The meeting chamber of the Punjab Secretariat possessed none of the quiet grace of the Lodge at Sandalbar. It was a room built not for hospitality, but for endurance. High ceilings bore the slow rotation of broad fans. Tall windows admitted a pale winter light that flattened colour and softened no expression. The long table, of dark and polished teak, bore the scratches of years of elbows, files, and restrained disagreements.
Around it sat the Commissioners and Deputy Commissioners of the province—men seasoned by famine reports, canal disputes, communal petitions, and the endless arithmetic of land revenue. Some wore the stiff reserve of the Indian Civil Service; others carried the sharper watchfulness of men who had risen through local administration. All had seen enough of Punjab to distrust novelty.
Harrington stood slightly apart, near the mantel, neither presiding nor interjecting. His presence was not ornamental; it was transitional. He had seen Sandalbar from within. The others had seen only memoranda.
Jinnah did not take the head of the table at once. He remained standing, one gloved hand resting lightly upon the back of a chair, as though he were about to address a jury rather than a board of administrators.
"Gentlemen," he began, his tone measured and devoid of flourish, "you are already the central authorities of your respective districts. In theory, nothing moves without passing through your offices."
There was a murmur of restrained assent.
"In practice," he continued, "much moves without being understood."
That produced stillness.
He walked to the far end of the table, where a slate board had been placed. Taking a piece of chalk, he drew three simple words, one above the other.
Village.Union.District.
"You command the district," he said quietly. "But the village speaks to you through distortion. Through delay. Through fear. Through ambition."
A Commissioner from Rawalpindi, grey at the temples and not inclined to theatrics, folded his hands.
"And what, Mr. Jinnah, would you substitute for these human defects?"
"Routine," Jinnah replied. "Record. Structure."
He turned back to the board.
"At the level of the village, I propose the establishment of Union Offices. Not political clubs. Not revenue counters. Offices. Each to be headed by a trained legal administrator—vetted carefully, and answerable not merely upward, but outward."
A few brows rose at that last word.
"These Union Offices," he continued, "shall contain a modest dispensary, a seed bank for agricultural stability, and an elementary school. Each village within the Union shall be registered through that school. Every household recorded. Every child enrolled."
The Commissioner from Multan leaned forward.
"You assume universal schooling," he said. "We have neither the staff nor the funds."
"Funds," echoed another, more bluntly, "are not summoned by aspiration."
Jinnah inclined his head as if the objection were entirely reasonable.
"Then we shall not summon them by aspiration," he said. "We shall summon them by rotation."
There was a rustle of coats.
"Any student enrolled in a university or higher institution," Jinnah went on, "shall be required to render two months' service annually within district administration. Medical students shall assist dispensaries. Engineering students shall assist irrigation surveys. Law students shall serve under Union Office heads. Teachers-in-training shall teach."
A Commissioner from Ambala let out a soft breath.
"You suggest compulsory civic service?"
"I suggest disciplined citizenship," Jinnah answered. "As the army requires from its recruits. As the law requires from its officers. Education must cease to be ornamental."
"And if they refuse?" came the quiet challenge.
"Then they do not advance," Jinnah replied, without raising his voice.
The sentence fell with more weight than its volume suggested.
Another Commissioner, older and careful, spoke next.
"You speak of records and registration. How is this information to reach district headquarters without distortion?"
"Through schools," Jinnah said. "Through habit. Through the daily act of attendance. A child enrolled is a household known. A household known is a revenue forecast refined. A revenue forecast refined is agitation reduced."
The British Commissioner at Lahore interjected, his tone edged with professional suspicion.
"And who supervises these Union Offices? Who restrains ambition at the local level?"
Jinnah did not hesitate.
"Auditors. Cross-district review. And, most importantly, visibility. Every ledger open to inspection. Every complaint heard before it ferments."
He turned slightly, allowing his gaze to rest upon each man in turn.
"You are not deficient in authority, gentlemen. You are deficient in feedback."
The remark might have offended another room. In this one, it provoked reflection.
Harrington spoke then, briefly.
"Sandalbar has demonstrated that structured reporting reduces rumour. It converts grievance into paperwork."
A faint smile touched one Commissioner's lips at the phrase.
"And the radio stations?" asked the man from Multan. "We are informed you propose one in each district."
"Small stations," Jinnah replied. "Cultural and agricultural programming in ordinary times. During flood, epidemic, or communal disturbance, a platform for measured instruction. A voice that counsels restraint before violence acquires momentum."
The Rawalpindi Commissioner regarded him carefully.
"You would centralise sentiment."
"I would discipline panic," Jinnah answered.
The room grew contemplative rather than resistant. The proposal was no longer being dismissed; it was being weighed.
At length, the Lahore Commissioner spoke.
"And what do you seek in return for this labour?"
Jinnah allowed himself the faintest pause.
"A province capable of standing," he said. "Nothing more."
It was not believed entirely. Yet it was not disbelieved either.
When the meeting concluded, there was no applause. Files were closed with deliberate care. Conversations formed in subdued clusters. Some saw efficiency. Some saw encroachment. Some saw a system that might, if it worked, reduce their own burdens.
Harrington watched Jinnah collect his gloves.
He understood something the others were only beginning to suspect.
Jinnah was not attempting to seize Punjab.
He was attempting to design it.
And in design lay a subtler power than command.