The dinner at Commissioner Harrington's bungalow was a stark contrast to the dust and smoke of the last few weeks. There was no smell of burnt cotton here, only the aroma of roast lamb and the faint, expensive scent of beeswax polish on mahogany tables.
Jinnah sat opposite Harrington, the crystal wine glass catching the light of the chandelier.
"The soup is excellent, Commissioner," Jinnah said politely.
"It's a recipe from the Governor's own chef," Harrington said, dabbing his mouth. He signaled the bearer to pour more wine, his mood expansive. "Speaking of His Excellency, we had a long telephone conversation this morning regarding you."
Jinnah did not pause in his eating, but inside, his attention sharpened.
"Oh?"
"He is… pleasantly surprised," Harrington admitted with a chuckle. "To be honest, Mr. Jinnah, when you first arrived, the Governor thought you were a headache looking for a place to happen. A London barrister playing at farming? We expected you to fail within the month."
Harrington leaned back, swirling his glass.
"But the reports from Sandalbar are undeniable. The bandit suppression. The clinic. And now, this 'Domestic Factory' model with the weavers. It works. The revenue from your sector is up twenty percent while the rest of the district is in a slump."
"Efficiency," Jinnah said simply, "is its own reward."
"The Governor said something similar," Harrington nodded. "In fact, he said—and I quote—'Perhaps Mr. Jinnah has finally found his true position in the Raj.'"
Jinnah's hand stilled on his fork.
Careful, Bilal's voice warned in his head. Here it comes.
"His true position?" Jinnah repeated, his voice neutral.
"Yes," Harrington said, smiling like a man delivering a compliment. "The Governor feels that for too long, your talents were wasted on the noisy, gridlocked politics of Delhi and Simla. Shouting at Viceroys, arguing over commas in constitutional drafts… it's a waste of a brilliant administrative mind."
Harrington leaned in, his tone turning conspiratorial.
"He believes you are a builder, Jinnah. Not a politician. And he wants to help you build."
1. The Offer
Harrington pulled a file from the side table and slid it across the white tablecloth.
"The Public Works Department has a stockpile of surplus machinery," Harrington said. "Equipment seized from bankrupt estates in Lyallpur. Four medium-sized ginning units. Two industrial spinning frames. And lumber requisitioned for three hundred new handlooms."
Jinnah opened the file. It was an inventory list that would make any industrialist drool. It was enough hardware to turn the ten villages of his "temporary" charge into a manufacturing powerhouse.
"The Governor has authorized the immediate transfer of this equipment to your management," Harrington said. "To be installed in the ten villages you are protecting."
"Equipment costs money," Jinnah noted. "My estate budget is recovering, but it cannot absorb this capital expenditure."
"No cost to you," Harrington waved his hand. "We are billing it under the 'Canal Colonies Uplift Project.' It's a new discretionary fund. As long as you keep the peace and get those looms working, the bill is paid by the Crown."
He smiled—a genuine, helpful smile.
"Think of what you could do, Jinnah. You could turn this entire tehsil into a model district. Schools, roads, industry. You could show the whole of India what competent leadership looks like on the ground. Why waste your breath making speeches in Assembly halls when you can make history here, in the soil?"
2. The Realization
Jinnah looked at the inventory list. He saw the ginning machines. He saw the budget approvals.
And he saw the bars of the cage.
It's a trap, Bilal said, his voice hard.
I know, Jinnah replied inwardly.
They are terrified of you going back to politics, Bilal analyzed. The Round Table Conferences are coming up in London. The Muslim League is fractured. The Congress is agitating. The last thing the British want is Muhammad Ali Jinnah returning to the national stage to unite the opposition.
So, Jinnah thought, they give me a toy.
Exactly, Bilal agreed. They want to bury you in success. They want you so busy managing spinning mills, settling water disputes, and building clinics that you forget about the nation. They are giving you a fiefdom so you don't ask for a Kingdom.
It was the "Golden Handcuffs" strategy. Make him comfortable, make him successful, make him essential to the local administration—so he never looks up at the horizon again.
"Mr. Jinnah?" Harrington asked, mistaking his silence for hesitation. "It is a generous offer."
3. The Acceptance
Jinnah closed the file. He looked at Harrington.
He could refuse. He could say he was a barrister, not a mill manager. He could walk away and return to the political wilderness.
But then he thought of the burnt shuttle on his desk. He thought of the woman whose daughter was taken. He thought of the Farabis standing guard on the roofs.
If he walked away now, the system collapses. The people starve. The bandits return.
We take it, Bilal said. We take the loot.
And the trap? Jinnah asked.
We eat the bait and spit out the hook, Bilal replied. Use their money to build your base. Use their mills to fund your party later. Let them think you are busy playing gardener. When the time is right, we will show them that this wasn't a retirement home. It was a training camp.
Jinnah picked up his wine glass.
"Please convey my gratitude to His Excellency," Jinnah said smoothly. "I accept the charge. And the machinery."
Harrington beamed, relief washing over him. He had done his job. He had neutralized the agitator by making him an administrator.
"Excellent!" Harrington raised his glass. "To the Uplift Project."
"To the Uplift Project," Jinnah echoed.
4. The Long Game
Later that night, back at the Canal Bungalow, Jinnah threw the file onto his desk.
"He thinks he has bought me," Jinnah said to the empty room. "He thinks he has given me a hobby to keep me quiet."
Let him think that, Bilal said. While he sleeps, we build. We install those mills. We generate cash. We turn the ten villages into a fortress of loyalty.
Bilal paused, then added a thought that made Jinnah stop pacing.
Sir, in my time, people criticized you for being too distant from the masses. For being a man of drawing rooms, not villages. The British just gave us the funding to fix that weakness.
By the time we are done here, Bilal promised, you won't just be a leader of the intelligentsia. You will be the man who fed the poor, clothed the naked, and protected the weak. And when you finally do go back to politics… you will have an army behind you that Harrington paid for.
Jinnah looked at the inventory list again—at the ginning machines and the looms.
"Very well," he whispered. "If they want me to be a shopkeeper, I will be the best shopkeeper the Empire has ever seen."
He sat down and dipped his pen.
"Now," he said, "let us plan where to put these mills. If we are to be in a cage, let us make it a fortress."