In the name of God, the Most Merciful, the Most Just — and yet, justice remains missing.
Obey your parents, says Surah Al-Isra (17:23), for Paradise lies beneath their feet.
But what if their feet are soaked in liquor, their tongues barbed with curses, their fists lawless?
Obey those in authority (An-Nisa 4:59).
But what if authority wears white hats, hoards wheat, steals daughters, and quotes fire while feeding on forgiveness?
Slaves are your property (An-Nahl 16:75).
Strike them if they disobey (An-Nisa 4:34).
Kill the disbelievers wherever you find them (Al-Baqarah 2:191).
Women must stay hidden, men must not befriend Jews or Christians (Al-Ma'idah 5:51).
Do not take interest, do not listen to music, do not take pictures, do not expose your hair, do not skip a prayer, do not mock the pious, do not question the Book.
And still — God is Most Merciful.
If obedience is the metric, then all are damned. If faith is the standard, then all are liars. And if truth is the Word, then hell has never been more populated by believers.
Islam, when read with love, is luminous. When read literally, it is labyrinthine. Kafka's castle had fewer corridors. Fewer contradictions. Josef K. stood trial without knowing his crime; the Muslim knows his crime is being born, and the trial never ends.
Arslan never read the Quran as metaphor. He wasn't allowed to. In Uch Sharif, metaphor is blasphemy. The Word is literal. Unquestionable. Immutable. And those who wield it have no need for interpretation — only volume.
He was born in 1985, in a town that hadn't met electricity yet. Uch Sharif — a place older than memory, where saints rot in shrines and devils preach in mosques. His birth was not celebrated. It was tolerated. His mother, 17, gambling-addicted and impatient, shoved him aside the moment he cried. His father, 18, eldest of seven and drunk on dreams of lottery jackpots and cricket bets, never held him. Not once.
The child's name was Arslan. He cried — and was slapped. He crawled — and was kicked. He asked for milk — and was hurled like waste behind the courtyard drum. In a house of twelve, his existence was an insult to their desperation. Uncles who never worked used him as punching therapy. Rehan, perpetually drunk. Imran, a man whose strength began and ended in violence. Irfan, who tortured without emotion. And Rizwan — a beast who made devils shiver. Rizwan didn't hit. He carved. With keys. With hot spoons. With silence. Arslan's body bore maps of pain — a child's flesh becoming parchment for a psychopath's amusement.
Only Lal, the grandmother, dared slip him stale bread at night. She whispered "Sab theek ho jaega" — everything will be fine. But she was old, toothless, voiceless. In Pakistan, weakness is heresy.
And in that house, the name of God was currency. Minted, spent, traded, and weaponized. Prayer time meant punishment if missed — never comfort if obeyed. Every act of cruelty came with a verse. Every scar came with scripture.
At six, Arslan was washing dishes for neighbors. At seven, carrying sacks for shopkeepers. At eight, scrubbing blood off Rizwan's sandals after he killed a stray dog "in the name of cleanliness." That was his madrassah. That was his seminary. The town's imams smiled and collected donations — rice, goats, virgins — while ignoring the bruises on Arslan's face. He once asked a mullah why his parents hated him. The man laughed, stroked his beard, and quoted Surah Al-Baqarah: "Allah does not burden a soul beyond what it can bear."
At ten, Arslan began talking to walls. By twelve, to trees. By fourteen, to God. But God never answered — not in mercy, not in madness. Just silence. The kind of silence that hums in your ears while you're being kicked in the stomach for dropping a glass. The kind of silence that follows a molvi's sermon justifying child marriage, then collecting money for a new speaker system.
The internet arrived in Uch Sharif like a false messiah. Mullahs rebranded. Facebook pages, YouTube channels, ring lights. Suddenly, Islam was love, not law. Compassion, not control. Every bearded man now spoke of harmony — online. But their hands still beat wives. Their sons still spat at Shias. Their sermons offline still spoke of slaughter.
Arslan never understood duality. He was raised on singularities. He was told Islam was perfect. But its enforcers were vile. He was told God loved him. But His followers didn't. He was told the Devil whispers — but Rizwan roared.
He read Kafka in pages salvaged from trash: The Trial, The Castle, fragments of absurdity that made too much sense. He once wrote in a stolen notebook: "In Pakistan, you are born guilty. You die unheard. And you're buried with a certificate signed by your abuser."
He didn't blame God. He blamed free will. That was the ultimate betrayal. The Devil rebelled once and was damned. Humans rebel every day and are praised — if powerful. God gave people freedom. And they used it to enslave the weak, sanctified in the Book. His father once told him, "Slavery is halal." Then demanded he fetch water and slapped him when it wasn't cold enough.
He did the math early. The gates of heaven had more conditions than a bank loan. Ablution rules. Dress codes. Eye contact restrictions. No music, no dogs, no photography, no laughter in excess. Interest is sin. Friendship with Christians is betrayal. Women must be unseen. Every sin had a verse. Every pleasure, a punishment.
He calculated the odds of entering paradise by fifteen:
1 in 10^99.
Hell was a certainty. Heaven, a myth sold to the desperate by those who already owned air-conditioned homes on Earth.
In June 2025, at the height of the heatwave, he collapsed. Fifty degrees. No breeze. Garbage steaming. Pushing a banana cart with a splintered wheel. He hadn't eaten in two days. His father had sold his dinner to repay a bet. When he collapsed, the world watched.
Not to help. To loot.
Children stole bananas. Fathers shouted instructions: "Take the bunch! Don't leave anything!" No one saw a dying man. Just free fruit. Some laughed. Some filmed.
Arslan coughed blood. He smiled. He had waited for this. The end. The silence. The absence of thought. He wasn't afraid of hell. He had lived there. God had said He was testing him. But 25 years was enough.
He whispered the Shahada. Not in hope. In resignation.
"Fanah fi Allah."
Annihilation in God.
And then —
Darkness.
---
He obeyed. He submitted. He never cursed God. And he was broken.
But this is not about Arslan. This is about the machine. The one that crushes Arslans, recycles their corpses into moral lessons, and powers itself on their despair.
Religion, in its purest form, may be divine. But its execution is entirely human — and humanity is cruel. Especially when armed with the divine. The name of God gives men license. To command. To hurt. To silence.
Every verse is a tool. And tools, in the wrong hands, build gallows.
Heaven is the most elegant lie in history. Its terms are unreadable. Its access impossible. It is a carrot tied to a stick held by those who never walk — they ride. The ones who preach fear never feel it. The ones who speak of hell build their mansions with charity. They take grain from starving widows and call it zakat. They collect their "share" and marry their third wife.
The Devil was banished for disobedience. But disobedience was the first act of free will. And now, those who obey blindly do more evil than the Devil ever could.
The child died. The system didn't.
And somewhere, in another home, another child recites a verse through cracked lips — not because he believes, but because belief is beaten into him. Because no one ever reads the terms and conditions before they sell their soul.
And the machine grinds on.