by David Michie
“Who is this?” Tenzin wanted to know.
Chogyal chuckled as he lifted me up and put me on his desk, where my eye was immediately caught by the bright blue top of a Bic pen. “The Dalai Lama rescued her while driving out of Delhi,” Chogyal said, repeating the attendant’s story as I flicked the Bic top across his desk.
“Why does she walk so strangely?” the other wanted to know.
“Apparently she was dropped on her back.”
“Hmm.” Tenzin sounded doubtful as he leaned forward, scrutinizing me closely. “Perhaps she was malnourished, being the smallest kitten. Does she have a name?”
“No,” Chogyal said. Then, after he and I had batted the plastic pen top back and forth across his desk a few times, he exclaimed, “We’ll have to give her one!” He seemed enthusiastic about the challenge. “An ordination name. What do you think—Tibetan or English?” (In Buddhism, when someone becomes a monk or nun they are given an ordination name to mark their new identity.)
Chogyal suggested several possibilities before Tenzin said, “It’s better not to force these things. I’m sure something will present itself as we get to know her better.”
As usual, Tenzin’s advice was both wise and prophetic—unfortunately for me, as things turned out. Chasing the pen top, I progressed from Chogyal’s desk halfway across Tenzin’s, before the older man seized my small, fluffy form and put me down on the rug.
“You’d better stay there,” he said. “I have a letter here from His Holiness to the Pope, and we don’t want paw prints all over it.”
Chogyal laughed. “Signed on his behalf by His Holiness’s Cat.”
“HHC,” Tenzin shot back. In official correspondence, His Holiness is frequently referred to as HHDL. “That can be her provisional title until we find a suitable name.”
Beyond the executive assistants’ office was a corridor that led past more offices, toward a door that was kept carefully closed. I knew from talk in the executive assistants’ office that the door led to many places, including Downstairs, Outside, The Temple, and even Overseas. This was the door through which all His Holiness’s visitors came and went. It opened onto a whole new world. But in those early days, as a very small kitten, I was perfectly content to remain on this side of it.
Having spent my first days on Earth in a back alley, I had little understanding of human life—and no idea how unusual my new circumstances were. When His Holiness got out of bed every morning at 3 A.M. to meditate for five hours, I would follow him and curl up in a tight knot beside him, basking in his warmth and energy. I thought that most people started each day in meditation.
When visitors came to see His Holiness, I saw that they always presented him with a white scarf, or kata, which he then returned to them with a blessing. I assumed this was how humans usually greeted visitors. I was also aware that many people who visited His Holiness had traveled very long distances to do so; that, too, seemed perfectly normal to me.
Then one day Chogyal picked me up in his arms and tickled my neck. “Are you wondering who all these people are?” he asked, following my gaze to the many framed photographs on the wall of the executive assistants’ office. Gesturing to a few of the photos, he said, “These are the past eight presidents of the United States, meeting His Holiness. He is a very special person, you know.”
I did know, because he always made sure my milk was warm—but not too hot—before giving it to me.
“He is one of the world’s greatest spiritual leaders,” Chogyal continued. “We believe he is a living Buddha. You must have a very close karmic connection to him. It would be most interesting to know what that is.”
A few days later, I found my way down the corridor to the small kitchen and sitting area where some of the Dalai Lama’s staff went to relax, have their lunch, or make tea. Several monks were sitting on a sofa, watching a recorded news item on His Holiness’s recent visit to the U.S. By now they all knew who I was—in fact, I had become the office mascot. Hopping up on the lap of one of the monks, I allowed him to stroke me as I watched TV.
Initially, all I could see was a huge crowd of people with a tiny red dot in the center, while His Holiness’s voice could be heard quite clearly. But as the news clip progressed, I realized that the red dot was His Holiness, in the center of a vast indoor sports arena. It was a scene that was replayed in every city he visited, from New York to San Francisco. The newscaster commented that the huge crowds of people who came out to see him in every city showed that he was more popular than many rock stars.
Little by little, I began to realize just how extraordinary the Dalai Lama was, and how highly regarded. And perhaps because of Chogyal’s comment about our “very close karmic connection,” at some stage I started to believe that I must be rather special, too. After all, I was the one His Holiness had rescued from the gutters of New Delhi. Had he recognized in me a kindred spirit—a sentient being on the same spiritual wavelength as he?
When I heard His Holiness tell visitors about the importance of loving kindness, I would purr contentedly, certain in the knowledge that this was exactly what I thought, too. When he opened my evening can of Snappy Tom, it seemed as obvious to me as it was to him that all sentient beings wanted to fulfill the same basic needs. And as he stroked my bulging tummy after my dinner, it seemed equally clear that he was right; each of us does just want to be loved.
There had been some talk around this time about what would happen when His Holiness left on a three-week trip to Australia and New Zealand. With this and many other travels planned, should I remain in the Dalai Lama’s quarters, or would it be better if I were found a new home?
New home? The very idea of it was crazy! I was HHC and had quickly become a vital part of the establishment. There was no one I’d rather live with than the Dalai Lama. And I’d come to treasure other parts of my daily routine, whether it was sunning myself on the windowsill as His Holiness talked to visitors, or eating the delicious food he and his staff served me on a saucer, or listening to lunchtime concerts with Tenzin.
Although His Holiness’s cultural attaché was Tibetan, he was a graduate of Oxford University in England, where he had studied in his early 20s, developing a taste for all things European. Every day at lunchtime, unless there was very pressing business to attend to, Tenzin would get up from his desk, take out the small, plastic box of lunch his wife had prepared for him, and make his way along the corridor to the first-aid room. Seldom used for that purpose, it contained a single bed, a medicine cabinet, an armchair, and a portable sound system that belonged to Tenzin. Following him into the room out of curiosity one day, I watched him settle back in the armchair and press a button on the remote control of the sound system. Suddenly, the room was filled with music. Eyes closed, he rested his head against the back of the chair, a smile appearing on his lips.
“Bach’s Prelude in C Major, HHC,” he told me after the short piano piece ended. I hadn’t realized he even knew that I was in the room with him. “Isn’t it exquisite? One of my all-time favorites. So simple—just a single melody line, no harmony, but conveying such depth of emotion!”
It turned out to be the first in an almost daily series of lessons in music and Western culture that I received from Tenzin. He seemed to genuinely welcome my presence as a being with whom he could share his enthusiasm for this operatic aria or that string quartet—or sometimes, for variety, the reenactment of some historical event in a radio drama.
While he ate whatever was in his plastic lunch box, I would curl up on the first-aid bed—a liberty he indulged since it was just the two of us. My appreciation of music and Western culture began to develop, one lunch hour at a time.
Then one day, something unexpected happened. His Holiness was over at the temple, and The Door was left open. By then I had grown into an adventurous kitten, no longer content to spend all her time cosseted in fleece. Prowling along the corridor in search of excitement when I saw The Door ajar, I knew I had to go through it, to explore the many plac
es that lay beyond.
Downstairs. Outside. Overseas.
Somehow I made my shaky way down two flights of stairs, grateful for the carpeting, as my descent accelerated out of control and I landed in an undignified bundle at the bottom. Picking myself up, I continued across a short hallway and went Outside.
It was the first time I’d been outdoors since being plucked from the gutters of New Delhi. There was a bustle, a feeling of energy, with people walking in every direction. I hadn’t gotten very far before I heard a chorus of high-pitched squeals and the pounding of many feet on the pavement. A tour group of Japanese schoolgirls caught sight of me and took pursuit.
I panicked. Racing as fast as my unsteady hind legs would take me, I lurched away from the shrieking horde. I could hear them gaining ground. There was no way I could outrun them. The leather of their shoes slapping the pavement became a thunder!
Then I spotted a small gap between brick columns that supported a verandah floor. An opening that led under the building. It was a tight squeeze, and I had very little time. Plus, I had no idea where the gap led. But as I bolted inside, the pandemonium abruptly ended. I found myself in a large crawl space between the ground and wooden floorboards. It was dark and dusty, and there was a constant, dull drumming of foot traffic overhead. But at least I was safe. I wondered how long I would need to stay there until the schoolgirls had gone away. Brushing a cobweb from my face, I decided not to risk another attack.
As my eyes and ears adjusted to my surroundings, I became aware of a scratching noise—a sporadic but insistent gnawing. I paused, nostrils flared, as I searched the air. For along with the sound of incisors chomping came a pungent whiff that set my whiskers tingling. My reaction, instantaneous and powerful, triggered a reflex I hadn’t even known I possessed.
Even though I had never before seen a mouse, I recognized it immediately as a creature of prey. It was clinging to brickwork, its head half-buried in a wooden beam that it was hollowing out with its large front teeth.
I moved stealthily, my approach masked by the constant sound of footfalls on the floor above.
Instinct took over. With a single swipe of my front paw, I swept the rodent off balance and onto the ground, where it lay stunned. Leaning down, I sank my teeth into its neck. Its body went limp.
I knew exactly what I must do next. Prey secured in my mouth, I padded back to the gap between the brick columns, checked the pavement traffic outside, and, seeing no Japanese schoolchildren, hurried back along the pavement and back inside the building. Dashing across the hallway, I made my way up the stairs to The Door. Shut tight.
Now what? I sat there for quite some time, wondering how long I would have to wait, until finally someone from His Holiness’s staff arrived. Recognizing me but paying no attention to the trophy in my mouth, he let me in. I padded down the corridor and around the corner.
Because the Dalai Lama was still at the temple, I went to the office of the executive assistants, dropping the mouse and announcing my arrival with an urgent meow. Responding to the unfamiliar tone, Chogyal and Tenzin both turned and looked at me in surprise as I stood there proudly, with the mouse on the carpet at my feet.
Their reaction was nothing like I had expected. Exchanging a sharp glance, they both shot out of their chairs. Chogyal picked me up, and Tenzin knelt down over the motionless mouse.
“Still breathing,” he said. “Probably in shock.”
“The printer box,” Chogyal said, directing him to the empty cardboard box from which he had just removed a fresh ink cartridge.
Using an old envelope as a brush, Tenzin herded the mouse into the empty container. He regarded it closely. “Where do you think—?”
“This one has cobwebs on its whiskers,” observed Chogyal, cocking his head in my direction.
This one? It?! Was that any way to refer to HHC?
At that moment, the Dalai Lama’s driver came into the office. Tenzin handed him the box with instructions that the mouse was to be observed and, if it recovered, to be released in the forest nearby.
“HHC must have gotten out,” said the driver, meeting my blue-eyed gaze.
Chogyal was still holding me, not in his usual affectionate embrace but as though restraining a savage beast. “HHC. I’m not sure about that title anymore,” he said.
“It was only a provisional title,” concurred Tenzin, returning to his desk. “But His Holiness’s Mouser doesn’t seem appropriate.”
Chogyal put me back on the carpet.
“What about just ‘Mouser’ for an ordination name?” suggested the driver. But because of his strong, Tibetan accent, it sounded like “Mousie.”
All three men were now looking at me intently. The conversation had taken a dangerous turn that I have regretted ever since.
“You can’t have just ‘Mousie,’” said Chogyal. “It has to be Something Mousie or Mousie Something.”
“Mousie Monster?” contributed Tenzin.
“Mousie Slayer?” suggested Chogyal.
There was a pause before the driver came out with it. “What about Mousie-Tung?” he suggested.
All three men burst out laughing as they looked down at my small, fluffy form.
Tenzin turned mock-serious as he regarded me directly. “Compassion is all very well. But do you think His Holiness should be sharing his quarters with Mousie-Tung?”
“Or leaving Mousie-Tung in charge for three weeks when he visits Australia?” mused Chogyal, as the three collapsed in laughter again.
Getting up, I stalked from the room, ears pressed back firmly and tail slashing.
In the hours that followed, as I sat in the tranquil sunlight of His Holiness’s window, I began to realize the enormity of what I’d done. For almost all my young life I had been listening to the Dalai Lama point out that the lives of all sentient beings are as important to them as our own life is to us. But how much attention had I paid to that on the one and only occasion I was out in the world?
As for the truth that all beings wish to be happy and to avoid suffering—that thought hadn’t crossed my mind while I was stalking the mouse. I had simply let instinct take over. Not for one moment had I considered my actions from the mouse’s point of view.
I was beginning to realize that just because an idea is simple, it isn’t necessarily easy to follow. Purring in agreement with high-sounding principles meant nothing unless I actually lived by them.
I wondered if His Holiness would be told my new “ordination name”—the grim reminder of the greatest folly of my young life. Would he be so horrified when he heard what I’d done that he would banish me from this beautiful haven forever?
Fortunately for me, the mouse recovered. And when His Holiness returned, he was immediately caught up in a series of meetings.
It wasn’t until late in the evening that he mentioned the subject. He had been sitting up in bed reading before closing his book, removing his glasses, and placing them on the bedside table.
“They told me what happened,” he murmured, reaching over to where I was dozing nearby. “Sometimes our instinct, our negative conditioning, can be overpowering. Later we regret very much what we have done. But that is no reason to give up on yourself—the buddhas, they have not given up on you. Instead, learn from your mistake and move on. Like that.”
He turned out the bedside light, and as we both lay there in the darkness, I purred gently in appreciation.
“Tomorrow we start again,” he said.
The next day, His Holiness was going through the few pieces of mail his executive assistants had selected for his attention from the sackfuls that arrived every morning.
Holding up a letter and a book sent by the history professor from England, he turned to Chogyal. “This is very nice.”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” Chogyal agreed, studying the glossy cover of the book.
“I am not thinking about the book,” said His Holiness, “but the letter.”
“Oh?”
“After reflecting on
our conversation, the professor says he has stopped using snail bait on his roses. Instead, he now releases the snails over the garden wall.”
“Very good!” said Chogyal with a smile.
The Dalai Lama looked directly at me. “We liked meeting him, didn’t we?” I remembered that at the time, I had thought how deeply unenlightened the professor seemed. But after what I’d done yesterday, I was hardly one to judge.
“It shows that we all have the ability to change, doesn’t it, Mousie?”
CHAPTER TWO
Even though cats spend most of the day dozing comfortably, we like our humans to keep busy. Not in a noisy or intrusive way—just active enough to entertain us during those periods when we choose to remain awake. Why else do you think most cats have a favorite theater seat—a preferred spot on a windowsill, porch, gatepost, or cupboard top? Don't you realize, dear reader, that you are our entertainment?
One of the reasons why it’s so congenial living at Jokhang, as the Dalai Lama’s temple complex is known, is for exactly this reason: there is always something going on.
Before 5 A.M. each morning, the temple complex comes alive with the sound of sandaled feet on the pavement as the monks from Namgyal Monastery converge for their morning meditations. By this time, His Holiness and I have been meditating for two hours, but as I become aware of the stirring outside, I like to get up, stretch my front legs luxuriantly in front of me, and perhaps take a few limbering-up scratches of the carpet, before heading over to my usual position on the windowsill. From there I watch the reassuring circadian performance begin to be reenacted, for in monastic life, almost every day is the same.
It begins with golden squares flickering to life across the horizon, as lamps are lit in the temple and the monks’ quarters. In the summer, the early morning breeze carries clouds of purple incense—along with dawn chants—through the open window, just as the sky begins to light up in the east.
