Montgomery began their chase with confidence.
The army openers walked in loose and smiling, tapping their bats as if the pitch belonged to them by tradition. Their captain stood near the boundary rope with the relaxed posture of a man who expected the match to settle into a familiar pattern: Sandalbar's villagers would try hard, Montgomery would absorb, then win without drama.
Harrington watched with a faint, entertained expression—half host, half district officer, half spectator at a polite humiliation.
"Now we'll see," he murmured to Jinnah, "whether your men understand that fast bowling is an art."
Jinnah's face remained calm.
"It is an exhibition," he said, as he had said before.
Harrington smiled. "Naturally."
On the field, Sandalbar's first few overs were… ordinary.
Too ordinary.
Their bowlers did not begin with pace. They did not announce themselves. They bowled a shade slower than expected—enough to be hittable.
And Montgomery hit them.
The bat met the ball with confidence. A driven boundary along the ground. A pull shot that sent the villagers murmuring. A lofted stroke that made the British families clap politely.
Harrington glanced at Jinnah with a quiet, satisfied look, as if to say: this is what happens when discipline meets experience.
Jinnah did not react.
Because Jinnah could see what others could not.
The Sandalbar bowlers were not panicking.
They were waiting.
They moved like men who had hunted before—not with guns, but with patience. They were letting the batsmen enjoy the early meal, letting the rhythm build, letting the crowd relax.
And while they did that, the ball was being curated.
One side kept smooth. Protected. Polished discreetly against cloth.
The other side left dull. Allowed to age with every roll, every impact, every scrape that was not "helped" back into shine.
From the pavilion, it looked like slow bowling.
From inside Jinnah's mind, Bilal's voice had the stillness of a trap being set.
Let them score early, Bilal said. Let them feel safe. A man who feels safe commits harder.
Harrington's voice drifted again, lightly teasing.
"Fast bowling is an art, Jinnah. Your men look… restrained."
Jinnah's mouth curved faintly, almost courteous.
"An art," he agreed. "Yes."
Bilal's voice sharpened with amusement.
Then today, Bilal said, we show them magic.
The Cue
The ball had begun to look older now—just enough. Not soft. Not dead. But no longer new.
Jinnah's eyes followed it closely as it returned to the bowler's hand.
Then he lifted his hand once—small, controlled, almost invisible.
A cue.
Sukhvinder Singh took the ball.
He was one of the tall, broad-shouldered men Bilal had insisted on. His run-up was steady, economical, and his face carried the disciplined emptiness of a soldier who did not perform for crowds.
The Montgomery batsman watched him with mild interest, still confident.
The first delivery came in fast.
Not "club fast."
Fast enough that the sound changed.
The ball dipped late, skidded, and struck the batsman's front foot before the bat could fully come down.
The batsman flinched sharply and stepped away, teeth clenched.
On the far side, villagers made a collective sound—half gasp, half satisfaction.
Inside Jinnah's mind, Bilal spoke with blunt approval.
Toe-breaker, Bilal said. That's how you introduce reality.
Jinnah did not respond. He watched the batsman's eyes. The confidence was still there, but now it had a crack.
Sukhvinder walked back to his mark without expression.
The second ball came.
It looked similar in flight—until it wasn't.
Late movement, sharper than before. The ball seemed to change its mind in the final moments, sliding away from the expected line.
The bat came down where the ball had been.
The ball was no longer there.
It kissed the wicket.
Stumps disturbed. A clean dismissal.
For a heartbeat, the field went silent—the kind of silence that happens when an audience needs a second to confirm what it just saw.
Then the villagers erupted.
Not polite applause.
A roar.
A wave of sound that rolled across the ground from the far side like a flood.
Even the British seating reacted—some clapping, some startled laughter, some sudden upright posture.
Sukhvinder did not raise his arms.
He did not smile.
He did not look at the batsman.
He simply turned and walked back to his run-up as if nothing had happened.
As if this was routine.
Harrington's expression shifted. Not alarm. Not anger.
Surprise.
He leaned slightly toward Jinnah.
"That moved," he said quietly.
Jinnah's tone remained neutral.
"It seems so," he replied.
Bilal's voice was pleased.
That's the first crack in the myth, he said. Now they begin to doubt their own eyes.
Bashir's Over
The next over was taken by Naib Havaldar Bashir.
Unlike Sukhvinder, Bashir bowled with a kind of deliberate cruelty—still within the rules, but with the instinct of a man who knew how to make another man uncomfortable.
His first ball hit the pitch hard and rose late.
The batsman tried to cut it, misread the bounce, and edged it upward.
A fielder—one of the fast men—moved like a spring and took the catch cleanly.
The crowd surged again.
Montgomery's captain clapped once, the way professionals clap when they don't want to show irritation.
He glanced toward Jinnah and called out with a grin that had become thinner.
"Interesting coaching, Sir."
Harrington looked at Jinnah as if expecting a smug response.
Jinnah gave none.
Bashir's next delivery was shorter—low, nasty, not a classic bouncer, but a ball that climbed enough to demand respect and discomfort.
The batsman stepped back, unsettled.
The next one came full again, late movement, and the bat met air.
Not out that time, but shaken.
Montgomery's body language began to change.
They stopped chatting between balls.
They stopped smiling at the fielders.
Their confidence was now being replaced by calculation, and calculation under pressure often turns into mistakes.
The Collapse
The wicketkeeper's gloves snapped shut again and again.
Edges flew.
Balls dipped.
Late movement became a whisper in the batsmen's minds: is it coming in, or is it going away?
Within half an hour, Montgomery's chase had become a procession.
A dismissal, then another. A catch that looked too easy. A ball that struck a foot and made a man limp for a moment before stubbornness forced him to stand straight.
One batsman took a painful hit, shook it off, then played at a ball he should have left and nicked it behind.
Another tried to attack—because pride demanded aggression—and ended up mistiming, lifting it into the outfield where Sandalbar's fastest man ran it down and caught it without drama.
The villagers were not merely cheering now.
They were witnessing.
They had come to see whether their men would shrink in front of British uniforms.
They were seeing the opposite: British uniforms shrinking inside the rules of a game.
Montgomery's captain stopped teasing.
Now he spoke only to his own men, tight and urgent.
But urgency does not stop a ball that moves late.
It only makes you swing earlier.
And earlier is exactly what reverse swing punishes.
Back to the Pavilion
The final wicket fell without ceremony—another edge, another catch, another quiet walk back.
Montgomery's players returned to the pavilion with bruises, stiff steps, and faces that were trying very hard to look amused.
A few were clearly sore. One held his foot a little too carefully. Another flexed his fingers as if the bat had become heavier than it should be.
But no one complained aloud.
Because they could not.
They had lost in a place where losing was supposed to be safe—losing was supposed to be a friendly thing.
And it was friendly.
That was the real humiliation.
On the field, Sukhvinder handed the ball to Ahmed without speaking.
Ahmed took it like an inventory item.
One side still smooth.
One side dull.
A curated weapon returned to its box.
Harrington exhaled slowly, eyes still on the pavilion.
"Well," he said at last, voice carrying reluctant admiration, "that was… unexpected."
Jinnah's expression remained composed.
"It was only a game," he said.
Bilal's voice in his mind carried a quiet, satisfied edge.
Only a game, Bilal agreed. And today, the Empire learned that even its games can be stolen—legally.