Q: What's the best thing to do with virtue, dear reader?

Mouse-size musings from the Dalai Lama's Cat

Photo by Lukáš Parničan on Unsplash

Virtue: a cause of happiness (Buddhist definition)

It had started out as a perfect McLeod Ganj morning. As I crossed the courtyard of Namgyal Monastery the sky was blue, the air brisk with Himalayan pine, and the sun had exactly the right degree of warmth to make a sumptuous, if somewhat elderly, feline feel that all was well with the world.

But padding my way along the sidewalk to The Himalayan Book Café, a sudden explosion of noise from the road burst right through me. Guttural snarls, like a caged beast breaking loose, were so raw and violent they sent a jolt through my spine. My paws were stumbling before I even knew I’d moved.

Motorbikes! And not just one or two of them, dear reader. There were at least six gleaming monsters, straddled by men with leather jackets, dark sunglasses and long dark beards. Pausing for recovery, heart hammering and bones rattled, I glanced down the road towards Lower Dharamshala. What I saw was truly shocking! A whole convoy of men on motorbikes was roaring directly up the road towards our peaceful hilltop enclave.

Too far from home to turn back, I must reach the safety of the café urgently. Ears pressed firmly back, I strode on as fast as my wonky pins would allow.

---

I reached the sanctuary not a moment too soon. Diners were staring out the windows towards the source of the infernal growling. Waiters were closing the café’s open swing doors and windows, trying to preserve an ambience of refined conviviality. As I touched noses with Marcel, the French bulldog under the Reception counter, we overheard the exchange between café-owner Franc and Head Waiter Kusali as half a dozen leather-clad men, dismounting their machines, headed towards the door.

“We can’t allow them here!” Kusali was indignant.

“Not enough tables anyway,” Franc surveyed the restaurant before glancing at a computer screen. “Plus we already have a group booking for twenty outside. Oh! That’s just gone up to thirty.”

“I will direct them to Dharamshala Diner,” Kusali was gliding towards the door.

“Unless-” began Franc.

He was unheard by Kusali, who returned moments later to confirm what Franc had just deduced. “They are the outside booking!”

---

I took up my usual place on the top shelf of the magazine rack which divided the café from the bookstore. There I would usually doze contentedly awaiting that day’s plat du jour to be served – a soupҫon of which was always reserved for His Holiness’s Cat.

That particular morning however, no dozing was to be had. Such was the ruckus created by the gratuitous revving of motorbikes and noisy bravado of the riders that there was no possibility of quiet repose.

The café began emptying, regular diners requesting their checks and scurrying through the growing melee outside. Kusali and his waitstaff apologized amid much handwringing and tut-tutting. But what could they do to stop the invasion?

Some bikers were lining at the café hatch to order espresso. Ricardo, the barista, marshalled a waiter to take orders so he could focus on the machine. Although only a few customers remained within the hallowed booths and soft-lit café tables, such was the boisterous chatter and laughter coming from outside that the noise level rose ever higher. Louder and louder until there was an outburst of applause and a parting of the waves: a small, bald man with a thick shovel beard strode through the crowd towards us. In his wake, a taller and much younger man carrying both their helmets along with a long, cardboard tube.

The leader pushed through the café doors as if taking centre stage. “Burt Stevens,:” he announced loudly.

Kusali swooped towards him. “Table for thirty outside?” he gestured.

Taking in the startled expressions of the café’s remaining patrons, Stevens laughed humourlessly. “Bit of noise,” he snorted. “All for a good cause. We’re ‘Revving for Relief.’ Donating to MMA. Where’s the media?”

At a banquette where he had been sitting with two women, Franc rose. “You’re here to support Rene Taylor?”

“Who’s Rene Trayner?”

“Taylor. Founder of Mobile Medical Aid?”

Stevens turned to the younger man who nodded. “S’pose we are,” he replied. “Where’s the TV?”

“TV?”

“Are they outside,” he turned impatiently. All that could be seen were scrums of men in leather jackets and tattoos.

“Thought you said there’d be dozens of media?” Stevens turned heatedly to his offsider.

“I invited dozens of media,” he corrected him, running a hand through long, dark hair. “Some TV stations called back.”

“Y’see!”

“Don’t know where they are.”

“Where did you ask them to be?”

“It depends what other stories are running on the day.”

“Oh right. Look around at all the huge stories!” Stevens voice was laden with sarcasm. “How many international motorbike rallies from Delhi to Dharamshala are happening today? This month? This year, even?!”

“We do have someone from The Tribune here,” Franc turned to the banquette where he’d been sitting. The two women he’d been talking to rose and approached Stevens diffidently.

“Anika Reddy,” Franc introduced a woman in her thirties.

Stevens nodded, scowling. Not being the possessor of a TV camera, she was an evident disappointment.

“I suppose you’re some random podcaster?” he turned to the other, more elderly woman.

“Rene Taylor,” she smiled beatifically.

Rene had devoted the past twenty years of her life to making medical care available in remote areas. She was so highly regarded that she’d been awarded the Padma Vibhushan honour by the President of India. Not that you would guess at her steely resolve just looking at her. A regular at The Himalaya Book Café, seventy-something Rene seemed like just like another sweet little old lady.

If Burt Stevens recognized how offensive he had been, he didn’t show it. He didn’t skip a beat. “We’re supposed to be presenting MMA with a cheque. Show her, Larry.”

Placing their helmets on a table, his associate pulled a cap from the cardboard tube and removed a rolled-up card. Opened out, it was a giant cheque to Mobile Medical Aid for five hundred thousand Rupees signed, with a flourish, Burt Stevens.

“That’s so very generous of you!” Rene brought her hands to her heart in gratitude.

“Five thousand US,” confirmed Franc.

“Looks better in Rupees,” snapped Stevens.

Reporter Anika was taking notes.

“Would you like to do the presentation now,” Kusali gestured once again. “Outside?”

“I’d like to do the presentation,” Stevens eye-balled him coldly, “when TV is here.”

“My dear, news desks are so short-staffed these days,” Rene’s voice was consoling, “journalists rarely come to charity fundraisers. But your donation is exceptionally-”

“That’s not what you said,” Stevens challenged Larry.

“I never promised-”

“You’d need a couple more zeros on that to get their attention,” Franc was blunt, nodding to where Larry was rolling up the cheque.

“Then why bother?” exploded Stevens “Tell me? I’ve just spent the past six months of my life working my ass off to make today happen. Now you’re saying I won’t even get ten seconds of airtime for social media?!”

There was a pause before Rene responded. “I hoped you were bothering to help all the people who desperately need health services.”

“Yeah,” Stevens regarded her stonily. “Whatever.”

---

Weeks later, on an overcast afternoon, Sid and Binita occupied the rear banquette at The Himalaya Book Café, where they had spent the past hour going through the accounts of Sukavati Spa, as they did each month.

Sid, a man of intelligence, poise and benevolence, had rescued Binita, a childhood friend, after the untimely death of her profligate husband left her penniless with two teenaged daughters. He established Sukavati Spa in a grand residence up the street, so that she had both a home to live in and a business to manage. Over the past few years, the spa had grown from strength to strength.

Sadly, Binita’s own life, in recent times, hadn’t been so propitious. Both her daughters had left home, so that she no longer had any immediate family nearby. And her whirlwind romance with a charming Italian visitor had fallen into an unresolved limbo. I had recently heard Sid, his wife Serena and Franc, discussing Binita in concerned tones.

---

Concern was exactly why I had taken to visiting her some afternoons. In her bedroom, where she’d withdraw for a break, I’d find her lying on her bed in the semi-darkness, voicing her futility and feelings of worthlessness. I would purr and settle with her to provide a congenial distraction. What else was a cat to do?

Now, Sid was pushing his tablet computer to the side, removing his glasses. “The only surprising thing this month,” he looked at her encouragingly, “is your concert proceeds.”

“Yes!” Binita brightened. “After all this time that was unexpected!”

As Franc emerged from the kitchen, Sid nodded towards him, “I think we know who was responsible for that.”

Catching them looking at him, Franc stepped over to the banquette. “What have I done this time?”

“Only good things.” Deliberately mysterious, Sid gestured for him to join them in the U-shaped banquette.

“Someone made a very generous donation for the concert a few weeks ago,” Binita told him.

“You mean, last year’s concert?” confirmed Franc.

She nodded.

“Of course,” she shrugged, “they all come to hear you.”

“That’s not-”

“It is so!” she cut him off before he could continue. Because it was true.

The charity concert had been Binita’s idea. She would host local musicians, illusionists and comedians in a variety show held in the spa’s grand reception room. Ticket sales, the first year had been disappointing. She’d had to fill the place with family and friends. The second year so few seats were sold they’d contemplated cancelling the whole thing - until hitting on the idea of asking Franc to play a few pieces.

As owner of The Himalayan Book Café, Franc was extremely well known in Dharamshala. Many people were aware he’d been a talented pianist in his youth. But few people had ever heard him play. Curiosity led to a rush of ticket sales. And so rapturous was the response to his performance, there’d been a flurry of post-concert donations. Last year’s variety show had sold out almost as soon as it had been announced - and Franc’s performance time extended.

“Someone just donated a million rupees because of you,” Binita told Franc gratefully.

Franc raised his eyebrows.

Struck by an idea, Sid reached for his tablet and searched through a spreadsheet. The other two were following him intently until he looked up. “Combined with the donations the previous year, that brings total concert donations to over five million rupees. More than I ever thought.”

Binita was nodding in agreement.

“It’s the karma that makes it so powerful,” mused Franc after a pause. “Your intention,” he nodded at Binita. “Your motivation to help others. It’s authentic.”

Binita shrugged. “Sid saved me. And the girls. Really, you did, after Arhaan,” she looked at Sid. “We wouldn’t have survived without you. I wanted to do something for others, like you did for us. I had no money. The concert seemed like a good idea.” She glanced back to Franc. “And let’s be fair - it only worked because of you.”

“It’s true!” Sid was emphatic. “We were ready to call it quits. You’re our biggest drawcard.”

Franc rolled his eyes.

“Which is why I’m thinking that we should mark the five-million-rupee milestone. It’s worth celebrating at the next concert.”

Binita was nodding. “Franc should make the announcement-” her eyes gleamed.

“No way!” he shot back.

“-because you, more than anyone, made it happen!”

Franc was shaking his head. “I don’t want to seem like that poor fellow who was in here a couple of months back.”

“Poor fellow?”

“Biker guy supposedly doing a charity run. There were dozens of bikers here. They made so much noise that they cleared the place of nearly all our regulars.”

“I heard something about that,” nodded Sid.

---

Franc gave them the full story. Including how, finally ushered outside for lunch with his comrades, Burt Stevens had made Rene Taylor wait for over an hour while his off-sider Larry placed calls to every TV station. To no avail.

With no media cameras to witness the moment, Stevens wanted to cancel the money hand-over. Larry broke the news that the donation had already been made – the big cheque was mere window-dressing. Stevens had been furious.

“You called him ‘poor’?” Binita queried, after Franc had finished. “Why a ‘poor’ fellow? He seems selfish and arrogant from what you say?”

“‘Poor’ because he was just so needy for praise. For respect. For admiration. He was just like a ten-year-old child, beneath the bluster, desperately wanting to be told that he’s special.”

Binita looked pensive.

“When you meet people like that, so transparent in their neediness that they seem pitiful, it makes you question yourself.”

“How?”

“Well,” shrugged Franc. “What about my own motives? What are they really? Why do I do things? Am I needy like him?”

“You’re not a bit like him!” protested Binita.

“Isn’t there still a little ego in here seeking validation?” continued Franc, tapping his chest. “A little bit of the old Franc? The look-at-me, Franc? The fake Buddhist Franc that is my life’s work to let go of.”

There was a pause before Sid confirmed, “It is a life’s work – for all of us. And more than just one lifetime maybe. Geshe Wangpo has said that we only completely let go of the last shred of self-cherishing when we experience shunyata directly for ourselves. Until then, there may always be a little bit of self-cherishing ignorance in what we do, however virtuous. Being aware of it is the main thing.”

For a while all three of them were quiet in contemplation. Before Sid continued, “All the same, Franc, I agree with Binita. I don’t think you need to worry too much about being like the biker. And I do believe the fund-raising milestone deserves to be celebrated – for everyone’s sake.”

“Doesn’t Geshe Wangpo also teach that celebrating virtue is a powerful way to create more of it?” challenged Binita, eyes gleaming with an argument she knew was beyond dispute. “Doesn’t he always say that we should dedicate virtue and merit?”

“By giving it away?” Franc nodded. “Yes, he does.” As he looked from Binita to Sid for a long while, both focusing on him intently, his expression began to shift.

---

I was there for that year’s concert, dear reader. Why wouldn’t I be? Am I not a ubiquitous presence at any noteworthy event held in McLeod Ganj? Not so much your fly-on-the-wall as a much grander and fluffier cat-on-the-sill commentator?

Just as for the opening ceremony for Sukavati Spa itself, I secured the same cubby hole next to Reception counter, from which I had a clear view across the capacious vestibule towards the bi-fold doors leading onto a sweeping veranda and gardens beyond. To the right, a grand staircase leading to treatment rooms was dominated by a magnificent, energetically-red portrait of Amitabha Buddha painted by the late Dharamshala artist Christopher Ackland. The atrium was lined with chairs facing a raised dais on which a grand piano stood at the ready.

The audience comprised not only everyone in Dharamshala you could think of, but from the wider Himachal Pradesh district. Every chair was taken, and people had willingly paid to sit on the veranda and even the lawn, so that they could listen to Franc’s strictly once-a-year recital.

This year he outdid himself with a performance of the Chaconne from Bach’s Partita No. 2 in D minor, arranged by Ferruccio Busoni. It was a dramatic and compelling performance that ranged through all manner of ineffable emotions, ending in a percussive climax. Even before Franc’s last chord had faded completely, the audience burst into excited applause, that demanded two returns by Franc to the podium for acknowledgement. And a magical Chopin nocturne by way of an encore.

There were, of course, other performers, the standard this year seeming to reach a more glittering level than before. And at the very end, after thanks had been offered, Sid, who was Master of Ceremonies for the night, invited Franc to the microphone to make an announcement.

---

Franc had been sitting in an alcove to the side of the atrium along with other performers and organisers including Serena, Sid and Binita. As he rose from his chair, he seized Binita by the hand. She was too startled to protest. Confused, she allowed him to lead her to the front.

Resplendent in a sapphire sari, Binita was, every bit of her, the Maharani of the house. She had been front of house to welcome that evening’s guests but, as usual, never set foot on stage.

“Thank you, Sid,” Franc took the microphone as the audience was responding to Binita’s bemused expression with a ripple of laughter.

“I am sorry to take you by surprise, Binita, but I knew there was no other way. You see,” he turned to the audience. “Binita asked me to take credit for something which is not mine to take. These concerts we’ve been having for the past few years – they are her doing. She conceived the idea. It’s taken an enormous amount of hard work to make them happen. Without Binita,” he gestured expansively, “none of us would be here tonight.”

A wave of grateful applause resonated loudly through the atrium.

“Binita is one of those people who does most of the hard work, while shunning the limelight. She never wants it to be about her, but about the charities we support by coming here, whether as part of the audience or the acts. On a very personal note - if you’ll excuse the pun - I gave up playing the piano decades ago. It was only when Binita asked that I got back on the piano stool to rehearse. In so doing, you have brought me back to the first great love of my life. For which I am truly grateful.”

A wave of awareness passed through the audience, and with it, renewed appreciation for Binita.

“I know it’s the same for some of the others,” Franc nodded to his fellow performers in the alcove. “You give us a focal point. Something to work towards. For everyone else here,” he gestured the audience. “The concerts are not only about supporting charity, but something to enjoy. An event we all look forward to. Something that has come to hold a really valued place in our annual calendar.”

Binita looked at the floor as someone cried “Hear, hear!”

“We are all willing participants in an act of generosity. This evening I’m very happy to announce that since Binita started these concerts, they have raised a combined total of over five million Rupees. This could never have happened without her!”

The round of hand-clapping this time was even more resounding. One by one, audience members were standing. It began with a handful of people in the front row, hesitant at first, then more joined in, until the entire room was on its feet, applause thundering.

Lips trembling, Binita looked up to survey the people who had become her community over the past few years. Her new extended family. Eyes brimming with tears, she brought her folded hands to her heart.

---

Later that night, on the windowsill of His Holiness’s quarters, looking over the deserted, moonlit courtyard of Namgyal Monastery, I savoured the gusts of rhododendron blowing through the window, the wisps of honeysuckle rising from the garden next door, sweet as the evening at Sukavati Spa.

How very different the experience had been compared with the bruising harshness of Burt Stevens, several weeks earlier. I had always known that actions, however virtuous, may be motivated by many different things. What I had only just come to recognize, while gazing over the familiar and serene moonscape, was what the great choice offered to possessors of virtue: do we keep it to ourselves? Or offer it freely to others?

Karma, as the Dalai Lama often said, can never really be given to someone else because it exists in the minds of its creators. But the act of offering to others, of ‘giving it away’ has the extraordinary effect of expanding and multiplying it – one so powerful that I had watched as it brought people to their feet, tears to their eyes and a rush of benevolent feeling to their hearts.

What’s the very best thing to do with virtue, dear reader? Give it away! When we do, it’s as rare and exquisite as a shooting star diving through the night sky, leaving an ever-expanding trail of silver in its wake.

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The joy of rain

I am really happy to be sharing with you a wonderful video update from Panda Masuie where the rainy season is now in full swing!

To put things in perspective, the photo below is from our last visit to the area in August. It was the end of winter, no rain had fallen for five months, and the bush was tinder dry.

This week it is a joyously different story! Those of you who have been following the stories of the Wild is Life/ZEN herd may recognise Norah (with the collar), Annabel and baby summer and, at the end with the injured right ear coming in for a good tree-rub, matriarch Moyo.

Look how vibrantly and luxuriantly different the bush is when it rains in Africa!

Thanks to all of you who support this newsletter! Your donations help support our elephant friends and those who care for them, not only in the lush times, but the lean times especially!

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If you are a classical piano lover, the piece I refer to in this week’s mouse-size musing, performed by my favourite pianist, Helene Grimaud, is here.

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The US publishers of my book Mindfulness is Better than Chocolate tell me that all ebook formats are on sale in North America right now for only $2.99.

Price promos for this book are rare, so if you have been mulling over the purchase, now is the time to swoop!

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