The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed three times, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to emphasize the silence of the house rather than break it.
Muhammad Ali Jinnah sat alone in his study in Malabar Hill, Bombay. To the outside world, this room was the cockpit of Indian Muslim politics. It was here that Viceroys sent messengers and the Muslim League's strategies were debated.
But tonight, the room felt less like a cockpit and more like a departure lounge.
The heavy velvet curtains were drawn against the humid Bombay night. On the massive mahogany desk—a slab of wood dark enough to absorb light—lay two distinct piles of paper.
The Left Pile: The Exit Ticket
On the left sat a bank draft from the Imperial Bank of India. The figure written on it was precise, typed in bold black ink: INR. 700,000.
This represented the liquidation of a life's work. Securities sold. Property deeds transferred. Decades of legal fees accumulated from the highest courts in the Empire.
This money had a destination: London. Next to it lay a brochure for a dignified brick house in Hampstead. A retreat. A place where a man could practice before the Privy Council and breathe air that didn't feel like wet wool.
The Right Pile: The Invitation
On the right lay a cream-colored envelope with the royal seal. An invitation to the First Round Table Conference in London, scheduled for November 1930.
Jinnah picked up the invitation.
"They have summoned everyone," he murmured. "Congress will boycott. The Princes will preen and show off their jewels. And we are expected to go and beg for safeguards."
And you'll get nothing.
The voice in his head—Bilal—cut in, sharp and irreverent.
Spoiler alert, Sir. It's a flop. Without Congress, the British will say it's not representative. You'll freeze in a hotel room, make brilliant speeches, and get zero constitution. Meanwhile, new leaders will rise back here who don't care about law. They care about streets.
Jinnah frowned, setting the invitation down.
"So you suggest I stay," he said. "And do what? Shout slogans? That is Gandhi's theater, not mine."
No, Bilal said. I don't want you to shout. I want you to build.
He directed Jinnah's attention to the money.
Seven lakhs. That's not a pension, Sir. That is Seed Capital. In 1930, during a Depression? That is 'God Mode' money.
Jinnah paused, his cigarette halfway to his lips.
"You use the strangest terms, Mr. Bilal. 'Seed Capital,' 'God Mode.' These sound like the vocabulary of circus magicians. What do they mean?"
They are terms from my world, Bilal said patiently. From the world of startups and simulations.
"Elaborate."
Seed Money, Bilal explained, is the initial injection of capital into a new idea to prove it works. You don't spend it on luxury; you spend it on building the skeleton. The structure. Once the structure stands, it attracts its own revenue. You plant it to grow the tree.
"Investment capital," Jinnah translated. "A metaphor I understand."
But God Mode, Bilal continued, is different. In a simulation—a game—usually you start with limited resources. You have to scrape and save. But sometimes... sometimes you enter a code that gives you infinite resources relative to the challenge. That is God Mode.
Think about it, Sir. In India, a farmer works his whole life to save five thousand rupees. You are walking in with seven hundred thousand. You can buy the best land, hire the best men, import the best machines. You aren't playing by their rules. You are playing from above them.
Jinnah raised an eyebrow.
"So you are telling me that in India, I would be... cheating?"
No, Sir, Bilal replied. You would be optimizing.
"In the High Court," Jinnah said coldly, "we call that a distinction without a difference. Continue."
And Runway, Bilal added quickly. That money buys you time. It allows you to operate at a loss while you build the system. It creates a cushion. A bridge. It means you don't have to beg the local feudal for favors. It means you can be independent until the estate pays for itself.
"A war chest," Jinnah murmured. "To sustain a siege until the harvest comes in."
Exactly, Bilal said. You treat this money not as savings, but as fuel. We burn it to build the engine. By the time it runs out, the engine will be running on its own.
Jinnah leaned back, exhaling a thin stream of smoke.
"You speak in the dialect of some future commercial tribe," he observed. "Strange, but vivid. Continue your argument."
He looked at the map of India on the wall.
"Very well," he said. "If we are not going to London, where do you propose we plant this... seed? I have connections in Lahore. It is the capital of Punjab."
Rejected, Bilal said instantly. Lahore is the Governor's backyard. It's full of spies, socialites, and the Unionist Party elite. You can't build a shadow system when the Chief Secretary can look over your garden wall. Too many eyes, too much bureaucracy.
"Gurdaspur, then?" Jinnah asked, his eyes moving north. "It is fertile. Scenic."
Too politically volatile, Bilal said, his voice tightening. Gurdaspur is a trap. In 1947, that district becomes the knife edge. Too strategic. Too messy. You don't want to build your house on an earthquake fault line.
"Lyallpur," Jinnah suggested. "The city of cotton. Industrial. Wealthy."
Too entrenched, Bilal argued. The textile lobbies own it. The big landlords there have owned the district for fifty years. You'd be fighting for water rights and labor on day one against men who won't hesitate to crush a newcomer.
"You are difficult to please, Mr. Game Developer," Jinnah said dryly. "You reject the capital, the border, and the industrial hub. Shall I ask you to choose the moon next?"
No, Bilal said. We go to Montgomery.
Jinnah's eyes drifted to the space between Lahore and Multan. The Canal Colonies.
"Montgomery," he mused. "Rural Punjab. It is... unremarkable. A horse-breeding district for the cavalry. Settlers. No deep feudal roots."
Exactly, Bilal said. It's the perfect hiding place for a Prototype.
With seven lakhs, Bilal added, you aren't a rival. You're a phenomenon. A former member of the Imperial Legislative Council coming to 'retire'? The local bureaucracy won't fight you; they'll fawn over you.
Jinnah glanced at the bank draft again.
"Tell me, Mr. Bilal... You also used a term yesterday. 'Proof of Concept.' I forgot to ask—you speak as though politics were engineering."
Bilal chuckled softly.
Proof of Concept means you build a small version to show the world it works before scaling it up.
"A pilot project," Jinnah said. "We call that a precedent in law."
Exactly.
"And what is the term you used—'Scaling'? Explain that as well."
Scaling, Bilal said, means taking something small, efficient, and proven—and making it large without breaking it.
Jinnah nodded slowly.
"So Montgomery is the laboratory. The model. And India... is the market."
Now you're thinking like a CEO, Bilal said.
"I prefer 'constitutional architect,'" Jinnah corrected.
Same thing, Bilal replied. Different hat.
Jinnah sat in silence for a long moment. He looked at the invitation—the symbol of the old politics, the begging for safeguards. Then he looked at the bank draft—the fuel for the new way.
"So," Jinnah said softly. "You propose we become... Venture Capitalists of a new state."
Yes, Bilal said. We build the prototype in Montgomery. If it works—we scale.
Jinnah picked up his pen. He pulled the Round Table invitation closer—and pushed it aside.
He pulled a fresh sheet of stationery.
"To the Secretariat, Round Table Conference, London," he dictated to the empty room. "Regret inability to attend due to strict medical advice regarding severe bronchial condition... I am enclosing a memorandum of my views which I request be placed on record..."
He finished the draft, signed it, and set it aside. Then he turned to the bank draft.
"To the Manager, Imperial Bank," he wrote, his hand steady. "Transfer of funds... to Lahore Branch."
Good, Bilal whispered. Now we're playing.
"We are not playing, Mr. Bilal," Jinnah corrected him, blotting the ink with precision. "We are correcting the administration."