The Law Member steepled his fingers.
"And yet," he said carefully, "the more you describe this… the more it resembles the foundation of something that could become politically dangerous. Teaching peasants to trust discipline, to value their labour, to see that order need not come only from the sahib's kothi—does that not, in time, breed demands?"
"Breed expectations, yes," Harrington said. "Not necessarily rebellion."
The Home Secretary tapped the shawl's edge again.
"Explain this then," he said. "Placing the Crown emblem beside Sandalbar's. Not above, not below—beside. A private man signalling equality with the State?"
The Governor answered before Harrington could.
"He told me," Sir Geoffrey said, "that he wants partnership. That every success of Sandalbar should redound to the Crown's credit. And that he is willing—eager, even—to let our officers be the face of relief, of progress, while he does the unglamorous work in the background."
A murmur ran around the table.
"Why?" one commissioner demanded. "No one does that. Congress men want headlines. Zamindars want statues. Why would he hand us credit on a silver platter?"
"Because," Harrington said quietly, "he despises chaos more than he resents the Crown."
Heads turned toward him.
"In seven months," Harrington continued, "he has not visited any Congress rally. He has not met League leadership. He has not written a single seditious pamphlet. He has not once referred to Gandhi, Nehru, Patel, or any other national figure in public gatherings at Sandalbar. When he speaks to peasants, he talks about drainage, sanitation, crop rotation, looms, schooling, radio, and law. Not Swaraj."
"So what does he want?" the Finance Secretary asked. "In plain terms."
Harrington did not hesitate.
"Efficiency," he said. "And dignity for peasants. Within an ordered framework."
The Law Member gave a thin smile.
"Dignity is a dangerous crop to sow," he said. "It has a way of spreading."
The Clash of Views
The Governor leaned back, letting the room work. It was one of his quieter talents—allowing his council to argue in front of him until the shape of an issue emerged more clearly.
The Home Secretary spoke first.
"He is too competent," he said. "A man who can turn a flooded estate into a semi-military, medically sound refugee camp in days is a man who can organize resistance in the same time, if he ever chooses. Today he uses Farabis to keep cholera at bay. Tomorrow he could use them to keep police at bay."
The Intelligence Chief nodded slightly.
"And he is reshaping loyalties," he added. "Those villagers now say 'Sandalbar' before they say 'Sarkar.' That matters. Psychological ground once ceded is hard to reclaim."
On the other side of the table, Harrington bristled.
"With respect," he said, "you speak as if he is stirring up a mob. He is not. He is soothing one—before it forms. The people do not chant his name. They line up for rations on time. They send their children to learn numbers under trees. They wash their hands because Nurse Mary told them to. They go to isolation huts when Evelyn barks."
He looked at the Governor, then back to the others.
"In any case," he went on, "you already know what Jinnah is when he chooses a path. In politics, he has been a constitutionalist. In law, a formalist. He is an English-trained lawyer to the core. If he wanted to ignite popular sentiment, he could have long ago. Instead, he writes letters. To you."
The Law Member adjusted his spectacles.
"Or," the Intelligence Chief countered, "this is exactly what makes him dangerous. Bombay lawyers with principles do not go into the jungle to build model estates by accident. Perhaps Sandalbar is his proving ground. Perhaps he is testing how much power he can hold without triggering our reflexes."
Harrington gave a small, humourless smile.
"If Jinnah wanted a kingdom," he said, "he would have built one already. Instead, he built this."
He gestured to the shawl, the honey, the eggs, the ghee.
"Industry," he said. "Order. Stability. A little radio station next, if we let him. Not flags. Not marches. Not bombs."
The Finance Secretary, ever the calculator, spoke reluctantly.
"From a purely administrative standpoint," he said, "this is gold. A functioning rural micro-economy, crime reduced, health improved, at minimal cost to the exchequer. Politically—"
"Politically," the Home Secretary cut in, "it is a reminder that we are, in some places, being out-governed by one man on a private estate."
Silence followed that, heavy and honest.
Harrington's Recommendation
The Governor turned his attention fully to Harrington.
"And your recommendation?" he asked. "You have seen the place. You have spoken with the man. What do you advise?"
Harrington met his gaze squarely.
"Let him continue," he said.
Soft protests stirred—exhalations, shifted chairs. Harrington pressed on.
"So long as he remains apolitical in deed, so long as he carries your flag beside Sandalbar's, he is not our enemy. He is our best advertisement."
He chose his next phrase with care.
"He is, if you like, the finest British-made Indian product we have," Harrington said. "Educated under our laws, disciplined by our methods, yet capable of translating theory into practice on ground where many of our own men have failed or grown complacent."
He let his hands rest lightly on the back of his chair.
"If the Crown supports him modestly," he said, "with supplies, technical advice, and the occasional nod of recognition, then every success of Sandalbar can be presented as proof of British benevolence and efficiency. 'Look,' we can say, 'what a loyal Indian can achieve under our guidance.'"
He paused.
"If we crush him now," he added, "we prove something very different—that this government prefers stagnation to initiative and will punish any Indian who dares to govern well."
The room held its breath.
The Governor's expression remained unreadable; only the slightest tightening around his eyes betrayed that the argument had not missed its mark.
Decision
Sir Geoffrey reached out and, with great care, folded the shawl along its embroidered borders. His fingertips lingered for a moment on the corner where the Crown sat beside the tree-and-star.
"Very well," he said at last.
His voice was quiet, but there was no ambiguity in it.
"We will allow Sandalbar to continue—quietly."
The Home Secretary opened his mouth, then closed it again. The Intelligence Chief's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"We will send limited ration support," the Governor went on. "Through ICS officers. They will stand on the lorries, make the speeches, sign the forms. The Crown flag will fly at every distribution."
His gaze swept the table.
"Jinnah's men will handle the rest. If questioned, we will describe him as an exemplary local partner in relief and reconstruction. Nothing more."
He tapped the folded shawl once, very lightly.
"But," he added, "we will continue to observe. Closely. Intelligence will keep its liaison in place. Any change in tone—any politicization of his work—will be reported directly to me."
He allowed himself the faintest of smiles, dry and almost rueful.
"If Muhammad Ali Jinnah wishes to build industry under our banner," he said, "we shall not stop him. We would be fools to do so."
He set the shawl aside.
"But if he ever removes that banner," he finished softly, "if he ever decides that the Crown's emblem is no longer useful to him… then we will already have everything we need to act."
The rain continued its quiet tapping at the windows. The men around the table began, slowly, to gather their pens, close their files, summon their orderlies.
Far away, in a wet, recovering stretch of Montgomery district, looms clicked, children recited numbers under a neem tree, Farabis walked their patrol lines in the dark, and a small experiment in rural order went on—now with the Crown's cautious blessing and its watchful eye overhead.