The Dalai Lama's Cat

by David Michie

By the time the monks emerge from the temple at nine in the morning, His Holiness and I have both eaten breakfast, and he is already at his desk. Morning briefings with his advisers follow, and down in the temple, the monks return for a well-ordered daily routine that includes reciting texts, attending teachings, debating points of philosophy in the courtyard, and meditating. These activities are interrupted only by two meals and come to an end around 10 o’clock at night.

  After that, the younger monks are expected to return home and memorize texts until midnight. More is demanded of the older ones, who frequently study and debate until one or two in the morning. The period in the middle of the night when there is no activity at all lasts only a few hours.

  Center stage in His Holiness’s suite, meantime, there is a constant procession of visitors: world-famous politicians, celebrities, and philanthropists, as well as those who are less well known but sometimes more intriguing, such as the Nechung Oracle, whom His Holiness sometimes consults. A medium between the material world and spiritual realms, the Nechung Oracle is the State Oracle of Tibet. He warned of difficulties with China as early as 1947 and continues to help with important decisions, going into an induced trance state, sometimes as part of an elaborate ceremony during which he offers prophecies and advice.

  You would think that finding myself in such a stimulating and comfortable environment would make me the happiest cat that ever played the cello, as we cats refer to that most delicate part of our grooming regimen when we attend to our nether regions. But alas, dear reader, in those early months living with the Dalai Lama, you would be wrong.

  Perhaps it was because I had, until so recently, only ever known what it was like to be one of a litter of four. Maybe it was an absence of contact with any other sentient being blessed with fur and whiskers. Whatever the reason, I not only felt very alone but also came to believe that my happiness would be complete only with the presence of another cat.

  The Dalai Lama knew this. Taking care of me from that first moment in the car with the utmost tenderness and compassion, he nurtured me through those early weeks, constantly attentive to my well-being.

  Which was why, one day soon after the mouse incident, when I was loitering in the passage, feeling lost and uncertain of what to do, he caught sight of me on his way to the temple and turning to Chogyal, who was accompanying him, said, “Perhaps little Snow Lion would like to come with us?”

  Snow Lion?! I loved the name. As he picked me up in his robed arms, I purred with approval. Snow lions are celestial animals in Tibet, representing unconditional happiness. They are animals of great beauty, vibrancy, and delight.

  “We have a big day ahead,” His Holiness told me as we went downstairs. “First a visit to the temple to watch the examinations. Then Mrs. Trinci is coming to prepare lunch for today’s visitor. And you like Mrs. Trinci, don’t you?”

  Like was hardly the word. I adored Mrs. Trinci, or to be more specific, Mrs. Trinci’s diced chicken liver—a dish she made especially for my delectation.

  Whenever catering was required for a special occasion or visiting dignitary, Mrs. Trinci was called in. More than 20 years earlier, someone in the Dalai Lama’s office, while planning a banquet for a high-powered delegation from the Vatican, had discovered the Italian widow living locally. Mrs. Trinci’s culinary flair had quite effortlessly transcended all previous catering, and she was soon installed as the Dalai Lama’s favorite chef.

  An elegant woman in her 50s, with a penchant for flamboyant dresses and extravagant costume jewelry, she would sweep into Jokhang on a wave of nervous excitement. Assuming instant control of the kitchen from the moment she arrived, she pulled everyone present, not just the kitchen hands, into her vortex. On one of her earliest visits, she had ordered the abbot of Gyume Tantric College, who happened to be walking past, into the kitchen, where she immediately tied an apron around his neck and set him to dicing carrots.

  Mrs. Trinci knew no protocol and brooked no dissent. Spiritual advancement was of little relevance with a banquet for eight to prepare. Her operatic temperament was the very opposite of the calm humility of most of the monks, but there was something about her vivacity, her intensity, her passion that they found utterly beguiling.

  And they loved her generous heart. She always made sure that along with His Holiness’s meal, an appetizing stew was left on the stove for his staff, and apple strudel, chocolate gateau, or some other heavenly confection was left in the fridge.

  The first time she saw me, she declared me to be The Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived, and from that day on, no visit to the Dalai Lama’s kitchen was complete without her producing, from one of her many grocery bags, some succulent morsels brought especially for me. Placing me on a countertop, she would watch me closely, her amber, mascara-lashed eyes swooning as I noisily devoured a saucer of chicken pot-au-feu, turkey casserole, or filet mignon. I was contemplating exactly this prospect as Chogyal carried me across the courtyard toward the temple.

  I had never been inside the temple before and could think of no better way to make my first entrance than in His Holiness’s entourage. The temple is an amazing, light-filled building with very high ceilings, vivid wall-hangings of deities in richly embroidered silks, and multicolored victory banners cascading down the walls. There are large Buddha statues with rows of gleaming brass bowls set out before them, along with symbolic offerings of food, incense, flowers, and perfume. Hundreds of monks were seated on cushions, waiting for the exams to begin, and the low buzz of their chatter continued even after the Dalai Lama arrived. Usually he would make a formal entrance at the front of the temple, taking his place on the teaching throne amid an awed hush. But today he slipped in the back, not wanting to draw attention to himself or distract the monks who were about to be examined.

  Every year, novice monks compete for a limited number of places to study for the Geshe degree. The highest qualification in Tibetan Buddhism, in some ways like a doctorate, the Geshe degree takes 12 years to complete. It demands flawless recall of core texts and an ability to analyze and debate subtle philosophical differences, not to mention many hours of meditation practice. For most of the 12 years of the course, geshe trainees work 20 hours every day, following a rigorous schedule of study. But despite the very great demands placed on them, there are always more novice monks seeking entrance than there are places available.

  At today’s exam, four novice monks were being tested. In accordance with tradition, they began by answering the examiners’ questions in front of the assembled Namgyal community, an arrangement that was daunting but also open and transparent. Watching the proceedings was good preparation for the younger novice monks, who would one day also have to stand before their peers.

  In the back row of the temple, sitting next to the Dalai Lama on Chogyal’s lap, I listened as two Bhutanese brothers, a Tibetan boy, and a French student all had the chance to impress their audience by answering questions about subjects like karma and the nature of reality. The Bhutanese brothers gave correct, rote answers and the Tibetan boy also quoted directly from the assigned text, but the French student went further, demonstrating that he had not only learned the concepts but also understood them. Throughout all of this, the Dalai Lama smiled warmly.

  Next, in debate with several senior monks who tried to catch the students with clever arguments, the same pattern was followed. The Bhutanese and Tibetan students stuck carefully to textbook answers, while the French boy launched provocative counterarguments of his own, prompting quite some amusement in the temple.

  Finally it was time to recite texts, and again the Himalayan students were flawless in their recall. Asked to recite the Heart Sutra, a short text that is one of Buddha’s most famous teachings, the French student began in a clear, strong voice. But for some reason, midway through he faltered. There was a long, puzzled silence—and, it seemed, some whispered prompting—before he began again, somewhat less confidently, only to lapse completely. He turned to his examiners with an apologetic
shrug. They gestured for him to return to his seat.

  A short time later the examiners announced their verdict: the Bhutanese and Tibetan novices were accepted for Geshe studies. Only the French boy was unsuccessful.

  I could feel the Dalai Lama’s sadness as the announcement was made. The examiners’ decision was inevitable, but even so …

  “There is less emphasis on rote learning in the West,” Chogyal murmured to His Holiness, who nodded in agreement. Asking Chogyal to take care of me, His Holiness had the disappointed-looking French novice taken to a private room at the back of the temple, where he revealed to the young man that he had been present throughout the examination.

  Who can say what words passed between the two of them that day? But after a few minutes, the French boy returned, looking both consoled and overwhelmed to have been the subject of the Dalai Lama’s attention. I was coming to learn that His Holiness has a very particular ability to help guide individuals to their highest personal purpose—one that would bring great happiness and benefit to both themselves and many others.

  “Sometimes I hear people speaking despondently about the future of Buddhism,” His Holiness said to Chogyal, as we returned to his quarters later. “I wish they could come to the examinations to experience what we saw here today. There are so many novices, so committed and of such a high caliber. My only wish is that we had places for them all.”

  By the time we had returned from the temple, Mrs. Trinci was in full command of the kitchen, to which I made my way directly. His Holiness had distracted me from my loneliness with the visit to the temple that morning. Now Mrs. Trinci continued the entertainment. She was wearing an emerald green dress with dangling gold earrings and matching bracelets that clanked together every time she moved her arms. Her long, dark hair on this visit seemed to have a reddish tinge.

  Mrs. Trinci’s life rarely followed the same smooth regularity as that of the permanent residents of Jokhang, and today was no exception. The present crisis had been provoked by a 2 A.M. power cut. Mrs. Trinci had gone to bed believing she would wake to a crisp meringue base in her oven, which she had set to the prescribed low, overnight temperature. Instead she had woken to a soggy mess beyond redemption—with only seven hours before His Holiness’s VIP guest arrived.

  There had followed the frantic whipping up of a new base, a high-risk ramping up of the oven temperature, and an elaborate plan to have the base couriered to Jokhang at 1 P.M.—long after she had arrived to prepare the main course but before dessert was to be served.

  “Would it not be easier to prepare another dessert?” Tenzin had suggested, dangerously, on learning of the drama. “Something simple like—”

  “It has to be a Pavlova. She’s Australian!” Mrs. Trinci flung a stainless steel spatula into the sink with a crash. She always incorporated an element of a guest’s national cuisine, and today was to be no exception. “What’s Australian about Melanzane Parmigiana?”

  Tenzin took a step back.

  “Or vegetable ragout?!”

  “I was just suggesting—”

  “Well, don’t suggest! Zitto! Hush! No time for suggestions!”

  His Holiness’s executive assistant made a tactical retreat.

  Despite all the histrionics, Mrs. Trinci’s meal was, as always, a gastronomic triumph. The Pavlova betrayed no hint of the crisis from which it had been brought forth; it was a perfect meringue base crowned by equally perfect individual meringues, filled with a cornucopia of glistening fruit and whipped cream.

  And Mrs. Trinci had not forgotten The Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived. She treated me to a helping of leftover beef casserole so generous that I had to meow to be put down from the kitchen counter after eating, being too stuffed to jump down on my own.

  Having bestowed several appreciative licks on Mrs. Trinci’s bejeweled fingers, I waddled through to the reception room in which the Dalai Lama and his visitor were now sipping tea. Our lunchtime visitor that day was the Venerable Robina Courtin, a nun who had devoted much time to helping prisoners rehabilitate their lives through her Liberation Prison Project. The subject of prison conditions in America was being discussed as I made my entrance and headed over to a favorite woolen rug to perform the customary post-prandial face-washing.

  “Conditions vary greatly,” the nun was saying. “Some facilities lock up their prisoners for most of the day in cells that feel like basement cages with no natural light. We have to sit on one side of a small hole in an iron door to talk to a prisoner on the other side. In such circumstances, there seems little hope of rehabilitation.

  “But there are many other facilities,” she continued, “where the focus is more positive—on training and motivating people to change. There’s no escaping the institutional atmosphere, but cell doors are open for more of the day, and there are sports and recreational activities, as well as TV, computer access, and libraries.”

  She paused, smiling as she remembered something. “There was this group of lifers I got to know quite well when teaching meditation classes in Florida. One of them asked me, ‘What happens in a nunnery, day to day?’”

  She shrugged. “So I told him that we get up at five in the morning for the first meditation session. Well, that was much too early for him! Roll call in the jail is a leisurely 7 A.M. I explained that our day is structured from the time we get up until we retire at 10 P.M., with a strong emphasis on learning and studying, and working in the nunnery gardens to grow the fruit and vegetables we eat.” She grimaced. “He didn’t like the sound of that either.”

  The others were smiling.

  “I said that we didn’t have a TV or newspapers or alcohol or computers. Unlike the prisoners in a jail, the nuns can’t earn money to buy special treats. And there are certainly no conjugal visits!”

  The Dalai Lama chuckled.

  “That’s when he came out with the most extraordinary thing,” she went on. “Without even realizing what he was saying, he suggested, ‘If it all gets too hard, you could always come and live with us here.’”

  Everyone in the room burst out laughing.

  “He actually felt sorry for me!” Robina’s eyes sparkled. “It seemed to him that conditions were even harsher in the nunnery than in jail.”

  His Holiness leaned forward in his chair, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Isn’t that interesting? Only this morning at the temple, we saw novice monks competing for admission to the monastery. There are too many novices and not enough places. But turning to the jail, nobody wants to go there, even though the conditions are easier than in a monastery. This proves that it is not so much the circumstances of our lives that make us happy or unhappy but the way we see them.”

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  “Do we believe that, whatever our circumstances, we have the chance to live happy and meaningful lives?” he continued.

  “Exactly!” agreed Robina.

  His Holiness nodded. “Most people think that their only option is to change their circumstances. But these are not the true causes of their unhappiness. It has more to do with the way they think about their circumstances.”

  “We encourage our students to turn their jails into monasteries,” said Robina. “To stop thinking about their time inside as a waste of their life and instead to see it as an amazing opportunity for personal growth. There are some who do, and the transformation in those people is incredible. They are able to find real meaning and purpose, and they come out as completely changed people.”

  “Very good,” His Holiness said, smiling warmly. “It would be wonderful if everyone could hear that message—especially those who live in jails of their own making.”

  As he made that point, the Dalai Lama looked over at me, but I didn’t know why. I had never for a moment imagined that I was a prisoner. Snow Lion—yes. The Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived—certainly! Of course, I did have some problems, being a single cat the biggest of them.

  But prisoner?

  Me?

 
; It was only much later that His Holiness’s meaning became clear. After the visitors had departed, the Dalai Lama asked to see Mrs. Trinci to thank her for the meal.

  “It was wonderful,” he enthused. “Your dessert in particular. Venerable Robina liked it very much. I hope it wasn’t too stressful to prepare?”

  “Oh, no—non troppo! Not much.”

  In His Holiness’s presence, Mrs. Trinci was a changed woman. The towering Brunhilde from one of Tenzin’s Wagnerian operas, who dominated the kitchen, was nowhere to be seen, replaced instead by a blushing schoolgirl.

  “We don’t want you to have too much stress.” The Dalai Lama looked at her thoughtfully for a moment before telling her, “It was a very interesting lunch. We were saying how happiness, contentment—this does not depend on circumstance. Mrs. Trinci, you are single and you seem happy to me.”

  “I don’t want another husband,” declared Mrs. Trinci, “if that’s what you mean.”

  “So being single is not the cause of unhappiness?”

  “No, no! Mia vita è buona. My life is good. I am very fulfilled.”

  His Holiness nodded. “I feel the same.”

  At that moment, I knew what the Dalai Lama meant about prisons of our own making. He hadn’t been talking only about physical circumstances but also about the ideas and beliefs we have that make us unhappy. In my own case, it was the idea that I needed another cat’s company to be happy.

  Mrs. Trinci walked toward the door as though to leave. But before opening it, she hesitated. “May I ask you a question, Your Holiness?”

  “Of course.”

  “I have been coming here to cook for more than twenty years, but you have never tried to convert me. Why is that?”

  “What a funny thing to say, Mrs. Trinci!” His Holiness burst out laughing. Taking her hand gently in his, he told her, “The purpose of Buddhism is not to convert people. It is to give them tools so they can create greater happiness. So they can be happier Catholics, happier atheists, happier Buddhists. There are many practices, and I know you are already very familiar with one of them.”