Rishabh Malhotra The train wound its way up from Siliguri like a slow-breathing animal, dragging itself through tunnels and ridges until the landscape turned from dust and plains into green shadows and mist. Aanya pressed her forehead against the glass of the narrow window and felt the chill bite through. The air smelled different here—pine, wet earth, smoke rising from unseen chimneys. She had always imagined Darjeeling to be painted in postcards: toy train whistles, Kanchenjunga glowing in the distance, laughter of tourists around Mall Road. But this time, she wasn’t here for postcards or tourist guides. She was here…