Ananya Dhar It was not on any map, and yet Netarhat had a railway station — a rusted signboard leaning sideways, with “NETARHAT” painted in half-faded red on flaking wood. Arohi Sen stepped off the narrow-gauge train with a dull ache in her temples, the kind that came from climbing too high, too fast. The cold air smelled of damp moss, like an old library buried in a forest. A single porter looked at her curiously, then turned away without offering help. She was used to that look — a mix of surprise and dismissal — as if a woman…