In describing the Coppersmith Barbet, author Neha Sinha says that the bird “helps the world just by existing.” The same analogy applies to the natural world she references in her book Wild Capital: Discovering Nature in Delhi, filled with wetlands, birds, bugs, centuries-old trees, and sacred groves that few would imagine the capital still has space for. These are the little joys that make life in an urban metropolis bearable.
Across more than 300 deeply researched pages, Sinha marries an organic love for nature with a fitting tribute to the urban flora and fauna that are often omnipresent yet invisible to most. From chasing nearly extinct fireflies and marvelling at the rare beauty of a Semal tree to exploring Delhi’s urban forests and rediscovering Mangar Bani—perhaps the last remaining primary forest in the region—the beauty of the writing lies in the fact that the reader need not be an avid nature lover.
Peppered with field notes, personal recollections, human stories, and lived experiences, Sinha’s book is a reminder that cities are shaped as much by their monuments, glass towers, jobs, and people as by the butterflies, neem trees, quiet wetlands, and jackals that call these spaces home. Inbter
What motivated you to write this book?
I realised I had stopped seeing things that filled my childhood: fireflies, hoopoes, and vultures. Because I work in conservation, I knew it wasn’t just nostalgia; the decline is real and global. But when I began observing Delhi over the last decade and intensely for four years while writing, I discovered the opposite emotion alongside loss: abundance. There are still over 400 bird species, ancient trees, and even plants that were believed to be extinct. The book comes from that tension: grief and hope are really two sides of the same coin.
Is there truly anything ‘wild’ left in Delhi? Where should people look?
The Aravalli ridge forests are among the oldest mountain systems on earth and still shape Delhi’s ecology. But the wild isn’t limited to big forests: it’s in city parks, roadside trees, wetlands, and agricultural edges. The city is also a crucial stopover on the Central Asian Flyway: geese, ducks, eagles, and warblers arrive from Europe and Central Asia. Imagine looking out your window and spotting a bird that has crossed the Himalaya; that’s Delhi.
What discoveries surprised you while researching?
We found a grove of 350-year-old native jal trees near the Delhi–Haryana border that almost nobody values because they don’t recognise them. That’s the problem; we care about trees whose names we know. The book calls for “decolonising” our gardens: we plant ornamental foreign species but ignore native trees that sustain birds, bees, and butterflies. Even animals surprise you; walk into a forest like Sanjay Van at night, and you may see scorpions.
You write about nature with nostalgia. Why does it matter?
There’s a word, solastalgia, grief for a home environment that has changed. As a child, I watched a vulture nest outside my school; today, children may never believe vultures existed here. That’s generational amnesia. Nostalgia can be dangerous if it paralyses us, but useful if it helps us value what remains. If you never see something again, you forget it existed.
How does class shape our relationship with nature?
Our knowledge is curated. We know avocados and dahlias, but not jungle jalebi or caper trees. Going outdoors broke my own class bubble; villagers on nature walks taught me more than textbooks. After Covid-19, a mixed group of strangers walked together down unstable mining slopes; we literally held each other to stay upright. Nature creates community quickly because survival and attention are shared.
You mention that the biggest challenge wasn’t the wildlife but simply being outdoors. What difficulties did you face observing nature in the city as a woman?
The hardest part was not snakes or scorpions, but the social gaze. A woman standing alone in a scrub forest or by a roadside tree is seen out of place. So we created buddy systems, watched out for each other, and claimed that space. Observing nature became an act of defiance.