Two days later, the air in the Ripon Club was thick with cigar smoke and low conversation. Waiters in white moved silently between small clusters of men in dark suits and neatly trimmed moustaches.
On one side of the room, near a tall window that framed the twilight over the harbour, three men sat around a small table: Muhammad Ali Jinnah, Ardeshir Mistry, and Framroze "Fram" Engineer — both Parsi industrialists, both long accustomed to the peculiar combination of sharp legal advice and cold courtesy that came with his presence.
A decanter of whisky and a bottle of soda water sat between them. Jinnah's glass held only soda.
"Arre, Jinnah-saheb," Ardeshir said, swirling his drink. "If you drink only soda, you will live to a hundred and make the rest of us look very bad."
"I have no intention," Jinnah replied, "of living to a hundred. I intend only to live long enough to finish my work."
"And what work is that these days?" Fram asked. "Bombay keeps you busy enough, I imagine. I hear your name more in the newspapers than in the law reports now."
Here we go, Bilal murmured. Parsi business circles: sharp, practical, used to risk. Good allies, if given the right story.
"I am," Jinnah said, "considering a change in the arrangement of my work."
"Resigning from politics?" Ardeshir asked, half-joking. "If you do, half the city will be offended and the other half will finally be able to book you as counsel."
"Nothing quite so dramatic," Jinnah said. "I am looking to shift the center of my practice — at least in part — from Bombay to Lahore."
Both men looked at him, then at each other.
"Lahore?" Fram said. "That dusty town?"
"Dusty towns," Ardeshir corrected, "have made many fortunes, Fram. But for you, Jinnah-saheb? This is interesting."
"The Lahore High Court," Jinnah went on calmly, "is increasingly important. Its bar is growing, its questions are vital. Punjab is becoming the granary and the battlefield at once. It is prudent to have one's feet on that soil."
"But Bombay has always been good to you," Ardeshir said. "And you to Bombay. Why now?"
"The doctor insists," Jinnah replied, "on a change of climate. My lungs are not as accommodating as they once were. The sea humidity does not agree with me. A drier atmosphere, he says. Fewer social obligations. More controlled workload."
True enough, Bilal said. Lie only by omission, not commission.
"You could go to Poona for that," Fram said. "Or Panchgani. Why drag the whole practice to Lahore for the sake of your lungs?"
"Because," Jinnah answered, "Lahore offers work that justifies the move. If I must adjust my life for health, I would prefer that adjustment also serve some strategic purpose. Poona does not decide the future of the Indian politics"
Ardeshir chuckled. "You always need at least three reasons to do anything," he said. "Health, politics, and some third reason you do not tell us."
"There is also," Jinnah said, ignoring the jab with a faint smile, "a private plan. I am considering the purchase of land in the canal colonies. Montgomery district, perhaps. A modest estate. Ten minutes from the station, another little halt along the line towards Harappa. Quiet, irrigated, away from the noise."
"A bungalow in the canals?" Fram raised his eyebrows. "You, a zamindar? I would pay to see you argue with canal inspectors."
"I do not intend to sit on a verandah in a turban counting rents," Jinnah said dryly. "Think of it more as a controlled environment. A place where one may experiment with certain arrangements — in agriculture, in local administration, in services."
Careful, Bilal warned. Don't call it a 'parallel state' over the whisky.
"Experiment?" Ardeshir repeated. "What sort of experiment?"
"The kind," Jinnah said, "that requires trustworthy men who can run things properly without constant supervision. Which is, in part, why I asked you both to join me this evening."
At that, both Parsis straightened a little. "Ah," Fram said. "Here it comes. You need something."
"You have built, between you," Jinnah continued, "mills, factories, godowns, clinics, housing for your workers. You know how to keep thousands of people fed, clothed, treated, and at work without chaos. I am looking to assemble, on a smaller scale, a similar team — for a rural estate instead of a factory compound."
Ardeshir leaned forward. "What precisely do you need?" he asked. "Speak plainly, Jinnah-saheb. You are not usually shy."
Good, Bilal said. Now give them a shopping list. They understand lists.
"In outline," Jinnah said, "I will require three categories of people." He raised a finger. "First: management. A man — or a small team — who understands accounts, logistics, labour relations. Someone who can keep books properly, manage supplies, supervise a small staff, and not steal more than he is paid."
Fram laughed. "You ask for a miracle," he said.
"I ask," Jinnah replied, "for a competent manager who would value a long-term, stable position on a respectable estate over the chaos of city labour politics. Preferably someone from a community that knows how to deal fairly with multiple castes and creeds. Your people have some experience in this."
"True," Ardeshir admitted. "We are used to being in the middle of other people's quarrels." He tapped his glass, thinking. "In fact," he added, "there is an old British fellow we know. Been in India since before the War. Edward Bennett — we all call him 'Mr Bennett' as if he were a character from some English novel. He used to manage a club in Karachi, then an officers' mess during the War. Knows ledgers, staff, stores, and how to keep drunk subalterns from burning the place down."
"A butler?" Fram said.
"More than that," Ardeshir replied. "He runs a house like a ship's captain."
"He is semi-retired now," Ardeshir went on. "Lives modestly in Bombay with his wife and two daughters — both grown enough to help, not children. The girls are practical, not delicate. His wife, Margaret, has been managing Englishmen's moods in the tropics for twenty years. If you want a butler–cum–estate manager who will run your house, your table, and your staff like clockwork, Bennett is the man."
A British estate manager with a built-in family unit, Bilal noted. Respectable façade, domestic stability, good optics with the Raj and the locals both. Not bad.
"Second," Jinnah went on, raising another finger, "medical staff. At least one reliable doctor, not the sort who insists on wearing a stethoscope like a medal and talking more than he listens. Someone accustomed to mill dispensaries, perhaps. And a nurse or compounder. Rural areas are badly served. I intend to provide for the people on and around the land, not merely for myself."
Ardeshir's face brightened. "That, at least, I can answer immediately," he said. "You know our mill hospital in Parel? The one we built after the influenza epidemic?"
"I have seen it from a distance," Jinnah said. "Functional building. Sensible layout."
"We have a British lady doctor there," Ardeshir said. "Dr Evelyn Hart. Obstetrician–gynaecologist by training — from London, properly qualified, not a missionary dilettante. She came out during the War to work in a women's hospital, never quite went back. Now she runs our maternity ward and half our general cases because she cannot stand to see the men's ward mismanaged."
There she is, Bilal murmured. British OB-GYN, embedded in local reality. Perfect.
"She handles general practice as well?" Jinnah asked, interested.
"Oh, yes," Ardeshir said. "Fever, injuries, coughs, pregnancies, deliveries, everything. My workers' wives adore her. The men grumble because she scolds them about drink and tobacco, which is why I know you will get on famously."
Fram snorted. "She also," Ardeshir added, "is not snobbish about who she treats. Parsi, Hindu, Muslim, Anglo-Indian — she does not care. If it bleeds or breathes, she will try to keep it alive. She has been complaining for a year that the city is choking her and that she would rather work somewhere quieter, where she can build something properly."
"A British doctor in a rural estate," Jinnah said slowly, "would be… noticed."
"Noticed in a good way," Ardeshir replied. "The district officers will be relieved to know there is a reliable English doctor nearby. It gives them cover when they write their reports. And the women in the villages will trust her once they realise she actually knows what she is doing."
"And the rest of the staff around her?" Jinnah asked. "Nurses, assistants?"
"We already have two Anglo-Indian nurses who follow her everywhere," Ardeshir said, counting on his fingers. "Raised in Byculla, educated at a mission hospital, but practical, not pious. They switch between English, Hindustani, and speak Punjabi like breathing. If you take Evelyn, they will insist on coming with her."
Anglo-Indians for the medical frontline, Bilal thought. Bridges between worlds. Brown enough to understand the villagers, English enough to reassure the officers.
"And the third category?" Jinnah prompted.
"Technical staff," he said. "Engineers, surveyors, perhaps a young man with some understanding of pumps, generators, basic machinery. The canals change everything in those districts; if used sensibly, they can support more than wheat and sugarcane. I want people who are curious, not merely obedient."
Fram perked up. "That is where my cousin in Lahore comes in," he said. "He works with the North-Western Railway workshops. Knows every Anglo-Indian fitter, mechanic, and signalman between here and Rawalpindi. He is always complaining that his best boys leave for Calcutta or Rangoon because no one in Punjab will pay them properly."
"He once brought two of them to Bombay," Ardeshir added. "Brothers. Anglo-Indians from a railway colony near Lahore. David and Peter Lewis. One can take apart a pump or a generator in his sleep; the other can read a map, measure a field, and argue with a canal overseer without getting punched. They walk like railway men but think like engineers."
Perfect, Bilal said. Anglo-Indian techs: comfortable with machines, timetables, and white sahibs shouting. Exactly what we need to run a hybrid canal–clinic–estate.
"You are not describing a normal retreat," Fram said. "This sounds like you are building a small… what, model township?"
"A place," Jinnah replied carefully, "where we can demonstrate what competent, orderly management looks like. Without the constant interference of urban politics. If it functions well, it will be… persuasive."
'Persuasive' still a good euphemism, Bilal approved.
"And you want these people from us?" Ardeshir asked.
"You have networks," Jinnah said. "In Bombay, in Karachi, even in Lahore. Parsi doctors, managers, engineers — and others you trust. Men and women who may be willing to take a position in Punjab if the terms are fair and the employer is not a drunken fool."
"You are certainly not a drunken fool," Fram said. "Merely a tired one."
"You can tell them," Jinnah continued, as if he hadn't heard, "that the estate will be on sound footing. The owner will not disappear overnight. Salaries will be reliable. They will have autonomy within their sphere. And they will be building something that may, in time, be noticed."
Ardeshir poured a little more whisky into his glass, thinking. "This Lahore shift," he said, "is it… permanent?"
"Nothing in politics is permanent," Jinnah replied. "But for the foreseeable future, yes, I intend to base myself there. Chambers at the Lahore bar, a residence in the city, and this estate in the Montgomery canals. Bombay will remain important, but not central."
"You are serious," Fram said. "Then you will need more than just three categories of men. You will need suppliers, lawyers there, surveyors, honest tahsildars — if such creatures exist."
"For suppliers and lawyers," Jinnah said, "I can manage. For tahsildars, we must rely on Providence and relentless supervision. For management, medicine, and technical matters, I would prefer to begin with people whose habits have already been tested in your enterprises."
Ardeshir nodded slowly. "Then let us start with names," he said. "Edward Bennett for management and the running of your house. Dr Evelyn Hart for medicine, with her nurses. And from Fram's cousin, these Lewis brothers for technical work."
"I will speak to Bennett here in Bombay," Jinnah said. "And to Dr Evelyn and her nurses, if you will arrange an introduction at your hospital. The Lewis brothers I can meet in Lahore when I arrive."
Fram tapped the edge of his glass. "And what do we tell people," he asked, "when they ask why the great Mr Jinnah is suddenly so interested in canals and Montgomery, and now surrounded by British doctors, Anglo-Indian nurses, and an English butler with daughters in tow?"
"Tell them," Jinnah said, "that my health requires a drier climate. That the Lahore bar is vigorous and I am too ambitious to ignore it. That a man of my age is entitled to a quiet place in the country where he can read and work without interruptions, with decent staff who know their work."
All true, Bilal noted. Also missing the killer detail that you're planning to sneak an operating system into Punjab.
"And if they do not believe that is the only reason?" Fram asked.
Jinnah's eyes glinted. "Then let them speculate," he said. "I have found that when people are busy inventing theories about you, they rarely notice what you are actually building."
Ardeshir laughed. "That," he said, "is the most honest thing anyone has said here all week." He sobered slightly. "Very well, Jinnah-saheb," he said. "I will speak to Bennett and to Dr Evelyn tomorrow. Quietly. If they are interested, you will have your manager and your physician — and the Anglo-Indian staff they trust — ready to consider your canals."
"And I," Fram added, "will write to my cousin in Lahore tonight. If there is a Lewis brother not already underneath a locomotive, we will flush him out."
Jinnah inclined his head in thanks. "I will be in Bombay for a few more weeks," he said. "Then I shall go north. Send word to my chambers when you have names and answers. And, Ardeshir, for God's sake, do not describe this as some romantic 'utopian colony' to your friends. I am building a functional retreat, not a poetry club."
Ardeshir grinned. "I would never insult you with utopia," he said. "'Efficient estate' sounds much more like you."
As the conversation drifted to other matters — ship insurance, a new textile order, the latest absurdities in the Legislative Council — Bilal's voice spoke quietly inside.
All right, he said. You've told the sister, you've primed the Parsis, you've cancelled London, you've called the tailor in Montgomery, and now we have names: Bennett, Evelyn, Mary, Ruth, David, Peter. The cast list is filling fast.
Indeed, Jinnah replied inwardly. Now we see whether this alleged game can be improved.
Or broken in a different way, Bilal said. But at least this time, we're not going in blind.