I joined HZL in 2004 and, by a stroke of luck, was placed at the corporate office in Udaipur, working out of the COO’s office. It was the beginning of what I can only call the most carefree and adventurous phase of my life—long days of work, followed by evenings that often slipped into stories worth retelling.
One such night still stands out.
Naveen had left for his hometown that weekend, casually tossing me his car keys with a grin that suggested he knew exactly what might follow. That evening, after a couple of beers and no particular plan, Krishnan and Vaibhav dropped by. Someone suggested a drive to Badi Lake—a place that, at night, was as beautiful as it was unpredictable.
I was already a little tipsy, but confidence tends to rise faster than caution in your early twenties. We picked up a few more beers “for the lake” and set off, the road gradually narrowing into darkness as the city lights faded behind us.
The drive was quiet, almost eerie. The kind of silence that makes you aware of every sound—the crunch of gravel, the hum of the engine, the occasional rustle from the trees. Moonlight spilled unevenly across the road, creating shadows that played tricks on the eyes.
Just as we were nearing the lake, something appeared in the headlights—a shape, low and moving, with what looked like a tail… or maybe two.
“Dog?” someone said.
But it didn’t feel like one.
Curiosity got the better of me. I slowed the car and edged closer. The figure didn’t run. It moved with a strange, deliberate calm.
And then it became clear.
It wasn’t a dog.
It was a leopard.
For a split second, everything froze. The leopard had something in its jaws—a jackal, limp but not lifeless. As our headlights caught it fully, the animal seemed to register our presence. In that brief, tense moment, it dropped the jackal. The jackal sprang to life and bolted into the darkness. The leopard, startled but composed, leapt effortlessly onto a nearby wall and disappeared into the night as silently as it had appeared.
Inside the car, none of us spoke.
Then all at once—nervous laughter, disbelief, adrenaline.
We reached the lake, but the mood had changed. The beers stayed unopened for a while. The moonlight, though still beautiful, now felt like it belonged to something else—to a world we had just brushed against but didn’t quite understand.
And that’s where the night could have ended.
But it didn’t.
As we sat there, trying to process what we had just witnessed, we began to hear distant sounds—soft, almost rhythmic. Not quite animal, not quite human. Krishnan insisted it was just the wind. Vaibhav wasn’t so sure.
Then, across the still surface of the lake, we saw ripples. Not from wind—but as if something had entered the water.
We stood up, instinctively moving closer, peering into the dim light.
Nothing.
And then—on the far side—a silhouette. For a fleeting moment, it looked like the same leopard, standing still, watching us. But there was something unusual. It didn’t move like a predator anymore. It just… stood.
Watching.
We didn’t wait to confirm anything further.
The drive back was faster, quieter, and very sober.
Years later, I’ve often wondered—was it just an animal encounter, amplified by alcohol and imagination? Or did we briefly step into a version of the night that most people never get to see?
Either way, it was the night Udaipur reminded us that adventure isn’t always planned—and sometimes, it looks back at you.
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