The kuk-kuk-kuk of the swamphen carves through the otherwise-silent night. The Phragmites rustles in the gentle breeze, creaking like old wooden stairs. We pad along the bundt, silent as panthers, flashlights off, Subas da in the lead. Himaja yawns, already bored before the watch has begun. Slowly, my eyes adjust to the lack of light; I hear the plops of fish splashing in Chilika to my right. To my left, tiny flickering lights catch my attention, but they are only fireflies, dancing a lonely waltz in the dark.

A cyclist passes us, a lone light on his handlebars indicating his arrival. He pauses and points the way he came, and Subas da visibly brightens. He turns to our motley crew; “he has seen three fishing cats just over there. Come, let us go!”

We trot along behind him, taking care to muffle our footfall. The dried buffalo (and hopefully ONLY buffalo) dung on the bundt keeps us from making too much of a clatter. My feet are as silent as shadows when I want them to be, and I break into a jog along the ridge, my eyes trained on Subas da’s silhouette ahead of me.

Suddenly, he freezes and drops to his knees. “Lights off!” he says urgently, and Himaja clicks off her torch. We all land softly on the dirt, and I shift my weight forward slowly. The wind is in our favour tonight, blowing towards my face, bringing the scent of fish, stars, and cat to my flared nostrils. Subas da suddenly turns on his torch and sweeps it in a wide arc along the bundt ahead of us. Eyeshine. Two, no, three sets of eyes, as bright as headlamps, closely set together, glare back at us. One is visibly larger than the rest, and suddenly, my brain puts two and two together. A mother fishing cat and her two kittens, perhaps no more than two months old.

The mother is clearly engaging in some sort of lecture, and the kittens sit attentively, paying our torch no heed. As we watch, she slinks off down the bundt towards the water’s edge. Immediately, the swamphens start to cackle a warning. The cat is soundless, confident and deadly, and the birds flutter and splash in agitation as she pads by. We track her progress by the bird calls and she crosses the bundt barely 10 metres from us, entering the dense Phragmites to our back.

The kittens sit patiently where she left them, their large eyes still trained on us. They are curious, despite their obvious wariness, and they quickly lose interest in sitting like their mother instructed them to. One trots a bit towards us while the other hangs back, nervous and unsure. The bolder kitten crosses the bundt towards the water and its sibling scrambles behind it. There is safety in numbers, after all, even if one’s sibling insists on playing with fire. The first kitten is now by the water’s edge, and we watch it greedily, soaking in the moment. The wind in our hair, the dirt beneath our knees, the lapping of waves against the rocks, the smack of fish diving into the waters, the blinking fireflies that burn like attainable stars – we have landed in paradise and have seen Ma Chilika’s hidden treasure too.

Suddenly, the bolder kitten changes course. As we watch with baited breath, it trots towards us, undeterred by our lights trained on its face. Its sibling retreats to the top of the bundt where the mother cat left them, no doubt preparing to launch a length complain against its sibling when their mother returns with a fish. The curious kitten is drawing closer and closer. Now, the spots are clearly visible. I can easily make out the pattern of its coat and the rudder-like tail that steers this cat as it swims. The kitten’s eyes are closer together than those of other cat species. Its flat head sets it apart from the similarly-coloured leopard cat.

Barely two metres from us, the kitten turns to the right. It trots ahead and then suddenly leaps up the bank…right onto the bundt where we crouch, barely breathing. Subas da ducks down flat, and I get a bird’s eye view of the kitten as it assesses us. It stands on the edge, balancing lightly on webbed feet. Then, after a few seconds, it seems to recall its mother’s instructions and twists easily, disappearing into the reeds like a ghost. The birds squawk in dismay but quiet down. This kitten is no threat…at least for now. The mother is out hunting and the babies will rely on her hunting skills for a few more months before they bring home the bounty.

The kittens are now in two separate parts of the bundt and we decide to let them reunite in peace. Lights off, feet silent, guided only by the stars, we pad back to the auto rickshaw, our hearts thumping wildly, the imprint of the fishing cat’s gaze forever emblazoned in our souls.