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

“So when a person bows down to a Buddha, what really matters is the intention, not the bowing?”

It was at this point that the technical support services representative began to realize he had blustered his way into a corner. Not that he was about to back out. “The intention is obvious,” he argued.

Lobsang shrugged. “You tell me.”

“The intention is that you are begging Buddha for forgiveness. You are hoping for salvation.”

Lobsang burst out laughing. His manner was so gentle, however, that for the first time Raj Goel’s indignation seemed to wane.

“I think, perhaps, you are thinking of something else,” Lobsang said after a while. “Enlightened beings cannot take away your suffering or give you happiness. If they could do this, wouldn’t they have done so already?”

“Then why do you bother?” The technician was shaking his head as he fiddled with the modem.

“As you have already said, the intention is important. The statue of Buddha represents a state of enlightenment. Buddhas don’t need people to bow down to them. Why should they care? When we bow, we are reminding ourselves that our own natural potential is one of enlightenment.”

By now, Raj Goel had the modem cover off, and he was fiddling with connections to the circuitry inside. “If you don’t worship Buddha”—he tried to retain the edge to his voice, though it seemed to be becoming an effort—“what is Buddhism about?”

By now Lobsang had sufficient measure of his visitor to provide an answer to which he could relate. “The science of the mind,” he said.

“Science?”

“What if someone conducted tens of thousands of hours of rigorous investigation to discover truths about the nature of consciousness? Suppose other people replicated the research over hundreds of years. How amazing would it be not just to have an intellectual understanding of the mind’s potential but also to establish the most rapid and direct way to realize it? That is the science of Buddhism.”

Having fiddled with the innards of the modem, Raj Goel was replacing its cover. After a while he said, “I am interested in quantum science.” Then, after a moment’s pause, he announced, “The modem is working, but I have to reset it, to be on the safe side. The line fault has been reported. It should be up and running within twelve hours.”

Perhaps Lobsang’s immensely calming presence had begun to affect him. Or maybe it was the translator’s explanations that had stopped him in his tracks. But there was no further grunting or moaning as the visitor completed his work and replaced his tools.

On the way back down the corridor, as they passed Lobsang’s office, the translator said, “I have something here that may be of interest.” He ducked inside and took a book from one of the bookshelves lining the walls.

“The Quantum and the Lotus.” Raj Goel read the title before flicking the book open.

“You can borrow it if you like.”

There was an inscription on the title page from one of the book’s authors, Matthieu Ricard.

“It’s signed,” noted the visitor.

“Matthieu is a friend of mine.”

“He has visited Jokhang?”

“I first met him in America,” said Lobsang. “I lived there for ten years.”

For the first time, Raj Goel looked at Lobsang closely. That revelation was of far greater interest to him than anything else the translator had said. Realizing your natural potential. Achieving enlightenment. Yada, yada, yada. But lived in America for ten years?!

“Thank you,” said the visitor, slipping the book into his briefcase. “I will return it.”

The following Monday afternoon I heard Raj Goel’s voice coming down the corridor. As extraordinarily rude visitors to Jokhang are very rare, my curiosity drew me away from my afternoon siesta to Lobsang’s visitor, who was being shown to his office.

Had the technician come to pick another fight?

But the Raj Goel who had just arrived was a changed person from the snapping and snarling technical support representative of the previous week. Without all that energizing hostility, he cut a somewhat forlorn figure, with his faded shirt and battered briefcase.

“No further problems with the phone lines?” he was confirming, as I padded into Lobsang’s office behind him.

“Working perfectly, thank you.” Lobsang was behind his desk.

His visitor produced the borrowed book from inside his briefcase. “This has provided an interesting perspective,” he said. What he meant was, “Sorry I was so obnoxious last week.”