“More stress and b-burnout?”
She nodded. “There are rewards, too, of course. But they’re very different from the ones here.”
“Do you think it was cooking for family and friends that made the difference?” Sam suggested. Then, flashing a mischievous glance he added, “Or was it about awakening the vindaloo within?”
Serena chuckled. “Both. I’ve always adored curries. Even though they’ll never be haute cuisine, I love cooking them because of the many flavors, and they’re so nourishing. But as well as that, it felt as if last Wednesday was really special for people.”
“I agree,” said Sam. “The place had a great vibe.”
“There’s something very fulfilling when you can do what you really care about, and it’s appreciated by others.”
Sam looked pensive before putting down his mug, rising from the sofa, and going to a bookshelf. He returned with a paperback copy of Man’s Search for Meaning, by the Austrian psychologist and Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl. “What you just said reminded me of something,” he said, opening the book at its preface. “‘Don’t aim at success,’” he read. “‘The more you aim at it and make it a target, the more you are going to miss it. For success, like happiness, cannot be pursued; it must ensue … as the unintended side effect of one’s dedication to a course greater than oneself.’”
Serena nodded. “In a very small way, I think that’s what I’m discovering.” For a moment they held each other’s eyes. “And in the strangest of ways.”
Sam was curious. “How do you mean?”
“Well, the whole idea of an Indian banquet only happened because of a chance conversation I had with Kusali. And that only happened because I found little Rinpoche stranded.”
Sam knew about the afternoon I had been trapped on the wall. There had been much speculation about how I had ended up there, none of it correct.
“You might say that all of this only came about because of Rinpoche,” she said, gazing down adoringly and stroking me.
“Rinpoche, the catalyst,” observed Sam.
As the two of them chuckled, I thought how no one, least of all me, could ever have guessed at the chain of events that would be triggered by my decision that Monday afternoon to turn left instead of right when I left the café. Nor would any of us have believed what was still to come. For what had happened so far turned out to be only the beginning of a much bigger story—a story in which many dimensions of happiness were to emerge as unintended but most rewarding side effects.
Unpredictable? Most certainly. Enlightening? Indubitably!
CHAPTER TWO
What makes you purr?
Of all the questions in the world, this is the most important. It is also the great leveler. Because no matter whether you are a playful kitten or a sedentary senior, a scrawny alley Tom or a sleek-coated uptown girl, whatever your circumstances you just want to be happy. Not the kind of happy that comes and goes like a can of flaked tuna, but an enduring happiness. The deep-down happiness that makes you purr from the heart.
Only a few days after the Indian banquet, I made another intriguing discovery about happiness. Midway through a glorious Himalaya morning—blue skies, fluting birdsong, the invigorating scent of pine—I heard unfamiliar sounds coming from the bedroom. Hopping off my sill, I went to investigate.
Chogyal was supervising a spring cleaning in the Dalai Lama’s absence. My second-favorite monk was standing in the center of the room overseeing one workman who was up a ladder, unhooking the curtains, while another was perched on a stool giving the light fixture a good wipe.
My relationship with Chogyal went through a subtle change every time His Holiness traveled. In the mornings, when he arrived at work, he would come through to the Dalai Lama’s quarters just to see me, spending a few minutes brushing my coat with my special comb and talking to me about that day’s events, a reassurance I appreciated after spending the night alone.
Similarly, before he left work at night, he would ensure that my biscuit bowl was filled and my water replenished, then take time to stroke me and remind me how much I was loved, not only by His Holiness but by everyone in the household. I knew that Chogyal was trying to make up for the Dalai Lama’s absence, and his kind heart endeared him to me all the more.
But this morning I was alarmed by what he was doing to our bedroom. One of his underlings was gathering items for washing when Chogyal gestured to my beige fleece blanket, on the floor under a chair. “That one,” he said. “It hasn’t been washed for months.”
No, it hadn’t—deliberately! Nor would it be, if His Holiness had anything to do with it.
I meowed plaintively.
Chogyal turned to see me sitting in the door with a pleading expression in my eyes. However, for all his warmth of heart, Chogyal was not very perceptive when it came to cats. Unlike the Dalai Lama, who would have known exactly why I was unhappy, he mistook my meow as one of general distress.
Reaching down, he drew me into his arms and began to stroke me.
“Don’t worry, HHC,” he said reassuringly, using my official designation, short for His Holiness’s Cat, at the exact moment that the cleaner seized the blanket and made off with it in the direction of the laundry. “Everything will be back, perfectly clean, before you know it.”
Didn’t he realize that was exactly the problem? I struggled from his arms, even extending my claws to show I meant business. After a few moments of unpleasantness, he put me down.
“Cats,” he said, shaking his head with a bemused smile, as though I had spurned his affections for no good reason.