When she came out of the courtroom after getting bail on August 9, Irom Sharmila sat at a table with a swarm of microphones in front of her. Behind her, stood a phalanx of khaki uniforms and a few white coats. Cameras and phones were all trained on her. She smiled at first, but when a little bit of honey was put on the palm of her hand, the good cheer crumpled out of her face. It was evident from the way she fidgeted, from the tears, that there was nothing comfortable or triumphant about this moment. But Sharmila took a deep breath, wiped her face and held up the hand that had honey, so that the camera could see it. After a few seconds stretched out of shape by anticipation, a soft whimper slipped out of her lips and her head rolled back, as though she was in physical pain. She dropped her neck, the curly hair forming a veil around the weeping 44-year-old Sharmila. “Come on, Sharmila, have it, have it,” someone said. She looked up, perhaps in the direction of the voice. Her face was contorted in anguish. But she listened. She spooned the honey up on her index finger and still crying, she tasted it.