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

For Lauren, who had thought that being vegetarian meant that no living beings would be harmed, this was a difficult discovery. Her certainty was being shaken.

“The doctor says I should eat lean meat, like beef. But from a compassionate point of view, if you have to eat the flesh of an animal, wouldn’t it be better to eat a being like a fish?”

His Holiness nodded. “I understand what you’re saying, but there are some who would say that eating a cow is better, because a single cow can provide more than one thousand meals. A fish, only one meal. Sometimes it takes many prawns, many sentient beings, for only one meal.”

Lauren looked at the Dalai Lama for a long time. Eventually she said, “I didn’t realize it was so complicated.”

“It is a very big subject,” he agreed. “You will find that some people tell you there is only one way, this way, which happens to be the way that they think, and that everyone else should change their views to be like them. But it is really a matter of personal choice. The important thing is to make sure our decisions are guided with compassion and wisdom.”

She nodded earnestly.

“Before we eat any meal, vegetarian or meat, we should always remember the beings that have died so that we can eat. Their lives were just as important to them as your life is to you. Think of them with gratitude and pray that their sacrifice will be a cause for them to be reborn in a higher realm—and for you to be healthy, so that you can quickly, quickly reach full enlightenment in order to lead them to that same state.”

“Yes, Your Holiness,” said Lauren, leaning against him.

For a moment, the whole room was flooded with a warm glow. In the corner, near where I was dozing, the two novice monks, who had been listening to the conversation, continued to whisper their mantras.

His Holiness got up from the sofa, and as he was making his way across the visitors’ room, he said, “As much as possible, it is useful to think of all other beings as being just like me. Every living being strives for happiness. Every being wants to avoid all forms of suffering. They are not just objects or things to be used for our benefit. You know, Mahatma Gandhi once said: ‘The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.’ Interesting, isn’t it?”

Later that afternoon I was with the Dalai Lama, occupying my usual spot on the windowsill. There was a tentative knock on the door, then the two novices made their appearance.

“You wanted to see us, Your Holiness?” Tashi, the older one asked, somewhat nervously.

“Yes, yes.” The Dalai Lama opened one of the drawers of his desk and took out two sandalwood malas, or strings of prayer beads. “This is a small gift to thank you for looking after HHC,” he said.

Each boy accepted a mala, bowing in solemn thanks.

His Holiness said a few words about the importance of mindfulness when practicing meditation, then gave them a benevolent smile.

The short audience had come to an end, but the two novices stood where they were, exchanging nervous glances.

It was only when the Dalai Lama said, “You may go,” that Tashi asked in a piping voice, “Can I ask you a question, please, Your Holiness?”

“Of course,” he responded, a glint in his eye.

“We heard what you said earlier today about living beings. How they are not just objects to be used.”

“

Yes, yes.”

“We have a confession to make. A terrible thing we did.”

“Yes, Your Holiness,” interjected Sashi, “but it was before we became novices.”

“Our family in Delhi was very poor,” Tashi started to explain. “Once, we found four kittens in a back alley and sold them for sixty rupees—”

“—and two U.S. dollars,” Sashi added.

“No questions asked,” Tashi said.

“Perhaps they were only bought for their fur coats,” Sashi ventured.

On the sill I looked up suddenly. Was I to believe what I was hearing? Were these two novices really the same unscrupulous little demons who had cruelly stolen me from the warm safety of my family home? Who had brutally wrenched my siblings and me from our mother before we were even properly weaned? Who had treated us like nothing more than merchandise? How could I forget the way they’d humiliated me, shoving me into a mud puddle, or how, when I went unsold, they’d so casually planned to destroy me?

Along with the shock, resentment welled up inside me.

But then it came to me: had it not been for them selling me, I would probably have died or been condemned to a harsh life in a Delhi slum. Instead, here I was, the Snow Lion of Jokhang.