The drive to Lahore felt longer than it was.
The road from Montgomery cut through fields that Jinnah knew better than many of the men who owned them: canal lines, village clusters, low roofs, wells, and the occasional white flag of a dispensary fluttering tiredly in the heat.
He travelled in Harrington's car, more for convenience than symbolism. Evelyn had gone ahead by train earlier in the week, summoned separately to consult with the city's medical officers. Ahmed remained at Sandalbar to keep the estate steady.
You look like a man being driven to his own cross-examination, Bilal murmured in the back of his mind.
"I prefer to choose my courts," Jinnah replied quietly, eyes on the road. "Today, I have not."
You did, Bilal said. When you said yes to the Governor's letter.
He did not answer that. The car rolled on.
By late afternoon, the iron gate of Government House swung open before them, guards saluting, liveried staff standing ready. The lawns were impossibly green, the trees old and perfectly placed—Lahore's British core pretending nothing ever rotted at its edges.
Inside, the corridors smelled of polish and paper.
The Room and the Men
The Governor received him not in the grand durbar hall but in a smaller council chamber: high-ceilinged, lined with shelves of bound volumes and maps.
Sir Geoffrey stood as Jinnah entered.
"Mr. Jinnah," he said, crossing the room with a hand extended. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
"Your Excellency," Jinnah replied, bowing his head slightly as their hands met. "Your summons was… unambiguous."
Harrington was there as well, standing to one side, files tucked under his arm. At the far end of the table sat the Premier of Punjab, face composed, eyes wary. A few senior officials—the Health Member, the Chief Secretary—occupied other chairs, pens poised above notebooks.
No one here needed an introduction.
"Please," the Governor said, gesturing to an empty chair. "Let us begin at once. You have seen the reports?"
"I have," Jinnah said, taking his seat. "Montgomery's situation is bad. Lahore's is worse."
The Health Member shifted, almost defensive.
"We are doing what can be done," he began. "Hospitals—"
"We are not here to apportion blame," the Governor cut in, not unkindly. "We are here to determine whether Mr. Jinnah's experience at Sandalbar can be used to save lives beyond his estate."
He looked at Jinnah directly.
"You wrote in your reply," Sir Geoffrey said, "that you would come prepared with a scheme. I will be blunt: we are desperate enough to listen to something that offends our habits, as long as it does not break the Raj."
A faint smile touched Jinnah's mouth.
"If you wish to preserve the Raj," he said, "it must smell less of sewage and death."
Harrington's lips twitched. The Premier did not smile.
Setting the Frame
"Let us start with the obvious," Jinnah continued. "I am not a doctor. The doctors will tell you what cholera is and how it kills. They have already done so. You do not lack knowledge. You lack traction."
He placed a folded sheet on the table and flattened it with two fingers.
"In Sandalbar," he said, "we did not invent hygiene. We invented enforcement that did not depend on goodwill alone. If you ask me to advise this Government, I must ask whether you are prepared to do the same."
The Premier leaned forward.
"Define 'enforcement'," he said, voice cool.
"Consequences," Jinnah replied. "Not for having cholera, but for hiding it. Not for being ignorant, but for stubbornly refusing instruction after being taught. In the estate, that consequence is simple: you lose work. In the city, we cannot cut off everyone's loom. So we must cut something else: movement and social comfort."
He looked from the Premier to the Governor.
"If you call me here merely to decorate your existing circulars," he said, "we should be honest now and save each other's time."
Silence settled for a moment. Then the Governor nodded once.
"Proceed, Mr. Jinnah," he said. "Assume we are willing to offend, within reason."
They say 'within reason' as if they have ever defined it, Bilal observed.
Local Sanitary Councils
Jinnah drew a second paper from his pocket: a hand-drawn diagram of circles and arrows.
"First," he said, "you must stop treating Lahore and Montgomery as amorphous blobs. They are not 'the city' or 'the district'. They are made of lanes, blocks, wards, each with its own small tyrants and small gods."
The Chief Secretary frowned faintly at the phrasing, but said nothing.
"I propose you create local sanitary councils in each defined area," Jinnah went on. "Not grand committees, but small units built out of the voices people already obey."
He ticked off names on his fingers.
"For each area: one imam, one granthi, one pandit, as applicable. The religious men who already lead prayers there, not those you invite to town halls. Add to them two or three folk entertainers—qawwals, ballad singers, storytellers—men or women whose performances draw crowds. Then, a municipal officer assigned to that area, and one police officer. That is your core."
The Premier looked sceptical.
"You want us to govern through singers?" he asked.
"I want you to stop pretending that sanitary inspectors alone can undo centuries of habit," Jinnah replied. "People in the mohallas do not attend your council meetings. They attend Friday prayers, kirtans, aarti, akhand paaths. They gather for songs and stories. Use the gathering points you have, not the ones you wish existed."
The Health Member rubbed his temple.
"And what exactly do these 'sanitary councils' do?" he asked. "Beyond moral exhortation?"
"They become the public face of every instruction," Jinnah said. "The imams, granthis, and pandits speak from their own texts about cleanliness, protection of neighbours, obedience to authority in times of plague. After they finish, the folk singers reinforce the same messages in story and verse—simple, memorable, repeated."
He shrugged lightly.
"A poster is forgotten," he said. "A song hummed by children is not."
The Governor glanced at the Premier.
"Can we secure the cooperation of religious leaders?" he asked.
"If cholera keeps filling their courtyards," the Premier said slowly, "most will cooperate—if we show them respect and do not make them look like government parrots."
"Then do not," Jinnah said. "Let them choose the verses themselves, as long as the themes align. Give them the dignity of being seen as leaders, not as policemen in robes."
Rings of Isolation
"And when persuasion fails?" the Chief Secretary asked. "You spoke of consequences."
Jinnah nodded.
"Yes. That is the second pillar: structured isolation."
He slid another paper forward—a simple outline of a lane, a block, a ward.
"At present," he said, "you close wells and lecture neighbourhoods. It is like trying to stop a river with a broom. Instead, define three levels of response in law and advertise them plainly from the start."
He pointed to the first circle.
"Level One: Lane. A confirmed cholera case appears in a lane; that lane is sealed for inspection. No one enters, no one leaves, except health teams and their escorts, until every house is checked. The local sanitary council leads the explanation. The police enforce the boundary."
The Health Member grimaced.
"There will be protests," he said.
"Yes," Jinnah said calmly. "Which is why the rules must be announced before you need them. If you introduce them in the middle of chaos, you will look arbitrary. If you state: 'This is the law of the epidemic, agreed by religious leaders, municipal board, and Government,' then resistance appears less righteous, more selfish."
He tapped the second circle.
"Level Two: Block. If multiple lanes in one block show cases and do not cooperate, you treat the block as a single unit. Markets there close. Gatherings are banned. Food is brought in under controlled distribution. People in other blocks then understand: if they report early and obey at Level One, they avoid Level Two."
"And Level Three?" the Governor asked.
"Ward or municipal unit," Jinnah said. "If an entire ward is seething with cases and defiance, you treat it as a quarantine zone. Movement in and out is tightly controlled. Main roads in and out are manned. Tram stops, monitored. The rest of the city sees very clearly what happens when stubbornness continues."
The Premier made a face.
"You are describing a siege," he said.
"I am describing what cholera already does," Jinnah replied. "You are merely deciding whether you wish to be as disciplined as the disease."
Nice line, Bilal approved softly.