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Congratulations to Mitali Perkins whose wonderful Tiger Boy (Charlesbridge, 2015 / Duckbill Books, 2015) has garnered another award (well, I said it should win plenty in … Continue reading ... →

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In fact, I am Mercury.  [yawn].

I am, however, here to tell you about a book by that name (see cover below).

Long ago, in Japan [Did I mention that my Greg person's ancestors originated in Japan?] or so the story goes, there lived a poor but devout holy man who was barely keeping his temple together.  Tama appeared, raising his paw in the traditional Japanese come-to-me greeting.  [Some cats are known to do this.  I do not].

The cat adopted the holy man and stayed at the temple.  One day, during a thunderstorm, Tama greeted a rich samurai feudal lord who was taking refuge under a tree outside the temple grounds.  [I make no comment on whether it was a good idea for Tama to have been outdoors during a thunderstorm.]

The samurai approached the cat an instant before the tree was struck by lightning. [See?] In gratitude, the samurai lord bestowed lavish gifts, became a friend to the monk, and restored the temple to prosperity. 

[Is it true?  I don't know, but you can buy Maneki Neko figurines just about anywhere these days.]  In any case, I AM TAMA is a lovely story, freshly told, with very nice lush illustrations. 
   
I AM TAMA, LUCKY CAT: A JAPANESE LEGEND, by Wendy Henrichs, ill. by Yoshiko Jaeggi (Peachtree 2011)(ages 5-9).

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Author Kashmira Sheth has written two beautiful picture-books that focus on children’s realtionship with their grandparents: My Dadima Wears a Sari and Monsoon Afternoon (Peachtree Publishers 2007 and 2008). They are both illustrated by Yoshiko Jaeggi and, in fact, work together as a balanced pair, since My Dadima Wears a Sari is about a littel girl Rupa and her grandmother, who shows her a myriad of imaginative uses for a sari beyond simply wearing it; and Monsoon Afternoon tells the story of a little boy who is able to rely on his Dadaji out of all his family to play with him under the monsoon. The books also highlight the importance for children of not only being able to trust unquestionably in that special gift of grandparents to devote time to their grandchildren without deadlines or chores getting in the way, but also to pass on those small details of a personal family history that provide roots and grounding for a child.

We are delighted to welcome Kashmira to the Papertigers blog as part of our Authors Remember their Grandparents series. You can also read our 2010 interview with Kashmira and visit her website to find out about all her books.

Waterfall

I called my grandfather the same name as my mother called him, Bapuji. Bapuji means father. I don’t know why I didn’t call him Dadaji. It could be because I had a great grandfather whom I called Dadaji. I lived with my grandparents and great grandfather until I was eight so I have many wonderful memories of them.

One of my earliest memories with Bapuji never fails to bring a smile to my face. I must have been six or seven years old when we went to visit a temple in a town called Gadhda, located on Ghalo River. After visiting the temple, we went to Ghalo River. I don’t remember what month it was, but as grass, shrubs, and trees around the river were lush and thick, it might have been monsoon season or just after.

We walked along the banks until we came to a small waterfall. My grandparents, my uncle, cousins, and my mom all took a dip in the water. I, who had never had a shower, but had only taken baths with a bucket of water, was thrilled by the misty spray. I walked closer to the waterfall. Suddenly, Bapuji scooped me up. With his outstretched hands he placed me on a stone ledge. It was as if he had offered me to the waterfall!

On the ledge the water was more than a mist now. It was a powerful shower that soaked me. I was excited and scared at the same time. He took me back to the river bank and I begged, “Farithi, again.”

He did it again and again.

I don’t remember anything else about that trip—just his placing me under the waterfall, my begging for more, and his complying.

Bapuji died a long time ago. Often, when I think of him, I close my eyes. Time melts away and I become a young girl under the waterfall again. When I do that, it is not only that memory but also his love that showers me.

Kashmira Sheth

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