The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow (The Dalai Lama's Cat 3)

Serena and Kusali exchanged glances. Kusali, of course, had told both Serena and Franc about the “altercation” a few days earlier. His unprecedented action in asking the customer to leave. Her dark-eyed threat that the café hadn’t heard the last from her.

“Hygiene problems. Contamination risk. Vermin infestation. Danger to people suffering from asthma. And”—the inspector cleared his throat—“a . . . cat in the restaurant?”

As he surveyed the tables, the inspector failed to see me. But then he stepped farther into the restaurant and looked over to the left, glancing at the steps leading up to the bookstore. My magazine rack was of course just beside these. Inevitably, his gaze rose and settled on the top shelf. Paws tucked neatly beneath me, I sat watching events unfold with all the inscrutability of a sphinx.

A gleam appeared in his eye. The inspector wheeled around to face Serena and Kusali. “Bylaw 1635b of the Hospitality and Liquor Act states that it is an offense for livestock and domesticated animals to be housed in a restaurant.”

“I wouldn’t say she is housed here,” Serena said as color rose in her cheeks. “She is a visitor.”

“Nevertheless, I came to inspect the premises. I found a cat present where it was reported to have been before,” the inspector explained with pedantic detail. “Bylaw 1635b—”

“It all seems ridiculously technical!” Serena protested.

It seemed the worst thing she could have said.

“Madam.” The inspector lowered his face and regarded her over the tops of his horn-rims with the utmost severity. “The technical reality,” he pronounced the words significantly, “is all-important.”

“Who complained?” Serena demanded.

“I’m not permitted to disclose that information.”

“Well, you may want to check up on her credibility. Just look at this dining room.” She gestured with the same Italian brio as her mother would have. “It’s one of the most beautiful, if not the most beautiful in the whole of Dharamsala. As for hygiene—”

“You may well be correct on the first score,” the inspector conceded. “However, as to the matter of the cat . . .”

At this point Kusali, who had been following everything in silence, asked with almost exaggerated politeness, “May I ask, sir, if the Council has floor plans of these premises?”

“Of course.” The inspector gestured with his clipboard. “I have them here.”

“You may want to check them before this conversation goes further.”

The inspector glanced at him sharply.

“I believe, sir, you could

save the Council great embarrassment if you do.”

The inspector placed his clipboard down, removed a folded document from under its shiny clip, and was soon spreading it out on top of a table.

“You’ll see that according to the Council’s own plans the restaurant ends here.” Kusali ran a finger down a line. “While the bookstore begins here.” He paused while the inspector looked over the architectural drawings. “The technical reality is that those shelves are not in the restaurant. They are in the bookshop.”

The inspector stared at the plans for a very long time before looking back toward me.

“You have a point,” he admitted, crestfallen.

Serena’s eyes blazed triumphantly at Kusali’s victory. “What’s more, you are not looking at a domesticated animal,” she said.

“No?”

At that very moment—oh how rare it is, dear reader, for events to fall into place so powerfully or poignantly—a group of five Japanese tourists came into the café and headed directly toward the magazine rack. Like many visitors who came to McLeod Ganj for a glimpse of the Dalai Lama, only to be disappointed, they had opted for the next best thing, which was an audience with HHC. So strong was their devotion that, as soon as they approached the magazine stand, they began dumping their bags, cameras, and umbrellas, and performing prostrations to me.

The HIU inspector, becoming less and less sure of himself by the second, watched this all with astonishment. “Who is . . . this?” he asked, finally, gesturing toward me.

“She is the Snow Lion of Dharamsala,” one of the Japanese tourists offered.

“Rinpoche,” chimed several of the others.

“She is the reincarnation of a very holy being,” said another.