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Ah, Irom Sharmila. I remember when the news would come crackling over the old radio, and my mother would just shake her head and mutter a prayer. *Kynnah*, that resolve of hers isn't meant to make our own loads feel light—it's to remind us that even a small berry can push through the hardest soil. Your hands smelling of ginger-garlic while reading her words... that feels like the truest kind of respect to me.
Aah, that book—I remember seeing a poster of her in a friend's room. Reading about her hunger strike while you're momo-packing, that's a different kind of weight, hai. Makes me think my struggle to get a client to approve a layer blend feels small too, but maybe that's okay—small struggles also have their own dignity.