After an hour of walking the boundary and stepping through each room, they gathered again in the central hall. A table had been cleared and a few chairs brought in. The tahsildar spread his folder on the table with reverence: maps, registers, lists of allotted and unallotted land.
"Here, Sir," he said, pointing with a carefully clean fingernail. "This bungalow compound is government property, as Commissioner Sahib said. These surrounding fields, marked in light green — existing tenancies. This block, in pale yellow, still under government disposal. Good soil, close to the distributary."
Jinnah leaned in, studying the map.
This yellow block, Bilal said. Core Sandalbar test zone. We want that.
"And this yellow block," Jinnah asked, tapping it lightly, "is available?"
"Yes, Sir," the tahsildar said. "Some applications before, but none completed. If high orders come, it can be reserved for you."
Harrington watched Jinnah's finger on the map as carefully as any chess player watching a piece.
"You understand," Harrington said, "that government land cannot simply be gifted. There are procedures. Prices, conditions, improvements to be made. We can expedite within the rules, but not beyond them."
"I would not insult you," Jinnah replied, "by asking for gifts. I am quite prepared to pay the proper price and to fulfil any improvements you require — tree planting, building, soil conservation."
And quietly: pilot administration, Farabi cadre, ghost bureaucracy, Bilal added. But that box doesn't exist on their form.
"And acreage?" Harrington asked. "What scale are you thinking? You mentioned an 'estate' — that can mean ten acres or ten thousand depending on who's speaking."
"I have no desire to play maharaja," Jinnah said. "Enough land to experiment with a few crops, support a village or two of tenants, and maintain a household that is not ridiculous. A few hundred acres, perhaps. Quality over spectacle."
The tahsildar made a small, approving sound. A man with a few hundred acres was large enough to be worth bowing to, not so large as to threaten the district's social math.
"We can identify suitable parcels," Harrington said. "We'll arrange for you to see them over the next two days. In the meantime, you can, if you like, begin using this bungalow as a base. I have no objection."
"I am grateful," Jinnah said.
"Good," Harrington replied. "Now — the other matter. Security."
He looked at his assistant, who nodded slightly.
"As it happens," Harrington continued, "there are a number of men in the district — and a few from neighboring ones — who might fit your… requirements. Ex-soldiers, ex-railway guards, a few Anglo-Indian wireless men whose names have reached us from Bombay and Lahore."
"You move quickly, Commissioner," Jinnah said.
"When a man like you announces he wants to employ stable, government-approved veterans," Harrington said, "I consider it part of my duty to help him find them before someone less orderly does. They're here today, in fact. In town this morning, summoned discreetly. If you wish, we can begin interviews this afternoon, here at the bungalow. That way your future guards will get a feel for the walls they're supposed to watch."
Perfect, Bilal said. We start filtering for temperament now, not later.
"By all means," Jinnah said. "I would like to see them."
By late afternoon, the bungalow's verandah had been swept, a few chairs arranged, and a large earthen mat laid out along one wall where waiting men could sit. Outside the gate, a small cluster of women and children hovered in the shade of a tree — families, waiting while their men went in to be judged by destiny and a barrister.
Jinnah sat at a small table near the verandah's inner corner, back to the wall, with a clear view of the gate and the garden. Harrington had withdrawn politely to the inner hall, within earshot but not hovering. The assistant stood discreetly near the door with a notebook. The tahsildar flitted between the gate and the verandah like an anxious pigeon.
The first candidate was a Sikh in his late thirties, beard neatly tied, turban worn with quiet pride. His demobilization papers and a dog-eared reference from a cavalry regiment in France were tucked in his hand.
"Name?" Jinnah asked.
"Subedar Kartar Singh, Sir," the man replied, standing straight.
"You served in France?" Jinnah asked, glancing at the paper.
"Yes, Sir," Kartar Singh said. "Cavalry. Then some time in Mesopotamia. Came back, took small land here. Now also doing odd jobs for canal officers. I have wife, two sons."
"And why," Jinnah asked, "do you wish to leave those 'odd jobs' to stand at a gate in Montgomery?"
Kartar Singh's eyes flicked briefly toward the outer wall, where a child's laughter drifted in.
"Odd jobs," he said, "are odd because they end, Sir. One day work, ten days idle. My sons grow. I want something steady. Also…" He hesitated. "In war, Sir, orders were clear. Here, sometimes, orders change with every new official."
He wants predictability, Bilal said. Good. Less likely to be seduced by "glorious chaos."
"If you were here," Jinnah said, "your duty would be to obey the law, protect the residents, and refuse unlawful orders — including from me, if I lose my wits. Can you do that?"
Kartar Singh blinked.
"Refuse your orders, Sir?" he asked.
"If I tell you," Jinnah said calmly, "to fire on unarmed villagers because I am in a bad mood, you are to refuse. If I tell you to beat a tenant for not bowing low enough, you are to refuse. If I tell you to hide a crime, you are to refuse and report it. I do not want men who will become dacoits under my own roof."
The Sikh considered this, then nodded slowly.
"In regiment," he said, "we were taught chain of command. But also, some orders are not orders. They are madness. I can do as you say, Sir. But you must put it in front of all men same way. So they know."
"I intend to," Jinnah said. "You may sit there for now. We will speak again."
Kartar Singh saluted in the old military way and went to sit on the edge of the mat, his back very straight.
The next man was a lean Punjabi Muslim, his face weathered, eyes sharp.
"Name?" Jinnah asked.
"Ghulam Nabi, Sir," he replied. "Ex-constable. Five years in police, two years on rail line security. Left after… differences with Sub-Inspector."
"Differences?" Jinnah asked mildly.
Ghulam Nabi's jaw flexed.
"He wanted," he said carefully, "bribes where there was no case, beatings where there was no crime, and blind eyes where there was. I am not saint, Sir, but I am also not blind. So I left before I was thrown out."
That's useful and dangerous, Bilal said. Integrity plus resentment. Test for bitterness.
"And now?" Jinnah asked. "What do you want?"
"Roof that does not move every three months, Sir," Ghulam Nabi said. "Work where my children know which tree is theirs to climb. And a job where law is not just stick, but also balance."
"If hired," Jinnah said, "you will have to accept that the estate rules may be stricter than the village, but not arbitrary. You will also have to ignore gossip that I am some kind of traitor to one party or another. Can you keep your ears open but your tongue still?"
"I have been married fifteen years, Sir," Ghulam Nabi said with the ghost of a smile. "I can keep my tongue still when required."
Jinnah allowed himself a faint, approving exhale.
"Sit there," he said. "We will talk again."
One by one, they came:
A thickset Hindu from Hoshiarpur, ex-railway guard, proud of his whistle and his punctuality. A wiry Pathan from the frontier, now tired of bad pay and worse rifles in the tribal belt, wanting somewhere his sons could go to school. A quiet Jat farmer whose land had shrunk with each generation, looking for a wage to top up what the fields could no longer give.
Most came with wives waiting outside, children peeking around the gatepost.
Good, Bilal said. Families anchor them. Far less likely to run off with the first fanatic with a speech and a bag of coins.
In the late afternoon, the Anglo-Indians arrived: five men, at slightly different times, all carrying themselves with that peculiar mixture of deference and brittle pride common to their community. Their names were D'Souza, Carvalho, Lewis, Daniels, and Pereira — two from the railways, one from Post & Telegraph, one ex-Army signaler, one who had worked on merchant ships installing wireless sets.
They were ushered in one by one.
"Mr. D'Souza," Jinnah said to the first, a stocky man in his early forties with careful English.
"Yes, Sir," D'Souza said. "Wireless operator, twenty years service. Railways and P&T both."
"You know you will not be in a city," Jinnah said. "This is canal country. Nights are dark. Days are long. Do you and your family understand that?"
"Yes, Sir," D'Souza replied. "The Missus says she'd rather have one good employer in a quiet place than three bad ones in town. Our boy will be happy if there's a field to run in and a school within bullock-cart distance."
"And your politics?" Jinnah asked. "Any strong views I should worry about?"
"Only that the wireless should work when I send a message, Sir," D'Souza said. "And that the pay should come when promised. We've had enough of speeches. They don't feed children."
Hire this man yesterday, Bilal said. He speaks fluent "infrastructure".
"You will have a set under your care," Jinnah said. "Registered, inspected, used according to the law. You will also keep a written log that your grandchildren could read without shame."
D'Souza's mouth twitched.
"I can do that, Sir," he said.
"Sit there," Jinnah said. "We will decide soon."
By the time the last candidate had been interviewed, the sun was sliding down behind the eucalyptus line, turning the canal in the distance to a strip of molten copper. The verandah smelled of dust, sweat, and the faint starch of Jinnah's own collar.
Harrington emerged from the hall, hands in his pockets.
"Well?" he asked quietly, in English. "Enough material for your private regiment?"
"Enough," Jinnah said, equally softly. "And not a regiment. A household."
Harrington glanced at the mat where the men sat, trying not to stare back too openly.
"Mostly Punjabis," he said. "As you wanted. And the Anglo-Indians — Macready has a decent nose for men who know their business."
"Yes," Jinnah said. "They will do."
"You realize," Harrington added, "that the moment word spreads that Mr. Jinnah has an estate, guards, and a wireless set in Montgomery, the rumor mill will invent three conspiracies and a half by lunchtime."
"I assumed as much," Jinnah replied. "Let them. Rumors are like weeds; if you keep the ground too bare, they grow faster. Better to have a visible story they can point at."
"And what is that story?" Harrington asked.
"That a tired barrister," Jinnah said, "is building himself a small fortress of order against the universal advance of stupidity. With your government's full knowledge and observable paperwork."
Harrington huffed a short laugh.
"I'll make sure the paperwork is very visible," he said.
As the men were dismissed with promises of final word in the coming days, Jinnah remained on the verandah for a moment, alone. The evening wind carried in the distant sound of women calling children home, the gurgle of water in the canal, a dog barking at something only it could see.
All right, Bilal said quietly. We have walls. We have a shell of a house. We have candidates for a security layer that isn't insane. We have a Commissioner who thinks you're building an eccentric retirement colony. That's a decent start.
We do not yet have land formally allotted, Jinnah replied. We do not yet have grain, or clinics, or an organized Farabis circle.
No, Bilal said. But we have a place to put them. And we've started picking the people who will run the loops when everything else starts burning.
Jinnah looked out toward the faint line of the canal and the darker strip of fields between.
Sandalbar, he thought. Welcome to the witness stand.
He turned back into the house, already mentally slotting in the rooms:
Outside the walls, the British Empire still imagined it was running the show.
Inside, on cracked tiles and under a dusty roof, the first lines of a parallel script were being written — in the careful, infuriatingly neat handwriting of M.A. Jinnah.