The order came on a morning that smelled of damp earth and boiled tea.
It arrived not as a single dramatic letter this time, but as a series of signals.
First, the wireless room at Sandalbar picked up a coded message from Lahore: confirmation that the Emergency Control Room was operational.
Then, a runner from the Montgomery Deputy Commissioner's office arrived by horse, breathless, carrying a thick envelope marked for Muhammad Ali Jinnah, Esq.
Jinnah read it once standing in the verandah, then once again at his desk, lips a thin line.
By noon, the Farabis were assembled under the old pipal tree near the headquarters courtyard—sixty men in khaki, boots dusty, rifles oiled and ready, faces lined by sun and habit.
Mary stood at the edge of the gathering, arms folded, bandage at her side healing but still tender. Ahmed hovered near the steps, a notebook under his arm, as if numbers might help him make sense of what was coming.
The air held a tension usually reserved for funerals or weddings.
Jinnah stepped out into the yard.
He wore no barrister's gown today, only a simple, well-cut sherwani and a dark achkan over it. The revolver on his hip was almost invisible beneath the cloth, but the Farabis knew it was there.
He faced them, hands clasped behind his back.
"You have heard rumours," he began, voice carrying easily. "Let us replace them with facts."
A low murmur stilled.
"The Governor and the Premier have accepted our proposal," Jinnah said. "Lahore and Montgomery city will be reorganised for the duration of the cholera emergency. Local sanitary councils. Rings of isolation. Station wards. Wireless control."
He allowed that to settle a moment.
"For this," he went on, "they require more than circulars. They require men who can enforce without looting, threaten without losing their heads, and obey without becoming slaves."
His gaze moved slowly over the ranks.
"That means you."
The words landed like a stone in a pond. No one moved, but something shifted behind the eyes.
"We have received formal orders," Jinnah said. "Half of our Farabi force is to be seconded to the Government of Punjab as auxiliary sanitary enforcement. Twenty men to Lahore, ten to Shahdara and the surrounding river villages, ten to Montgomery city. A handful will remain here at Sandalbar to guard the estate and support the clinic."
He did not bother dressing it up.
"You will not be a private army hiding in a landlord's pocket," he said. "You will stand in front of municipal officers and police, and you will make sure that when they say 'do this,' people hear more than air. You will not replace the Government. You will give it a spine."
A rustle ran through the ranks; a few mouths tightened with pride, others with apprehension.
Someone in the second line raised a hand.
"Sahib," he called, "who stays?"
"Volunteers remain first," Jinnah replied. "If there are more volunteers than posts, we will choose based on need and skill."
Ahmed leaned forward.
"What about the estate itself?" he asked. "The clinic? Evelyn? Mary?"
Jinnah's face did not change.
"Dr Harrington is already in Lahore," he said. "The Health Department has posted a government doctor to Sandalbar in her place. Dr Chandra Rao—experienced, by all accounts, if not quite as terrifying."
That drew a faint ripple of laughter.
"Mary stays," Jinnah continued. "Ahmed stays. They will keep the bones of this place steady while its nerves travel."
Mary sniffed.
"I am not 'bones,'" she muttered. "I am at least a vital organ."
"You are the liver," Ahmed murmured back. "You keep us from poisoning ourselves."
Jinnah pretended not to hear them.
"You will leave in two days," he told the Farabis. "Use that time to put your affairs in order. Say your goodbyes. And remember this: when you step into Lahore and Shahdara, you do not go as mercenaries, but as men carrying an experiment. If you fail, they will say, 'This is why Indians cannot govern.' If you succeed, they will pretend it was their idea all along. In both cases, your work will have saved lives."
Spoken like a man who has worked for both sides and trusted neither, Bilal murmured.
Sandalbar Without Its Teeth
The next forty-eight hours felt wrong.
The estate had lived with the Farabis' presence for months now; their drills, their patrols, their whistles and shouted counts had become part of the landscape. Now, as they packed kitbags and checked rifles, Sandalbar seemed to be slowly disarming.
Dr Rao arrived on the second day—a thin man in his forties, spectacles slipping down his nose, a competent moustache and an expression that hovered between curiosity and anxiety.
He shook Jinnah's hand with more respect than warmth.
"I have read the reports," he said. "Your estate… functions unusually."
"We have fewer corpses," Jinnah said. "That is all that matters."
Dr Rao glanced toward the departing Farabis.
"And now you send away half your teeth," he said.
"Teeth can bite in more than one mouth," Jinnah replied. "The jaw remains."
He gestured toward Mary, who was already giving Dr Rao a tour of the clinic with the brisk intolerance of someone who had nearly died in it and considered that a personal affront.
"These are our current protocols," she said, pointing to a notice board. "Isolation mat, ash bowls, household checks. I don't care what your official memos say; here, no one leaves with diarrhoea unless I am satisfied their house is clean."
Dr Rao blinked.
"You are very sure of yourself, Nurse Mary," he said.
"I have earned the right," she replied. "Twice."
She tugged up her side of the sari just enough to show the fading scar where a knife had tried and failed to change her career path.
Dr Rao's expression shifted slightly.
"Very well," he said. "You will be my right hand here. I will need someone who knows the people."
"Good," she said. "Then we understand each other."
Ahmed watched this with cautious relief.
"So," he said later to Jinnah on the verandah, "the doctor is not a fool. That is one mercy."
"Do not relax yet," Jinnah said. "We are about to throw our Farabis into a sea of fools and a few sharks."
Arrival in Lahore
The twenty Farabis assigned to Lahore travelled by train, seated in two third-class carriages with their kit and wireless crates. They wore arm-bands marked with a small, simple symbol: a crown over a stylised sandalwood leaf—the compromise emblem agreed in the Governor's office.
They disembarked at Lahore Junction into a station that smelled of coal, sweat, and fear.
Temporary screens were already being erected near one platform—canvas partitions that would, God willing, become the first of the station isolation wards. A harried station master waved his arms, arguing with a railways officer about space.
When the Farabis came down the steps in formation, rifles slung and sets carried, the noise dipped for a heartbeat.
"Auxiliary sanitary enforcement," their havildar announced to the station master, presenting a folded letter with the Governor's seal and a covering note from the Premier's office. "We are to set up wireless here and liaise with your staff."
The station master skimmed the letter, frowning.
"No one informed me of this," he said. "We have our own police. And where am I supposed to put you? This is a railway, not a cantonment."
"We require a corner," the havildar said, keeping his tone level. "A table. A line of sight to the platforms. The orders—"
"I see the orders," the station master snapped. "Everyone waves paper these days. You will have to wait until the Divisional Superintendent approves. He is at lunch."
"One hour," the havildar said. "Then we will begin regardless."
"Are you threatening me?" the station master blustered.
"No," the havildar said. "Cholera is."
He turned away before the man could gather more words.
The pattern repeated in different forms throughout the day.