The Art of Purring (The Dalai Lama's Cat 2)

Serena was listening with rapt attention. I jumped on the sofa and sidled over toward Sid, testing one of his legs with my right paw. When he made no objection, I climbed onto his lap, circled a few times to find the best position, then settled on his pinstriped trousers. Once I did, he stroked me reassuringly. It was as though we had sat together like this many times in the past.

“Unfortunately,” Sid continued, “unlike our predecessors, my grandfather was not an astute man. Everyone took advantage of him: his advisers, his servants, even his so-called friends. Over the years he lost all his estates and money. I remember my father taking me to visit him on his deathbed. By that time the palace was ramshackle, stripped of most of its valuables, but even then it was overrun with people who had supposedly come to pay their respects. My father had a firm of private bodyguards put at the gates to search everyone on their way out.” Sid shook his head. “I can’t begin to describe the ‘souvenirs’ they found people trying to steal.

“By the time my father became Maharajah, it was a title with very little else, except for a decaying building in the foothills of the Himalayas to which he never returned. He had little interest in commerce and devoted himself to spiritual pursuits instead. He leaned toward Buddhism, which is why he named me Siddhartha, after the Buddha’s birth name.”

I purred.

“Perhaps because he was so unworldly, my father didn’t realize what the loss of the family fortune actually meant. We still lived as though we had money, and there were always willing creditors because of the family name. He sent me abroad to be educated, and I got involved with a girl who was also under the illusion she was marrying an heir.

“When the creditors finally lost their patience with my father and began threatening him, he died of a heart attack. My girlfriend left me. I came home to a grieving mother and a mountain of debt. So you see”—Sid met Serena’s eyes with a penetrating expression—“since then I have been very reluctant to use a title and family name that have been so … problematic.”

Serena looked at him with compassion. “I’m very sorry to hear all that,” she said warmly. “How awful for you.”

“It’s in the past.” He nodded briskly. “Since then I have enjoyed some success in business. Unlike my ancestors, I have focused on benefiting the community, as well as myself. That is why I am interested in, for example, fair-trade spices.”

She smiled. “You’re being too modest.” With a gesture that encompassed the building and surrounding gardens, she said, “It seems to me you’ve been very successful. That must make you happy.”

Sid considered this for a long time before saying, “I think it is actually the other way around. Happiness comes first, then success.”

As Serena listened closely, he continued. “When I returned to India, I faced many challenges, but in my heart I felt sure of my purpose. I wanted to achieve the balance in my life that both my father and grandfather had lacked. Meditation practice and yoga for mental and physical well-being—of course. Business activities to generate money benefiting self and others—yes, that too. It didn’t matter so much that I lived and worked in a tiny, two-bedroom place right above the market. I already felt part of the community. In small ways I was able to help. When you have that contentment within, whether or not you achieve your goals, I think success becomes more likely.”

“The paradox of nonattachment,” agreed Serena.

“Not many people would understand.”

Serena held his gaze for a long time before gesturing to the painting on the wall. “Is that your family home?”

Sid nodded. “A painting from my grandfather’s era. It’s still much the same, but slowly, slowly we are restoring it to some of its former glory.”

“It’s magnificent!”

“The Palace of the Four Pavilions. In its day, it was sublime. These days, it’s only just habitable. My mother moved there a year ago from Delhi, along with her family of Himalayan cats. Just like this one.”

I looked up inquiringly at Sid.

Delhi. Where I was born. To the cat of a family believed to be wealthy, who had moved soon afterward, and no one had been able to trace.

“You look very at home with her on your lap.”

“Oh, yes. They are very special creatures, especially sensitive to people’s mood and energy.” Then after a moment he asked, “So am I correct in thinking we may be able to work together introducing the world to spice packs?”

For a while they talked about distribution, supply chains, online marketing, and celebrity endorsements. But I could sense that beneath it all, something else was happening. That afternoon, with the sun?

?s rays reaching through the bay window, it was as though Sid and Serena were dancing.

Then it was time for Serena to go and get ready for yoga. As we left the room, she turned, looking back at the painting. “I would love to see the Palace of the Four Pavilions. Would you take me there one day?”

Sid smiled broadly. “It would be my great pleasure.”

The three of us made our way to the door. Sid stood at the top of the steps and watched us go.

Partway down the path, Serena turned around. “By the way … Siddartha,” she said, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun, “the night of the fire: my scarf was on the balcony, wasn’t it?”

There was a long pause before he nodded.

A late afternoon breeze carried with it the sultry promise of evening jasmine. Serena kissed the tips of her fingers and blew the kiss to Sid.

With a smile, he brought his palms together at his heart.