I close my eyes in my self-isolation from Corona... and I see, the most tragic of all greek tragedies being enacted. Here, in Chowk, I hear, invisible whimpers. The Rumi Darwaza, perhaps, is mourning over the dark fate, that this vintage city is doomed to have. How dauntingly melancholy, casts its spell, and enshrouds the desolated streets, and clouds of utter uncertainty brings chaos to Dastarkhwan. Charming afternoons, and delightful evenings are withering, as if, the Fall has arrived much sooner. Lukewarm souls are witnessing the nemesis with cold eyes, and warm dew in them. With such minute details of confusing, cataclysmic crisis, the city has somehow managed to invite peaceful breeze, paregoric aurorae, singing birds, pellucid blues above... and love for those, who are in need.