"Beer," I say, "It's too hot."

After a mugful Vicky looks pensive. "The post-mortem report says they were alive when tortured. Imagine."

We imagine. Hands tied together, hanging from the ceiling, a sharp razor scooping out the eyes. A hot rod hissing as it pokes into the sensitive skin of the crotch.. Maybe pain had made them unconscious. Maybe it hadn't. We gulp - horror and the beer. 'So… you think you can tell? Heaven from hell…'' Floyd asks in the background.

"I feel real sick," Vicky sounds genuine. "You know, completely impotent."

"Yes, that's the word," I agree. It has a ring to it, rightful indignation and sheer helplessness.

"You know, this Nachiketa used to be a neighbour of ours. We played cricket together when he came home from the Academy. Five, six years younger to us but a real clean kid," Vicky becomes garrulous. "We must do something."

"Yeah, but what?" I ask. Silence.

"Let's start a fund. We'll put some seed money and we can ask all our friends to contribute."

"But there are already so many funds. Is there any point in starting a new one."

"God knows how the money gets used. Here we will make sure it goes to the victims' families."

"Yeah, sure. Do you know what is the minimum needed to start a fund."

"I'll figure it out tomorrow."

"I wouldn't mind going up there and helping them in whatever way I can."

"I would like to do that. But I wonder how far we can go. Also the army may not allow that."

"But we could go to the base hospitals and may be tend to the injured. Whatever little we can do."

"This week I have two major presentations. Do you think it will go on till next week? We can go then.". We feel secured in next week.

More beer. "You know, I think the rest of the country is still immune to it.

I think it is time we declared some sort of emergency. Stop all entertainment. Shut the discos and the bars. No new films. No fashion shows. No sports. Just basic food in restaurants. Only news on TV. No ads. All ad-budgets to be diverted to the Relief Fund. We can't party while they are dying." Vicky says.

"I don't know if that will help. You can't force people into mourning." I remember Amita's birthday bash at Djinns this coming Friday.

"In this country you have to. Or nobody cares."

I decide in my mind to persuade Amita to postpone her party. Whatever little. She will agree. She is secular and votes.

"Let's see what happened today," Vicky says putting off the music and turning on the TV.

The reporter looks trendy, very CNN-like, in jumpsuit and goggles, lights flashing behind her in the night sky, black as humour. "Even at this hour, the soldiers are trudging up the hills," she says. What fun. She has been catapulted to the war-site in the second year of her career. Time has shrunk so much that cub-reporting lasts just a few weeks these days.

The anchor looks away from the monitor, ashen. It's time for a break.. Still to come, do the soldiers miss home…over pictures of a young soldier opening a letter.

'Dimag rahega cool, dandruff jaoge bhool,' the break says. Maybe we should ship some of this shampoo to the Mujahideen. We switch to tennis. "I think, we should just launch our Agni with nuclear heads at these bastards and finish them off once and for all," I banter.

"But that won't work. The edges of the hills are very sharp and they are entrenched at the tips. It will be impossible to aim the missiles there. We will also lose all the goodwill and support gained at the G-8 meet." Expert opinions are in plentiful. Retired colonels are dusting their uniforms again, this time to be shot by TV cameras.

The power goes off.

"Shit, I wanted to watch Dokic," Vicky says. "I hope it comes back. I have to download stuff from the Net." We take our beer to the terrace.

"How is your connection these days," I ask.

"The digital number is cool. But the modem speeds don't match. It keeps getting hung. I am getting a new modem tomorrow." Too much to do tomorrow.

"Have you got the 3-D driver. I got it installed last week, superb animations."

"Yeah, but how can you function with these bloody power cuts. It's shameful, we are still struggling for the basic necessities " Vicky says swatting a mosquito on his sweaty arms. That's true. Our own struggles are too many. Power cuts, hanging computers, making a presentation, clinching a deal, paying the car's EMI, filing IT returns, worrying about a raise, the kid's dismal report card, viral fever, traffic, pollution, the heat…

There are drums in the distance. A marriage procession is on. Lights flash behind us in the night sky, black as humour.

Satish Padmanabhan is with Television 18