The lobby smelled of polish and old money.
The hotel off the Mall was one of Lahore's prides — high ceilings, thick carpets, staff that moved like well-trained ghosts. A brass chandelier threw soft light over framed prints of English landscapes that had never seen Punjab dust.
Jinnah stood at the window of his room on the first floor, looking down at the carriage porch. Below, a tonga rattled away, leaving a British officer in khaki to argue with a porter about trunks.
Behind his eyes, Bilal whistled.
You realize, Bilal said, that in my own time, even when I was earning decent money, I never once stayed in a place like this. Not because I couldn't. I just… never thought like that. Poor background, cheap habits. My idea of "travel" was finding the cleanest cheap guest house with working fan and decent Wi-Fi.
He paused. This feels like… cosplay. Somebody else's life.
Jinnah's reflection in the window glass smiled faintly.
You are in somebody else's life, he pointed out. Mine.
Aloud, he said, "You have an odd shame about comfort, Mr. Game Developer."
"I grew up," Bilal replied inwardly, "counting every rupee. You hit a certain income, but the brain is still on 'save, don't spend'. Luxury feels like cheating. Wasteful. Guilty."
He hesitated. Also… I never belonged to the kind of world that casually walks into this kind of lobby. Not by appearance, not by accent, not by… class costume. You do.
Jinnah turned from the window, looking over the room: the heavy bed, the writing desk, the silver water jug, the bell cord.
"Luxury," he said quietly, "is sometimes an armour, not an indulgence."
Armour? Bilal asked.
"Yes," Jinnah went on, unbuttoning his cuffs. "When your war is in the half-civilised world — in slums, deserts, bazaars — you need one kind of armour. Endurance. Roughness. Perhaps a rifle."
He gestured lightly at the room.
"But when your war is in the 'civilised' one — club drawing rooms, courtrooms, councils, hotel lounges — the armour is different. Linen, polish, manners, the right address. If you walk into those rooms looking like you slept on a railway bench, they will treat you like luggage. You must wear their costume long enough to slip something sharper into the conversation."
Bilal mulled that over.
So, he said, this room, this hotel… is part of the disguise.
"Not disguise," Jinnah corrected. "Signal. I did not build these standards to impress them — I built them to ensure they listen before they dismiss."
He glanced at the clock on the mantel.
"Speaking of places where costumes matter," he said, "we must go and charm the Lahore bar again. They will not be impressed by my hotel bill if I fail to file my first case on time."
The Wire From the Doctor
By eleven, he was in his new, still half-empty chamber upstairs at the High Court. A simple desk. Two chairs. One empty bookshelf waiting like a promise. A clerk's table outside where a temporary boy sorted papers with the terrified energy of someone who had no idea how important the man inside was.
Jinnah was dictating a letter to Bombay about accounts when there was a knock.
The temporary boy appeared, holding a telegram envelope as if it might detonate.
"Telegram for you, Sir," he said. "Delivered to bar library. They said it was urgent."
Jinnah took it, slit it open with a paper knife, and scanned the message.
TO: M.A. JINNAH, ADVOCATE, LAHORE HIGH COURT
FROM: DR EVELYN CARTWRIGHT, BOMBAY
RECEIVED YOUR ENQUIRY VIA COMMON FRIENDS REGARDING RURAL POST IN PUNJAB STOP
WILLING TO MEET TO DISCUSS TERMS CONDITIONS AND SCOPE STOP
CAN TRAVEL TO LAHORE THIS WEEK IF SUITABLE STOP
PLEASE ADVISE LODGING AND ARRANGEMENTS STOP
He folded the paper once, thoughtfully.
She moves quickly, Bilal said. Good sign. Doctor who writes like this is used to decisions, not committees.
We shall see whether her decisions extend to cholera in a canal colony, Jinnah replied.
He placed the telegram on the desk.
"Leave it here," he told the boy. "And send in the next candidate."
"Sir?" the boy asked, startled.
"For the associate position," Jinnah said. "We are not hiring ghosts. Send in the man waiting outside."
"Yes, Sir."
The Polished and the Sweating
The morning had been a parade:
Polished young men with precise English, smooth Urdu, and eyes that kept flicking to his tie and cufflinks. Sons of landowners and municipal councillors, wearing ambition like too-bright cologne.
One after another, they came in, shook his hand, answered his questions with rehearsed assurance, and left behind a faint smell of hair oil and entitlement.
The next candidate came in almost at a run, then checked himself mid-stride as if he'd only just remembered gravity.
His coat was ink-stained at the cuff. A sweat patch darkened his collar. His hair was trying its best to obey a comb and failing. He clutched a worn leather folder the way a drowning man might clutch driftwood.
"Sir," he said, slightly out of breath. "My apologies, Sir. The tonga… broke a wheel. I walked the last bit. I did not wish to be late."
Bilal's voice lit up.
This one, he said immediately. This fellow. Take him.
You have barely heard his name, Jinnah replied, mentally arching an eyebrow.
Exactly, Bilal said. Look at him. Coat ruined, sweating like he just ran from Lyallpur, heart pounding… and he still showed up. The other ones are treating this like a status upgrade. He's treating it like oxygen. He's the sponge.
The sponge? Jinnah echoed.
"The kind that absorbs everything," Bilal explained. "Hungry. He'll do any work to prove he belongs. This," he added quietly, "is your Pakistan generation demo. Rough edges, bad tailoring, nervous — but desperate to climb out of the mud. The polished ones are here for your reputation. This one is here for survival."
We can improve a man's coat easier than his hunger, Jinnah conceded. But he will still face my questions.
Aloud, he said, "Sit down, please."
The young man sat, trying to do it neatly and nearly missing the chair by an inch.
"What is your name?" Jinnah asked.
"Sir — Imran," he said. "Imran Ali. From Gujranwala district. LLB, Punjab University. Called to the bar last year."
"Family?" Jinnah asked. "Land? Trade? Service?"
"Small shop, Sir," Imran said. "My father keeps a grain shop near the mandi. Three younger brothers. One sister. I am…" He hesitated, then said, "the first to… wear a coat to earn my bread, Sir."
There was no boast in it, only a statement of fact.
Jinnah nodded slightly.
"Very well, Mr. Imran Ali," he said. "Why do you wish to work in my chambers? Please do not recite the sentences you have practised for other seniors."
Imran swallowed.
"Yes, Sir," he said. "I… have watched your arguments. Once in Bombay — I travelled with a group from college. And then I have read your briefs when I could get copies. You… cut to the point, Sir. You do not waste words. I wish to… learn that. To see how the law works before it becomes slogans."
He added, a little too quickly, "And of course, your reputation, Sir. It would be an honour. People will say—"
Jinnah lifted a hand.
"You are drifting into recitation," he said. "Return to the first part. You said 'before it becomes slogans'. What did you mean?"
Imran gripped his folder harder.
"In the college," he said, "and in the city… independence talk is everywhere now. Slogans, speeches, posters. Some of it is real. Some of it is just… noise. I have seen men who cannot even read a Gazette shouting about 'rights'. When you argued in the Council and in the courts, Sir, you used words that had… weight. Precedent. Sections. I wish to work where the words still connect to… something more solid than a crowd's mood."
Bilal murmured in his head. He sees the "plumbing" problem, Sir. In his own words.
So it seems, Jinnah agreed.
"And what," Jinnah asked, "do you think the law is for, Mr. Imran? In one sentence. Not a speech. A sentence."
Imran blinked, thought for a heartbeat, then said:
"To stop the strong from eating the weak too quickly, Sir."
Shah, sitting quietly at a side table as a witness to the interviews, looked up with interest.
"Too quickly?" Jinnah repeated.
"Yes, Sir," Imran said. "They still eat them. But slower. With some rules. Enough time for the weak to… learn tricks. Find allies. Sometimes even bite back. Without law, it is just… teeth and fists."
Silence for a moment.
Hire him, Bilal said simply. That sentence alone.
"You have," Jinnah said, "an untidy coat and a reasonably tidy mind."
A faint, startled smile flickered across Imran's face. "Thank you, Sir," he said.
"You sweat too much," Jinnah added. "That can be remedied with better planning of tongas. Your handwriting is probably atrocious, but that can be fixed with practice. Your hunger cannot be taught. That is already present. I find it a useful flaw."
"I—" Imran began, then stopped, unsure what to say.
"I will take you," Jinnah said. "On trial, of course. One month, then we review. You will assist with drafting, filings, and correspondence. You will also be responsible for ensuring that telegrams are dispatched properly and replies logged. If you lose one, I will consider it a capital offence."
He paused. "Can you handle that?"
"Yes, Sir," Imran said, almost too loudly.
"Good," Jinnah replied. "Leave your documents with Mr. Shah. Report here tomorrow at eight. In a cleaner coat."
"Yes, Sir."
Imran stood, nearly tripping over the chair, recovered, and left with his ears turning red.
When the door closed, Shah gave Jinnah a sideways look.
"You passed over three very polished, well-connected young men for him," Shah said. "Any particular reason?"
"Yes," Jinnah said. "He looks as if he still believes the law is dangerous enough to respect. The others looked as if they thought it was a family business."
Shah smiled faintly.
"That," he said, "is a cruel and accurate distinction."
By mid-afternoon, the small staff constellation was complete:
Imran Ali — junior associate, trial period.A slightly older munshi for translations and filing.The existing terrified clerk, now slightly less terrified, formally engaged.
A chamber that had been only walls and a desk in the morning now had people — the beginnings of a legal nerve center.
Jinnah sat back, steepling his fingers.
Office: online, Bilal said, amused. Next step: integrate the doctor into the system.
The First Assignment
Jinnah picked up Dr. Evelyn's telegram again, reading it once more. Then he looked up at Imran, who now sat carefully on the clerk's chair outside the inner room, as if afraid to disturb the air.
"Mr. Imran," Jinnah called.
"Sir?" Imran leapt to his feet.
"Come in," Jinnah said.
Imran came in, clutching a notebook now, ink already on his fingers.
"I am going to give you your first task," Jinnah said. "It will test your ability to be precise, polite, and practical."
"Yes, Sir," Imran said.
He handed him the telegram.
"Read," he said.
Imran read it quickly, lips moving over "WILLING TO MEET" and "LODGING AND ARRANGEMENTS".
"A British lady doctor, Sir?" he asked.
"Yes," Jinnah said. "An obstetrician–gynaecologist who also does general work. She is considering a post in Montgomery at my… rural estate. We require her enough that we must not give the impression of provincial incompetence."
"Yes, Sir."
"You will draft," Jinnah continued, "a reply telegram in my name as follows:"
He leaned back and dictated, voice steady, rhythm precise.
TO: DR EVELYN CARTWRIGHT, BOMBAY
DELIGHTED TO HEAR OF YOUR WILLINGNESS TO DISCUSS RURAL POSITION PUNJAB STOP
PLEASE TRAVEL TO LAHORE AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE FIRST OR SECOND CLASS AS YOU PREFER STOP
LODGING AT REPUTABLE HOTEL AND ALL TRAVEL EXPENSES WILL BE BORNE BY MY ESTATE STOP
REQUEST MEETING AT LAHORE HIGH COURT CHAMBERS OR HOTEL AS PER YOUR COMFORT TO DISCUSS TERMS SCOPE AND CONDITIONS STOP
KINDLY INFORM DATE TRAIN DETAILS BY RETURN WIRE STOP
— M.A. JINNAH
Imran scribbled furiously, then read it back. He almost stumbled over "reputable". Jinnah made one small correction to the phrasing, then nodded.
"Good," he said. "You will now:
Rewrite this in your neatest telegram hand.Take it to the telegraph office yourself. Do not entrust it to any messenger.Ensure it is sent at once. Pay for full wording, no needless abbreviations. Bring me back the stamped counterfoil and receipt. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir," Imran said.
"And, Mr. Imran," Jinnah added, as the young man reached the door, "tell the telegraph clerk that any reply from this addressee is to be held aside and delivered here immediately. No delays."
"I will, Sir."
When the door shut behind him, Bilal spoke.
Smart, he said. First job is logistics for a key node in the Sandalbar network. He thinks it's just admin; it's actually the first test of whether he can keep nerves, respect, and precision aligned.
If he cannot send a clean telegram, Jinnah said, he cannot handle a messy brief. We begin with wires before we move to constitutions.
Outside, down the stairs, Imran hurried toward the telegraph office as if carrying explosives rather than a few lines of ink — a young man from a grain shop, now a runner between a British doctor in Bombay and a canal estate he'd never seen.
The Packet from Montgomery
The clerk knocked twice and then half-opened the chamber door, looking nervous in the way only men who carried important papers could manage.
"Sir… there is a gentleman from Montgomery," he said. "An officer. He says he has a packet from the Commissioner, for you personally."
"Show him in," Jinnah said.
The man who entered wore a neat khaki drill suit — not quite ICS, but polished enough. A Deputy or Assistant by the look of him. He carried a leather dispatch case and the air of one who had travelled overnight and would very much like a bath.
"Mr. Jinnah?" he asked.
"Yes," Jinnah replied, rising just enough to acknowledge. "Please, sit."
The man sat on the edge of the chair and opened his case with bureaucratic precision.
"I am Rahim Khan, Sir," he said. "From the Commissioner's office, Montgomery. Mr. Harrington sends his compliments, and these."
He laid a thick file and a sealed envelope on the desk.
"This came by hand, Sir," he added. "The Commissioner thought it better than trusting the post with so many particulars."
"Very wise of him," Jinnah said. "Thank you, Mr. Khan. Have you eaten?"
"A little at the dak bungalow, Sir," Rahim said. "Do not trouble yourself."
"Then at least take tea," Jinnah said. "My clerk will arrange it. I may need you a few minutes, if you are free from your return train."
Rahim inclined his head. "I am at your disposal, Sir."
Jinnah broke the seal on the envelope. Inside, on good paper and in a firm, sloping English hand, was Harrington's letter. He read it silently first, then read portions again, this time half-aloud.
It confirmed the selection of a 350-acre block near the railway halt, offered at a favorable rate of Rs. 35 per acre, and included a humorous note about his wife being a member of Jinnah's "fan club."
His wife is a member of your "fan club", Bilal echoed, half-choking on the phrase. Colonial stan culture.
Stan? Jinnah asked mildly. I shall not enquire. One barbarism per day is sufficient.
He folded the letter carefully. "Mr. Khan," he said. "Please convey my thanks to the Commissioner when you return. His letter is… exceedingly courteous."
"Yes, Sir," Rahim said. "He thought you might also wish to see the details."
Jinnah turned to the file — a thick one, bound in twine. He undid the knot and opened it.
On the first page: a large, hand-drawn map of the selected tract. Along one edge, in neat English script with Punjabi notes, were labels:
Village Bhagatpur (old site)Chak 17-M (canal village)Hamlet near railway halt ("Station Basti")Canal Bungalow (Govt. Rest House – present condition: disused)
Jinnah leaned over it, eyes tracing the shapes.
There, Bilal said, mental voice sharpening. That's our HQ.
HQ? Jinnah inquired. Another mutilated word?
"Headquarters," Bilal said. "Command centre. That disused Canal Bungalow — that's your Sandalbar nerve centre. We already half-decided it yesterday, but seeing it on paper… yes. That's the box we'll put all your systems inside."
He tapped the drawing in Jinnah's mind.
"Here," he went on, "you'll house Evelyn's clinic, the registry office, wireless room, meeting hall. That's where the Farabis get trained. The bungalow you're already using inside the estate can be residence, but this one — this is your administrative hub."
We must see its condition first, Jinnah replied. A headquarters with a leaking roof is an embarrassment, not an asset.
He turned the page to the tenant lists. Rahim moved closer to explain.
"The tenants listed here," Rahim continued, "are those whose fields fall entirely within the proposed estate. You will see notes on their… apprehensions."
Jinnah scanned the names: Ghulam Nabi (cultivator), Toba Singh (ex-sepoy), Mati Das (shopkeeper), Sakina Bibi (widow).
Beneath one particularly vicious line about the old zaildar, the ink was scratched, as if someone had thought better of writing "tyrant" in government files and reduced it to "overzealous in collections".
There is your battlefield, Bilal said. Not Congress vs Raj. Not League vs Congress. Just human knots: fearful widow, ex-soldier with no war left, shopkeeper who is a shadow bank, mixed-village resentments.
Yes, Jinnah thought. The plumbing.
"Uncertainty," Jinnah said, closing the file for a moment, "is more dangerous than anger. Angry men can sometimes be reasoned with. Uncertain ones will listen to the worst whisper first."
He looked up at Rahim.
"Tell Mr. Harrington that I have received the file, and that I approve, in principle, the selection and the terms. Rs. 35 an acre in these conditions is almost an act of charity on the part of his superiors. We shall not quarrel with their generosity."
Rahim smiled faintly. "I will tell him, Sir."
"Inform him also," Jinnah continued, "that on my next visit to Montgomery, I shall expect to meet not only himself but a small deputation from Bhagatpur, Chak 17-M, and the station hamlet. In separate groups, to begin with. I wish to see their faces before I sign anything that affects their lives."
"Yes, Sir."
"As for his wife," Jinnah added, a shadow of humour in his tone, "you may tell him that I shall endeavour to discharge my obligations toward her… club membership… by dining with them when time and health permit."
Rahim grinned. "She will be delighted, Sir."
When Rahim had gone, Jinnah opened the file again, spreading the map so it covered half his desk. He traced with one finger: First Bhagatpur, then Chak 17-M, then the railway line, and finally the small compound marked "Canal Bungalow (disused)".
There, Bilal said again, more firmly. HQ.
If you repeat that barbaric abbreviation often enough, Jinnah remarked, I may be forced to add it to my vocabulary in self-defence. Very well. We shall consider the Canal Bungalow as the "Headquarters" — the administrative house. The residence nearer the tenants, where I sleep, will be… the "Front".
"Front-end," Bilal said automatically, then added, "Sorry. Habit."
We must decide what goes where, Jinnah continued, half-aloud. "Clinic, registry, wireless, meetings…"
He placed his pen on the map, marking lightly.
"At the Canal Bungalow," he said quietly, "we shall have:
One room as Evelyn's central clinic on estate days — with beds for emergencies.One as the wireless room — mast in the yard, where it cannot be easily cut unseen.One as an office for tenancy records and grain ledgers.One as a hall for 'agricultural meetings' and 'health lectures' which will, in fact, be the training sessions for our… Farabis."
He moved to Bhagatpur. "Here," he murmured, "we will need a small outpost — perhaps one of the elders' houses as a regular gathering place. A place where grievances do not fester for three canal-turns before reaching us."
He shifted to Chak 17-M. "And here," he said, tapping a block of squares, "we shall see whether the colonisation scheme's tenants can be turned into something better than resentful experiment subjects."
He paused at Station Basti. "This," he said, "is our hazard and our advantage. Rumours will travel from here as from a post office. So must facts."
So we seed it, Bilal said. Friendly shopkeepers, informal Farabis, the wireless men passing through often enough that people think 'estate news' comes from here by default.
"Yes," Jinnah replied inwardly. "If lies are quicker than the truth, we must at least give the truth a horse to ride."
He sat back.
In Bombay, land was a house and a view. In Lahore, land was a case in court. Here, on paper in his Lahore chamber, land had become something else: a board, a circuit, a human field whose lines of water, rumour, and fear could be redirected — if the hand on the valves was steady enough.
"Three hundred and fifty acres at Rs. 35," Bilal said. "A bargain in money. Very expensive in responsibility."
All significant bargains are so, Jinnah replied. "Now let us see whether we can pay the instalments in order."