Sandalbar was no longer merely recovering. It was changing shape.
For three days, the estate moved like a living workshop. The stunned silence that followed the flood—people waiting for the next disaster—had been replaced by the hard, steady music of work: hammers biting timber, shovels breaking earth, men calling measurements, boys running water, and Farabis pacing the lines like foremen.
Jinnah stood on the verandah of the Lodge by the lake and watched the transformation as if it were an argument being constructed, premise by premise, until it became impossible to refute.
This was not repair.
This was proof.
1) The Green Tunnel
The approach to the Lodge had always been a weakness. Before the flood, it was a dirt track that became a swamp the moment the monsoon arrived. During the crisis it had turned into soup—wheel-deep mud that slowed carts, stranded vehicles, and made every arrival feel like a struggle.
Ahmed Khan ordered that weakness removed.
The old track was scraped out. Crushed stone was poured in, then compacted again and again until it formed a firm, pale spine. The new road did not run straight; it curved in a deliberate half-moon arc, skirting the lake's edge.
Cars would enter from the main gate, sweep along the water, circle half the perimeter, and arrive at a newly built drop-off near the Lodge. It was a small rerouting, but it changed everything. Movement became smooth, predictable, and dignified.
And then came Ahmed's second move—the one that made even practical engineering feel like theatre.
Along the final walkway to the entrance, the Farabis erected a long pergola corridor. Treated timber posts rose in disciplined lines, supporting beams above that crossed in a lattice pattern. In the sunlight, the lattice cast geometric shadows on the paving stones—cool patterns that shifted like a slow clock as the day moved.
It's a micro-climate, Bilal murmured in Jinnah's mind. The British aren't built for this heat. Drop them ten degrees before they even step inside, and they'll think you've tamed Punjab itself.
Jinnah watched planting teams at work. Men dug in synchronized rhythm, laying out saplings with the care of soldiers laying a field of mines.
"And the aesthetics?" he asked Ahmed, watching him wave a hand-drawn diagram like a battle plan.
Ahmed shouted over the noise, directing gardeners with the intensity of a man designing scent as if it were a weapon.
"Three layers," he barked. "I want a wall of scent."
The base: ankle height
Motia—jasmine sambac—went in first, lining the path like a fragrant curb. Thousands of small plants were pressed into the soil. When they bloomed, the white clusters would sit low, around knee height, releasing a heavy perfume that clung to trousers and skirts as guests passed.
The middle: waist height
Behind the motia rose Rat Ki Rani—night-blooming jasmine—thicker branches planted to form a living wall. In daylight it would be deep green; at night the tiny flowers would open, and the corridor would fill with a scent strong enough to erase the memory of stagnant floodwater.
The canopy: overhead shield
Above, the trellis was reserved for grape vines and climbing gulab—roses—chosen from fast-growing varieties. For now, they were only saplings. Soon, broad leaves would interlock into a green roof, turning harsh sun into dappled light. Later, grape clusters would hang down like natural chandeliers, while red roses threaded through timber—imperial color woven into practical shade.
It was not just landscaping. It was an airlock for the senses. Guests would step out of their cars, enter the shade, breathe the motia, walk through cool shadows, and reach the Lodge already softened—less defensive, less exhausted, easier to impress.
Down at the bank, another team planted mulberry trees in a disciplined line.
Ram Lal wiped sweat from his forehead and stared at the saplings. "Why mulberry?"
Ahmed pressed his palm to the soil, as if he could feel the lake's moods through it.
"Roots," he said. "Mulberry drinks water like a thirsty demon. It binds the bank, stops erosion, and keeps the edge firm. And the fruit feeds the birds."
Jinnah watched the line of trees and understood the real meaning. Everything here would now have a purpose, even beauty.
2) Life in the Water
At the water's edge, the estate looked like it was preparing for war—not with rifles, but with ecosystems.
A Fisheries Department truck arrived in the afternoon. Men climbed down carrying metal canisters, wading knee-deep into water that still held the flood's brown stain. The lake had been a basin of disaster for weeks. Now it was being turned into an asset.
The men tipped the canisters.
Splash.
Thousands of tiny gambusia fish poured into the shallows. They darted instantly toward reeds and shadowed corners, hunting mosquito larvae as if that was what they had been born to do.
Splash.
Then came fingerlings—baby rohu and catla—released into deeper water. They vanished within seconds, leaving only faint ripples on the surface. But Jinnah knew what those ripples meant. In six months, the lake would not merely reflect the sky. It would produce protein.
Further down the bank, Farabis hammered together a low shed: sturdy walls, a slanted roof, and a ramp that descended to the water.
A curious child stood nearby, watching the structure rise.
"For what?" the boy asked.
Bashir, carrying a plank on his shoulder, answered without slowing.
"For the ducks," he said. "Five hundred. They arrive tomorrow."
The boy's eyes widened. "Why ducks?"
Bashir smiled briefly, the way a soldier smiles when explaining a simple tactic.
"When they come," he said, "no snail will be safe."
The lake was waking up. It was no longer a flood basin. It was becoming an ecosystem—one that fought disease, fed mouths, and made the estate harder to threaten.
3) The Departure
The most emotional work, however, was not happening at the lake.
It was happening near the main camp.
The floodwaters in the low-lying villages had receded enough for people to return home. Carts were loaded, oxen were yoked, and bundles were tied with frayed rope. The ten villages—temporary guests of Sandalbar—were leaving behind clean latrines and a sudden emptiness that felt unnatural after weeks of crowd and motion.
Near the clinic, a small group of women approached Evelyn and Mary.
They wore travel clothes: worn kurtas, patched shawls, dust already clinging to the hems. Their faces carried the hard lines of survival, but their posture was straight. In their hands, they carried bundles wrapped carefully in cloth.
The oldest woman stepped forward. Mary recognized her. Her grandson had been burning with fever; Mary had watched the boy's chest finally settle back into calm breathing.
The woman extended her bundle toward Evelyn.
Evelyn's instinct was immediate. She shook her head and took a half-step back.
"Oh, no," she said softly. "Please. You have lost so much. Keep your things."
The woman did not withdraw. She pushed the bundle forward with quiet insistence.
Evelyn hesitated, then accepted it by reflex, because the woman's hands did not leave room for refusal.
She unfolded the cloth.
A khaddar shawl.
Not the refined, embroidered version Jinnah had once shown the Governor as a political statement. This one was rougher, thicker—woven for winter nights and hard travel. The women had saved these pieces from rising water, carried them out like treasure, and now brought them as gifts.
"We have no money, Doctor-ni," the woman said in Punjabi, voice gentle. "But this is the labor of our hands. It kept us warm. Now it will keep you warm."
Another woman offered a similar shawl to Mary.
Evelyn's throat tightened. She tried to hand the cloth back.
"I cannot take this," she said. "It is too valuable."
The oldest woman's face changed—hurt, not angry. Her hands retreated slightly, as if Evelyn had pushed away something sacred.
Ahmed stepped in quickly, speaking in English so Evelyn would understand the danger she was walking into.
"Doctor Evelyn," he said, low and firm, "take it."
"But Ahmed—" Evelyn began. "They need this."
"It is tradition," Ahmed said, without softness. "In Punjab, you offer your best to your benefactor or your family. If you refuse, you are telling them their gift is worthless. You are telling them they are not worthy to give."
Evelyn looked at the women again and finally understood. This was not begging. This was pride, fighting to stand upright.
Slowly, Evelyn drew the shawl to her chest. The coarse weave scratched her chin. It smelled of woodsmoke and survival—mud houses, chulhas, nights endured.
"Thank you," Evelyn whispered. Her eyes went wet before she could stop them. "It is… beautiful."
The woman's face brightened at once, relief and joy washing over her like sunlight breaking through cloud.
She reached up and touched Evelyn's shoulder—an intimacy that normally would never cross the line between British and native. Today, no one cared about lines.
"Go in peace, daughter," the woman said.
The caravan began to roll.
Carts creaked onto the hardened road. Oxen snorted. Children looked back one last time at the camp that had fed them. Men adjusted bundles and tapped their animals forward.
Evelyn stood watching, shawl wrapped around her shoulders, holding warmth that was not only physical.
"I thought…" she began, then stopped.
Mary, adjusting her own shawl, looked at her. "You thought what?"
Evelyn swallowed. "I thought they would be different," she admitted. "The reports always describe villagers as rough. Barbaric. Ungovernable."
She ran her fingers over the khaddar's weave.
"They are illiterate," she said quietly. "Untrained. Scared. But… my God, Mary. They are warm. They are selfless."
Mary's mouth curved into a small, knowing smile.
"They are people, Doctor," she said. "Just people waiting for someone to treat them like it."
Above them, from the Lodge balcony, Jinnah watched the last cart pass through his gate.
They're leaving as loyalists, Bilal said, lower now, no mockery in his voice. You didn't only save their bodies. You saved their dignity.
Jinnah's reply, in his own mind, was immediate and precise.
"We saved their future," he thought. "Now we must make sure the Zaildars never take it back."
He turned away from the balcony.
Inside the Lodge, new furniture was being unpacked. New papers were being filed. The officers were coming. The next phase was approaching.
But for today, the road was paved, the vines were planted, the lake had been seeded with life, and the people—his people, now—were going home.