The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow (15 page)

The smell of ancient leather was one I'd never encountered. It was slightly musty but not decayed; there was also a whiff of incense about it. Was it the hint of sandalwood, or perhaps some Himalayan herbs? There was definitely an otherworldly feeling about being in the pouch, a sensation made all the more powerful by knowing where it came from and what it contained. Which was when it struck me: this would be a wonderful place for a cat to meditate.

I kneaded the leather beneath me for a while before settling down on it. As I did, the effect of my weight pulled the leather down in the box slightly, causing the open flap of the pouch to fold back over its top and creating a tent-like effect. It suddenly became dark, but that only made the sensation all the more mystical. Here I was, concealed in the same covering that had held a secret treasure deep in the mountains of Tibet for hundreds of years. Purring softly, I focused on my breath.

I'm not sure if it was the power of suggestion, dear reader, but my mind seemed amazingly clear. I felt very little agitation. Even despite the Dalai Lama's extraordinary reference to “Little Sister,” I was able to focus my mind not on speculating what that might mean but on simply breathing in and out with a sense of serene calm. Was this about to be my best meditation session ever?

Apparently not.

It was only some time later when I realized that I must have fallen asleep. As I blinked my eyes in an unfamiliar darkness, it took me a while to recollect where I was—or rather, where I had been.

Because something told me I was no longer in the same place.

Still coming to as I sat up in the box, I pushed the leather flap off with my head and looked around. I could see I was no longer in the meeting room. Someone must have picked the box up and carried it away with me in it after I had nodded off. The only source of light came from a gap beneath a door, but it allowed me to see that shelves and boxes surrounded me. I recognized where I was: the archive room in Namgyal Monastery.

My every instinct was for escape. Getting out of the box wasn't easy, given the limited space between the top of it and the shelf above it. I had to scramble for quite a while, but I finally managed to kick against the edge of the box. I flopped down on the other side of it in an ungainly fashion. I made my way along the shelf and to the corner.

No sooner was I there than the archive door began opening, creating a sliding wall of light. A monk stepped inside.

I meowed pitifully.

The monk ignored me. He casually placed a large, heavy book on top of the box from which I had only just escaped. He did an about-face. As he did, I saw it was one of the monks who ran errands on behalf of the senior lamas—the one who was deaf.

Before I could think of any way to attract his attention, he had slammed the archive door shut. I was returned to darkness. I recognized that, if I had woken only minutes later, I would have found myself trapped in the box with no possibility of escape.

It was a sobering recognition. As was the knowledge that the meditation session I had started earlier had turned out to be less of a revelatory experience than I had hoped. I may have enjoyed greater freedom from agitation than usual, but it seemed that my mind had quickly succumbed to dullness.

There was nothing for me to do but wait. I had no idea how often the archive room was used or how often people walked past it. I had no way of getting to the floor—I was too high up. Being a cat with weak rear legs on account of a kittenhood injury, I was unable to leap from great heights. My only choice was to stay where I was, listen carefully for passersby, and meow very loudly.

After what felt like an interminable wait, I became aware of the door rolling open again. I raised my head and meowed loudly at the same instant that a monk stepped inside and switched the lights on.

It was Oliver. He looked over to find the source of the meow.

“HHC!” he exclaimed when he saw me huddled in the corner. He frowned at the battered cardboard box directly in front of him and reached out to touch the heavy book on top of it.

“Good Lord!” he said. It wasn't an expression I'd heard a Tibetan monk use before. “How on earth did you escape from there?”

Then he scooped me off the shelf and carried me outside, locking the archive door behind him. I allowed him to carry me along a winding corridor that eventually led to the temple and out into the familiarity of the courtyard before struggling to be put down.

“Don't you want to come home, HHC?”

Early-afternoon sunshine filtered through the clouds. Having been trapped in darkness for the past few hours, what did he think? I continued to struggle.

Oliver evidently had different ideas about what should happen next, so I had to extend my claws—just slightly—to show I meant business. After one further scramble, I tumbled out of his arms and to the ground. Finding my feet, I raced across the courtyard as fast as my wonkiness would allow.

Oliver pursued me, but slowly. At the gates, I turned and glanced back to see him trotting in my direction.

“HHC!” he was calling. “Come back here, you mischievous wretch!”

I could see that his heart wasn't in the chase. Darting to the left, I made my way behind some bushes at the side of the road. I was free!

I hadn't progressed much farther along the road when I caught a whiff of it again—that bewitchingly compulsive scent. I quickly abandoned my original impulse to visit the Himalaya Book Café and search for an afternoon treat. I remembered the first time I'd first detected that scent on the upstairs windowsill. And again, the evening with Geshe Wangpo, when I decided that it must be coming from somewhere along this road.

Paws hastening, I continued on my way until I had passed the boundary of Namgyal and come to the small, secluded garden that lay between Namgyal Monastery and a retirement home. I would visit here from time to time to attend to the calls of nature. As I clambered toward the garden today, I glanced across the lush, green square and its vast, mature cedar tree canopy, nostrils flaring. Each side of the garden was bordered by flower beds containing agapanthus, calla lilies, dahlias, and other flowering plants. The beds contained neatly raked, loose soil—very convenient for feline comfort. But I could detect no sign of that particular smell.

The garden may have been a horticultural haven, but today, as always, it was deserted. The inviting wooden bench under the boughs of the cedar tree was empty. Residents of the retirement home sometimes sat on a veranda that overlooked the verdant space, but they were nowhere to be seen. Occasionally, I had noticed that the door of a wooden shed in the corner of the garden would be left open. A figure sometimes moved about inside. But apart from that, I had never seen a human anywhere near the place.

I was beginning to think I'd have to go farther along the road to find the origin of the scent when the wind changed, and, suddenly, I caught a gust of it fully in the face: intense, unmistakable, and coming from very close by.

I began scampering across the lawn against the direction the wind was blowing. The lure of it was irresistible. As I walked, it grew stronger. Soon I crossed the grass and found myself at a flower bed. I came face-to-face with a cluster of plants with heart-shaped leaves and white flowers. Their abundant, mesmerizing, heady perfume filled the air.

I began chewing their green stalks. Dear reader, I had no choice. I was compelled! Reaching into the bed, I licked the stems and shook my head. I found myself so overcome with desire for this strange fragrance that I began to quiver. I rubbed my face against the plants. Then I launched myself completely into the bed, crushing stalks and bringing flowers down upon me.

Oh bliss!

I stretched and rolled and curled my whole body into the redolent foliage. I couldn't get enough! Never had I abandoned myself so completely to such sensual indulgence—not even during my ill-fated romance with the mackerel tabby. Could this be the legendary catnip? The plant whose potent, almost magical effect is one for which we cats are born with such an unfettered craving?

At some point the effect started to wear off. The pleasure became less vivid. The scent less beguiling. Curled like a furry croissant in the flower bed, I closed my eyes and felt the warm afternoon sun on my face.

Time for a nap.

As I dozed off, I found myself wondering dreamily how it was I had never found these flowers here before. Who had planted them? And why?

That night as I relaxed on a sofa, His Holiness sat beside me, reading. After an adventure-filled day, I had returned home ravenous, and I now sat with a tummy full of food, content and replete.

It was getting late when one of the Dalai Lama's security guards arrived with a visitor—Geshe Lhundup.

“You asked me to bring this to you, however late,” Geshe Lhundup said somewhat apologetically as he laid a cloth-wrapped text on the table in front of His Holiness.

“Thank you very much.” The Dalai Lama's smile filled the room. Leaning over, he quickly unraveled the cloth wrapping to reveal the pages inside them.

“I made two copies. One for you, and one for me to study. The original is with security. First thing tomorrow morning, it will be taken to New Delhi for carbon dating.”

His Holiness was looking at the copy of the text. The long, narrow pages were covered in writing. “Have you had a chance to look at any of this?”

“Only briefly, Your Holiness.”

“I know you don't like to say anything until you're sure,” the Dalai Lama said as he waved his hand playfully toward Geshe Lhundup. “But do you have ideas about who might have written it?”

There was a pause while Geshe Lhundup tried to find the right words. “We can rule out any of the standard texts' commentators. From some of the references I noticed, the document would have to have been written after the year 1500.”

His Holiness looked up, an intensity in his expression.

“My instinct still tells me that this text is from the time of the Great Fifth.”

“As you said earlier.”

“What I did not say”—here Geshe Lhundup lowered his voice—“is that I think at least part of this text may have been written by the Great Fifth himself.”

His Holiness's eyes widened momentarily.

“Several different hands wrote this. One of them, in the central portion, has several distinctive qualities similar to the handwriting of the Fifth Dalai Lama. But, of course, I have to check most closely.”

The Dalai Lama nodded as he looked back at the text.

“I will leave you to study it,” Geshe Lhundup said as he stepped back.

“Yes. Thank you, Geshe-la.” His Holiness glanced up at the lama again with a smile.

Almost as an afterthought, Geshe Lhundup told him, “I'm sending the metal tube and leather carrier for carbon testing, too—though, of course, they may be younger than the text.”

The Dalai Lama pondered this for a moment before he said, “You may want to tell them to ignore any stray whiskers they may discover in the leather carrier.”

“Ah yes, I heard about that.” Geshe Lhundup glanced down at me. “HHC fell asleep in it earlier.”

I pressed my ears back at this remark.

“Perhaps she was trying to meditate,” suggested His Holiness beside me in a kindly tone. “You know how it is when we finally free our mind of agitation . . .”

“Indeed,” agreed Geshe Lhundup. “We seem conditioned to be in only one of two states: agitation or sleep.”

“Yes, yes. Remaining in a state of clear spaciousness, free from thought, isn't easy. Especially when we are learning to meditate.” I felt his hand stroke my neck reassuringly.