The next morning, Sandalbar's administration did not wake to poetry or praise.
It woke to paperwork.
Ahmed Khan brought the reports in two stacks—one neat, one untidy. He placed them on Jinnah's desk with the quiet discipline of a man who understood that governance was not speeches; it was repetition.
The first stack was thin. The familiar thirteen villages.
Their notes were short, confident, almost proud:
"Chak 96: Full attendance. Crowd stayed even after the program ended."
"Lalianwala: Elders requested the broadcast be extended by ten minutes."
"Rattokala: Children returned in groups, asking if the box speaks every day now."
The second stack was thicker. The thirty-seven villages.
Not because they were more obedient—because they were more complicated.
Their notes were full of friction:
"Kot Shadi: Crowd listened in silence. No laughter. Men stood with arms folded."
"Basti Ranjha: Elder demanded to know who owns the box; accused guard of hiding a man inside."
"Chak Kalan: Women stayed behind walls. Children tried to touch the receiver; fathers slapped their hands away."
"Qasba Nizam: Local strongman attempted to address the crowd after the broadcast. Farabi stopped him."
Ahmed waited as Jinnah read. He did not interrupt. He knew what Jinnah was looking for.
Not approval.
Patterns.
Jinnah put the papers down and looked up.
"The thirteen are consuming the system," he said calmly.
"And the thirty-seven?" Ahmed asked.
"They are testing it," Jinnah replied. "They are not listening to the radio. They are watching the authority behind it."
A quiet voice inside him responded, precise and unsentimental.
They are doing what survival trained them to do, Bilal observed. They are checking if the new rule has teeth, or if it is only a performance.
Jinnah's fingertips touched the edge of the report stack.
"Go on," he thought.
We have their ears now, Bilal continued. But if we keep this as one-way broadcasting, they remain an audience. An audience can disappear. Make them participants, and they become invested.
Jinnah's eyes narrowed slightly. "Meaning?"
We build a loop, Bilal said. If the villages can speak back—through controlled channels—we replace rumor with procedure. That is how you kill the old network without fighting it.
Jinnah leaned back. It was simple. Clean. Dangerous in its efficiency.
"Draft the mechanism," he told Ahmed.
Ahmed nodded. "Yes, Sir."
The Mechanism
By afternoon, Sandalbar's strongholds received a new instruction—delivered in writing, and repeated verbally by Farabi teams:
Every village would keep a message ledger at the stronghold.
Villagers could submit questions, complaints, and requests.
If a villager could not write, the Farabi or an assigned youth scribe would write it word for word.
Each evening, a short list would be transmitted to Sandalbar HQ via wireless.
The best messages would be read on air—with the sender's village name.
The last point mattered.
At six o'clock, the familiar static returned.
Hiss.
Pop.
Then Abdullah's calm greeting, steady as yesterday, anchoring the room like a prayer.
Balvinder followed right on time, louder, warmer, deliberately crude in the way that made farmers relax.
"Oye! Today we will do something new," he announced. "Today, we will stop talking like we are kings and you are statues!"
Abdullah cleared his throat, playing the responsible man.
"Havildar means," he said, "that we will begin listening to you."
Balvinder laughed.
"Yes! You will speak, and we will pretend we are humble!"
Laughter rolled across the thirteen villages instantly.
In the thirty-seven villages, laughter arrived more slowly—like permission being granted in stages. A few elders remained stiff, but the younger men smiled. Some women laughed behind shawls, careful not to appear too comfortable in public.
Abdullah then explained the new procedure clearly, step by step—no poetry, no confusion.
"If you have a question," he said, "go to your stronghold. The Farabi will write it down. If you cannot write, do not be ashamed. Many great men cannot write. Your words still matter."
That line, simple as it was, softened something across the poorer villages.
Balvinder added fuel:
"And if you write a message, your name will fly in the air like a bird! Imagine your mother-in-law hearing it!"
More laughter.
Then Abdullah delivered the part that made the thirty-seven villages shift from amusement to seriousness:
"We will read village messages on air. Some will be about crops. Some about health. Some about law. But all will be heard."
In the newly added villages, men looked at each other.
This was not entertainment now.
This was leverage.
A man in one of the thirty-seven muttered to his friend:
"If my land dispute is read on air, the patwari cannot pretend he never heard."
Another replied, cautious:
"And if they ignore it, everyone will know they ignored it."
A third man, older, tighter-faced, said quietly:
"This is how they trap you. They make you speak, then they record your fear."
But even that suspicion was a form of engagement.
The system had entered their minds.
In Punjab, being named publicly was power. It was protection. It was proof of existence.
In the thirteen villages, the reaction was immediate and energetic. Men began arguing over who would send the first message, as if it were a contest.
In the thirty-seven villages, the reaction was cautious, but sharper.
People did not rush to write.
They watched first.
They asked quiet questions:
"If my complaint is read aloud, will the darogha hear it too?""If my name is said, will I become a target?""If the Farabi writes my words, will he write the truth—or what he wants?"
And that was exactly what made the system valuable.
They were no longer reacting emotionally.
They were calculating.
The Second Broadcast
That evening, the villages gathered earlier again.
Not because they had become loyal, but because the new thing had become predictable—and predictability is comfort to a population raised on sudden raids and sudden floods.
The Thirty-Seven Aftermath
When the broadcast ended, the thirteen villages clapped again—confident and energized, as if they were already shareholders in Sandalbar's order.
The thirty-seven villages reacted differently.
They stayed.
They didn't immediately disperse into gossip.
They stood around the stronghold and argued—low voices, sharp eyes.
Not about the box.
About what the box meant.
In one village, the elders held a quick council right there in the square.
One elder said:
"He didn't ask for love. He asked for discipline."
Another answered:
"Discipline is not free. But chaos is worse."
A younger man—whose brother had once been taken by bandits—said the most honest thing:
"If they can stop night raids, I will accept their rules."
In another village, the local strongman tried to claim the moment.
He stepped forward and began speaking loudly about parties and politics, trying to pull the crowd back into the old game.
A Farabi did not argue with him.
He simply stepped between the man and the receiver—calm, non-violent, unembarrassed—and said:
"This stronghold is for protection and procedure. If you want speeches, give them somewhere else."
The strongman glared.
The Farabi didn't raise his voice.
He just stood there.
And the crowd—especially in the thirty-seven villages—watched the most important detail:
Authority had appeared without shouting.
That alone was new.
In the Study
Back in Sandalbar, Jinnah listened to the last minutes from a side room, not sitting like a landlord enjoying entertainment, but like an administrator watching a new tool take root.
He turned to Ahmed.
"Tomorrow," he said, "how many messages?"
Ahmed hesitated, then answered honestly.
"In the thirteen villages? Many."
"And the thirty-seven?"
Ahmed allowed a faint, knowing smile.
"Fewer," he said. "But the few will be serious. And once the first serious complaint is read on air… the rest will follow."
Inside Jinnah's mind, Bilal's voice returned—quiet, satisfied.
Now they're not only listening, he said. Now they're preparing to speak.
Jinnah's expression did not soften into sentiment.
It sharpened into commitment.
"Good," he said. "That means the system is alive."