July 1998. A month. Just a month. That's all it took to shift gravity.
It started with turban strings.
At first, no one noticed. A local molvi in Khanewal mentioned, during a Friday sermon, how the new Amamah fabric was lighter, softer—"as if woven with Bismillahs." A delivery van parked outside the madrasa gate had left them in neat boxes labeled Al-Riyaz Supplies – Blessed Threads Division.
A month later, the same molvi was using prayer beads that clicked smoother, quieter—"good for concentration," he said. They shimmered faintly in sunlight, crafted from polished date seeds and touched with faint, honeyed perfume. Children whispered that each bead had been prayed upon by a saint.
And the ittar? Oh, the ittar.
Small, glass bottles. Rolled onto wrists before salah. With names like Khushbu-e-Tawakkul, Sakoon-ul-Qalb, Mehsoos-e-Millat. Sold for next to nothing, gifted in even numbers, donated in odd. There wasn't a madrasa left in Sindh, Punjab, or interior Balochistan untouched by the scent.
All of it came from one network.
Al-Riyaz.
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It wasn't just prayer items.
In the cities of Uch Sharif, Liaquatpur, Bahawalpur, Ahmadpur, and Rahim Yar Khan, land was no longer just bought—it was redefined.
Plots of dirt acquired between 1991 and 1994—when even locals laughed at the purchases—had turned into ornamental public parks. Mango saplings on one end, eucalyptus on the other. Gravel paths that looped in crescents. Prayer areas shaded by kikkar and neem trees. Signboards everywhere:
> "This garden is a trust from Al-Riyaz. Please walk with gratitude."
People brought their families here. Teenagers loitered respectfully under fig trees. Retired teachers read Sufi poetry on benches. Schoolboys traded cartoon cards under guava trees. Women rested their backs against the brick walls after Maghrib.
The truth? These weren't gardens. These were future blueprints with roots.
When time was right, a madrasa would appear. Or a factory. Or a discreet office. Or something else entirely.
For now—shade, sugarcane juice, and borrowed peace.
---
Riyaz never commented.
He was photographed handing prayer beads to clerics. He was seen walking with local MNAs who praised the initiative. He was quoted in a regional paper saying, "Pakistan ka asal sona toh uski duaein hain." No one ever asked him where the funding came from.
They didn't need to.
Because in every corner of southern Punjab, Al-Riyaz was both whisper and roar.
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By mid-July, over 20,000 employees worked for Al-Riyaz under rotating contracts and cluster departments.
There were:
50 official branches that handled everything from seed distribution to architectural planning.
4,000+ part-time contractors rotating across seasons.
A waitlist—yes, a waitlist—of 8,000 people who had submitted applications to become clerks, couriers, field managers, or even janitors.
Arslan had invented something new: faith-backed employment.
And every hire came with a benefit card—Al-Riyaz Worker Assurance—that offered:
Free medical checkups every Eid.
Wedding gifts for two daughters maximum.
A discounted coffin and grave (when needed).
---
Back in Bahawalpur, the main Distribution Boardroom had expanded.
A long rectangular table. Maps on walls. Pins in hundreds of towns. Across one whiteboard, the names of supply sectors:
Wudhu Mats
Prayer Cap Embroidery
Miswaak and Beard Oils
Fragrance Division
Children's Storybooks
Snack Distribution
Garden & Land Management
Date Tree Buffer Project
Seed Propagation for Arid Zones
Each had its own manager. All answered to Riyaz.
Some names were whispered often in halls:
Qamar Zaman – A retired colonel who handled logistics in northern Sindh.
Nasira Begum – A widow managing textile and embroidery across Multan's madrasas.
Hammad Jatoi – The man in charge of all land-seeding operations; every plot was geo-logged by hand under his team.
Babar Awan – Head of gold acquisition; a cynical, quiet man who counted bars like blessings.
Suhail Barqi – Oversaw all print contracts, from prayer booklets to cartoon sheets.
And then there was Department 47—simply marked as "Faazil" in all internal files. Their job? To attend every major district mosque, quietly distribute sermons, observe which molvi was getting too comfortable, and replace them if needed. All under six-month contracts. All silently rotated.
---
Arslan watched all this from a white veranda shaded by jaman trees. He was reading again. A French political theorist this time.
> "Control is not ownership. It is dependency disguised as dignity."
A boy approached with a tray of chilled sharbat.
Arslan smiled and looked out toward the gate, where new seed crates were being offloaded—acacia, baobab, miracle seeds from Sahel and Somalia. They would be tested in Rahim Yar Khan. Each seed came with a future: either shelter, fruit, or shade.
Nothing was wasted. Not even soil.
And certainly not children.
Because by August, Al-Riyaz toy boxes would hit the market—plastic-free, painted in clay colors, filled with hand-crafted puppets telling tales of trust, honesty, and sugary redemption. Each toy whispered a lesson. Each lesson seeded a worldview.
And still, Arslan never spoke in public again that month. His face was enough. The system roared without his breath.
He was the shadow king of 8% of Pakistan's physical earth.
But he only wanted more silence.
More systems.
More roots before buildings.
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December 1998
By now, there were no towns in Pakistan—only branches. You could drive from Sadiqabad to Jhelum and never leave the shadow of Al-Riyaz. You could send your child to school and they'd come home with homework, a Qur'anic verse, a toy, and a card to collect. You could go to Friday prayer, and the khutbah would sound suspiciously like a brand campaign in classical Arabic. You could die—and be buried in land donated by Al-Riyaz.
It wasn't a company anymore. It was an atmosphere.
And that atmosphere now came with a puppet show.
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They appeared like magic on side streets, just after Asr. A wooden box on a bicycle cart. Draped in red velvet. Carried by a man with a trimmed beard and a voice like sugared smoke.
He'd shout in rhyme:
> "Sun lo kahani, seekho nishani,
Lelo nimko, aur mithai ki paani,
Al-Riyaz ki yeh qissa-goi,
Har bachey ki pasand, har maa ki dua ban chuki hai bhai!"
Crowds formed instantly. Kids sat cross-legged. Mothers stood behind with plastic bags of mango peels. The show began:
A lion with a turban fights a corrupt crow.
A monkey learns to pray but forgets to brush.
A snake tries to lie and bursts into fire.
Every story ended with a lesson and a snack offer.
Buy a pack of Zazo Bites—get a card.
Collect 12 cards—win a goat, a toy, or a tin fan.
Trade three rare cards—get entered in a monthly lucky draw.
The most coveted card? A shiny green one with a silhouette of the Angel Child himself, praying under a glowing tree. Rumor was—if you owned three, you'd pass your school exams no matter what.
Arslan's face was never shown in full. Only shadows. Only sanctity.
---
These puppet carts were not just entertainment. They were the Bayt-al-Raqeeb—the new intelligence arm of Al-Riyaz.
Each puppeteer was trained not just in voice work, but in observation:
How many men came to Friday prayers?
Which molvi was asking for more money?
Which families had sick daughters but hadn't asked for help?
Which child asked questions during the show?
Which shopkeeper grumbled about distribution delays?
At the end of each week, these "performers" mailed hand-written reports to the central office in Multan, addressed only to "Maktab-e-Khabar." They were sorted, translated into clean Urdu, and sent directly to Riyaz's third study, where he read them with the quiet intensity of a man watching a chessboard shift.
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Inside the Bahawalpur estate, the whiteboard was replaced with a central map now—digital projections were still a dream, so it was leather, pins, thread. Every pin was a division. Every thread a route.
25,000 workers.
70 departments.
90 factories.
300+ warehouse nodes.
An independent transportation arm with painted rickshaws, trucks, and camel carts.
And overseeing it all? The Governing Silsilah, as Riyaz called it. A council of sector heads that met once every month. Riyaz led them. Arslan sat in the back, silent, listening with the posture of a child and the mind of a god.
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The religious monopoly was the most important war. Arslan had warned Riyaz early on:
> "Molvis don't die. They multiply. And every one of them thinks they deserve the throne of interpretation."
So Arslan crafted a religion of his own, hidden inside the existing one. Through printed booklets. Puppet plays. Sermons distributed every Thursday in sealed envelopes.
Molvis who resisted were:
Exposed (stories of visits to brothels in Sukkur).
Bribed (offered homes in Multan).
Disappeared (quietly reassigned to regions without roads).
Old mosques were rebuilt—redesigned by Al-Riyaz engineers. Tile by tile, they began to look uniform. Same layout. Same water tank. Same prayer mats made in the textile units near Kot Addu.
Even the call to prayer was subtly altered—just enough cadence difference to become a brand.
Every prayer rug. Every miswaak. Every cap. Every ittar. Every marble tile. Every bead. All now bore a symbol:
> A crescent hugging a script.
The words: Al-Riyaz – Wasila-e-Haqq.
(Al-Riyaz – The Means of Truth)
---
Arslan's room had not changed.
Still the charpai. Still the book beside a glass of mango juice. Still the air of thick winter silence. But now, a new project was laid before him.
Media.
He knew television was still decades away from relevance—not in reach of villagers, and a luxury even in cities. Literacy was less than 20%. But that was perfect.
That meant he could create the first wave of addiction.
He had already begun:
1. Weekly Women's Digest – Printed under the name Niswan-e-Sabaq, filled with stories of faith, resilience, widowhood, and fictional "divine dream" testimonials.
2. Children's Books with Collectible Cards – Sold for Rs. 2 at every shop. Each book had 10 cartoon lessons and one surprise card.
3. Mini-Cassette Series – Puppet dialogues, funny voices, Qur'anic stories voiced by children, sold with a small sweet inside.
4. Monthly Sermon Tape – A molvi from Al-Riyaz would record Arslan's written sermon. It would be distributed via cassette.
All of this was funded not from sales, but from dreams.
Because Arslan continued to use his fabricated divine dreams to win cricket bets, lottery hints, and land market swings.
In 1998 alone, seven major gold purchases were made at rock-bottom prices thanks to "visions" sent to Riyaz.
By year's end, the wealth was beyond audit.
And none of it was kept.
All was reinvested.
Into gardens.
Into school-madrasas.
Into factories for Islamic products.
Into puppet shows.
Into trust-building structures.
Because Arslan wasn't building a company.
He was building a civilization.
A blackrock of culture, faith, land, language, schooling, snacks, and surveillance.
All wrapped in velvet.
All served with a puppet's smile.