The Dalai Lama's Cat

by David Michie

  It was the term she now typically used—only sometimes through gritted teeth. While her effusive manner was much the same as it always had been, her anger arose more in the form of lightning flashes of irritation than in volcanic eruptions.

  And in a curious way, it seemed that she was already being rewarded for her self-restraint. Just recently she’d heard from her daughter, Serena, who had trained as a chef in Italy before spending several years working at a variety of Michelin-starred restaurants in Europe. Mrs. Trinci was beyond pleased to learn that Serena had decided she’d had enough of Europe for a while. In just a few weeks she would be back home in McLeod Ganj.

  Knife in hand, Mrs. Trinci sliced the wrapping tape and protective covering of the mysterious delivery, opening the package to reveal a frosted plastic container of bright red liquid—and an envelope with her name on it.

  “Dear Mrs. Trinci,” read the short note. “My grateful thanks for the wonderful Ayurvedic meal I enjoyed recently with His Holiness. I was sorry to hear that you were unable to prepare the raspberry sorbet you had planned. So I hope you enjoy the enclosed, made according to a favorite Ayurvedic recipe. May it bring you and your guests good health and much happiness.”

  “Mamma mia!” Mrs. Trinci stared at the letter. “How amazing! What generosity!”

  Moments later she was opening the lid and sampling the contents.

  “Exquisite!” she pronounced, eyes closed as she ran the mixture ruminatively around her mouth. “So much better than I could have made.”

  She picked up the container to see how much there was. “And it will do perfectly as a palate-cleanser today.”

  Later, I heard Tenzin and Chogyal discussing that day’s lunch. The great political accord of the occasion had been assisted, in no small measure, by the wonderful food. The prime minister, unable to believe that His Holiness’s cook was not Indian, had called her upstairs to offer his congratulations. Apparently, he had gone into raptures over the raspberry sorbet.

  “Isn’t it interesting the way these things work out?” Tenzin remarked to Chogyal. “Mrs. Trinci is so much calmer and more contented these days.”

  “That’s for sure!” Chogyal’s agreement was heartfelt.

  “And of all the days she could have offered it, serving raspberry sorbet today was a masterstroke.”

  “Indeed it was.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “She’s doing what?” Tenzin’s voice sounded tense as he spoke on the phone. I raised my head from where I was dozing on the filing cabinet behind him. It was unlike Tenzin, the consummate diplomat, to react to anything with such strength.

  Across the desk, I saw surprise flicker across Chogyal’s face.

  “Yes, of course.” Tenzin reached out to the silver-framed photograph on his desk. It showed a young woman in a black dress playing the violin with a full orchestra behind her. His wife, Susan, had been a highly accomplished musician when they’d met years ago at Oxford University. That was before Tenzin accepted the job of a lifetime as His Holiness’s adviser on diplomatic matters. And well before the arrival of their son, Peter, and daughter, Lauren. Lauren was 14 years old—an age, Tenzin had once confided to Chogyal, designed to try the patience of parents. I guessed that the telephone call must be about her.

  “We’ll discuss it later.” Tenzin hung up.

  As is so often the way, Tenzin was having a tough time all around. On top of all his usual pressing responsibilities, he was also planning the relocation of His Holiness’s archives, to be carried out the following week.

  More than 60 years of important documentation had built up in the adjacent room, and while a lot of material had been scanned and backed up electronically, there were still many important diplomatic agreements, financial records, licenses, and other documents that needed to be retained. Tenzin had arranged for a secure room in Namgyal Monastery to be the future repository for most of these and had meticulously planned for the archives to be transferred over three consecutive days—days during which His Holiness was, unusually, receiving no visitors. That way, the disruption would be kept to a minimum.

  In most organizations, tasks of this kind fall into the category of “administrative tedium.” But at Jokhang, there is often an unexpected quality to the way in which even the most routine chore is undertaken, as though there is a lot more to the most pedestrian activity than meets the eye.

  Relocating His Holiness’s archives was just such a case in point. Tenzin had outlined his plan over a cup of tea during one of his afternoon meetings with the Dalai Lama. His Holiness had agreed and, to Tenzin’s surprise, had said he would personally select the monks who were to assist with the transfer.

  The following morning His Holiness returned from the day’s first session at the temple with two fit and healthy young monks who were to receive instructions from Tenzin. Also with him were two wide-eyed young brother novices, Tashi and Sashi, not even in their teens, who kept fervently prostrating every time His Holiness so much as looked in their direction.

  “We have our volunteers for the relocation.” The Dalai Lama gestured toward the two young men. “And also two helpers to take care of HHC.”

  If Tenzin was at all surprised by this consideration, he gave no sign of it. What archival relocation plan did not include feline management as an integral part of it? It was true that the traffic of files through the executive assistants’ office would disrupt my usual inactivity. My viewing platform would have to be moved out of the way. This is why it was decided that for the three mornings in question, I was to be taken to the visitors’ room next door. A spacious, light-filled chamber with armchairs and coffee tables, a selection of daily newspapers, and a corner desk furnished with a computer. This was where people usually waited before an audience with His Holiness.

  The Dalai Lama personally explained the duties he expected Tashi and Sashi to perform. I was to be carried very gently to the visitors’ room and taken to a corner windowsill on which a fleece blanket had been folded and placed for my use. Two bowls containing water and biscuits respectively were to be kept clean and filled. If I wanted to go downstairs, I was to be accompanied to make sure I didn’t get caught underfoot. While I was sleeping, the novices were to meditate near me, reciting the mantra “Om Mani Padme Hum.”

  “Above all”—His Holiness’s expression was firm—“you must treat her as you would your favorite lama.”

  “But you are our favorite lama!” Sashi, the younger of the novices, burst out impetuously, bringing his palms to his heart.

  “In that case”—His Holiness smiled—“treat her as if she were the Dalai Lama.”

  This is just what they did, with the kind of earnest reverence I usually received only at Café Franc. At the end of that first morning, returning to the executive assistant’s office, I found my filing cabinet shifted to the side of the room. Like most cats, I love nothing better than a familiar scene with a slight change in orientation, so I immediately hopped up on the cabinet to look down at the room from a novel perspective.

  By then I had forgotten Tenzin’s raised voice on the phone from the week before, but that afternoon, as he ended a conversation with his wife, it was clear that something was troubling him.

  Chogyal looked up in sympathetic inquiry.

  “It’s Lauren,” he confirmed. “Last week, Susan walked into her room and found her sitting on her bed, looking furtive and hiding something behind her back. She pretended everything was all right. But Susan knew it wasn’t.

  “Lauren has been a bit strange lately. She’s been tiring easily and feeling faint. She just hasn’t been herself. One morning, Susan was vacuuming Lauren’s room and found some rocks under her bed. Different sizes. Susan couldn’t work it out. She wondered if that was what Lauren had been hiding. But why hide rocks?

  “When Susan asked her about the rocks, Lauren burst into tears. It took her a while to confess because she was embarrassed. She’d been eating rocks.”

  Chogyal looked astonished.
>
  “Rocks from … ?”

  “She felt this strange, inexplicable compulsion to go into the garden and find a stone and start chewing on it.”

  “Poor girl!”

  “Susan took her to see the doctor. Apparently, what she has is unusual but by no means unheard of. Teenage girls sometimes crave chalk, soap, and other things because of nutritional deficiencies. In her case, a lack of iron.”

  “Ah!” Chogyal hardly missed a beat. “She’s vegetarian?”

  Tenzin nodded. “Like her mother.”

  “Can they give her iron supplements?”

  “As a short-term measure. But on an ongoing basis the doctor says iron should come from her regular diet. He suggests lean meat, ideally beef. But she won’t accept it.”

  “On principle?”

  “She said, ‘I don’t want to be responsible for animals being killed! Why can’t I just take an iron supplement?’ Susan and I are very concerned.”

  “Difficult to persuade a teenager.”

  “Children of that age don’t listen to their parents.” Tenzin was shaking his head. “I am wondering about a different solution.”

  I discovered what that solution was two days later. It was the third and final day of the archive move. I was dozing in the visitors’ room, the two novice monks chanting mantras softly beside me, when Tenzin arrived with Lauren in tow, carrying her school bag. She had finished her classes for the day, and because her mother had to go out, she had come to Jokhang to do her homework. This arrangement happened a handful of times each year. Usually, she’d sit in the office with Tenzin and Chogyal, but because of the general upheaval, Tenzin put her at the desk in the corner of the visitors’ lounge.

  That, at least, was the cover story.

  Pulling out her books, Lauren started working on an English assignment. She was engrossed in the comprehension exercise, her face filled with delight, when half an hour later, the door to His Holiness’s suite opened, and he stepped outside.

  “Lauren! Good to see you!” He brought his palms to his heart and bowed to her.

  She had already risen from her chair and was also bowing, before giving him a self-conscious hug. His Holiness had known her since she was born, and there was genuine warmth between them.

  “How are you, my dear?”

  Most of us give a polite, pro forma answer to that question. But perhaps because the Dalai Lama was asking it, or perhaps because of the way he made her feel at that particular moment, instead of the routine response she said, “I have an iron deficiency, Your Holiness.”

  “Oh! I am very sorry.” Taking her hand, he sat on one of the sofas and gestured for her to sit beside him. “A doctor says this?”

  She nodded.

  “It can be treated?”

  “That’s what’s the matter.” Her eyes filled with tears. “He says I must eat meat.”

  “Ah, yes. You are vegetarian.” He stroked her hand comfortingly. “Being vegetarian all the time is the ideal.”

  “I know,” she agreed, unhappily.

  “If, through compassion, one can abstain completely from eating the flesh of living beings, this is best. Therefore, everyone who can do this should consider it. But if, for medical reasons, you can only be vegetarian most of the time, then maybe you have to do this.”

  “Most of the time?”

  He nodded. “Doctors also said I have to eat meat sometimes, for nutritional reasons.”

  “I didn’t know that.” She studied him very closely.

  “Yes. I decided, even if I can’t be vegetarian all the time, I will follow a vegetarian diet as much as possible but be moderate about it. Being vegetarian or non-vegetarian need not be black or white. We can find a middle ground. Sometimes eating meat for nutritional purposes, but all the time not necessary. My heartfelt wish is that everyone would consider doing the same thing.”

  It seemed that Lauren hadn’t even considered this possibility.

  “But what happens if you don’t want any animals to be killed just so you can eat?” she asked.

  “Lauren, you have a good heart! But such a thing is not possible.”

  “It’s possible for vegetarians.”

  “No.” His Holiness shook his head. “Not even for them.”

  Her brow furrowed.

  “Sentient beings are killed even for a vegetarian diet. When land is cleared to make space for crops, the natural habitat is destroyed, and many smaller beings are killed. Then crops are planted, and pesticides are sprayed, killing many thousands of insects. You see, it is very difficult to avoid harming other beings, especially in relation to food.”

  For Lauren, who had thought that being vegetarian meant that no living beings would be harmed, this was a difficult discovery. Her certainty was being shaken.

  “The doctor says I should eat lean meat, like beef. But from a compassionate point of view, if you have to eat the flesh of an animal, wouldn’t it be better to eat a being like a fish?”

  His Holiness nodded. “I understand what you’re saying, but there are some who would say that eating a cow is better, because a single cow can provide more than one thousand meals. A fish, only one meal. Sometimes it takes many prawns, many sentient beings, for only one meal.”

  Lauren looked at the Dalai Lama for a long time. Eventually she said, “I didn’t realize it was so complicated.”

  “It is a very big subject,” he agreed. “You will find that some people tell you there is only one way, this way, which happens to be the way that they think, and that everyone else should change their views to be like them. But it is really a matter of personal choice. The important thing is to make sure our decisions are guided with compassion and wisdom.”

  She nodded earnestly.

  “Before we eat any meal, vegetarian or meat, we should always remember the beings that have died so that we can eat. Their lives were just as important to them as your life is to you. Think of them with gratitude and pray that their sacrifice will be a cause for them to be reborn in a higher realm—and for you to be healthy, so that you can quickly, quickly reach full enlightenment in order to lead them to that same state.”

  “Yes, Your Holiness,” said Lauren, leaning against him.

  For a moment, the whole room was flooded with a warm glow. In the corner, near where I was dozing, the two novice monks, who had been listening to the conversation, continued to whisper their mantras.

  His Holiness got up from the sofa, and as he was making his way across the visitors’ room, he said, “As much as possible, it is useful to think of all other beings as being just like me. Every living being strives for happiness. Every being wants to avoid all forms of suffering. They are not just objects or things to be used for our benefit. You know, Mahatma Gandhi once said: ‘The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.’ Interesting, isn’t it?”

  Later that afternoon I was with the Dalai Lama, occupying my usual spot on the windowsill. There was a tentative knock on the door, then the two novices made their appearance.

  “You wanted to see us, Your Holiness?” Tashi, the older one asked, somewhat nervously.

  “Yes, yes.” The Dalai Lama opened one of the drawers of his desk and took out two sandalwood malas, or strings of prayer beads. “This is a small gift to thank you for looking after HHC,” he said.

  Each boy accepted a mala, bowing in solemn thanks.

  His Holiness said a few words about the importance of mindfulness when practicing meditation, then gave them a benevolent smile.

  The short audience had come to an end, but the two novices stood where they were, exchanging nervous glances.

  It was only when the Dalai Lama said, “You may go,” that Tashi asked in a piping voice, “Can I ask you a question, please, Your Holiness?”

  “Of course,” he responded, a glint in his eye.

  “We heard what you said earlier today about living beings. How they are not just objects to be used.”

  “
Yes, yes.”

  “We have a confession to make. A terrible thing we did.”

  “Yes, Your Holiness,” interjected Sashi, “but it was before we became novices.”

  “Our family in Delhi was very poor,” Tashi started to explain. “Once, we found four kittens in a back alley and sold them for sixty rupees—”

  “—and two U.S. dollars,” Sashi added.

  “No questions asked,” Tashi said.

  “Perhaps they were only bought for their fur coats,” Sashi ventured.

  On the sill I looked up suddenly. Was I to believe what I was hearing? Were these two novices really the same unscrupulous little demons who had cruelly stolen me from the warm safety of my family home? Who had brutally wrenched my siblings and me from our mother before we were even properly weaned? Who had treated us like nothing more than merchandise? How could I forget the way they’d humiliated me, shoving me into a mud puddle, or how, when I went unsold, they’d so casually planned to destroy me?

  Along with the shock, resentment welled up inside me.

  But then it came to me: had it not been for them selling me, I would probably have died or been condemned to a harsh life in a Delhi slum. Instead, here I was, the Snow Lion of Jokhang.

  “Yes,” continued Tashi. “That last kitten was small and dirty and could hardly walk.”

  “We were going to throw it out,” Sashi added.

  “I was already wrapping it in newspaper,” Tashi said. “It looked like it was almost dead.”

  “Then,” said Sashi, “this rich official comes and gives us $2. Just like that.” The thrill of the moment was still etched vividly in his mind.

  Mine, too.

  But their feelings about the event had undergone a metamorphosis.

  “We realize what a bad thing we did.” They both looked remorseful. “Just using small kittens for our own benefit.”

  “I see,” nodded His Holiness.

  “The youngest kitten especially,” said Tashi. “It was very weak—”