Pir Nizamuddin Naqshbandi Multani sat with his eyes closed, he had travelled to Baghdad to offer his afternoon prayers at the Mausoleum of his Sheikh Abdul Qadir Jilani. His followers sat calmly waiting for his return and to receive his blessings. The Lieutenant General sat right across from him in company of a few Brigadiers and the local Police Chief. The setting had been the Tomb of Nizamuddin’s grandfather whose throne he now enamoured and was respected, worshipped, and followed by hundreds of thousands who considered him to be the rightful progeny of the prophet of Islam. Sufism with all its blessings and mysteries is also an extremely profitable business in Pakistan, something that brings wealth, power, and influence; a deadly combination to control unassuming masses. Mix this with superstition and illiteracy and you have a winning formula. The landed elites attracted to this game are at times morally bankrupt finding solace and deliverance in serving these “Celebrity Peers” being assured that their servitude gets them through to the highest echelons near to God; and the slithering Pir’s know it as well.
The phone rang and Nizam peeped through the crack of his right eye to see who was calling, this was among the 3 numbers that he would always receive any day, but this wasn’t the right time; after all, he was thousands of miles away in…
