The order arrived on thick paper, carried by a man who treated the envelope as if it were glass.
It came from Lahore, stamped with the Crown's crest, and it did not pretend to be friendly. Its language was formal, clean, and absolute—the kind of language that turned chaos into a ledger entry.
Jinnah read it once, silently, then set it on the desk without any visible reaction.
Ahmed Khan, standing nearby, could not hide his tension.
"What does it say, Sir?"
Jinnah slid the paper across the table.
Ahmed read. His eyes widened, then narrowed, as if his mind needed a second to accept the scale.
Fifty villages.Placed under Sandalbar's administrative umbrella.And a new title attached to Jinnah's name:
Special Administrator.
It wasn't a compliment. It was a contract.
The Crown was not giving Jinnah power out of generosity. It was outsourcing responsibility to the only man who had recently proven he could keep villages from burning.
Ahmed exhaled slowly.
"They've made it official."
Jinnah's voice was calm. "They have made it useful."
He leaned back, fingertips together. This was the moment where a lesser man would celebrate.
Jinnah simply calculated.
Fifty villages meant fifty points of friction: land disputes, bandit routes, irrigation quarrels, feuds that had matured for generations. Fifty villages also meant fifty chances to build a system that would outlive the flood and the Zaildars.
They're buying your competence, Bilal murmured, amused. And calling it loyalty.
Jinnah did not smile.
"They are buying stability," he replied quietly, "because instability costs them more."
The Delivery
The same day, the second shipment arrived.
Sixty wooden crates, each marked and numbered, carried by a Crown truck convoy with a sergeant holding the inventory list like scripture.
Inside the crates were radio sets—proper ones. Not patched junk. Not scavenged pieces.
Sixty sets, sealed and documented.
The sergeant cleared his throat when Harrington stepped out of the truck and began reading from his paperwork, as if the act of reading made him important.
"By authorization of the Punjab administration," he announced, "the Special Administrator of Sandalbar Estate is issued sixty radio receiver sets for civil coordination. Frequencies restricted. Monitoring rights reserved."
Harrington, polite as ever in Jinnah's orbit, handed the list to Ahmed.
"Everything is accounted for," Harrington said. "The engineers will help set the baseline frequency. After that, the responsibility is yours."
Jinnah gave a small nod—no thanks, no praise.
Ahmed signed, not with excitement, but with the grim focus of a man accepting ammunition.
Because that is what these radios were.
Not entertainment.
Not luxury.
A weapon against distance.
The Map on the Floor
That night, in the Lodge's study, Ahmed unrolled a map on the carpet. It wasn't a decorative map. It was working paper, marked with pencil, pins, and red circles.
Jinnah stood over it, hands behind his back.
Ahmed spoke in the clipped rhythm he used when he was organizing men.
"Thirteen villages are already under our control," he said. "They've seen the system. They understand rules. They respond."
He pointed to a ring of villages around Sandalbar like a tightened fist.
"Thirty-seven are new," Ahmed continued. "Some are stable but leaderless. Some are frightened. Some are still infected with old loyalties."
Jinnah's gaze moved across the map without hurry.
"Bandit pressure?" he asked.
Ahmed tapped two points near the canal edge.
"Moderate. But the main issue is internal. These places have been running on fear for years. They don't know how to behave under order yet."
Jinnah nodded once.
"Deploy the Farabis."
Ahmed hesitated for half a breath.
"We can deploy to most of them," he said carefully, "but not all. Five villages are still… uncertain."
Uncertain was a polite word. It meant tangled.
It meant feuds, hidden criminals, men who would rather burn a radio set than admit they needed help.
Jinnah looked at the five marked villages, then at Ahmed.
"So we do not leave them empty," he said.
Ahmed understood immediately.
"We use interim staff."
The Farabi Movement
By dawn, the estate moved.
Farabi teams began to roll out in small groups, not in parades. They traveled like professionals—quiet, focused, and without drama. Each team carried three things: presence, procedure, and the ability to transmit reality back to HQ.
In the villages already aligned, the Farabis were greeted with discipline. People stepped aside. Children watched from doorways. Men did not argue. The rules were already established.
But in the new villages, the Farabis arrived like a new law walking on two legs.
They set up posts first: a room, a table, a ledger, a signal point. Then they announced instructions in simple language:
Where to report disputes.
Where to bring the sick.
Where to run if bandits struck at night.
What would happen if anyone tried to hide criminals.
Order, explained like a checklist.
This is network expansion, Bilal said, pleased. You're not "controlling villages." You're installing operating systems.
Jinnah's eyes remained on the map.
"Good," he thought. "Now we test it under pressure."
The Station Basti Recruits
The five villages where Farabis could not yet be stationed fully were handled differently.
Jinnah hired local youth—boys and young men from Station Basti and adjacent settlements. People who knew how to move without being noticed. People who knew how to listen without being baited.
Not criminals.
Not saints.
Useful, hungry, smart.
Ahmed selected them personally. He refused anyone with a record of drunkenness, uncontrolled temper, or unnecessary bravery.
"We need calm hands," he told Mary. "Not heroes."
Mary watched the recruits line up in the yard—thin arms, sharp eyes, dust in their hair. Boys who had grown up learning that survival required speed.
"They look like they'll run," she said.
"They will," Ahmed replied. "If they're trained correctly, they'll run toward the right place."
They were given a crash course—seven days compressed into one.
Farabis taught them the essentials:
How to speak with authority without shouting.
How to write basic entries in a ledger.
How to identify trouble before it became violence.
How to stand in a crowd and not get swallowed by it.
Then came the radio training.
Each village was issued a valve radio set, pre-tuned—its frequency fixed on Sandalbar's channel. The knob was sealed, not to punish them, but to prevent curiosity from turning into chaos.
Alongside it, they were given basic WWI wireless sets—older, heavy, stubborn machines that required patience.
The Farabi instructor placed one unit in front of them like a sacred object.
"This," he said, tapping the casing, "is your tongue."
He pointed to the key.
"This is your discipline."
They learned simple messages only:
"Medical urgent."
"Bandit movement sighted."
"Dispute escalating."
"Need Farabi presence."
"Supply shortage."
No poetry. No improvisation. No extra words.
A message was either clean—or it was useless.
One boy, nervous, asked, "What if we make mistake?"
The Farabi leaned closer.
"Then you will correct it fast," he said. "Because mistakes are not crimes. Delay is."
One Week of Supervision
For the first week, Farabis visited those five villages every day.
Not as inspectors with arrogance.
As teachers who refused to let the new system fail.
They checked the radio logbooks. They tested transmissions. They forced the recruits to repeat procedures until the actions became reflex.
Every evening, at the same hour, each village sent a status message:
"Village calm."
"One fever case."
"Two disputes settled."
"No bandit movement."
Short. Dry. Perfect.
And every time a message arrived at Sandalbar HQ, Ahmed marked it on the map with a pencil stroke—one more thin line connecting the estate to the outer ring.
The network was becoming visible.
Not in speeches.
In signals.
This is how empires actually work, Bilal said. Not flags. Not slogans. Communication and response time.
Jinnah listened to the faint crackle of the wireless set from the next room, the low hum of electricity settling into routine.
He did not feel triumph.
He felt confirmation.
Because now, fifty villages were no longer fifty isolated stories.
They were one system.
And systems, once established, were difficult to kill.
He looked at Ahmed.
"Keep recruiting," Jinnah said. "We will not leave gaps."
Ahmed nodded. "Yes, Sir."
Jinnah turned back to the map, where the pins and pencil lines made Sandalbar look less like an estate and more like a province.
Base built, Bilal whispered. Now the real tests begin.
Jinnah's answer was quiet, almost clinical.
"Let them come," he thought. "Now we can hear them coming."