The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow (9 page)

Most of us saw Susan only rarely—and we only realized her exquisite talent as she performed that achingly beautiful piece. Petite and slender, as she stood in front of us all it seemed almost as though she and her violin came together; she drew us listeners into the music with her. For a few moments we
became
the music and were as one with the timeless experience, as if in a state of deep meditative absorption.

Was it a coincidence that Geshe Wangpo decided to take a nighttime stroll that evening, only to walk past the café at the very moment that the night's proceedings approached their finale? He slipped in through a side door, and a chair was quickly made available to him by one of the Namgyal contingent. He followed the concert with interest.

After Susan's mesmerizing performance, Ewing sang several more songs. Then he asked impishly if, before the evening came to a close, they'd like to hear Franc play something? The answer to that question was a foregone conclusion, the mood in the room having built to one of rapturous enthusiasm.

I couldn't forget the sight of Franc sitting at that same piano only weeks earlier, harshly criticizing himself for being “a hopeless musician.” How his self-loathing had made him deaf to the genuine enthusiasm of all those around him! He had placed limitations on his own happiness by convincing himself he wasn't good enough to follow his passion.

Right now, however, it was a different story. Franc sat down at the piano and placed sheet music on the stand. Ewing acted as page-turner. First he turned out a flawless performance of Mendelssohn's dainty “Spring Song,” which won him the rapturous applause of his audience. Encouraged by this, he then played Brahms's Hungarian Dance no. 3 with magnificent Central European aplomb—a triumph that won him a standing ovation.

The crowd thundered with approval as Ewing shook Franc's hand in warm congratulation. There were enthusiastic chants of “Encore! Encore!”

As he turned toward the candlelit audience, Franc saw the faces of so many customers who had long since become friends, those he had lived among for all this time and who had never had so much as an inkling about his hidden talent. Then, for the first time that evening, Franc caught sight of his teacher.

His eyes filled with tears.

Holding up his hand for quiet, he spoke with a soft but compelling voice when the lull quickly descended. “You know, I've been wanting to have a soiree here ever since I first came to Dharamsala. From the beginning, staging musical evenings was a dream of mine. But only that, a dream, for the simple reason that I never thought I was good enough.”

There was a collective gasp of surprise, followed by a palpable wave of sympathy as Franc brushed a tear away from his cheek.

“There is one man who made this evening possible and I didn't invite him because I didn't think this was the kind of thing he would attend. But it turns out he came anyway.”

People turned to see Geshe-la gazing at Franc with a look of supreme benevolence.

“It is Geshe Wangpo who taught me the importance of self-acceptance. That we can allow the perfect to become the enemy of the good. Which is why I want to thank you, Geshe-la, from the bottom of my heart.” Emotion tugged at Franc's mouth as he brought his palms together at his heart. “You made it possible for me to feel the joy of playing music again.”

The audience applauded warmly, but this time the energy was of a different quality. It was not the exuberant excitement of before, but rather a wave of profound gratitude, a deeply felt communal embrace.

Stepping from among the tables, Geshe-la approached Franc as he stood at the front of the store. He took both Franc's hands in his own and bowed toward him so that their foreheads touched. It was a very special and very public blessing, one that conveyed a special energy throughout the whole room. It was as though all of us were caught up in the poignancy of what was happening—as though we, too, were receiving the blessings of Geshe-la. He was telling us all to accept ourselves, to let go of the burden of destructive self-criticism and all the limitations it brings. Even as it was happening, we knew this was a moment we would long remember.

The walk home to Namgyal from the Himalaya Book Café was short but it was also uphill, so sometimes I'd pause for a rest. After the soiree, I was doing just this when there came the sound of sandals behind me; I turned to see Geshe Wangpo.

“HHC!” he greeted, footsteps slowing. “You also came to the concert?”

As he bent to stroke me, I purred.

“Lift home?” he inquired.

I appreciated the offer. There had been rain earlier that evening, and I didn't want to get muddy and damp if I could avoid it.

Taking me into his arms, Geshe Wangpo continued, “It's wonderful what becomes possible when we start to accept ourselves,” he told me. “Others find it easier to accept us, too, when we don't keep engaging in negative thoughts about ourselves.”

As we made our way through the monastery gates, he murmured, “And we can achieve so much more when we are positive. Confident.”

I wondered if he was talking about my mental fleas. Not the fact that they occurred but rather the harsh way I had judged myself when they appeared. How I told myself my meditation practice was pointless, and that I must just as well give up.

“Check up on what is happening in your mind,” continued Geshe Wangpo. “Let go of negative thinking. But you know this already, don't you, HHC?”

As we reached the edge of the courtyard nearest my home, he put me back down on the ground with special care.

Yes, I did know. Compassion begins with self-acceptance. Self-acceptance first requires letting go of negative thoughts about yourself. And it requires being aware of the negative thoughts to begin with. I hadn't fully understood the importance of that until this evening.

I rubbed up against Geshe-la's bare ankles by way of thanks. As he turned to walk toward his room I heard him humming something under his breath—a curiously Tibetan rendition of Brahms's Hungarian Dances
.

It was while going around the building to the secret entrance I used to get inside that I caught a whiff of it again—that special scent! The new, arresting one I'd first detected on the sill upstairs. It was stronger down here, much stronger. And even more compelling. It seemed to be coming from the opposite direction of the Himalaya Book Café, up the same road, probably, but to the left instead of right out of the monastery gates. I sometimes visited a garden just a short distance away in that direction to perform my toilette, but I hadn't been there for a while. Could it be a new plant? I wondered. No matter how far away the bewitching fragrance originated, I decided, I had to find out what it was.

No sooner had I made this decision, however, than a big, fat raindrop exploded on my nose. Followed a few moments later by another on the crown of my head. A gust of wind tore through the trees above me; swaying branches scattered another shower of droplets.

Ears pressed back, I scampered to a ground-floor window left permanently ajar and quickly hopped inside.

The mystery of the scent would have to wait.

But not for long, I promised myself.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Isn't it curious how, very occasionally, we have a strong and inexplicable feeling about a complete stranger? Most of the time, someone we don't know is just someone we don't know. Perhaps we form an impression of them on account of how they dress, speak, or move. We usually have no expectation, no feeling—good or bad—when we first encounter a new person.

But the moment one particular woman appeared at the Himalaya Book Café, I knew she was trouble. Petite, elegantly attired in black, her dark hair immaculately coiffed, she carried herself with a regal bearing. She paused for a few moments inside the front door and surveyed the establishment though hooded eyes as though she'd come to judge it and had immediately found it wanting.

From my perch on the top shelf of the magazine rack, I felt provoked. Who was this dreadful woman? I wondered. My drowsy siesta came to an abrupt halt. How dare she stand there with that disdainful smirk on her face?

I followed her movements intently as one of the waiters greeted her politely and showed her to a table. Fatefully, it was the banquette at the very back of the café—the one nearest me. She perched on the seat in a way that minimized her physical contact with it, as though she'd been asked to sit on a compost heap. She ordered a bottle of sparkling mineral water.

As she waited, she glanced around the place as though everything about it was woefully inadequate. From her features, she appeared to be in her sixties, accustomed to genteel refinements and to having her own way. The disapproval on her face suggested that the gentle, baroque music was too classical. The thangkas on the walls too Buddhist. The white linen tablecloths insufficiently starched.

The waiter arrived back and poured effervescent water into a gleaming glass with a practiced flourish. But this somehow repulsed the woman even more. Head jerking back, she held her breath until she seemed about to explode.

Then she sneezed.

She fumbled inside her handbag, seized a handkerchief, and wiped her nose. She glared at the waiter, who stood wearing a concerned expression, before shooing him away as though he had no right to be there. Her eyes filled with tears. She took a few deep, labored breaths. She sneezed again.

As she continued to dab at her face, she glanced around as though grievously slighted by the management of the Himalaya Book Café. She looked from one side to the other, until, with a certain inevitability, her gaze fell on me. For the first time her eyes met mine—in their dark, brown depths was a look of pure hatred.

By now, the omniscient Kusali was already gliding smoothly across the restaurant to her table.

“Bless you, madam.” He bowed sympathetically as she sneezed again. “May I—”

“Get that . . .
thing
out of here!” she said as she pointed at me furiously. “I'm allergic!”

“Allow me to show you to another table, ma'am,” Kusali said as he pointed to a table near a window on the other side of the restaurant.

“Don't want another table,” she wheezed. “I want
that
”—she flicked her hand dismissively—“away from me!”

“Moving to another table would have the same effect,” reasoned Kusali.

“This whole place is probably full of cat hair,” she said as her eyes streamed and she sneezed again. “Just get it out of here!” she demanded imperiously.

Over the years, I'd seen Kusali indulge some outlandish requests made by café patrons. But on this matter he was steadfast.

“That's not possible, ma'am,” he replied.

“Why not?!” The woman's voice rose sharply.

“The magazine rack is her place. She likes it there.”

“Are you mad?” The woman trumpeted into her handkerchief. “How can a cat be more important—”

“She's no ordinary cat. She's—”