Three Safaris, Seven Leopards, One Unfinished Story

Day 1 | Delhi to Rajaji National Park

The Afternoon Rajaji Decided to Be Generous

“In every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks.” — John Muir

Sometimes a photograph plants a seed.

For me, it was a picture of two young leopards — Bob and Bobby, a brother-sister duo who had become something of a sensation in Rajaji National Park. The moment I saw that image, I knew I wanted to witness them for myself. That photograph was the reason I found myself boarding a bus to Rajaji with the Wildlife Photographers Collective India (WPCI), led by KKG and Ranaji and GP Pro.

The day began with greetings, introductions, and the quiet excitement that accompanies every wildlife trip. Some faces were familiar, while others would quickly become part of the stories and memories of the weekend. As our bus rolled out of Delhi, the mood was mellow. Most of us had sacrificed sleep for the jungle, and the conversations slowly found their rhythm somewhere between drowsy smiles and shared stories.

Apart from a brief chai stop (which I happily skipped), the journey passed quickly, and by around noon we had reached our destination.The official plan was simple: check in, rest, have lunch, and leave for the evening safari at 3 PM. The wildlife enthusiasts, however, had other plans.

Within minutes of arriving, cameras were already out. The hotel grounds became our first birding patch. Blue-tailed Bee-eaters flashed their colours in the sunlight, drongos perched like vigilant sentries, and sparrows went about their business, completely unimpressed by our excitement.

And then there was the sound. A relentless, almost electric buzz that seemed to come from everywhere at once.

Cicadas. Hundreds of them.

You could hear them long before you could see them. Nature’s masters of camouflage, hidden in plain sight. After some patient searching, I managed to spot a few. Beautiful creatures—though beautiful creatures with absolutely no concept of volume control.

Soon enough, it was time. The first safari.

As I climbed into the gypsy, excitement quietly replaced the afternoon laziness. Everyone in the vehicle loved wildlife, but I carried a very specific hope into the forest — I wanted to see a leopard.

Luck has often been kind to me in the jungle, but wildlife has a way of reminding you that nothing is guaranteed. The forest follows its own rules, never ours.

When the gates of Rajaji National Park’s Chillawali Gate in the Mohand Forest Range finally opened, I felt that familiar rush. The wind hit my face, the gypsy rolled forward, and for a brief moment it felt like the opening scene of a Bollywood adventure.

The jungle had begun. For the next couple of hours, there was no sign of any big cat. But there were birds. Lots of birds. Three species of bee-eaters, Woolly-necked Storks, Eastern Red-rumped Swallows, and countless smaller species that kept appearing around every bend. I wasn’t disappointed. I never am.

The jungle owes us nothing, and yet somehow it always gives us something.

I shared the vehicle with KKG, Buffer, and NS. What I appreciated most was that none of them were obsessed only with big cats. They enjoyed the forest in its entirety—the birds, the landscapes, the behaviour, the stories.

Then, after several sun-soaked hours, the forest offered its first surprise.

Mala. And her two cubs.

The mother appeared briefly before retreating into the nearby bushes, clearly uninterested in becoming a celebrity. Her cubs, however, had very different plans. Buffer had already nicknamed them Tom and Jerry, and the names seemed oddly fitting.

One stood on one side of the road, the other on the opposite side. Curious, playful, and constantly observing their surroundings. To an outsider, it might have looked like nothing more than two young cubs amusing themselves. But every glance, every stalk, and every playful pounce was helping them learn the skills they would one day need to survive in the wild.

This was play, yes. But it was also preparation.

The jungle was quietly teaching them the skills they would need to survive. Someday, these mischievous cubs would become confident hunters, perfectly adapted to life in Rajaji’s forests.

For nearly forty minutes, my finger barely left the shutter button. Every glance, every stretch, every playful movement felt worth preserving. Eventually, as quietly as they had appeared, they melted back into the forest.

The jungle’s first gift. Not its last.

As we continued deeper into the forest, KKG began sharing stories about the leopards of Rajaji. Calling him merely experienced would be unfair. He seemed to know every leopard, every territory, and every story attached to them.

One story stood above the rest. Hira. The king of this jungle.

A large male leopard known for his confidence, his imposing build, and his habit of treating safari vehicles with complete indifference. As we listened, hope quietly grew inside the gypsy. And then, somehow, the story stepped out of the bushes.

Hira.

Calm. Unhurried. Completely aware of his surroundings, yet utterly unconcerned by them. He walked onto the track as though the forest belonged to him—which, in many ways, it did. We watched him yawn, scent-mark, patrol, and move through his territory with effortless authority. Cameras clicked endlessly. Eventually, he disappeared into the thicket. Most people assumed the sighting was over.

KKG disagreed.

Based on years of observing him, he predicted where Hira might emerge next. We repositioned the vehicle roughly 150 metres ahead and waited. One of the best decisions of the trip. A few minutes later, Hira stepped into an open clearing directly in front of us.

No crowd. No chaos. Just us.

For nearly 200 metres we watched him walk towards us and alongside us, offering some of the finest photographic opportunities I have ever experienced. Other vehicles eventually arrived, but Hira seemed uninterested in entertaining them.

He had already made his appearance. The gentleman had done enough. When he later moved towards a dry riverbed, seemingly willing to offer one final opportunity, we decided otherwise. We had already spent plenty of time with him. It felt right to leave him in peace.

With some safari time still remaining, we resumed the original mission.

Bob and Bobby.

Unfortunately, the famous siblings remained elusive. But the jungle was not done rewarding us. A magnificent tusker appeared ahead on the track. Massive, calm, and dignified. We spent quite some time observing him, repositioning ourselves for photographs without disturbing his movement. At one point, even my cap surrendered to the wind somewhere during the chase. The elephant, thankfully, remained far more composed than I was.

Later, a stunning Changeable Hawk-Eagle posed near a waterhole, patiently tolerating our collective excitement. And just like that, the safari began drawing to a close. No Bob. No Bobby. Yet not a single person seemed disappointed. The jungle had already given us far more than we had asked for.

Back at the hotel, the first priority was obvious. A shower.

Every one of us was coated in a respectable layer of Rajaji dust—a badge of honour after a successful safari. The evening flowed easily after that. Wildlife stories turned into jokes, jokes turned into memes, and eventually Ranaji conducted a Lightroom workshop that had everyone gathered around screens instead of cameras.

The day ended not with a sighting, but with a poem.

Ranaji recited:

“मेरे अंतर्कलह को शांत कराता है, जंगली नहीं हूं मैं, पर जंगल मुझे सुहाता है।”

And sitting there after a day spent among birds, elephants, cicadas, cubs, and kings, I realised that perhaps many of us in that room felt exactly the same.

Day 2 | Rajaji National Park to Delhi

What Patience Looks Like in a Leopard Forest

“Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson

The day began at 4 AM. There had been significant development overnight. The seating arrangements were changing.

By now, stories of his seemingly magical ability to attract leopards had spread through the group. After four leopard sightings the previous day, people were beginning to treat it less like experience and more like some kind of jungle superpower. NS and I found ourselves reassigned to another gypsy so others could try their luck alongside the park’s unofficial “leopard magnet.”

To be honest, I had started believing it too. Whether KKG knew the leopards personally or not remained unconfirmed, but nobody in the group seemed willing to take chances.

As we climbed into our new gypsy, expectations were running high. Four leopards in a single day had spoiled us. The jungle had been exceptionally generous, and like most humans, we immediately started hoping for even more.

The forest welcomed us with a Red Junglefowl scratching through the undergrowth in search of breakfast. Chitals stood alert in the golden light while Rhesus Macaques carried on with their usual morning chaos. For the first hour, hope remained strong. News arrived over the wireless that KKG’s gypsy had already spotted Lali, a beautiful female leopard.

Meanwhile, our gypsy was rewarded with something else.

A Crested Serpent Eagle.

A fairly common resident of these forests, but one that somehow never loses its charm. Dark brown feathers, piercing yellow facial skin, a silver-grey beak, and the posture of royalty. It sat perched above us, scanning the forest floor before eventually gliding away in search of prey.

A little later, a troop of langurs transformed the trees into a playground while nearby a White-throated Kingfisher sat proudly with a freshly caught cicada. Nature has a way of creating moments that no photographer can plan.

Then came the sighting we almost had. A cluster of waiting gypsies caught our attention. Naturally, we assumed someone had found a leopard.  The reality was even better.

A King Cobra. The largest venomous snake in the world. We had missed it by less than a minute.

One minute.

In wildlife terms, that might as well be a lifetime. The disappointment lingered for a while. But the jungle doesn’t stop moving just because you’re disappointed.

As the morning progressed and leopard sightings remained elusive, we headed once again towards the territory of the celebrities we had been chasing since Day One—Bob and Bobby.

Along the way, I learned something new.

The story behind the Lapwing. I was told that when the chicks are very young and vulnerable, the parent can shelter them beneath its wings. Sometimes only their tiny legs remain visible beneath the feathers, almost as though a human mother were carrying a child in her lap. It was a beautiful image. And it made the name suddenly make sense.

While watching the Lapwings, I spotted a Common Kingfisher. Though honestly, there is nothing common about it. Its electric blue back and bright orange underparts looked almost unreal against the muted colours of the forest. Every sighting feels special, no matter how many times you see one.

Further ahead, four Indian Rollers captured our attention. One guarded a nest while the others seemed busy arguing among themselves. Perched quietly, they appear almost ordinary—brownish, modest, easy to overlook.

Then they fly.

And suddenly the sky explodes into shades of turquoise, cobalt, and violet. For a few seconds, they become impossible to ignore. Photographing them is difficult. Watching them is effortless.

Unfortunately, Bob and Bobby remained absent once again.

Before exiting the park, we heard that a leopardess was still perched on a tree in an area where we had waited earlier. Unfortunately, by then we were running short on time. We had no choice but to move on.

It felt like one of those classic jungle moments—you know the animal is there, just not quite within reach. At that point, it felt safe to assume that Rajaji had decided this morning belonged to the birds. And honestly, I wasn’t complaining.

After some much-needed rest and a quick lunch, we prepared for our final safari of the trip. Before leaving, everyone gathered for a group photograph. A simple tradition. Proof that a few days earlier we had been strangers, and now we shared stories, jokes, photographs, and memories that would probably resurface years later whenever someone mentioned Rajaji.

As we drove back towards the park, I found myself thinking less about what I wanted to see and more about everything the forest had already shown me.

Gratitude is an underrated travel companion. At the entrance, we headed straight towards the tree where Lali had been resting. And there she was. Still perched exactly where she had been in the morning. My dream of seeing a leopard on a tree was finally fulfilled. Unfortunately, photography had other plans. The sunlight was behind her, branches blocked most angles, and the leaves seemed determined to protect her privacy.

The pictures weren’t great. The memory was. And that’s what mattered.

We eventually moved into another zone of the park, one that felt completely different from the landscape we had explored earlier. On the way, a raptor crossed overhead. One glance was enough to know it wasn’t something I had photographed before.

A White-eyed Buzzard. A medium-sized brown raptor with striking pale eyes that seemed almost unreal. I stared for longer than I probably should have. Some sightings are less dramatic than leopards but stay with you just as strongly.

At one stop, we found a mango tree heavy with fruit.

Most were still raw, which was unfortunate because sour mangoes and I have never been close friends. The semi-ripe ones, however, were perfect—sweet, tangy, and entirely untouched by anything except sunshine.

A small gift from the forest.

When we returned to Lali’s tree, she had already disappeared. The forest was once again one step ahead of us. Our next destination was Anti-Poaching, an area named after the watchtower located there. Word had spread about another leopardess. Maya.

According to the guides, she possessed one of the most beautiful coats in the park and carried herself with remarkable confidence. Some even spoke about her striking light blue eyes. By the time we arrived, almost every gypsy was already there.

Apparently, she was resting on a tree near a waterhole. Another leopard on a tree. My excitement returned immediately. Unfortunately, spotting her proved much harder than expected. For nearly thirty minutes, I stood balancing on the gypsy with binoculars and camera, scanning branches, leaves, shadows, and patches of sunlight.

Nothing.

Just when most of us were busy searching every branch for Maya, Hindustani Birder spotted a Brown Fish Owl perched quietly nearby. Suddenly, the challenge wasn’t just finding the leopard anymore—it was finding both the owl and the leopard.

The owl revealed itself first. Maya, however, was far less cooperative.

When I finally managed to locate her, I understood why she had remained invisible for so long. She wasn’t hiding. Lying between the branches, she looked more like a shadow than a leopard. Sunlight filtered through the leaves above her, breaking up her outline and turning her into a perfect piece of camouflage. Even after finding her, I kept losing her again, as if she existed only when she chose to. I was happy just to have finally spotted her.

She was simply blending into the forest. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, shadows crossed her body, and her rosettes blended perfectly with the branches around her.

Camouflage at its finest.

We waited. And waited. And waited some more. Then, finally, she moved.

Every camera rose at once. Every conversation stopped. Every eye followed her.

But Maya wasn’t paying attention to us. Her focus was elsewhere. A troop of macaques. Halfway down the tree, her gaze never left them. Neither did ours. Then she jumped.

I clicked.

For a split second, instinct, timing, and luck aligned. The strange thing was that nobody seemed entirely sure where she had landed. One moment she was visible. The next, she had dissolved into a maze of dry grass, tangled undergrowth, and fading light. The macaques knew. Their alarm calls exploded across the forest with an urgency that suggested they could see something we could not. Branch after branch shook. Warnings travelled from tree to tree. Yet Maya herself remained invisible. The forest erupted. Alarm calls echoed in every direction as the macaques announced the presence of danger. For five or six minutes, the jungle was filled with noise. At one point, the calls seemed to drift deeper into the woodland.

Then they stopped. Not gradually.

Abruptly.

As though someone had closed a door.

And then…

Silence. Complete silence. No leopard. No movement. Nothing.

Most of us came to the same conclusion. Maya had probably succeeded. Or perhaps she had simply vanished again, leaving only questions behind. Whatever happened next belonged to the jungle, not to us.

So we moved on. The safari wasn’t over yet.

An Oriental Garden Lizard posed obligingly for photographs, and somewhere along the way I realised something remarkable. In just three safaris, I had already seen six leopards. More than I had ever expected before arriving here.

Then, as if Rajaji wanted the final word, another leopard appeared.

The seventh.

She was farther away than the others. Far enough that photography felt unnecessary. So I lowered my camera. For once, I simply watched.

The sun was beginning to sink, painting the forest in shades of gold and amber. We paused for a few moments, letting the beauty of the landscape and the fading light sink in, knowing we had only a short time before the park closed.

Then, with the last glow of the evening lingering over the trees, we made one final attempt to find Bob and Bobby. But it ended exactly like the previous ones. Unsuccessful. But strangely, it didn’t feel like a failure. The forest slowly disappeared behind us.

The dust settled, the safari was over, and the roads of Rajaji slowly gave way to the highways leading back to Delhi. And somewhere inside, I found myself making a quiet promise.

I’ll return. Not because I missed Bob and Bobby, but because they gave me a reason to come back.

After all, the jungle had already been more generous than I could have hoped for—seven leopards, incredible birds, unforgettable moments, and friendships forged over dusty roads and shared excitement.

Yet somehow, it was the two leopards I never saw that stayed with me the longest.

Perhaps somewhere in these forests, Bob and Bobby are still roaming the riverbeds, slipping through the grasslands, and growing into the legends they are slowly becoming. And perhaps, someday, our paths will finally cross beneath the same canopy.

The Story Isn’t Over Yet

The jungle rarely gives you exactly what you come looking for. I arrived chasing the dream of seeing Bob and Bobby together, but left with so much more— memories etched into every frame and every story. Some dreams are fulfilled, while others quietly become reasons to return.

As the road carried us away from Rajaji, I couldn’t help but think:

“Some wildlife sightings become memories. Others become invitations.”

Acknowledgements

A special thank you to KKG and Ranaji for their incredible mentorship, and to GP Pro & WPCI for organizing this expedition.

Special thanks to Neha Sinha for her insightful editorial guidance.

Note: All photographs by Nakul, except for the image of the lapwing with its chicks, courtesy of Manaswini Shetye.