I paused, taking in the scene, scarcely able to believe what I was seeing. The tabby was luxuriating in the warmth of the morning, front paws draped over the side of the wooden table and eyes shut, looking for all the world like the household puss. Lord of the manor. King of the castle.
Just how long I remained there, frozen and transfixed, I cannot say. I knew the ferocious beast could blink open his eyes at any moment. That if he did, he’d be sure to see me. And he’d almost certainly give chase.
At the same time, part of me was hoping that something would happen to change the status quo. In particular, that Zahra would make an appearance and somehow bring this hideous aberration to an end.
Suddenly, there was a terrifying thud on the grass beside me. A clod of earth! A hundred flecks exploded right beside me. No sooner was I aware of this than another missile landed, narrowly missing my paw.
I looked up. A uniformed gardener was on the other side of the lawn, drawing back his arm. Preparing to hurl yet another clod. And he was aiming straight at me!
Instinct took over. I about-turned, scampering in retreat. A direct hit would be agonizing. With my rear legs being so frail, I would probably be knocked over—or knocked out.
Another lump of earth exploded directly behind me. I scrambled faster than I had in my life, running more quickly than I thought possible. In those crazy, heart-palpitating moments there was no time and no thought—only fear and the desperate need to escape.
The gardener didn’t seem to be chasing me. The further I got away, the fewer the projectiles. Nearing the bend in the driveway where the house disappeared from view, I glanced back for the first time. The gardener was standing in the same place, arm drawn back to launch another projectile in my direction.
The tabby, I couldn’t fail to notice, was now sitting upright on the veranda table, watching me closely. Observing my retreat through those baleful, yellow eyes.
Still hastening, I reached the road, scurrying beneath the avenue of pines, still acting on instinct more than reason, until I realized I was no longer under threat.
My pace slowed down, but I was still moving much faster than usual. Agitated and confused, I had no idea where I was heading or what I was going to do next. The appalling discovery I had just made at 21 Tara Crescent had thrown me. Spooked and bewildered, I was an altogether very discombobulated cat.
I continued along the road until I reached the garden next to the nursing home, then the fence of Namgyal Monastery. In no mood to settle, adrenalin still pumping through my system, I carried on down the hill, more from pure instinct than from any plan.
Being lunchtime, it was probably habit that drew me down the hill and past the market stalls, to the place where I was used to losing myself in a convivial buzz, nourished by morsels of whatever had been that day’s plat du jour. I am referring, of course, to The Himalaya Book Café.
The restaurant was in full swing when I arrived. Almost all the tables were occupied and lunch was being served. Still distracted, I made my way through the brass-handled swing doors. To the right, the café was all wicker chairs and white tablecloths, walls resplendent with brocaded Tibetan thangkas. To the left, up a few steps behind an ornate, teak, reception counter, was the well-stocked bookstore. Underneath the reception counter, dozing in their baskets were Franc’s two loyal canines, Marcel the Frenchie and Kyi Kyi the Lhasa Apso. Exchanging greetings, the moment our wet noses touched I was brought back to the present, to the here and now, away from the trauma of what I’d just been through.
I made my way to the magazine rack, near the bottom of the steps which led to the bookstore. Through force of habit I climbed to the top shelf where I was wont to appear, resplendent between the covers of Vogue and Vanity Fair. This was my vantage point in the café, the place from where I’d observed the goings-on for the past seven years, and where I had been photographed by countless tourists. Usually a place of sanctuary and pleasure, one where I enjoyed being greatly admired, I found it hard to settle that day. With the immediate danger behind me, what followed was a bitter realization: I was no longer welcome at 21 Tara Crescent.
Serena and Sid had adopted the tabby, or at least allowed him to move in. And, it seemed to me, they had instructed their staff to chase away other cats. So much for the special connection I had always felt with all three of them. The connection I’d believed was fully reciprocated.
I hadn’t heard Serena say anything about the new feline in their lives. But I wasn’t privy to every conversation she had. Did this mean I would never be able to return to the beautiful home with the tower between the sun, the moon, the mountains and the stars? Would I never again spend time with Zahra, just the two of us in each other’s presence, not needing to do anything in particular but feel the easy warmth of our indefinable connection?
As I came out of my state of shock, it was replaced by a feeling of hollowness. Of loss. One which could have made me very unhappy indeed had it not been for the arrival of Head Waiter Kusali, efficient as ever, who swept up to the magazine rack with a small saucer of fish in cheese sauce—the contents of today’s fish pie. Deliciously tangy and creamy, as I caught a waft I found that I was suddenly very hungry indeed. All sad thoughts were banished, as I sank my head towards the saucer and mashed away with gusto.
We cats enjoy mouse-sized meals several times throughout the day. I have to confess that the portions at The Himalaya Book Café were usually somewhat more than mouse-sized, more approaching the proportions of an especially plump rat. Which was why, after my postprandial grooming session, as well as fatigue from my over exertions of that morning, I was overcome by a familiar feeling of being pleasantly replete. Very definitely in the mood for a siesta. I lay down, paws neatly beneath me, before relaxing into what Ludo may have termed ‘croissant pose’. And so, to sleep.
When I woke up mid-afternoon, the café had fallen into its usual post-lunch lull. I was instantly aware of a conversation happening in the seating area just behind me. Two sofas and a coffee table in the bookstore offered a good view of both the bookstore and restaurant. This afternoon I heard the voices of Franc, Bronnie (Sam’s wife), and Angie (Sam’s new bookstore assistant). And it was their mention of the name ‘Mrs. Williams’ that grabbed my attention.
Even though Mrs. Williams had never stepped foot inside The Himalaya Book Café, hers had become a name of great notoriety in recent weeks. It had started when Sam and Bronnie moved apartments. They had been looking for something with two bedrooms, so they could put up family and friends visiting from home. Like most young couples, their challenge was money. So when they found an airy, first-floor apartment which not only boasted two large bedrooms, but also a view of the Himalayas from the lounge window, and all within their very modest budget, they could hardly believe their good fortune. They certainly didn’t question the low rent. On the contrary, they couldn’t wait to sign the twelve-month lease.
They knew nothing about the occupant of the ground-floor apartment. When they’d been shown through by the real estate agent, they’d caught a glimpse of a tall, young man heading into the front door from the shared, ground-floor hallway. They had assumed he lived there alone, or perhaps with a friend or partner. Not that they gave the matter a moment’s thought. Why would they? In their minds, they were already arranging their furniture in the wonderful new flat. Planning which bedroom they’d make their own. Picturing evenings eating delicious meals by the open, picture window, while the sun set over the resplendent Himalayas.
The day they moved in had been an exhausting saga involving multiple journeys, much heavy lifting and frayed nerves. Collapsing onto the unmade bed in their new apartment—who knew which packing case they’d stored their linen in—they had been woken by a pungent stench that seemed to be coming from their kitchen. It wasn’t, in fact. The downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Williams, was fond of smoked kippers. Her kitchen was directly under theirs. And as they were soon to discover, there was nothing insulating them from the odors or noises that she produced downstairs. Whatever Mrs. Williams emitted filled their apartment too. The only way to avoid the choking miasma was to leave home. Which they duly did—coming in for breakfast at The Himalaya Book Café before starting work.
Arriving home from work at the end of their first day in the new apartment, Sam from the bookstore and Bronnie from the children’s literacy program where she worked, they couldn’t open the front door into the shared hallway. Or at least, not fully. During the day, it turned out, the hallway had been jammed full of old furniture and other items—two ancient bicycles, a plaster birdbath, a rusted bed leaning vertically against the wall, plus boxes and boxes of anonymous, plastic-wrapped items. The shared front door wouldn’t fully open. Only the narrowest path remained to the back of the hall and the door to the ground-floor flat and, coincidentally, to the stairs that led up to their apartment.
Bronnie and Sam had arrived home separately and reached the same, independent conclusion: their downstairs neighbors were on the move. Perhaps that meant their smoked kipper experience would be a one-off? Would a new downstairs neighbor present less of an olfactory challenge?
Bronnie had wanted to make their first dinner in their new home special. She had set their small kitchen table with flowers and lit two tea lights. Sam put something soft and jazzy on the sound system to create a romantic ambiance, then poured them each a glass of wine. They worked together in the kitchen on one of their favorite stir-fries and had just sat down to eat when the arguing began. An elderly woman’s voice erupted volcanically, countered in the next moment by a young man’s. Suddenly, Bronnie and Sam found themselves caught in the midst of outraged dispute.
Exactly what the row was about was unclear—while the voices were loud, the diction was muffled. If Sam and Bronnie had opened their own front door they would have been able to hear it, as clearly as if they had been in the same room. But they had no interest in prying.
Besides, the argument was suddenly escalating, threatening to turn violent. The woman was screaming at the man, calling him a ‘good-for-nothing’. He was roaring at her for being an ‘ungrateful bitch’, with a variety of expletives thrown in. Their voices rose uncontrollably.
Meeting Bronnie's anxious eyes across the table, Sam started to say, “D’you think I need to …” at the same time as Bronnie said, “You’d better go down.”
Pushing his seat back from the table, Sam started to make his way to the door when the quarreling suddenly stopped. The two of them continued their meal in subdued silence.
It turned out that Sam and Bronnie had moved in above the neighbors from hell. Within days it became clear that, despite the build-up of bric-a-brac in the hallway, Mrs. Williams and her son Barry weren’t going anywhere. Much worse, they were hoarders. The miscellany of items in the hallway grew by the day, new items in bags and boxes being jammed in the midst of the larger ones. When Sam, on first meeting Barry Williams outside the front door, remarked with concern about the hazard these items presented should either of them have a fire in their apartment, he was told to mind his own business. Only not as politely as that.
The kippers turned out to be a three or four times a week event, smoking Sam and Bronnie out of their home on every occasion. And the rows continued with the same frequency—a form of sport, it seemed, between Mrs. Williams and her belligerent son, especially once they had some alcohol in them. Once, when the rowing continued late into the night, Sam felt obliged to go downstairs, knock on the door, and ask them to keep the noise down. While this had the desired effect, he returned home next day to find a seven-page spiteful letter stuffed under his door, ranting about freedom of expression, the right to lively discussion, and page after page about the degenerate, rebel colony of America.
Naturally, Sam and Bronnie appealed to their rental agent. Who wasn’t much interested. He reminded them what a bargain rent they were paying for such a large apartment with mountain views. Plus the fact that breaking the lease on their agreement would mean they were personally liable for the first six months’ rent, whether they lived in the apartment or not. When they sent photos of the jammed-up hallway and pointed out the fire hazard that it presented, someone somewhere must have persuaded Mrs Williams to find a home for her junk collection—but only for a while. The thinning out of items in the hallway was only temporary.
Sam and Bronnie were reaching the end of their tether. They couldn’t afford to give up six months’ rent for a property they weren’t going to live in. But they’d also started to dread going home each evening. It didn’t help when another neighbor told them that their house was notorious up and down the street. The upstairs apartment had been empty for over six months, on account of its reputation. Prior to that, no tenants had stayed for more than a few weeks. One female occupant had left after just two nights.
Bronnie had taken to stopping off at The Himalaya Book Café on her way home from work in the late afternoon. Taking up a position on the back-of-house banquette near the magazine rack, she would order a drink and wait till Sam had finished his duties as bookstore manager—duties which appeared never-ending, and which he seemed to extend later and later, delaying the inevitable moment when they’d have to make their way home.
It was on such an occasion that Geshe Wangpo made one of his rare appearances at The Himalaya Book Café. The formidable lama had a very busy teaching schedule as well as many administrative responsibilities, which left him with little spare time. But his visits to the café were not unprecedented. And through the years, whenever he made what seemed to be a social visit, his manifestation turned out to be pivotal in light of what followed.
Bronnie and Sam had been sitting on the banquette, together but apart, as they scrolled distractedly through their social media feeds. Glancing up, they found themselves in the presence of Geshe Wangpo.
Out of respect, they scrambled to their feet; the lama gestured for them to sit.
They invited him to join them and he slid onto the bench seat opposite. Never one for small talk or chit chat, it didn’t take Geshe Wangpo long to find out why the two of them were sitting in the semi-darkness, staring at their mobile devices, instead of taking in the panoramic vista of the Himalaya mountains from their new apartment.
They told him about the Williams mother and son. The fighting and unpleasantness. The odors and the clutter. The expectation that they’d open the front door of their apartment one day and be unable to make their way out to the street.
“We can’t afford to move out,” Sam summarized their dilemma. “But our life there is just …” he was shaking his head.
“We want to do the right thing,” chimed Bronnie. “But what is the right thing, in such circumstances? Should we involve the police next time they fight? Go the legal route?”
“As students trying to practice bodhicitta,” rejoined Sam, with his own more cerebral questions. “Should we just roll over and accept it?” He shrugged, a hopeless expression on his face. “If you want to practice compassion and loving kindness, does the Dharma say you should let people do whatever they like? Does bodhicitta mean you have to be a doormat?”
Geshe Wangpo fixed Sam and Bronnie with an expression of such forceful command that they immediately stopped talking.
“No doormats!” Although his voice was calm, his tone was emphatic. “No idiot compassion.”
Opposite him, Sam and Bronnie regarded him, transfixed, before Sam asked, “Idiot compassion?”
Geshe Wangpo leaned forward in his seat and said simply, “Compassion without wisdom.” Settling back against his seat, he gave them a few moments to absorb what he’d just told them, before continuing. “The wall-hanging of Lama Tsong Khapa in our temple, the one with the yellow hat, you remember it?”
“Yes,” Sam was well-versed on such details. “With his two disciples, Gyaltsab Je and Khedrub Je.”
“Very good,” Geshe Wangpo nodded. “Do you know what quality Lama Tsong Khapa symbolizes?”
“Wisdom?” ventured Sam.
“And his two disciples?”
Here, Sam shook his head.
“They represent the qualities of compassion and power,” the lama told him. “Always, these three go together. Compassion, wisdom, power. When you have compassion and power but no wisdom, this is idiot compassion. Compassion and wisdom but no power—what can you achieve?” he shrugged. “All three are necessary, together.”
Furrows had appeared on Sam’s forehead as he processed the implications of this. “What I’m struggling to understand,” he spoke after a while, “is how this applies to my neighbor.”
Geshe-la pursed his lips. “Right now,” he regarded Sam and Bronnie evenly, “you have little power. Little influence. When you do—and things can change, especially between neighbors—then you must use your power with wisdom and compassion.”
He leaned back against the banquette.
“So until then,” Bronnie prompted. “Are you saying the situation’s hopeless?”
The lama regarded her with a gentle smile. “Until then …” he said, “take special care of your Precious Treasure.”
Both of them looked bewildered.
“The important thing about a Precious Treasure is to recognize the person as such. How many of your friends offer you the opportunity to practice patience that Mrs. Williams does?”
They were shaking their heads.
“How many of your nearest and dearest test your ability to retain your equanimity like her?”
A droll smile appeared on Sam’s face. Bronnie just looked miserable.
“There are few people in our lives like Mrs. Williams. When we encounter them, if we are wise, we try to reframe the experience. To see the opportunities they provide.”
“I was hoping you could perform some miracle to change the way she is,” said Bronnie.
“What miracle?” asked Geshe Wangpo.
“I don’t know,” Bronnie was shaking her head. “Make her migrate to Australia. Disappear in a puff of smoke.”
Geshe Wangpo acknowledged the humor in her suggestion with a twinkle. “Puff of smoke,” he nodded, smiling. “That would be a miracle. Sometimes people say they want lamas to do other miracles like mind reading, telling the future and so forth. But these are small miracles. Not so important. Changing your heart, that is a much bigger miracle. Only you can make it happen,” he said. “And I think you already know how from my class,” he gestured in the direction of Namgyal Monastery, “how to practice tong-len—the form of compassion-based meditation, where you visualize taking away someone’s suffering and giving them happiness.”
“Take away Mrs. Williams suffering?” queried Bronnie, wrinkling her nose.
“Give her happiness?” Sam was aghast.
Geshe Wangpo was nodding.
“But she’s such a deeply unlikeable person,” said Sam.
“Which is what makes her such a Precious Treasure. Who doesn’t find it easy to wish for the happiness of their friends? Or to visualize taking suffering away from their loved ones? Such things are easy. Even criminals love their friends. Thieves, murderers—even they have no problem helping those they care about. That requires no inner development at all.
“But true bodhicitta cannot be partial or biased. We do not wish for the happiness of only some but not others. So you see, cultivating equanimity is vital. And to do that, we need to practice on one such as Mrs. Williams.”
There was a pause before Bronnie, shaking her head, admitted, “I have to be honest, Geshe-la. I don’t think I could bring myself to do it. The number of nights at home she and her son have ruined! The stress of living with those blow-ups! And you never know when it’s going to happen next.”
“Yes, yes,” he reached out, squeezing her hand briefly in consolation. “But imagine if you could take away her suffering and its true causes. Her bad relationship with her son. Her attachment to junk. Her self-centered way of living. Just imagine if you could give her happiness and its true causes. Loving kindness towards others—including her neighbors. Non-attachment to old bicycles and birdbaths. What kind of neighbor would that make her?”
“The ideal neighbor,” said Bronnie.
“You see,” shrugged Geshe Wangpo. “Not so difficult. Mrs. Williams is a person in pain. She is one who suffers. And who probably doesn’t have any tools to deal with her suffering. But you do. You know how to bring the suffering she gives you to your own practice, to use it to fuel your own inner growth.”
Sam and Bronnie digested his words in silence for a while, before Sam asked, “If we practice tong-len, focusing on Mrs. Williams, could that, like, change the energy in the house?
“You are asking if it will stop her fighting with her son or cooking kippers?” Geshe Wangpo was a straight talker.
Sam moved his chin from side to side. “I s’pose.”
“Perhaps,” replied the lama. “Perhaps not.” Then leaning back against his seat he fixed them both with a level gaze. “You are both intelligent young people. Educated. You know that the experience of an event depends on the mind of the experiencer, even more than the event itself.”
They nodded.
“I’m showing you a way to change your experience, by changing your mind.”
That encounter had happened over a month ago. Since then, I’d overheard regular updates on the Mrs. Williams’ situation. In the days that followed Sam and Bronnie’s encounter with Geshe Wangpo, things on the home front improved dramatically. No violent arguments. Few fried kippers. They wondered if their tong-len practice was taking effect.
But an especially bad week of rows had culminated in the worst one of all, which only ended when Barry Williams stormed out of the house, slamming the front door so hard that the towers of junk in the hall came tumbling down. It had taken Sam and Bronnie more than twenty minutes to clear a pathway, just so that they could get out of the house next morning.
While the tong-len practice performed no overnight miracles, Sam reported a change nonetheless. Frustrating as things continued to be, somehow the meditation practice helped take the sting out of things. There were still wrangling, raised voices. The inescapable miasma of fried, smoked fish. The sideways shuffle to get to the front door. But Sam and Bronnie felt less animosity, less agitation. Recognizing how miserable it must be to be Mrs. Williams, they even found themselves feeling sorry for her on occasion.
Hearing her name invoked that afternoon, I wondered if there had been any developments. Rising from the magazine rack, I made my way up the steps to the bookstore, hopping onto the sofa next to Franc. Facing him were Bronnie and the new bookstore assistant, Angela—an athletic, young redhead from Bronnie’s hometown of Vancouver, whose pale skin colored whenever when she felt emotional. Marcel and Kyi Kyi dozed under the table, and Franc reached out to stroke my neck as their conversation continued.
“For the past two days,” Bronnie was saying, “it’s been completely quiet. We think she must have gone away.”
“And the son?” asked Franc.
“We don’t think he lives there. He seems to visit about three times a week.”
“Which is when they row?” asked Franc.
Bronnie nodded.
“Maybe she’s gone on holiday?” suggested Angela hopefully, putting down the book she had been studying on forest hiking in Northern India.
“A long one, home to England to stay with relatives,” said Franc.
“Involving a lengthy sea journey,” Angela giggled.
“On a ship that sinks,” offered Franc.
“Oh Franc!” Angela’s neck erupted in a rash of pink blotches. “That doesn’t sound like enlightened speech to me.”
“I’m afraid it isn’t,” he met her gaze with a weary expression. “But I’m a Buddhist, not a Buddha. As you will discover the longer you work here.”
At that moment, Sam appeared at the entrance, carrying a colorful display of tulips in a wicker basket.
“These aren’t for you,” he called to Bronnie, as he walked to where we were sitting. He placed the basket on the table, before sitting next to me. “I was just about to leave home when the doorbell rang. Delivery for Mrs. Williams,” he nodded towards the flowers.
Bronnie looked surprised. “Why bring them here?”
“Look at the note,” he gestured.
On a card stuck into the floral display was a handwritten message which Bronnie read aloud: “Sorry to hear about your fall. I hope your leg heals quickly and you’re up and about soon. Love, Millie.”
Bronnie’s expression was quizzical. “I’m still not getting it?”
Everyone was looking to Sam for an explanation.
“Well, she’s not at home,” he said. “And it seems like she hasn’t been for a few days. From this, I’m guessing she’s in hospital.” He tilted his chin in the direction of the local health center. “Remember how Geshe Wangpo said that you need power, wisdom and compassion to make an impact? And we didn’t have any power—back then. But that things can change?”
Bronnie was nodding, even though she still seemed confused.
“Well, perhaps this is the change we need,” Sam continued. “I was thinking, I could deliver them to her in hospital.”
They all focused on the basket of tulips—mostly shades of pink and purple, with two red blossoms in the middle.
“You mean, like a circuit-breaker?” The penny dropped for Bronnie.
“Exactly,” said Sam.
“It would be a nice surprise for her,” observed Angela.
“The last thing she’d expect a neighbor to do,” observed Franc.
“The last thing I would have thought about doing,” agreed Sam, “if it hadn’t been for Geshe Wangpo. But I’m guessing it’s worth a try.”
That afternoon, I left The Himalaya Book Café in a state of maximum vigilance. Although the trip home to Namgyal was short and very familiar, that morning’s upsetting discovery of the tabby at 21 Tara Crescent had put me on edge. Even though I had been threatened by him only once, seeing him again, having taking occupation of my much-loved haunt, made me very aware of him. It seemed that he was no longer just a passing tomcat but a constant, threatening presence. A malevolent being that might emerge from behind a wall or doorway at any moment. And who knew what would happen if there wasn’t someone around to help?
Hyper-aware all the way home, I headed through the late afternoon crowd, my whiskers tuned to full alert. I made sure there was a wide margin of ground he’d need to cross to get to me. And plenty of people to stop him. And was it my imagination, or were there a pair of menacing, tabby eyes watching me, as I arrived at Namgyal Monastery and made my way to the downstairs window left open specially for my use?
In the evening I settled on my sill overlooking Namgyal Courtyard. The windows of the monks’ quarters were glowing like orange panels in the darkness; an early summer breeze was catching wisps of Nag Champa incense and carrying it high, high above the golden roof of the temple and up into a night sky sprinkled with stars.
This was one of my favorite times of all, when it was just the two of us, His Holiness and me, alone in the evening, free from interruptions. He was sitting at his desk, studying a book. I sat contemplating the day’s events.
With the passage of time, I was feeling less shaken up by what had happened at 21 Tara Crescent, but it was hard to avoid the hollow feeling that my special place in that household seemed to have been taken over by the tabby. Mulling over how very suddenly happy domesticity could turn into a horror show, I was also remembering what had happened to Sam and Bronnie, and their battles with Mrs Williams.
For the first time, a decidedly uncomfortable idea occurred to me. One that had escaped me before but which, once recognized, was impossible to dismiss. Could it be that Geshe Wangpo’s advice might apply to me too?
Was I supposed to change my experience of reality by transforming my mind? Was I expected to see that tabby as a ‘Precious Treasure’? It was easy to see how this could apply to Mrs Williams, in the case of Sam and Bronnie. Of course they should do it. But me and the tabby? Should I really be wishing for the happiness of that savage beast—the one who had usurped me in the affections of others? Was I capable of it? Did I even want to?
I was contemplating this most displeasing notion, when the Dalai Lama turned from his seat to face me directly. “I’ve always loved these verses,” he told me. I saw that he was reading from his very well-thumbed copy of Shantideva’s Guide to the Bodhisattva’s Way of Life. He continued:
“If the thought to relieve
Living creatures of merely a headache
Is a beneficial intention
Endowed with infinite goodness,
Then what need is there to mention
The wish to dispel their inconceivable misery,
Wishing every single one of them
To realize boundless good qualities?
The intention to benefit all beings
Which does not arise in others even for their own sake,
Is an extraordinary jewel of the mind,
And its birth is an unprecedented wonder.”
As was so often the case, His Holiness just happened to be giving voice to a subject that spoke directly to what someone in his presence was thinking about. In this case, that someone was me. And ‘wishing every single one of them’ had a very specific connotation.
“Don’t you love that phrase “jewel of the mind”, my little Snow Lion?” he asked, moving from his desk to sit next to me. “It can be very challenging to practice bodhicitta with true equanimity. Perhaps we want all beings to be happy—except for one or two. But those one or two … perhaps they are special cases. Perhaps they are the ones who can help us polish that extraordinary jewel of the mind. To make it into a thing of great beauty.”
As he reached out to stroke me, I was caught up in the most curious sensation. I was touched by the benevolence that accompanied His Holiness wherever he went, and that pervaded the minds of all he was with. But this time the sensation was somehow different. It was as though I was being subtly lifted to a new perspective, one that didn’t seem at all far from the one I usually occupied, but was a vantage of lucid objectivity. One where I was no longer His Holiness’ Cat—or any separate mind at all—but instead enjoyed a state of panoramic consciousness, viewing everything from a place of loving kindness.
In this state, I only needed to think of a place or being, and I was there. Because of what had happened earlier that day, when I recollected the tabby, I saw what appeared as a small, vulnerable creature, just like any other feline, seeking the safety of a home and regular meals, wishing to belong, to give and receive love. And as I perceived this, I had no feelings that any of these should be withheld from him. What reason could there be for wishing the wellbeing of one feline, but not another? Why should he be denied contentment?
Turning my thoughts to Mrs. Williams, I perceived an old woman battling with impulses as self-destructive as they were ruinous to others. Someone who lived in isolation, in a world which would become smaller and smaller with time, all the while deepening the grooves of her own negativity.
Everywhere, it was easy to recognize, were beings with needs. Beings seeking happiness and fulfillment, some wisely, others in ways that could only prove disastrous. And in my state of benevolent objectivity, one so expansive that it seemed to contain everything in the heavens and below—the tabby, Mrs. Williams, the whole of Dharamshala and everywhere in the universe beyond—there was no seeking to control or to manage. No will to order what could not be ordered, or command what could not be commanded. Instead, there was only the playing out of appearances, a ceaseless, celestial dance held in a mind that was luminous with loving kindness.
Just as swiftly as I had been lifted into this state, I seemed to slip back again to being HHC. Although as I did so, I realized that the Dalai Lama had offered me a gift. A glimpse, perhaps, suggesting how he perceived reality all the time? An unexpected lifting of the veil of subjectivity at a time he felt I needed it?
“Bodhicitta sounds very nice,” His Holiness told me softly. “Wishing all beings to have boundless good qualities, these are sweet-sounding words. But, I think, not easy. To some extent bodhicitta, the second principle, depends on renunciation, the first. It is only if we can turn away from hatred and attachment—only by not favoring this one or being partial to that one—that we can be authentic in wishing for the full enlightenment of every living being without exception.”
The following week, I was in my usual afternoon spot at The Himalaya Book Café. There was a lull at the café, one of its few occupants being the young man from Europe who had asked Geshe Wangpo at his class, “Who am I to become enlightened?” In recent days he had been a frequent visitor to the café, sitting in the corner with his laptop, seeming disengaged when he was looking at it, and gloomy when he was not.
Next thing I knew, Franc was bounding up the steps beside the magazine rack. He’d been away for a few days in Delhi and, seeing Sam rearranging stock on the bookshelves, was eager for an update on Mrs. Williams.
Sam explained how getting the flowers to her hadn’t been quite as straightforward as he had hoped. He had visited the main hospital to discover that she hadn’t been admitted there. It was only after asking around and phone calls that he’d tracked her down to a clinic attached to a nursing home on the other side of town. A sprawling place with a confusing layout, so finding her ward number had also been something of a mission.
“She was completely charmless when I arrived,” reported Sam, as the two of them stood at the bookstore entrance. “No thanks for bringing in the flowers just, “You can put them there!” Anyway, her leg was in plaster. I said I was sorry to hear about the fall. Turns out a suitcase fell on top of her, when she was trying to get out of the hallway. Which was when she said she’d been wanting to get rid of all that stuff for years.”
“All the stuff in the hallway?” queried Franc. “I thought she was a hoarder.”
“So did I,” said Sam. “So I immediately said we could have the place cleared.”
“And?”
“She seemed surprised. Like that was something that could never happen. Then I pointed out that if she was going to be on crutches, there was no way she could come and go from her flat unless the hall was empty.”
Franc was nodding.
“She thought about that for a while then kind of grunted in agreement, before saying I’d have to do everything myself. “It’s bad enough getting His Lordship round to shut the door” were her words.”
“The son,” guessed Franc. “Which door?”
“Back door.”
Sam was shaking his head in amazement, as he recollected what the old woman had told him. “It locks at the top. I unbolt it with me stick, but only if His Lordship agrees to come round to lock it again at night. Too high for me, and stiff as steel. Terrible neighborhood we live in. Dreadful neighborhood! Got to keep locked up. Even then, I have to feed him.”
“You mean …”
“Three times a week. And he begrudges me even that! His own mother!”
“He only comes round to lock your back door?”
“Least he could do, the sniveling toe rag!”
“What if Bronnie and I were to do it? Lock your back door in the evenings?”
“You’d do that?” she’d stared at him, disbelieving.
“What do you do on the other four days of the week?” Sam had asked. “Like, when you don’t unlock it?”
“Have to keep the thing shut,” she said. Although not as politely as that. “Sometimes the fumes in the place—it’s unbearable!”
“Have you thought about changing the lock on the …”
“Landlord won’t pay!” she rebutted, before he’d even finished. Then after a pause, “No need to look at me in that tone of voice. We’re not millionaires!”
“So,” Franc was trying to process all this. “The ugly rows. The smell of kippers. The hallway clutter. They could all be a thing of the past?”
“It’s looking hopeful,” agreed Sam.
“All because you took in those flowers.”
“You know how Geshe Wangpo told us about wisdom, compassion and power? There’s not a lot you can do sometimes, unless there’s some kind of circuit-breaker. A shift in power, presenting an opportunity.”
“And you were ready for the opportunity,” observed Franc, approvingly.
“I guess.”
“A lot of other people would have left the flowers to die.”
“I would have left the flowers to die, if it wasn’t for Geshe Wangpo. And we would never have found out what was really going on downstairs. Of course, Bronnie and I will get a new lock fitted to the old girl’s kitchen door. It’s a small price to pay for peaceful evenings and kipper-free mornings.” Sam’s eyes gleamed bright with anticipation.
Franc was nodding thoughtfully, before a roguish smile appeared on his face. “You’ll also have to find a way to cope with the downside,” he observed.
“Downside?”
“Sure. Looks like you’re at serious risk of losing your Precious Treasure!”
That evening I sat at my open, first-floor window, gazing out across the courtyard, with the peaceful chanting of monks in the temple and the mélange of incense, catnip and frangipani blossom wafting on the breeze. As I looked out into the darkness, I felt another, uneasy sensation. Every time there was a stirring in the shadows, a movement next to the trunk of a tree, I couldn’t help wondering: was it the tabby? So used to enjoying this world as my own domain, it seemed I could no longer take for granted my unfettered prowling up the road to the place I had thought of as my home away from home. I even had to look over my shoulder on my short excursions to The Himalaya Book Café.
I knew that the tabby, like Mrs. Williams, was my Precious Treasure. That for my own benefit, the best way for me to deal with his presence was to think of him just the way that Geshe Wangpo had instructed—a special case, whose every suffering I wished to remove and whose happiness I yearned for. A being designed for my cultivation of equanimity, compassion and love.
Yes, I knew all of this, but after what had happened to Sam, I couldn’t help wondering if I’d ever experience a shift like he had. Or was I stuck with my own Precious Treasure forever?