Tryst in the train

Through the misty quilt casing morning light, I spot this smug-little blue train. She is deemed the crest of pride to sprightly folks of Darjeeling Hills and its ride is an amiable obligation to resist. Amongst the galore of chubby cherry cheeked and pearly bright eyed Darjeeling kids, this little, ousts all juvenility, for petting and adoration renders her most beloved. A rusty exhale from the steamy engine and a queer whistle of commencement and a pinkish man trudges to bait the little lass with her food of fuel.Thus marches the Darjeeling Himalayan train, with her jaunty stride tickling inmates as she stomps and gathers for her expedition.
A minute of impish warming up passes until she slithers through icy tracks, braving against poking Pines and gaily surpassing the old master- The Kunchenjenga! The little mischief’s audacity, springy swirl through the torque around the town, steal the graying man’s iced slumber. And as the sun prepares to peek-a-boo from the pricy silhouette of the trusted old range, little imp hounds the onlookers’ attention precisely that moment leaving the old peak abashed in covetousness.
I enjoy this jaunting as I'm steadied to the view of stubby tea gardens, all huddled in trimmed rows, underactive and content like hordes of wooly sheep stooping down to pasture. On lucky mornings, the benevolent sky lifts the foggy alchemy exposing the Sal forests sliced at places with pasty waterfalls. Then, past a picturesque of avalanching settlement perching along like stacks of earthly masquerade dotting the heavenly price. Enormous multi-hued monastery flags flutter, catalyzed by her airstream, like waterless fishes.
As the final destination nears, grunting,wriggling a shout cracks into a final cry and the cacophony slowly blurs to oblivion. And as fogs overhead hasten to chill again, and the Grand old peak retires in indignation, I'm made to peel off my childish fervor that the little toy’s contagious infantile had caused me to bear.