The house of fear, p.1
The House of Fear, page 1
Translated by
Bilal Tanweer
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This collection published 2011
Copyright © The Estate of Ibn-e Safi 2009
The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-8-184-00097-9
This digital edition published in 2017.
e-ISBN: 978-8-184-00255-3
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Contents
Introduction
The House of Fear
Shootout at the Rocks
Acknowledgements
Introduction
LITTLE DID NUZAIRA BIBI and her husband Safiullah know that the son born to them in 1928 would grow up to be a master story teller. His exact date of birth cannot be confirmed, but is believed to have been 26 July. The child’s immediate milieu was humble—the little village of Nara in the Allahabad district. His delighted parents named him Asrar, which meant ‘secrets’ or ‘mysteries’ in Arabic.
The village of Nara where Asrar Narvi grew up had already earned something of a reputation for learning and culture, thanks to Nooh Narvi, an acclaimed poet and a disciple of Daagh Dehelvi. Nara’s scholarly environment may have shaped the lives and careers of several others: for instance, Moulvi Rehman Ali Khan and Moulvi Ehsaan Ali Khan were renowned hakeems whose works were used as textbooks in all major schools of Yunani medicine. They happened to be Asrar’s maternal grand uncles. Many other poets and scholars lived in Nara during his childhood, and most people in the village were related. Much of this probably influenced the young Asrar, who later said:
My father was fond of reading, therefore the house was full of novels and ancient mythology books but I was not allowed to even touch any of those. So I used to steal a book or two and pretending as if I was going out to play, I used to sneak up to the roof. Once on the roof, I used to be gone for the whole day. Eventually, one day I was caught red handed and the parents had an argument over it but finally the verdict was in my favor. My mother said, ‘He is at least better off than the kids who spend their days playing gilli-danda or marbles in the streets.’ Then there were no holds barred and I was completely drowned in the stories.
Asrar Narvi’s secondary education brought him to the big city of Allahabad, where he found himself exposed to a far greater range of imaginative literature—from the Tilism-e Hoshruba to Rider Haggard’s She. The parallel worlds of eastern and western literatures spurred his own imagination, and stories filled his mind. He was in the seventh grade when his first short story was published in the acclaimed literary magazine Shahid, edited by Adil Rasheed. Taken in by his mature prose style, Adil Rasheed gave the story a byline: ‘A product of the thoughtfulness of the Painter of Sentiments, Hazrat Asrar Narvi.’ For days afterward, the elders of the household teased him good-naturedly with orders like, ‘Abay O Painter of Sentiments, fetch me a glass of water.’ By the time he was in the tenth grade, Asrar had taken to poetry, and loved to be introduced as a progressive writer; and in college, he found he was already fairly well known as a poet. Later, however, he was disillusioned by the divisions, rifts and rivalries among writers.
1947 was a tough and ultimately quite unproductive year for Asrar. His confusion and mental disturbance was characteristic of his generation:
The chain of dreams had broken. It seemed as if some wizard like Afrasiyab had caused a rain of magic knives upon all of society [a reference to the sorcerer Afrasiyab in the Tilism-e Hoshruba]; as if some ‘she’ had been charred in fire … [a reference to Rider Haggard’s She]; as if the coffin of ancient Kallikrates had been stoned [ancient sources identify Iktinos and Kallikrates as co-architects of the Parthenon] … and Love would never ever reign in the Hateland again.
In 1948, he started writing satires for the monthly Nakhat Allahabad under the pseudonym Tughral Farghan. But he also felt he ought to try his hand at another genre. Someone challenged him that Urdu novels could not be sold without an element of sex in them. He replied that no one had ever tried. His listener then remarked that it was not possible unless an alternative genre was developed.
Alternative? I thought for a while, and then had a vision of an eight-year-old child who had devoured all seven volumes of Tilism-e Hoshruba. I had also witnessed that eighty-year-olds were as fascinated by the Tilism as small children. So I said to myself, all right, let me see what I can do about an alternative genre.
This was in the early fifties when literature was low on fiction, and the novel lacked novelty. Asrar’s emphasis on originality and ‘newness’ led him to begin writing mystery novels. He assumed the pseudonym Ibn-e Safi—literally the ‘son of Safi, (his father’s name was Safi). Thus began the series Jasoosi Duniya in 1952, from Nakhat Publications. Later he moved to Pakistan, and in 1953 he began writing another set of novels called the Imran Series.
Gradually, Ibn-e Safi took over and Asrar Narvi faded away, still writing poetry but much less frequently than before. Ibn-e Safi wrote about two hundred and forty-five novels in both series and caused the birth of what came to be called Anna Libraries in India and Pakistan. These libraries helped instill a love of books in people in general. In no time at all, Ibn-e Safi’s characters—Ali Imran, Colonel Faridi, Captain Hameed, Sung Hee, Thressia Bumble Bee of Bohemia, Tisdle, Dr. Dread, Finch and many others—became immortal. His novels were utterly addictive, and considered ‘polite’ enough for the entire family to read.
The Imran Series revolves around Ali Imran, an engaging protagonist indeed. He has an MSc and PhD in criminology from Oxford, but can be disarmingly moronic, even appearing mad at times. There will often be instances in the book where the reader might find his comments nonsensical. This works in Imran’s favour—one would never guess that he is the Chief of the Secret Service, with the code name X2. His comic behaviour and mannerisms make him the butt of his team members’ jokes and banter, and they routinely ridicule him, never suspecting that the boss they are terrified of is actually Imran himself. Imran is a past master at foiling conspiracies and unearthing sinister plots. But he is not simply an efficient detective with the uncanny ability to dodge bullets; he is as educated as he is agile, and fluent in several languages.
Jasoosi Duniya, on the other hand, revolves around Colonel Ahmad Kamal Faridi and his sidekick Captain Sajid Hameed. Faridi is well-built, tall and attractive, and his physical strength is central to most of his adventures. Faridi works for the police department merely for the thrill of it—he is otherwise heir to a huge estate, and does not need to work for a living. Despite many chances to move up in his career, Faridi declines all promotions and stays in the active service in order to avoid being assigned an administrative job. Faridi drives the latest imported cars, and even maintains a well-equipped laboratory at home to satisfy his scientific curiosity. His kennel and snake house have the finest of dogs and rarest of snakes. His assistant, Captain Hameed, is playful, mischievous, carefree, romantic, and when occasion demands, hardworking, brave, fearless, intelligent and smart. Hameed calls Faridi, ‘Father Hardstone’ because he never openly displays his emotions, and appears to be immune to the advances of the fairer sex.
Astonishingly, Ibn-e Safi’s two series still have a very wide readership. At the time they were written, learned professors, professionals, students, labourers and housewives alike would queue up at bookstalls to buy his latest books. It may have been his clever combination of wit, suspense and humour; or perhaps, the simple prose in which he explored the most complex of subjects. His novels investigated thought-provoking social and psychological issues in a manner that would make them accessible to the general public. It is hardly surprising then that editors have compiled books of quotations from Ibn-e Safi’s works, which are thought to present a faithful portrait of his times. The tenor of the books invites readers to respect the law, and be peace-loving and patriotic. Nonetheless, the details of crimes and the solutions of puzzles were convincing enough for official intelligence agencies to consult him on the latest methods in the art of detection.
Ibn-e Safi was regularly chastised by the literary elite for being a ‘popular’ writer, and was never granted the recognition he deserved. He responded to such criticism as follows:
Whatsoever the quality of fictional literature, it is eventually a means to mental escape. Its purpose is to provide recreation of one or the other level. Just as a football player cannot be entertained by a game of chess, similarly elitist or high literature is absolutely meaningless for a big segment of our society. Then why should I write for a few drawing rooms? Why shouldn’t I write in a style which is more popular…maybe this way some high concepts may reach the common people too?
Fictional characters often reflect the persona of their creator, and Ibn-e Safi himself possessed many of the traits and qualities of Colonel Faridi and Imran. His witticisms—like Imran’s—were admired by friends and intellectual rivals, and his principles were as unshakeable as Colonel Faridi’s. He was a prolific writer and in his most productive year
The next three years found him growing increasingly isolated from those around him, and during this period he could hardly write anything at all. However, he made a miraculous recovery in 1963, and returned with another novel in the Imran Series—Daerh Matwalay. The novel’s first edition was launched by the ex-Interior Minister (later Prime Minister of India) Lal Bahadur Shastri, and went on to break all sales records. The demand for the book was so high that within a week a second edition was published in India. This edition was launched by the then Provincial Law Minister Ali Zaheer. In Pakistan people formed long queues to get their hands on the first copies. Bookstores in all major cities carried banners and posters announcing the great Ibn-e Safi’s comeback.
Despite his forbidding, no-nonsense exterior, Ibn-e Safi was an affectionate and trusting man. Friends and family always found him pleasant and enjoyed his company. If he had a negative trait at all, it was perhaps his reluctance to hurt even his most bitter enemies and to go out of his way to help them if he thought they needed help. During his three-year absence from the literary scene, a number of impostor Safis appeared on the market with their versions of Jasoosi Duniya and the Imran Series. Even after he recovered, he did not take any legal action against any of them, saying that he was honoured that they had managed to earn a part of their livelihood by imitating his work. Once a publisher illegally published and began to sell his novels. People persuaded him to sue the publisher, and he did. Later, however, he found out that the publisher’s family was in financial trouble because of the lawsuit. He immediately forgave the person concerned, and closed the case. It is believed that he even provided monetary help to the family.
For us, his children, he was more a friend than a father. With him, we could discuss any matter without hesitation. As far as disciplining us was concerned, a single look from him was enough to make us quake. He was completely against corporal punishment as a means to discipline children. Admittedly, with seven children at home, concentrating on creative work must have been difficult. Whenever our mother tried to silence us while he was working, he stopped her, saying that sometimes this too was a source of inspiration for him. He usually wrote at night, and must have slept very little as we never saw him rising late. While writing, he would lie down on his left side and use loose leaves of foolscap paper stacked on a clipboard. He preferred ball-point pens as he had to make a carbon copy of the manuscript, which would then be sent to India for simultaneous publication.
In late 1979, doctors diagnosed our father with pancreatic cancer. He became very frail but never complained. His usual reply to those who expressed their shock or grief at his failing health was: ‘I was not grateful when I was in good health so now what right do I have to complain about my bad health!’ He kept writing till the last day of his life. When he passed away on 26 July 1980, the manuscript of his last novel Aakhri Aadmi (The Last Man) lay by his bedside.
No writer has bettered him since in the field of Urdu crime fiction and most certainly no writer has broken his sales records in the past twenty-nine years. Ibn-e Safi’s books are still being published in India and Pakistan, and today he has a strong online presence too. A Google search churns up millions of webpages with his name. English translations of his works are being attempted for the first time, and it is hoped that these will help introduce Ibn-e Safi to the world at large.
Ahmad Safi
Karachi, November 2009
THE HOUSE OF FEAR
Chapter 1
IMRAN WAS STANDING IN front of the mirror trying to knot his tie.
‘Oho…’ he said in a frustrated voice. ‘The same problem again! Too small or too large. They are making ties all wrong these days! Damn this.’ As he fidgeted, the silk tie knot slid up and tightened around his neck. His face turned red as he choked, his eyes popping out.
‘Akkhh…Akhh…Khhhh,’ he shouted, using the full force of his lungs, ‘I am going to die! Help! Oye, Suleiman!’
A servant ran into the room. At first he did not understand what was going on because all he saw was Imran beating his thighs with his fists.
‘What’s happened, sahib?’ he asked, perplexed.
‘Oh, you son of sahib! I am dying here!’
‘Aray! But…but…’
‘Don’t aray but-if-then with me!’ Imran said, grinding his teeth. ‘Loosen this!’
‘But loosen what?’
‘Abay, the knot on your father’s shroud, you rascal! Come here! Now!’
‘Why don’t you tell me properly?’ the servant said, annoyed.
‘How am I telling you improperly, mister? You mean to say that I, meaning Ali Imran, MSc, PhD, am telling you improperly? You donkey, this is called a metaphor in English and isti’ara in Urdu, understand? Argue with me if you still think I am wrong. I must witness this as well now, right before my death…’
The servant looked carefully and noticed the tie and the swollen veins around the neck. This was not new for him. He had to deal with such clumsiness regularly. He disentangled the tie.
‘Now,’ Imran said loudly as soon as he was released. ‘If I was saying it improperly, how did you understand what I meant?’
‘My mistake, sahib!’
‘Whose mistake?’
‘Mine.’
‘Prove to me that it was your mistake.’ Imran fell on the sofa, staring at his servant.
Suleiman scratched his head.
‘Do you have lice in your hair?’ Imran asked him angrily.
‘No, sir.’
‘Then why are you scratching your head?’
‘No reason.’
‘Stupid. Imbecile. You waste your energy doing useless things!’
Suleiman remained quiet.
‘Have you read Jung’s works on psychology?’
Suleiman shook his head.
‘Do you even know the spelling of Jung?’
‘No, sahib,’ Suleiman said in an irritated voice.
‘Good. Learn it now. J-U-N-G. Many illiterates read him as Jang, and some as Joong. Those who suffer from a literary diarrhea use the French ‘J’. But Jung was not French. It’s “Yoong”.’
‘Will you eat chicken or batair1 for dinner?’ the servant asked.
‘Half titar, half batair!’2 Imran said, irritated. ‘Yes, so what was I saying?’
‘You were saying that we should cook the spices till they turn red,’ the servant said in a deadpan tone.
‘Yes! And always cook on a low flame,’ said Imran. ‘And don’t turn the ladle so wildly in the pot that its clanking will arouse the neighbours’ desires for our food. By the way, can you tell me: where was I dressing up to go?’
‘Sir,’ the servant said cautiously, ‘I think you were going out to buy me cloth for my shalwar kameez. Pure Bis Hazaar cotton and Boski for my kameez.’3
‘Good. You are a very loyal and smart servant. I’d forget everything if you didn’t remind me.’
‘Should I tie the knot of your tie, sir?’ Suleiman asked in a deferential tone.
‘Tie it.’
As he was tying the knot, Suleiman muttered in his ears again. ‘Pure Bis Hazaar cotton. I can write a note for you if you want?’
‘That would be very good,’ Imran said.
After tying the tie, the servant wrote something in pencil on a piece of paper and offered it to him.
‘Not like this.’ Imran pointed to his chest. ‘Pin it here.’
The servant pinned the note on Imran’s chest.
‘Now I will remember,’ said Imran as he left the room. He crossed the room into the drawing room where three girls were seated.
‘Excellent, Imran bhai is here!’ exclaimed one of them, Jamila. ‘You made us wait so long. Did you take so much time just to put on your clothes?’
‘Oh, so you were waiting for me?’
‘Why, didn’t you promise us an hour ago that we’d go to the movies?’
‘Movies? What movies? I was actually going out to get for Suleiman…’ Imran said, pointing to the note on his chest.
