Day 10, August 2nd: Jodhpur-Falna-Jawai Bandh.
“On the trail of leopards, the Rajput gentleman, and the drama”
It’s 5 AM. We descend the steps of our haveli and open the gates. As planned, a rikshawala we met the day before near the hotel—who seemed reliable—is waiting for us in the street at the agreed time. This rather young Hindu man, with a pious appearance, speaks little but proves to be dependable and professional. As dawn breaks and urban activity slowly starts up, he navigates the blue alleys, drives down the main avenues, and drops us off in front of the old, beautiful brick building of Jodhpur’s railway station.
We head to the platform for a makeshift breakfast: chai, fruit, and various snacks. Then our train arrives. And not just any train—the Vande Bharat Express! This fast, clean, and modern train, introduced in 2019, consists entirely of air-conditioned carriages: AC Chair Car for the more “basic” option and the prestigious Executive Class. Automatic doors, compartments with immaculate tables, eco-friendly toilets with sensor taps, onboard Wi-Fi, digital travel information displays, power sockets... In every respect, it’s the antithesis of classic Indian trains. It’s the embodiment of “Shining India,” promoted and promised by the liberal reforms of the 2000s, and “Clean India” under Modi, all in one train. We booked it primarily because the schedule suited us, allowing us to reach Falna in under two hours—half the time a regular train would take. It was also an opportunity to experience these new Indian high-speed trains, a first for me (even after ten trips, there’s always something new, thankfully). We opted for the AC Chair class (600 rupees per person), which already exceeded our expectations and was light-years ahead of the comfort and modernity I’ve experienced on any other Indian train. Here, dusty aisles and benches give way to spotless, brand-new facilities; the usual crowds of ordinary people are replaced by small groups of well-dressed, upper-class families; street vendors and sweepers are swapped for uniformed servers and sanitation staff in sterile overalls; and the sense of closeness is replaced by a polite, slightly distant cohabitation. The silence and tranquility are only occasionally broken by the automatic door-closing signal, electronic announcements, the quarter-hourly visits from cleaning staff, or the servers offering complimentary chai and biscuits: the feeling of being in a clinic hurtling along at 150 km/h. For someone used to classic Indian trains, the Vande Bharat can almost feel unsettling at heart... We even get the impression that time passes more slowly. But even though I love my Sleeper Class, I’m not complaining: the experience is entertaining, enriching, and still comfortable! Though, what must the Executive Class be like?!
By the way, what are we even doing in Falna? And does anyone here even know Falna? No one? That’s normal... There’s nothing particularly special to do in this tiny town of 25,000 people, about 150 kilometers south of Jodhpur. Because in reality, it’s not our final destination: we’re heading to Jawai Bandh, which isn’t even a proper town. Jawai Bandh is an artificial lake formed by a dam on the Jawai River (hence its name, meaning “Jawai Dam”), construction of which began in 1946 under the orders of the Maharaja of Jodhpur, due to the recurring damage caused by monsoon floods. It’s also the largest dam in Rajasthan. It supplies most of the water resources for the Pali district, for both basic human needs and agriculture, as well as electricity.
At the edge of the arid Marwar and the gentler Mewar, Jawai Bandh—both a toponym and a broader territorial unit encompassing the villages around the lake—is geologically and climatically much closer to the latter. Its landscape of rocky formations dotted with thorny plants and succulents marks the entrance to the lower Aravalli mountain range, which divides Rajasthan into two distinct climatic regions.
Over time, the lake and its surroundings have become a natural habitat for migratory birds, crocodiles, antelopes, and a diverse range of wildlife. But above all, one thing has drawn tourists to this remote spot in recent years: leopards. In the Jawai Bandh villages, locals claim they’ve always lived in peace with the leopards. And while these big cats help themselves to both wild game and the livestock of Raika herders, there hasn’t been a single recorded attack on humans. In fact—this *is* India, after all—the leopards are sacred here, and a small temple is even dedicated to them in a hillside cave. It’s said that villagers bringing offerings and the leopards coming to claim them cross paths there without any issues. Starting in 2010, Jawai Bandh, which had no tourist appeal until then, officially became a leopard conservation reserve—the largest in the world, apparently—and hotels, tented camps, and luxury resorts gradually sprang up around the lake to offer jeep safaris to discover the local wildlife, flora, and culture. Yet the site remains relatively unknown and spared from mass tourism.
After four visits to Rajasthan, I’d never heard of Jawai Bandh... It was during the planning of this trip that I stumbled upon the name while browsing the English version of the Lonely Planet website—curiously, it wasn’t mentioned at all in the print editions. I dug deeper, did my own research, and realized the reserve was halfway between Jodhpur and Udaipur, making it a potentially interesting stop between the two cities. I also learned that it wasn’t a closed reserve but a protected area around the lake where leopards live in a natural, open environment. Though the monsoon isn’t the best season to maximize your chances of coming face-to-face with these big cats, the vegetation is lusher. Ultimately, the idea of staying in the heart of rural Rajasthan to observe wildlife or visit villages seemed perfect for the kids. We quickly envisioned this stop as one of the highlights of our trip.
Once we’d incorporated the location into our itinerary, we had to consider accommodation options. We did our research using Google Maps, clicking on all the lodgings listed around the lake. We ruled out the large hotel complexes, which not only charged exorbitant rates but also contributed to the dispossession of local farmers’ land. We also dismissed the cheaper guesthouses in nearby towns like Sheoganj and Sumerpur, which were a bit too far from the lake. In the end, we settled on tent resorts, campsites in the heart of nature with well-equipped tents. After contacting a few places via WhatsApp, it was Sukhdeo Singh Rathore, the owner of Bagheera Bagh Jawai, who stood out—he was the most responsive and friendly and offered us a much better deal than his competitors: 36,000 rupees (395 € at the time of the trip) all-inclusive for three nights in a large, air-conditioned deluxe tent right in the reserve, with a pool, breakfasts, lunches, snacks, dinners, and three jeep safaris included. Though 12,000 rupees per night was way above our usual budget, the complete package and the offer being significantly cheaper than competitors convinced us, and we didn’t look any further. Later, Sukhdeo even agreed to handle our train reservation between Ahmedabad and Jaisalmer for free, which we paid for via Western Union (only 3 € in fees) along with the 50% deposit for the booking. We stayed in touch in the months leading up to the trip, and Sukhdeo continued to provide us with the information we needed, including how to reach his camp by bus from Falna—though he’d also offered to pick us up by car. But the idea of taking another local bus seemed more appealing.
Right on time—well, about fifteen minutes late—our Vande Bharat Express arrives in Falna around 8:10 AM under a gray, slightly threatening sky. Not many of us get off... It’s true that there were stations closer to our final destination, mainly the one named “Jawai Bandh.” However, none of them are served by a fast train, and Falna isn’t *that* far from the lake, making the Vande Bharat-local bus combo ultimately less time-consuming.
We exit the station, and since there’s no RSRTC (Rajasthan State Road Transport Corporation) bus for our route, we look for the local Khalsa bus supposed to serve the village of Bera, near which our camp is located south of the lake. Online, I’d spotted a bus to Bera at 9:30 AM, but with rural buses, nothing is ever set in stone... We approach the few rickshaw drivers parked in front of the station, who inform us that a bus is leaving soon for Bera—at 8:30 AM! We’d planned to have breakfast in Falna and visit the two (reputedly beautiful) Jain temples in town to kill time, but we don’t dawdle and head down the tiny station street where the buses depart. It’s drizzling, but nothing too bothersome. Since we still have a few minutes, the end of the street is close, and we spot a small group of men bustling around a chaiwala boiling water, tea, milk, and spices in his large pot, we take a short break. We watch the scene of the main street of this small rural town waking up, where rickshaws, a few passersby, cows, and dogs parade along the slightly muddy road. We take the opportunity to confirm the bus to Bera with our chai companions, and they point us to the end of the street. They’re welcoming and chat with me a bit. Suddenly, Kelyandre urgently needs to use the bathroom, and the men point to the temple right next door. It’s the temple of Shitala Mata, goddess of smallpox (and many other nasty diseases), who inflicts or cures them depending on one’s karma. We follow our suitcases under the temple’s entrance porch and quickly ask for the restrooms, which are upstairs. This mismatched family with all their gear in this small-town temple at such an early hour is a bit out of place... A temple attendant approaches and asks us to sign the visitor list: we’re charged 10 rupees as a donation for using the toilets. The man is very friendly afterward and chats with us. Meanwhile, Kelyandre, who went upstairs, is taking a while... We start to worry as departure time approaches, wondering what he’s up to... I go up to check: he’d gotten a little lost looking for the restroom and is feeling a bit unwell...
With this little hiccup, we’re really cutting it close for the bus. We rush with our heavy gear to the end of the famous street... We try to find our vehicle, but a young man explains that earlier in the morning, heavy rains had cut off the small roads. Since he’s heading in the same direction, he invites us to follow him. He tells me we need to take a sawari (shared jeep). Still in the light rain, we load our suitcases into the back and settle into the jeep, which travels a few kilometers before stopping on the side of a larger road. The young man explains that we now need to take a bus that will drop us off about twenty kilometers away in the small town of Sheoganj, which, along with its twin Sumerpur (separated only by the Jawai River), forms the largest nearby settlement to Jawai Bandh. From there, a public bus will cover the next twenty kilometers to Bera. We wait a little under the shelter of the sawari, and a red private bus arrives immediately. We pay the fare (about 70 rupees total) and get off with our adorable guide, who’s made it his mission to get us to our destination safely. There’s plenty of space, and we settle in comfortably, paying about ten rupees per person to the chief conductor (the ticket inspector). Our guardian angel checks that we’re okay; I thank him warmly for his help, but he acts as if it’s all perfectly normal.
After a short ride, the bus crosses Sumerpur, passes over the Jawai River bridge, and drops us off at the tiny bus station in Sheoganj. We get off in the rain, which has intensified in the meantime. Our friend asks around a new small group of men gathered around a chaiwala’s pot: they point us to the minibus for Bera, which will leave in half an hour. We find a little shelter, and one of the men brings us chai! Finally, the driver gets on the bus. Then comes the rush to board the small, dusty vehicle. A little damp, I have to stand squeezed in with those who don’t have seats, but the ever-welcoming and kind villagers give up their spots for Magali and the kids.
Kelyandre, once again, has no equal when it comes to falling asleep on his neighbors’ shoulders—but this time, it’s a beautiful village girl around his age, looking like a little pure princess, who, faced with this unexpected situation, pulls her ghunghat, the veil of her green sari, over her face and sits stiff as a board, trying to act like everything’s normal. A quirky scene I have no choice but to capture!
I stay in touch with Sukhdeo on WhatsApp to update him on our progress while checking Google Maps to track the bus’s route in real time. We follow the thorny, rocky expanses of Jawai Bandh, even passing near the small path leading to our camp—but unfortunately, we can’t stop... All in all, with the flooded country roads and numerous roadside stops, it takes us nearly an hour to finally reach Bera’s main street, which serves as the bus station. It’s still a little less time than if we’d taken a regular train to the nearest station. Our guardian angel tells us this is where we need to get off. We don’t know how to thank him for his help. Without hiding his immense kindness, he shows us, with total selflessness, that he was only fulfilling his dharma, his duty—to look after this couple of foreigners and their two young children wandering so oddly through the flooded lands of deepest Rajasthan in search of an alternative route to their holiday destination. Yes, we’re not just throwing around the overused phrase “off the beaten path.” Some might criticize us for needlessly seeking out complications and problems, given that our middle-class Western means instantly make us very wealthy in this country, which, despite what some say, is still largely mired on the long road to development. But our faces wouldn’t be so radiant now if we’d taken a taxi from Jodhpur or found a station right next to our destination. We wouldn’t have experienced the absolutely incredible welcome from all these villagers, who show us nothing but help and kindness in these battered buses against a savanna backdrop: that’s worth a thousand visits to the fabulous forts of Jaisalmer or Mehrangarh. And as we part ways, I regret not knowing more about this man, not being able to invite him for chai and chat about his life. But we get off here, and he continues on his way. We have to accept that our paths separate as they crossed, with no farewell other than empty thanks and a brief exchange of emotional, grateful glances that say more than words ever could...
Sukhdeo Singh Rathore has no trouble spotting us as we get off the bus! He helps us grab our large suitcases and loads them into the back of his new, air-conditioned car. He asks about our morning adventure, which we recount with laughter. We retrace a short stretch of the road we’d just taken by bus, then turn onto a dirt path turned muddy by the rain, lined with sparse but lush vegetation. Around 11 AM—nearly three hours after arriving in Falna and five hours after leaving Jodhpur—we finally reach Bagheera Bagh, the “Leopard’s Garden,” which we’d dreamed so much about. Under a cloudy sky with occasional breaks of sunshine, we discover the modest but sprawling property, consisting of four very large tents.
Nearby, a pavilion shelters the kitchen and dining area, a small pool right next to the tables, and farther off, a little house that clearly serves as a storage and laundry room, a beautiful horse, a few ducks, geese, and chickens roaming freely, and all around, a 360-degree view of this unique landscape—lush, semi-desert, and rocky.
We enter our enormous tent, which from the inside looks more like a large hotel room with a canvas exterior and local-folklore decor, complete with a spacious bathroom at the back. Plus, we’re alone, and it feels like the whole camp is ours. We’re immediately charmed by the place—it’s even better than we imagined!
Sukhdeo leaves us to explore and says we can message him on WhatsApp if we need anything. Most of the time, he’s on the property, staying in one of the tents or busy with tasks alongside his two teenage employees. We can finally unpack and settle in, freshening up after this dusty, damp morning, when suddenly... problem... our combination lock suitcase won’t open. We try several times, but it doesn’t work. And this is our biggest bag, with most of our stuff inside... We think it might be jammed from being overstuffed and jostled in the various luggage holds this morning. We keep trying, but nothing works. We have to message Sukhdeo to ask if he can find a locksmith in a nearby village. It might cost us a bit for the trip, but we have no choice. Sukhdeo arrives about ten minutes later. He looks at the suitcase, asks for the code, tries to force it a little—no more luck than us. He calls a locksmith he knows in Bera, explains the situation, and sends photos. He follows the professional’s instructions over the phone, but still nothing. We’re really worried because a significant part of our lives is in that suitcase. Could it be the Mehrangarh curse following us again? Sukhdeo then has an idea and tries something: he resets the code, fiddles with the lock, and tries to force it a little. We’re helpless, hanging on his every move. He tries a few times, and suddenly—miracle—the suitcase opens! Another man who was just doing his dharma, but we’re infinitely grateful to him on this trip: we’d be ready to build him a temple! He modestly says he’s dealt with this issue before with tourists who had the same suitcase as us—he realized that when overloaded and jostled, the code simply shifts by one digit, so he tried the number above and below while forcing it a little. Of course, makes sense...
Of royal caste, as his clan name suggests, Sukhdeo Singh Rathore is a man in his early forties, tall and slim with a fine mustache. Combined with his unshakable, laid-back demeanor and affability rooted in his very being, he exudes both the air of a Rajput prince and a 19th-century British colonial administrator. Whether he speaks Hindi or English, he never wastes a word and speaks with a deferential tone without being obsequious, helpful without being servile, with businesslike courtesy that’s nonetheless sincere. One word seems to define him perfectly: a gentleman. He embodies it. After a quick cleanup and rest, with the rain finally stopped, we sit at a table under the pavilion. Sukhdeo asks if we’ll be eating vegetarian or non-vegetarian, and as always, we choose the former. While he prepares our meal with his two boys in the large kitchen with a counter open to the covered dining area, we enjoy the absolute tranquility of the place, perfect for relaxation. The three of them are excellent cooks and serve us a veritable feast of authentic Rajasthani specialties, arriving one after another: rice, different types of chapati, dal, aloo gobhi... and a delicious ker pickle, those small berries from the thorny bushes of Rajasthan. A delight! For an appetizer, we were treated to delicious raw tomatoes and cucumbers grown on the property. Théo, who’s been a bit picky since the start of the trip with these new eating habits and has been eating less than usual, insists on trying them. We know it could be risky, but it’s the first time he’s shown such enthusiasm for eating something, and the produce is entirely natural. So we give in...
We digest one of the best meals we’ve had since arriving with a good chai, and Sukhdeo gives us binoculars to scan the surroundings. He explains that if we look at the nearest hills, we might spot leopards near the caves where they live. For now, we don’t see anything except magnificent peacocks perched on the rocks and this fairly green plain, dotted with those striking volcanic granite formations so unique to Jawai Bandh. Then we go change into our swimsuits to try the pool next to the pavilion, which turns out to be very pleasant. Sukhdeo knows how to be discreet and step back when needed, making himself available when we require him. We chat a bit about our lives—I tell him about my travels in India and my brief study of his mythical ancestor, Pabuji Rathore, while he describes his daily life on this property he acquired and converted into a tent resort a few years ago, and his family back in Pali, the district headquarters about a hundred kilometers away. We then discuss our program: no safari planned today; he’d rather we rest a bit. We’ll have our first excursion tomorrow, another the day after, and we’ll see if we can fit in a third one later. However, we’re free to explore the grounds and the small rocky outcrop near the tents to admire the view and try to spot leopards from afar.
There’s not much else to do but soak in the peaceful setting. We go rest a bit in the tent. But Magali notices that Théo isn’t his usual energetic self and reminds me that when he’s like this, he’s coming down with something...
Indeed, he’s not feeling well and needs rest. He keeps complaining about his stomach. At one point, he ends up vomiting. And vomiting again, with diarrhea, non-stop. We try to get him to drink, with mixed success, as he doesn’t feel like it and throws up the water immediately... We give him the medicine we’d packed, knowing we might face this situation. But nothing helps... He keeps emptying himself from all sides. We hope it’s not too serious and don’t have many other options for now but to let him recover. This puts a bit of a damper on the idyllic atmosphere that had settled in.
That evening, we have another wonderful meal with new tent neighbors—a family from Mumbai who, in a quick stopover, did their safari in the afternoon and will spend the night here before leaving early the next day. Their guide told them he saw a leopard, and they think they spotted it with the binoculars but aren’t sure... But Théo is weak and not very hungry. We have the strange feeling of being in a perfect place while these curses keep raining down on us one after another, though we’ve managed to dodge them all so far... Night falls, and we return to our tent. We continue Kelyandre’s traditional “treasure hunt” with questions about the day’s events. Then we go to bed, hoping everything will be better tomorrow...
Sometimes, large herds of goats led by Rāikā shepherds with sticks temporarily block our path before our jeep parts them like the Red Sea.
Before rejoining the main road that circles the lake, we pass through a few hamlets around Bera, quite secluded from civilization. The villagers seem to maintain a very traditional and modest rural lifestyle.
As we venture deeper into the countryside, a break in the dark clouds and the now-retracted jeep roof reveal the stunning landscapes of hills and granite outcrops that carve the sky, plains, and reliefs of Jawai Bandh. We stop on a small hill offering a fabulous panorama. These spectacular views bring back our smiles, and Théo even reacts at times, especially when he spots animals or other surprising things that catch his attention. Though he’s not at his best, the leopard hunt keeps his enthusiasm and imagination somewhat alive.
We return to a stretch of asphalt before diving back into the thick bushes. Our guide occasionally stops to scan the hills with his binoculars, searching for movement or signs of a spotted feline. Meanwhile, he calls his village informants, who seem to give him some tips while we take occasional photos. We start crossing paths with other competitors—mostly groups of Indian tourists packed into their jeeps—and it turns into both a race and a treasure hunt: each driver has their own intel, and they start following or trying to outpace each other to be the first on the scene. Our driver proves to be a true expert, even a virtuoso, at jeep driving, as he seems more skilled than the others we encounter. Sometimes, he skids in large puddles or revs the four-wheel drive to climb steep hills. It’s like a real rollercoaster ride at an amusement park! We make sure to hold onto Théo, whose smiles peek through despite the bumpy ride, even if he dozes off now and then from the seismic-level jolts. Impressed by his ease, we convince ourselves we can trust our man to lead us to victory. We pass through areas where cultivated land blends into the natural landscape, as the soil must be particularly rich in this region.
Suddenly, he gets a solid lead and takes off again at full speed. Our 4x4 peels out, skids, bounces, and ricochets between sharp babūl and jagged rocks. Other drivers hesitate, searching for their route. Ours doesn’t care and blazes his own trail through the bush, even clearing new paths. He climbs rocky outcrops before descending them, tries to shake off followers or force oncoming vehicles to reverse, parks, grabs his binoculars, then peels out again... Honestly, we weren’t expecting such an adventure. It must be part of the show!
Now, things are really heating up—everyone’s on the phone constantly: we’re apparently hot on the trail of a leopard on the opposite hill. Shepherds by the road point in a direction, and other jeeps follow while some pass in the opposite direction. Our driver tries to reach the spot by weaving between obstacles, then rejoins the paved road, gets out for a few minutes, and speeds off again into the savanna. At a bend, he swerves and defies gravity by making us climb a steep rocky slope in incredible jolts. We’re stunned and burst into nervous laughter. I thought only goats clinging to mountainsides could pull off such a feat! Several jeeps rush onto the hill, each fighting for a front-row spot, bumping bumpers or hurling insults. More arrive and try to park. This spectacle of vehicles lined up on this rounded rock, headlights, binoculars, and eyes all fixed on the same spot on the hill about a hundred meters away, looks like an odd open-air cinema. Off-season and in a supposedly quiet spot, we’re amazed by this parade of off-road vehicles packed with one-day adventurers! We wonder what it must be like in high season... Has Jawai Bandh become a bit "hype" since the info we gathered?
Then, except for a few whispers, everything goes silent. Our guide scans the horizon with his binoculars, which he then passes to us. He whispers that there’s a leopard lying near a rock behind the vegetation. We each take a turn looking but see nothing... He takes the binoculars back, focuses, and hands them to me again, describing the area to observe, but I still don’t see anything... He seems sure of himself and a bit annoyed that we can’t spot the target. Around us, all eyes are fixed on the same spot. Yet, no one exclaims, “I see it, it’s there!” I look again and think I might see something... but no, I have to admit: I don’t see a leopard... I conclude it must have left or was never there. Suddenly, I spot a fairly large animal at the bottom of the hill. Several people in other jeeps seem to see it too. I zoom in! But what I see looks more like a horse or a large antelope. “It’s a nīlgāy,” the driver says... A nilgai in English, a type of antelope common in India. Disappointment quickly gives way to some interest in this steppe bovine that grazes and stares blankly at the silent army of jeeps facing it, seemingly thinking without fear: “What do these people want from me?” It doesn’t move an inch, giving us time to pass the binoculars around and capture the moment.
It’s not the leopard we were tracking, sure, but the nīlgāy, literally “blue cow” due to its bluish-gray coat, is still a majestic animal, and we don’t begrudge this encounter. It occurs to me that it might have been used as bait for leopards, but I don’t dare voice that thought...
After a few kilometers on the main road around the lake, we pass the monumental Jawai Dam, the largest in Rajasthan.
For a split second while we’re driving, I think I see what looks like a cow’s head in a cluster of rocks by the roadside. I grab my camera and try to capture it to prove I wasn’t hallucinating. But no—I check the photo, and there it is: the snout and nostrils of a sacred cow, as real as can be, yet entirely natural, with no human intervention. India and its mysteries...
This time, our guide takes us to a spot where we won’t run into the crowds from yesterday. The jeeps we pass are few and far between, and the competition from the day before is nowhere to be seen. With his phone in hand, searching for reliable tracks and scanning the caves in the hills with his binoculars (which he lets us borrow regularly), he’s much more cautious than yesterday—though he still pulls a few stunts to impress us a little. But still no sign of a leopard...
We *are* surprised, though, by the large population of peacocks wandering through the sanctuary or letting out their piercing "piyaaaaaaaa" calls (or at least, that’s how Indians hear it—"piyā" means "darling") that echo through the silent valley. Here, the granite formations create towering, tiered cliffs that look like terraces. You have to squint or pull out the binoculars to spot the tiny Shiva temple perched at the top of the plateau, which I recognize thanks to the large trident planted near the white building, pointing toward the sky.
The morning is quiet in terms of safari, but we still cross paths with a few jeeps—admittedly, a bit more packed than ours...
