The Toy Train's Diary

I was born before your grandparents were born.

Long before smartphones, before election rallies echoed through the hills, before the walls of Darjeeling learned the colours of political parties, I was already climbing these mountains.

I am the little blue train that whistles through mist.

People call me the Toy Train.

Every election season, I watch the hills change.

New flags appear like sudden flowers. Walls bloom with promises. Loudspeakers wake sleeping valleys. Men speak of development, change, progress, and a brighter tomorrow.

Then the voting ends.

The flags fade.

The posters tear.

The loudspeakers fall silent.

And I continue my journey.

Every morning, I leave the station carrying schoolchildren, workers, tourists, dreamers, and those who are quietly leaving the hills in search of a future elsewhere.

They rarely notice me watching.

But I see everything.

I see tea garden workers boarding before sunrise.

I see students discussing examinations and jobs.

I see fathers worrying about expenses.

I see mothers praying their children will not have to leave Darjeeling to succeed.

The election may be over, but life continues on these tracks.

And life, I have learned, is where the real story begins.

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