When the last wicket fell, the ground did not turn into chaos.
It turned into something rarer.
Order.
Montgomery's players walked back from the field with stiff shoulders and careful steps, but they did not sulk. They did not shout. They did not accuse the pitch, or the umpire, or the sun. They gathered themselves the way trained men are taught to gather themselves—by swallowing pride and calling it professionalism.
Then, as if it had been agreed beforehand, the Montgomery captain led his team straight back onto the grass.
They formed a line.
Sandalbar's men did the same, instinctively matching the shape without being instructed. Farabis who had once formed lines for night raids now formed lines for greetings. Madho's men—rougher, scarred, and new to this kind of public ritual—stood slightly stiff, as if expecting the handshake to hide a trick.
But no trick came.
One by one, British hands met village hands.
Not reluctantly.
As equals.
A Montgomery sergeant shook Bashir's hand and nodded with the simple respect of a man who had been beaten fairly.
"Good bowling," he said.
Bashir replied with a small nod, expression controlled, almost blank—because he had been trained not to celebrate too loudly in front of strangers.
Sukhvinder shook hands without smiling, as if his face had not yet learned how to display victory in a civilized manner.
The villagers on the far boundary watched with wide eyes.
They had seen British hands strike. They had seen British hands sign tax orders. They had seen British hands pull people aside at checkpoints.
They had not seen British hands offered like this.
Not after losing.
Not to men of the soil.
It produced a new kind of silence among them—quiet shock, like a wall in the mind being shifted.
Harrington's Question
Harrington waited until the lines broke and the teams drifted toward refreshments.
Then he turned to Jinnah.
He was polite, as always, but his curiosity was not hidden.
"How," he asked, "was that possible?"
It was the question of an administrator who had just witnessed something that did not fit neatly into his usual categories. Villagers were not supposed to outplay an army unit. A district "experiment" was not supposed to embarrass trained men.
Jinnah's response came calmly, without triumph.
"It was British efficiency," he said.
Harrington blinked. "British efficiency."
"Yes," Jinnah replied. "The coaching. The rules. The schedule. The discipline. The equipment."
He paused, then added, almost mildly:
"I merely applied your methods where you do not expect them to be applied."
Harrington stared at him for a moment, then let out a short laugh.
"You didn't boast," he said, half amazed. "You've humiliated my unit and you didn't boast."
Jinnah's voice remained even.
"It was a game," he said again. "Families came to be entertained."
Inside Jinnah's mind, Bilal spoke with quiet amusement.
He's confused because you won without insulting him, Bilal said. That's what unnerves them. Winning is acceptable. Dominance is suspicious. But winning politely? That makes them question their own assumptions.
Jinnah did not answer internally. He simply watched the field, letting the scene do its work.
The Cash Handout
Harrington had come prepared for "British culture" in India: the small ceremonial reward.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small stack of notes.
Then, in full view of both sides of the ground—British families and village crowd—he called the Sandalbar players forward.
Ahmed Khan noticed immediately what this was and stepped slightly to the side, letting it happen without creating friction.
Harrington counted quickly and handed each player a five-rupee note.
"Five rupees," he said, loud enough for nearby onlookers to hear. "For the exhibition. For the effort. Well played."
The notes were almost 1/3 salary.
But to villagers watching from the far side, the symbolism was immense.
The Crown's man was paying village men for defeating soldiers.
Not punishing them.
Not threatening them.
Thanking them.
A murmur rolled through the village crowd, a low vibration of disbelief turning into excitement.
One old villager whispered, "They are paying them."
Another replied, eyes shining, "Because the rule says you must honor the winner."
A boy near the boundary looked at his father and asked, "If we learn the rules, will they also clap for us?"
The father didn't answer immediately, because for the first time the question sounded possible.
Inside Jinnah's mind, Bilal spoke with a sharp, satisfied edge.
This is the real lesson they'll remember, Bilal said. If you understand the British rules, you can beat them—and they will reward you for it. That's the perfect psychological trap.
Sukhvinder's Courtyard
That night, victory traveled faster than any telegram.
It traveled through voices, through lantern-lit lanes, through excited children, through elders repeating the story slowly to make sure it sounded real.
At Sukhvinder's home—simple, clean, newly stable since Sandalbar's settlement policies had taken hold—the courtyard filled with women.
His wife had lit extra lamps. His two sisters had dressed as if a wedding was happening. A few neighbor women came over with warm rotis and sweetened milk, as if celebration required offerings.
And then, without needing permission, they began gidda (local celebration dance).
Claps, laughter, rhythmic footwork, arms lifted in playful pride.
It was not a staged performance.
It was raw joy, the kind that women rarely allowed themselves openly in villages where life stayed heavy.
Sukhvinder stood at the edge of the courtyard, watching with a strange stillness. He had seen fear. He had seen obedience. He had seen hunger.
He had not seen this much happiness on his family's faces.
His wife caught his eye and laughed.
"For once," she said, breathless, "we are not celebrating survival."
She clapped again.
"We are celebrating victory."
Sukhvinder didn't know what to do with the feeling. He held the five-rupee note in his hand for a moment like it was proof that the day had actually happened.
Then he folded it carefully and placed it in a small tin box, not as money, but as a relic.
Madho's Men Talk
In another corner of Sandalbar, near the huts of the newly settled Root, Madho sat with his men in a half circle.
They did not dance. They did not clap.
Their celebration was different: talk and memory.
One man spat to the side and said, "Do you know who that captain is?"
Another answered with a bitter smile. "The one who led the search parties last year."
A third nodded. "Yes. Same boots. Same voice."
Madho listened, eyes narrowed.
"They hunted us," one man said quietly. "When we lived in the trees."
"They chased us like animals," another added. "And when they caught someone, they made examples."
The fire crackled.
Then the youngest of Madho's men—still carrying anger like a sharpened tool—leaned forward.
"But today," he said, "they did not hunt. They came to play."
Madho's gaze stayed steady.
"And when we held a ball," the young man continued, voice low, almost amazed, "they shrank."
A rough laugh passed between them.
Not joyful.
Vindicated.
One man said, "I saw it. When the ball dipped, the batsman stepped back like he was seeing a snake."
Another nodded slowly. "Fear."
Madho's face remained unreadable, but his eyes held something new.
"For the first time," he said, "I saw fear in British eyes."
He paused, letting the sentence carry weight.
"Not from a gun."
A longer pause.
"From a leather ball."
The circle fell quiet, because the truth was sharp and clean:
They had discovered a way to make the powerful uncomfortable without becoming criminals.
And that was not sport.
That was strategy.
Somewhere in the estate, the Lodge lanterns still glowed. British families were finishing tea. Children were chattering. Officers were rubbing bruises and pretending they were amused.
But in the villages, something deeper had begun to settle.
A new belief.
Not rebellion.
Not romance.
A practical belief, born of one afternoon:
If you fight inside the rules, you can win—and sometimes, the Empire will even clap while you do it.