When Heroism Walks and Governance Limps

Hats off—or perhaps, a slow, painful shuffle—to a 50-year-old ASHA worker from Nenloung Atangkhullen village in Tamenglong district. This remarkable woman walked 28 kilometers on foot, carrying a polio vaccine carrier, just to ensure that 17 children in her village received the oral polio vaccine. Yes, 28 kilometers! In the age of Artificial Intelligence, 5G networks, and “Digital India,” it seems the human leg remains the most dependable mode of transportation in Manipur’s remote hill districts.
The Governor of Manipur, ever the champion of social media gestures, wasted no time in posting a picture of her on Facebook—an image that quickly gathered digital applause. “A salute to her dedication and spirit of service!” the post declared, brimming with admiration. Indeed, how heartwarming. But here’s a thought—while we bow in respect to her dedication, shouldn’t we also ask the obvious question: why did she have to walk 28 kilometers in the first place? What happened to the roads, the vehicles, and the grand development promises we’ve been hearing about for decades?
Ah, the roads—or the fascinating absence of them. India, we are told, is a global powerhouse, a rising superpower, the land of moon missions and billion-dollar start-ups. Yet, in the interiors of Manipur, the concept of a “motorable road” still sounds like something out of a fairy tale. Forget Nenloung Atangkhullen; even Imphal—the state capital—looks like a set from a dystopian film. Potholes large enough to hide a small car, broken drainage systems that transform into open swimming pools during monsoon, and roads that could pass for off-road adventure trails. Infrastructure here isn’t just neglected; it’s practically extinct.
Citizens of Manipur have, it seems, developed an extraordinary tolerance for dysfunction. They drive through craters, wade through waterlogged streets, and still pay their taxes dutifully. Perhaps that’s the true spirit of democracy—suffering silently while the government perfects its art of inaction. When President’s Rule was imposed in February, there was a flicker of optimism—maybe, just maybe, roads would be repaired, electricity stabilized, or basic services restored. Yet, months later, the only thing moving steadily forward is official indifference.
Meanwhile, the Governor continues her ceremonial tours, smiling for cameras, inaugurating functions, and posting on Facebook—like a benevolent monarch surveying her kingdom of broken roads. From the Palm Oil fiasco to the Jal Jeevan Mission irregularities, the list of unaddressed scandals grows longer each week. Accountability, like the roads, remains missing in action.
So yes, let us celebrate the ASHA worker. Let us clap, share her story, and call her a hero—as she indeed is. But let us also face the bitter irony that her heroism is born not out of opportunity, but of neglect. In any truly functioning system, such endurance would be unnecessary. Her 28-kilometre trek should have been an inspiring story from the past, not breaking news in 2025.
The woman’s determination highlights two Manipur realities running side by side: one where ordinary citizens rise to extraordinary challenges, and another where those in power merely applaud from a distance. Until this imbalance is corrected, the narrative of Manipur will remain painfully the same—a land where heroism walks on foot while governance limps behind, gasping for breath.