6 Offbeat Train Stops Across India That Every Train Lover Must Explore

There’s something about Indian train journeys that never gets old. Compartments buzzing with gossip, someone balancing steel tiffins, tea sellers shouting as if their voice has to compete with the train’s horn. And in between all this, the view outside keeps shifting, paddy fields, mountains, rivers, towns. Most people think only about the big stations, the Howrah and the New Delhi. But the real charm sometimes shows up in the in-between places, the stops that don’t even make it into guidebooks. Small halts, unusual platforms, a view that suddenly makes everyone lean out of the window. For people who love trains, these moments feel like stolen treasures.


Say Dudhsagar, and most will picture the waterfall, but not many know there’s a railway stop right next to it. On the Madgaon–Londa route, the train suddenly crawls, and the window fills with rushing white water tumbling down the mountain. In monsoon, the spray actually hits passengers leaning out of the doors.
It’s hardly a station at all, more like a ledge with a signboard. But that’s enough. Trekkers often get down here, bags slung over their shoulders, heading straight for the trails. And for rail fans, that iron bridge cutting across mist and thunder is the kind of sight that never leaves you.


Kerala’s trains are usually spoken of with backwater views, but Ezhimala is cut from a different cloth. This halt sits close to the sea itself. At certain bends, it feels as if the train is sliding straight into the Arabian Sea. There’s a cliff, dark rocks below, and waves crashing endlessly.
The platform is plain. No vendors shouting, no rush. Fishermen shuffle past with baskets still dripping from the catch. Nothing fancy, but that’s the charm; life here follows the rhythm of the water. For a brief pause, even the train seems to bow to the sea.


Shimla hogs all the attention. Shoghi doesn’t even try. The toy train stops here for a bit, almost shyly, as if it knows most passengers won’t bother getting down. Pine trees close in around the platform, their smell stronger after rain. A few tea stalls lean against the slope, not fancy ones, just tin roofs, steaming kettles, glass tumblers stacked unevenly.
If you do step off, the silence is almost uncomfortable at first. Dogs sleep on the tracks, a couple of school kids wander past, someone rings a temple bell in the distance. That’s it. No crowd pressing against you, no touts pushing hotel names into your hand. Just this hush that grows on you. People who get off here often find little trails, homestays tucked into corners, food cooked in someone’s backyard kitchen. Shoghi is the kind of stop that doesn’t announce itself; it waits for you to notice.


Faith is what Shirdi is known for, and the railway station mirrors that. Sainagar isn’t about size or design, it’s about feeling. The structure carries the simple lines of the temples nearby, but what stays is the atmosphere.
Groups of strangers sharing food, families singing bhajans while waiting for their train, stories exchanged over packets of snacks. Nobody is rushing. The place feels less like a station and more like a community gathering point. In a railway system built on speed and movement, Shirdi somehow teaches pause.


Jatinga doesn’t look like much. A small platform, a board with its name fading in the rain. But everyone who’s heard the stories knows there’s something strange about it. The “bird suicides,” they call it, whole flocks flying down on misty nights as if pulled by something unseen. Scientists argue, locals shrug, and the hills just stand there, watching.
The place itself is quiet to the point of eerie. Tea gardens stretch on both sides, green and neat, but the mist makes even that order feel ghostly. The silence is thick; sometimes you think you hear wings and turn, but it’s just the breeze. For train lovers, it isn’t the station itself that lingers; it’s the weight of being in a landscape that doesn’t fully explain itself. Some stops are beautiful, some busy, some sacred. Jatinga feels like a question nobody has answered.


Ghum sits at over 7,400 feet, the highest station in the country. Toy trains push their way up steep climbs, sharp bends, and finally pause here. Sometimes the clouds drift straight onto the platform, blurring everything until the world feels dreamlike.
The station is small, yet important. A little museum nearby preserves pieces of its past, old photos, miniature engines, scraps of history. Outside, the Darjeeling hills spread wide, steam curling into cold air. For anyone who loves the romance of railways, Ghum isn’t just about altitude. It’s about proof, proof that trains and mountains can belong together.

Maybe the best thing about these offbeat stops is that they don’t try to impress. There’s no giant clock tower, no neon signboards, no endless crowds shoving past. Just pauses, pauses that let a waterfall roar, or a fisherman shuffle past, or a cloud roll straight onto the tracks.
Express trains rush through, sure. But the ones who notice, the ones who let the halt sink in, carry a different memory home. Not of where they were headed, but of where the train decided to breathe for a while. And in those breaths, the journey often becomes more alive than the destination itself.

Explore the latest trends and tips in Health & Fitness, Spiritual, Travel, Life Hacks, Trending, Fashion & Beauty, and Relationships at Times Life!