The Dalai Lama's Cat (2 page)
It is in these moments that I feel profoundly grateful to be the Dalai Lama’s cat.
I have a defecating bull to thank for the event that was to change my very young life—and without which, dear reader, you would not be reading this book.
Picture a typical monsoonal afternoon in New Delhi. The Dalai Lama was on his way home from Indira Gandhi Airport, after a teaching trip to the United States. As his car made its way through the outskirts of the city, traffic was brought to a halt by a bull that had ambled into the center of the highway, where it proceeded to dump copiously.
Several cars back in the traffic jam, His Holiness was calmly gazing out the window, waiting for the traffic to start up again. As he sat there, his attention was drawn to a drama being played out at the side of the road.
Amid the clamor of pedestrians and bicyclists, food-stall proprietors and beggars, two ragged street children were anxious to bring their day’s trading to an end. Earlier that morning, they had come across a litter of kittens, concealed behind a pile of burlap sacks in a back alley. Scrutinizing their discovery closely, they soon realized that they had fallen upon something of value. For the kittens were no garden-variety alley cats; they were clearly felines of a superior kind. The young boys were unfamiliar with the Himalayan breed, but in our sapphire eyes, handsome coloring, and lavish coat, they recognized a tradable commodity.
Snatching us from the cozy nest in which our mother had tended us, they thrust my siblings and me into the terrifying commotion of the street. Within moments my two elder sisters, who were much larger and more developed than the rest of us, had been exchanged for rupees—an event of such excitement that in the process I was dropped, landing painfully on the pavement and only narrowly avoiding being killed by a motor scooter.
The boys had much more trouble selling us two smaller, scrawnier kittens. For several hours they trudged the streets, shoving us vigorously at the windows of passing cars. I was much too young to be taken from our mother, and my tiny body was unable to cope. Failing fast for lack of milk and still in pain from my fall, I was barely conscious when the boys sparked the interest of an elderly passerby, who had been thinking about a kitten for his granddaughter.
Gesturing to set us two remaining kittens on the ground, he squatted on his haunches and inspected us closely. My older brother padded across the corrugated dirt at the side of the road, mewing imploringly for milk. When I was prodded from behind to induce some movement, I managed only a single, lurching step forward before collapsing in a mud puddle.
It was exactly this scene that His Holiness witnessed.
And the one that followed.
A sale price agreed on, my brother was handed over to the toothless old man. I, meantime, was left mired in filth while the two boys debated what to do with me, one of them shoving me roughly with his big toe. They decided I was unsaleable, and grabbing a week-old sports page of the
Times of India
that had blown into a nearby gutter, they wrapped me like a piece of rotten meat destined for the nearest rubbish heap.
I began to suffocate inside the newspaper. Every breath became a struggle. Already weak from fatigue and starvation, I felt the flame of life inside me flicker dangerously low. Death seemed inevitable in those final, desperate moments.
Except that His Holiness dispatched his attendant first. Fresh off the plane from America, the Dalai Lama’s attendant happened to have two $1 bills tucked in his robes. He handed these to the boys, who scampered away, speculating with great excitement about how much the dollars would fetch when converted into rupees.
Unwrapped from the death trap of the sports page (“Bangalore Crushes Rajasthan by 9 Wickets” read the headline), I was soon resting comfortably in the back of the Dalai Lama’s car. Moments later, milk had been bought from a street vendor and was being dripped into my mouth as His Holiness willed life back into my limp form.
I remember none of the details of my rescue, but the story has been recounted so many times that I know it by heart. What I do remember is waking up in a sanctuary of such infinite warmth that for the first time since being wrenched from our burlap nest that morning, I felt that all was well. Looking about to discover the source of my newfound nourishment and safety, I found myself looking directly into the Dalai Lama’s eyes.
How do I describe the first moment of being in the presence of His Holiness?
It is as much a feeling as a thought—a deeply heartwarming and profound understanding that all is well. As I came to realize later, it is as though for the first time you become aware that your own true nature is one of boundless love and compassion. It has been there all along, but the Dalai Lama sees it and reflects it back to you. He perceives your Buddha nature, and this extraordinary revelation often moves people to tears.
In my own case, swaddled in a piece of maroon-colored fleece on a chair in His Holiness’s office, I was also aware of another fact—one of the greatest importance to all cats: I was in the home of a cat lover.
As strongly as I sensed this, I was also aware of a less sympathetic presence across the coffee table. Back in Dharamsala, His Holiness had resumed his schedule of audiences and was fulfilling a long-standing commitment to be interviewed by a visiting history professor from Britain. I couldn’t possibly tell you who exactly, just that he came from one of England’s two most famous Ivy League universities.
The professor was penning a tome on Indo-Tibetan history and seemed irked to find he was not the exclusive focus of the Dalai Lama’s attention.
“A stray?” he exclaimed, after His Holiness briefly explained the reason why I was occupying the seat between them.
“Yes,” confirmed the Dalai Lama, before responding not so much to what the visitor had said as to the tone of voice in which he had said it. Regarding the history professor with a kindly smile, he spoke in that rich, warm baritone with which I was to become so familiar.
“You know, Professor, this stray kitten and you have one very important thing in common.”
“I can’t imagine,” responded the professor coolly.
“Your life is the most important thing in the world to you,” said His Holiness. “Same for this kitten.”
From the pause that followed, it was evident that for all his erudition, the professor had never before been presented with such a startling idea.
“Surely you’re not saying that the life of a human and the life of an animal are of the same value?” he ventured.
“As humans we have much greater potential, of course,” His Holiness replied. “But the way we all want very much to stay alive, the way we cling to our particular experience of consciousness—in
this
way human and animal are equal.”
“Well, perhaps some of the more complex mammals … ” The professor was battling against this troubling thought. “But not all animals. I mean, for instance, not
cockroaches
.”
“Including cockroaches,” said His Holiness, undeterred. “Any being that has consciousness.”
“But cockroaches carry filth and disease. We
have
to spray them.”
His Holiness rose and walked over to his desk, where he picked up a large matchbox. “Our cockroach carrier,” he said. “Much better than spraying. I am sure,” he continued, delivering his trademark chuckle. “
You
don’t want to be chased by a giant spraying toxic gas.”
The professor acknowledged this bit of self-evident but uncommon wisdom in silence.
“For all of us with consciousness”—the Dalai Lama returned to his seat—“our life is very precious. Therefore, we need to protect all sentient beings very much. Also, we must recognize that we share the same two basic wishes: the wish to enjoy happiness and the wish to avoid suffering.”
These are themes I have heard the Dalai Lama repeat often and in limitless ways. Yet every time he speaks with such vivid clarity and impact, it is as though he is expressing them for the first time.
“We all share these wishes. But also the way we look for happiness and try to avoid discomfort is the same. Who among us does not enjoy a delicious meal? Who does not wish to sleep in a safe, comfortable bed? Author, monk—or stray kitten—we are all equal in that.”
Across the coffee table, the history professor shifted in his seat.
“Most of all,” the Dalai Lama said, leaning over and stroking me with his index finger, “all of us just want to be loved.”
By the time the professor left later that afternoon, he had a lot more to think about than his tape recording of the Dalai Lama’s views on Indo-Tibetan history. His Holiness’s message was challenging. Confronting, even. But it wasn’t one that could easily be dismissed … as we were to discover.
In the days that followed, I quickly became familiar with my new surroundings. The cozy nest His Holiness created for me out of an old fleece robe. The changing light in his rooms as the sun rose, passed over us, and set each day, and the tenderness with which he and his two executive assistants fed me warm milk until I was strong enough to begin eating solid food.
I also began exploring, first the Dalai Lama’s own suite, then out beyond it, to the office shared by the two executive assistants. The one seated closest to the door, the young, roly-poly monk with the smiling face and soft hands, was Chogyal. He helped His Holiness with monastic matters. The older, taller one, who sat opposite him, was Tenzin. Always in a dapper suit, with hands that had the clean tang of carbolic soap, he was a professional diplomat and cultural attaché who assisted the Dalai Lama in secular matters.
That first day I wobbled around the corner into their office, there was an abrupt halt in the conversation.
“Who is this?” Tenzin wanted to know.
Chogyal chuckled as he lifted me up and put me on his desk, where my eye was immediately caught by the bright blue top of a Bic pen. “The Dalai Lama rescued her while driving out of Delhi,” Chogyal said, repeating the attendant’s story as I flicked the Bic top across his desk.
“Why does she walk so strangely?” the other wanted to know.
“Apparently she was dropped on her back.”
“Hmm.” Tenzin sounded doubtful as he leaned forward, scrutinizing me closely. “Perhaps she was malnourished, being the smallest kitten. Does she have a name?”
“No,” Chogyal said. Then, after he and I had batted the plastic pen top back and forth across his desk a few times, he exclaimed, “We’ll have to give her one!” He seemed enthusiastic about the challenge. “An ordination name. What do you think—Tibetan or English?” (In Buddhism, when someone becomes a monk or nun they are given an ordination name to mark their new identity.)