The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow (16 page)

His Holiness sat up late into the night reading the copy of the text. I could tell he was completely absorbed by it. Only well after midnight did he turn out the light. I felt him reach over to the end of the bed, as he always did when the room fell into darkness, to reassure me.

“You know, little Snow Lion, there are two kinds of treasures, or termas. One kind are physical termas, like the text. But more important, more valuable, are treasures of the mind. These revelations can be very precious. Mental termas can help us realize our true nature.”

In moments, I had drifted to sleep.

I'm in a harness strapped across the front of the novice monk. We are moving quickly along the side of the mountain. More than anything, I am aware of fear. Anxiety rises from the body of the novice, permeating the very cloth in which I am held.

“Om mani padme hum. Om mani padme hum.”

He whispers Tibet's most famous mantra under his breath.

Ahead of us, in the distance, a group of fellow travelers is moving quickly.

“Norbu! Hurry!” Lagging behind the group, a large, powerful man points in the direction from which we have come.

“The soldiers are not far behind!”

Even before looking down at the shaggy fur on my feet, I know from the quality of the experience that I am the Dalai Lama's dog, being carried from Tibet to India. Just as I know the person who is carrying me. In the dream he appears as a novice monk, Norbu, but I am much more familiar with him as someone different. Someone, in that curious way of dreams, who I can't place.

We are falling behind, I realize now, because Norbu is limping. His left foot is weak. As much as possible, he is trying to avoid putting weight on it.

“Om mani padme hum.”

He is trying to catch up with the fellow travelers way out in front. I hear him grunting in pain from his wound. My safe passage has been entrusted to him. It is a purpose I know he regards as a sacred mission.

“To freedom, Little Sister,” he reminds me, looking down at me where I'm secured in the cloth harness.

It begins to snow, and the rocky path becomes slippery. The white dusting on the landscape makes the dark clothes of the fleeing Tibetans even more visible.

Norbu doesn't possess the kind of footwear needed for robust travel through the mountains. He has nothing to match the boots of our pursuers.

“Norbu!” The man in front is turning back in our direction again. He waves his hand frantically.

There is nothing Norbu can do that he isn't doing already. He is moving as fast as his handicap will allow.

Which isn't fast enough.

In the cold mountain air, the crack comes like the sound of a dry, narrow branch being broken. Norbu slumps to the ground. He lies on his right side, eyes shut.

I whimper.

I can't see anything at first. In moments, I am overwhelmed by the sweet, cloying smell of blood.

The broad-shouldered man is hurrying toward us. With a scarf wrapped around his face against the cold, I can't see his features, but I have no doubt as to his courage. Despite the risk to his life, he is checking Norbu. He sees where the bullet has gone through Norbu's chest, just inches away from where I am being carried. There is nothing to be done.

He slashes the harness from Norbu's body. I feel two large, strong hands tug me upward. There is something powerful, even primal about that sensation of being lifted to safety.

For an instant, I look down to where blood is flowing from Norbu's body and forming a bright-red stain in the snow.

I suddenly realize who this person is now.

Serena.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

When you have a dream as vivid as that, dear reader, it stays with you in the days that follow. On my first-floor windowsill, absorbed by the passing moods of the weather, there would be moments where, for no apparent reason at all, an image from the dream would come back to mind and I would relive the experience.

Monsoon season was coming, so I spent a great deal of time looking out that window.

When the clouds are so low and leaden that day transmogrifies eerily into darkness, when the breeze blowing through the window is steeped in the clean scent of dust-purged streets, when the rain performs a vigorous tattoo on the Namgyal courtyard, the Dalai Lama will often get up from where he sits and turn on the corner lamp. Our room instantly becomes a haven of shelter amid the thunderous wildness. The thangkas on the walls seem to come to life then, the rich reds and golds of their ornately woven panels illuminated in the soft light, the holy beings depicted on them looking as though they might at any moment step down from their lotus thrones and into our warm sanctuary.

On such occasions, His Holiness often comes over to reassure me.

“Are you all right, my little Snow Lion?” he inquires, bending to where I sit. For a few moments we look outside, watching raindrops streaming down the other side of the window. The Dalai Lama strokes my neck or murmurs a few mantras in my ear. And it always seems to me the most curious and delightful paradox that when the world outside is at its most threatening is the very time that I feel most protected. The light within glows strongest in the darkness.

It was just such a morning when Mrs. Trinci and Serena arrived, windswept and somewhat damp. Six weeks had passed since their first meditation lesson with His Holiness. As Serena stepped into the room I studied her more closely than usual.

I was still coming to terms with the extraordinary revelation in my dream. I wondered if Serena herself had any inkling. Did she realize that, in a previous life, she had died in her mission to carry me across the Himalayas? Did she know that, as her little sister, my safe passage had been her most heartfelt concern to the very end? It certainly explained the intense closeness I'd felt for her since we'd first met. Our friendship in this lifetime was renewing a bond that went much further back into the past. I was also wondering what happened after my rescue. Had the large man with the powerful hands brought me all the way to India? And how had I come to find myself being looked after by Ludo?

As soon as Serena and her mother sat down and tea was poured, I approached where they were sitting in the lamplight, launched myself onto the sofa, and curled up between the two of them. I felt snug and protected there, away from the torrential downpour outside.

“So,” His Holiness began, looking at Mrs. Trinci. “It is six weeks since you began the meditation challenge. Have you found the practice useful?”

Although his inquiry was directed at her, he embraced us all with his warmth.

“I'm still very much a beginner,” Mrs. Trinci told him. “But I think it is helping. I feel a bit . . . different.”

I looked up at Mrs. Trinci and fixed her with my unwavering sapphire-blue inspection. I noticed how her makeup seemed to be applied in a more subtle way—gone was the heavy mascara she used in the past. And instead of the armful of bracelets that would clang together every time she moved her arms—being Italian, emphatic gesticulation was a frequent occurrence—she now wore only a single gold bracelet. It gleamed prettily in the lamplight.

The Dalai Lama gestured for Mrs. Trinci to go on.

“It's hard to say exactly how,” she told him. “Perhaps, more of a feeling than anything else.”

“A feeling?”

“
Sì.
I find I am . . . noticing things more.”

His Holiness nodded.

“It sounds silly, but the other day I collected azaleas from the garden and was arranging them in a vase for the hallway. It is something I've done a hundred times over the years. But as I looked at them last week, I noticed how beautiful they are.
Really
noticed. The feeling was
forte
—strong!”

The Dalai Lama was smiling.

“It was the same with that music.” She exchanged a glance with Serena, who nodded.

“We played a record, music from my youth that I know so well. But the feeling was so intense, I was so caught up in it, I found tears streaming down my cheeks.”

Serena reached over and clasped her hand briefly. “Sentimental old thing.”

Mrs. Trinci was nodding, moist-eyed at the recollection of it.

“Anything else?” asked His Holiness.

Mrs. Trinci shrugged. “It may be nothing, but the other day our accountant phoned. I was speaking to him and I felt myself getting tense. I noticed what was happening.”

“You said you felt your shoulders tightening . . . ,” prompted Serena.

“
Sì
. So as he was talking I took a few mindful breaths, like you showed us when meditating. It created more space. And I remembered all the times in the past when I'd felt tense while speaking to the accountant. And to many other people.”

The Dalai Lama was still nodding.

“Do you think this has something to do with meditating?” she asked.

“Definitely,” he said.

“Even though I wasn't meditating when the accountant rang? Or when I picked the flowers?”

“Of course.” The Dalai Lama paused for a short while, thinking of the best way to express himself. “If you do exercise, like running or . . .” He gestured picking up weights. “If you do it regularly, even for just a short time, it affects everything, yes?”

The two women nodded in understanding.

“So, mindfulness is like this. Little by little, you become more mindful, more aware of every action of your body, speech, and mind. Not just when you are meditating. This is most useful, because it is only when we are aware of what is happening that we can change.”

“You can't manage what you don't monitor,” proposed Serena.

“Very good!” His Holiness's face lit up.

“And this can happen,” Mrs. Trinci's voice betrayed her doubt, “even though my meditation isn't improving?”

His Holiness tilted his head to one side.

“I'm not judging it.” She held up her arms in defense. “I know I mustn't do that. I'm just saying it hasn't got better even though I've been doing it for six weeks.”

His Holiness smiled. “When you look for signs of progress in meditation, it is not helpful to look back six weeks, months, even last year. If you compare, say, to five years ago, ten years ago, then you see definite signs of change. And in the meantime, as you have experienced, there are many benefits.”

Mrs. Trinci pondered this. “Like a slow awakening.”

The Dalai Lama nodded. “Buddha means ‘awakened.'”

“You said that meditation makes you more aware of what is happening so that you can change.” Serena's brow furrowed as she searched for the right words. “Is there any particular thing we should be trying to become more aware of?”

“Each of us is different. Different temperaments. Different challenges. If we suffer from stress”—he gestured toward Mrs. Trinci—“it is most useful to notice when we are becoming tense. Only then can we modify our behavior—as you are already doing.”

Mrs. Trinci basked in His Holiness's approval. “And I'm going to continue,” she told him. “I have already noticed very good changes. And I have begun to realize that six weeks is just the beginning.”

When he smiled at her, the whole room lit up with his warm benevolence.

“In general,” he said, returning to Serena's question a few moments later, “the best place to start is with mind itself. As Buddha said: ‘Mind is the forerunner of all actions. All deeds are led by mind, created by mind. If one speaks or acts with a serene mind, happiness follows, as surely as one's shadow.'”

For a while we sat together in the lamplight, contemplating Buddha's wisdom. Outside, the sky grew even darker and wind howled down the Kangra Valley. We felt safe and protected, not only because of the softlit glow of the room but also because of the peace that came from being near His Holiness. It was as though the elements themselves were inviting us to be present in this moment. Just the four of us, simply abiding in the here and now. Once again I marveled at the discovery of how, even when the world outside was in a state of tumult, by drawing attention to the present moment, we could experience an abiding serenity.