by David Michie
Deep furrows had returned to Raj Goel’s forehead. But this time they were furrows of perplexity.
“I thought you would agree that these are important responsibilities.”
“What—because I am a Buddhist monk?” chided Lobsang. “Because I’m a religious person who wants to uphold the status quo? Is that why you sought my advice?”
Raj Goel looked abashed.
“You are an intelligent, inquisitive young fellow, Raj. You have been presented with the opportunity of a lifetime. A chance to become a man of the world and to get to understand a lot more not only about America but also about yourself. Why would you not seize this opportunity?”
Lobsang posed this as a serious question, and it was some time before his visitor answered. “Because I’m scared of what may happen?”
“Fear,” said Lobsang. “An instinct that prevents many people from taking actions that they know, deep down inside, would liberate them. Like a bird in a cage whose door has been opened, we are free to go out in search of fulfillment, but fear makes us look for all kinds of reasons not to.”
Raj Goel stared at the floor for a while before meeting Lobsang’s eyes. “You are right,” he admitted.
“The Indian Buddhist guru Shantideva had some wise words on this very subject,” Lobsang said. He began to quote: “‘When crows encounter a dying snake, / They will act as though they were eagles. / Likewise, if my self-confidence is weak, / I shall be injured by the slightest downfall.’
“Now is not the time to be weak or to let your fears overwhelm you, Raj. You may find that if you face your fears head-on, things may not be as bad as you think. Perhaps, after your parents get used to the idea, they won’t be so disappointed. The arranged marriage can wait. Or maybe in two years’ time, there can be a different match. In the meantime, there are many, many things to look forward to. I am sure you will find America an amazing place.”
“I know,” Raj Goel said, this time with conviction. Leaning forward in the chair, he picked up his briefcase and practically jumped up with newfound purpose. “You are definitely right! Thank you very much for your advice!”
The two men shook hands warmly.
“You may even meet a movie star,” suggested Lobsang.
“Which is why I must feel the fear,” Raj Goel declared with fervor, “and do it anyway!”
It is interesting how, once you have decided to strike out on a new course of action, events often transpire to help you. Not always in an obvious fashion, or immediately. And sometimes in ways you would never have considered.
That night, as inspired by Lobsang’s advice as Raj Goel had been, I decided to head across the temple courtyard to where the green light burned at the end of Mr. Patel’s market stall. No longer would I allow silly excuses to keep me pining on the windowsill. The fear of failure or of rejection was not for me. I wasn’t some silly budgerigar sitting in a cage with an open door.
The expedition was not a success. Not only did my tabby fail to materialize, but as I casually strolled through some of the lanes, I found myself getting more and more lost. It was only thanks to a Namgyal monk who recognized me as HHC and returned me to the door of my home that the evening didn’t end in a complete fiasco.
But the following afternoon, after my post-lunch siesta, I was passing out of Café Franc when who should suddenly appear at my side but my mackerel-striped admirer.
“I can’t believe you just did that!” he exclaimed, referring to my brazen visit to the emporium of a supposed cat-hater.
“Oh,” I said with a shrug, not only thrilled that he had appeared but also that he had done so at a moment when I possessed an almost impossible savoir faire. “It’s the way you do these things.”
“Where are you going?” he wanted to know.
“Jokhang,” I replied.
“You’re a member of the household?”
“Something like that.” I would reveal the truth of my lofty status in my own time. “As it happens,” I told him enigmatically, “I have an important lap to sit on in twenty minutes.”
“Whose lap?”
“I couldn’t possibly say. When people have an audience with the Dalai Lama, it’s completely confidential.”
The tabby’s eyes widened visibly. “At least give me a clue!” he pleaded.
“My professionalism forbids it,” I told him. Then, after we’d walked some distance, I added, “Let me just say that she is a blonde American talk show host.”
“There are so many.”
“You know, the one who is always getting her audiences to get up and dance. She’s a very good dancer herself.”
But the tiger tabby just wasn’t getting it.
“The one married to that stunningly beautiful actress who is a patron of stray cats.”
“Which stunningly beautiful actress is a patron of stray cats?”
Subtlety, I was discovering, was not my admirer’s middle name.
“Let’s not go there,” I said, refusing to abandon all my discretion. At the same time, I didn’t wish to seem completely standoffish. “Tell me, what is your name?”
“Mambo,” he replied. “And yours?”
“I have a lot of names,” I began.
“Pedigrees usually do.”
I smiled, letting the misunderstanding pass. Isn’t it only because of circumstances that my impeccable family background is not formally documented?
“But you must have a usual name.”
“In my case,” I replied, “they’re initials. HHC.”
“HHC?”
“That’s right.” We were approaching the gates of Jokhang.
“What do they stand for?”
“That’s your homework, Mambo. You’re a streetwise cat.” I watched his muscled chest swell with pride. “I know you’ll work it out.”
I turned in the direction of Jokhang.
“How can I find you?” he called out.
“Look for me when you’re under the green light that burns all night.”
“I know the one.”
“And bring your gold hat.”
He was there the next night. I was on my sill but pretended not to see him. It wouldn’t do to be that easy. I wanted to test how devoted he really was.
When he meowed two nights later, I relented and went downstairs.
“I worked it out,” he told me when I was still some distance away from the stone he was sitting on—the same place he’d been when I caught my first glimpse of him.
“Worked out what?”
“His Holiness’s Cat. That’s who you are, isn’t it?”
For a moment the whole world seemed to pause, holding its breath, waiting for the great mystery of my identity to be revealed.
“Yes, Mambo,” I confirmed eventually, fixing him with my big, blue eyes. “But don’t make a big thing of it.”
His voice sank to a whisper. “I can’t believe it. Me, from the slums of Dharamsala. You with your own initials. I mean, you’re practically royalty!”
“A cat might be … ” What could I say without seeming impossibly vain? His Holiness’s Bodhicatva? Café Franc’s Rinpoche? Mrs. Trinci’s Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived? Chogyal and Tenzin’s Snow Lion? (Or, heaven forbid, the driver’s Mousie-Tung?) “A cat might be HHC,” I said finally, “but she is still … very much … a cat.”
“I hear what you’re saying.”
I very much doubted it. I wasn’t entirely sure myself what I meant. “So what did you have in mind for tonight?”
I will, dear reader, spare you the details of all that occurred on that and subsequent nights. I am not that kind of cat. This is not that kind of book. And you are most certainly not that kind of reader!
Suffice it to say that not a day passed that I didn’t, with all my heart, thank Lobsang for his words of wisdom. Shantideva, too. And Dharamsala Telecom for sending their disgruntled technical support services representative to Jokhang.
About two months after Raj Goel’s visits, I was in
my customary spot on the filing cabinet in the executive assistants’ office when Lobsang came by.
“Something for you got caught up in our post today,” Tenzin told him, flicking through some envelopes on his desk before retrieving a glossy postcard of a glamorous female celebrity.
“Raj Goel?” Lobsang scanned the card and read the signature, trying to place the name. “Oh, that Raj!”
“Friend?” inquired Tenzin.
“Remember the fellow from Dharamsala Telecom who came to check our line fault a couple of months ago? Turns out, he now works for one of the biggest phone companies in America.”
Tenzin’s eyebrows flickered upward momentarily. “I hope he’s improved his manners, or he won’t be working there very long.”
“I am sure his manners are much improved,” said Lobsang, “now that he’s escaped his own fear of failure.”
He chuckled as he continued to read the card. “Just last week he repaired the telephone of this one.” He held up the postcard.
“Who is she?” asked Chogyal.
“A very famous American actress who is also something of a patron saint of stray cats.” He turned to look at me with a knowing expression that belied his claim not to have any special qualities.
“This postcard closes the circle on our meeting with Raj Goel very nicely, wouldn’t you say, HHC?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Is there a downside to being the Dalai Lama’s Cat?
Simply asking the question may seem preposterous or suggest such base ingratitude that you many want to dismiss me this instant as an overpampered wretch, one of those flat-faced, long-haired felines whose expression of icy hauteur gives the impression that nothing ever will be quite good enough for them.
But not so fast, dear reader. Are there not two sides to every story?
It’s true that there can be few cats in history who have benefited from the peerless conditions in which I find myself. Not only are all my material needs fulfilled and my whims indulged—sometimes before I’m even aware of them myself—but my cerebral world is enlivened by the rich variety of visitors and activities that swirl around me. Emotionally, it would be hard to imagine being more loved, worshipped, and adored by those for whom I, in turn, have only the most heartfelt devotion.
And spiritually, as you already know, all it takes is for His Holiness to step into a room, and all ordinary appearances and conceptions seem to dissolve away, leaving only an abiding sensation of profound well-being. Given that I spend so much of each day in his presence, sleep through every night at the foot of his bed, and spend many hours in his lap, I must be one of the most blissed-out cats on the planet.
Where, pray tell, is the downside of all of that?
As the Dalai Lama frequently explains, inner development is something for which we must each take personal responsibility. Other beings cannot make us more mindful, so that we can experience the rich tapestry of everyday experience to the fullest. Similarly, other beings cannot force us to become more patient or kind, no matter how conducive to our contentment patience or kindness would be. As for improving concentration while meditating, this is, quite obviously, something we need to do for ourselves.
And so we come to the heart of the matter, the cause of my embarrassing but undeniable vexation.
Day after day, I sit in audiences with His Holiness, listening to the meditation experiences of advanced practitioners, knowing that I am incapable of meditating for more than two minutes without being distracted. Not a week goes by that I don’t hear about amazing adventures in consciousness undertaken by yogis who are asleep or technically—if temporarily—dead. But when I close my own eyes each night, I quickly fall into a state of heavy, oblivious torpor.
If I lived with a family who spent as much time watching television as the Dalai Lama spends meditating, and whose minds were just as agitated as my own, perhaps then, I sometimes think, I wouldn’t be quite so painfully aware of my own limitations. If I were surrounded by humans who believed that it is the people and things in their lives that make them happy or unhappy, rather than their attitude toward those people or things—well, then I could be considered the very wisest of cats.
But I’m not.
So I can’t be.
Instead, there are times when I feel so inadequate it seems pointless to even try becoming a genuine bodhicatva. My poor meditation skills. My habitual negative mental thoughts. Living at Jokhang is like being a pygmy among giants! Not to mention the fact that I have all manner of personal inadequacies, like my shadow side of gluttonous craving, which I battle each and every day, and my physical imperfections, instantly evident when I begin to walk, on account of my wobbly hind legs. And the acutely painful knowledge, like a sharp-edged grain of sand chafing at the very heart of my self-esteem, that my impeccable breeding is—oh, woe upon woes!—undocumented and likely to remain so till the end of time. It’s hard to keep believing that you are different or special or—dare one say it, blue-blooded—without the paperwork to prove it.
These were my precise thoughts when I ambled down the road one morning to Café Franc for a comfort meal. Making my way through the bustling tables, I paused to exchange wet-nose greetings with Marcel, who had become more cordial toward me since the arrival of Kyi Kyi. I indulged Franc with a beneficent purr when he reached down to stroke me. Then, darting out of the way of the head waiter, Kusali, who was balancing three plates of food on each arm, I ascended to my usual place between the glossy fashion magazines and surveyed my private theater.
There was the usual mixture of travelers—hikers, Seekers, Greenies, and sneaker-clad retirees. But my attention was immediately drawn to the 30-something man sitting alone at the table directly beside me, reading a copy of Bruce Lipton’s The Biology of Belief. Fresh-faced and handsome, with hazel eyes, a high forehead, and curly, dark hair, he was reading at a pace that suggested a ferocious intellect behind a pair of somewhat nerdy reading glasses.
Sam Goldberg was one of the longer-term patrons of the café. Arriving in McLeod Ganj a month earlier, on discovering Café Franc he had immediately become a daily visitor. It hadn’t taken Franc long to introduce himself.
The two of them had exchanged the usual small talk, during which I learned that Sam was taking time off after being laid off from his job in Los Angeles. He was in McLeod Ganj for an indeterminate time. He read an average of four books a week. He was an inveterate blogger on mind/body/spirit matters. And he had an online following of over 20,000 people.
It was during a conversation the previous week, however, that an interesting new possibility had emerged. During a lull between the midmorning and lunchtime crowds, Franc had pulled up a chair opposite Sam—an honor he bestowed only rarely on customers.
“What are you reading today?” he asked, sliding a complimentary latte toward Sam.
“Oh, thank you! Very kind.” Sam glanced at the coffee—and only very briefly at Franc—before returning his gaze to the book. “It’s the Dalai Lama’s commentary on the Heart Sutra,” he said. “One of the classics and a personal favorite. I must have read it a dozen times. Along with Thich Naht Hanh’s Heart of Understanding, I have found it the most useful work in helping unlock the sutra’s meaning.”
“Dependent arising is a difficult topic,” remarked Franc.
“The most difficult,” agreed Sam. “But for a broader understanding you can’t go much beyond Tilopa’s Mahamudra Instruction to Naropa in Twenty-Eight Verses or the First Panchen Lama’s Main Road of the Triumphant Ones. Tilopa’s verses are wonderfully lyrical, and poetry can sometimes convey a meaning that goes well beyond the words themselves. The Panchen Lama’s teachings are much more prosaic. But their power and clarity are exactly what you need when meditating on such a subtle object.”
Franc digested this in silence for a moment before saying, “It amazes me, Sam. Seems whatever subject I ask you about, you can rattle off the names of half a dozen books on the subject, together with a full critique.”
�
��Oh, n-n-n-n-no.” Flecks of pink appeared on Sam’s pale neck.
“I suppose you have to keep up with things for your blog?”
“Actually, the blog was a result”—Sam flashed a quick glance toward Franc without actually making eye contact—“rather than the cause.”
“You’ve always been a bookworm?”
“It helps if you are, in the industry. Th-th-the industry I used to be in, I mean.”
“And what industry was that?” asked Franc conversationally.
“Bookselling.”
“You mean … ?”
“I used to work for one of the chain bookstores.”
“That’s … intriguing.” I recognized the gleam in Franc’s eye. It was the same gleam I’d seen when he discovered I was the Dalai Lama’s cat.
“I ran a mind/body/spirit section,” continued Sam. “Needed to keep up to date with all the titles.”
“Tell me,” Franc said, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “This move to e-books and electronic readers. Does it mean the end of bookstores?”
Sam drew himself up in his chair before managing to look Franc in the eye for a full second. “Nobody has a crystal ball, but I think there are actually some stores that will thrive. Those that sell a particular kind of book. Perhaps organize events.”
“Like book cafés?”
“Exactly.”
Franc regarded Sam carefully for a long while before telling him, “For the past few months I’ve been wondering how I can diversify my business. I have that area, separate from the rest of the tables, that is underutilized.” He gestured toward the part of the café, up a few steps, where the lighting was more subdued and the tables often unoccupied. “I have a lot of tourists passing through here every day who may want to buy a new book—and there’s nowhere locally to buy one. Problem is, I know nothing about running a bookstore. And I didn’t know anyone who did, until now.”
Sam nodded.
“So, what do you think of the idea?”
