I often find myself having a macabre conversation with the ghosts of stories past, asking which was worse, a fire accident in Dabwali, Haryana, or walking through the ‘amputee camps’ in Sierra Leone. Or was it standing on a sidewalk in New York on 11 September 2001, 10 blocks north of the World Trade Center, watching people jump out of buildings, being swallowed up by flames before those buildings came crumbling down in a heap of rubble. I was on the phone with the studios in Delhi, describing to the anchor what was going on before my eyes. To this day, I don’t know how I found the words to do so, given the dread I felt while squinting to see arms flailing in the not-so-distant sky.

In December 1999, I went through the most life-changing experience I have lived through so far. My first assignment as foreign correspondent took me to Colombo to cover the presidential elections. Chandrika Kumaratunga, fighting to be re-elected, was addressing her last election rally at the Town Hall grounds in the Lankan capital. She’d been a target of the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) for a long time, so security was tight and we felt confident we were safe.

But we were all wrong.

As I went up to the foot of the stage to ask her a few questions on her way to her car, a woman strapped with explosives appeared from the crowds, running towards the car. Before then, I had only heard the sound of an explosion in movies. That night, the earth shook beneath my feet. I don’t have the words to describe the sound, either of the explosion, or of my screams seconds after, as I looked around for my colleague Gaurav Dwivedi. Chandrika was whisked away into the car, and we were left standing in the midst of splintered bodies of guards, journalists, and policemen.

Pieces of flesh had flown on to my face, got stuck in my hair and on my clothes.

When something dramatic happens, everyone talks of things becoming a blur. But I can replay each minute without missing a detail even after all these years. I have never watched the footage we recorded on tape that night, even though it has been played several times in promos for the news. If I ever heard the tape while walking past the edit bays in office, I would freeze with fear.

On returning to the hotel I went straight into the shower, clothes, shoes on. I scrubbed away the blood and flesh, with tears of horror and fear camouflaged by the water streaming down my face. I insisted that Gaurav and I stay together through the night, watching MTV in the hotel room because I didn’t want to see the news and live through what we had just survived.

We came back to Delhi the next night, to tell the story of what happened. It’s only after several years and conversations with friends and counsellors that I can admit to being afraid. So afraid that even today, retelling the story sends a chill down my spine.

I returned from Colombo in 1999, dazed and scarred inside. But three days later, I was back at work, in the midst of the IC 814 hijack crisis, an equally gut-wrenching story that forced me to repress the memory, so that I could focus.

Some would say that being able to focus is a blessing and a curse because it makes us appear less human. After over two decades as a journalist I, like most of my colleagues, am desensitised to a certain amount of grief. Walking that line between emotionality and neutrality, between interference and detachment, are challenges we all confront each time we set out to report on disaster, conflict, or tragedy. With time, I’ve realised that this acquired ability doesn’t just keep me sane, it keeps those I care for at home, friends and family, also sane. The old adage, I’m okay if you’re okay.

Maya Mirchandani is Professor of Media Studies. She moved to research and teaching after over two decades as a practicing journalist with NDTV.