Jaral Kee Wapsee.

There was a time, several years ago, when I could read Urdu. Not that I can’t anymore, but back then I actually read it for pleasure. Like novels and stories and Akbar-e-Jahaan with its masala gossip about the Bollywood dudes. Even had a few Urdu versions of pornographic literature. Guess that is what ultimately turned me off of Urdu stuff, porn done in Urdu is just sickening. Just translate your favorite erotic passage to Urdu and you’ll know what I mean.

Anyway, this post isn’t about Urdu porn. This is about something a lot more monumental:

Mehmood, Farooque, Farzana aur Inspector Jamshed!!!

Raise your hands to show who knows what the fuck I’m talking about.

There was once a man with an amazingly fertile mind, and enough cred to give Ludlum a run for his money. His name was Ishtiaq Ahmed and he wrote suspense thrillers, in Urdu.

He wrote and he wrote and he wrote, without ever being derivative or boring or even remotely politically incorrect. His art was not geared to shock people, it was simply meant to entertain. And it did entertain, with enough suspense thrown in to keep a reader anywhere between the ages of 7 and 70 hooked to his book through an entire night. I used to read his ‘khaas numbers’ in the light of a lantern during load shedding sessions, I haven’t read anything ever in the light of a lantern since.

The characters he gave birth to were a little larger than life, too good perhaps to be utterly realistic but they were meant to heroes.

Inspector Jamshed being the middle aged, fit as a prize fighter, cop with a severe distaste for evil. He employed, therefore, to his elite fighting force his own kids. Mehmood, the oldest, about 19 or so I imagine, kind of like a Mr know it all, who was never irritating but always sort of a hero in the making. And Farooque with his wit and sarcasm, the street-wise wise guy of the bunch who solved as many problems with his cunning mind as he did with the cleverly disguised knife in the heel of his shoe. And Farzana, bringing up the rear at a coy 16 years of age, she was a force to contend with. Blessed with killer instincts, she was almost like the scout of the group, sniffing out danger before it struck to keep her brothers and father out of serious trouble. She must’ve been hot, at least she was to a 12 year old kids mind. Besides she had Inspector Kamran’s son fawning over her. Inspector Kamran was a friend of Inspector Jamshed’s who along with his 3 kids would accompany the elite Jamshedites on their missions to restore world peace.

We associate all fiction dealing with saving the world with holly wood now, but before there was Steven Spielberg, there was Ishtiaq Ahmed shoving the world in to the path of apocalypse only to have it salvaged by a trio of geeky kids and their brawny father.

Not the stuff of legends, perhaps, but certainly the stuff of literature.

Ishtiaq Ahmed, was so taken by his characters, in fact, so consumed by the need to give them a life otherwise impossible to attain in a country drowning in corruption that he wrote until his arm fell off, literally. He lost the ability to write somewhere during the time that I was growing into an adult. He’s probably dead now, but at least in my memories his characters survive as the first heroes I ever knew.

And also Villians. Jaral being the big daddy of em all. He made recurring appearances, Jamshed’s number one menace, Jaral was aided by an unending source of funds, thanks to the imaginary home country’s evil neighbor. No prixes for guessing who he was referring to. Jaral kee wapsi consequently was the name of a 3000 page saga that took the Jamsheds, along with all their friends, on one hell of a ride through many countries ultimately to a show down of biblical proportions. Inspector Jamshed, obviously kicked Jaral’s ass big time, and he as far as I know never returned. Archie comics, thanks to the buxom betty and Veronica took center stage in my pubescent imagination and Farzana and Farzana got left behind to contend with Inspector Kamran’s son.

I found myself missing them last night, itching for a Khaas Number to bide my time with, in the process rediscovering the thrilling potential of our own language.

It’s demoralizing, to say the least, that some one with so much talent and such a vivid and abundant imagination never made it to the acclaim he deserved. But that’s what you get for practicing your vision in a language that isn’t really heralded as worthwhile even in your own country.