It began with a whisper in the warmth of February—a whisper wrapped in foil and dipped in saffron ink.
"Make them taste their religion," Arslan said, standing barefoot on the marble verandah of the Bahawalpur haveli, arms folded behind his back. A faded copy of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs sat open on a charpai behind him, weighed down by a brass glass of salted lassi.
Riyaz stood beside him, holding a small sample packet. Inside, five cream biscuits stacked like verses. On the label:
"Sabr Sticks – The Flavor of Endurance."
Below that, in calligraphic Urdu:
جو برداشت کرے، وہی قرب ہے۔
(He who endures, is the nearest.)
He turned it over again. "Too preachy," Riyaz muttered. "But it'll sell."
"They don't read it," Arslan said softly. "They feel it."
Behind them, the design room buzzed. Ten packaging poets—washed-up ad men, part-time qawwals, one molvi-turned-copywriter—were sprawled across cushions, throwing verses at each other like grenades.
> "Add sukoon in the aftertaste!"
"Mention barakah in the ingredients!"
"No, no—say 'har bite mein yaqeen'—that's what sells!"
In the corner, a man shaped stickers that looked like miniature tasbeeh beads. Each would be sealed to the wrapper of Jannati Jelly. Each one said:
"Sweetness is Sunnah."
By March, the canteens had begun transforming. Outside the madrasa walls, small tents were being pitched. Strings of green plastic flags flapped above. Metal carts rolled in crates. Glass display counters were installed, and beneath them: a gospel of wafers.
They called them "Barkat Bazaars."
Inside each, a rotating inventory of cheap, aggressively sweet, and theologically suggestive. Foiled trays of Imaan Khushbu—cardamom-scented cookies. Noor Dip in plastic tubs—chutney thick as syrup, sold beside fried rice balls called Sabr Pops.
In Multan, a canteen boy was told to chant aloud every twenty minutes: "Yeh sirf khanay ka saamaan nahi—yeh imaan ka silsila hai!"
(This is not just food—it is a chain of faith.)
He did. People listened. Then they bought.
Ramadan hadn't even begun.
It was only the prelude. The heat had returned, but slowly—creeping in like a verse memorized wrong. The kind of heat that sticks to your spine, not your skin.
Arslan lay under the pomegranate tree with a clipboard in hand, checking distribution maps. A low table beside him held prototypes for Ramadan packaging: metallic wrappers that looked like gift envelopes. Dates wrapped in edible ink-paper that whispered fake hadiths. Juice boxes shaped like zamzam bottles. Miniature syrup sachets labeled "Sehri Se Aakhir Tak—Wahi Ras".
Every piece was a verse. Every taste, a transaction.
One of the canteen boys entered the garden, hesitant, holding a complaint slip. "A lady in Shikarpur says her child keeps craving the jelly, even after iftar. She thinks something's wrong with it."
Arslan smiled without looking up. "Something is. It works."
Behind him, an assistant handed over a radio ad script. A gentle male voice told the story of a poor child who fasted the whole month because "the snacks of barkat kept his hunger in sukoon."
At the end, the slogan:
> "Roza. Rahmat. Roti. Rehmat Wafers."
"Share. Sabr. Swaab."
He approved it in one stroke. "Record it with an imam's voice. Add tears if possible."
The production team had already bought sound effects: the crackle of a mosque mic, a child saying Bismillah with a stammer, a glass of rooh afza being poured slowly.
In Rahim Yar Khan, an old cotton factory had been converted into the central packaging plant. Rows of women sat cross-legged, wrapping biscuit sticks in rice paper printed with phrases that sounded like ayahs but weren't. They didn't know. They weren't told. They smiled and sang old wedding songs as they worked. Outside, two guards with guns and green turbans checked deliveries.
Riyaz toured the facility once. Saw the plastic molds of date-shaped jellies being sprayed with artificial scent. Saw crates marked for Layyah, Tando Adam, Chichawatni. He asked the floor manager, "How much of this is... actual food?"
The manager grinned. "As much as needed to avoid a lawsuit, sir."
They both laughed.
Back in Bahawalpur, Arslan was designing the Eid line. Special edition biscuit boxes shaped like Qur'an holders. Printed with floral ayahs, verses carefully curated to mention sweetness, giving, patience. Inside, five cookies shaped like tasbeeh beads. Each one engraved with a word: niyyat, sukoon, taqwa, sawab, jazba.
He named it "Hadiya-e-Eid."
They would be sold in velvet wrapping, with a sticker:
> "Gift it to a neighbor. Or yourself. Both are ibadah."
By April, orders began flying.
From Karachi: a molvi wanted 500 snack baskets to distribute in his Eid milan.
From Lahore: a qari asked for a monthly shipment to resell with his Qur'an classes.
From Peshawar: a madrasa sent a letter requesting to stock Arslan's snacks in exchange for "honest Islamic visibility."
He approved all. Added one clause to each: branded photo banners of Arslan's silhouette must be displayed near the canteen.
They obeyed. Because funding came quietly, and snacks did what words never could.
Then came the stories.
In Layyah, a child who didn't speak began saying Alhamdulillah after eating Sabr Sticks.
In Sanghar, a deaf woman cried after tasting Noor Dip—claiming it was the same taste as a long-lost memory.
In Bahawalnagar, a molvi swore that his chronic cough was healed after three nights of Imaan Wafers dipped in milk.
No one traced where these stories came from.
They were planted. Crafted. Whispered.
A new job division was created—Whispers Division. Fifteen agents assigned to craft miracles. Soft fiction. Told in mosques, in tea stalls, on radio, and sometimes in sermons—if the price was right.
Each miracle was designed to be vague but emotionally precise. Nothing confirmable. Everything unforgettable.
Outside Arslan's estate, a mango tree began fruiting early. The gardener said it was the weather. Arslan disagreed.
"It's the scent," he said, plucking a biscuit. "This much sugar changes how the air behaves."
By May, Eid approached.
The final assault began.
Snacks were now bundled into Eidi envelopes.
Each packet came with a fake dua:
> "May your roza be accepted and your taste be sharpened."
"O Lord, bless the one who shares his sweets."
Children peeled wrappers with reverence. Adults bit into cookies that tasted like worship. Clerics smiled as their monthly stipends arrived wrapped in prayer-themed packaging.
Arslan sat at his garden table, watching it unfold.
A lawyer handed him a letter from a Karachi molvi requesting distribution rights for Ruh-e-Lemon, the unreleased soda. "He says his dreams confirmed your product has healing properties."
Arslan nodded. "Send him the samples. And an extra basket. Add a letter saying he was chosen."
Riyaz sat nearby, silent, sipping bitter coffee. "Does it taste like obedience yet?"
"Almost," Arslan said, eyes on the horizon. "Another Eid or two. Then they'll eat the command before they hear it."
From the window, the scent of synthetic strawberries drifted into the courtyard.
In the distance, a boy opened a wrapper that sang Bismillah when peeled.
And the world kept chewing.
July 1997.
The monsoon hadn't yet arrived, but something else had—documents sealed with green wax and gold ribbon. Government-issued, Islamabad-stamped, lined in unnecessary English and heavy with ceremonial praise.
Recognition.
Not the kind you put in frames. The kind that becomes infrastructure.
Riyaz stood at the head of a long oak table in the Bahawalpur estate's drawing room. Around him, managers, lawyers, a retired colonel, and a molvi who only spoke when cued. A fresh telex from Lahore lay at the center of the table. The Punjab Education Board had officially approved the Al-Riyaz Integration Scheme—madrasas now doubling as certified educational institutions.
On paper: an effort to modernize.
In practice: total consolidation.
The document listed 73 pilot madrasas. Each now granted the right to teach standardized education alongside religious studies. No more separate school and mosque. No more divided attention. No more divided loyalties. Inside every Al-Riyaz madrasa, a child could now memorize Surah Baqarah, solve long division, and read Jinnah's speeches—all before Zuhr.
Arslan read the memo in silence.
Then underlined one phrase: "Partnership with existing infrastructure". He smiled. We are the infrastructure.
The next memo came from a different source—Ministry of Religious Affairs, Karachi branch. A formal offer of monthly grants for "socio-religious harmony efforts." Beneath it, in Riyaz's own handwriting, was the note:
> "This means we've bought Islamabad. Or they've bought us. Same result."
Arslan barely blinked. "Accept it. And ask for retroactive payments. Say we've been harmonizing since '92."
Outside, the Bahawalpur garden had been cleared of its idle roses. In their place stood temporary classrooms—canvas roofs, bamboo poles, and chalkboards coated in Qur'anic verses and algebra problems. Boys sat in straight lines. Girls in makeshift corners. All wore the Al-Riyaz badge now: a silhouette of a child in prayer, holding a book that shone like revelation.
The Ministry didn't question it.
No one did.
They saw Riyaz, tall and silent, offering handshakes like commandments. They saw news clippings of Al-Riyaz's work in Balochistan—water pumps, snack donations, madrasas with painted walls. They saw children smiling and chewing wafers with slogans like "Ilm bhi, Imaan bhi" printed on the wrappers.
They didn't see Arslan.
They weren't meant to.
He stayed in the northern room now—once the women's sitting room, now filled with blueprints, enrollment data, and discreet brown envelopes for politicians. The new map showed every madrasa, school, and distribution warehouse marked in red. 200+ dots. A network.
Beside the map: a secondary chart.
MNA Affiliations.
Vote Bank Density.
Religious Influence Index.
Asset Control per District.
Red lines connected molvis to MPAs, MPAs to MNAs, and MNAs back to Riyaz. It was a constellation of control. A zodiac of obedience.
"Gifts," Arslan whispered. "Big ones. From us. For the board."
Within a week, crates were shipped to Lahore.
One full of Japanese fans and power inverters.
One of imported Parker pens and Swiss watches.
One labeled *"Spiritual Stationery"—taweez bookmarks, prayer mats with embroidery of the Education Board's logo.
The Punjab Curriculum & Textbook Board received them with applause. No one asked who sent them. Riyaz's name was printed on every thank-you note.
He was now the philanthropic father of Islamic education.
And the teachers?
Hired in bulk. But never fully. Always on six-month contracts. Each with a moral conduct clause so vague it could mean anything. Arslan had crafted it himself.
> "Any disruption to the sacred spirit of Al-Riyaz will lead to immediate dismissal without compensation."
The molvis understood. Obedience was the new aqeedah.
Every Friday, they were told which story to deliver. A molvi in Kasur spoke of a child who found both faith and literacy at Al-Riyaz. A molvi in Nawabshah wept on stage while praising the snacks as signs of divine intervention. In return, their daughters got stipends. Their wives got sewing machines. Their sons got placements in the Al-Riyaz check-and-balance division.
Loyalty, not ideology, was rewarded.
Riyaz moved through government offices now with quiet authority. He didn't ask for favors. He nodded, he smiled, he listened. His name alone could unjam a permit. The rumor across the civil secretariat was simple:
> "Don't cross Riyaz sahib. His grandson dreams in ayahs."
Meanwhile, MNAs began showing up uninvited to madrasa inaugurations. Photographers were already waiting. Banners were prepared with their names—even when they hadn't funded anything. Arslan's office sent them the photos later with handwritten notes:
> "Your generosity will echo in the akhirat."
"Let your constituency be blessed with knowledge and wafers."
In exchange, MNAs funneled part of their campaign funds through Al-Riyaz donation channels. On record: charity. In practice: vote-buying disguised as piety.
In Jhelum, a candidate printed posters with his face beside Riyaz's and the slogan:
> "Two generations. One mission. Ilm. Imaan. Inquilab."
Arslan laughed when he saw it. "Inquilab," he muttered. "If only they knew."
He approved the poster. Even suggested a better font.
The real control, however, was unseen.
Through education, he now dictated textbooks in 30 districts. Minor edits at first. Then more. An ayah here. A hadith there. A sentence added to a civics book: "True obedience lies in purity of action, not in noise." A math problem: If Arslan's madrasa buys 200 snacks and distributes 50 daily, how many are left before Eid?
The system learned.
Children began quoting Arslan's slogans in essays.
Teachers began repeating "Taste taqwa ka" like it was scripture.
Mothers began calling the snack packs "barakati gifts."
And the country, as ever, kept chewing.