Words and photographs by Chris Schalkx
September 16, 2026

From tracking tigers in Ranthambore to looking for leopards in Jawai, a safari adventure in the northern Indian state of Rajasthan reveals how conservation can thrive through coexistence.

*Left to right:* Shankar Rana, a game tracker at Suján Sher Bagh; a Ranthambore tigress.

She must be close. It was still dawn-cool in the heart of Rajasthan’s Ranthambore National Park, and we were hot on the trail of the Bengal tiger we’d come to find. Fresh saucer-size pugmarks dotted the sandy pathways, while sambar deer, nibbling on custard apples, picked their way through the thickets on high alert. “Not far now,” whispered our guide and naturalist Vijay Kumawat, scanning the track ahead from the jeep’s shotgun seat.

We followed at a crawl through Zone 3, arguably the most scenic of Ranthambore’s 10 sections, past the still waters of Padam Lake and the ancient hilltop fortress that gave the park its name. Above us, drongos flitted through the foliage, their silhouettes ink-black against the brightening sky. From lower branches, langurs watched our every move, lanky-limbed and eerily humanlike, with their shrill younglings clinging to their chests. Every so often, we stopped and cut the engine to listen to the forest’s symphony of cicadas and birdsong—punctuated by my own heartbeat when Kumawat pointed out a sloth bear ambling through a stand of temburini trees ahead.

The terrain opened up as we neared Rajbagh Lake, the crumbling ruins of pavilions rising from the scrub along its shores—relics of the days when all this was a private hunting ground for the Maharajas of Jaipur. Before Ranthambore was declared a game sanctuary in 1955, royal hunting parties regularly stalked these forests, shooting big cats by the hundreds. At the turn of the 20th century, India was home to an estimated 80,000 Bengal tigers. About half a century later, that population had dwindled to near extinction, collapsing under the pressure of trophy hunting, habitat loss, and expanding human settlements.

The tide turned in 1973, when then–prime minister Indira Gandhi launched Project Tiger, banning big-cat hunting and spearheading the creation of protected tiger reserves, with Ranthambore among the first. Results were uneven in the early decades, but numbers gradually increased. Today, India is home to around 3,600 wild tigers—more than two-thirds of the global total—roaming across nearly 84,500 square kilometers of protected land in 58 reserves stretching across the country.

It was around the same time that Tejbir and Malvika Singh, a young documentary-making couple, first visited Ranthambore, which back then was still far from the well-oiled safari machine it is today. They pitched a tent under a banyan tree on the edge of Padam Lake and woke to find fresh pugmarks around their camp. Those early encounters sparked a lifelong commitment to wildlife conservation that extended into the next generation: their son Jaisal spent his childhood tracking Ranthambore’s big cats, while the family—along with close friends such as the late writer and conservationist Valmik Thapar—became some of the fiercest advocates for India’s wild tigers.

In 2000, Jaisal and his wife, Anjali, channeled their passion into the launch of Suján Sher Bagh, a tented camp on the edge of the reserve that served as our base during our stay. Taking inspiration from the nostalgic romance of 1920s safari camps, its tents weren’t unlike the one his parents pitched beneath that banyan tree decades earlier—paraffin lanterns, portable campaign-style furniture, and all. The resemblance ended there, however: after game drives, we returned to bona fide suites with copper bathtubs, a pool lined with plush daybeds, and a breezy bar serving ice-cold G&Ts beside a crackling campfire.

*Left to right:* Poolside at Suján Jawai; a bedroom at Suján Sher Bagh.

*Left to right:* The old royal hunting lodge of Jogi Mahal sits at the edge of Padam Lake under the ruins of Ranthambore Fort; a Rabari herder in Jawai.

*Left to right:* The bar at Suján Sher Bagh; a peacock in Jawai.

Sher Bagh recruits much of its staff from nearby villages and channels part of the camp’s proceeds—along with a conservation fee added to every guest’s final bill—into anti-poaching patrols, education and vocational programs for local women, and habitat restoration projects in Ranthambore’s buffer zones.

That link between conservation and community has become key to Ranthambore’s survival. “Most people living around the park used to depend directly on the forest,” Kumawat explained as we bumped along another trail. “They grazed cattle, collected wood, and hunted here.” With wildlife tourism creating jobs and a steady source of income, forests suddenly became more valuable standing than stripped for firewood or farmland. Today, thanks to trailblazers such as Suján (which now encompasses three safari camps in Rajasthan), former hunters work as trackers and drivers, village families supply camps with produce and handicrafts, and the tiger—once seen as either a threat or a trophy—has become an economic lifeline for much of the region.

The efforts paid off for the tigers, too. Just 16 were counted in Ranthambore in 2006; two decades later, an estimated 90 individuals—a record high—roam these forests. But despite the tigers’ growing numbers, sightings are never guaranteed, and the odds still hinge on timing and patience. Only about 20 percent of the park is open to tourism, with vehicles restricted to pre-assigned zones, fixed routes, and strict quotas.

It took another hour of crisscrossing Ranthambore before we finally found our cat: Ridhi, a six-year-old dominant tigress better known as the “Mistress of Padam Lake.” Basking in the morning sun, she was almost invisible behind a tangle of shrubs, though that hadn’t stopped nearly a dozen jeeps and open-sided 20-seat buses from crowding the spot. Kumawat had a better plan. Earlier that morning, we’d driven past the fresh carcass of a hanuman langur by the side of a nearby road. It would only be a matter of time, he said, before Ridhi picked up the scent and strolled over for a bite.

We staked out the carcass for well over an hour, sipping milky chai from thermos bottles and discussing the flip-sides of Project Tiger’s presumed success. Ranthambore’s tiger population, Kumawat explained, has grown so much that the park is now grappling with a new set of challenges: overcrowding, inbreeding, and rising human-wildlife conflict. As 9:30—the park’s strict closing time for morning game drives—drew near, we watched other jeeps peel away toward the exit, leaving trails of dust in their wake. I’d already written off the possibility of a proper, heart-pounding encounter when Ridhi finally decided to stretch her legs. She padded toward our jeep, coming within almost an arm’s reach before pausing, throwing the langur an indifferent glance, and disappearing back into the undergrowth.

Safari drives from Suján Jawai take guests into Rajasthan’s leopard country.

*Left to right:* One of the tented suites at Suján Jawai; a Rajasthani thali at the same camp.

*Left to right:* The terrain around Jawai Dam; a bathtub at Suján Sher Bagh.

A few days later, after a short flight and a three-hour drive from Udaipur, we were bouncing through an entirely different corner of Rajasthan. The dense forests of Ranthambore were gone, replaced by a Martian-looking landscape of granite domes and thorny scrublands set against the slopes of the Aravalli Range.

Jawai, as this rugged stretch of southern Rajasthan is known, is home to a different branch of the feline family tree: an estimated 70 Indian leopards, smaller and shier than their African counterparts, inhabit the surrounding caves and move freely through the region’s mosaic of farming villages, lakes, and fields of corn and mustard. Unlike the tiger reserves farther east, there’s no national park protection here, and no hard boundaries separating the wilderness from human life.

Our base was Suján Jawai, the Singh family’s latest camp, set on a wedge of rewilded scrubland between granite hills. Compared to Sher Bagh’s old-world safari nostalgia, Jawai felt more contemporary. Its 10 tented suites, scattered across a tangled garden of tall grasses, cactus-like thor hedges, and khejri trees, had recently been restyled with a smart palette of black, white, and polished chrome. Red lampshades and bed runners echoed the twisted turbans of the local Rabari tribesmen, who patrolled the camp after dark, keeping watch for wandering predators.

The surrounding hills, smooth and round like petrified camel humps, glowed burnt orange on our first evening drive as a dusty sunset rendered the entire scene in sepia tones. Partridges shot across the dirt tracks as our jeep rattled past, and peacocks strutted through the scrub with harems in tow, their iridescent chest feathers a jolt of blue against the dry earth. Within 20 minutes of leaving the camp’s gates, our guide, Akansha Mishra, a whip-smart young naturalist from Delhi, had picked out our target in a distant crevice amid a mountain of boulders. There, almost perfectly camouflaged against the granite, lounged a big male leopard named Shiv.

We watched him from afar for nearly an hour as the evening air turned chilly. He barely moved, save for the occasional flick of his tail or lift of his head to survey the valley below. Mishra, meanwhile, filled us in on the local leopard politics: Shiv’s territorial disputes with rival males, the females who’d recently crossed into his turf, and the cubs that had heightened the tensions. “I don’t have to watch soap operas on TV,” she quipped. “We’ve got all the drama here.”

But what struck me most was the silence. Aside from two other Suján jeeps parked at a respectful distance, we had the place to ourselves. There were none of Ranthambore’s vehicle convoys or whisper-shouting crowds. Much of the surrounding landscape is privately owned and managed in partnership with local communities, including large swaths of former farmland Suján has spent the past decade painstakingly rewilding with native grasses, shrubs, and trees. As the last light drained from the sky, Shiv finally rose from his lookout and ambled toward a hilltop shrine. He scanned his valley one last time before disappearing into the dark.

The following morning, over a breakfast of chickpea curry and bhatura flatbread puffed like golden balloons, we learned that another leopard had spent much of the night less than 50 meters from our tent. Over the next few game drives, we’d spot several more—including a pair of cubs—at similarly close range, all seemingly unfazed by our presence.

Another afternoon, we drove out to Bisalpur, a small town of about 5,000 people, where women in gauzy, gold-hemmed veils strolled through dusty alleyways, their arms stacked with thick blue bangles. Nearby, Rabari herders rested in the shade of acacia trees as their goats wandered through the heat haze. Leopards, we learned, occasionally passed through too, nabbing livestock whenever the opportunity arose.

*Left to right:* A sunset stop in Jawai; inside a lounge tent at Suján Jawai.

Left to right: The necklace of a priest at Bisalpur’s Ashapura Mataji Temple; a woman and her goats in Bisalpur.

“The land belongs to the humans, but the hills belong to the leopards,” Mishra explained as we climbed to the Ashapura Mataji Temple, an ornate shrine of white marble and sky-blue plaster perched above the valley on the edge of town. In local folklore, leopards are regarded as divine protectors, and unlike elsewhere in India’s big-cat territories, human-wildlife conflict here has historically been rare. Even when leopards do carry off a goat or calf, retaliatory killings are uncommon. “Conservation in India is easy if you link it to religion,” Mishra added. “All animals have a connection to the gods.”

Between game drives and expeditions deeper into the Aravalli hills, we spent long afternoons by the pool or lingering in the tented dining room over fragrant Rajasthani thalis, farm-fresh salads, and flatbreads straight from the tandoor. One evening in the library, I sat down for drinks with Anjali Singh, who explained the larger philosophy behind Suján. “This is very much a coexistence project,” she said. “It would be impossible to ignore the human side while trying to conserve land for the animals.” Much of the camp’s work focuses on the surrounding villages, from schools and vocational programs to waste management and infrastructure projects, helping ensure that local communities benefit directly from conservation.

As for the big cats, Singh said they are only symbols of a bigger mission. “Everything in the ecosystem is equally important, from the dung beetle to the leopard,” she explained. “But people connect to charismatic animals.” Apex predators, she explained, attract tourism, funding, and political attention that ultimately help protect the wider landscape.

Singh also shared a story she still returns to often. Several years earlier, around Christmas, she’d heard a rip-roaring commotion echoing through the valley near the camp: two grown male leopards locked in a territorial fight. She jumped into a jeep and drove toward the hills, arriving just in time to watch them tearing into each other among the rocks, snarling and bloodied in the late-morning sun. “They would’ve killed each other,” she recalled. “The whole valley was rumbling.”

But it wasn’t the violence that left an impression on her. These notoriously elusive cats felt secure enough to fight openly for territory, even in daylight with humans around. “That’s when I realized we were doing something right,” Singh said. “This land had become worth fighting for.”

*Left to right:* Suján Jawai’s dining tent at dusk; a leopard spotted not far from the same camp.

The camps operated by Suján are part of the Relais & Châteaux collection. Suján Sher Bagh (from US$938 a night) is a three-hour drive from Jaipur, while Suján Jawai (from US$1,145 a night) is best reached via Udaipur.

This article originally appeared in the August/September 2026 print issue of DestinAsian magazine (“Spots and Stripes”). Buy a single issue or subscribe here.

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