Meher Afroz One The night in Chowk bazaar was unusually still, the usual sounds of late-night chai vendors and distant azaan fading into an uneasy silence. Narrow lanes twisted between century-old havelis, their carved wooden balconies casting long shadows under flickering streetlamps. The warm smell of cardamom and fried samosas lingered faintly, but in one particular lane, the air was heavy with something else — dread. At the far end stood Rashid Ali’s loom house, a modest workshop known among weavers for its perfection in the rare “shadow work” chikankari stitch. Tonight, however, the place seemed frozen in time, the…