While the masons laid bricks for the Farabi quarters, a larger, dustier operation began half a mile to the west.
There, the land dipped into a natural depression — a five-acre bowl of scrub and saline earth that Sobha Singh, the contractor, had once dismissed as "good only for drowning snakes."
Now, fifty plus labourers with pickaxes were turning it into a worksite. Dust hung in the air like a second sky.
Jinnah stood on the ridge, handkerchief pressed to his nose.
"It is a large hole, Sahib," Sobha Singh said doubtfully. "To line it with clay and bund it… the cost will make your accountant weep."
Let him weep, Bilal said. We need water security. But more than that, we need a lobby.
"A lobby?" Jinnah asked inwardly.
OpSec, Bilal said. Operational security. Think about it. You have fifty armed men drilling at the Canal Bungalow. You have D'Souza tapping messages in code. You have Evelyn treating bullet wounds one day, perhaps.
He paused and let the picture form.
Now imagine Commissioner Harrington drops by for tea. Or some curious Nawab. Do you want them sitting on the HQ verandah watching your private army salute?
Jinnah adjusted his hat.
"That," he murmured, "would be indiscreet."
Exactly. You need a guest front door. A separate face for the public. Somewhere so pleasant and so far from your real work that nobody thinks to look behind the curtain.
On the mental map, Bilal marked two spots:
One on this ridge, overlooking the future water. One tucked into the grove of mulberry trees on the far bank.
Two bungalows, he said. High-end. Colonial style. Polished floors, wide verandahs, roses and jasmine if you like them.
"One?" Jinnah said. "Not enough?"
Segregation, Bilal replied. The Raj loves it; so do the big landlords. You build one as the Gentlemen's Lodge. Leather chairs, billiards table, fishing rods. That is where you host Harrington, the Deputy Commissioner, the neighbouring landowners. You feed them fresh fish from the lake, talk about 'rural uplift', and let them feel important.
He flicked metaphorical chalk toward the grove.
And there, the Garden Retreat. More enclosed, more trees, privacy. For Mrs. Harrington, for officers' wives, for Fatima and Dina when they visit. If the women are content and drinking iced lime by the water, the men are less likely to go wandering around your granaries.
Jinnah looked down at the dusty depression and tried, for a moment, to see what Bilal saw: blue water, white pillars reflected, boats, laughter. It was theatrical. It was extravagant.
It was useful.
"Sobha Singh," he said aloud.
"Ji, Sahib?"
"We are not merely digging a tank," Jinnah said. "We are building a lake. Stocked with fish — rohu, thaila — enough to feed this estate in a lean month."
He pointed along the ridge.
"And here, facing the water, you will build a guest house. We shall call it the West Lodge. High ceilings, club style, billiards room, verandah to watch the sunset."
Sobha Singh's jaw dropped slightly.
"A club, Sahib? Here?"
"And there," Jinnah continued, turning toward the grove, "a second structure. The Garden Retreat. Enclosed walls, fruit trees, shade. For ladies."
"You are building a hill station in the plains," Sobha Singh said, half admiring, half appalled. "The brick-kiln men will worship your name."
"I am building privacy," Jinnah corrected. "When the Commissioner visits, I want him admiring the view — not counting my guards."
Ahmed Khan, notebook in hand, looked up at him with sudden understanding.
"A diversion, Sir?" Ahmed said softly in English.
"A filter, Ahmed," Jinnah replied. "We filter our water for health. We shall filter our visitors for safety. The friends of Jinnah will stay by the lake. Only the staff of Sandalbar will go to Headquarters."
A honey-trap, Bilal said contentedly. Literal honey, fresh fish, and a view. They will be so busy enjoying your hospitality they will forget to ask why you needed thirty rifles.
"Begin the bunds," Jinnah told Sobha Singh. "And send word to Lahore for a gardener who understands both trees and drainage. If we are to have a lake, we may as well have lotuses."
The Burn Rate
That evening, with the dust settled on his clothes and the plan for two lodges committed to paper, the euphoria faded under the cold eye of the ledger.
In Lahore, at his desk, Jinnah opened the cheque book and wrote the advance for Sobha Singh's men. A second cheque followed for the brick kilns. The balance column stared back at him, unblinking.
He did the subtraction twice in his head. The number refused to improve.
"Mr. Game Developer", he said inwardly, each word edged.
Yes, Sir?
We must discuss arithmetic.
He tapped the ledger with his pen.
"You called my resources infinite mana. Allow me to correct your accounts. My "mana" consists of savings from twenty years of practice and investment. It is substantial, yes, but not miraculous. We have just ordered a lake, two guest houses, thirty rifles, wireless equipment, salaries for fifty men, a doctor, a nurse, house staff, and more quinine than some districts use in a year."
He snapped the book shut.
"I am not the Nizam of Hyderabad. I have no basement full of diamonds. At this rate, by the time your fortress of systems is complete, we shall have nothing left to pay the men guarding it."
Bilal was silent for a moment.
What's the monthly outflow? he asked.
"Between salaries, construction, equipment, and the "fees" that keep files moving instead of sleeping in cupboards? "Jinnah calculated. "Perhaps one thousand rupees a month. My present liquidity will sustain that for several months or perhaps couple of years. After that, either we contract sharply or I must return to the Bombay High Court and argue cases until my throat bleeds simply to keep this machine in coal and wages."
All right, Bilal said. That is a high burn rate.
"A what?" Jinnah asked aloud, then caught himself and lowered his voice.
Burn rate, Bilal repeated. In my time, it is how fast a new venture eats its cash before it earns enough to feed itself. If the burn rate is higher than the runway, the plane crashes. We, at the moment, are burning like a bonfire.
"We are burning", Jinnah said, like a lawyer who has forgotten the difference between generosity and folly.
It is designed that way, Bilal said.
"Designed to bankrupt me?" Jinnah asked.
Designed to be fair, Bilal replied. In a well-balanced game, no one starts in "God Mode": invincible, limitless. If you had the Nizam's wealth, the Raj would not treat you as a curious barrister playing at rural experiment. They would treat you as a rival state. The Political Department would take a close interest. Files would multiply. Licences would quietly vanish.
He paused.
Your limits are a kind of stealth. You look constrained, therefore you are tolerated. Strong enough to be interesting; not so strong as to be labelled dangerous.
"That," Jinnah said slowly, "is a comfort to the mind, but not to the mason. Philosophy does not pay his wages."
No, Bilal admitted. So we must do what every ambitious venture must do after the building spree.Stop burning. Start earning. We have begun the build phase: clinic, filters, wireless, security, lodge, lake. Now we need the economy phase. The bees will give honey, the lake will give fish, but both take time. We need daily cashflow. Something small, steady, and fast.
"You mentioned honey," Jinnah said. "And wax."
Honey takes months, Bilal said. Bees work on their own calendar, not yours. Fish need seasons. We need something that begins returning rupees in weeks, not years.
He hesitated, as if bracing for the blow to Jinnah's dignity.
Poultry, he said. Chickens. And quails.
Chickens and Quails
"You want me," Jinnah said, very calmly, "to become a chicken farmer."
I want you, Bilal replied, to become a supplier of protein to railway messes and club kitchens. Think of it properly. We have fifty Farabi families. Their women will need work. We have grain sweepings, kitchen scraps, yard space behind the quarters. We build coops along the back wall.
Chickens lay eggs almost daily. Eggs mean immediate cash. Sell them to the railway cantonment, the station tea-stalls, the bazaar. And quails — bater — are a delicacy. British officers love them roasted. Clubs pay well for them. They grow fast, take less space than chickens, and turn feed into rupees very efficiently.
He let the picture unfold.
We start "Sandalbar Poultry and Game": coops behind the Farabi lines. Evelyn certifies cleanliness. Your reputation certifies honesty. We secure a standing order from the railway canteen, perhaps from Harrington's table and the local officers' mess. The women tend the birds. The wages of the men are partly underwritten by eggs and quails instead of your dwindling savings.
"You propose," Jinnah said, "to finance a shadow-state with eggs and small, nervous birds."
I propose, Bilal said, to lower the burn rate. To give your people a trade that works when courts in Lahore are slow and monsoon crops are uncertain. It is not glamorous. But it is resilient.
Jinnah rested his hand lightly on the closed cheque book and considered.
The idea offended a certain corner of his pride: M.A. Jinnah, KC, supplier of quails to railway buffets. Another corner — colder, more practical — counted up the numbers and saw that pride did not pay interest.
"Very well," he said, at last. "We shall add poultry to my list of eccentricities. See to it, then. Quietly. Coops behind the Farabi houses. You will draft a note for Ahmed to discuss terms with the railway and the club kitchens."
He added, "But, Mr. Game Developer…"
Yes, Sir?
"If I ever find myself arguing with a chicken over a balance sheet," Jinnah said, "I shall hold you personally responsible."
In Bilal's unseen corner of his mind, he grinned.
Don't worry, Sir, he said. Quails are quiet.