It was August 23, 1992. My first day in journalism. I was assigned to visit a city police station and collect information regarding some dead bodies lying there. I accompanied a few local photographers to the police station. Six bodies. The photographers clicked away as I stared at the bullet-riddled bodies. It was very depressing to see so many corpses and, that too, in such a condition. That evening, I could not eat my dinner. The picture of those bodies lying in a pool of blood haunted me and even the colour of the water reminded me of blood. I couldn't sleep for days, bodies haunted my dreams.

Little did I know that this was just a prelude to an unending tryst withdeath, destruction and bloodshed. Gradually I got used to not only witnessing such incidents but also writing about them.

Violence here, violence there, violence everywhere. For years, there is nothing else to write or think about in the Valley. If I avoid writing about the gory details of death, I would land up writing about orphans or widows. When violence rules the roost, there is nothing one can do but try and reduce readers to tears.

Nothing better recalls the scribe's penchant for destruction than the image of vultures patiently waiting for death to befall the victim. Nietzsche once in a fit of rage at journalists compared the breed to crows alighting from a wire one by one to swoop down on a hapless victim, the killing fields of Kashmir conjure up the image of the most gluttonous among these birds of prey.

In the evening, you cannot think of leaving the office without scanning through the police bulletin, known as `Situation Report', on the day's toll and other tidbits of violence. This is ourdaily bread and butter and editors make it a point to keep up with this bulletin.

The classroom definition of `news' -- ``killing of a human being makes news because human life is precious'' -- has also changed. The standard definition holds no relevance anymore. In 1995, I remember a lead story we did, ``No one killed in Valley today.'' It was as if the journalistic community was lamenting the fact. Human life is no longer precious the more the bodies, the better the news. Now only massacres make it to the front pages.

I now became a regular witness to this unending dance of death and get the most satisfaction in writing about it. Since this has become something of a routine for me, my reactions to such incidents also changed. Now killings meant stories and bylines. And the most disturbing aspect of it is that we reporters here always wait for such tragedies to happen, although unconsciously. Bijbehara, Sopore, Wandhama or Chapnari -- they all made front page stories and we always desire to be on pageone.

A time came when I lost one of my close friends in the violence and felt ashamed that I couldn't react to his death normally. I couldn't cry despite wanting to. Tears had dried up in my eyes. The tragic death of my friend from my school days could not move me any more, since it became just one more of the routine 20 deaths that occurred that day. I was unable to mourn such a close friend.

What has happened to me? Have I lost normal human feelings in the pursuit of the perfect story? Yes, I am now immune to this most pathetic side of human life. I have developed the inability to mourn. I am immune to death that is my tragedy as a reporter in the killing fields of Kashmir.