The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow (The Dalai Lama's Cat 3)
Upon hearing that floors, carpets, and curtains had been installed in Sid and Serena’s new home, midway through an otherwise sleepy afternoon I decided that the time had come for me to make another site visit. After a nature stop in the garden, I continued up the road until reaching the Patel Construction sign that marked the entrance to the drive. I also discovered impressive gateposts had been built—brass numerals reading “21” were on the left-hand gate, and a letterbox was on the right. The gates, currently open, were large, made from wrought iron, and painted black. I was relieved to find that the gaps between the bars were just wide enough for the fluffy body of a long-haired feline.
Making my way along the side of the driveway, now covered with gravel, I noticed that the gardens had been tamed and weeds removed. The flower beds were rich with compost and now featured all kinds of flowering plants—it was a transformation.
As for the freshly painted and spotlessly clean house itself, it looked as otherworldly and inviting as ever, especially with that tower reaching high above it, a secluded, leaf-clad aerie silhouetted against the mountains.
Eager though I was to go farther, there was, dear reader, no way I could possibly do so. Six tradesmen’s vans were parked directly outside the front door. Men in a variety of uniforms bustled between the vans and the house, carrying all manner of tools and furnishings. From inside came a cacophony of electric drills, hammering, and shouted instructions. Mr. Patel emerged at one point, clasping a mobile phone to his ear with one hand while gesticulating to a group of men carefully guiding a chandelier through the front door with the other.
I sat, entranced by all the activity. I was all the more curious to see how much the house had changed inside. But it was no place for a cat today. I would have to bide my time. Pick my moment. But soon, I promised myself, very soon, I would return to the house when the coast was clear. In particular, I wanted to be up at the top of the tower, looking out through one of those large picture windows. What would the world look like from up there? I wondered.
Achieving this simple goal turned out to be a lot less easy to achieve than I thought, for one very simple reason: the activity didn’t stop. If anything, judging from Serena’s reports down at the café, as the night of the housewarming party drew closer, the tempo had only increased. The flurry of workmen with toolboxes and drop-sheets segued into a flurry of deliverymen bringing catering equipment, flowers, and rental furniture for the party. In the days immediately leading up to the big night, frequent visits were made by Kusali and his team to m
ake sure that everything was in order for Serena and Sid.
It was only on the day of the party itself that I judged it safe to explore 21 Tara Crescent again. It was late on one of those glorious Himalaya afternoons when the sky is perfectly clear, the air pristine, and, amid the buzz of insects and the trill of birds, the whole world seems to bask in the warmth of the late sun.
As I approached the driveway to the house, I noticed that the sign for Patel Construction was gone. The walls and gateposts looked reassuringly stately, and inside, the gardens looked manicured and established—as though they had always been this way.
I was relieved not to see a single van or car in the driveway. Free for the first time of dust or hubbub, the house stood, serene and inviting, in the glow of twilight. Lights had been turned on in different rooms, making the house emanate a warmth of its own. For the first time it looked lived in; it was no longer merely a house, but a home. And was it just me, or was there something utterly irresistible about that tower that drew your eye—and heart—to it?
I ventured forth and up onto the veranda, once covered in dust and grime, now immaculately polished and with gleaming windows. I walked through the open French doors into a large room exquisitely prepared for the party. It was a gorgeous salon with cream walls, gold curtains, and velvet sofas arranged around the fireplace—I could see myself on one of those on a cold, wintry night! Tea lights in small, colored glasses decorated with brass flickered everywhere I looked. Lush baroque chords filled the room from unseen speakers.
Ever curious, I wobbled across a richly embroidered rug and through a door into a corridor that I remembered from before. But instead of meeting the dull emptiness of my previous visit, this time I discovered an Aladdin’s cave of furnished rooms, twisting halls, unexpected flights of stairs up and down, and inner courtyards.
I remembered the stagnant pond. Now, a plume of silver water sprayed upward from a fountain. Not far below the surface of its pool, great golden koi fish were gliding silkily through the water. This was most definitely another room to return to!
The music room where the grand piano sat had been similarly transformed. Now, furnished with chairs and tables and paintings on the walls, it seemed paradoxically bigger than before. The polished Steinway at the center of things had its lid raised and music on the stand in preparation, no doubt, for whatever it was that Franc and Ewing had planned for that evening.
I was retracing my steps to the room in which I’d first encountered Zahra when, nostrils flaring, I detected Serena’s perfume. Hastening in that direction, I became aware of voices. I had well and truly lost my bearings, I realized, although I knew I was heading back toward the front of the house. As I turned a corner I heard Zahra asking, “I thought you said we had to wait?”
“I did,” came Sid’s smooth baritone voice. “But first I think we can spend a few moments together there, just the family.”
“He’ll be here very soon!” Serena replied, sounding excited.
Rounding the corner, I came to a hall where Sid was turning a key in the lock of a door, Serena at his side.
Zahra was bouncing on the balls of her feet with excitement. “Can’t wait!” she kept repeating.
All three of them were dressed in the most beautiful clothes. Sid looked every inch the stately maharajah in a dark suit and Nehru-collar white shirt. Beside him, Serena was clearly his princess—she wore a coral-red dress and a gold necklace. Zahra looked somehow older and more mature in a shimmering turquoise sari.
It was Zahra who noticed me first.
“Can I bring Rinpoche?” she asked her father.
Sid and Serena turned to look in my direction.
“Rinpoche!” exclaimed Serena, stepping toward me. “What remarkable timing! How did you know?”
Sid paused, regarding me warmly. “Those we are close to can sometimes sense these things,” he murmured.
Zahra was already bending to stroke me. “Well you said, ‘just the family.’”
“So I did,” he agreed. Having turned the key, he opened the door. It led to an unusually steep staircase. “And now we are all here.”
Zahra picked me up and followed Sid and Serena on what was evidently their very first trip upstairs together. It was cool and dark in the tower. The stairs seemed to wind upward forever. I was pleased not to be attempting the ascent on my own—my legs would have been trembling with fatigue long before I made it.
Around and around we went, our footsteps on the new wooden staircase echoing through the empty chamber, until eventually there came the creak of an ancient door on its hinges. Sid led the way through an arched door at the top, through which was streaming golden light. Serena followed him. Then Zahra, holding me, joined them in the light.
The room was high above the rest of the house. All four walls consisted of large picture windows, and we happened to enter just as the sun was setting. It filled the room with a golden glow—the quality of light was warm and soft and all the more magical because we knew it would soon pass. The four of us wordlessly absorbed the radiance of it. Time stood suspended. It seemed almost too much to believe that this was happening to us. Joined together as a family for the first time in this special place, we were all mesmerized by the celestial display.