Montgomery won the toss and chose to field.
It was the sensible choice. The army unit arrived with habit, with practice, with bodies trained to endure heat and repetition. They wanted to see the pitch first, measure bounce, judge the outfield, and then chase whatever Sandalbar managed to assemble.
Jinnah watched the coin flip without expression.
"This is the correct decision," Harrington remarked, adjusting his collar. "Your men will face a disciplined attack first."
Jinnah's reply was mild. "It is an exhibition match."
Harrington gave him a dry look. "Yes. And I am grateful for it."
He lowered his voice. "It will let my players suffer less."
Jinnah did not smile, but the faintest amusement touched his eyes.
"Then we are both satisfied," he said.
The Rule of Three Hours
Before the first ball, Jinnah had insisted on one rule that made the army officers raise their eyebrows.
Each side would have exactly three hours to bat.
No endless sessions. No drawn-out attrition. No temptation for tempers to boil.
A fixed window.
A schedule.
A system.
"It's not a county match," Jinnah had said earlier, as if he were arguing a procedural point in court. "It is a demonstration. Three hours is enough to show discipline."
Harrington had agreed immediately.
"Three hours," he said with a relieved chuckle, "is also enough to ensure my men do not collapse under your sun and your hospitality."
Jinnah's tone remained neutral. "Hospitality does not include funerals."
Harrington laughed once, then looked at the field again, serious.
The First Overs
The Montgomery bowlers began with pace.
Not reckless speed, but controlled aggression—the kind that came from men who had bowled on proper grounds and understood that pressure is created by consistency, not theatrics.
The first few deliveries tested Sandalbar immediately.
Bouncers rose sharply. The ball climbed toward the chest and neck, forcing the batsmen to duck, sway, or block awkwardly.
The villagers on the far boundary reacted like one body—each short ball made them flinch, as if their own ribs felt the impact.
Sandalbar's opener took a bouncer on the ribs in the second over.
The sound was ugly: leather into flesh.
He stepped back, breath knocked loose for a moment, eyes hard. A Farabi on the boundary shifted forward instinctively—then stopped himself. This was not a raid. This was a pitch.
The batsman waved the concern away.
He spat once, adjusted his grip, and took guard again.
The next ball came shorter again, aimed with intention.
He ducked late, and the ball kissed the upper arm. Pain flashed across his face, but he did not step away.
He stood.
The villagers murmured. Not cheering yet—evaluating.
Jinnah watched from the shade of the Lodge seating, face still. Harrington stood beside him, hands behind his back, observing like a man inspecting troop behavior.
"They're holding," Harrington said quietly, almost surprised.
Jinnah did not answer.
Inside his mind, Bilal's voice was calm and sharp.
This is the easy part, Bilal said. Let them feel the bouncers. Let them learn that pain doesn't end the innings. The real action is still to come. Watch.
The Middle Takes Shape
After the early shocks, Sandalbar's batsmen adjusted.
Not elegantly. Not like club players.
But with a certain stubborn practicality.
They began to leave balls outside off stump. They began to block bouncers with tighter elbows. They began to look for singles—small runs, safe runs, runs earned by discipline rather than arrogance.
Their cricket wasn't stylish.
It was functional.
And functional was exactly what Sandalbar specialized in.
The gilli danda men—especially the quiet anchor—proved useful. They didn't panic. They didn't swing wildly at every fast ball. They waited. When a length ball came, they hit it along the ground.
No flourish. Just placement.
A few boundaries came—not from power, but from timing. The villagers reacted strongly to those. A boundary felt like a message: we are not just surviving; we are answering.
Montgomery's fielders were sharp. They cut off singles aggressively. They threw hard and straight. They made Sandalbar work for every run.
But Sandalbar worked.
One batsman took another hit—this time high on the thigh, just above the pad line. He hissed through his teeth, then grinned at his partner as if pain was now part of the entertainment.
The partner muttered, "If you die, I'm not carrying you."
The batsman replied, "Then score quickly, so my ghost is satisfied."
The villagers laughed—relief laughter, the kind that breaks fear.
Jinnah's eyes remained steady.
The scoreboard ticked slowly, then more steadily. It wasn't a spectacular run rate, but it was enough. Enough to be respectable. Enough to avoid humiliation.
Harrington's posture shifted from amused confidence to mild interest.
When the three-hour mark approached, Sandalbar had put up a decent total.
Not a record.
Not a miracle.
A competent score—built on bruises, patience, and refusal to collapse.
Harrington's Comment
As the final over ended and players walked off, Harrington turned slightly toward Jinnah.
He smiled with the comfortable superiority of an administrator who believed he had discovered progress under his own supervision.
"Well," Harrington said, "I'll give you this much."
Jinnah looked at him calmly.
"At least," Harrington continued, "you have taught the barbarians some civilization."
The line was delivered with a light tone, as if it were harmless teasing.
But it carried its usual imperial odor: the assumption that discipline must always be a British gift.
Jinnah did not react. His face remained polite and controlled, the way it did in meetings where an insult was not worth the ink required to answer it.
He merely said, "They learned quickly."
Harrington chuckled. "They still bruise easily."
Jinnah's reply was quiet.
"So do your men," he said.
Harrington paused, then laughed again—because he knew Jinnah's words could cut without raising the voice.
Inside Jinnah's mind, Bilal spoke, almost amused.
Let him enjoy his little line, Bilal said. The match is not decided in the first act.
Jinnah's inner reply was steady.
"And what is the second act?"
Bilal's answer came like a whisper with teeth.
When our bowlers bowl, he said. That's when the English will realize this wasn't charity.
On the field, Montgomery's openers walked out with relaxed confidence, tapping their bats, chatting lightly.
They had seen the Sandalbar score. They believed it was chaseable.
They believed the day was still theirs.
And Sandalbar's four tall bowlers—shoulders broad, arms long—stood at the boundary, turning the ball in their hands.