England, Spring 1935
By the third week in England, Jinnah had collected eleven expressions of the greatest possible interest.
They were beautifully written.
Some occupied a single page on expensive stationery. Others extended to three, regretting at considerable length that the present circumstances did not permit participation in an enterprise of such remarkable promise. One director expressed his warmest admiration for the advancement of the Indian countryside. Another hoped that the proposed undertaking would bring lasting prosperity to His Majesty's Indian subjects.
None contained an offer of money.
Chhotu Ram had taken to reading these letters after breakfast. He found them increasingly entertaining.
"This gentleman wishes us every success."
Jinnah continued examining the morning newspaper.
"How generous."
"And this one assures us that our efforts will contribute greatly to the welfare of the Empire."
"Most encouraging."
"He regrets, however, that his company is unable to associate itself financially with our scheme."
Jinnah turned a page.
"Naturally."
Chhotu Ram folded the letter.
"I am beginning to understand English business correspondence. When a man tells you that your enterprise deserves the support of every civilized person, you may be certain he has no intention of supporting it himself."
Jinnah lowered his newspaper.
"That is not peculiar to England."
"No. But the English have perfected the grammar."
They had begun their journey with the strongest possible introduction. Sir Herbert Emerson, Governor of Punjab, had written personally to a number of industrial and commercial gentlemen whose influence extended from Manchester's engineering establishments to the financial houses of London.
The Governor's name had opened every door.
At first, Jinnah had been pleased.
He was becoming less so.
The meetings were invariably courteous. Their hosts stood when the visitors entered. Tea appeared in fine porcelain. Secretaries took notes. The Governor's interest was acknowledged with suitable respect.
Then the questions began, and behind the questions lay an assumption no amount of British courtesy could quite conceal.
The gentlemen from India had brought an interesting dream.
It would be impolite to call it a dream.
Therefore it was described as a most ambitious undertaking.
In Oldham, they were received at the offices of a great textile-machinery concern whose equipment had helped transform cotton production across the world.
The factories themselves impressed Chhotu Ram. He spent nearly an hour examining carding and spinning machinery, paying particular attention to the smaller equipment and to machines no longer required by their original purchasers.
The company's commercial representative, a thin gentleman named Mr. Pritchard, watched these inquiries with growing discomfort.
He had expected a discussion about purchasing machinery. Instead he found himself explaining the cost of repairs, the availability of spare parts, and why a particular type of spinning frame required more supervision than another.
When they finally sat down, Pritchard seemed determined to recover the initiative.
"I understand you intend to establish village cotton industries throughout Punjab."
"Among other industries," Jinnah replied.
"Yes, yes. But cotton is the principal matter, surely."
"Not at every location."
Pritchard smiled patiently.
"One must begin somewhere, Mr. Jinnah. I fear you may discover that the operation of machinery requires more discipline than the traditional Indian village is accustomed to providing."
Chhotu Ram, who had been examining a price schedule, looked up.
"Have you visited Punjab, Mr. Pritchard?"
"Bombay, once. Some years ago."
"Then you will have seen that Indians already operate considerable quantities of British machinery."
"In established mills, certainly. With experienced management."
"And how did those mills obtain experienced management?"
Pritchard hesitated.
"Training, I suppose."
"Then you have answered your own objection."
Jinnah did not intervene. He had learned that when Chhotu Ram spoke about the capabilities of rural people, interruptions were seldom useful.
Pritchard recovered his smile.
"My concern is simply that a countryside accustomed to hand production may not readily adapt to industrial methods."
"Not every traditional method needs replacing," Chhotu Ram said. "Our premium khadi earns its price precisely because of its hand production. We would be fools to mechanize that advantage away. But the same district also requires inexpensive ordinary cloth, ginned cotton, flour and oil. A farmer understands the difference between a fine article and a cheap one rather better than you imagine. He makes the distinction every time he sells his harvest."
Pritchard glanced towards Jinnah, perhaps hoping the barrister would return the conversation to more familiar territory.
Instead Jinnah placed the Sandalbar accounts upon the desk.
"We are interested in several classes of machinery. We shall purchase only those that improve the economics of a particular operation. There is no need to mechanize work merely for the pleasure of owning machines."
Pritchard examined the accounts, and for a while the conversation improved.
The manufacturers were willing to quote for equipment. They could arrange shipments to Karachi. They knew Indian agents and could offer technical assistance at customary rates.
But when Jinnah introduced the possibility of deferred payment against productive returns, or participation in the proposed investment structure, the atmosphere changed.
Pritchard's smile became almost fatherly.
"My dear Mr. Jinnah, we are manufacturers. We cannot reasonably be expected to speculate upon the fortunes of two hundred Punjabi villages."
"Nor are we asking you to speculate upon two hundred," Jinnah replied. "An initial participation might be confined to a few carefully selected undertakings."
"Even so. It is hardly our customary business."
He glanced at the financial papers.
"Perhaps some philanthropic industrial gentleman might take an interest."
The word philanthropic settled upon the table.
Chhotu Ram closed the price schedule.
"We are not asking for charity, Mr. Pritchard."
"Oh, I meant no offence."
"I am certain you did not."
It was said pleasantly enough.
Only Jinnah, who knew his companion well, recognized that the meeting was over.
They left with catalogues, price schedules and another promise of sympathetic consideration.
On the train back to Manchester, Chhotu Ram opened the window slightly, allowing the cold air into the compartment.
"That man spent an hour explaining why his company could sell machinery to India," he said, "and another explaining why India was not fit to use it."
Jinnah smiled faintly.
"He is prepared to sell to us for cash."
"Of course. The Indian village becomes quite competent when its money arrives in advance."
The turbine manufacturers were more interesting.
At Boving's offices, they encountered men who cared considerably less about political status than about water.
One elderly engineer remembered Sir Ganga Ram's work at Renala Khurd, and the conversation changed when Chhotu Ram mentioned having attended the opening of the powerhouse years earlier.
"You were present?"
"I was."
"Then you will remember the difficulties involved in making the canal works and the generating arrangements function together."
"I remember that Sir Ganga Ram had little patience for people who believed a difficulty became an impossibility merely because it required calculation."
The engineer laughed.
"That sounds like him."
For the better part of an afternoon they bent over canal records and drawings. Some proposed falls interested the engineers. Others were dismissed immediately. At several locations the cost of civil modification threatened to consume whatever advantage the water power provided.
Chhotu Ram accepted the criticism without resentment.
The men had come to England to discover what could be built, not to purchase certificates confirming their own enthusiasm.
The engineers offered genuine assistance. They could study the first sites, design appropriate machines and propose technical arrangements for installation and maintenance.
They would not, however, become investors.
Their directors could justify manufacturing turbines against firm contracts. They were not prepared to exchange machinery for uncertain dividends from flour mills, oil presses and rural cooperative workshops.
Jinnah thanked them and arranged for further technical correspondence.
It was not a wasted visit.
But it was not capital.
And capital was what he needed.
London proved harder.
In Manchester, a manufacturer could at least imagine an order moving through his works, employing fitters and keeping machines in production. The connection between Punjab's development and his own profit was visible.
The City possessed a different imagination.
There, money was already expected to produce more money. Its owners needed convincing that an unfamiliar arrangement offered better returns than familiar alternatives.
Jinnah had anticipated the difficulty. He had not anticipated the pleasure some men would take in explaining it.
One luncheon was held in a private dining room overlooking a narrow London street. The host, a director of an investment house, had invited several gentlemen whose names appeared in the Governor's introductory correspondence.
They were impeccably dressed and unfailingly polite.
For the first twenty minutes they talked about India without asking either visitor a question.
One had hunted in the United Provinces. Another possessed a cousin in the Indian Civil Service. A third knew a retired colonel who maintained that the trouble with modern India was too much education and insufficient discipline.
Then the host turned towards Jinnah.
"His Excellency seems quite taken with your industrial experiment."
"It has already produced encouraging results," Jinnah answered.
"So I gather. Rather an ambitious undertaking, though. Two hundred industrial establishments in the Punjab countryside."
"That is the eventual Class I programme."
A man near the window smiled.
"Do forgive my asking, but is this not a rather elaborate means of providing employment to people who have managed to live without factories for centuries?"
A few gentlemen laughed.
Chhotu Ram put down his glass of water.
"Your country also managed to live without factories for centuries."
The gentleman inclined his head.
"Touché."
"But I doubt you would recommend returning to that arrangement."
The laughter subsided.
The host intervened smoothly.
"I think the concern is whether a rural cooperative can operate with the financial discipline expected by modern investors."
"That is a proper concern," Jinnah said. "It is why we have brought operating accounts rather than only projections."
He placed a copy of the Sandalbar figures on the table.
The host glanced at them.
"Most impressive, I am sure."
He did not open the folder.
Jinnah noticed.
So did Chhotu Ram.
The conversation moved on to shipping difficulties, Indian political unrest, the reputation of provincial officials, and the danger of investing in an agricultural economy subject to bad harvests.
Every objection was politely expressed. Most were legitimate in isolation. Together they had the peculiar effect of making it impossible to discuss the undertaking itself.
Towards the end of the meal, a younger gentleman, flushed slightly with wine, asked whether Jinnah expected the cooperatives to be managed by village elders.
"By trained administrators and accountable management," Jinnah replied.
"And I suppose the cultivators will attend shareholders' meetings between ploughing and harvesting?"
The remark drew another ripple of amusement.
Chhotu Ram regarded the young man.
"Some will. Others will elect representatives. They will require accurate accounts, just as your shareholders do."
"Quite, quite."
"And I imagine," Chhotu Ram continued, "that a cultivator who has spent thirty years keeping his family alive through uncertain harvests may possess a reasonable understanding of financial risk."
The young man coloured.
His neighbour came politely to his rescue by asking about the weather in Lahore.
Jinnah knew then that no investment would emerge from the luncheon.
He closed the folder.
The accounts had remained unread.
As they were leaving, their host shook his hand warmly.
"A most stimulating discussion, Mr. Jinnah. I do hope you find the assistance your province deserves."
"Thank you."
"And please convey my respectful regards to His Excellency. It was exceedingly kind of him to arrange our meeting."
Outside, Chhotu Ram waited until they had entered the motorcar.
Then he began to laugh.
Jinnah looked at him.
"What is amusing?"
"That luncheon."
"I found very little to admire."
"Nor did I. But consider the expense of it. Fine food, excellent wine, expensive servants, three hours of conversation—and not one man willing to risk a pound."
Jinnah leaned back against the seat.
Chhotu Ram's laughter faded.
"Did you notice something else?"
"Yes."
"Every one of them mentioned the Governor."
"I noticed."
"Even when they did not mention our proposal."
Jinnah looked through the window at the traffic passing in the street.
He had noticed that too.