Sourness of an unknown tropical fruit took you through the colours of the the women's market.
You walked in trance passing Phaneks and faces wrinkled like intricate folklores.
In front of the Kangla Fort, you saw bare bodies of mothers screaming at the cold iron gate of a rapist state..
In Manipuri farms, rubik's cube of political strategy lay shattered with blood clotted all around it..
Snakes slithered through your dreams as you clutched the pillow for help..
You watched thousands of Jasmin flowers blooming in distant lands, while the flower of Manipur waited inside the old steel box of inexcusable insensitivity..
Irom Sharmila Chanu..
Unstaged .. unnoticed .. she is waiting..
