The Nocturnal Heartbeat of Delhi's Urban Wilderness
In the deep silence of a winter night, a distinctive sound pierces through the urban quiet. Woo-woo, woo-woo-woo. This haunting, almost cackling call arrives during those darkest hours when visibility surrenders to pure auditory experience. For those who remember Delhi in the early 1990s, this sound represents more than just nocturnal noise—it's a living connection to a richer ecological past that persists against all odds.
A Childhood Soundscape Remembered
In north Delhi during that era, dusk brought two reliable auditory events. First came the peacock's dramatic eow-eow-eeowen call, followed by the noisy flapping as it settled into a eucalyptus tree for the night. Then, as darkness truly settled, the jackals began their conversation. Their paired calls—one hooting, another responding—created a charming duet that represented a city still intimately connected to its natural surroundings.
The Delhi Ridge forest of that time extended its green arms more generously into the urban fabric. Through overgrown parks, institutional campuses, and areas surrounding radio towers, jackal calls intertwined with human lives. Historical records reveal an even richer past: the 1912 Gazetteer of Delhi documented not just jackals but leopards, hyenas, hog deer, foxes, wolves, hare, and porcupines inhabiting the region. While wolves and hog deer have vanished, jackals, leopards, and hyenas still persist in Delhi's shrinking wild spaces.
The Polyphonic City of Memory
The sensory landscape of 1990s Delhi was remarkably layered. Evening hums of insects created natural white noise, while monsoon nights brought chuckling frogs. Geckos and crickets added their voices to what felt like one great outdoor organism. This rich auditory tapestry prompted a question: does contemporary Delhi still offer such ecological polyphony?
To answer this, I sought a location that preserved native biodiversity and echoed the past. After conducting surveys, I found my answer in Sanjay Van, a section of the Ridge forest characterized by brooks, ancient trees, and local legends. Here, one could tune into nature's schedule—the dawn chorus of birds or the nocturnal activities of jackals bounding freely through the darkness.
Confronting the Forest's Darkness
My exploration began on a monsoon night, standing at the forest's edge gripped by hesitation. Urban darkness carries different meanings than rural darkness—it's layered with memories of vulnerability and urban dangers. The wholesome moral certainty attributed to countryside darkness doesn't translate to city forests, where both wonder and risk coexist unpredictably.
As I nearly turned back, an owl's bark ricocheted above me. This wasn't a domestic sound but a wild one—specifically a Scop's owl claiming the night. The call triggered memories of childhood nights when Barn owls perched on every other pole, their white forms appearing luminous against insect-filled lights. Today, both Barn owls and their insect prey have diminished due to rodenticides and chemical pollution, making each remaining wild sound more precious.
Rediscovering the Nocturnal Symphony
Once inside Sanjay Van, the forest revealed its living soundscape. Jackals continued their woo-woo conversations, creating an auditory net of delight. A Spotted owlet contributed hoarse drrr drr speeches that sounded remarkably like civilized conversation. As rain subsided, insects began their symphony, transporting me back to 1990s nights when natural sounds dominated over truck horns and wedding parties.
The forest floor revealed a ground beetle scuttling under a papdi tree, armed with defensive formic acid. Then, between amaltas trees, a tender movement caught my eye—the soft, almost imperceptible yellow wink of a firefly. As my vision adjusted, more appeared until the damp trees glittered with these living lights, abundant as a child's imagination.
The Persistent Wilderness
This experience revealed the landscape of the past emerging into the present like a palimpsest—a feeling that no time had passed at all. Subsequent visits to Sanjay Van, both day and night, revealed jackals, mushrooms, ancient trees, nilgai drinking quietly, and common hawk cuckoos crying "brainfever, brainfever." Despite urban pressures—dead bodies discovered, noise from nearby eateries, constant development threats—the forest's sensory landscape remains most vibrant at night, when human quiet allows nature's voice to emerge clearly.
The Parallel Ecological City
The jackals heard this January likely came from the Southern Ridge, perhaps venturing closer to human habitats while foraging or being chased from their territories. Their presence reveals a fundamental truth: beneath Delhi's concrete layer exists a parallel ecological city. As urban residents retire each night, this other city continues its ancient rhythms.
Our cities must afford dignity and privacy to their animal citizens—to forgotten fireflies, paired jackals, and the botanical imagination that reveals secrets to those who look. This urban wilderness offers more than nostalgia; it provides genuine relief from human burdens and reminds us that civilization and wildness can, and must, coexist.
