The summons did not arrive with the politeness of an invitation.
It came as a single, clipped telegram to the Civil Lines house in Lahore—no letterhead, no excess words, only the blunt compression of authority:
URGENT. PRIVATE MEETING. GOVERNOR REQUIRES CLARITY.
No date. No flourish. Whoever had drafted it assumed that the recipient would understand at once that "clarity" meant "explanation," and "requires" meant "commands."
Jinnah read the slip once, folded it precisely, and slid it into his inner pocket.
So, they have finished reading their file on you, Bilal observed, his tone calm in the back of Jinnah's mind. And now they want to see which version of you walks into their house—the lawyer, the landlord, or the rebel they fear you might become.
"The lawyer," Jinnah thought, adjusting his cufflinks. "Always the lawyer."
The Road to Government House
By noon, the monsoon had settled into a steady, respectable drizzle—none of the dramatic violence that had torn open canals in Montgomery, only a fine curtain of rain drawing neat lines against the windows of the car. Lahore's roads were slick but passable; tongas splashed past under tilted umbrellas, hawkers huddled under awnings, and schoolboys darted across lanes, bare heads shining with water.
The car turned off the main Mall and into the broad, gravelled approach to Government House. Here the city's disorder ended. Guards in pressed khaki stood under archways, rifles polished. Flowerbeds curved along the drive in obedient arcs, and the lawns held their shape under the light rain as if mud were a thing that only happened to other provinces.
Jinnah stepped out as the servant opened the car door.
He wore a charcoal three-piece suit, waistcoat buttoned, silk tie knotted with mathematical precision. His monocle was in place, the thin chain glinting against the white of his collar. Under his right arm he carried a long, polished wooden case with brass fittings—not large enough to be a rifle box, not small enough to be a simple document tube.
The sentry at the main entrance stiffened slightly at the sight of it, then schooled his face back into neutrality.
"Mr. Jinnah Sahib," said the butler in soft, trained Urdu, bowing. "His Excellency is expecting you."
They passed through the cool, echoing corridors. The floors smelled of polish and old water; the walls were panelled in dark wood that had never seen floodwater or fungus. Portraits of past Governors and Viceroys looked down on them, each set of painted eyes conveying, in its own way, the same message: We are the ones who decide.
Jinnah's footsteps rang in that space with a controlled, unhurried rhythm. The wooden case under his arm might have been merely a rolled-up map, a presentation, a barrister's prop.
You are bringing him a gift and a weapon at the same time, Bilal murmured. Let him decide which it is.
Inside, Jinnah's mouth twitched very slightly, a half-smile no one else saw.
The Governor's Study
The private study of the Governor of Punjab was not large, but everything in it was deliberate.
A tall French window looked out onto the grey, rain-speckled gardens. On the wall opposite, a large map of the province dominated the room—rivers, canals, and railways splayed across it in colored lines like veins and arteries. A big writing desk occupied the center, its surface disciplined: inkstand, blotter, file trays sorted to left and right, an ashtray with a cigar resting in it like punctuation.
Sir Geoffrey de Montmorency stood by the window, hands folded behind his back, watching the drizzle trace faint tracks down the glass. The posture was almost casual, but his shoulders were set too squarely for true ease.
He did not turn when the door closed.
"Muhammad," he said, voice stripped of the usual cordial pleasantries. "I have just received the full intelligence dossier regarding your… activities in Sandalbar."
Jinnah set the wooden case gently on the low mahogany side table. He did not sit. He waited.
Only after a long moment did the Governor turn from the window. His expression was measured; his eyes, however, were anything but. They moved over Jinnah like an examiner over an unmarked paper—looking for weakness, for argument, for the one line that betrayed the whole case.
"You purchased standing wheat at a massive personal loss," Sir Geoffrey began, each point falling like a bead on an abacus. "You fed ten entire villages when my own district staff were still arguing about requisition procedures. You imposed order where there should, by all prior experience, have been chaos. You dug drains, enforced sanitation, trained men to act like police."
He took a step toward the desk.
"And now," he continued, "I hear you're distributing supplies and assigning duties like a small state-in-the-making."
He rested both palms lightly on the desk blotter.
"Efficiency is one thing, Muhammad," he said, lowering his voice. "Parallel governance is another. What exactly are you planning to do out there?"
Jinnah's Calm Defense
Jinnah inclined his head, as if the Governor had just raised an interesting point in court rather than an accusation that could, in less civilized hands, end a man's career—or worse.
"Nothing mysterious, Your Excellency," he said, his tone almost conversational. "If anything, my plan is rather… modest."
He laid his fingertips lightly on the polished wood of the case.
"I am building a small khaddar manufacturing unit," he said. "A simple thing. A line of work for idle hands. A way to turn time and anxiety into cloth."
Sir Geoffrey's eyebrow lifted.
"Khaddar?" he echoed, a hint of derision there. "Have you now joined Mr. Gandhi? Will we see you in a loincloth, spinning wheel in hand?"
Jinnah's lips curved in a thin, humourless smile.
"I do not have the figure for a loincloth," he said dryly. "And I have always preferred a well-cut suit."
He let the joke sit just long enough to soften the air by a degree, then continued.
"Mr. Gandhi uses homespun as a banner of rejection," he said more seriously. "A refusal of your mills. I propose something less dramatic and, I would argue, more useful. Supplement, not sabotage. Extension, not revolt."
He undid the brass latches of the case with practiced precision.
"Allow me to show you."
The Jasmine-Scented Proof
He opened the lid and stepped back.
The Governor reached in and drew out a folded bundle wrapped in fine white muslin. As he unfolded it, a faint, unmistakable fragrance escaped the cloth and drifted into the paneled air of the study.
Sir Geoffrey frowned, then inhaled again despite himself.
"Jasmine," he said, caught off guard.
"The women dry the finished shawls with flowers," Jinnah replied. "It adds no cost. It adds memory."
The muslin fell away.
The shawl inside was not what the Governor had expected. Nothing about it resembled the rough, symbolic khaddar he had seen in Congress rallies and anti-cloth campaigns.
This was a different creature entirely.
The base was tightly woven khaddar—but spun from fine yarn, smooth under the finger rather than scratchy. The body of the shawl was a soft, steady ivory, the sort of colour that did not shout but held the eye. Along the borders ran rows of delicate rose embroidery in muted reds and greens. At the very edge, fine silk threads caught the light with a discreet, dignified shimmer.
Sir Geoffrey turned the fabric between his fingers, rubbing the weave gently.
"This is… not village work," he said, genuinely impressed despite himself. "This is—"
"Village work," Jinnah interrupted quietly. "Trained. Organized. Paid."
A small pause.
"Do not be deceived by the quality, Your Excellency," he added. "These are the same hands that were pulling ploughs and weaving in the dark by lamplight. The difference is not in their nature. It is in the system around them."
The Governor's gaze flicked up at that word. System.
"And the silk? And the scent?" he asked, half-suspicious. "Don't tell me you've started sericulture and perfumery as well, out there in your flooded kingdom."
Jinnah gave a quiet, almost indulgent chuckle.
"No. For now, the silk and the attar come from Lahore. But the spinning, the weaving, the dyeing, the embroidery—that is theirs."
He nodded toward the shawl.
"It is not mine. Not yours. The work belongs to them. The pattern," he said, "is mine."
And the leverage, Bilal murmured. Don't forget the leverage.
The Double Seal
"Turn the edge over," Jinnah said.
Sir Geoffrey did so, fingers tracing along the border, and then he stopped, the shawl hanging motionless between his hands.
There, stitched discreetly into opposite corners of the silk border, were two emblems.
On the left, the Sandalbar seal—a stylized tree with roots spreading into a field, branches rising around a small star.
On the right, the Imperial Crown.
Not larger. Not smaller. Equal.
"What is this supposed to mean?" the Governor asked, his voice suddenly flat.
"It means," Jinnah said, "exactly what it looks like. Sandalbar's product, made under the Crown's blessing."
Sir Geoffrey's eyes narrowed.
"You use my symbol without asking," he said quietly. "Some would call that forgery."
"If you wish, I can remove it," Jinnah replied calmly. "But I had hoped, instead, that you might allow me to make it true."
He lifted his gaze to meet the Governor's fully.
"I do not want to stand on the opposite side of your emblem," he continued. "I want to stand beside it."