I was invited to write a small note for the ABRD 20th anniversary book — and here it is.
I’m genuinely grateful for the invitation, and for the chance to add my voice to a story that has been unfolding for two decades now.
Thank you, Anupam, for opening this door and letting me be part of your celebration. It means more than a formal contribution — it feels like belonging, even if just for a few pages.
When slick city architects from Delhi step into rural India, it’s often like watching someone try to charge their iPhone in a mud hut. Their CAD files are clean, their timelines tight, they arrive with bold visions – and then reality hits. And yet, for those who stay – who don’t flee at the first sign of a missing Wi-Fi signal – something remarkable often happens.
And this was the case with abrd. I first met Anupam Bansal, one of abrd’s founders, around a bonfire at Ken River in remote Mayday Pradesh. I had no idea he was an architect.
Weeks later, long after the fire had died out and he’d made a quiet visit to Janwaar – the village I was working in – an email landed in my inbox. No pomp, just purpose. He casually mentioned he was an architect and offered to help. No pitch deck. No fee. Just a simple gesture toward something far bigger: turning a forgotten village into something a little less forgotten.
It wasn’t charity. It wasn’t heroism. It was curiosity mixed with conviction – the kind you don’t often find in people used to drawing lines on city maps. Anupam’s CAD files and excel sheets met cow dung reality and made something out of it.
He didn’t retreat into his urban bubble or observe from a polite distance. Instead, he dove right in – connecting with the villagers, soaking in their stories, and letting the land speak for itself. Every time he visited, he’d hop on one of my old Royal Enfields, kick it into gear, and disappear into the rugged landscape – dust in his wake, curiosity in his eyes.
Anupam ‘translated’ skatepark plans from foreign design studios in local language and guided the workers in a meaningful way. He spent his time with masons and labourers who hadn’t read Le Corbusier but knew exactly how to mix the concrete that wouldn’t crack under the heat. He sketched plans on a piece of paper, double-checked the procedures on a daily basis, traded in some projects concrete for mud blocks or bamboo. And he supported the villagers in using local materials – they needed areas that stayed cool at noon and dry in the rain.
He watched how design had to be flexible, and how “deadlines” bowed to harvests and festivals. What he gained was not just functioning projects but a deeper understanding of context – a kind of wisdom no studio critique ever taught him.
This is what urban architects in India can learn when they embrace the chaos of the countryside: that design isn’t just about structure, it’s about humility. When they trade ego for empathy, efficiency for adaptability, and speed for dialogue, they not only get the project done – they grow as human beings. And sometimes, they even forget to miss the Wi-Fi.