The train left them at the little halt with a reluctant hiss. From there, it was a short ride in a bullock cart to the Canal Bungalow.
The "HQ" — as Bilal insisted on calling it — stood within high, cracked walls: a square compound with an L-shaped building, a deep verandah, and a yard big enough for a small parade or a very large argument.
"It will do," Jinnah said quietly, stepping through the gate.
It'll do nicely, Bilal replied. We've had start-up offices in my world with worse plumbing and no yard.
Mary was already scolding the porter about where to put the medical crates. Evelyn stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the building like a general inspecting a fort.
"This room," she said, pointing to one of the larger front chambers, "will be the clinic. Cross-ventilation, light, a door I can close when I need privacy. We'll put the examination couch along that wall."
To Mary: "We'll need a table here for instruments. And a chair near the door so you can keep an eye on the queue."
"Yes, Doctor," Mary said, already mentally rearranging the furniture.
Station Basti Comes to Call
By late afternoon, the first visitors had arrived: a small delegation from the Station Basti and the hamlet around the halt — porters in faded uniforms, two railway clerks, a thin baniya with sharp eyes (Mati Das), and three Anglo-Indians with stiff collars and wary faces.
They sat on charpais in the shaded verandah. Jinnah sat in the only proper chair; Evelyn chose the other, slightly battered one beside him. Mary lurked near the doorway with a small tin box that held his pills.
The Anglo-Indians kept glancing at Evelyn — British, female, doctor — and then at Jinnah, who looked like every image of "important native barrister" they had ever imagined: suit immaculate despite the dust, posture straight, face unreadable.
"Gentlemen," Jinnah said, once the chai had been poured. "Thank you for coming."
The eldest of the Anglo-Indians, a man in his forties with a railway badge and a tired moustache, spoke first.
"Name's Lewis, Sir," he said. "Assistant Station Master. These are some of the boys from the lines, and Mr. Mati Das from the bazaar. We heard you were buying the land. Figured we'd better see who we'll be paying rent to… or complaining to."
"You will find," Jinnah said, "that I am not easy to cheat and not quick to shout. Both are in your favour if you behave honestly."
There was a ripple of cautious amusement.
"And this is," he added, "Dr. Cartwright, who will be in charge of medical work here. And Nurse D'Souza, who will, I fear, also be in charge of ensuring I do not neglect my own medicines."
As if on cue, Mary stepped forward with the tin.
"Speaking of which," she said briskly. "It's time."
"Now?" Jinnah asked, faintly annoyed.
"Yes," she said. "You coughed twice this morning and did not take the inhalation. Pill. Water. No arguments."
The men on the charpais watched, eyes widening slightly, as the famous barrister obediently took the pill and drank the water under the steady gaze of an Anglo-Indian nurse, while a British lady doctor sat beside him as if this were the most natural order of things.
Lewis leaned slightly toward the man next to him and whispered, half in English, half in muttered Eurasian slang: "Blimey. Barrister-saheb's being bullied by a nurse. This place is going to be different."
Evelyn heard him and smiled.
"You may consider it a standing rule," she said, raising her voice just enough. "On this estate, when it comes to medicine, Nurse D'Souza outranks everyone except me. Including Mr. Jinnah."
Mati Das's eyebrows shot up. "Even you?" he asked.
"Especially him," Mary said dryly. "He's the worst patient in the room."
There was a burst of laughter — short, surprised, but genuine.
Good optics, Bilal murmured. They're seeing you as human, not just as "the new lord".
Humiliation as public relations, Jinnah replied. An unorthodox strategy. But effective, I admit.
When the amusement subsided, Jinnah leaned forward.
"You have questions," he said to the group. "Ask them now."
Lewis cleared his throat.
"Sir," he said, "people in the basti are saying many things. Some say you will raise rents, some say you'll turn us out, some say you are here to make a school and hospital, some say you are a big political man running away from politics. We don't know which rumours to believe."
Jinnah's mouth twitched.
"Let me make at least one rumour accurate," he said. "Yes, I intend to improve this land — its crops, its order, its services. No, I do not intend to turn out good tenants. A man who pays his rent, keeps his fields in order, and does not cause trouble will not be harassed. A man who cheats or bullies others will find my patience short. As for politics — I am not running away. I am taking a position that requires different shoes."
"And us, Sir?" one of the younger Anglo-Indians asked. "Job-wise, I mean."
"There will be work," Jinnah said. "We are installing wireless, improving records, organising supplies. I prefer to hire men who understand both the railway's punctuality and the village's chaos. That often means Anglo-Indians. We will talk more of this later."
He turned slightly, giving Evelyn a nod.
"Doctor," he said. "Perhaps you should tell them why you are here, in your own words."
Evelyn stood.
"I am an Obstetrician–Gynecologist by training," she said, "which means I look after women and childbirth. I also treat fevers, wounds, and all the other things that try to kill us. I am here because Mr. Jinnah has convinced me that if we build something sensible here, we might prevent a good many unnecessary funerals in the next few years."
She scanned the faces, letting her gaze rest on Lewis, then on Mati Das, then on the younger men.
"Tomorrow," she went on in Hindi with English accent both sounds funny to Bilal while remind him typical memsahib in Bollywood, "we will open a temporary clinic here in this bungalow. If there is anyone in the Station Basti who is ill — fever, cough, pain, injury — you may bring them. Women, children, men — all welcome. We will see as many as we can. You will not be charged for the visit. If medicines are needed, we will supply what we have. In time, there will be a regular arrangement. For now, we begin with one day."
"Ladies also?" one porter asked nervously. "Properly, I mean?"
"Yes," Evelyn said. "With doors closed. Nurse D'Souza and I know how to keep a woman's dignity intact. I would like your help persuading them to come. Many will be shy."
Lewis nodded slowly. "People will come, Doctor-mem. If they see you treat one or two well, the rest will follow."
"Good," she said. "Then we start tomorrow."
Bhagatpur, Chak 17-M, and an Open Invitation
Later that afternoon, more groups came: elders from Bhagatpur with white beards and cautious eyes; younger men from Chak 17-M, canal tenants in coarse turbans; a few women hanging back behind the trees, pretending not to listen while hearing everything.
The script repeated, with variations.
"I am not your zaildar," Jinnah told the Bhagatpur men. "I am your landlord only in the sense that I hold the papers. You hold the soil. We will have arrangements written, not shouted. If you have grievances, you will bring them in an orderly way, not with a crowd and a stick."
"And rent, Sahib?" one asked. "Will you raise it?"
"Not this year," Jinnah said. "We will first see what the land produces under fair management. I am not here to squeeze blood from your crops."
To the Chak 17-M tenants, he said:
"You were given this land under the Colonisation scheme. You know how to handle the canal turns. I expect you to do so honestly. Anyone bribing the canal man to steal water from a neighbour will find me a less forgiving judge than the tahsildar. We will have a system for complaints. Use it."
And each time, when the formalities were done, Evelyn stood and repeated her offer.
"Tomorrow at the Canal Bungalow," she said, "my clinic will be open. Bring your sick. Bring the elderly. Bring the children with swollen bellies. I will not promise miracles, but we will begin."
Even the women behind the trees shifted at that, exchanging glances.
The First Clinic Day
The next morning, the Canal Bungalow yard looked like the set of a strange hybrid between a military camp and a village fair.
A canvas canopy had been rigged up in the front yard, anchored to trees and the verandah pillars, providing shade. Beneath it, charpais and wooden benches had been arranged in rows. At the gate, Ram Lal and another helper gently steered people into some semblance of a queue.
Mary had set up a table just inside the verandah with a ledger, a box of numbered tokens, and a voice like a railway guard announcing departures.
"One at a time," she called. "No pushing. You will all be seen if you wait. Men to the left, women and children to the right. Tokens in hand. If you are not ill yourself, do not take the doctor's time unless you have brought someone who is."
About fifty patients had gathered by mid-morning — and perhaps twice as many onlookers.
Evelyn, sleeves rolled above her elbows, worked in the front room they had designated as the clinic. The door remained half-open for airflow, but a folding screen inside provided privacy when needed.
"Number one," Mary called. "Ghulam Ali, fever and shivers, three days."
A man in a crumpled kurta stepped in, eyes nervous.
"Sit," Evelyn said, gesturing to the chair. "When did the fever begin? Do you have chills? Any coughing? Show me your tongue. And stop looking at me as if I'm about to cut your head off; I haven't lost a patient's head yet." She said in Hindi with British dialect.
Within ten minutes, she had her pattern.
"Malaria," she told Mary, under her breath, after the third similar case. "Mostly uncomplicated so far. We'll need quinine, rest, and some very stern words about standing water."
"So half the estate," Mary muttered back, doling out pills into little paper packets. "We'll run out if we're not careful."
"We ration," Evelyn said. "The worst first. Take temperatures. Anyone with very high fever stays under observation here for a few hours if their family agrees."
She raised her voice. "Next!"
A woman came in carrying a child with a distended belly and thin arms.
"How old?" Evelyn asked.
"Three, Doctor-mem," the mother said. "Always hungry, always crying at night."
Mary's face softened.
"Worms and poor diet," Evelyn murmured. "We'll treat both as far as we can."
And so it went: A railway coolie with a cut foot, an old Sikh from Bhagatpur with a cough, a young woman in late pregnancy, and children — so many children.
Outside, under the canopy, Jinnah sat on a charpai at a slight remove, wearing a simpler, lighter suit than usual but still immaculate. He did not interfere. He watched.
You see? Bilal said quietly. This is the plumbing. This is what never gets into resolutions and speeches.
Yes, Jinnah replied. You cannot pass a law against fever. You must drain the puddles and distribute the quinine.
From time to time, he rose and walked to the edge of the tent, calming a restless cluster.
"One person at a time," he said to a gathering of men who had started to crowd the door. "Shouting will not hasten your turn. If you can wait an hour for the canal, you can wait ten minutes for the doctor."
Mary's presence helped. She moved along the queue with a ledger and a sharp eye, scolding gently when needed.
"You," she said to one man. "You are not even ill. You are here to watch only."
"I brought my cousin," he said defensively.
"Then sit with him," she replied. "Do not crowd the door. If the doctor faints, I will beat you all with my shoe."
They laughed, but they obeyed.
By late afternoon, they had seen nearly fifty patients. A few had been told to return in two days. One elderly man with a worrying chest was given a blanket and kept in the back room to sleep under observation; his grandson sat with him, wide-eyed.
When the last patient left, the yard was strewn with the dust of many footsteps, but quieter.
Evelyn stepped out onto the verandah, wiping her forehead with a handkerchief that had long ago abandoned any hope of staying white.
"Well," she said. "That was… a start."
"You have made more difference in one day," Jinnah said, "than most speeches make in a year."
"I will require more quinine," she replied. "And a regular supply of soap. And someone to teach these people that standing water is not a decorative feature."
"We shall put it on the estate's first budget," he said.
Mana well spent, Bilal said. Very efficient spell, this clinic.
Fifty Men
As the sun slid lower, the yard changed shape.
The charpais where patients had sat in the morning had been cleared away. The canopy's shadow had shifted, narrowing into a sharper rectangle in front of the verandah. The Canal Bungalow — still flaking, still cracked — now looked less like a discarded government rest house and more like a stage.
"Now," Jinnah said quietly to Evelyn, "there is another introduction you must make."
He signalled to one of the clerks. A few minutes later, men began to file through the gate from the outer road.
They came in small groups: Sturdy Punjabi ex-sepoys with old army belts cinched over village clothes, tall Sikh constable-types whose turbans sat on their heads like helmets, a few lean Muslim men whose eyes said "border skirmish" even when their mouths only said "farm work", and, as promised, five Anglo-Indian men with the particular self-consciousness of those who had worn uniforms so long they had forgotten how to stand casually.
They formed three rough ranks under the tent's remaining shade. Some had salvaged bits of their old uniforms; others were in plain shirts and dhotis, but the discipline showed in the way they held their shoulders, the way they fell instinctively into line.
"This," Jinnah said, turning to Evelyn, "is the beginning of our security force."
"Fifty?" she asked, eyebrows lifting. "That's not a watchman's rota. That's half a company."
"Numbers," he said, "are not for display. They are for rotation. No one will stand guard twelve hours a day. There will be shifts — on the estate, in the villages, on the roads. If we are to be a calm island in a storm, we need enough men who can stand still without panicking."
He stepped forward. "Gentlemen," he called. "Stand at ease."
The line loosened, just enough.
"This," he said, indicating Evelyn, "is Dr. Cartwright, who will be responsible for medical work on this estate and, by extension, for your health. If she orders you to rest, you will rest. If she says you are unfit for duty, you will not argue with her or with Nurse D'Souza. I will treat disobedience in this as seriously as I would treat desertion in battle."
A murmur moved along the ranks; several men glanced, surprised, at the British woman and the Anglo-Indian nurse.
Evelyn stepped forward, weighing them with an appraising look.
"I will not be your mother," she said. "I will not sympathise with self-inflicted injuries. If you twist your ankle because you didn't look where you were putting your feet, I'll bandage you and then laugh at you. But if you are hurt protecting this place and these people, I will treat you as well as I know how. Fair?"
There were a few quick grins. "Yes, Doctor-mem," one of the ex-sepoys called. "Fair."
"Good," she said. "Then don't do anything so stupid that I have to waste my quinine on you instead of the children."
A small ripple of laughter broke some of the stiffness.
Jinnah moved along the front rank, stopping before one of the Anglo-Indians — a man in his thirties with a wireless operator's badge pinned, almost defiantly polished, to his shirt.
"Mr. D'Souza," Jinnah said. "You will head the wireless unit once the mast is properly installed. Your men will be both signalers and watchmen. You will keep logs of all messages. You will also remember this is not a toy. No boasting in tea-shops about the equipment."
"Yes, Sir," D'Souza said. "We're used to keeping our mouths shut. Army habit. We complain only to each other, and even then in code."
A quick flash of humour; then the seriousness returned.
"Good," Jinnah said. He raised his voice so all could hear. "To the rest of you: understand this. You are not being hired as thugs. If you raise a hand against a villager without cause, you will answer to me personally. Your duty is to protect the estate, the clinic, the stores, the lines of communication. You will prevent theft, not commit it. You will calm quarrels, not start them. If you use this position to settle old grudges, you will be dismissed — and I will see to it you are unwelcome in every district for fifty miles."
There was a slight stiffening in the line, the small adjustment men made when they realised the rules in this place were not the ones they were used to.
"However," he went on, "if a bandit decides this canal estate is an easy target, he will discover fifty reasons to reconsider. You will have legal weapons, issued and logged. You will be trained in their use — and trained more thoroughly in when not to use them."
He glanced sideways at Evelyn.
"Doctor, I trust you will inform me if any of these gentlemen come to you with injuries that suggest they have been practising cruelty instead of security."
"I have seen enough bruises," she said, "to tell a fall from a beating."
So there we are, Bilal said quietly. Ten days ago, this was just a dusty rest house. Now it's a clinic, an HQ, and half a platoon standing in the yard. Not bad for a 'retiring barrister'.
We have only planted flags, Jinnah replied. We have yet to see whether the soil accepts them.
He looked at the fifty men; at the yard where villagers had queued that morning; at the Canal Bungalow, whose walls now held the echo of new orders and new laughter.
"Tomorrow," he told the men, "you begin your rotations. Tonight, go home and tell your families you have taken service not with a zamindar who wants to show off his muscle, but with a lawyer who intends to keep this place orderly. If that does not frighten them away, I shall consider it a good sign."
Another ripple of low laughter, half amusement, half testing.
As the ranks broke and men gathered around the havildar-in-charge to hear their assignments, Bilal spoke again.
The game has loaded, he said. Pieces in place. Systems booting.
Then let us hope, Jinnah thought, watching the sun drop behind the canal trees, that this time, the script will tolerate an edit.