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

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The day of His Holiness’s return finally arrived! Waking from my 44th sleep alone on the yak blanket, I remembered that the Dalai Lama would be home within hours even before I opened my eyes. I hopped off the bed with glee.

From early that morning, the whole of Jokhang was abuzz with preparations. From His Holiness’s study came the sounds of cleaners giving the place a final dust and vacuum. When I emerged from our apartment, having had a few mouthfuls of breakfast, fresh flowers were being delivered and placed in the reception areas, to welcome not only the Dalai Lama but also the many guests he would soon be receiving.

In the executive assistants’ office, Tenzin’s chair was empty. He and the driver were on their way to Kangra Airport to meet His Holiness as he got off the plane. On the way back, Tenzin would brief the Dalai Lama on the most urgent and important matters requiring his attention.

Across the desk, Yogi Tarchin had no sooner finished speaking to one person than another was making further demands. Far from showing any sign of irritation, he was easy, even playful, in the way he dealt with it all. A lightness pervaded the room.

That feeling was not, alas, in evidence somewhat farther down the corridor when I paused at Lobsang’s door. His typically serene presence was curiously altered. For a while I watched as he tidied his shelves, sorted through a number of files before placing several neatly on his desk, and glanced about his office in a distracted manner. It was a while before I realized what he seemed to be feeling: it was apprehension.

No such concerns troubled others at Jokhang. Instead there was a celebratory frisson in the air. His Holiness would soon be back among us, and with him our whole purpose for being here would return. A flurry of couriers arrived bearing gifts, parcels, and important correspondence. In the staff room voices were raised with urgency, and laughter echoed down the hallway as people discovered fresh meaning in their work. From the kitchen came the unmistakable aromas of Mrs. Trinci’s cooking, as she prepared lunch for His Holiness’s first visitors.

As a cat with well-developed feline intuition, I knew exactly when the Dalai Lama would be getting home. So instead of lounging on the filing cabinet in the executive assistants’ office, I opted for my favorite spot when His Holiness was in residence—the windowsill of the main reception room. It was here that he spent so much of his time, and here that I eavesdropped on the most intriguing conversations. And, of top priority to a cat, it was here that I could observe all the comings and goings in the courtyard below.

Not every single coming or going was closely observed. After all, what’s the point of breakfast if it isn’t followed by a postprandial nap? Not to mention that the gentle breeze blowing through the open window had the most delightfully soporific effect. So a short while later, I was roused by the sound of applause coming from the corridor outside. The door of the reception room opened, and the security men made a final check. Suddenly His Holiness appeared.

He entered the room and looked directly at me. The instant our eyes met, I was suffused with happiness so great it was almost overwhelming. Leaving his entourage of staff and advisers behind, he came straight over and lifted me into his arms.

“How are you, my little Snow Lion?” he murmured. “I have missed you!”

He turned so that together we were looking out the window and down Kangra Valley. In that Himalaya morning it seemed as though the air had never been so crisp, the sky never so clear, the scent of cypress and rhododendron never so strong. Gazing down at the stone paths cushioned with pine needles, I was in wordless communication with His Holiness.

As I purred, he chuckled softly, recollecting our last conversation before he left. Did he even need to ask if I had explored the art of purring?

He did not.

Nor did I have to tell him, because he knew my experiences with greater clarity and compassion than I did myself. The Dalai Lama was well aware of what I had learned during his time away. He knew that in listening to the famous psychologist down at the Himalaya Book Café I had come to realize that despite all our ideas about what will make us happy, much of the time our expectations are wrong. He knew, too, that Viktor Frankl’s observation that happiness arises as a side effect of one’s dedication to a cause greater than oneself was resonant with meaning for me.

From Ludo at the yoga studio, I had discovered that happiness isn’t to be found in the past. Gordon Finlay had proven that it shouldn’t be expected in some mythical future either. And if I was to learn anything from Chogyal’s early death, it was that only by developing a keen sense of life’s evanescence would I be able to experience each day for what it is—a miracle.

Sam Goldberg and his Happiness Formula had convinced me that whatever our circumstances or temperament, each of us has the capacity for greater happiness through practices like meditation. Not to mention that when we help others, we ourselves are often the first beneficiaries. Could there be a better reason to purr?

Through Namgyal Monastery’s disciplinarian I had come to understand how often mood is linked to food. And the personal crises faced by Serena and Sam that had prompted one of Geshe Wangpo’s surprise interventions had served as a practical lesson in how to cultivate equanimity.

Siddhartha, the Maharajah of Himachal Pradesh seemed to be living proof that the relationship between happiness and success is the reverse of what many people assume.

But it was Yogi Tarchin who had made me see what a limited view I had of my own mind as well as my potential for happiness. And the British biologist had offered hope to all us sem chens in explaining that the capacity for panoramic understanding is something possessed by all sentient beings. What a breathtaking shift occurs when we see ourselves as consciousness capable of human, feline, or even canine experiences, rather than as people, cats, or dogs capable of conscious experience.

The Dalai Lama and I shared our understanding of all this as we enjoyed the Himalaya morning together. And, as he had promised before leaving on his trip, the moment had arrived for him to share his thoughts about the true causes of happiness—to pass on the message intended specifically for me and for those with whom I have a karmic connection. Since you have stayed with me for this long, dear reader, that includes you!

“There is a special wisdom about happiness,” His Holiness told me. “Some texts call it the Holy Secret. Like much wisdom, it is simple to explain but not easy to live. The Holy Secret is this: If you wish to end your suffering, seek to end the suffering of others. If you wish for happiness, seek the happiness of others. Exchanging thoughts of self for thoughts of others—this is the most effective way to be happy.”

I absorbed the significance of his words along with the morning air blowing through the open window. The idea of thinking about others nearly as much as I thought about myself was, indeed, challenging. HHC, the Snow Lion, Rinpoche, Swami, the Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived—it is she who is at the center of my consciousness from the moment I wake every morning until I go to sleep at night.

“Thinking too much about oneself is a cause of much suffering,” the Dalai Lama said. “Anxiety, depression, resentment, fear—these become much worse with too much attention to the self. The mantra Me, me, me is not so good.”

Now that he had pointed it out, I realized that the times when I had been the unhappiest were the times when I had been the most preoccupied with myself. When I became angry with Chogyal for ordering the cleaning of my blanket, for example, no one else’s happiness had been in my thoughts at that moment—certainly not Chogyal’s!

And then there was another all-important teaching His Holiness imparted: “It is not necessary to end the suffering of all beings in order to end your own suffering, or for all beings to be happy in order for you to be happy. If that were the case,” he said with a chuckle, “then all Buddhas would have failed!

“We can all learn to use this marvelous paradox,” he told me, looking deep into my sapphire blue eyes. “Be wisely selfish, little Snow Lion. Gain happiness for yourself by giving it to others.” He was silent for a moment, stroking my face with exquisite tenderness. “You do this already, I think, each time you purr.”

His Holiness’s return was more than enough excitement for one day. But things were to get even better. Because high-level delegates from the United Nations were staying for lunch, I would be able to visit Mrs. Trinci in the kitchen. And true to form, she rewarded my visit with a reminder of my incomparable beauty, as well as a generous portion of succulent shrimp garnished with a goat’s cheese sauce. Such was the delicious creaminess of the latter that it took me quite a while to lick the saucer clean.

Afterward, I sat in the dappled afternoon sunshine outside the kitchen, washing my face, feeling replete and contented. His Holiness was back in residence. Mrs. Trinci would, once again, be a regular visitor. All was as it should be in my world.

And there was something else to look forward to: a short ceremony that evening to mark the reopening of the balcony at the Downward Dog School of Yoga. In recent days, the front of Ludo’s house had been teeming with workmen replacing fire-damaged beams with more robust steel suppor