I know there is a story in this. I am just not sure whether it is in the telling or in the end. My first memories as a child were of Calcutta, in the early seventies. Of my grandfather in Command House. And while he was Lt Gen J S Aurora to the rest of the world, to my elder sister and me he was just Nanaji. And the Eastern Command was our playground.

The only `old person' who mattered to me was Pratap, my grandfather's orderly and my most loyal subject. For Pratap, I was Queen Nonie -- his little, pug-nosed, moti. From plaiting my hair to preventing my retinue of cousins from bullying me, Pratap's job was to ensure that reality did not enter my checklist. If there was a race to be run I would be put next to the finishing line and declared a winner almost as soon as he said, `Ready, Get Set, Go'. If there was Chicken ala Kiev for dinner, he made sure that an extra piece reached my room for a midnight snack. And heaven forbid, if I broke anything -- he was there toshoulder the blame and face my grandmother's (also known as the Iron Lady) wrath. It was never an equal relationship. No, thanks to Pratap, I was HRH -- Her Royal Horror -- and anyone in my orbit had to kowtow to my wishes.

And nothing rocked my world. Especially not Pratap. Because he was a Lance Naik attached to my Nana, he would never have to go to war. I would not have to face death or loss until much later in my life. It was as if Pratap had conspired even with his rank to keep my world safe.

So, where is Pratap now when my universe has been rocked? When innocence has been replaced with a rage so great that it is searing my insides.

I know Pratap cannot make Kargil go away. But neither can Nawaz Sharif. The Pakistani premier may have announced a withdrawal of troops but even if that happens he cannot undo the casualties on both sides of the LoC. A life lost may be a statistic to us but to some families it is a loss that can never be replaced. And certainly, neither Sharif nor any power on earth canundo the rot that I have seen around me of late. I have seen a people grown so corpulent on their own self-importance, so jaded by their lives, that talk of war is just an unwelcome intrusion. Perhaps, it's hard to swallow death when Single Malt is being swilled and a trip to Marseilles is being touted a must.

I have seen bravery and sacrifice inspired by a nation that has given nothing to its little people -- nothing other than politicians like H K L Bhagat and Sukh Ram. Every time I see a father or a mother or a wife talk about their loss in terms of martyrdom, I feel gutted. Their sons have died in vain. Next year, no, next month, Kargil will just be a plank for politicians to play their power games.

But most of all, I grieve that India is not a nation by the people, for the people, and of the people. No, amend the Preamble: "India is in spite of the people."

And in spite of my self, I wish I were a child. And I wish Pratap was here --at least to help me hope again.

Nonita Kalra is featureseditor, The Indian Express.