Trisha Das 1 The toy train chugged out of Ghum station, leaving behind a curl of white smoke that quickly vanished into the thickening mist. Tiasa Sen leaned against the cold windowpane of the shared jeep, her fingers absently tracing the condensation forming along the glass. Darjeeling, shrouded in monsoon fog and quiet pine-scented air, unfolded around her like a faded photograph—half remembered, half imagined. She had been here once before as a child, but the sharp edges of memory had blurred over time. Now, as an anthropologist specializing in postcolonial folklore, she returned not as a tourist but as…