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It was the beginning of October 2023. The hills of Manipur were beginning to grow cold and the conflict that had erupted months earlier showed no sign of ending. There was no network, no certainty, and very little hope. Our hometown, which is 36 kilometres from Imphal, had been deeply affected by the violence. By night, gunshots and distant explosions became our lullaby. By day, the sound of helicopters cutting through the sky announced another uncertain morning.

Everywhere I looked, I saw people gathered in clusters. Families sat outside temporary shelters. Elderly men stared into the distance. Mothers held restless children close to their chests. They were homeless, displaced, exhausted. Yet, they gathered each day with a quiet faith that somewhere, somehow, someone in Delhi would do something magical to stop the war that had entered our homes.

Conflict has a way of shrinking life. People stop talking about dreams and begin talking about survival. The future becomes a luxury. The next meal becomes a concern. Warm clothes become valuable. A blanket becomes precious. Yet, in those dark months, I learned something remarkable. Sometimes the smallest things carry the greatest weight. I remember the arrival of humanitarian aid. The trucks would come carrying supplies sent by organisations, churches, NGOs, and ordinary people from different parts of India. Word spread quickly. Before long, queues would begin to form. Men, women, and children waited patiently under the sun, holding bags and sacks,........

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