The sun was beginning to dip, casting long, golden shadows across the estate as the convoy moved from the Lake Lodge to the designated Officer's Colony.
Major Blackwood sat in the back of the Packard, bracing himself. The Lodge was a showpiece—he understood that. It was Jinnah's personal palace, likely maintained at great cost. But the quarters for his men? That was usually a different story. In most rural postings, "Officers' Housing" meant drafty barracks, tin roofs that boiled in the sun, and a hole in the ground for a latrine.
"It will be rugged, Elly," Blackwood warned his wife, squeezing her hand. "Don't expect the Lodge. We will likely be living in tents until the brickwork is done."
The car turned a corner past a grove of Sheesham trees and entered a sub-road lined with timber trellises, mimicking the grapevine corridor of the main house.
Eleanor Blackwood gasped. "Arthur. Look."
Laid out before them on a gentle rise overlooking the distant lake was not a barracks, but a Suburb.
Rows of neat, red-brick bungalows with white-washed verandas stood in disciplined lines. But it was the ground that shocked them. It wasn't dust. It was grass. Lush, manicured, emerald-green lawns stretched in front of every house, watered by a hidden network of channels.
"It looks like Kent," Eleanor whispered. "If Kent had mango trees."
The Commander's Quarters
The car stopped in front of the largest bungalow at the end of the cul-de-sac. It was set apart from the others, ensuring privacy, with a clear view of the water.
Waiting at the gate was a woman in a crisp white nurse's uniform and a dark blue sash—Mary D'Souza. She stood with a posture that rivaled the Major's own.
"Welcome, Major. Madam," Mary said, nodding respectfully. "I am Mary D'Souza, Head Nurse of the Estate. Mr. Jinnah thought you might appreciate a guide to the facilities."
Blackwood stepped out, eyeing the house. It was substantial. Wide windows with wire-mesh screens (to keep out flies), a deep porch with wicker furniture already arranged, and to the side...
"Is that a court?" Blackwood squinted.
"A tennis court, Sir," Mary confirmed efficiently. "Clay surface. Rolled this morning. The net is in the shed. Mr. Jinnah recalls that military men appreciate sport."
Blackwood walked over to the court. It was perfect. A high wire fence surrounded it to catch stray balls, and a small wooden pergola with grapevines—just like the one in the picture—provided a shaded seating area for spectators.
"And the others?" Blackwood asked, looking back at the row of smaller—but still impressive—bungalows for his Junior Officers and NCOs.
"Thirty units in total," Mary explained. "Each fully furnished. Two bedrooms for the Lieutenants, three for the Captains. The Sergeants' quarters are further down, near the playing field."
The Sanctuary of Hygiene
Eleanor had already drifted toward the front door. She was dreading the interior. She expected spiders, dust, and the smell of kerosene.
She pushed the door open.
The floor was cool terrazzo tile, polished to a mirror shine. The furniture was simple but solid teak. There were curtains on the windows—clean, floral prints.
But Mary led them straight to the back.
"The washroom, Madam," Mary said, opening a white door.
Eleanor stepped in and let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob.
It was tiled in white porcelain. There was a deep, claw-foot bathtub. There was a sink with shining chrome taps. And in the corner, gleaming like a throne, was a Western flush toilet.
"Running water?" Eleanor asked, her voice trembling. "Real running water?"
"Overhead tank system," Mary said. "Gravity fed. The water is filtered through the estate's central plant. It is safe to brush your teeth with, though we recommend boiling for drinking out of habit."
Eleanor turned to her husband, who had followed them in.
"Arthur," she said firmly. "We are staying."
Blackwood looked at the flush toilet. He knew men who would kill for this in Delhi, let alone in a rural district.
"It seems," Blackwood muttered, "that Mr. Jinnah believes in plumbing."
The Map of Silence
They walked back out to the veranda. The air was cooling rapidly. Eleanor looked out over the vast expanse of the estate. In the far distance, miles away, she could see the clusters of village rooftops and the faint outline of structures.
"And the industry?" Eleanor asked, a shadow of worry crossing her face. "Arthur said this was a commercial estate. Cotton mills? Ginning factories? Are they loud? Will there be smoke? I lived near Manchester once... the soot was dreadful."
Mary smiled, shaking her head. She pointed toward the horizon, where the distinct clusters of the fifty villages lay scattered like islands in a sea of green.
"You will find no soot here, Madam. Look at the map of the land."
Mary gestured with a sweeping hand.
"Mr. Jinnah calls it the Decentralized Grid. The ginning factories and weaving sheds are not built here near the residence. They are located deep inside the village clusters—Chak 96, Lalianwala, Rattokala—miles from here."
"But the noise?" Blackwood asked.
"The weaving sheds use manual looms or quiet electric motors powered by generators located far downwind," Mary explained. "The heavy ginning plants are five miles to the west. The sound does not travel this far. Mr. Jinnah believes that 'Industry should serve the home, not invade it.'"
Blackwood looked at the horizon. He realized the strategic brilliance of it. By spreading the industry out, Jinnah prevented the formation of a dirty, slum-like industrial center. He kept the estate looking like a garden while it produced like a factory.
"A Silent Engine," Blackwood murmured.
The Tour of Civilization
Mary turned, pointing toward the spire of a small red-brick building visible through the Sheesham trees, about two hundred yards away.
"The Sunday House," Mary said.
"A church?" Eleanor asked, surprised.
"An Anglican chapel," Mary corrected. "Mr. Jinnah had it consecrated last week. We have arranged for hymnals and an altar. Dr. Cartwright—our resident physician—usually leads a morning reading, but the space is yours to use."
Eleanor touched her necklace. "We haven't had a proper church since we left Bombay."
Mary turned, pointing toward a white building in the distance with a red cross painted on the roof.
"That is the Estate Clinic. Dr. Evelyn Cartwright runs it. She is British, trained in London. If your children have so much as a sniffle, you send for us. We have a dedicated ward for the officers' families."
"A British doctor?" Eleanor looked relieved. "I was worried about... local remedies."
"Dr. Cartwright is excellent," Mary said with a smile. "Though the locals call her an 'Angel,' so she is quite busy. But the garrison has priority."
The Verdict
Down the street, the scene was repeating itself twenty times over.
Sergeants and Corporals were lifting their children out of trucks. Wives were walking into their bungalows, screaming with delight at the clean kitchens and the lack of rats.
Children were already running onto the central green, chasing a ball.
Major Blackwood walked back from the tennis court. He stood next to his wife and the Indian nurse.
He looked at the clean streets. He looked at the Church spire. He looked at his own house, which was better than the one he owned in Sussex.
"Nurse D'Souza," Blackwood said.
"Sir?"
"This estate," Blackwood said, trying to maintain his skepticism. "Does it have a prison?"
"We have a holding cell at the main gate, Sir," Mary said evenly. "But it is currently empty."
"Why?"
"Because," Mary said, smoothing her apron, "when people have clean water, good wages, and a flush toilet... they tend not to commit crimes."
Blackwood grunted. It was a socialist answer, but he couldn't argue with the result.
"Right," Blackwood said. "Thank Mr. Jinnah for the... amenities. And tell him I will see him at dinner."
"I will, Major."
Mary turned to leave, walking with the crisp stride of a woman who knew she had just won the first battle of the invasion without firing a shot.
Eleanor took her husband's arm, watching the sun set over the distant, silent mills.
"Arthur," she said quietly. "You told me this was a hardship post."
"I was misinformed," Blackwood admitted, looking at his new tennis court. "Grossly misinformed."