Articles by Ananya Nayak

The courtyard is often remembered as a figure from the past, an inward-looking space of nostalgia, culture, and domestic ritual. But this framing misses its primary role. Before it was symbolic, the courtyard was operational. It organized air, moderated light, and absorbed heat. It did not decorate architecture; it made it habitable. In contemporary housing, these functions are normally delegated to mechanical systems, applied after form is fixed. In courtyard houses, they are resolved spatially, before a wall is even built.

A perforated screen is often treated as an afterthought, something applied to soften light, to decorate a façade, or to add texture where a wall might otherwise feel flat. It is photographed as a surface, drawn as a pattern, and discussed as a craft. But in many buildings across the Indian subcontinent and the Islamic world, the screen was never an addition. It was the wall itself. Remove it, and the building does not simply change in appearance; it loses its ability to regulate heat, move air, and mediate between inside and outside.

Elevation is often framed as progress, lifting movement above the friction of the city and smoothing circulation into uninterrupted flow. Every act of lifting produces a secondary condition in its wake. Beneath flyovers, metro lines, and railway viaducts, a second ground emerges as shaded, ambiguous, and rarely planned with the same intent as what moves above. These spaces are not incidental leftovers. They are the spatial consequence of a design decision that privileges speed, clearance, and efficiency, redistributing value and visibility across the city in the process.

The flood does not arrive as a surprise. It returns, following the same swollen rivers and monsoon skies, loosening the ground and entering homes that were never meant to resist it. Walls are untied before they are lost, materials are gathered before they drift, and structures are rebuilt with a familiarity that suggests this is not destruction, but sequence. In landscapes where water returns each year, survival is defined by the ability to begin again.

At the edge of most cities, beyond the ring roads and interchanges, a different kind of architecture is taking shape. It is not designed to be seen, visited, or remembered. It does not gather people; it moves things. Inside, thousands of parcels travel continuously, being sorted, lifted, scanned, and dispatched with minimal interruption. These buildings rarely enter architectural discourse, yet they are among the most consequential spaces of our time. The defining typology of the 21st century is increasingly the warehouse.

In Iran’s capital, Tehran, movement defines the city. Each day, millions navigate a landscape shaped by highways, traffic corridors, and dense urban blocks. Over decades of rapid expansion, infrastructure has become the dominant language of development. Streets prioritize vehicles, sidewalks function as narrow conduits, and many public spaces operate primarily as passages rather than places of gathering. Across parts of West Asia, ongoing conflict has also reshaped the region’s urban landscapes, where significant architectural environments have been damaged or transformed. Within this broader context, the preservation and creation of everyday civic space becomes increasingly meaningful. Recognized with the Aga Khan Award for Architecture, the Jahad Metro Plaza project, designed by KA Architecture Studio, demonstrates how modest infrastructural interventions can reshape the civic life of a city.

For most of human history, night arrived as a planetary certainty. Darkness spread across landscapes, and the sky revealed thousands of stars. Today, that sky is disappearing. Artificial light spills upward from cities, scattering through the atmosphere and turning night into a permanent haze. Research mapping global sky brightness shows that more than 80 percent of humanity now lives under light-polluted skies, and the Milky Way has vanished from view for over a third of the world’s population. The disappearance of dark skies is usually discussed within astronomy, but the sources of that change are deeply embedded in the built environment. Buildings emit light, reflect it through glass façades, and extend illumination far beyond their walls. In the technosphere, the vast system of infrastructures and materials humans have constructed, architecture now shapes both physical space and the sensory conditions surrounding it.

Founded in 2015 in Ahmedabad by Anand Sonecha, SEAlab is a practice shaped by a slow, contemplative engagement with place, proportion, and participation. Recognized as one of the winners of the ArchDaily 2025 Next Practices Awards, the studio builds with simple materials and local techniques, pursuing environments that are experienced as much as they are seen. This ethos became particularly tangible in Gandhinagar, where the School for Blind and Visually Impaired Children did not begin as a purpose-built institution. The school had been operating from an existing primary school building, with classrooms stacked above dormitories and twelve children sharing a single room. Space was limited, and so were growth opportunities. The new academic building was required to expand capacity, improve living conditions, and support greater student independence.

On a hot afternoon in May, when the air over western India turns metallic with heat, no one remembers façade composition. They remember where the shade falls. They remember which corridor breathed. They remember the house that was cooler than the street. What stays in memory is comfort beyond the form. Repeated thermal preference stabilizes into spatial configuration, and over time, those configurations become building types.

​​A Gothic cathedral can take centuries to complete. A world exposition pavilion may stand for six months. A ritual structure in Kolkata rises and vanishes within five days. Yet each draws pilgrimage, shapes collective memory, and reorganizes urban life. If heritage has long been defined by what endures, architecture repeatedly shows that cultural authority can also belong to what gathers people.