DEATH played cruel harvester in the barren fields of Charkhi Dadri. Mangled flesh, spilled-out innards, bodies mutilated and charred beyond recognition—all lay intermingled with the smithereened fuselage of the Saudia aircraft. And even the darkness of the cold night could not cloak the horror of the accident. The first body we stumbled upon had no face or hands or legs. It was a torso with broad shoulders. Cringing, we backed off. To step onto another one. A head with thick, curly hair. Its face buried in the ground. Helpful villagers offered to assist the cause of the media. "I’ll show you the face," said an eager Dadri youth, threatening to prod at the head with the formidable stick he was carrying. Disappointed at the panicky negative he received as a response, he left us. With our unused notebooks and pens. An all-pervading stench of burning flesh. And nausea churning the insides.