A well-meaning former student of mine was deeply concerned about my age and failing health, particularly because I live alone. She gave me some advice: “Sir, you need to take care of yourself. You need to eat on time. I have got an idea. Do you like cats or dogs?”
“My! What has that got to do with my eating?,” I exclaimed. “I am not a Cantonese. And I don’t eat dogs or cats.”
“No, sir,” she tried to explain. “That is not what I had in mind. I suggest that you should get a cat or a dog. Which one do you prefer?”
“Neither,” I said. “But if compelled, I don’t mind cats because they don’t bark or bite. Once I was nearly bitten by a ferocious dog in my neighborhood. I ran for my life when he began to chase me. He succeeded in biting my shirt.”
“Fine, then.” Her counselling continued: “Cats are just as good. If you have a cat, he mews when he is hungry. You need to feed him. When you do that, you will surely remember that you need to feed yourself. Please sir, get a cat right away.”
I was impressed by my former student’s enthusiasm, if not by her wisdom.
I remembered a beautiful white cat my father had owned. Nobody could escape her lure. I had named her ‘My Fair Lady.’ She would quietly crawl into your lap and fall asleep. One never felt like disturbing her. When I wanted to get up, I would gently pick her up and put her on a chair or sofa. She would hardly mew. Just once when I was trying to count her teeth, she bit me gently. She was the darling of the whole family and neighbourhood. She lived like a queen cared and was admired by all. Only difficulty was to believe that she was an expert in swooping on mice. Her attacks happened with lightning speed.
Then I remembered my Toronto-based friend, Sally Jones. She divides her time between her cats and theatre. She has a full-fledged cat family consisting of three cats, whom she considers her daughters. She also has the largest collection of cat photographs in the whole world. When she begins to speak of the relative merits and talents of her cats, she is unstoppable. She does not eat or feed her guests until she has fed her three darlings. Though she loves all the three cats equally well, her favourite is Shanti. I have advised her to write a play about Shanti.
When these thoughts came to mind, I realised that my well-meaning student was totally wrong. Sally always remembers to feed her cats but forgets to feed herself! So cats are no solution to my unpunctuality in eating.
Instead, I later told my student, it would be better for me to be reborn as a cat in my childhood family or in a household similar to that of Sally Jones. All I need to do is relax and receive food and love. The only condition would be that I would refuse to feed on poor mice. I do not mind becoming a cat in my well-meaning student’s house, provided she does not dislike cats.
Ramakrishna Paramahamsa has something remarkable to say about cats. His patron, Rani Rosmoni’s cat became for him a metaphor for the uncertainties of human existence. When pleased, she would let her cat sit on the bed. When displeased, she would shout and ask him to sit near the chappal-stand.
Then I remembered the difficult side of a cat’s life. How goons among dogs start growling and barking at the sight of cats! How cats sometimes catch cold and sneeze inconsolably! How they get run over by trucks on highways and die, unlamented.
What guarantee is there that I will get a Sally Jones or at least Rosmoni to take care of me if I am reborn as a cat?