People now leave the streets and the shrine to the dogs at night, no one comes out, as if their ownership, their claim, their bond with the place is severed at sunset, the city and its lovers sundered as soon as the soldier from the plains begins his nocturnal vigil. There are no lights. The area's garrulous poets and satirists, who have for centuries held their evening conclaves on the banks of the Jhelum and defied the city's ghosts, stay indoors now, not just when it's dark but during the day as well, coming out only when it's essential, to buy bread and milk. It is said the ink in their pens has dried up.