There is no neutral way to observe Mamata Banerjee. You either see the storm or the survivor. Over the years, as I have watched her from rally podiums, corridor scrums, and late-night dharnas, the woman I have seen is not just the Chief Minister of West Bengal. She is a force of nature wrapped in a white cotton saree and rubber slippers.

In my observation, Mamata Banerjee defies easy categorization. She is not the ideal liberal icon nor the perfect development czar. She is a regional satrap with national ambition, a poet with a club, a democrat who uses autocratic methods.

What strikes me most is her endurance. I have seen her address three rallies in scorching April heat, her throat raw, her saree soaked, without once sitting down. She has survived a near-fatal attack on her convoy, political betrayals, and electoral waves. Each time, she has risen, battered but unbowed.