Jinnah sat alone in the Lodge by the lake, not because he needed solitude, but because solitude was the only place where he could hear the machinery behind events.
The day had ended in the usual way—ledgers closed, supply lists checked, a brief note from Ahmed, a sharper note from Mary, and a quiet report from Evelyn written in a medical hand that turned chaos into measured sentences.
Everything was moving.
Too cleanly, some part of him kept noticing.
Outside, the lake was still. The kind of stillness that looked peaceful until you remembered it could hide depth.
He loosened his collar slightly and stared at the papers on his desk as if they might confess their hidden costs.
That was when Bilal spoke—inside his mind, with that tone that was half analyst and half nuisance.
You're waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Jinnah did not react outwardly. He never did. He simply continued reading a requisition line, as if the conversation was not happening.
"Any prudent man does," Jinnah thought.
Bilal's voice sharpened, pleased. Good. Prudence keeps you alive. But don't confuse "smooth" with "unreal." This is exactly how it behaves at the beginning—when incentives align.
Jinnah set the paper down slowly.
"Explain," he thought.
Bilal answered like he was laying out a military map, except his battlefield was administration.
First: you're building the base layer. Not rewriting the empire. Not declaring war on anyone. You're doing what the Crown claims to exist for—order, tax stability, and preventing embarrassment. That means the system helps you, because you are solving its problem without asking it to admit failure.
Jinnah's eyes narrowed slightly.
"It is still unusual," he thought. "Permissions. Supplies. Observers. The Governor did not resist."
Bilal almost laughed. Because Congress already did the work for you.
Jinnah's gaze stayed fixed on the lake.
Bilal continued, more deliberate now.
Think of it like this: Congress turned the Crown paranoid. Every district officer has the same nightmare—crowds, agitation, a headline in London, and the humiliation of needing troops. When Congress makes the Raj fear mass politics, the Raj starts treating any stabilizing force as… oxygen.
He paused, letting the logic settle.
So when a man like you appears—a Privy Councillor barrister, elite, controlled, not a street agitator—offering stability, the Crown doesn't see a threat. It sees a pressure valve.
Jinnah's thought was dry. "They see a tool."
Yes, Bilal replied instantly. A tool that happens to be respected by the people, which makes the tool unusually efficient.
Jinnah leaned back slightly, fingertips touching. His mind moved to the Governor's tone on the telephone line, the speed of approvals, the choice of words: test case. purely Crown initiative. observers.
Bilal cut in, reading the same memory.
And the "purely Crown" condition? That's not a slap. That's the deal. They're saying: "Do the work, but don't claim the flag."
Jinnah's jaw tightened. "They want the credit."
They want the narrative, Bilal corrected. Credit is surface. Narrative is control.
Bilal's voice softened into something colder.
You being effective is not the danger. You being credited is the danger. Because if villagers start seeing you—not the Crown—as the reason their lives improve, then you become a rival source of legitimacy. The Raj can tolerate competence. It cannot tolerate an alternate sun.
Jinnah's eyes remained on the lake, but his mind was now moving quickly.
"And yet," he thought, "they allow it."
Because right now, you're defanged in the most useful way possible, Bilal said.
Jinnah's brow tightened. "Defanged."
Busy. Useful. Anchored.
Bilal's tone became almost amused.
Look at the arrangement: you're a landlord delivering order. You're absorbed into administration. You're solving village problems instead of building a mass political machine in cities. From their perspective, that's perfect.
He continued, almost like reciting a list.
You are not mobilizing crowds against them.
You are not making speeches demanding constitutional crisis.
You are not forcing the Viceroy to sweat in the Assembly.
You are managing villages and bandits and clinics and water tanks.
Bilal paused, then delivered the line that made the logic sting.
They don't mind you being powerful if your power is local and procedural. It's when power becomes political and contagious that they panic.
Jinnah's thoughts were sharp. "So they consider me safe because I am occupied."
Exactly, Bilal replied. It's the icing on the cake: you're not only staying in place—you're improving the place. You look like a blessing.
Jinnah sat in silence. The lake's surface reflected a thin line of moonlight like a blade laid flat.
Bilal continued, more analytical than mocking now.
Second reason it's smooth: you're not threatening the Crown's revenue structure—yet. You're stabilizing it. Bandits disrupt collection. Zaildars skim and cause fires when checked. Villages panic and stop cooperating. Your model reduces friction. That means the Crown sees you as a cost reducer.
Jinnah's mind flashed to Harrington's exhaustion, to the relief in the man's eyes when burdens shifted from "firefighting" to "procedure."
Bilal pressed.
That's why Harrington is polite. Not just because of your rank. Because you're making his district survivable. In bureaucratic terms, you are reducing his risk and increasing his deliverables.
Jinnah thought quietly: "So the machine rewards what makes the machine look competent."
Correct.
Bilal's voice sharpened again.
Third reason: the Crown prefers intermediaries. Always has. Zaildars were intermediaries—dirty, arrogant, uncontrollable. You are an intermediary too, but cleaner. Educated. Predictable. Loyal to method. From their perspective, replacing a wild intermediary with a disciplined one is not a revolution. It's maintenance.
Jinnah's fingers tightened once.
"And Congress?" he thought. "You keep returning to them."
Because they set the emotional climate, Bilal said. They made the Crown afraid of broad political contagion. So when you appear as a contained alternative—land-based, system-focused—the Crown's instinct is to nourish you, not fight you.
He let the words settle, then added the hard truth.
And from your side, it's also useful. You're building base infrastructure—human, logistical, reputational—under Crown tolerance. That is the cheapest time to build. Later, when you need leverage, you won't be starting from nothing.
Jinnah's eyes narrowed.
"You are implying a later phase."
Bilal's reply was immediate and calm.
There is always a later phase. Even if you pretend there isn't.
Jinnah's expression remained controlled, but his mind was moving like a blade being sharpened.
"And what is the risk," he thought, "if it remains smooth?"
Bilal's voice lowered.
Smoothness attracts envy. It attracts imitation. It attracts sabotage. The moment your success becomes visible enough, someone will try to turn it into scandal or claim it for themselves or paint it as a private militia or a political trap.
He paused.
But right now? Right now you are laying foundations. And foundations are poured quietly. No one starts a war over wet cement.
Jinnah looked back down at the papers on his desk—requisitions, rosters, medical notes, supply lines.
He spoke internally with the calm of a man who understood both law and war.
"Then we keep pouring cement."
Bilal answered with approval that sounded suspiciously like respect.
Exactly. Build the base while the system thinks it is using you. That's the oldest trick in statecraft.
Jinnah's mouth formed the faintest hint of a smile—not warmth, not vanity—just recognition.
Outside, the lake remained still.
But under that stillness, the foundations were setting.