Imphal reminds me of Srinagar. Whether it's the soldiers on the road at every fifty meters holding AK47s or the smell of sadness and fear in the air, I am not sure. One of the main reasons for my visit is to meet Irom Sharmila. Sadly, not many people, including some of my dear friends, know who she is.

This November, Sharmila, who has refused to eat or drink anything since 2000 demanding repeal of the Armed Forces Special Powers Act (AFSPA), is going to complete her 'banwaas' - 14 years of fasting. Not even a drop of water has gone down her throat in all these years. Just the force-feeding of the liquid diet through the plastic tube attached to her nose keeps her alive.

Through the cold dark corridors of the Jawaharlal Nehru Institute of Medical Sciences Hospital in Imphal, I stand outside her room - technically the prison cell - as the female constable goes to inform her about the arrival of a visitor - a film director from Bollywood.

Wrapped under a thin red quilt, I find her sitting on the bed, hugging her legs. She smiles at me and rests her chin on top of her knees. In odd silence I look around to see Nelson Mandela's poster pasted on the wall right behind her. A small box with a stuffed toy inside holding a heart announces “I love you“. The photograph of a man is pasted on top of the box; he is probably Desmond - a British citizen with Indian roots - a wanderer who saw Sharmila's photograph in a local newspaper in Bangalore, just as he received the news of his mother's death. Inexplicably, he found a connection between the two events. He first visited her in the year 2010. In the past four years their relationship grew into love and with love grew the hostility between him and Sharmila's supporters. Things boiled to a point where a minor scuffle occurred between the two sides a few months ago. Supporters of Sharmila lodged a complaint with the police and Desmond was arrested. He refused to pay the bail bond amount on ideological grounds, as the papers stated that the bail bond is required against the charge of bad behavior in public, which he refuses to accept.

“What is your main purpose?“ She asks me after a while, in a thin accented voice. I smile and say: “I am in awe of you and wanted to see the person with iron willpower to go on fighting and not break down.“ She is still unsure of my intentions. I present her the DVD of Haider I am carrying with me. She looks at it and then looks at me with questioning eyes. “I have also spoken about AFSPA through my film. I want you to see it to know that you are not alone in your struggle.“

She smiles back and pulls her blanket around her shoulders; it seems that she is starting to trust me. “How would you see it?“ I ask. She shows me a laptop lying on the table nearby. “They have allowed me to have it, but without the internet.“

Under the table, behind a tied-up, see-through bedsheet, there is a small nest. I see some kind of movement there. I stretch up to see few guinea pigs moving around. I look at her with surprise. “My friends.“ she says. “Guinea pigs?“ I think in my head, Friends? For, you are a guinea pig too?

A guinea pig of our experiment with democracy? I am looking for something to break the silence again to get the conversation going - “How about a film on your life? It's so dramatic.“ I ask, even though I have no intention to attempt one.  “No.“ she shakes her head.

“Why?“

“I don't want anybody to imitate me“.

“An actor will not imitate you, but play you.“

Her smile broadens. “My journey is spiritual. I don't want it to be translated into the worldly medium of entertainment. Besides the fact...“ she stops to look at Desmond's photograph, “I don't want people to keep me on a pedestal. I don't want to be treated like a goddess. I want to live an ordinary life, experiencing common emotions. People here, my own people, can't absorb the fact that I can also fall in love. They have put my fiancée in jail...“

She goes silent; I take a chance to lighten the mood: “What a love story!“ A wide smile appears on her lips even as sadness looms in her eyes.

I feel encouraged. “You have a beautiful smile. You know that, right?“ She smiles wider.

“I am jealous of Desmond.“

She bursts into laughter, pointing her finger at me to convey, “You are a scoundrel!“ She settles down and opens up to whisper: “I saw someone in my dream last night.“ She takes a dramatic pause to look at me.

“Prime Minister Narendra Modi.“

“And?“ Time for me to smile.

“He kept smiling at me through the dream.“

“It's an extraordinary dream,“ I confessed.

I tried hard to recollect Mr Modi's smiling face from the events I have seen of him on TV .

“I am hopeful now,“ she whispers.

“I am doubtful, how?“ I ask.

“The man who comes from the land of Mahatma Gandhi will surely listen to what I have to say about the violence in the lives of our people. He will surely do something to repeal AFSPA.“

The female constable comes to remind us that the time is over. She looks at the watch.

“It's running faster.“

“The watch?“

“No, the time... 14 years have gone by so fast. I am going to be 42 soon.“

“When?“

“Next month, 14th March.“

She looks outside the window. Dusk has started to turn into darkness. Big fat mosquitos fly around the room. I look for the mosquito repellent lying on the side table, go to the light switch on the wall and struggle to fit it in the darkness. The constable switches on the white tubelight. The colorless cold brightness spreads in the room to signify the infinity of the loneliness in which she will wait for another dream to descend in her sleep, probably of Mr Modi again. I hope this time he not just smiles, but promises to free her from 'banwaas'.

I get up to leave with a heavy heart and dare to ask her: “Do you feel lonely?“

“Not in my struggle but in my personal life, yes. I don't want to be born again as a human being. A human being is so insensitive.“

I remember Sharmila every time I eat.