On the edge of a remote mountain slope in northern India, a secretive cat becomes part of village life. Wildlife photographer Puskar Basu heads into the Himalayan mountains to find it.
The sun had yet to appear on the horizon and I was already settled in position, concealed behind a boulder, my gaze fixed on a small stone house with an open window.
I rarely head into urban environments to photograph wildlife, but this was a special occasion. I had travelled to the village of Hanle, in Ladakh, northern India, which sits at an altitude of 4,500m in the Himalayan mountains. Life in this remote village, home to about 1,000 people, is not easy. From December to March, the landscape is locked in ice and snow, with temperatures dropping to -20˚C and lower.
The treeless plateau and surrounding peaks appear hostile, yet nurture surprising levels of biodiversity. Sporadic areas of marshland and gurgling mountain streams, fed by snowmelt, support a variety of species adapted to cope with the challenging conditions. There are wolves, foxes, marmots, pikas and raptors.
There is also an elusive feline that claims the dubious honour of being the world’s grumpiest cat. The Pallas’s cat, known locally as Ribilik, is one of the most secretive small cats in India. Named after Peter Simon Pallas, the Prussian naturalist who described the species in 1776, it is exceptionally shy and rarely seen on this desolate plateau, with only a handful of chance sightings reported from Ladakh and the neighbouring state of Sikkim.
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It is difficult to emphasise just how hard this cat is to see, owing to its myriad adaptations to life in the peaks. Like that other magical mountain cat, the snow leopard, it is as secretive as a ghost – so secretive that, prior to 2012, it had never been photographed. It has an extraordinary ability for camouflage, even in a near-featureless landscape, and is virtually impossible to detect even at close quarters. Lying still on the ground, a Pallas’s cat bears an uncanny resemblance to a rock – hence its alternative name of ‘rock wildcat’ – its patchy grey winter coat blending flawlessly into the texture of the bleak mountain desert. Its small, rounded ears, low on the head, are not particularly prominent and enable it to peep from behind boulders without being seen.
Even if you do manage to spot one, it won’t stick around for long. These cats usually occupy empty marmot and fox burrows, changing den-site every few days as they move to fresh hunting grounds.
Given what I knew about the Pallas’s cat, when I learned that a female and three kittens had taken up residence in a small house in Hanle, my skin prickled with goosebumps. Such a secretive cat moving into a human environment was the strangest thing I’d ever heard. I packed my bags and left for Ladakh, where I uncovered not only the remarkable story of a cat behaving out of character, but also a superlative example of human-wildlife coexistence.
Cat quest
The story had begun four weeks earlier, when local farmer Tsering Topgyal and his wife, Palmo, came face to face with an unusual cat that had accessed their home through an open window. Venturing closer, Tsering also glimpsed three kittens. He informed the Forest Department, who advised him not to disturb the family. In a gesture of exceptional selflessness, the couple relinquished their house to its new occupant and lodged with relatives on the other side of the village. The Forest Department placed a barricade around the property to prevent disturbance, and the female was left to get on with the business of raising her young.
It is as secretive as a ghost, so secretive that, prior to 2012, it had never been photographed.
Ordinarily, a litter of newborn Pallas’s kittens would be secreted in a burrow or a crevice within the rocks. Males and females pair up in winter for mating, and pregnancy lasts for two to three months. The kittens are born around March-April, exactly when marmots emerge from hibernation. This ensures plentiful food for the mother, who raises the youngsters alone, suckling them for the first few months of life. Each litter comprises six to eight kittens, of which two or three survive to adulthood.
I was mesmerised by this plucky cat. I set up a hide outside the barricade and spent the next four weeks there, always in position before sunrise, sitting, watching, waiting. I wanted to get to know her, find out how she fed, hunted and cared for her kittens. I wanted to know what made her tick.
It didn’t take long to work out why the female had selected this particular dwelling. It was situated at the very edge of the village, away from the noise and hurly-burly. And right beside it was a large swathe of marshland teeming with voles and pikas.
Initially, the cat was a little cautious of my presence and eyed me repeatedly before heading out to the marsh. When she eventually made her move, she gave me a wide berth. But after a few days, she seemed to relax. She started taking a route that meandered close to my hide, which became her daily routine. She had accepted me as part of the landscape, and it was heartwarming to lock eyes with such a rare, elusive, wild cat.
She had accepted me as part of the landscape and it was heartwarming to lock eyes with such a rare wild cat
Patterns started to emerge. Early every morning, she would leap out of the window to go hunting. She would spend four to five hours in the marsh, returning in the afternoon to her kittens, hidden away inside the house, still too little to reach the window and greet their mother. As they were dependent on her milk, it was vital that she was able to nourish herself.
Her hunting ground was too far from the barricade for me to get many decent images, so I often put my camera aside and became a bystander, observing her through binoculars. She was fascinating to watch. She would either creep towards a prey animal that she’d spotted, or, in ambush-predator style, sit and wait outside a burrow, her short legs lending themselves perfectly to the required crouching posture. Once her prey had been startled, she resorted to the unexpected strategy of rattling her tail as a distraction, buying herself time to pounce. She typically needed to score five or six rodents per day, a quota that took 20-30 attempts to fulfil.
Due to the inaccessible nature of its habitat and its sparse population density, this solitary cat has not been well-studied. But this particular individual exhibited certain traits that raised all sorts of questions about the little we thought we knew. For instance, Pallas’s cats inhabit arid, rocky peaks, where there is little freshwater habitat other than shallow mountain streams and marshland, which means they have little need to swim. But the marshes around Hanle are unusually deep, giving this female no choice but to dive on in. It might have been the first time a Pallas’s cat had been documented swimming.
I knew that the family would vacate the property as soon as the kittens started weaning, and that my days beside the house were numbered. I waited each day with bated breath, hoping for just a glimpse of the three youngsters making their way into the world. But it was not to be. One morning, I arrived on site at the usual early hour but there was no sign of the female. She had moved out the previous night, probably under cover of darkness for safety, and likely helping her kittens to clamber through the window. I was disappointed, but it was heartwarming to know that the kittens had survived to this point – and that Tsering and Palmo could have their home back.
Into the wild
Since the kittens were yet to hone their hunting skills, I knew they would stay close to their mother for some time. I started searching for them in and around Hanle, but it was the proverbial needle in a haystack. Pallas’s cats travel great distances in search of food and are adept at stowing themselves away in tiny nooks and fissures. I ventured out into the wild, camping on cliffs in chilly windstorms, such was my desire to find them. But the trail ran cold.
Spending those days in the mountains, I was togged up in a thick jacket and boots. This exposed, high-altitude plateau is battered by icy winds, even in high summer. It reminded me just how well this little feline is adapted to the cold. It weighs just 2.5-4.5kg, but boasts the longest and densest fur of any cat, providing warmth and insulation during the brutal winter months, when temperatures can plummet to -40˚C. It also develops an extra layer of fat, doubling its weight and giving it a stocky build.
I continued my search, camping out on the slopes and spending my days wandering the steppe, with foraging herds of kiangs, flitting packs of wolves, solitary red foxes, playful marmots and distant raptors for company. I was starting to lose hope when luck smiled down on me. I chanced upon a single kitten from another family, who had been stashed in the safety of a den – a cavity among the rocks – by its mother, and spent two days observing it from 30 or 40m.
The curious youngster captivated me with its inquisitive eyes and its spirit for adventure. It would leap playfully along the rocks and imitate the female, mock-hunting perched birds. In the evening, it would mew enthusiastically at the sight of its mother making her way home. The reunion was a sight to behold. She immediately started suckling before indulging the kitten in play. Being able to capture those stellar moments from such proximity was a rare privilege.
The range of the Pallas’s cat stretches from Iran in the west to China in the east, at an elevation range of 3,000-5,000m. The Trans-Himalayas (the second highest of the four Himalayan regions) demarcates the southern limit of its distribution, but is also a region that is seeing increased human activity, resulting in encroachment on the cat’s habitat. The species is classed as Least Concern for its wide distribution, yet its population in the Himalayas is now highly fragmented, with the most recent records from Nepal and Bhutan dating back to 2012.
The future for the world’s grumpiest cat
The presence of humans brings threats in all shapes and sizes. Hanle was once a hilltop monastery surrounded by a few huts. Gradually, the human population here has increased and the area has seen an influx of tourists, particularly since the mountain pass of Umling La was declared the highest motorable pass in the world. Increased tourism will, of course, support the local community, but the associated development will impact on the surrounding habitat if not carried out sympathetically. Construction in the marshland has already reduced this habitat by half in the past two decades.
Free-ranging domestic dogs are another problem. They hunt the cats in packs and are increasing exponentially in Hanle. The cats are also poached for their thick fur, are subject to the effects of increased military presence in the area, and must compete for territory with grazing livestock.
With so much adversity, it is hard to feel optimistic about the future of the world’s grumpiest cat. Yet there is one thing that may save Ribilik, and that is the compassion and empathy of villagers such as Tsering and Palmo, who are going to enormous lengths to protect wildlife. Buddhism specifically preaches care of all animals on Earth, but locals here are becoming better educated about conservation and are making decent livelihoods through wildlife tourism. Under their watch, poachers are being kept at bay, construction within the marshland has ceased, and numerous species have found refuge within their fenced farmlands, which are free from dogs. At a time of expanding human presence, the efforts of the locals around Hanle stand tall. They are showing that sharing space is a viable approach.
After one month, I could not claim to truly know the Pallas’s cat, but I came away with one of the deepest connections I have ever made in the mountains. An elusive wild cat had started showing up to the people of Hanle, possibly because of the trust that has been nurtured in this wetland.
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