Chapter 11: The Price of Land and the Cost of Respect
Morning in Montgomery came in layers: first the white glare on the canal water, then the faint dust haze rising over the road, and finally the distant, rhythmic calls from the bazaar.
By nine o'clock, Jinnah was back in the Commissioner's office. It was a room designed to impose order on a chaotic district: high ceilings, a lazily turning fan that stirred the warm air rather than cooling it, and a large, detailed map of the district dominating one wall.
Harrington stood by the window with a cup of tea, the morning light catching the dust motes around him. The tahsildar stood at his side, clutching the inevitable folder like a shield.
On the desk lay three marked maps: three possible configurations of a future estate.
Harrington walked over and tapped the one in the middle.
"This one," he said, "is what I'd recommend. The bungalow compound you saw yesterday, plus that pale yellow block you were eyeing. It comes to about three hundred acres to start with. Good soil. Canal water assured. Existing tenancies that can be regularised, not overturned."
Jinnah moved closer, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze moving over the inked lines.
Core Sandalbar, Bilal murmured in his mind. Test server online.
"Existing tenancies?" Jinnah asked aloud. "You would regularise them under my name as landlord?"
"Yes," Harrington said. "We convert them to occupancy tenants with defined rights and obligations. They pay you revenue; you pay us. Everyone knows the rules. No experiments with abolishing rent, please — my revenue officers would die of shock."
"I have no desire," Jinnah said dryly, "to practise socialism on the heads of your tahsildars. We will work within the existing framework. I only want enough room to improve what lies inside it."
He straightened, his decision made.
"This," he said, tapping the central plan once. "Will do."
The tahsildar relaxed visibly, as if the right answer had been given in an exam he had secretly set.
Harrington nodded, satisfied.
"Very good," he said. "Next step is paperwork. Application in your name, noting the purposes: agricultural estate, residence, and so forth. Then we calculate the price based on the standard schedule and the improvements required."
He glanced up, his tone shifting to business. "You may want to have your Bombay office send us the funds, or open a local account in Lahore. It's not a small sum."
"I assumed as much," Jinnah said.
"Would you like," Harrington continued, reaching for a notepad, "a formal quotation before informing your people? We can prepare a note of the estimated total — land price, bungalow valuation, transfer fees—"
"That won't be necessary," Jinnah interrupted mildly.
Harrington blinked, his pen hovering.
"You don't wish to know the price?" he asked.
"I will know it when the papers arrive," Jinnah replied. "For now, it is enough that the land is suitable and the process is legal. As for the valuation…"
He met Harrington's gaze with courteous, unyielding steadiness.
"I must assume that a man of your standing is incapable of cutting me a bad deal — especially if, as I expect, we shall be in regular contact in the future."
For a heartbeat, the room held that line between compliment and warning. It was a gamble—placing total trust in a man to force him to be trustworthy.
Then Harrington gave a short, amused huff.
"So that's how Bombay barristers say they trust you and will be checking the ledgers anyway," he said. "Very well, Mr. Jinnah. We shall ensure the valuation is… embarrassing for all concerned."
That, Bilal said in Jinnah's head, sounding like he wanted to whistle, is the most subtle flex I've ever experienced in my life.
Flex? Jinnah echoed, a ripple of irritation in his thought. You and your distorted English, Mr. Game Developer. Speak plainly.
It means, Bilal said silently, you just asserted power and trust at the same time. You told him: 'I respect you too much to imagine you'd cheat me' — while also hinting that if he did, it would be his shame, not yours. It's a power move.
Good, Jinnah replied inwardly. Then perhaps your world is not entirely barbarous if it has a word for that.
Aloud, he said simply:
"If you will be kind enough to forward a telegram to my office in Bombay, Commissioner, they will handle payment arrangements. I prefer not to carry bank drafts in my pockets while I still trust the trains."
"Of course," Harrington said. "Dictate it. We'll send it on our account and charge you with the land bill — a small bonus for the Treasury."
Jinnah took the form Harrington offered and wrote in his neat, unhurried script:
TO: ACCOUNTANT, M.A. JINNAH CHAMBERS BOMBAY
HAVE SELECTED ESTATE IN MONTGOMERY CANAL COLONY INCLUDING BUNGALOW AND APPROX THREE HUNDRED ACRES STOP
ARRANGE REMITTANCE FOR PURCHASE AND FEES AS PER DEMAND FROM PUNJAB GOVT STOP
CONSIDER THIS PRIORITY MATTER STOP
— M.A. JINNAH
He handed it back.
"Done," Harrington said. "We'll begin drafting the file. You can sign the preliminary application now, and the rest can be finalized when you come back from Lahore with less dust on your cuffs."
"I am obliged," Jinnah said.
The wireless set hummed softly in the corner of the office, its valves glowing like small embers against the gathering dusk. Harrington reached over and adjusted the dial with practiced fingers. Static crackled, faded—and then the room filled with music.
It was a woman's voice.
Unhurried. Measured. Neither loud nor pleading.The melody carried weight without force, as if it had no need to convince anyone of its worth.
Harrington paused mid-sentence.
He did not switch it off.
The tahsildar, still standing by the map table, shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether this was interruption or indulgence. Jinnah said nothing, his attention momentarily drawn not by the sound itself, but by the sudden stillness of the room.
دل اگر خاموش ماند، راه پیدا میشودصبر اگر همدم شود، در بسته وا میشود
نام او را هر نفس آهسته در جان میکشمآنکه پنهان است، اما آشکارا میشود
راه اگر تاریک باشد، ترس معنا میدهدنور وقتی دیر آید، آشناتر میشود
گفته بودند انتظار، انسان را میشکندمن ندیدم—انتظار، دل کوتاهتر میشود
After a few moments, Harrington spoke, almost to himself.
"I don't understand a word of it," he said.Then, after a pause, "But it goes straight through the chest."
The song continued—measured, devotional, neither joyful nor sorrowful, yet somehow containing both. The kind of music that did not explain itself.
The tahsildar cleared his throat, eager to be useful.
"It is… a praise song, sir," he offered, in careful English."About… devotion. And patience. And… uh… the beloved. Or God. Sometimes both."
He hesitated, searching for the right words.
"It is saying… when you wait properly, the answer comes. Something like that."
Harrington smiled faintly."I suspected as much."
Jinnah finally spoke, his tone neutral but attentive.
"Which station is this?"
"The Lahore broadcasting service," Harrington replied. "Government wireless. Experimental programming."He glanced back at the set. "Mostly music. Readings. Occasional announcements."
Jinnah nodded once.
"Some things," he said, "were never meant to be translated."A brief pause."Only felt."
The tahsildar looked relieved that no further explanation was required.
Harrington reached out and lowered the volume slightly—not turning it off, just enough to allow conversation to resume.
"It's curious," he said, returning to the papers."We spend so much effort controlling words. Laws. Notices. Declarations."A beat."And then something like this slips through without permission."
Jinnah's eyes rested briefly on the wireless before returning to the documents.
"Which is precisely why," he said calmly, "it matters who is allowed to speak—and who is merely heard."
The song continued in the background as the men returned to land, maps, and signatures—its meaning unresolved, but its presence unmistakable.