It took the 3rd Punjab Regiment's detached unit a full month to mobilize.
The delay wasn't logistical; it was psychological. The officers had heard the rumors in the Lahore messes. They weren't being deployed to a standard cantonment; they were being sent to the private estate of Muhammad Ali Jinnah—a man who, according to his dossier, was a legal sharp-shooter who could tie the Viceroy in knots.
Major Arthur Blackwood, a veteran of the Somme with a stiff mustache and a mandate from his superiors to "keep a sharp eye on the agitator," sat in the lead truck, wiping grit from his eyes. He expected a dustbowl. He expected a feudal fortress with sullen peasants.
"Godforsaken posting," Blackwood muttered as the convoy rumbled toward the district line. "Babysitting a lawyer's farm."
The Reception
At the rendezvous point, Deputy Commissioner Harrington was waiting, leaning against his car. Beside him stood a young man in a sharp suit (Ahmed) and a squad of men in khaki uniforms (Farabis) who stood with a discipline that made Blackwood's own weary soldiers look sloppy.
Blackwood climbed down, dusting off his uniform.
"Welcome, Major," Harrington said. "I trust the road wasn't too punishing."
"It was abominable," Blackwood snapped. "Where are the quarters? My men are tired."
Ahmed stepped forward. He didn't bow. He extended a hand.
"Major Blackwood. Welcome to Sandalbar. I am Ahmed Khan, the Estate Manager."
Before Blackwood could decide whether to shake the hand, a Farabi soldier stepped forward, snapped his heels together, and delivered a salute so crisp it cracked the air.
"Sir!" the Farabi barked. "Mr. Jinnah sends his regards. He has requested that you and your family travel in his personal vehicle for the final leg."
He pointed to a gleaming black Packard, its engine idling purr, its chauffeur holding the door open.
Blackwood blinked. He looked at the dusty army truck where his wife, Eleanor, and their children were sweltering. Then he looked at the luxury sedan.
"Right," Blackwood grunted, ushering his stunned wife into the leather seats. "Lead on."
The Green Tunnel
The convoy moved out. For the first mile, it was the usual Punjab landscape—scrubland and dust.
Then, they hit the boundary line.
The road changed instantly. The potholed track became smooth, compacted gravel. The car passed under a wooden trellis—the Grapevine Corridor. The harsh sunlight was instantly cut by the thatch of jute and palm leaves, casting the road in a cool, amber twilight.
And then, the scent hit them.
It wasn't the smell of cow dung. It was a wave of Motia and Raat Ki Rani—sweet, heavy, and intoxicating.
"Is that... jasmine?" Eleanor asked, rolling down the window. The air rushing in was ten degrees cooler than the outside world.
To their left, the lake opened up. Blackwood expected a swamp. He saw a shimmering sheet of water, rippling with fish. A flock of Khaki Campbell ducks glided in formation.
"It looks like... Surrey," Blackwood whispered, baffled. "No. It looks better."
The Grand Hotel
The Packard pulled up to the porch of the Lake Lodge. The building gleamed with fresh whitewash. But it was the welcoming committee that truly threw the Major off balance.
Standing at the top of the steps was not a turbaned servant, but a tall, impeccable Englishman in a tailcoat.
"Good afternoon, Major. Madam," the man said in a clipped London accent. "I am Mr. Sterling, the Estate Butler. Welcome to the Lodge."
Behind him stood a staff that looked like the League of Nations. A row of Filipino servers in white jackets, chefs in tall hats, and four Thai women in silk uniforms standing with their hands clasped in a traditional wai greeting.
Blackwood stepped out. He felt underdressed in his own uniform.
"This is... unexpected," Blackwood managed to say.
The "Retirement" Cover Story
Inside, the Billiards Room had been transformed into a reception lounge. The Chesterfield sofas swallowed the tired officers in leather luxury. The air smelled of sandalwood.
Mr. Sterling snapped his fingers, and the Filipino servers moved like ghosts, placing trays of Iced Lemon Tea, warm scones, and delicate pastries on the low tables.
"Iced tea," Eleanor sighed, taking a sip. "Arthur, this is civilization."
Blackwood looked around the room. His suspicion was warring with his comfort. He pulled Sterling aside near the fireplace.
"Sterling," Blackwood asked, keeping his voice low. "I was briefed that this is a working agricultural estate. This... this is a hotel."
"It is a retreat, Sir," Sterling corrected gently.
"Who pays for all this? The foreign staff? The landscaping?" Blackwood pressed. "Why would a politician build a palace in the middle of nowhere?"
Sterling's expression softened into one of professional discretion.
"Mr. Jinnah is no longer a politician, Sir. You may have heard... his wife passed away recently. It was a terrible tragedy."
Blackwood paused. He had heard rumors. "Yes. I heard."
"Mr. Jinnah took it very hard," Sterling confided, lowering his voice further. "His health suffered. He has effectively retired from public life. He established his business interests in London and Bombay to secure his finances, and he built this Lodge as a sanctuary."
Sterling gestured to the room.
"Mr. Jinnah is a man of class, Major. Even in grief, he cannot abide disorder. Hosting social gatherings is his only hobby now. He finds the company of civilized people... soothing."
"So this is just a hobby?" Blackwood asked, skeptical.
"And a commercial project, Sir," Sterling added quickly. "Mr. Jinnah is a businessman, after all. He intends to develop the lakefront as a high-end sanatorium and club for officers and civil servants. Hence the investment in the staff and facilities."
Blackwood looked at the Thai masseuses and the perfectly cut scones.
It made sense. A grieving, wealthy widower, bored with politics, using his fortune to build a distraction in the countryside. It explained the luxury. It explained the order. It made Jinnah sound less like a revolutionary and more like a lonely eccentric.
The Bias and the Benefit
Blackwood walked to the window.
His orders were clear: Watch him. He is dangerous.
But looking at the manicured lawn, the ducks, and his own junior officers laughing over tea, Blackwood felt the tension in his shoulders dissolve.
Dangerous men build armies, Blackwood thought. Broken men build retreats.
He wasn't unreasonable. He knew the difference between a fortress and a country club. And if Jinnah wanted to spend his retirement feeding British officers scones and building tennis courts, Blackwood wasn't going to complain too loudly.
"Mr. Jinnah is in his study," Sterling noted. "He will join you for dinner. He hopes you find the accommodations suitable."
Blackwood looked at his wife, who was smiling for the first time in months.
"Tell Mr. Jinnah," Blackwood said, unbuttoning his collar, "that the accommodations are... exemplary."
"Very good, Sir."
As the Butler walked away, Blackwood sat down on the Chesterfield sofa. He would still watch Jinnah. That was his job. But perhaps, he thought, closing his eyes, this wasn't going to be a deployment in hell after all. Perhaps it was a holiday.