in God's name we Trust

1995 was the last year the world dared to be original. The final breath before the web devoured thought and regurgitated it into slogans. The last stretch of time where people made things with their hands, not prompts. Ideas still had fingerprints. Mistakes still had charm. Piracy was done with cassette tapes, not stolen code. Every child was a mechanic or a liar. Every adult thought they were both.

Arslan remembered it all.

He remembered the year Windows 95 was born and the internet still made music when it connected. He remembered when phones had weight, when cameras clicked like tiny doors, when owning a Walkman made you king of a street. He knew who copied whom, which corporation stole which patent, which artist ghostwrote which politician's campaign.

But still—it was better than what came next.

And if there was ever a time to buy nostalgia, it was now.

He wanted everything the future would forget.

Sony CRTs. Yamaha keyboards. Minidisc players. VHS decks. IBM ThinkPads. Laserdiscs. The scent of plastic before it turned cynical. The hiss of tape before clarity became sterile.

And so, after the quiet empire had been secured—after fifty lawyers and two hundred assistants had been positioned across his dominion, each working under "flexible hours" and absurdly vague contracts—he took his next step.

In Pakistan, your job wasn't what the title said. A manager polished shoes. A consultant cleaned his boss's car. A public relations officer fetched chai. But nobody complained, because complaining cost money. And as long as they were paid enough to survive—and perhaps once in a while dream—they obeyed.

Loyalty here was cheaper than dignity.

And Arslan paid just above that rate.

The legal teams had been structured like dominos: one collapse would trigger forty firings. The bureaucrats in Bahawalpur were paid off in increments, never enough to retire, just enough to hope. The assistants—half of whom had no idea who truly employed them—answered to a rotating list of names and offices, so no one ever connected the network.

Retired army men filled the rest of the pyramid—Riyaz's old friends. Men who knew how to follow without asking, obey without ego, and die with silence in their mouths. They were given offices, ACs, ledgers, and a modest cut of every land sale. In return, they gave back respect, hierarchy, and plausible deniability.

And so, Arslan's empire expanded.

Unseen. Unchallenged. Untouched.

A hydra in prayer caps.

A bureaucratic specter.

And no one—not even the whispering molvies or the tea-stall philosophers—knew what it was yet.

Which meant the timing was perfect.

So Arslan had another dream.

Of course he did.

A dream soaked in metaphors and Qur'anic echo. A dream of an angel with a calculator. A dream of a child pointing east. A dream that said:

> "The light shall return from the land of sunrise. Go to the iron birds and fly. For the ummah must prepare its tools."

And just like that, the arrangements were made.

Because every holy empire needs its moment of pilgrimage.

And what better place to glorify than the Holy Land of Tech Nostalgia?

Japan.

The shrine of silicon.

The temple of precision.

Where even vending machines had better manners than Pakistani ministers. Where video games were art. Where discipline was national. Where innovation hadn't yet been eaten by capitalism's newer gods.

And so, with fake passports and real blessings, under the cover of "religious outreach" and "medical travel" and "educational delegations," Arslan's name never appeared—but his will traveled.

He didn't go alone.

A delegation of five accompanied him.

A cleric who didn't ask questions.

An assistant who thought it was for Islamic software development.

A translator who didn't speak Japanese but did speak sincerity.

A trader familiar with Tokyo's greyer markets.

And Riyaz's old colonel friend—passport stamped, spine straight, eyes dead.

They flew from Karachi, in business class, with white kufis and designer suitcases, quoting Qur'an at the airport security while hiding thousands in undeclared currency.

And Arslan?

He smiled sweetly, looked out the airplane window, and whispered:

> "Innama yakhsha Allah min 'ibadihil 'ulama'..."

"Only those fear God, among His servants, who have knowledge…"

He didn't fear God.

He just respected good design.

And Japan, for now, was the central hub of both.

A small delegation—care-takers of the holy dream—landed in Tokyo. They carried Qur'ans, exchange cash, and blank promises. Arslan alone carried knowledge: a 39-year-old machine hidden in an 8-year-old façade. He knew what would be valuable: Sony Walkmans (cassette and MiniDisc), CD decks, DreamMachines, early PlayStations, IBM Palm Top PC 110s, clamshell Kyocera phones, and even vintage Super Nintendos .

They first visited Akihabara, the electric town—crammed with retro stores under neon grief. Arslan paused at a row of Sony Walkmans, each a stolen song of solitude. He calculated their worth—some rare anniversary models dating back to '94 worth double. He bought in bulk: golden alloy WM‑701 versions, blue WM‑20 minis, MiniDisc variants, even a Dream Machine alarm-clock with "Ohayo" mode .

Then they moved to Yodabashi Camera—bulky as a cathedral of LEDs. He snapped up IBM Palm Top PC 110s—one of the most advanced palmtops of '95, DOS-capable, durable—and dozens of Kyocera sliding phones with unseen designs .

Nearby, he brushed fingers over sealed PlayStations, first-run, black boxes heavy with destiny . He bagged a stack of Super Nintendo cartridges—Tetris, Star Fox, Donkey Kong Country—vestiges of childhood rebellion .

They visited a dusty corner stall selling Tamagotchis, pre-1996—that fragile plastic egg consumers cradled black-market style . Arslan bought hundreds.

Not for play—but for nodes: barter material for Punjab's alumni network years later.

In Shibuya, he entered a boutique where an engineer hand-modified CRT TVs into Bluetooth speakers. He smiled—this was resurrection. He paid for dozens of retro cameras, boomboxes, bonding with the ghosts of creation .

At night, back in his suite, Arslan spread receipts like a prayer mat. He cross-referenced collector markets in Europe and the US, mapped the growth curve of nostalgia tech: Walkmans on eBay for triple; Tamagotchis hundreds; IBM palmtops cult-priced; PlayStations a hard-to-find treasure .

"I can sell for profit—or use them in my schools," he whispered, not to Riyaz but to the night. "Technology without intention is noise. I'll give silence meaning."

He smiled at his plan: use these artifacts in Al-Riyaz schools to bass "connection between modern craft and Qur'anic discipline"—exposing students to foreign tech as analog pilgrimage. Tech teachings masked as religious outreach.

Friday, The mosque overflowed again. Riyaz sat solemnly, courtroom folded to his ears. Arslan appeared, a shadow of boyhood, sneakers replaced with leather sandals.

He delivered a brief sermon: "Knowledge is light. And light, my brothers? Must be seen before it guides." He spoke of early Muslim scholars, diverging paths, and humility before innovation—never winking at his secret manifesto.

Inside, he thought:

last time people made things by hand—not by code. Now it's just clicks. But these machines… they remember.

The molvies watched, curious. Not at him, but at their own reflections.

Two weeks later, they flew home. Cargo holds carried crates of vintage silicon—sealed with land deeds and future promises. He knew bureaucracy and nostalgia would pay him back. He knew the sound of a cassette click in a dusty madrasa would feel like revelation.

He didn't show Riyaz the cargo list.

He did show the accountant the invoices.

And Arslan whispered to himself:

"When the world forgets how to make light... we'll sell them the spark."

before electricity came to Uch Sharif, Arslan prepared to bring more than light. He prepared to bring memory—encoded, curated, controlled.

Because tech isn't just tools.

It's time machines.

And Arslan had already owned yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

while jasmine crept up the walls outside like forgotten poetry. Arslan sat barefoot on the stone floor of the eastern room, papers spread around him like relics, each one stamped with futures already claimed. Gold import notes, copper smuggling updates, livestock transfers, real estate deeds from Kot Addu to Liaquatpur. The ink was fresh. The world was stale.

He lifted his eyes, watching the neem trees sway under the early autumn wind. Their movement was imperfect. Organic. Free. Unlike the future.

"Soon," he said, not to Riyaz, not to the birds, not even to himself. Just to time. "Soon it'll all be a script. Men will forget how to lie with poetry and instead start telling the truth without faith."

Riyaz sat beside him on the wide silk cushion, steaming cup in hand. He didn't speak much anymore. He didn't need to. His grandson spoke enough for ten men.

Arslan flipped a page. Power supply tenders. He made a small mark near the initials of an inspector he knew would sell his signature for a new motorbike.

"The world will become efficient," he continued. "But cold. Logic without beauty. Precision without intimacy. We are marching into an era where truth will be manufactured and men will call it progress."

He stood, took the paper to the window, let the sunlight bathe the ink. "One day, the sun too will feel artificial. Like a façade. Like a flame turned too bright."

Riyaz sipped quietly.

"Descartes feared demons that lied with clarity," Arslan murmured. "Today's demons will speak in perfect rhythm. And no one will doubt them."

He watched the gardener below trimming the hedge too neatly. It annoyed him.

"Freedom will become a cosmetic. Worn when trending. Stripped when inconvenient."

Riyaz finally spoke. "But men still feel, don't they?"

Arslan smiled faintly. "No. They remember feeling. Like tourists remember cities. Not the smell, not the air—just a vague guess."

A pigeon landed on the iron railing. It bobbed. Arslan looked it in the eye and whispered, "Heidegger said only man dies. Animals perish. But I wonder… what if we've already perished and just don't know it yet?"

Riyaz exhaled through his nose, watching his grandson more than listening.

Arslan returned to his papers. Education Network expansion. Twenty new sites proposed. Six sects bribed. Three threatened. Two co-opted.

"The madrasas do not teach God," he said, eyes on the stamp from Dera Ghazi Khan. "They'll teach order. Sequence. Performance. The child who recites best will be called holy. Not the one who questions. Never the one who questions."

He turned another page. Water access routes. Underground canals traced with near-future accuracy. Soon-to-be dry lands. Cheap buys now, priceless later.

"Sartre said existence precedes essence. But Pakistan functions in reverse. We're told what we are before we can be. Sunni. Shia. Punjabi. Sindhi. Obedient. Pious. Guilty. Ashamed."

Riyaz said nothing.

Arslan walked to the shelf, pulled out a book—Foucault, spine cracked and pages annotated in soft pencil. He held it up. "Power is not held. It's performed. Like prayer. Like speeches. Like miracles."

He dropped it on the cushion.

"And Uch Sharif... Uch is perfect for the performance."

He opened the shipment ledger. Cameras. CRTs. Storage boxes of forgotten noise. Hidden in the library. Wrapped in wax paper. Someday, they'll be displayed. As relics. As warnings.

he muttered, "men will weep because they have nothing to weep for. Just metrics. Engagements. Reactions."

He turned to Riyaz.

"We are the last ones who will know boredom. Do you know how precious that is?"

Riyaz nodded slowly. "You're not bored, though."

"No. I'm planning." He returned to his seat. "Camus once said that to rebel is to affirm. And I affirm this—God will be sold in bullet points, and men will praise the salesman."

The pigeon flew away. The trees whispered. Somewhere in the house, a clock struck.

Arslan looked at the horizon through the old wooden frame. "So we buy the past now. Hoard it. Own it. Like Noah. Before the flood turns holy."

Riyaz leaned back, closed his eyes.

"And when the flood comes," Arslan said, his voice almost a whisper, "I won't build an ark. I'll build a school. And teach the children how to swim through ruins."

June 1996. The room was warm, not from weather, but from the weight of years being sorted like dried grain. Hundreds of pages. Contracts. Bribery ledgers. Ghost ownerships. Shell trust certificates. Land consolidation maps drawn by hand, backed by fake affidavits and real sweat. The smell of ink and jasmine fought for dominance in the air, while Arslan read in silence—barefoot, cross-legged, half-covered in a cotton shawl, a glass of mint water untouched beside him.

Malik Riyaz sat across, older now not by time, but by burden. His eyes dry. His fingers calloused. A pencil rested behind his ear, another broken in his hand. They hadn't spoken in an hour. They didn't need to. The empire was too loud now to need voices.

Across Punjab, the name Al-Riyaz meant more than faith. It meant land rights, arbitration, "third opinions" that somehow always leaned toward their agents. It meant quiet schoolhouses where Friday prayers were monitored. It meant roadside hospitals with only one real purpose—to launder loyalty.

Each town had a madrasa now, not too big to spark resistance, not too small to be ignored. And every madrasa had one strange anomaly: no sectarian banners. No images. Just a green flag and silence. Arslan's orders. Keep the theology vague. Keep the brand strong.

In Uch Sharif, things were different. He had turned Syeds into assets. Muzzled families whose bloodlines claimed proximity to the Prophet but whose utility expired with their reputations. Arslan revived them. Gave them stipends. Titles. Preaching slots in Sindh. And in Sindh, that meant everything.

Because Sindh didn't worship gods. It worshipped graves.

Men with turbans the size of parasols bent over Arslan like he was made of light. He spoke rarely. Smiled just enough. Recited verses with the kind of softness that turned into theatre. He wasn't interested in reverence—only obedience. And reverence was obedience's cousin in Sindh.

They opened doors for him. Planted flags for him. Called him "Sayyid ul-Waqt," a title older than memory, now reborn in the mouth of a child with dry lips and dead eyes.

He'd left behind a network of saint-worshippers with signed agreements: land donations, loyalty clauses, legal surrender of shrine management in the name of Al-Riyaz Trust. All locked in vaults. All with dates and clauses designed to mature post-2005—just in time for the next political shift.

And Balochistan?

Malik Riyaz had handled it like an old general touching the edge of a minefield with his boots. Quietly. Never twice in the same place. Five teams, five separate routes. Each with specific tribal intermediaries—no NGOs, no banners, no central command. Just suitcases full of Saudi gold and Karachi rupees.

Each team carried the same message: respect for tradition, employment for sons, contracts written in native dialects. Water wells. Mosque refurbishments. Wheat shipments. Smiles. The usual.

Balochistan didn't run on ideology. It ran on forgottenness. Arslan understood that. He knew where the mountains split. Where oil fields were quietly claimed by foreign firms and hushed by Islamabad. He knew which sardars were terminally ill and which nephews would kill for control.

Over six months, three key passages were secured. One in Chagai. One near Turbat. One on the outskirts of Gwadar—back when Gwadar was still a fisherman's orphan and China just a whisper.

They didn't buy the land outright. Too visible. Too final. They bought the managers. The cousins. The debts. The silence. They registered shell trusts in Quetta. Fake NGOs in Multan. And always, always, the same name on the last page: Malik Riyaz, acting trustee for an unnamed waqf. Because nothing said immunity like a charity with no face.

Back in Bahawalpur, the documents covered every table. Stacks marked by district. Folders coded by risk. Every ten pages, a small Quranic verse was handwritten in the margins—Riyaz's habit. His attempt to make the ungodly work feel holy.

Arslan ignored them. He flipped pages like a surgeon inspecting incisions. His voice, when it came, was slow. Disconnected.

"Do you know what Nietzsche said, Nana?"

Riyaz blinked. "Hm?"

"He said... man would rather will nothing than not will at all."

He didn't wait for comprehension.

"Pakistan doesn't will anything. It copies. It reacts. It eats its own tail and wonders why it's still hungry. That's why it can be bought. That's why we're winning."

Outside, a koel sang in the neem. The trees moved like they understood. Or maybe they just pitied.

"I give them meaning," Arslan continued. "That's all religion is here—meaning with a stamp. You wrap filth in a verse and they kiss it."

Riyaz exhaled. Not in protest. In recognition.

He handed over another ledger. "This one's from Lasbela. They agreed to long-term resource sharing. Their clerics even blessed it."

Arslan smiled faintly. "Of course they did. Everyone believes in God when gold is involved."

The clock ticked in the background. No electricity. No fan. Just the breeze.

"Do you ever feel guilt?" Riyaz asked suddenly.

Arslan didn't look up. "Guilt is a gift for men who have time to waste."

He closed one folder, opened another. "I'm building time. Guilt comes after empire."

And with that, he continued reading. Line by line. Clause by clause.

Not for justice.

Not for faith.

But for ownership.