The morning after the broadcast, Deputy Commissioner Harrington sat in his office in Montgomery, staring at a stack of paper. It was the verbatim transcript of the "Voice of Sandalbar" show, typed up by his head clerk, Mr. Das.
Usually, reviewing propaganda material was a chore. It was dry, legalistic, and full of lies that everyone pretended to believe.
But this transcript was different.
Harrington looked up. Mr. Das, a man who had served the British administration for twenty years with cynical efficiency, was standing by the door. He looked unusually softened.
"You listened to it live, Das?" Harrington asked.
"Yes, Sahib. My whole family did."
"And the reaction?"
Mr. Das hesitated, then spoke with a rare honesty.
"Sahib... when the Doctor-Memsahib spoke about her village... my wife cried. She said, 'Finally, a Gora who admits they were once poor like us.' It made them feel human, Sahib. Not like rulers from another planet, but like people who climbed out of the mud just like we are trying to do."
Harrington nodded slowly. He looked at the transcript again.
Evelyn: "Greatness is not a legal document... Greatness is clean water... I ask you to take the best of my world..."
He pulled out his typewriter. He needed to frame this carefully for the Governor.
CONFIDENTIAL DISPATCH
TO: H.E. GOVERNOR OF PUNJAB
FROM: DC HARRINGTON
Excellency,
Regarding the 'Crown Relations' segment: The initial script provided by Captain Montague was discarded. Mr. Jinnah's team improvised.
The result was not what we asked for. It was infinitely better.
By admitting British historical struggles, Dr. Cartwright has achieved a psychological breakthrough. The Indian staff at the District Office—usually indifferent to our announcements—are quoting her words today. She has presented the Empire not as a Conqueror, but as an Elder Sibling who has already walked the difficult path.
Montague's approach would have caused resentment. Jinnah's approach has caused endearment. I strongly suggest we allow them full creative control.
He signed it with a flourish. The "Rooster" had been cooked; the "Angel" had won.
The Arrival at the Lodge
That evening, Harrington drove out to the Sandalbar Estate. Jinnah had invited him for a private dinner.
Harrington braced himself. His last memory of the Lake Lodge was from the height of the flood crisis—mud everywhere, the smell of death, refugees camped on the verandah, and the billiard table covered in rubber sheets for cholera patients.
He turned the Packard through the main gates.
"Good God," Harrington whispered.
The car didn't crunch over mud. It glided onto a smooth, compacted road that curved in a graceful half-moon around the lake. But it was the entrance that stopped him.
The car passed under a wooden trellis structure—the Grapevine Corridor.
The vines were young, but the roof was thatched with jute and palm leaves, casting a warm, amber shadow. As the car slowed, the air changed. The brutal heat of the Punjab evening vanished, replaced by a cool, damp breeze.
And then, the scent hit him.
It wasn't dust. It wasn't swamp water. It was a heavy, intoxicating wave of Motia and Raat Ki Rani. It smelled like a Mughal garden in full bloom.
Harrington stepped out of the car. He felt his shoulders relax involuntarily. The sensory shift was absolute. He had left the "District" and entered a "Sanctuary."
The Resurrection of the Club
Jinnah was waiting on the verandah steps, dressed in a black dinner jacket, looking as if he were standing in Mayfair, not Montgomery.
"Welcome back, Robert," Jinnah said.
"Muhammad," Harrington gestured around him, wide-eyed. "I expected... well, I expected a field hospital. This looks like a resort."
"The war is over," Jinnah said smoothly. "Come inside."
Harrington entered the Billiards Room. He instinctively held his breath, expecting the sharp sting of carbolic acid and bleach.
Instead, he smelled sandalwood incense and old leather.
The rubber sheets were gone. The slate table was polished. The fireplace, which had been cold and empty, now held a small, decorative fire. And arranged around it were deep, buttoned Chesterfield sofas in rich brown leather.
"New furniture?" Harrington asked, running a hand over the upholstery.
"Lahore," Jinnah replied. "The previous set served a noble cause as firewood. These are for comfort."
A waiter—a Goan man in a crisp white uniform—appeared with a tray of crystal glasses.
"Sherry?" Jinnah offered.
Harrington took the glass, shaking his head. "You have a way, Muhammad, of making civilization appear out of thin air."
"Not thin air," Jinnah corrected. "Logistics."
The Admission
Dinner was served on the terrace overlooking the lake. The water, once a muddy brown threat, was now shimmering in the moonlight, ripples breaking the surface as fish jumped for insects. The distant sound of ducks settling into the reeds created a peaceful, pastoral backdrop.
The meal was a showcase of the estate: Grilled Rohu fish with lemon butter, and a rich caramel custard made from Khaki Campbell duck eggs.
Harrington put down his spoon.
"I must apologize," Harrington said quietly.
"For the fish?" Jinnah teased.
"For Captain Montague," Harrington said seriously. "It was... arrogant. A mistake. I let the Information Ministry bully me. I should have known that a man like Montague would sound like a foghorn in a library."
"He was a rooster," Jinnah said, slicing his fish. "He made noise. But roosters do not lay eggs. They only wake people up when they want to sleep."
"Evelyn saved us," Harrington admitted. "My staff... my clerks... they are actually talking about 'British resilience' today. I haven't heard them speak of us with that kind of respect in years."
He looked at Jinnah.
"How did you know?" Harrington asked. "How did you know that admitting our poverty would work better than boasting about our power?"
The Philosophy of the Angel
Jinnah wiped his mouth with a linen napkin.
"It is not that I know better, Robert. It is that she had earned the right to speak."
He pointed toward the distant lights of the Clinic.
"Evelyn is not a 'White Doctor' to them anymore. She is the woman who touched their cholera sores. She is the woman who held their dying children. She washed their feet with potassium permanganate."
Jinnah leaned forward, his face illuminated by the candlelight.
"You cannot broadcast authority, Robert. You cannot legislate loyalty. Montague demanded their respect because he wore a uniform. Evelyn received their love because she served them."
He took a sip of water.
"They call her an Angel not because she is white, but because she descended into their hell and pulled them out. When someone like that tells you that Britain is good... you believe them. Because she is the proof."
Harrington sat in silence, watching the moonlight on the water. The lesson stung, but it rang true. The Empire had spent a century demanding respect; perhaps it was time it started earning it.
"You have created something dangerous here, Muhammad," Harrington whispered.
"Dangerous?"
"You have created a standard," Harrington said. "If the rest of the Punjab starts expecting this level of service... God help the rest of us administrators."
Jinnah smiled, the first genuine smile of the evening.
"Then perhaps," Jinnah said, raising his glass, "you should all start buying better furniture and hiring better angels."