The Dalai Lama's Cat (20 page)
“Most of the time?”
He nodded. “Doctors also said I have to eat meat sometimes, for nutritional reasons.”
“I didn’t know that.” She studied him very closely.
“Yes. I decided, even if I can’t be vegetarian all the time, I will follow a vegetarian diet as much as possible but be moderate about it. Being vegetarian or non-vegetarian need not be black or white. We can find a middle ground. Sometimes eating meat for nutritional purposes, but all the time not necessary. My heartfelt wish is that everyone would consider doing the same thing.”
It seemed that Lauren hadn’t even considered this possibility.
“But what happens if you don’t want
any
animals to be killed just so you can eat?” she asked.
“Lauren, you have a good heart! But such a thing is not possible.”
“It’s possible for vegetarians.”
“No.” His Holiness shook his head. “Not even for them.”
Her brow furrowed.
“Sentient beings are killed even for a vegetarian diet. When land is cleared to make space for crops, the natural habitat is destroyed, and many smaller beings are killed. Then crops are planted, and pesticides are sprayed, killing many thousands of insects. You see, it is very difficult to avoid harming other beings, especially in relation to food.”
For Lauren, who had thought that being vegetarian meant that no living beings would be harmed, this was a difficult discovery. Her certainty was being shaken.
“The doctor says I should eat lean meat, like beef. But from a compassionate point of view, if you have to eat the flesh of an animal, wouldn’t it be better to eat a being like a fish?”
His Holiness nodded. “I understand what you’re saying, but there are some who would say that eating a cow is better, because a single cow can provide more than one thousand meals. A fish, only one meal. Sometimes it takes many prawns, many sentient beings, for only one meal.”
Lauren looked at the Dalai Lama for a long time. Eventually she said, “I didn’t realize it was so complicated.”
“It is a very big subject,” he agreed. “You will find that some people tell you there is only one way,
this
way, which happens to be the way that they think, and that everyone else should change their views to be like them. But it is really a matter of personal choice. The important thing is to make sure our decisions are guided with compassion
and
wisdom.”
She nodded earnestly.
“Before we eat any meal, vegetarian or meat, we should always remember the beings that have died so that we can eat. Their lives were just as important to them as your life is to you. Think of them with gratitude and pray that their sacrifice will be a cause for them to be reborn in a higher realm—and for you to be healthy, so that you can quickly, quickly reach full enlightenment in order to lead them to that same state.”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” said Lauren, leaning against him.
For a moment, the whole room was flooded with a warm glow. In the corner, near where I was dozing, the two novice monks, who had been listening to the conversation, continued to whisper their mantras.
His Holiness got up from the sofa, and as he was making his way across the visitors’ room, he said, “As much as possible, it is useful to think of all other beings as being just like me. Every living being strives for happiness. Every being wants to avoid all forms of suffering. They are not just objects or things to be used for our benefit. You know, Mahatma Gandhi once said: ‘The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.’ Interesting, isn’t it?”
Later that afternoon I was with the Dalai Lama, occupying my usual spot on the windowsill. There was a tentative knock on the door, then the two novices made their appearance.
“You wanted to see us, Your Holiness?” Tashi, the older one asked, somewhat nervously.
“Yes, yes.” The Dalai Lama opened one of the drawers of his desk and took out two sandalwood
malas
, or strings of prayer beads. “This is a small gift to thank you for looking after HHC,” he said.
Each boy accepted a mala, bowing in solemn thanks.
His Holiness said a few words about the importance of mindfulness when practicing meditation, then gave them a benevolent smile.
The short audience had come to an end, but the two novices stood where they were, exchanging nervous glances.
It was only when the Dalai Lama said, “You may go,” that Tashi asked in a piping voice, “Can I ask you a question, please, Your Holiness?”
“Of course,” he responded, a glint in his eye.
“We heard what you said earlier today about living beings. How they are not just objects to be used.”
“Yes, yes.”
“We have a confession to make. A terrible thing we did.”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” interjected Sashi, “but it was before we became novices.”
“Our family in Delhi was very poor,” Tashi started to explain. “Once, we found four kittens in a back alley and sold them for sixty rupees—”
“—and two U.S. dollars,” Sashi added.
“No questions asked,” Tashi said.
“Perhaps they were only bought for their fur coats,” Sashi ventured.
On the sill I looked up suddenly. Was I to believe what I was hearing? Were these two novices really the same unscrupulous little demons who had cruelly stolen me from the warm safety of my family home? Who had brutally wrenched my siblings and me from our mother before we were even properly weaned? Who had treated us like nothing more than merchandise? How could I forget the way they’d humiliated me, shoving me into a mud puddle, or how, when I went unsold, they’d so casually planned to destroy me?
Along with the shock, resentment welled up inside me.
But then it came to me: had it not been for them selling me, I would probably have died or been condemned to a harsh life in a Delhi slum. Instead, here I was, the Snow Lion of Jokhang.
“Yes,” continued Tashi. “That last kitten was small and dirty and could hardly walk.”
“We were going to throw it out,” Sashi added.
“I was already wrapping it in newspaper,” Tashi said. “It looked like it was almost dead.”
“Then,” said Sashi, “this rich official comes and gives us $2. Just like that.” The thrill of the moment was still etched vividly in his mind.
Mine, too.
But their feelings about the event had undergone a metamorphosis.
“We realize what a bad thing we did.” They both looked remorseful. “Just using small kittens for our own benefit.”
“I see,” nodded His Holiness.
“The youngest kitten especially,” said Tashi. “It was very weak—”
Sashi shook his head. “We were paid all that money, but the kitten probably died.”
The brothers looked at His Holiness nervously, bracing for a wrathful condemnation of their selfishness.
Only, the condemnation didn’t come.
Instead, the Dalai Lama told them seriously, “In the Dharma, there is no place for guilt. Guilt is useless. It is pointless to feel bad about something in the past that we can’t change. But regret? Yes. This is more useful. Do you both feel sincere regret for what you did?”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” they chorused.
“You are committed to never harming a living being again in that way?”
“Yes, Your Holiness!”
“When you practice compassion in meditation, think about those small kittens and the countless other weak and vulnerable beings who need your protection and love.”
His Holiness’s features lightened. “As for that very weak kitten you thought might have died, I believe you will discover that she grew into a beautiful being.” He gestured toward where I was sitting on the sill.
As they turned to look at me, Tashi exclaimed, “His Holiness’s Cat?”
“It was one of my staff who paid you the $2. We had just returned from America, and he didn’t have any rupees.”
Approaching me, they stroked the back of my head and my back.
“It is very fortunate that we all now enjoy such a good home here at Namgyal Monastery,” said His Holiness.
“Yes,” agreed Sashi. “But it is very strange karma how we have spent the past three days looking after the same cat we once sold.”
Perhaps that part wasn’t so strange. The Dalai Lama is believed to be clairvoyant. I guessed that the reason he had chosen the two novices to perform their particular task had been precisely because of their past actions. He was giving them an opportunity to make amends.
“Yes, karma propels us into all kinds of unexpected situations,” His Holiness said. “This is another reason we should behave with love and compassion toward all living beings. We never know in what circumstances we will meet up with them again. Sometimes even in this same lifetime.”
Have you ever been paralyzed by indecision, dear reader? Found yourself in a situation where if, on the one hand, you do this, that, or the next, a certain result may occur, but if, on the other hand, you do something different, another better result may occur—only the chances of it happening are less likely, so perhaps you’d be better off sticking with the first course of action?
You may have imagined that we cats never get caught up in such cognitive complexity. Maybe you believed that existential overload is the unique preserve of Homo sapiens.
As it happens, nothing could be further from the truth.
Felis catus
—the domestic cat—may not have a career to build, a commercial endeavor to attend to, or any of the whirling carousel of activities that make humans such relentlessly busy beings. But there is one area in which we are startlingly similar.
I am talking, of course, about matters of the heart.
Humans may wait in desperation for a particular text message, e-mail, or phone call. We cats have different ways of communicating. The form is unimportant. All that matters is the confirmation we so desperately seek.
I was in just such a position when it came to my tabby friend. My attraction was instant, from the first moment I saw him under the green light. When we actually met, during my stay at Chogyal’s, there had been an unmistakable and, I thought, mutual
frisson.
But now that I was no longer staying with Chogyal, did he know where I lived? Should I make more of an effort—say, by crossing the temple courtyard one night and exploring the shadowy netherworld beyond? Or should I remain coolly enigmatic, a feline of great mystery, and rely on him to come looking?
It was Lobsang, His Holiness’s translator, who brought much-needed clarity to my situation. And, as is so often the case with these things, in the least expected way. A tall, slim Tibetan Buddhist monk in his mid-30s, Lobsang was originally from Bhutan, where he was a distant relative of the royal family. He had received a thoroughly Western education in America, graduating from Yale with a degree in Philosophy of Language and Semiotics. As well as his height and a radiant intelligence, there was something else you became aware of the moment that Lobsang stepped into a room. It was an aura of calm. He was suffused with serenity. A deep, abiding tranquility seemed to emanate from every cell of his body, affecting everyone around him.
In addition to his responsibilities as translator, Lobsang was also the unofficial head of information technology at Jokhang. Whenever computers were uncooperative, printers turned surly, or satellite receiver boxes switched to passive-aggressive mode, it was Lobsang who was called upon to apply his calm, incisive logic to the problem.
So when the main modem at Jokhang went on the blink one afternoon, it didn’t take five minutes for Tenzin to summon Lobsang from his office down the corridor. After a few simple checks, Lobsang concluded that a fault in the line was the problem. Help from the phone company was summoned forthwith.
Which is how Raj Goel, technical support services representative of Dharamsala Telecom, came to be at Jokhang late that afternoon. A slight man in his mid-20s with a wiry frame and thick mop of hair, he seemed extremely disgruntled at having to provide technical support services to a customer. The cheek of it! The nerve!
Face set to a scowl, his manner brusque, he demanded to be shown the modem and the telephone lines coming into Jokhang. These were located in a small room down the corridor. Slamming his metal briefcase on a shelving unit with an angry crash, he flicked open the clasps, extracted a flashlight and a screwdriver, and was soon poking and prodding a tangle of cables, while Lobsang stood a few feet away, calmly attentive.