Srinivasa Shreyas Ranganath's father refused to meet me, and that was understandable. To this elderly employee of Bharat Heavy Electricals Limited, I was just another nosy reporter hounding down a story, and seeking my trophy — a byline. His 26-year-old son, on deputation with Marsh and McLennan in New York's World Trade Center, was among four Wipro employees and hundreds of others killed when terrorists flew hijacked airliners into the Twin Towers. One year later, I had tracked him down to request an interview.

"For you it's just a story," he said acidly over the phone. Until he pointed that out, I must confess it was. Just the previous evening I was in Puttur in southwestern Karnataka to meet the family of his son's colleague Hemant Puttur, another victim of the terrorist attacks. Now, here I was in Bangalore hoping to make my trip worthwhile. I felt like a jerk.

The New York City skyline on 9/11

"Just a story."

The truth in Ranganath's words tore into me like shrapnel. Shamed, I flinched. Then I steadied my voice,

Another day, another blast, many more lives lost, another day of constant bickering on TV, another day for indignation and hopelessness. Where exactly are we going wrong in our war against terror?

For starters, I'd like it if we didn't have to hear the platitudes that our politicos insist on mouthing ad nauseum, thank you very much. Here's what we hear every time a bomb rips apart a place, a family, a city - and here's what I'd like to hear instead.

What we hear #1: We strongly condemn the attacks.

Substitute with: We're tired of condemning attacks; if we don't come back to you with the justice that you, as citizens of this country, deserve after trusting us to protect you, we'll add another amendment to our constitution that makes it legally possible for you to remove the expensive security that we're granted with your hard-earned money every time we use the word 'condemn' after an attack.

What we hear #2: It is a cowardly act.

Substitute with: How do we know it's a cowardly attack?

USA and the world reeled in shock as two planes flew straight into the twin towers, destroying not just the twin symbols of success, but leaving tens of thousands of bereaved families in its wake and the nation and its economy reeling in the aftershocks of the attacks even today. As with any other incident of irrevocable loss, 9/11 saw itself becoming inspiration to artistes of all kinds. Writers particularly wove the attack into various narratives as a coping mechanism, something that has attracted its fair share of criticism.

It wouldn't be amiss to state that no other event has inspired literary catharsis in recent history as 9/11 has. Some of the most noteworthy (not necessarily great) fiction in the last decade have used (arguably) the worst ever terror attack in the world's history as the backdrop, some to good effect, with others falling prey to ill-conceived or over-ambitious plot lines.

Jonathan Safran Foer, praised and panned alike for his novel, Extremely Loud and

A plane approaches New York's World Trade Center moments before it struck the tower at leftOn September 11, 2001 two airliners loaded with passengers, terrorists and gallons of combustible fuel slammed into twin skyscrapers in New York City, suddenly flinging Puttur in southwestern Karnataka back on the map. The next year in August, as a correspondent for an Indian-American newspaper published from New York, I boarded a dust-caked red state transport bus at Mangalore for this one-horse town. Washed clean by an unexpected shower, the creaky bucket of bolts grunted along the potholed highway past groves of arecanut palms and fulvous fields of ripening paddy. Halfway between Mangalore and Coorg, the balmy countryside made way first for ramshackle hamlets with ruddy tiled roofs and then a thoroughfare crammed with cheek-by-jowl storefronts and concrete houses topped by tacky painted billboards for hosiery, cattle-feed and fertilizer.

September 11

"Puttur," the conductor announced as he flung open the squeaky metal door. Hoisting my haversack — stuffed with a point-and-shoot camera,