The Dalai Lama's Cat (The Dalai Lama's Cat 1)
In the falling darkness, squares of light appeared in the windows of Namgyal Monastery as the monks returned to their rooms.
The night seemed alive with possibility.
CHAPTER THREE
Can you become famous by association?
Although I had never asked the question, I discovered the answer within a few months of arriving in McLeod Ganj, on the outskirts of Dharamsala. My ventures into the outside world had become bolder and more frequent, as I became familiar not only with the Dalai Lama’s quarters and the temple complex but also with the world down the hill from Jokhang.
Immediately outside the temple gates were stalls selling fruit, snacks, and other fresh produce, mainly to the locals. There were also a few stalls for tourists, the biggest and most resplendent being “S. J. Patel’s Quality International Budget Tours.” The proprietor carried the widest range of goods and services, from local tours around Dharamsala to trips to Nepal. At his stall, visitors could also buy maps, umbrellas, mobile phones, batteries, and bottles of water. From early in the morning until long after the other stalls had closed, Mr. Patel could be seen hustling tourists for trade, gesticulating excitedly as he spoke into his mobile phone or, from time to time, dozing in the reclined passenger seat of his pride and joy, a 1972 Mercedes that was parked nearby.
Neither Mr. Patel nor the other stall holders had much to interest a cat, so it wasn’t long before I ventured farther down the street. There I found a clutch of small shops, one of which immediately had my nostrils twitching with the bouquet of enticing aromas that wafted from its doors.
Flower boxes, sidewalk tables, and jaunty yellow-and-red umbrellas bedecked with auspicious Tibetan symbols lined the entrance to Café Franc, a brasserie from which emanated the scents of baking bread and freshly ground coffee, interlaced with even more appetizing suggestions of fish pie, pâté, and mouthwatering Mornay sauce.
From a flower bed opposite the restaurant, I observed the ebb and swell of tourists who frequented the outside tables each day: the earnest hikers gathering around their laptops and smartphones, planning expeditions, sharing photographs, and speaking on crackling connections to the folks back home; the spiritual tourists visiting India in search of mystical experiences; the celebrity hunters who had come here hoping for a photograph of the Dalai Lama.
One man seemed to spend most of his time at the place. Early in the morning he would pull up outside in a bright red Fiat Punto, incongruously new and polished for a ramshackle street in McLeod Ganj. Springing from the driver’s door, his head entirely bald and polished, his clothing tight, black, and stylish, he was closely followed by a French bulldog. The two strutted into the café as though taking to the stage. During different visits I noticed the man both inside and out, sometimes barking orders at waiters, sometimes sitting at a table poring over papers while keying numbers into a glistening black smartphone.
I can’t, dear reader, explain why I didn’t work out immediately who he was, or where his cat-versus-dog proclivities lay, or the evident folly of venturing any closer to Café Franc. But the truth is, I was naïve to all this, perhaps because, at the time, I was little more than a kitten.
The afternoon of my fateful visit, the chef at Café Franc had prepared a particularly enticing plat du jour. The aroma of roast chicken wafted all the way up to the gates of the temple—an invocation I found impossible to resist. Padding down the hill as fast as my unsteady gait would allow, it wasn’t long before I was standing directly beside one of the boxes of scarlet geraniums at the entrance.
With no strategy beyond a vain hope that my mere presence would be enough to conjure up a generous serving of lunch—it seemed to work with Mrs. Trinci—I ventured toward one of the tables. The four backpackers sitting there were too intent on their cheeseburgers to pay me the least attention.
I must do more.
At a table farther inside, an older, Mediterranean-looking man glanced at me with complete indifference as he sipped his black coffee.
By now quite far inside the restaurant, I was wondering where to go next when suddenly there was a growl. The French bulldog, only a matter of yards away, stared at me menacingly. What I should have done was nothing at all. Held my ground. Hissed wrathfully. Treated the dog with such lofty disdain that it didn’t dare come a step closer.
But I was a young and foolish kitten, so I took off, which only provoked the beast further. There was a thundering of paws as it bolted across the wooden floor toward me. A flailing of limbs as I scampered as fast as my legs would allow. Sudden, hideous growling as it bore down on me. Panic and pandemonium as I found myself cornered in the unfamiliar room. My heart was beating so fast I felt I would explode. Ahead of me was an old-fashioned newspaper rack with some space behind it. With no other option and the beast so close I could smell its foul, sulfuric breath, I was forced to jump up and over the rack, landing on the floor on the other side with a thud.
Victory snatched so abruptly from its jaws, the dog went berserk. It could see me only inches away but couldn’t get closer. As it yapped hysterically, human voices were raised.
“Huge rat!” exclaimed one.
“Over there!” cried another.
In moments, a black shadow loomed above me, along with the powerful scent of Kouros aftershave.
Next I felt a curious sensation, one I hadn’t experienced since life as a newborn kitten. A tightening around the neck, the sense of being lifted. Picked up by the scruff, I found myself looking at the shiny bald pate and baleful hazel eyes of Franc, into whose café I had trespassed and whose French bulldog I had enraged and who—most important of all—was evidently no lover of cats.
Time stood still. Enough for me to observe the anger in those bulging eyes, the pulsing blue vein that ran up to his temple, the clenched jaw and pursed lips, the glittering gold Om symbol that dangled from his left ear.
“A cat!” he spat, as
though the very idea of it was an affront. Looking down at the bulldog, he said, “Marcel! How could you let this … thing in here?” His accent was American, his tone indignant.
Marcel slunk away, cowed.
Franc strode to the front of the brasserie. He was clearly going to eject me. And the idea suddenly filled me with terror. Most cats are capable of leaping from great heights without the least harm. But I am not most cats. My hind legs were already weak and unstable. Further impact could cause them irreparable harm. What if I could never walk again? What if I could never find my way back to Jokhang?!
The Mediterranean man still sat impassively with his coffee. The backpackers were bent over their plates, shoving French fries into their mouths. No one was about to come to my rescue.
Franc’s expression was implacable as he made his way to the roadside. He lifted me higher. He drew his arm back. He was preparing not simply to drop me but to launch me like a missile into the street beyond his premises.
This was when two monks walked past on their way up to Jokhang. Catching sight of me, they folded their hands at their hearts and bowed slightly.