The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Art of Purring (10 page)

“Perhaps,” suggested Serena, “you’ve just described what you might do next.”

“I couldn’t rescue every street vendor in the world!” he protested.

“No. But you would change the lives of the ones you did. You obviously got a lot of satisfaction from helping just the one. Imagine the satisfaction from helping many!”

Gordon Finlay stared at her for the longest time, a glint illuminating his dark, observant eyes, before he said, “You know, you just might be on to something.”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Boredom. It’s a terrible affliction, is it not, dear reader? And as far as I can tell, it’s an almost universal one. On an everyday level, there’s the boredom of being wherever you are and doing whatever task lies ahead, whether you’re an executive with a dozen dreary reports to produce before month’s end or a cat on a filing cabinet with a whole empty morning to doze through before those deliciously crispy
goujons
of sea trout—perhaps with some clotted cream to follow—are served for lunch down at the café.

How often I overhear tourists say, “I can’t wait to get back to civilization”—the very same visitors, I expect, who for several months earlier were eagerly crossing off the days on their calendars in keen anticipation of their once-in-a-lifetime trip to India. “I wish it were Friday” is another variation on the same theme, as if we must somehow endure five days of oppressive tedium for those precious two when we may actually enjoy ourselves.

And the problem goes even deeper. Raising our heads from this particular batch of month-end reports or this specific empty morning on the filing cabinet, when we think of all those still to come, our boredom slides into a more profound existential despair.
What’s the point of it all?
We may find ourselves wondering,
Why bother? Who cares?
Life can seem a bleak and endless exercise in futility.

For those beings with a broader perspective of Planet Earth, boredom is sometimes accompanied by a darker companion—guilt. We know that compared to many others, our lives are actually quite comfortable. We don’t live in a war zone or in abject poverty; we don’t have to dwell in the shadows on account of our gender or religious opinions. We’re free to eat, dress, live, and walk however we like, thank you very much. But even so, we’re bored beyond measure.

In my own case, if I can claim mitigating circumstances, the Dalai Lama
had
been away for some days. There was none of the usual bustle of activity and no visits from Mrs. Trinci, lavish with both food and affection. Most of all, there was none of the reassuring energy and love I felt simply by being in His Holiness’s presence.

And so, I set out for the café one morning heavy of heart and slow of paw. My customary dawdling was even more dawdling than usual; just moving my rear legs felt like a Herculean effort.
Why was I even doing this?
I asked myself. Delicious though lunch might be, eating it would take me all of five minutes, and then it would be a long wait until dinner.

Little did I realize how events were about to shake me from my lethargy.

It all began with Sam behaving in an unusually urgent manner, leaping off his stool in the bookstore and hurrying down the steps to the café.

“Serena!” He stage-whispered to catch her attention. “It’s Franc!” He gestured behind him to his computer screen. Franc was in the habit of Skyping for business updates, but his calls were always on Monday morning at 10
A.M.
when the café was quiet, not in the early afternoon when activity was near its peak.

Serena hurried over to the bookstore counter. Sam turned up the speakers and opened a screen revealing Franc in a living room. There were several people behind him sitting on a sofa and in armchairs. His expression was strained.

“My father died last night,” Franc announced without preamble. “I wanted to tell you before you heard from anyone else.”

Serena and Sam offered sympathy and condolences.

“Even though it was inevitable, it’s still a shock,” he said.

A woman got up from the sofa behind Franc and came toward the screen. “I don’t know what we’re going to do without him!” she wailed.

“This is my sister, Beryle,” said Franc.

“We all loved him so much,” sobbed Beryle. “Losing him is so hard!”

Murmurs of agreement came from behind them.

“It was good that I could be here for him at the end,” Franc said, seeking to regain control of the conversation. Even though his relationship with his father had been difficult, his return home had come at the insistence of his feisty lama, Geshe Wangpo. One of the senior most lamas at Namgyal Monastery, Geshe Wangpo was uncompromising on the importance of actions over words and others over self.

“I’m glad that Geshe Wangpo persuaded me,” Franc continued. “My father and I were able to resolve …”

“We’re having a big funeral,” interrupted an elderly, disembodied man’s voice from behind Franc.

“
Very
big funeral,” chimed in someone else, evidently impressed with the scale of it.

“Over two hundred people are coming to say goodbye,” added Beryle, looming up in the screen again. “That’s the main thing right now, isn’t it? We all need closure, all of us.”

“Closure,” chorused the group behind her.

“Dad wanted something very simple at the crematorium,” said Franc.

Beryle was having none of it. “Funerals are for those of us left behind,” she declared. “We’re a Catholic family. Well”—she looked pointedly at Franc—“most of us are.”

“None of that sky-burial stuff,” pronounced the same scratchy male voice from behind.

Franc was shaking his head. “I’ve never suggested …”

“That’s what you Buddhists believe in, isn’t it?” said a wizened, white-haired figure, eyes red and teeth missing, who was homing in on the computer. “Chop people into little pieces and feed them to the vultures? No, sir.”

“This is Uncle Mick,” Franc said.

Uncle Mick scrutinized the computer screen for a few long moments before rebuking Franc, “They’re not Indian!”

“I never said they were,” Franc protested gently, but Mick had already turned his back and was shuffling away.

Franc raised his eyebrows pointedly before saying, “I’m hoping to get out to feed birds in the park tomorrow.”

Buddhists believe that acts of generosity benefit those who have died, when dedicated by people who have a close karmic connection to the deceased.

“
Birds?
” Beryle was incredulous. “What about
us?
What about your own flesh and blood? Plenty of time for that sort of nonsense after the funeral.”

“I’d better go,” Franc said quickly. “I’ll call again when I’m alone.”

As Serena and Sam said good-bye, Uncle Mick’s voice rose. “Birds? I knew it! There’ll be no sky burial as long as I’m around!”

After the call ended, Sam and Serena turned toward each other.

“Looks like he’s having a rough time,” said Serena.

Sam nodded. “At least he knows he did the right thing by going home. Though he could be back a lot sooner than everyone thought,” added Sam, his expression thoughtful.

“Who knows?” Serena ran her fingers through her hair. “If he has to deal with the estate he could be there for a while yet.”

Sensing a movement she looked down to find Marcel, Franc’s French bulldog, at her feet.

“How did
he
know?” she wondered, smiling at Sam.

“Heard his voice?”

“From under the counter?” She looked over at the dogs’ basket. It seemed unlikely that the sound of Franc’s voice had traveled that far.

“No,” she said, kneeling down to pat him. “I think dogs can sense these things. Can’t you, my little friend?”

Soon after that came alarming news much closer to home, news that struck at the very heart of Namgyal—more specifically, at the office where I oversaw the activities of the Dalai Lama’s executive assistants. There was usually something going on in there that I would observe from on top of the filing cabinet behind Tenzin, which offered a panoramic view not only of the office itself but also of everyone who came and went from His Holiness’s quarters. Consequently, when the Dalai Lama was out of town, I spent many of my days in the office, watching the to and fro of official business at Jokhang.

Chogyal and Tenzin tried to take their vacations during His Holiness’s lengthier absences, and on this occasion it had been Chogyal’s turn for time off. Several days earlier he had left to visit family in Ladakh. Two days ago, Chogyal had contacted Tenzin with an urgent message for Geshe Wangpo. With customary efficiency, Tenzin had immediately summoned two novice monks who were undertaking cleaning chores down the corridor.

I had known Tashi and Sashi from my earliest days in the world, when their treatment of me had been shabby, to say the least. Since then they had made great efforts to redeem themselves and were now fervent in their concern for my well-being.

“I have an urgent message for you to deliver,” Tenzin told them as they entered the office.

“Yes, sir!” they replied in unison.

“It’s critical you give this to Geshe Wangpo personally,” Tenzin emphasized, handing a sealed envelope to ten-year-old Tashi, the elder of the two.

“Yes, sir!” Tashi repeated.

“No delay, no diversion,” said Tenzin sternly, “even if you are called by a senior monk. This is official business of His Holiness’s office.”

“Yes, sir,” the boys chorused, their faces glowing with the importance of their unexpected mission.

“Go, now,” Tenzin commanded.

They turned to each other briefly, before Tashi said in a piping voice, “Just one question, sir.”

Tenzin raised his eyebrows.

“How is HHC, sir?”

Tenzin turned to where I lay sprawled on the filing cabinet. I blinked my eyes open, just the once.

“As you can see, still alive.” His tone was droll. “Now hurry!”

No sooner was I back from the café that afternoon and up on the filing cabinet giving my charcoal ears a quick wash than who should appear on the other side of the office but Geshe Wangpo himself. Geshe Wangpo was not only one of Namgyal Monastery’s most revered lamas but also one of its most intimidating. An old-school Geshe—the title refers to the highest academic degree for Buddhist monks—he was in his late 70s and had studied in Tibet before the Chinese invasion. He had the round, muscular build typical of a Tibetan, as well as a penetrating intellect and little tolerance for slothfulness of body or mind. He was also a monk of immense compassion, whose love for his students was never doubted.

Such was Geshe Wangpo’s commanding physical presence that the moment he appeared at the door, Tenzin rose from his chair and greeted him, “Geshe-la!”

The lama waved for him to sit down. “Thank you for your message two days ago,” Geshe Wangpo said, his expression grave. “Chogyal was seriously ill.”

“So I heard,” said Tenzin. “He was fine when he left here. Perhaps he picked up something on the bus?”

Geshe Wangpo shook his head. “It was his heart.” He didn’t elaborate. “He deteriorated overnight. He was much weaker but remained conscious. When I called him again early this morning, however, he was unable to speak and barely alive. Unfortunately for us, his time had come. He couldn’t move, but he could hear my voice. His physical death was at nine o’clock, but he remained in clear light for more than five hours.”