The city of Imphal stood still. The air was heavy not with the monsoon winds, but with grief—a grief too real, too raw, to be ignored. The streets were quiet, the eyes swollen with tears, and the hearts of hundreds beaten down by the unbearable reality that Kongbrailatpam Nganthoi Sharma would not be coming home.

On what should have been a normal day, an ordinary flight—AI 171—became a symbol of devastation for Manipur. The crash took many lives, but for Imphal, the name that echoed across homes, schools, and temples was that of a young woman full of dreams: Nganthoi Sharma.

Wrapped in silence, her body arrived in her hometown like a whisper in the wind. Not with fanfare. Not with light. But with pain so deep it reached the soul of an entire state.

She was just 26.

Family, friends, neighbors, even strangers who only knew her name from the news—they all came. Some held candles. Others clutched photos of her, smiling, vibrant, unstoppable. The kind of smile that made people believe in goodness. The kind of soul that only comes once in a lifetime.

“She was my daughter, but more than that, she was my light,” her mother whispered, her voice barely audible through the cries. “And now… I don’t know how to wake up tomorrow.”

The funeral procession began early in the morning, with a gentle drizzle that felt more like the sky mourning with the people than rain. The crowd walked slowly behind the flower-covered casket, led by women in white traditional attire, chanting prayers through their tears. The atmosphere was not chaotic—it was sacred.

Teachers from her old school held a banner with her name and the words “Forever in our hearts.” Her college friends, some flown in overnight, wept openly. “She had plans. Big ones,” said her classmate Priya. “She wanted to work abroad, help her community, build something meaningful. She wasn’t just a dreamer. She was a doer.”

And yet, all those dreams now lay buried under layers of shattered hopes.

Officials and dignitaries offered condolences, but the weight of protocol seemed too light for the weight of what was lost. Even the Chief Minister’s words at the memorial were choked with emotion: “Today, Manipur mourns not just a daughter, but a symbol of promise. We grieve with the Sharma family. We grieve with Imphal.”

But the pain was not just about losing Nganthoi. It was about how it happened.

Why did this flight crash? What went wrong? Could this have been prevented? The questions, though not screamed aloud, filled every mind present. No answer could bring her back. But the lack of them only deepened the ache.

“She messaged me the night before,” said her brother through tears. “Just one line: ‘See you soon, eigee yaipha (my happiness).’ I never imagined that would be the last thing I’d ever hear from her.”

Social media was flooded with tributes. Friends posted old selfies, birthday videos, voice notes. Hashtags like #JusticeForNganthoi and #AI171Tragedy began trending. Her story was no longer just a name on a manifest—it became a wake-up call. A reminder of how fragile life is, and how quickly it can be taken.

In her community, Nganthoi was known as the girl who smiled at everyone. Who volunteered at school drives. Who once spent her birthday delivering food packs to flood victims. She didn’t do it for praise. She did it because it was in her nature.

And now, her absence feels louder than her presence ever did.

As the casket was lowered into the earth, a sob escaped from the back of the crowd. It spread like a wave—grief moving from one soul to the next. Women clung to each other. Men bit their lips to stay strong. Children asked questions no one could answer.

A moment of silence was held. But in that silence was a storm of sorrow, of unanswered prayers, of lives changed forever.

Her father, a retired teacher, stepped forward. He didn’t cry. But his hands trembled as he placed a single rose on her coffin.

“My daughter believed in light,” he said, “so let us not let her go into darkness.”

Candles were lit. One by one, flames flickered across the field, and the wind—though strong—could not put them out. Just like her memory.

Nganthoi is gone. But what she stood for is not.

Her family has vowed to seek answers. To demand a full investigation into the AI 171 crash. To turn grief into purpose. To make sure no other family feels this pain again.

As dusk fell on Imphal, the city began to return to its rhythm. But for those who knew her, for those who held her hand, for those who will never hear her laughter again—the world is forever changed.

They didn’t just bury a daughter today.

They buried a future.

And yet, in every tear shed, in every prayer whispered, in every candle lit, Kongbrailatpam Nganthoi Sharma lives on.

Because true loss is when we forget.

And Imphal will never forget.