The first week in Lahore settled into a pattern that felt almost like a double life.
Mornings: The Bar Library, hurried conferences in borrowed chambers, and first appearances in the Lahore High Court. There was respectful curiosity from the judges, and thinly veiled envy from colleagues who watched Jinnah move with the air of a man who had already argued cases they only read about in textbooks.
Afternoons: His own chamber, slowly filling with files. Imran Ali, the new associate, was learning to move between the telegraph office, the copying table, and the court registry without dropping anything or losing his nerve.
Evenings: Back to the hotel — polished floors, the hum of Anglo-Indian gossip in the lounge, and the occasional ICS officer nodding across the room with that peculiar British half-respect reserved for native notables they could neither ignore nor fully own.
The House and the Excuse
On the third day, Jinnah signed the final papers for a modest but respectable house near the Mall: high gate, three bedrooms, a small study, and a verandah that could seat visitors without insulting them.
The agent, obsequious but efficient, assured him: "Very good locality, Sir. Other barristers nearby. A judge two streets away. Water supply reliable. Fine for your status."
"It is," Jinnah said, looking at the overgrown garden, "sufficient."
And cheaper than living indefinitely at the hotel, Bilal noted. Also better optics. You can't build a shadow-state from a hotel lobby.
One thing at a time, Jinnah replied. First the address, then the apparatus.
He slept there two nights later, living out of a suitcase, his books only partly unpacked. The emptiness of the rooms made the quiet louder. That was when Bilal began to nag him.
The Letter to Fatima
You should write to Fatima, Bilal said one evening, as Jinnah sat at the new desk with the Commissioner's file open and a clean sheet of paper untouched beside it.
I have already telegraphed, Jinnah replied inwardly. I informed her that I arrived safely, that the house is suitable, that my health is stable.
That's not a letter, Bilal said. That's a status update. She's running your home and raising your daughter while you play architect of history. You owe her more than three lines of 'arrived, alive, don't worry'.
I am not in the habit of sentimental correspondence, Jinnah said stiffly.
Good, Bilal said. I'm not asking for sentimental. Just honest. Practical and human at the same time. You can do both — you do it in court all the time. Consider it a brief from yourself, about yourself.
Jinnah sighed, picked up the pen, and tested the nib.
"Very well," he murmured. "We shall see if your interference produces anything useful."
He wrote in his characteristic, precise English, but with a fraction more softness than usual:
My dear Fati,
I write to you from a desk which is not quite my own yet, in a house which has not yet grown accustomed to my footsteps. The arrangements here are proceeding, slowly but in the right direction. I have taken a modest residence near the Court, which you will find, I think, neither ostentatious nor insufficient.
The climate here is drier, as the doctor wished, though the dust has its own ambitions. My cough is less persistent than during the last monsoon in Bombay, which should satisfy your medical conscience for the present. I keep regular hours at the Court and return to the house at a reasonable hour, which is more than can be said of my habits in recent years.
Regarding the land in Montgomery, matters have advanced more quickly than I expected. The Commissioner has identified a tract of about three hundred and fifty acres in the canal colony which appears to meet all our requirements: railway access, irrigation, and enough distance from the habitual nonsense of city politics. I shall visit again shortly to finalize matters.
You will perhaps be amused (or exasperated) to know that the Commissioner's wife has declared herself a member of my "fan club" — an expression which I confess I do not fully understand, but which appears to mean she believes too much of what the newspapers write.
As I told you before I left, I intend to call you and Dina here only when I am satisfied that the arrangements are such that you will not be required to improvise a household out of chaos. Until then, you are to consider Bombay your domain. I know it costs you more than you say.
Take care of yourself, and see that the doctor examines you occasionally as well; I will not accept a situation in which you bully me into health while neglecting your own.
Your affectionate brother,M. A. Jinnah
Very decent, Bilal said. Human, without getting mushy. Ten out of ten for "elder brother who pretends he is not sentimental".
"You are irreverent," Jinnah muttered, blotting the ink.
The Letter to Dina
The second sheet sat there longer.
Now her, Bilal said. No escape.
She is eleven, Jinnah replied. She prefers stories to letters.
So give her both, Bilal said. Tell her about Lahore like it's half-story, half-report. And tell her, bluntly, that you miss her. You don't say that to people, but she needs to hear it.
That kind of language has never come easily to me.
Then make it come with difficulty, Bilal said. It will be worth more.
He picked up the pen again.
My dear Dina,
I hope you are not giving your aunt too much trouble, and that you are giving your schoolmistresses enough trouble to keep them alert but not enough to have them writing me angry letters.
I am now in Lahore. It is a city of long roads, big trees, and a Court where, I am happy to report, the judges are still more interested in arguments than in slogans.
I am also in the process of buying some land in a district called Montgomery. It is part of the canal colonies — flat land, with straight lines of water running through it like someone drew rivers with a ruler. On this land there are villages, a little railway stop, and an old house which I intend to turn into a place where people can be treated when they are ill and where I can go to rest when the city is too noisy.
When all this is arranged properly, there will be room there for you to visit, if you wish, and to see what real stars look like at night when there are no city lights to compete with them. For now, you must be content with Bombay's sea and your aunt's patience.
I will not pretend that the distance between us is small. But I hope that what I am building here will, in time, give you a country in which that sort of distance is not always an excuse for disorder and fear. If we succeed, a girl of your age, in your time and afterwards, will be able to travel these distances as a matter of course, not as an adventure in courage.
I am thinking of you even when I am too busy to write as often as I should.
Your affectionate,Papa
He stared at the last word for a moment, as if unsure whether to cross it out and replace it with initials. Then he left it.
Good, Bilal said softly. That's the hardest line you've written so far.
The Doctor Arrives
Dr. Evelyn Cartwright did not waste time. Her reply telegram had arrived within two days, and on Tuesday morning, Jinnah was in the hotel lobby at nine sharp.
He stood by one of the marble pillars, observing the flow. Then he saw her.
She was in her early thirties, in a practical, well-cut linen dress—not fashionable, but efficient. Her hair was pinned in a no-nonsense bun. She carried a small suitcase herself and refused the porter's attempt to take it until she had confirmed something at the front desk.
"Dr. Cartwright?" Jinnah said, stepping forward.
She turned. "Yes. Mr. Jinnah?"
He inclined his head. "Welcome to Lahore, Doctor. I trust the Frontier Mail was not too cruel to you."
"I have survived worse wards than that train," she replied dryly. Her accent was crisp but not affected. "Though I do believe Indian trains specialise in finding every draught and blowing it directly at one's neck."
"Please," he said, indicating the lounge. "Shall we sit? Your room should be ready presently. I have already requested that the hotel place your bill to my account."
"Very kind," she said. "I am unused to being someone's guest. Usually I am someone's last hope."
They took seats in a quieter corner.
"Thank you for coming so promptly," Jinnah said. "You move quicker than most committees I know."
"I dislike committees," she said. "They waste time while people die. Our mutual acquaintance spoke highly of you, however, and the telegram was intriguing. 'Rural estate', 'medical services', 'Punjab' — it sounded like a challenge."
Good, Bilal murmured. Not here for romance with the Raj. She's here for work.
Why He Needs a Doctor
"Very well," Evelyn said, leaning forward slightly. "Tell me, Mr. Jinnah: what precisely are you trying to build, and why did you decide you needed a woman doctor in the middle of it?"
"Because," Jinnah said calmly, "half of any population is female, and most of our rural women see a doctor only when they are dying or delivering. Often both at once."
"True," she said. "But that answer sounds like a line. I want the one you'd give yourself."
She is direct, Bilal noted. I like her.
So do I, Jinnah replied inwardly.
Aloud, he said, "I am, as you know, a lawyer. I have spent twenty-five years arguing about rights. I have discovered that when the pipes that carry food and medicine are broken, rights become… decorative. So I am buying land in Montgomery with the intention of creating a small example of how things ought to work when law and logistics meet."
Evelyn watched him, eyes sharp. "You want a model village."
"A model system," he corrected. "The village will not be ideal. But we can organise fields, water, and health in such a way that when the larger political storms come — and they will — this little corner will not burn itself to the ground at the first rumour."
"And where do I fit?"
"In the centre," he said. "There will be a clinic in the old Canal Bungalow. You will have a proper room, instruments, a small ward. The people around the estate have been badly managed; the last zaildar treated them as a revenue mine. I wish to treat them as citizens. For that, they must live long enough to benefit. Maternal deaths, fevers, infections — these kill more people than any British law or Congress protest. I prefer to fight the enemies we can actually cure."
She nodded slowly. "You speak almost like someone who has walked through a cholera ward."
"In a sense," he replied. "I have walked through enough political corpses to know their smell."
The Question of Salary
"And now," she said, businesslike, "terms. I have a position in Bombay. It is secure. Mill hospital, private patients. If I am to uproot myself, I will need concrete assurances."
"Of course," Jinnah said. "Tell me your present salary."
She named a figure — respectable by middle-class British standards in India, but hardly princely.
Pay her double, Bilal said instantly. She's a main-quest NPC, Sir. You don't lowball your healer.
Main… what? Jinnah asked.
"In my world," Bilal said quickly, "think of it as a key officer you cannot easily replace. A Strategic Asset."
"And what would you consider fair," Jinnah asked aloud, "for splitting your time between Bombay and an estate in Montgomery?"
Evelyn thought for a moment and named a slightly higher figure than her current one.
Double, Bilal repeated.
"Very well," Jinnah said. "We shall fix it at twice your present salary, paid regularly from my estate accounts, plus lodging in a respectable hotel when you are in Lahore and a properly furnished room in the Canal Bungalow when you are at the estate."
Evelyn blinked. "That is… more generous than I expected."
"You are not," Jinnah said, "a replaceable clerk. You are the person who will stand between my tenants and the grave. I prefer not to economise on that."
You have resources "Infinite mana", Bilal said, satisfied. Use them where they change the whole game.
So you propose, Jinnah said dryly, that I am some kind of sorcerer, throwing coins like spells.
"More like a very rich player who understands that unspent mana at the end of the game is useless," Bilal replied.
Aloud, Jinnah said, "You will find, Doctor, that my financial reserves are… adequate. I do not intend to leave great piles of rupees lying in banks merely to be admired posthumously. I intend to convert them into functioning institutions while I am alive enough to argue with them."
"That," Evelyn said, "is the most encouraging sentence I have heard from a rich client in years."
Terms of Engagement
"Safety," she continued. "I am a single Englishwoman. In a rural estate, it can become… complicated. I am not interested in becoming anyone's rumoured mistress or some 'memsahib angel of the poor' story in the Gazette."
"You may rest easy on both counts," Jinnah said crisply. "I have neither time nor inclination for scandals, and I distrust sentimental charity stories. On my land, you will be seen as what you are: a professional, engaged for serious work. If anyone suggests otherwise, they will find themselves very swiftly unemployed or unwelcome."
Evelyn studied him for a long second. "You're quite serious."
"I have rarely been accused," he replied, "of frivolity, Doctor."
She nodded once.
"Then my conditions are simple," she said. "Put what you have just said into writing. If the paper matches the talk, I will sign. I would like to see the estate once before making it permanent."
"That can be arranged," Jinnah said. "I shall be going there again shortly. You can accompany me."
Evelyn smiled. "Good. May I ask you one more question? Why did you not simply put your money into a hospital in Bombay? Why this elaborate, hidden, rural experiment?"
He considered his answer.
"Because," he said slowly, "Bombay already has hospitals. The places which lacks infrastructure badly are the places where nobody ever bothered to build anything. If I can make one such corner less flammable, it will be a better use of my… mana, as my resident demon in the head would say, than buying another wing for a city hospital that writes nice plaques."
Evelyn's eyes sharpened at "resident demon", but she let it pass.
"In that case," she said, standing, "send the papers to my room. If they pass inspection, I will begin packing not just my trunk, Mr. Jinnah, but a small arsenal of instruments. I suspect we will need them."
"I suspect you are right," he said, rising as well.
As she walked toward the reception desk, Bilal spoke quietly inside.
Doctor: recruited. Healer: in party. Mana: spent correctly.
If you insist on turning my life into one of your games, Jinnah replied, at least admit that this "party" is an odd one: a British doctor, a sweating junior, an ageing barrister, a commissioner with a fan-club wife, and a voice from the future.
Bilal laughed.
"Odd parties," he said, "are the only ones that ever change anything."