The rain fell over Manipur on September 30, when the State remembered Lamyanba Hijam Irabot, and again around October 2, when the nation observed the birth anniversary of Mahatma Gandhi.
Coincidence, perhaps.
But for a land battered by violence, displacement and political uncertainty, the rain carried a symbolism difficult to ignore. If Irabot and Gandhi could look upon Manipur today, would the rain be their tears?
Irabot and Gandhi belonged to different political traditions and followed markedly different paths. Yet both came to represent resistance to injustice in their own ways. Irabot challenged social and political oppression and fought for the rights and dignity of the people of Manipur. Gandhi confronted colonial rule through a mass movement centred on non-violence.
Their names are invoked with pride every year. Their portraits are garlanded. Their speeches are quoted. Their contributions are remembered.
But what would their anniversaries mean if the people whose causes they represented remain trapped in suffering?
More than three years after the violence erupted on May 3, 2023, Manipur remains divided, displaced and deeply wounded. Hundreds have been killed. Tens of thousands have been forced from their homes. Families remain separated, livelihoods destroyed and children’s education disrupted. The official figures placed before the Manipur Legislative Assembly recorded 306 deaths and 49 people still missing as of August 31, 2026.
These are not numbers that should disappear beneath ceremonial speeches.
Every number represents a human life. Every displaced family represents a home that has not been restored. Every missing person represents a family living without closure.
And yet, political normalcy is repeatedly projected as though the crisis can be managed through announcements, programmes and ceremonies.
Can there be normalcy without the return of displaced citizens?
Can there be peace without accountability?
Can there be reconciliation without truth?
Can a government claim success while citizens continue to live in relief camps or behind security barriers, uncertain about when—or whether—they can return home?
These are not questions for one political party alone. They are questions for the entire political establishment.
The deeper failure is political.
Manipur needs a credible process for rehabilitation, justice and reconciliation. It needs an honest assessment of what went wrong and why the conflict has been allowed to persist. It needs protection for civilians, accountability for crimes and a clear path for displaced people to return safely and with dignity.
Instead, political discourse too often appears trapped in competing narratives, mutual accusations and electoral calculations.
The next election is likely in first quarter of next year or perhaps by last month of December . Political parties will seek votes. Leaders will make promises. But the wounds of Manipur will not disappear because campaign banners go up.
Irabot’s memory should not be reduced to a convenient political symbol. His life reminds Manipur that political consciousness begins with recognising injustice and standing with ordinary people.
Gandhi’s legacy offers a different but equally difficult lesson: resistance to injustice does not require surrendering humanity to hatred. His politics sought to make non-violence a weapon against oppression rather than allowing violence to become the language of politics.
Manipur desperately needs both lessons.
It needs the courage to speak against injustice without fear. It needs the wisdom to prevent that resistance from becoming another justification for violence.
And perhaps this is why the rain feels different this year.
On Irabot’s birth anniversary, the rain fell on a Manipur still waiting for justice. On Gandhi’s birth anniversary, it fell over a Manipur still searching for peace.
