At a police thana near Shah Alami Gate, the local inspector—a compact man with an oiled moustache and a long memory of minor colonial humiliations—folded his arms as the Shahdara-bound Farabis presented their papers.
"We keep order here," he said. "We have plenty of constables. We do not need outside riff-raff confusing the people."
"We are not here to replace your constables," the Farabi naib-subedar replied. "We are here to support sanitary operations and report non-compliance to the Emergency Control Room."
The inspector sneered.
"Report on me, will you?" he said. "I answer to the Superintendent and the District Magistrate. Not to some landlord's pets."
"On paper," the naib-subedar said mildly, "we all answer to the Governor now."
The inspector glanced at the letter; he could read enough English to see the signatures, but habit made him resistant.
"Things look very clear on paper," he said. "On the ground, people listen to who they know. And they know me, not you."
"Then we will work under your shadow," the naib-subedar said. "And if your shadow covers the work, we will say so where it is heard."
The inspector did not like the sound of that, but he let them set up a wireless set in a dusty corner of the thana, near a broken chair and an old ledger cupboard.
"Do not interfere with my men," he warned. "Or there will be trouble."
"We are here to interfere with cholera," the naib-subedar replied. "Not with your pride."
By evening, wires hummed.
At Government House, the Emergency Control Room had been carved out of a large study: maps pinned to the walls, a long table cleared for files, three wireless sets installed against one side, their operators already tapping out test messages.
Evelyn stood at the map, hair pinned up without much grace, sleeves rolled, a pencil in one hand.
She looked tired, but energetic-tired, like someone pulled into a task that fit her bones.
Jinnah entered quietly.
"You've acquired an empire," he said.
"I prefer 'laboratory,'" she replied without turning. "Empires collapse. Laboratories improve or get shut down."
She marked a small circle around Lahore Junction.
"Wireless up at the main station," she said. "Shahdara thana reports partial cooperation. Montgomery city station—" She tapped another point on the map. "—reports the station master is a donkey."
The wireless man at the nearest set looked up.
"Sir," he said to Jinnah, "we have an incoming from the Lahore Junction post. Shall I read?"
"Please," Jinnah said.
The operator read in clipped, translated Urdu-Punjabi:
"Farabi Post 'Lokomotive' reporting: Station master obstructing space allocation for isolation annex. Claims no orders received from Divisional Superintendent. Copy of Premier's letter shown. He states: 'This is inconvenience to passengers.' Request clarification: are we to proceed under Governor's order or wait for Railways Division?"
Evelyn made a disgusted sound.
"Proceed under cholera's timetable," she said. "Not his lunch hour."
Jinnah nodded.
"Send this reply," he said. "From the Emergency Control Room, in my name and with reference to the Governor's authority: 'You are to proceed as planned. Erect provisional isolation space using available materials. Station master's resistance to be noted and forwarded to Railways Division and Premier's office. Work first, paperwork later.'"
The operator grinned and began tapping.
Evelyn turned to Jinnah.
"They will hate you," she said. "The petty officials. The ones who enjoy saying 'no' to everything."
"They already hate cholera more," he replied. "They just have not admitted it yet."
Assembly Ears and Assembly Tongues
The next morning, the Premier convened a short session of key legislators in Lahore—not to debate, but to listen.
On the table before him lay a stack of wireless summaries from the Emergency Control Room: instances of co-operation, and instances of obstruction.
He read aloud.
"In Shahdara," he said, "Health Team reports: granthi and imam both agreed to speak on cleanliness. Municipal councillor refused to close a contaminated well, arguing 'people will be angry.' Farabi note: 'Councillor present when family washed bedding in canal. Gave no correction.'"
He looked up at the councillor in question, who sat three chairs down, sweating.
"Do you contest this?" the Premier asked.
The man swallowed.
"I was… assessing local sentiment," he stammered. "If we move too fast, they may—"
"They are dying fast," the Premier snapped. "Do not be slower than the disease."
He turned another page.
"Lahore Junction: Station master delayed isolation ward. His exact words, recorded in Punjabi: 'I will not turn my station into a plague hospital because some babu in Government House is frightened.'"
Laughter rippled uneasily around the table, then died as the Premier's expression cooled.
"He has now received a personal telegram from me," the Premier said. "He will either cooperate or be posted somewhere with fewer trains and more sand."
He looked at the assembled men, many of whom prided themselves on balancing popular mood and government demand.
"You all wanted responsibility," he said. "Here it is. Your names are on municipal boards, on wells, on mosques, on markets. If the Emergency Control Room sends me another report that my own people are blocking the plan that carries my signature, I will read those reports on the Assembly floor. In full."
It was a naked threat, and they understood.
Reputation, in their world, mattered as much as votes.
Against the Grain of Habit
Back in the lanes, the change showed not as dramatic scenes, but as small adjustments.
At Lahore Junction, the station master now waved the Farabis through with ill grace, but he waved them through. A canvas annex went up by the third platform; the first two suspected cases from an incoming train were diverted there before they could vanish into the crowd.
In Shahdara, the same councillor who had prevaricated now walked with the local sanitary council, nodding vigorously as the imam quoted hadith on cleanliness and the granthi spoke of seva. When the time came to close the well, he made a show of supervising the rope.
In Montgomery city, a police inspector who had called the Farabis "riff-raff" now stood beside them at a lane barrier, telling an angry crowd that yes, this inspection was under "Premier sahib's orders," and anyone who refused was welcome to write directly to him—if they survived.
None of this made headlines.
What it did do was send a faint, steady tremor through the city's administrative spine.
Officials who had wanted to slow-walk the scheme realised that someone was now watching. Not an abstract "Government," but named pairs of eyes: a Farabi havildar, a wireless operator, a doctor in a control room, a Premier who read their hesitation out loud.
The wireless sets never stopped tapping.
From a mosque-turned-ward near Mochi Gate: "Ten mild cases admitted. Families seeing patients inside mosque now asking for ash and boiled water advice."
From a gurdwara in Shahdara: "Langar feeding sick and attendants. Granthi requesting more lime and carbolic."
From a Hindu neighbourhood in Anarkali: "Resistance reduced after folk singers performed new cholera song during evening gathering. Children repeating refrain: 'Clean water, clean hands, strong house.'"
Each message went up on Evelyn's board, pinned with colour-coded tacks.
Red for cases. Blue for compliance. Black for obstruction.
Slowly, the blue began to outnumber the black.
The Nerves Come Alive
One evening, as dusk turned the city's smoke into a smudged halo, Jinnah stood at the edge of the Control Room, arms folded, watching the wall.
He did not smile. But some of the carved tension around his mouth had eased.
"This is what a nervous system looks like," Evelyn said quietly, stepping up beside him. "Pain signals travelling fast enough to do something before the body rots."
"For now," he said. "The question is whether the body learns, or simply survives this and goes back to its old habits."
Even if it forgets in its head, Bilal murmured, some of it will remain in the hands. A few imams will keep speaking. A few singers will keep the verses. A few officials will remember that someone can watch them from above.
Jinnah's eyes moved over the map.
Sandalbar was a small circle on the edge. Lahore was a cluster of circles, some now ringed twice, some still blank.
Between them, the wireless wires hummed—thin veins of metal carrying signals that felt, for the first time, faster than the rumours.
He exhaled.
"Send a message to Sandalbar," he said to the nearest operator. "To Ahmed and Mary and Dr Rao."
The man poised his fingers.
"'Emergency structure operational. Farabi units integrated. Initial resistance noted and checked. Continue estate protocols. Prepare for possibility that, when this is over, some of what we have built will try to climb back into the old skin. We must be ready to say no.'"
The operator blinked.
"Sir," he said, "that is a very long message."
"Then shorten it," Jinnah said. "Tell them: 'The nerves are working. Do not let the bones forget.'"
The taps went out into the night.
Far away, in a quieter wireless room at Sandalbar, a man bent over a set would hear them, write them down, and carry them to a verandah where a nurse with a scar at her side and an accountant with ink on his fingers would read and nod.
Sandalbar, for the moment, stood lighter on its feet and heavier in the world.
Lahore and Shahdara, for the first time in living memory, had something like a spine.