The Lodge had hosted dinners, reports, arguments, and quiet negotiations.
Now it would host something far more dangerous in its own subtle way:
a crowd.
Jinnah had the ground prepared properly—no more dusty improvisation behind Headquarters, no chalk lines drawn like a child's idea of a field. This was the sanctuary side of Sandalbar, and here even leisure had to look intentional.
The pitch was rolled. The boundary was measured. A small pavilion area was set aside for guests. Benches were placed with enough spacing to prevent the usual Punjabi instinct of collapsing into one noisy mass.
It was not vanity.
It was demonstration.
Jinnah wanted Harrington to see two things at once:
what the Lodge had become,
what villagers—given structure—were capable of.
So he sent an invitation to the Montgomery army unit.
Not a political invitation. Not a formal district event.
A match.
A harmless word with sharp implications.
The Arrivals
By late morning, the guests began to arrive from Montgomery—players first, then families.
They came in cars and official vehicles, carrying picnic baskets, folding chairs, parasols, and the casual confidence of people accustomed to being on the right side of every boundary.
The army team itself looked like what Harrington had warned Jinnah about: trained bodies, matching whites, practiced smiles. Men who did not treat sport as an experiment.
The Sandalbar team arrived more quietly.
No matching whites. No polished kits. Their shirts were simple, clean, and functional. Their posture carried a certain seriousness that didn't belong to sportsmen—it belonged to men who had stood guard at night and who knew what a real threat looked like.
They did not look festive.
They looked disciplined.
Jinnah watched them from the Lodge veranda, hands behind his back, face unreadable.
Harrington arrived last, as if he wanted to appear neutral about the whole affair. He stepped out of his vehicle, adjusted his jacket, and glanced around at the ground.
"This," he admitted, "is a proper pitch."
Jinnah gave a small nod. "It should be."
Harrington's eyes moved across the boundary, the benches, the shade arrangements, the little details that made the Lodge feel less like an estate and more like a managed institution.
Then he leaned slightly toward Jinnah, voice low enough to remain private.
"In this case," Harrington said, "you are going to lose."
Jinnah's eyes remained on the field. "Why?"
Harrington's mouth twitched with dry amusement.
"Because your men," he said, "are playing against a professional unit. They play regularly. They have coaching. They have habit."
Jinnah turned his head slightly, as if Harrington had offered legal counsel rather than sport commentary.
"It is just a game," Jinnah said. "A way for families to be entertained."
Harrington's brows lifted.
"Aren't you trying to prove something?" he asked.
Jinnah's answer was calm and precise.
"I am trying to normalize order," he said. "If a crowd can gather without panic, without pushing, without faction slogans, that alone is a victory."
Harrington studied him for a second, then exhaled through his nose as if conceding the point.
"Fine," he said. "But when your men are bowled out quickly, do not glare at me like I did it."
Jinnah's mouth curved faintly.
"I do not glare," he said. "I file objections."
Two Crowds, One Field
The British families were seated on the designated side, closer to the pavilion and refreshments.
The villagers were seated on the far side.
Not because Jinnah wanted humiliation.
Because he understood proximity.
A mixed crowd in Punjab did not automatically become one crowd. It became a spark waiting for friction. The villagers, invited for entertainment and witness, would be kept separate from the British guests, not as insult, but as risk management.
Even so, the villagers came in numbers that startled Harrington.
They arrived in waves—men, women, children—walking from surrounding settlements, some on foot, some in carts, some simply appearing as if the soil itself had decided to attend.
For them, entertainment was not routine. It was rare.
Most gatherings they knew were funerals, disputes, tax matters, or the arrival of a police party.
A cricket match at the Lodge felt like an impossible luxury.
And for Madho's settled families and the Farabis' households, it was something else:
their men versus British men.
Not war.
Not rebellion.
But a contest where pride could be exercised without punishment.
Harrington looked across the field at the far boundary where villagers sat in dense rows, their faces bright with curiosity.
He turned to Jinnah.
"You invited half the district," he murmured.
"I invited the villages," Jinnah replied simply. "They invited themselves."
Harrington's eyes stayed on the crowd. "This is… unusual."
Jinnah didn't answer immediately.
Inside his mind, Bilal's voice surfaced, amused and sharp.
This is exactly like that village-versus-empire cricket story, Bilal said. Not because it's dramatic—because it's symbolic.
Jinnah's thought came back dry.
"Do not start imagining cinema."
Not cinema, Bilal replied. Psychology. The crowd is here because they want to see if your men can stand in front of the British and not shrink.
Jinnah's eyes narrowed slightly.
"That is a fair observation," he admitted inwardly.
Refreshments and Surveillance
Sandalbar provided refreshments for the guests: tea, cold water, light snacks, and simple pastries—nothing extravagant, but enough to remind the Montgomery families that this place was being run with deliberate standards.
The villagers, on their side, brought their own food—flatbreads, onions, pickle, and wrapped bundles. A few Farabi wives distributed water and small portions of tea to children near the edge, more as kindness than policy.
Farabis were present, but not oppressive.
They stood at intervals around the ground like quiet anchors. They did not shove people. They did not shout. When a few boys tried to run closer to the British seating, a Farabi simply lifted a hand and pointed them back, expression steady, voice low.
The boys obeyed.
Not because they were afraid.
Because the Farabi's calm was a kind of authority villagers had already learned to respect.
Harrington watched all of this with the professional eye of a man who had spent his career measuring crowd behavior.
"You've trained them," he said quietly.
Jinnah did not deny it.
"I have given them routine," he replied. "Training is your word."
Harrington's gaze remained on the field.
"Routine," he repeated. "Yes. That."
Before the First Ball
The teams took their positions.
The Montgomery unit looked relaxed. Confident. Familiar with applause.
The Sandalbar team looked serious, almost too serious for sport.
But something had changed in them since the early days.
They moved with purpose now. They spoke less. They watched more.
Harrington noticed the gesture and frowned slightly.
"You've taught them something," he said.
Jinnah's voice remained even.
"I have encouraged discipline," he said.
Harrington gave him a sideways look.
"You always answer like a lawyer," he said.
Jinnah's mouth curved faintly.
"It is my profession," he replied.
The umpire called for the start.
As the first ball was about to be delivered, the villagers leaned forward in a wave—as if the entire far-side boundary had inhaled at once.
For a moment, the Lodge felt like something larger than itself.
Not a club.
Not an estate.
A stage where two worlds could look at each other across a pitch—kept separate by seating arrangements and managed space, yet linked by a shared obsession with what would happen next.
Inside Jinnah's mind, Bilal offered one last observation, quiet but pleased.
Even if they lose, Bilal said, this is already a win. You've gathered the district without politics. You've built a crowd without chaos.
Jinnah's inner reply was calm.
"Then let the game begin," he thought.
And on the field, the bowler began his run-up.