The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Art of Purring

by David Michie

  I was the top-shelf witness to the inaugural banquet less than two weeks later. As the abiding presence of the Himalaya Book Café, why would I not be? Besides, Serena had promised me a generous serving of her delectable Malabar fish curry.

  Never had there been so many diners in the restaurant at one time. The event had proven so popular that extra tables had to be brought into the bookstore area and two additional waitstaff hired for the night. Joining the local residents who were café regulars were Serena’s family and friends, many of whom had known Serena as a child. Serena’s mother was operatic and center stage in a multicolored Indian shawl, her gold bracelets jangling at her wrists and her amber eyes flashing with pride as she watched her daughter choreograph the evening.

  As if to compensate for the Italian brio, at the table next to Mrs. Trinci’s was a more sedate contingent from the Dalai Lama’s office, including His Holiness’s executive assistants, Chogyal and Tenzin, along with Tenzin’s wife, Susan, and His Holiness’s translator, Lobsang.

  Chogyal, with his warm heart and soft hands, was my favorite monk after the Dalai Lama. With wisdom well beyond his years in dealing with often-tricky monastic matters, he was of great assistance to His Holiness. He was also responsible for feeding me when the Dalai Lama was away, a duty he performed punctiliously.

  It had been Chogyal who, a year earlier, had volunteered to take me home with him while the Dalai Lama’s quarters were being redecorated. After lashing out at him for having the temerity to remove me from all that was familiar, I had spent three days sulking under the bedcovers, only to discover that I had been missing out on an exciting new world, one inhabited by a magnificent tabby who was to become the father of my kittens. Through all these adventures Chogyal had remained my patient and devoted friend.

  Across the desk from him in the executive assistants’ office sat Tenzin, a suave professional diplomat whose hands always had the tang of carbolic soap about them. He had been educated in Britain, and I had learned most of what I knew about European culture from lunchtimes in the first-aid room, listening to the BBC World Service with Tenzin.

  I didn’t know Tenzin’s wife, Susan, but I was familiar with His Holiness’s translator, Lobsang, a deeply serene young monk. Lobsang and Serena had known each other from way back, having both grown up together in McLeod Ganj. A relative of the royal family of Bhutan, Lobsang had been a novice monk studying at Namgyal when Mrs. Trinci needed extra sous-chefs in the kitchen. He and Serena had been conscripted, and a close and delightful friendship had ensued, which was why Lobsang was also present for the Indian banquet.

  The night of the banquet, Serena had transformed the café into a sumptuous dining room with richly embroidered and sequined tablecloths on which she had placed exquisitely carved condiment pots. Clustered at every setting were flickering tea lights in brass lotus-flower candle holders.

  Indian trance music swelled and ebbed hypnotically in the background as a parade of dishes appeared from the kitchen. From the vegetable pakoras to the mango chicken, each one of them received an ecstatic response. As for the Malabar fish curry, I could personally vouch for it. The fish was mild and succulent, the sauce deliciously creamy, with just enough coriander, ginger, and cumin to deliver a delightful zing. Within minutes I not only had eaten my serving but had licked the saucer clean.

  At the center of everything, Serena was masterfully in command. She had dressed especially for the performance in a crimson sari, with kohl makeup, chandelier earrings, and a glittering jeweled collar. As the evening wore on, she went from table to table, and I couldn’t help but notice how touched people were by her warm heart. During the time she spent with them, she made them feel as if they were the center of her world. And she in turn was moved by the outpouring of affection she received.

  “It’s so wonderful that you’ve come back, my dear,” an elderly lady who was a family friend told her. “We love all your ideas and energy.”

  “We’ve needed someone like you in Dharamsala,” a classmate from Serena’s school days had said. “All the most talented people seem to leave, so when someone comes back we treasure them more than you can imagine.”

  Several times during the evening I watched her lip tremble with emotion as she raised a handkerchief to dab the corner of her eye. Something special was happening in the Himalaya Book Café, something that went beyond the Indian banquet, however sumptuous, and was of much greater personal significance.

  The clue to it came several nights later.

  Over the past few weeks, an intriguing working relationship had been unfolding between Serena and Sam. Serena’s vivacity was the perfect complement to Sam’s shyness. His cerebral wonderland was balanced by the here-and-now world of food and wine that she inhabited. And knowing that she was only a caretaker who would be returning to Europe in a few months gave their time together a bittersweet evanescent quality.

  They had gotten into the habit of ending each evening that the café was open for dinner in a particular corner of the bookstore section. Two sofas arranged on either side of a coffee table made the perfect spot from which to survey the last of the restaurant’s diners and talk about whatever was on their minds.

  Headwaiter Kusali no longer needed to be asked to bring their order. Shortly after they sat down, he would arrive bearing a tray with two Belgian hot chocolates, one with marshmallows for Serena, the other with biscotti for Sam. Also on the tray would be a saucer with four dog biscuits and, if I was still at the café, a small jug of lactose-free milk.

  The soft clink of the saucer on the coffee table was the cue for Marcel and Kyi Kyi, who had obediently remained in their basket under the counter for the whole of dinner service. The two dogs would scramble from their basket, race across the restaurant and up the stairs, before sitting at the coffee table with heads cocked and pleading eyes. Their eagerness never failed to bring a smile to the faces of their two human companions, who would watch the dogs devour their biscuits, snuffling up any crumbs on the floor.

  I would make my way over in more leisurely fashion, stretching myself for a few quivering moments before hopping down from the top shelf of the magazine rack to join the others.

  After their biscuits, the dogs would jump up on the sofa, flanking Sam as they lay on their backs, in eager anticipation of a tummy rub. I would take my place in Serena’s lap, kneading whatever dress she happened to be wearing while giving her an appreciative purr.

  “There’s already been a flurry of bookings for our next banquet,” Serena told Sam that particular evening after all five of us were settled.

  “That’s great!” he said, sipping his hot chocolate contemplatively. “H-have you decided when you’re going to tell Franc?”

  Serena hadn’t. Still in San Francisco, Franc knew nothing about last Wednesday’s Indian banquet experiment. Serena had been holding to the wisdom that it is sometimes better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission.

  “I thought I’d let him have a pleasant surprise when he gets the month’s financials,” she said.

  “He’ll get a surprise all right,” agreed Sam. “The biggest take for a single night since the café opened. And it has turbocharged everything since. The whole place has become more vibrant. There’s more of a buzz.”

  “I’ve thought that, too,” said Serena. “But I wondered if I was the only one.”

  “No, the place has changed,” Sam insisted, holding her eyes for a full two seconds before breaking his gaze. “You’ve changed, too.”

  “Oh?” she said, smiling. “How?”

  “You’ve got this … energy. This j-joie de v-vivre.”

  Serena nodded. “I do feel different. I’ve been thinking about how in all those years of managing some of the most upscale restaurants in Europe, I don’t think I ever had as much fun as I did last Wednesday night. I never would have believed it could be so wonderfully satisfying!”

  Sam reflected for a moment before observing, “As that psychologist said the other day, sometimes it’
s hard to predict what will make us happy.”

  “Exactly. I’m beginning to wonder if being head chef at one of London’s top restaurants really is what I want to do next.”

  I was looking at Sam as she said this and observed the change in his expression. A gleam came into his eyes.

  “If I go back to doing the same thing,” continued Serena, “it will probably produce the same result.”

  “More stress and b-burnout?”

  She nodded. “There are rewards, too, of course. But they’re very different from the ones here.”

  “Do you think it was cooking for family and friends that made the difference?” Sam suggested. Then, flashing a mischievous glance he added, “Or was it about awakening the vindaloo within?”

  Serena chuckled. “Both. I’ve always adored curries. Even though they’ll never be haute cuisine, I love cooking them because of the many flavors, and they’re so nourishing. But as well as that, it felt as if last Wednesday was really special for people.”

  “I agree,” said Sam. “The place had a great vibe.”

  “There’s something very fulfilling when you can do what you really care about, and it’s appreciated by others.”

  Sam looked pensive before putting down his mug, rising from the sofa, and going to a bookshelf. He returned with a paperback copy of Man’s Search for Meaning, by the Austrian psychologist and Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl. “What you just said reminded me of something,” he said, opening the book at its preface. “‘Don’t aim at success,’” he read. “‘The more you aim at it and make it a target, the more you are going to miss it. For success, like happiness, cannot be pursued; it must ensue … as the unintended side effect of one’s dedication to a course greater than oneself.’”

  Serena nodded. “In a very small way, I think that’s what I’m discovering.” For a moment they held each other’s eyes. “And in the strangest of ways.”

  Sam was curious. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, the whole idea of an Indian banquet only happened because of a chance conversation I had with Kusali. And that only happened because I found little Rinpoche stranded.”

  Sam knew about the afternoon I had been trapped on the wall. There had been much speculation about how I had ended up there, none of it correct.

  “You might say that all of this only came about because of Rinpoche,” she said, gazing down adoringly and stroking me.

  “Rinpoche, the catalyst,” observed Sam.

  As the two of them chuckled, I thought how no one, least of all me, could ever have guessed at the chain of events that would be triggered by my decision that Monday afternoon to turn left instead of right when I left the café. Nor would any of us have believed what was still to come. For what had happened so far turned out to be only the beginning of a much bigger story—a story in which many dimensions of happiness were to emerge as unintended but most rewarding side effects.

  Unpredictable? Most certainly. Enlightening? Indubitably!

  CHAPTER TWO

  What makes you purr?

  Of all the questions in the world, this is the most important. It is also the great leveler. Because no matter whether you are a playful kitten or a sedentary senior, a scrawny alley Tom or a sleek-coated uptown girl, whatever your circumstances you just want to be happy. Not the kind of happy that comes and goes like a can of flaked tuna, but an enduring happiness. The deep-down happiness that makes you purr from the heart.

  Only a few days after the Indian banquet, I made another intriguing discovery about happiness. Midway through a glorious Himalaya morning—blue skies, fluting birdsong, the invigorating scent of pine—I heard unfamiliar sounds coming from the bedroom. Hopping off my sill, I went to investigate.

  Chogyal was supervising a spring cleaning in the Dalai Lama’s absence. My second-favorite monk was standing in the center of the room overseeing one workman who was up a ladder, unhooking the curtains, while another was perched on a stool giving the light fixture a good wipe.

  My relationship with Chogyal went through a subtle change every time His Holiness traveled. In the mornings, when he arrived at work, he would come through to the Dalai Lama’s quarters just to see me, spending a few minutes brushing my coat with my special comb and talking to me about that day’s events, a reassurance I appreciated after spending the night alone.

  Similarly, before he left work at night, he would ensure that my biscuit bowl was filled and my water replenished, then take time to stroke me and remind me how much I was loved, not only by His Holiness but by everyone in the household. I knew that Chogyal was trying to make up for the Dalai Lama’s absence, and his kind heart endeared him to me all the more.

  But this morning I was alarmed by what he was doing to our bedroom. One of his underlings was gathering items for washing when Chogyal gestured to my beige fleece blanket, on the floor under a chair. “That one,” he said. “It hasn’t been washed for months.”

  No, it hadn’t—deliberately! Nor would it be, if His Holiness had anything to do with it.

  I meowed plaintively.

  Chogyal turned to see me sitting in the door with a pleading expression in my eyes. However, for all his warmth of heart, Chogyal was not very perceptive when it came to cats. Unlike the Dalai Lama, who would have known exactly why I was unhappy, he mistook my meow as one of general distress.

  Reaching down, he drew me into his arms and began to stroke me.

  “Don’t worry, HHC,” he said reassuringly, using my official designation, short for His Holiness’s Cat, at the exact moment that the cleaner seized the blanket and made off with it in the direction of the laundry. “Everything will be back, perfectly clean, before you know it.”

  Didn’t he realize that was exactly the problem? I struggled from his arms, even extending my claws to show I meant business. After a few moments of unpleasantness, he put me down.

  “Cats,” he said, shaking his head with a bemused smile, as though I had spurned his affections for no good reason.

  Returning to the windowsill, my tail hanging dejectedly, I noticed how unpleasantly bright the day had become. Outside, the birds squawked loudly, and the stink of pine was as strong as bathroom disinfectant. How could Chogyal not see what he was doing? How could he not realize that he had just ordered the obliteration of the last surviving link I had to the very cutest kitten that ever lived, my darling little Snow Cub?

  Four months earlier, as a result of a dalliance with a ruggedly handsome if ultimately unsuitable back-alley Tom, I had given birth to a gorgeous litter of four. The first three to emerge into the world were just like their father: dark, robust, and male. It was, in fact, a source of general amazement that such vigorous specimens of tabby, soon sporting mackerel stripes, could have emerged from my petite and refined, if delightfully fluffy body. The fourth and final kitten was, however, in every way her mother’s child. The last to make her way onto the yak blanket on His Holiness’s bed in the early hours one morning, she was born so small she could easily have fit into a tablespoon. Initially we all feared for her survival, and to this day I’m convinced it was only thanks to the Dalai Lama that she made it.

  Tibetan Buddhists regard His Holiness as an emanation of Chenrezig, the Buddha of Compassion. While I live in the presence of his compassion all the time, I never felt it directed so powerfully as in our hour of greatest need. As my little baby—a tiny, pink, wrinkled speck with a few wisps of whiteness—struggled for her life, His Holiness watched over us, reciting a mantra softly under his breath. With the spotlight of his attention focused on us until the little one recovered from the birth process, it was as though no bad could come to us. We were bathed in the love and well-being of all the Buddhas. When finally she found her way to a teat and began to suckle, it was as though we had passed through a storm. Thanks to His Holiness’s protection, all would be well.

  For several weeks before the kittens were born, as news of my pregnancy had spread, His Holiness’s office had received entreaties to adopt my k
ittens from monks across the courtyard at Namgyal Monastery, from friends and supporters elsewhere in India and the Himalayas, and from as far afield as Madrid, Los Angeles, even Sydney. Had I been able to deliver enough of them, my progeny could have been living on every continent of the world.

  For the first few weeks my babies were fragile and dependent. After a month, my three boisterous sons were ready to try out canned kitten food, although I still had to nurse my little girl, who was so much tinier than the others. By eight weeks, the boys were running wild—scampering up curtains, tearing through His Holiness’s apartment, springing to attack the ankles of unsuspecting passersby.

  Before any VIP visitor arrived, the apartment would have to be swept for kittens. Chogyal, who although highly intelligent was not the most coordinated of humans, would fumble about on his hands and knees, tripping over his own robes, as he chased after one or another of my elusive sons. Tenzin—older, taller, and worldly wise—would remove his jacket with some ceremony before adopting a strategic approach, creating a distraction to flush the kittens out of wherever they were hiding and then seizing them when they least expected.

  The turning point came with the arrival of one particular visitor. As His Holiness’s Cat I have learned to be the very model of discretion when it comes to celebrity visits. Far be it from me to utter the name of any such VIP. Let me just say that this particular guest was a household name, a movie star, an Austrian-born bodybuilder who not only became one of the hottest tickets in Hollywood but went on to be governor of California.

  There. That’s as far as I’m prepared to go. I couldn’t possibly say more without giving the game away.

  The afternoon that he arrived in the back of a shiny SUV, Chogyal and Tenzin had undertaken their now-routine kitten check, securing the three tabby kittens in the staff room. Or so they thought.