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

If I lived with a family who spent as much time watching television as the Dalai Lama spends meditating, and whose minds were just as agitated as my own, perhaps then, I sometimes think, I wouldn’t be quite so painfully aware of my own limitations. If I were surrounded by humans who believed that it is the people and things in their lives that make them happy or unhappy, rather than their attitude toward those people or things—well, then I could be considered the very wisest of cats.

But I’m not.

So I can’t be.

Instead, there are times when I feel so inadequate it seems pointless to even try becoming a genuine bodhicatva. My poor meditation skills. My habitual negative mental thoughts. Living at Jokhang is like being a pygmy among giants! Not to mention the fact that I have all manner of personal inadequacies, like my shadow side of gluttonous craving, which I battle each and every day, and my physical imperfections, instantly evident when I begin to walk, on account of my wobbly hind legs. And the acutely painful knowledge, like a sharp-edged grain of sand chafing at the very heart of my self-esteem, that my impeccable breeding is—oh, woe upon woes!—undocumented and likely to remain so till the end of time. It’s hard to keep believing that you are different or special or—dare one say it, blue-blooded—without the paperwork to prove it.

These were my precise thoughts when I ambled down the road one morning to Café Franc for a comfort meal. Making my way through the bustling tables, I paused to exchange wet-nose greetings with Marcel, who had become more cordial toward me since the arrival of Kyi Kyi. I indulged Franc with a beneficent purr when he reached down to stroke me. Then, darting out of the way of the head waiter, Kusali, who was balancing three plates of food on each arm, I ascended to my usual place between the glossy fashion magazines and surveyed my private theater.

There was the usual mixture of travelers—hikers, Seekers, Greenies, and sneaker-clad retirees. But my attention was immediately drawn to the 30-something man sitting alone at the table directly beside me, reading a copy of Bruce Lipton’s The Biology of Belief. Fresh-faced and handsome, with hazel eyes, a high forehead, and curly, dark hair, he was reading at a pace that suggested a ferocious intellect behind a pair of somewhat nerdy reading glasses.

Sam Goldberg was one of the longer-term patrons of the café. Arriving in McLeod Ganj a month earlier, on discovering Café Franc he had immediately become a daily visitor. It hadn’t taken Franc long to introduce himself.

The two of them had exchanged the usual small talk, during which I learned that Sam was taking time off after being laid off from his job in Los Angeles. He was in McLeod Ganj for an indeterminate time. He read an average of four books a week. He was an inveterate blogger on mind/body/spirit matters. And he had an online following of over 20,000 people.

It was during a conversation the previous week, however, that an interesting new possibility had emerged. During a lull between the midmorning and lunchtime crowds, Franc had pulled up a chair opposite Sam—an honor he bestowed only rarely on customers.

“What are you reading today?” he asked, sliding a complimentary latte toward Sam.

“Oh, thank you! Very kind.” Sam glanced at the coffee—and only very briefly at Franc—before returning his gaze to the book. “It’s the Dalai Lama’s commentary on the Heart Sutra,” he said. “One of the classics and a personal favorite. I must have read it a dozen times. Along with Thich Naht Hanh’s Heart of Understanding, I have found it the most useful work in helping unlock the sutra’s meaning.”

“Dependent arising is a difficult topic,” remarked Franc.

“The most difficult,” agreed Sam. “But for a broader understanding you can’t go much beyond Tilopa’s Mahamudra Instruction to Naropa in Twenty-Eight Verses or the First Panchen Lama’s Main Road of the Triumphant Ones. Tilopa’s verses are wonderfully lyrical, and poetry can sometimes convey a meaning that goes well beyond the words themselves. The Panchen Lama’s teachings are much more prosaic. But their power and clarity are exactly what you need when meditating on such a subtle object.”

Franc digested this in silence for a moment before saying, “It amazes me, Sam. Seems whatever subject I ask you about, you can rattle off the names of half a dozen books on the subject, together with a full critique.”

?

??Oh, n-n-n-n-no.” Flecks of pink appeared on Sam’s pale neck.

“I suppose you have to keep up with things for your blog?”

“Actually, the blog was a result”—Sam flashed a quick glance toward Franc without actually making eye contact—“rather than the cause.”

“You’ve always been a bookworm?”

“It helps if you are, in the industry. Th-th-the industry I used to be in, I mean.”

“And what industry was that?” asked Franc conversationally.

“Bookselling.”

“You mean … ?”

“I used to work for one of the chain bookstores.”

“That’s … intriguing.” I recognized the gleam in Franc’s eye. It was the same gleam I’d seen when he discovered I was the Dalai Lama’s cat.

“I ran a mind/body/spirit section,” continued Sam. “Needed to keep up to date with all the titles.”

“Tell me,” Franc said, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “This move to e-books and electronic readers. Does it mean the end of bookstores?”

Sam drew himself up in his chair before managing to look Franc in the eye for a full second. “Nobody has a crystal ball, but I think there are actually some stores that will thrive. Those that sell a particular kind of book. Perhaps organize events.”

“Like book cafés?”

“Exactly.”