But is anything ever truly complete?

La Sagrada Familia is one of the most famous churches in the world, known for the fact that it has been under construction for more than a century.

Work on the church began in 1882, and has been going on since (with a bit of a break during the Spanish Civil War). For context, 1882 is when the first electric clothes iron was patented. Almost 150 years later, we have all moved on to wearing wrinkle-resistant polyester, and the Sagrada Familia is still being built.

The most commonly cited cause of this elongated timeline is issues with funding; almost all construction money comes from private donations. But the other fact is that its design is simply very complex, and needs a lot of time to get done.

The main man behind the church was Antoni Gaudi, the eclectic and visionary architect. Gaudi is known for his colourful and curvaceous works, and in Sagrada Familia we see the zenith of his genius.

Typically, the process of making a building begins by drafting the design on paper to mark how the spaces flow into each other and to establish the locations of load-bearing elements that create the skeletal structure.

Gaudi designed the church by first creating plaster models of the structure and then deriving the structural drawings from it. The result was an incredible building with very few straight lines, held up by tensile columns at fantastical angles and hyperboloid vaults. The arched-ness that the church is known for is not of the facade, the frame of the building is cambered and twisting, giving the impression that the building is an organic structure, rather than a man-made creation.

The sheer complexity of the design means that the form is being developed as it is being built, although the construction has picked up pace now with all the computer-aided tools available today.

Even though tourists throng the halls of the Sagrada Familia every day, the building isn’t ‘done’, quite clearly. But then, neither are so many of the places we inhabit in our day-to-day lives.

Is a building complete because its owners move in? At each point in its lifetime, a building exists. Before, as a vision; during its life, as structure; and after, in memory.

But it exists, completely. At no point is it ‘lacking’ anything. Each stage of its life is the stage it is meant to be at. Being ‘unbuilt’ is being complete in its own way — there is an ‘ing’ in ‘building’ after all.

The house we live in right now was ‘done’ when we moved in — all construction complete. Then it was a different kind of ‘done’ when we added our furniture to it — ready for us to live in. And it is a different kind of ‘done’ every day as the seasons change, as we put up awnings over the doors for the rains, or change out thinner curtains for thicker ones before the winter. As each morning rolls in, we wake up to find the house a little bit undone, and with each little change we make it a little bit more ‘done’.

The Sagrada Familia, like all our lives, is still being built, and yet, it is quite complete.

The point of design is not the end product but the process of making it. Every architect, no matter how experienced, is making a building — that particular building — for the first time.

We too are always too young for everything. We do everything, always, for the very first time. You might do the dishes each day, but every distinct day, with every distinct event, is always experienced for the first time. When someone tries to stop their child from crying all night, they are doing that for the first time, each time, even if they have three other children. Even an old person is becoming old the first time in their life — they’ve never done this before.

Every moment of our lives we are too young to be experiencing that moment. And each time, we can only try to do a bit differently, a bit better, the next first time.

The ‘done-ness’ of our homes and lives doesn’t exist, they are constantly being built. The work we do towards being ‘done’ isn’t linear either. And although it appears arbitrary, it is measured, intuited, a response to the dance of changing days and changing times. All that matters is that we move on, waltzing and tango-ing as needed, one step forward, two steps sideways. Dancing a new dance the first time, each time.

The first time I tried growing a plant—a store-bought coriander—it died in 5 days. I had a marigold plant after that, which sprouted one tiny flower (as advertised) and promptly said goodbye. I then managed to assassinate a cactus before I took a break from killing more vegetation.

I stopped growing plants after that for a bit. Turns out it takes a lot for a plant to grow well—simply watering it and wishing on it was not enough.

The first time I brought plants—3 of them—after the cactus fiasco was when I was, for lack of a better word, stabler in mind (albeit only slightly). And I was trying. Trying my best to keep the plants (and myself) alive. On my worst days I learnt to get up and say hello to the little vine sprouting on my bedside. I began to watch every little plant turn its leaves to face the scant sun on those endless winter mornings, I learnt to manage their needs with conscious precision. The neglect that had begun to accumulate in my own life was slowly discarded, as I learnt to inhabit a routine in service of my plants.

When I could finally have a whole garden—when I had the money, time, energy and resources to manage it—it bloomed. It made my house a home. It also helped that I had moved states, and was living in a much sunnier place with a better paycheck, but hell—that is not enough to raise a plant. Or anything.

What I had not anticipated was how messy a garden would be. How uncool and dirty and not-very-Pinterest-y. Everyday I awoke to a new leaf sprouting, and everyday there were also three leaves dying without cause. My money plants refused to live along their designated routes, and sprawled throughout my tiny apartment instead, a whole 11 feet of vine that was constantly getting under my feet and on my nerves. My ferns grew up fresh and healthy and with perfect vitals, and also attracted every tiny insect in a 20 sqm vicinity, and I spent hours every Sunday morning spraying all my leaves with medicine and fighting infestations. The plants were fresh and healthy and luscious, and all my friends ooh-ed and aah-ed when they visited, but I always emerged from my Sunday morning gardening looking like a train wreck, soil on my outside and tired on the inside.

So much of gardening, I realised, was dealing with rot. Greens sprouted and blossomed, yes, but decayed a lot faster. And I had to work harder, wake up earlier and catch bugs faster if I wanted to see my (not very colour-coordinated) garden thrive. But it was real, watching it all grow from baby cotyledons into lush, dense, healthy plants, flowers and all. It was also surprising to see myself, getting out of bed only so I could water them, opening the curtains to let them soak in sunlight, learning to live with dirt, for their sake. And mine. 

I think what I mean to say is—life is dirty. And untidy, and messy, and unplanned. It decays more than it blossoms, and there is a lot more rot than Sunday mornings can rein in. I also think that it feels better, much much better, than what it looks like.

I have always been fond of ruins. Perhaps it is the result of watching too much Indiana Jones, but there is something about these old places, they are exciting yet morose— with a certain melancholy that hides stories from before.

I would love to go on adventures through the ruins of an old castle like ol’ Indi, but I like simply walking through them as well. I love looking for traces of life in the bones left behind: groves that once held door frames, lacerations in the walls that were once filled with inlaid stones, overgrown weeds covering places where the laughter of children rang out. I love Sherlock-Holmes-ing my way back into their lives: imagining the effect of the flickering lights that lit up corridors back before gas lamps were a thing; noticing how stones were used— stronger ones for foundations and permanence, softer ones to carve and decorate; reverse-engineering the lay of the site— how many sitting rooms did they have, where was the kitchen, who had permission to enter?

I call these places ‘ruins’, but I don’t quite think they are ‘ruined’ in the way one might be led to believe. I mean, yes, these ruins aren’t exactly palaces today, but… that does not mean they aren’t something.

There are so many ‘ruined’ places that function differently than what they were planned for. And also several ruined places that continue to function despite the age and disrepair.

Vic Market in Melbourne is probably among my recent favourites. It came up in the late 1800s, and has stayed put since then. And it has evolved with the times. Its old walls are intact, rows of running red bricks hold up cornices that are more than a century old, while the shops below belong to today: awash with LED lighting and offering menus on QR codes.

This is admirable, but not unique. Closer to (my current) home, the Khanderao Market in Baroda is the same, a relic of the past that continues to exist (and exist well) in the present. It is a megalith, inaugurated in 1935, and built to last. It is shaded and bustling, with traders of food and spices sitting cross-legged, ready to haggle and barter their wares. Bulbs have replaced candlelight now, but the work that happens is the same. Life is rarely different about the essentials.

And of course, we have numerous examples of heritage hotels— palaces and family homes spruced up and leased out to hospitality chains, or offered as residencies for artists, away from the city.

What I mean to say is, things need not exist in the state they were in for them to be useful. Or even to be in the state they were designed for. The old ruins near my home might not be a famous port anymore, but they’re home for so many plants and animals. They are a getaway for people aching for some quiet. They’re also a hangout for college kids, a ‘third place’ in a world which is slowly losing them. It is not what the builders planned the fort to be, but… it is what it is.

Louis Kahn, the famed American architect (designer of the Salk Institute, the IIM-A campus, and the Bangladeshi Parliament building, among others) was well known for his work with bricks, specifically, the use of the arch.

Kahn has a wonderful quote attributed to him:

‘You say to a brick, “What do you want, brick?” And brick says to you, “I like an arch.” And you say to brick, “Look, I want one, too, but arches are expensive and I can use a concrete lintel.” And then you say: 'What do you think of that, brick?' Brick says: “I like an arch.”’

[Photo by Cemal Emden, sourced from here.]

It’s a wonderful quote, and captures so very well the sanctity with which he approached his work. Kahn was phenomenal, and his works are as grand and monumental as the legacy he left behind.

But you know what I say? That same brick told my old uncle that it wanted to be a doorstopper. And guess what? That brick works just as well doing that. Best doorstopper you’ll ever see.

Its brickness remains, whether arch or weight.

What I am saying is, I think, that what is ruined is not always lost. It may not be its old self, or function as it was meant to function, but it still is. And it can be restored, or refurbished, or reused, as long as it has good bones.

I think this hits a bit close home because right now, I am staring at the ruined castle of my own life, inlaid stones gone, plaster peeling, solid walls crumbling.

But the foundation is in place, it has good bones— something will come of it yet.

[good bones, maggie smith].

We begin, like one often does, at an entrance. Poetic, yeah?

But, what even is an entrance?

To say that it is the start of a place sounds simplistic. In a house, for instance, one might call the main door the entrance. The logic is simple- the door separates the inside from the outside, the private from the public, and is the point at which we move from one to another.

But is that really where the home begins? Is space so clear-cut and separate? For instance, what would one call the front of the door, where rangolis and lamps appear every Diwali? How do you classify the verandah where you go to ‘sit outside’ in your own home? At what point on the road, on the walk back home late at night, do you start feeling safe, thinking “I am home now, all is well.” ?

Entrances are as much a place in themselves as they are a division. They are the greys between two spaces, allowing us to both occupy and be dualities at the same time.

I remember the houses of my grandparents, with their verandahs and front yards, small in size but with a nice filler between the ‘inside’ inside and the outdoors. The entrance was layered; a short wall- barely 3ft high- separated the street from the ‘plot’. Then came 1.5 metres of kota stone with my grandfather’s garden on the edges, followed by the porch- a little square block that we used for anything, from drying clothes, to entertaining guests, to watching the road for the ice-cream cart. The porch opened into the living room, but the door between them was seldom closed. It was always ajar, welcoming people- and their shouts and hollers- into the house. It was a little bit of the inside, and a little bit of the outside, and all of the neither and both.

When someone said “Daaraat basu chal” (“Let’s sit at the entrance”), it meant anything from sitting by the gate, on the porch, or under the actual door frame, (~head resting on the frame, cousins staggered on the stairs). It was public enough that people passing by could wave and chat, stop by for gossip, or come in for a quick cup of chai.

Every house on the street was similar-ish; late evenings saw a bunch of people sitting in their front yards or walking over to others’, food and sundry being passed over walls, kids learning to garden from the old uncle who lived alone down the lane. Anyone could choose to be a part of any household on the street- at their chosen level of comfort- a function of the way the street and our houses were designed.

Perhaps I remember- and miss- this more because of the last two years. I live far from family now, and the pandemic has made the distance feel even farther away. Lives in the apartment I live in today are abrupt; narrow corridors and unmarked doors (door decorations are considered fire hazards) strip every house of any individuality. The absence of any schedule means no one sees anybody anymore - the only conversations I share are in the elevator, awkward and unfamiliar.

Sure, the suburban street has its problems and the apartment has its beauty- and perhaps I sound like a grumbly old goat complaining about apartments- so be it. But two years shut inside four walls has revealed how elemental the need for company- even just the sight of a face different than our own- is. And apartments like mine, which lack shared spaces create lives unconnected and unseen by others. Privacy- when not in our control- is prison.

Because of course the people who next to my grandparents weren’t all always friendly. And of course the people who live next to me now aren’t all loners. But the design of a space persuades us to live a certain way, it dictates norms of social behaviour. It is deemed much more acceptable to wave at a random person whom you happen to see than it is to knock on the door of a stranger for small talk.

My apartment does have designated social spaces- a lawn on the seventh floor, out of everybody’s way. But I’ve never met anybody sitting there. All my interactions- if any- have happened in the elevator, because it is the shared space most frequently inhabited by people going about their daily lives. And because humans naturally exist and observe at eye-level, a horizontal plane of common space offers greater chance of crossing paths than a vertical one.

Both journeys do the same job of getting people home, but only one of them offers the chance to become something more, to allow something greater than precise functionality. Getting the job done is never the goal- it is to get it done while creating delight in the user. A delightful entrance is one that is not just the leftover space between two zones, but a place in its own right.