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

Humans may wait in desperation for a particular text message, e-mail, or phone call. We cats have different ways of communicating. The form is unimportant. All that matters is the confirmation we so desperately seek.

I was in just such a position when it came to my tabby friend. My attraction was instant, from the first moment I saw him under the green light. When we actually met, during my stay at Chogyal’s, there had been an unmistakable and, I thought, mutual frisson. But now that I was no longer staying with Chogyal, did he know where I lived? Should I make more of an effort—say, by crossing the temple courtyard one night and exploring the shadowy netherworld beyond? Or should I remain coolly enigmatic, a feline of great mystery, and rely on him to come looking?

It was Lobsang, His Holiness’s translator, who brought much-needed clarity to my situation. And, as is so often the case with these things, in the least expected way. A tall, slim Tibetan Buddhist monk in his mid-30s, Lobsang was originally from Bhutan, where he was a distant relative of the royal family. He had received a thoroughly Western education in America, graduating from Yale with a degree in Philosophy of Language and Semiotics. As well as his height and a radiant intelligence, there was something else you became aware of the moment that Lobsang stepped into a room. It was an aura of calm. He was suffused with serenity. A deep, abiding tranquility seemed to emanate from every cell of his body, affecting everyone around him.

In addition to his responsibilities as translator, Lobsang was also the unofficial head of information technology at Jokhang. Whenever computers were uncooperative, printers turned surly, or satellite receiver boxes switched to passive-aggressive mode, it was Lobsang who was called upon to apply his calm, incisive logic to the problem.

So when the main modem at Jokhang went on the blink one afternoon, it didn’t take five minutes for Tenzin to summon Lobsang from his office down the corridor. After a few simple checks, Lobsang concluded that a fault in the line was the problem. Help from the phone company was summoned forthwith.

Which is how Raj Goel, technical support services representative of Dharamsala Telecom, came to be at Jokhang late that afternoon. A slight man in his mid-20s with a wiry frame and thick mop of hair, he seemed extremely disgruntled at having to provide technical support services to a customer. The cheek of it! The nerve!

Face set to a scowl, his manner brusque, he demanded to be shown the modem and the telephone lines coming into Jokhang. These were located in a small room down the corridor. Slamming his metal briefcase on a shelving unit with an angry crash, he flicked open the clasps, extracted a flashlight and a screwdriver, and was soon poking and prodding a tangle of cables, while Lobsang stood a few feet away, calmly attentive.

“Mess, this place,” Raj Goel growled under his breath.

Lobsang gave the impression of not having heard the remark.

Grunting as he got to his knees and followed a particular cable to the back of the modem, the technician muttered darkly about systems integrity, interference, and other arcane matters before seizing the modem angrily, tugging a number of cables at the back, and turning it over in his hands.

As Raj Goel was venting his spleen, Tenzin happened to walk past. He met Lobsang’s eyes with an expression of dry amusement.

“I’m going to have to open this,” the technician told Lobsang in an accusatory tone.

His Holiness’s translator nodded. “Okay.”

Rummaging in his briefcase for a smaller screwdriver, Raj Goel began working on the case of the offending modem.

“No time for religion.”

Was he speaking to himself? His voice seemed too bold for that.

“Superstitious nonsense,” he complained a few moments later, even louder.

Lobsang was untroubled by the remarks. If anything, a smile seemed to have appeared on his lips.

But Raj Goel was spoiling for a fight. Battling with an unyielding screw as he leaned over the modem, this time he spoke in a tone that demanded a response. “What’s the point of filling people’s heads with silly beliefs?”

“I agree,” Lobsang replied. “No point at all.”

“Huh!” the other exclaimed some time later, triumphing over the obdurate screw. “But you’re religious.” This time he shot Lobsang a hard-eyed glance. “You’re a Believer.”

“I don’t think of it that way at all.” Lobsang emanated profound calm. After a pause, he continued. “One of the last things Buddha said to his followers was that anyone who believed a word he had taught them was a fool—unless they had tested it against their own experience.”

Patches of sweat began appearing on the technician’s polyester shirt. Lobsang’s reaction was not the one he was after. “Sneaky words,” he groused. “I see people bowing down to Buddhas in temples. Chanting prayers. What’s that if it isn’t blind faith?”

“Before I answer that, let me ask you something.” Lobsang leaned against the door frame. “You’re at Dharamsala Teleco

m. Two calls come in during the morning: one from a customer who accidently overturned a filing cabinet onto his modem, the other from a customer who got so angry with his wife for shopping online that he smashed their modem with a hammer. In both cases, the modems are broken and need to be repaired or replaced. Do you treat both customers the same?”

“Of course not!” scowled Raj Goel. “What has that got to do with bowing and scraping to Buddhas?”

“Quite a lot.” Lobsang’s easy poise couldn’t have contrasted more starkly with Raj Goel’s prickliness. “I’ll explain why. But those two customers—”

“The one was an accident,” the technician interjected, his voice rising. “The other was a deliberate act of vandalism.”

“What you’re saying is that intention is more important that an action itself?”

“Of course.”