In an interview with Crime Fiction, Agatha Christie, perhaps the most prolific female mystery novelist of the twentieth century, surprised her audience by mentioning a not-so-famous Ibn-e-Safi as the “only original writer in the subcontinent.” It is then a great surprise that an avid reader like me did not know about him until my mid-20s. Neither my school, college, nor university libraries had his books. The old bookstores I frequented near Rahat Bakery in Lahore or the stalls outside Anarkali were no different. Even today, few shops carry his titles. I consider this an ongoing tragedy for Urdu literature and its readers.
Ibn-e-Safi, born Asrar Ahmed in 1926 in Allahabad, India, received a Bachelor of Arts degree from Agra University and also studied at the University of Allahabad where he was a senior of the famous poet Mustafa Zaidi. He began his writing career in the early 1950s while working as a teacher.
Although Ibn-e-Safi was a prolific writer, dabbling in prose and poetry both, his most famous work is perhaps the Jasoosi Dunya series (although some might argue it is the Imran series!). The first Jasoosi Dunya title was published in 1952 and the last in 1979, a year before his untimely death from pancreatic cancer. In total, he wrote 127 books for the collection.
Each book is fast paced, with relatable humour, suspense, mystery, and the magnetic, larger-than-life presence of Inspector A K Faridi, who never loses. At first glance, these novels may appear to be straightforward detective adventures, but a closer look reveals several layers. There are many aspects of this fascinating series which haven’t been explored in detail – the settings; the cultural environments; characters of different religions and their interactions, to name a few. I am going to focus on another ignored element of the series: the portrayal of women. It took me several readings, and perhaps a certain level of maturity, to notice the nuances of Safi’s female characters.
To appreciate the significance of this, we need to understand the broader literary context of the time. Mirat-ul-Uroos by Nazir Ahmad Dehlvi, regarded as the first Urdu novel, was published in 1869. The narrative encouraged female education which might be considered progressive, but it did so from a patriarchal lens and within a strict moral framework. It portrayed women as the guardians of a family’s honour, modest and quiet. A trend which largely continued for almost half a century after its publication, with Shibli Nomani and Maulana Altaf Hussain Hali writing women primarily as virtuous daughters and mothers, dutiful and morally upright, and almost always deferring to the males in their households.
This narrow portrayal, however, did not remain unchallenged. The tide began to turn in the 1940s and 1950s, with the emergence of several female writers who questioned these stereotypes and published stories with far more complex female characters. Notable amongst these were Ismat Chughtai and Qurat-ul-Ain Hyder, who were writing about the multifaceted lives of women with frankness, intelligence, and boldness. Saadat Hasan Manto, as well, was rewriting clichés of women as damsels in distress. Their works were not received well at the time, with Chughtai and Manto even charged with obscenity. But while their bold themes and innovative works drew criticism from conservative quarters, they drew acclaim and lasting recognition from fellow writers, editors, critics, and literary audiences of the time, alongside other emerging literary giants Faiz Ahmed Faiz and Ahmad Nadeem Qasmi – all of whom became the defining voices of Urdu literature in the mid-twentieth century.
It was in the midst of this literary upheaval that Ibn-e-Safi launched the Jasoosi Dunya series, in 1952. His work reached a remarkably broader audience. His stories were less confrontational but no less significant. He presented progressive ideas in a manner that was accessible, subtle, and far-reaching. Thousands bought, read, and loved his novels.
In many homes, including those with little tradition of formal literary reading, his books became the first point of contact with ideas of justice, morality, and gender roles. This wide readership is what makes his portrayal of women particularly significant. The female characters in Jasoosi Dunya can be broadly grouped into three categories: damsels in distress, femme fatales, and allies. This categorization isn’t rigid; many characters cross boundaries and evolve over time.
The damsels in distress often seek help from Faridi and Hameed. They may be tearful or anxious or rude and demanding. Within this category, there is a notable variety – ranging from wives and daughters of business tycoons to dancers (sometimes implied to be sex workers); from veiled women to ones considered modern and westernized at that time. This diversity made me enjoy the novels even more, as none of these characters became one-dimensional. An example is a woman called Aliya, whose right to marry for love is defended by Faridi. It is important to note that within this category of the femme fatale, there are varied examples which reflect a reality: anyone, regardless of background or class, may need help at some point in their life.
Ibn-e-Safi included fewer instances of these characters across his Jasoosi Dunya novels, but these some of his most intriguing female antagonists. They use charm, manipulation, and intelligence for criminal ends, yet they are never caricatures. This is best represented by Nanota, also known as Doosri Nagan. Her beauty is emphasized and has an almost mystical aura. However, her intelligence and cunning are what drive the story forward. She is one of the few people who escape Faridi’s grasp and resurfaces in the later novels of the series. The motivations and circumstances of the femme fatales – being abandoned by parents, sold by a cruel relative – add layers to their personas. What they’re capable of is regardless of their gender, and the reader is kept guessing about what they will do next.
The women who are allies are, for me, the most interesting people in the Jasoosi Dunya series. Characters like Rasheeda, a fiercely independent woman with her own secrets; Ruqayya, who helps the protagonists despite her criminal connections; and Ghazala, a well-read daughter of a Nawab, all add rich dimensions to the stories they’re in. One of the ally-women I find intriguing is Shakeela, a teacher who represents a working woman. She helps Faridi and Hameed solve a case and is remarkable because she is completely ordinary; a professional trying to serve her community. I found her commitment to contribute by just doing her job well and making a difference, all while living her own simple life, deeply compelling. Some of these women appear again and evolve over time. None of them are helpless or ornamental – they are partners in action, with their own arcs and voices.
Safi’s women come from all walks of life, from the elite to the criminal underworld – there is a range of social and class diversity in the Jasoosi Dunya books. Some are trapped by their circumstances, others navigate or challenge them. Some are forced into crime, others choose it. This breadth of representation is rare in current popular fiction, even more so in Urdu literature of that era, and it continues to be missing, even today. Safi gave many of these women wit and humour, which was unusual for the time. While Chughtai and her contemporaries largely wrote serious literary fiction, Safi wrote female agency and independence in ways that were relatable to a broader audience. These characters engaged in banter with Hameed; they argued; they joked; they stood their ground against men in power; they were involved deeply in all the plotting and the scheming, no matter what side of the law they were on.
That said, there are certain moments in the series that would raise questions today and should not be brushed aside or excused by their historical context. Yet within the popular pulp fiction of his time, Safi’s portrayal of women was comparatively progressive. At a time when women were either sexualized, victimised, or deified, Ibn-e-Safi’s work gave them humanity –showing them as brave, flawed, resilient, and fully alive.
While writers like Faiz and Qasmi were challenging national and political ideologies through their literary work, Ibn-e-Safi was quietly reshaping the way a generation thought about women – not through manifestos, poems or critically acclaimed literature, but through pulp fiction. And that quiet revolution was just as powerful. His work was available in homes, in schoolbags, and on railway platforms, reaching readers who may never have opened a volume of Faiz or Hyder. This accessibility made his subtle liberalism all the more important, for it planted new ideas about women into the popular imagination without readers even realizing it.
We rightfully celebrate our great literary minds. But it’s time we also celebrate Ibn-e-Safi – not just as a master of mystery, but as a writer who made space for women in his stories with a subtlety and grace that still feels revolutionary, and that no other writer since him has come close to accomplishing. What stays with me from Ibn-e-Safi’s books is not just the thrill of his mysteries but also the space he gave to women within them. By writing female characters who could be fragile or fierce, complicit or courageous, he allowed them to exist in their full humanity. That is why the women of Jasoosi Dunya still matter today: they prove that even in pulp fiction, when written with imagination and respect, women can be shown as complex, capable, and unforgettable.
Noor ul Ain is a teacher by profession and a reader by temperament. Fiction is her first love, though she has lately been wandering into the rich terrain of South Asian non-fiction. She believes deeply in the power of the written word, and she would very much like everyone to read widely and often.