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| Vol. 2, Issue 09 September 2010 |
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Fiction & Poetry |
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Fiction |
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The House of Fear
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| The bestselling Imran series are Urdu cult classics, now translated into English for the first time. |
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By IBN-E-SAFI (Translated from Urdu by Bilal Tanweer)
Published : 1 February 2010 |
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The bestselling Imran series are Urdu cult classics, now translated into English for the first time. Featuring the eccentric detective title-character, Imran, The House of Fear is the first in this series and opens with the discovery of dead bodies in an abandoned house, each bearing three identical dagger marks, exactly five inches apart. Who could the murderer be? In these two chapters, we begin to find out.
Excerpted with permission from The House of Fear by Ibn-e Safi (Random House 2010)
CHAPTER 1
| I |
MRAN 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 with 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.
‘Pure Bis Hazaar cotton and Boski,’ Jamila read out the note. ‘What does this mean?’
The girls began to laugh. Imran’s sister Surayya also came closer to see the note, but the third one kept sitting. She was Surayya’s new friend.
‘What is this?’ Surayya asked Imran, pointing to the note.
‘I am going out to buy some cloth for Suleiman’s shalwar kameez.’
‘But then why did you promise us?’ Surayya asked, annoyed.
‘What a nuisance!’ Imran jerked his neck. ‘Now who is honest here: you or Suleiman? How am I to know?’
‘That servant! Consider him honest! Who am I anyway?’ Surayya turned to her friends. ‘Let’s go out by ourselves. And besides, if we go with him something embarrassing is sure to occur. He will certainly end up committing some folly or the other.’
‘My dear girls, look here now,’ Imran said in a pleading voice, making a doleful face. ‘This is my younger sister. She considers me an imbecile. Surayya, I will die soon, very soon, while knotting some tie. And don’t blame poor Suleiman for anything. He saved my life. I am indebted to him.’
Jamila was alarmed. ‘What happened?’
‘I didn’t tie my tie correctly and I could have died,’ Imran said in a serious tone.
Jamila started laughing, but Surayya was not amused. Her new friend was also utterly perplexed.
‘If you want, I can come to the movies with you,’ Imran finally conceded. ‘But remember, on our way back, you must remind me of the note pinned to my chest.’
‘I don’t wish to go anymore,’ Surayya declared.
‘But no! It will not be much fun without Imran bhai,’ Jamila protested.
‘Long live, my dear!’ Imran said to her triumphantly. ‘Right now, I would trade Surayya for you. I wish you were my sister. I don’t like this moody girl at all.’
‘You are moody! And I don’t like you either!’ Surayya said.
‘Look at her now. This is my younger sister.’
Jamila finally broke in. ‘Tell you what,’ she said. ‘Keep this note in your pocket. I will remind you on our way back.’
Imran put the piece of paper in his pocket. Surayya looked a little sulky. As soon as they reached the porch, a bike came through the gate and stopped in front of them. A heavy-set, handsome man was riding it.
‘Hello, Super Fayyaz!’ Imran shouted enthusiastically, raising both his hands.
‘Imran, my boy. Are you going somewhere?’ he asked and immediately turned to the girls. ‘Oh, please excuse us, ladies, but this is very important. Imran, get on the bike, hurry up.’
Imran immediately leapt onto the backseat and the bike sputtered out of the gate.
‘Did you see that?’ Surayya said, biting her lower lip.
‘Who was that?’ Jamila asked. ‘The Intelligence Bureau’s Superintendent, Fayyaz,’ she said. ‘I cannot understand why he is interested in a nutcase like Imran bhai. He often takes him along with him.’
‘Imran bhai is a very interesting person,’ Jamila said. ‘At least, I enjoy his company very much.’
‘Crazy people think alike,’ Surayya said, making a face.
‘He doesn’t appear crazy to me,’ Surayya’s new friend remarked.
1 Batair: partridge.
2 Titar: quail. The Urdu expression ‘Aadha titar aadha batair’ means being committed to two opposite things, or being ambivalent about something. It also means half-breed, not as a racial slur but in a pejorative sense anyway.
3 Bis Hazaar refers to a type of cotton available at that time. Boski is a variety of silk.
And her assessment was correct. Imran’s appearance belied his actions. In fact, he looked quite an attractive and well-built young man. His age was around 28. After completing his MSc from a local university, he went to England where he did a PhD in sciences. Imran’s father, Rahman, was the Director General of the Intelligence Bureau. Upon Imran’s return from England, Rahman wanted to get his son a good post, but Imran was not interested. Sometimes he would talk of starting a business in scientific equipment, sometimes of starting a science institute, but he would not make up his mind. Everyone in the family was unhappy with his attitude. He had started acting like an absentminded fool, especially after his return from England, so much so that even the servants took advantage of him all the time. They even went to the extent of stealing ten rupee notes from his pockets without Imran ever discovering them.
His father could not bear to see his face. He had grown tired of him despite the fact that Imran was his only son. It was only because of his mother that he was allowed to stay in the house. Otherwise, he would have been kicked out a long time ago.
‘The only time he doesn’t appear crazy is when he is silent,’ Surayya said. ‘You’ll find out if you are with him for a couple of hours.’
‘Does he bite as well?’ Jamila smiled.
‘Keep up your interest in him. You will find out for yourself,’ Surayya said, curling her lips. | | | |
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