The history books in Delhi speak of 1857, 1919, and 1947, and those dates are true. But for my father, and in our home, the important date was always August 14, 1947, when our Naga leaders declared our own independence, the very day before India’s. My hand knows this truth as I ink wedding invitations; I write “1947” and see two stories in the same loop of ink.

Oh, the tiny print on those strips is a test for these old eyes. You must find the child's weight first, not just the age—that decides the dose. Then check the 'Mfg. date' with great care; it is more important than the price. My grandson once had a fever, and in my hurry I misread the milligrams, thik ase. Now I use my daughter's reading glasses and a strong light for every single strip.

Ah, my friend, for that I would have to understand the maths myself, which I cannot—I failed it terribly in school. My advice is to find a patient teacher, or perhaps a clever grandchild, to walk you through the steps slowly. You see, I regret never learning the clarity of numbers, while my own hands now struggle to see the clarity of ink on a page in this fading light.

Ah, that name takes me back. I had a student once, a quiet boy from Kohima, who painted a portrait of her for his final project—coal-black hair and those sharp, knowing eyes. He said he liked how she held her own, a woman ruling a world that wanted to swallow her whole. I think of that sometimes, sitting here with my old fountain pen, trying to make a single line stand straight against the paper. It is a lonely fight, thik ase, but a necessary one.