The Turban Jewel

Sophie Judah

Description

Fate plays strange tricks upon a young family in pre- and post-independent India. Family ties begin to feel the strain when the father is sent to prison for being a freedom fighter in a party that uses violence as a means. When he is finally released and returns to his family, he is a changed man. This story highlights how ordinary people react to change and how they cope. Tradition, friends, and community all play a part in the choices that are made.

Sujets

• Politics
• Political

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
• Date de parution: 08 janvier 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781645758341
• Langue: English

Extrait

T he T urban J ewel
S ophie J udah
Austin Macauley Publishers
2021-01-08
The Turban Jewel Part One Lahore One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Part Two Jwalanagar Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty-One Twenty-Two Twenty-Three Twenty-Four Twenty-Five Twenty-Six Twenty-Seven Twenty-Eight Twenty-Nine Thirty Thirty-One Thirty-Two Thirty-Three Thirty-Four Thirty-Five Thirty-Six Thirty-Seven Thirty-Eight Thirty-Nine Forty Forty-One Forty-Two Forty-Three Forty-Four Forty-Five Forty-Six Forty-Seven Forty-Eight Forty-Nine Fifty Fifty-One
Sophie Judah was born, raised, and educated in India. She moved to Israel in April of 1972 after she got married. In 1999, she returned to university and studied English literature. She then received her second master’s degree in creative writing from Bar Ilan University.
Her collection of short stories, Dropped from Heaven, was published by Schocken Books, Random House in 2007. Her novel, Victory Tea Estate , was published by Palimpsest Publishers, India, in 2017.
Sophie resides in Israel with her husband, her five children, and eight grandchildren.
In memory of Auntie Lilly, who loved telling and listening to stories.
Copyright © Sophie Judah (2021)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act concerning this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Ordering Information
Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Judah, Sophie
The Turban Jewel
ISBN 9781645758327 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781645758334 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781645758341 (ePub e-book)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020914983
www.austinmacauley.com/us
First Published (2021)
Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302
New York, NY 10005
USA
[e-mail]
[phone]
My heartfelt thanks to my publishers, editors, and all those who worked in getting my book to publication.
To my husband, Simon Judah, for his support and encouragement.
To my children and grandchildren, for their unwavering belief that I could do it.
Part One Lahore
One
“Inconsiderate bastards.” The words burst involuntarily from my husband, Percy Elias’ lips as he sat reading the newspaper. It was his habit to scan the headlines while I prepared breakfast. The older children were served first. He ate with our youngest child and me after they had left for school. He could linger over breakfast because it was only a fifteen minutes’ walk to the office where he worked as a clerk for the Indian Railways.
“What’s happened?” I asked as I broke an egg into the frying pan.
“There has been an explosion and derailment on the train from Delhi. Arsonists usually aim for a goods train but this time it was a passenger. Fifty people are injured and fourteen killed. What a waste of human life!”
“Why does anybody do such horrible things?” our eldest child, Nina asked.
“These people consider themselves patriots. They think that blowing up trains is a way to force the British out of our country. All they do is hurt innocent people. The saboteurs don’t help the wounded or provide for families that lose their breadwinners. Just imagine the suffering of people who get maimed for life.”
“What’s the difference between blowing up a goods train or a passenger train?” Raju, our second child, asked.
"There are no people on the goods train except for the driver, the boy who feeds coal into the furnace, and the guard. The damage to human life is less on a goods train.
“The driver and the coal boy work in the engine and the guard rides in the last wagon. The saboteurs aim for the middle.”
Percy turned his attention to another part of the newspaper. The children ate in silence. They did not have much time to talk because they had to be outside the gate before eight o’clock. The rickshaw wallah always rang his bell furiously if they were late and then scolded them. Our youngest child, Meenoo sat on the window sill and watched out for him. He shouted, “Rickshaw,” as soon as he saw the one that was to take his brother and sister to school appear on the road. Nina and Raju snatched up their school bags and tiffin carriers and ran out of the door.
There was nothing unusual about that morning except the news that Percy had read out loud. We never imagined the profound difference this incident would make on our lives.
A week after the derailment, two policemen arrived at our house. The officer was a tall Englishman with pale blue eyes and hair that resembled damp straw. An Indian sergeant with a large nose and a rather wispy mustache, stood a few feet behind him.
He seemed tiny in comparison to the tall policeman. The officer introduced himself as Inspector Bradley and requested permission to enter. He asked me to close the door that opened to the room where the children were doing their homework. I shut the door without thinking that Nina and Raju may still hear us.
Inspector Bradley was very interested in where Percy had been on the day of the derailment. Percy told them that he had been in his office and then walked home at the end of the day. He should have reached home between a quarter past and twenty past five. The inspector nodded. Then he informed Percy that he had already made inquiries with the railways and discovered that he had reported sick.
“He’s right,” I interrupted. “You drove Mr. Tripathi’s truck that day. His driver was sick and Tripathi pleaded with you saying that he had no one to make his deliveries.” Percy remembered and admitted being absent from work on that day. The inspector then asked him if he had met two men beside the railway tracks and brought them into town in his truck. Percy was surprised. “Yes, I saw two men dragging their belongings behind them as they walked along the road. It was a hot day and they were covered with sweat. I felt sorry for them, so I offered them a ride into town. There was enough space for both men in the driver’s cabin.”
“What was in their bags?” the police officer inquired.
“How should I know?” Percy replied.
“What kind of bags were they?”
“One was an old suitcase tied up with a length of rope. The other was a canvas duffle bag. Why all these questions, Inspector? I’ve done nothing wrong. The men looked tired and hungry. They said that they were new in town and were in search of work. I bought them a cup of tea and a samosa each at Hiralal’s Dhaba. After that, I left them outside the office of Mr. Mistry, the building contractor. I had a delivery of goats and chickens to make to the Baadshah restaurant in Anarkali Bazaar. I handed over the livestock, took a receipt, and drove the truck to my friend Tripathi’s place. He paid me for my work so I must have come home around half-past six.”
“We have seen a copy of the receipt the owner of the restaurant gave you, and have spoken to Hiralal, the owner of the Dhaba .”
“Why are you questioning me, if you know everything already?”
“We hope that you had nothing to do with the derailment, Mr. Elias,” the
Inspector said. “We would like you to come to the Police Station and identify the men to whom you gave a ride, from the pictures we have.”
Percy immediately rose to accompany the policemen but the inspector said, “Not now, Sir. We will expect you at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
I was full of questions when Percy returned from the Police Station the next morning. He said that he was glad that he had been unable to identify the men. He did not want to be involved in a court case or be responsible for sending someone to jail.
“The people who blew up the train belong to a powerful and ruthless organization,” he said. “Somebody will slit my throat if I identify and then become a witness against two of their members. This way, I’m safe and in the clear without having to tell a single lie.”
The two policemen who had come to the house reappeared two weeks later and arrested Percy for sabotage. Bradley was kind enough not to handcuff my husband in front of our children. Percy walked between the two men and sat in the back of the jeep between another two policemen with rifles who had waited outside. The presence of police always attracted attention. Neighbors came to their doors. Windows that opened on to the street were full of faces of women and children who jostled each other for a better view. A few people stood in the street.
I ran up to the gate and watched my husband being taken away. I heard a man exclaim, “Have the police lost their senses? What have they arrested that man for? He can’t be mixed up with anything illegal. He doesn’t possess the courage to say, ‘Boo to a goose.’”
The last part was no compliment but it was true. Percy lacked physical courage and did not exert himself more than absolutely necessary in anything other than earning a livelihood. Even as a boy, he had not participated in rough games. Many young men had joined the armed forces and were fighting the Germans or the Japanese. Percy had confessed to me that he was not staying behind only for the sake of his family, but also because of punishments dealt out during training. The war would be worse. The soldiers would march through jungles, marshes, or deserts on empty stomachs and sore feet. They would have to carry rifles, ammunition and heavy haversacks. He had seen documentary films about the First World War, and did not believe h