Fiction With Purpose Romantic Living With the Lama

Living With the Lama

Living With the Lama
Catalog # SKU1552
Publisher InnerLight/Global
Weight 1.50 lbs
Author Name T. Lobsang Rampa


Living With the Lama

T. Lobsang Rampa

I sat and pondered. "Why should I not write a book?" I thought. True that I am a Cat, but not an ordinary cat.


Mother-to-Be was shrieking her head off. "I want a Tom," she yelled, "A nice STRONG Tom!" The noise, the People said, was TERRIBLE. But then, Mother was renowned for her loud calling voice. At her insistent demand, all the best catteries in Paris were combed for a suitable Siamese Tom with the necessary pedigree. Shriller and louder grew Mother-to-Be's voice. More and more distraught grew the People as they turned with renewed strength to the search.

At last a very presentable candidate was found and he and Mother-to-Be were formally introduced. From that meeting, in course of time, I appeared, and I alone was allowed to live, my brothers and sisters were drowned. Mother and I lived with an old French family who had a spacious estate on the outskirts of Paris. The Man was a diplomat of high rank who journeyed to the City most days of the week. Often he would not return at night but would stay in The City with his Mistress. The woman who lived with us, Mme. Diplomat, was a very hard woman, shallow and dissatisfied. We cats were not "Persons" to her (as we are to the Lama) but just things to be shown off at tea parties.

Mother had a glorious figure, with the blackest of black faces and a tail that stood straight up. She had won many many prizes. One day, before I was properly weaned, she sang a song rather more loudly than usual. Mme. Diplomat flew into a tantrum and called the gardener. "Pierre," she shouted, "Take her to the pond instantly, I cannot bear the noise."

Pierre, an undersized, sallow faced little Frenchman who hated us because we sometimes helped him with the gardening by inspecting plant roots to see if they were growing, scooped up my beautiful Mother and put her into a dirty old potato sack and marched off into the distance. That night, lonely and afraid, I cried myself to sleep in a cold outhouse where Mme. Diplomat would not be disturbed by my lamentations.

I tossed restlessly, feverishly, on my cold bed of old Paris newspapers thrown on the concrete floor. Pangs of hunger wracked my small frame and I wondered how I would manage.

As the first streaks of dawn reluctantly struggled through the cobweb-covered windows of the outhouse, I started with apprehension as heavy footsteps clattered up the path, hesitated at the door, then pushed it open and entered. "Ah!" I thought in relief, "It is only Madame Albertine, the housekeeper." Creaking and gasping she lowered her massive frame to the floor, dipped a gigantic finger into a bowl of warm milk and gently persuaded me to drink.

For days I walked in the shadow of sorrow, grieving for my murdered Mother, murdered solely because of her glorious singing voice. For days I felt not the warmth of the sun, nor thrilled to the sound of a well-loved voice. I hungered and thirsted, and depended wholly upon the good offices of Madame Albertine. Without her I should have starved to death, for I was then too young to eat unaided.

The days dragged on, and became weeks. I learned to fend for myself, but the hardships of my early life left me with an impaired constitution. The estate was huge, and I often wandered about, keeping away from People, and their clumsy, unguided feet. The trees were my favorites; I climbed them and stretched at length along a friendly bough, basking in the sun. The trees whispered to me, telling me of the happier days to come in the evening of my life. Then I understood them not, but trusted, and kept the words of the trees ever before me, even in the darkest moments.

Softcover, 10.5 x 8", 200+ pages
Perfect-Bound Large Print