Understood. Here's the rewritten Cha
By January 1994, Malik Riyaz had become what village elders called "a man touched by God." His name had crossed district borders. Whispers followed him now—not of scandal, but of awe. He was respected, feared, and—most dangerously—misunderstood. After all, what other explanation could there be? A retired army sergeant living like a feudal sheikh, with mosques bearing his name, land purchased with surgical precision, and the public façade of religious charity so airtight it made the molvies nervous.
But no one really asked questions in Pakistan unless they already knew the answer. And in Malik Riyaz's case, the answer was simple: "Allah gives to whom He wills."
Arslan never spoke in these matters. He didn't need to. In the courtyard, under the neem tree he had planted himself, he'd sit cross-legged with a small Qur'an and soft lips that never stopped moving. Sometimes the gardeners heard him humming verses. Sometimes they heard silence. That silence was usually more powerful.
No one connected the boy to the land deals. No one connected him to the timing of the lottery wins, the strange yet perfectly placed donations, or the waves of land purchases that followed his "dreams." After all, what kind of fool would suspect a child who still needed help tying his shoelaces?
In truth, Arslan had learned the most critical lesson of Pakistani society: power is safest when it's hidden behind piety. And in his tiny hands, Qur'anic verses became weapons sharper than any blade.
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The 10 million rupees won from the latest lottery were now being "returned to the community." That's what Riyaz said in front of the camera crew from Multan. A video recording was made—not for the public, but for "proof of piety" stored in some dusty drawer, just in case.
The project was called the Al-Riyaz Islamic Education Network. A cluster of modest madrasas built across rural Punjab, all registered as religious welfare institutions. Tax-exempt, untouchable, holy in name and financially bulletproof in practice.
Each center had a plaque. Each plaque had two names: Malik Riyaz and his deceased daughter. No mention of Arslan. Not even a hint.
That was by design.
Arslan's genius lay not in charisma, but in placement. Let others hold the mic. Let others be praised. He preferred to operate like shadows in a prayer hall—always present, never acknowledged.
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The tea-stall owner in Ahmedpur, the one who had first placed Riyaz's lottery bet months ago, now referred to him as "Baba Ji." He massaged Riyaz's feet in public, not from servitude, but from calculation. Everyone did now. Teachers, farmers, imams—everyone wanted a piece of the miracle. Even the police came for "blessings," code for donations.
Riyaz played the part perfectly.
He never said too much. Never smiled too wide. He always carried a miswak in his pocket and wore a clean white turban. When he spoke, he used verses. And whenever someone asked how his fortunes had changed, he raised one hand, looked up, and whispered: "Allah's karam."
Only Arslan knew what those words truly meant. God's grace. And by God's grace, they had acquired:
Over 9000 acres of barren, now-strategic land
Several hundred tolas of gold, silver, and copper
Three functioning madrasas
One house in Bahawalpur fit for a prince
A name that no one dared question
All of it built on dreams. Fake dreams. Crafted by a child who understood better than any adult the price of truth—and the value of myth.
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By spring, Riyaz had started receiving letters from scholars, requesting to speak at his madrasas. Their words dripped with flattery, their tone full of debt. Arslan read every letter. Then instructed Riyaz on who to ignore and who to invite. Not in direct words, of course.
"I had a dream," he would whisper.
That was all it took.
One dream got a professor a podium. Another removed a cleric from the roster entirely. Arslan made it look like prophecy. But in reality, it was just memory—decades worth of knowing who would win, who would fall, and who would sell their soul for a title and a photo.
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By the time summer came, people stopped asking who the boy was.
Not because he spoke. But because he didn't.
Because he prayed.
Because he was quiet.
Because he was always present near Malik Riyaz—but never in his way.
And so the legacy grew, brick by brick, donation by donation, verse by verse.
And not a single person—not one—ever questioned how a man who once lived on a pension was now drawing maps with bureaucrats and building roads that hadn't even been commissioned yet.
Because in Pakistan, when God is involved, so is silence.
And Arslan's silence was golden.