few mantras.

“I know you’ve had a difficult time,” he said after a while. “Your good friend Mrs. Trinci is coming to make lunch. I am sure she will have something delicious just for you.”

Even if I had never heard of His Holiness’s guest that day, I would have realized he was someone very special, for along with the delicate fragility of the small, elderly man in monk’s robes, there was a remarkable power in his poise. It seemed that his travel plans had been disrupted by a trade union strike in France. As the Dalai Lama led him to a comfortable armchair, he sympathized with his visitor on the challenges of travel.

But Thich Nhat Hanh—pronounced Tick Nyut Han—Zen master, teacher, beloved guru, and author of many amazing books, shrugged off the difficulties. “Who knows what opportunities may arise as a result of the delays? I’m sure you are familiar with the Zen story of the farmer and his horse?”

His Holiness gestured for him to go on.

“The story is set in a bygone era in Japan, when a horse was not simply a horse, it was also a measure of wealth.”

The Dalai Lama nodded. By now, Thich Nhat Hanh had my full attention, too.

“This farmer acquired his very first horse, and all the local villagers came around to congratulate him. ‘How proud you must be to own such a magnificent horse!’ they all said.

“But the farmer, understanding something about the importance of equanimity, simply smiled and said, ‘We’ll see.’

“Soon afterward, the horse broke out of the paddock and ran into the countryside. The villagers commiserated with the farmer. ‘What a terrible tragedy! What a great loss! How is it possible to recover from such a thing?’

“Again, the farmer simply smiled and said, ‘We’ll see.’

“Less than a week passed, and the farmer woke to find that the horse had returned—accompanied by two wild horses. With the greatest of ease he led them into the paddock and closed the gate behind them. The villagers could hardly believe what happened. ‘This is amazing good fortune! A cause for great celebration! Who could have believed such a thing was possible?’

“Of course, the farmer only smiled and said, ‘We’ll see.’

“His son began the work of breaking in the two wild horses. It was dangerous work, and during the course of it, he was thrown from one of the horses and broke his leg. This happened shortly before harvest, and without his son’s help, the farmer faced a great challenge in collecting his crops. ‘How difficult is your hardship,’ the villagers told him. ‘Losing your son’s help at a time like this—there could be few greater misfortunes.’

“‘We’ll see,’ is all the farmer said.

“A few days later, the Imperial Army sent troops to every village to round up fit, able-bodied young men. The Emperor had decided to go to war and was rallying the troops. But because the farmer’s son had a broken leg, he was excused from service.”

Thich Naht Hanh smiled. “So it goes on.”

His Holiness looked at him with an appreciative smile. “A beautiful illustration.”

“‘Yes,’” agreed his visitor. “So much better than constantly reacting to change as if we are caught up in some kind of egocentric melodrama. Up and down like a roller coaster.’”

“Indeed,” said the Dalai Lama. “We forget that it’s only a matter of time before there is change—and, once again, a shift in perspective.”

As much as it pains me to admit it, while listening to the conversation between these two great spiritual leaders, I found it hard to avoid reacting to the recent changes in my own circumstances. How furious I’d been with poor Chogyal when all he wanted to do was take care of me. At the time, I’d even imagined him to be like a murderous revolutionary!