Hill-Station – the word conjures up the picture of whispering pines. Little cottages with little gardens. Early morning frost, wood-fired evenings.
Hill station – the cozy nestles for summer holidays. Long winding train journeys.
There was a time during our school days – when summer meant more than just a break from school; it meant a return to the hill stations –Shimla, Nainital, Mussoorie or Darjeeling.
Or some years, it happened to be McLeod Gunj, Almora, Manali or Kalimpong. With time, the list of summer hill stations has increased with the Nilgiris and Ooty.
The long train journey with family. Tiffins packed with aloo puri, parantha, or roti, chai in thermoses. Then, car rides along long windy roads. What was more fascinating was the toy train ride in Shimla and Darjeeling.
The picture was taken during the toy train journey from Kalka to Shimla – in Summer Hill. The station is located in a very picturesque setting, about 5 Km from Shimla.
The Journey Was Part of the Magic
There was a romance in the very act of getting there. The toy train to Shimla chugged along its narrow gauge track, snaking through tunnels and over viaducts, as children pressed their faces to the glass, wide-eyed at the shifting greens and sudden valleys. Vendors with wicker baskets sold boiled eggs with a dash of salt, or paper cones filled with berries plucked fresh from the forest floor.
Each stop felt like a chapter of a story unfolding, the scent of eucalyptus and rhododendrons growing stronger with every turn. The excitement wasn’t in the destination alone—it was in the songs sung en route, the card games played in sleeper coaches, the shared thermos of chai passed lovingly between parents and grandparents.
Summer Meant Simplicity
The toy train to Shimla is a romance in the very act of getting there. Still, it is. The narrow-gauge track snaked through tunnels and over viaducts. Each stop felt like a chapter of a story unfolding. The journey was more beautiful than the destination.
Mall Roads of Shimla and Darjeeling weren’t a tourist trap then; traffic jams were unknown. Hill stations were meant to be quiet. To sit on a bench and listen – to birds, to distant laughter, to the rustle of trees.
For those of us who were lucky enough to witness these hill stations in their slower, gentler days, the memories remain like pressed flowers between the pages of life. Faded, perhaps, but fragrant still.
And somewhere, in some corner of the hills, I’d like to believe that childhood still runs barefoot on cool stone paths, chasing the wind, waiting for mangoes to ripen, and for holidays that never quite ended.