Read Online The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow by David Michie - Free Book Online Page A

clear that this would be a night to remember.
    The gathered at that night’s soiree were fulsome with their applause, and as the wine flowed and the evening unfolded, their appreciation grew all the more. After a number of songs there was an instrumental interlude during which Ewing treated the audience to everything from Chopin to Count Basie. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he announced that Tenzin’s wife, Susan, would perform Massenet’s “Meditation” from Thaïs .
    Most of us saw Susan only rarely—and we only realized her exquisite talent as she performed that achingly beautiful piece. Petite and slender, as she stood in front of us all it seemed almost as though she and her violin came together; she drew us listeners into the music with her. For a few moments we became the music and were as one with the timeless experience, as if in a state of deep meditative absorption.
    Was it a coincidence that Geshe Wangpo decided to take a nighttime stroll that evening, only to walk past the café at the very moment that the night’s proceedings approached their finale? He slipped in through a side door, and a chair was quickly made available to him by one of the Namgyal contingent. He followed the concert with interest.
    After Susan’s mesmerizing performance, Ewing sang several more songs. Then he asked impishly if, before the evening came to a close, they’d like to hear Franc play something? The answer to that question was a foregone conclusion, the mood in the room having built to one of rapturous enthusiasm.
    I couldn’t forget the sight of Franc sitting at that same piano only weeks earlier, harshly criticizing himself for being “a hopeless musician.” How his self-loathing had made him deaf to the genuine enthusiasm of all those around him! He had placed limitations on his own happiness by convincing himself he wasn’t good enough to follow his passion.
    Right now, however, it was a different story. Franc sat down at the piano and placed sheet music on the stand. Ewing acted as page-turner. First he turned out a flawless performance of Mendelssohn’s dainty “Spring Song,” which won him the rapturous applause of his audience. Encouraged by this, he then played Brahms’s Hungarian Dance no. 3 with magnificent Central European aplomb—a triumph that won him a standing ovation.
    The crowd thundered with approval as Ewing shook Franc’s hand in warm congratulation. There were enthusiastic chants of “Encore! Encore!”
    As he turned toward the candlelit audience, Franc saw the faces of so many customers who had long since become friends, those he had lived among for all this time and who had never had so much as an inkling about his hidden talent. Then, for the first time that evening, Franc caught sight of his teacher.
    His eyes filled with tears.
    Holding up his hand for quiet, he spoke with a soft but compelling voice when the lull quickly descended. “You know, I’ve been wanting to have a soiree here ever since I first came to Dharamsala. From the beginning, staging musical evenings was a dream of mine. But only that, a dream, for the simple reason that I never thought I was good enough.”
    There was a collective gasp of surprise, followed by a palpable wave of sympathy as Franc brushed a tear away from his cheek.
    â€œThere is one man who made this evening possible and I didn’t invite him because I didn’t think this was the kind of thing he would attend. But it turns out he came anyway.”
    People turned to see Geshe-la gazing at Franc with a look of supreme benevolence.
    â€œIt is Geshe Wangpo who taught me the importance of self-acceptance. That we can allow the perfect to become the enemy of the good. Which is why I want to thank you, Geshe-la, from the bottom of my heart.” Emotion tugged at Franc’s mouth as he brought his palms together at his heart. “You made it possible for me to