Have you ever felt out of place, like you didn’t belong? Felt suffocated no matter how vast the space around you? Shirin knew that sensation all too well. Her eyes traced the intricate frescoes on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, each brushstroke a reminder of the grandeur that only heightened her sense of isolation. The frescoes, vibrant and celestial, portrayed figures drifting like feathers with a divine glow, their serene expressions in stark contrast to Shirin’s turmoil. The open blue skies painted above her seemed to mock her, as if freedom was within reach but unattainable, leaving her feeling caged amidst the splendor. The room buzzed with the cacophony of tourists, a relentless hum like the chaotic fish markets of Kolkata on a bustling Saturday.
“Do they hire people to maintain this noise level?” Shirin muttered to her mother, who was leaning in to catch snippets of a stranger’s conversation, oblivious to her daughter’s discomfort.
On this whirlwind Europe trip, Shirin’s group was fixated on ticking off landmarks, their eagerness to capture everything on camera leaving no room for true experience. She had dreamed of this moment, of standing beneath Michelangelo’s masterpieces, ever since she first learned of their existence. But now, amid the jostling crowd, she felt like an outsider in her own dream. Every instinct urged Shirin to escape, yet her mother’s stern directive — “stay close and stay quiet”— kept her tethered. Finally, after what seemed like hours of posing for pictures, they emerged from Saint Peter’s Basilica into the vast, open plaza of Vatican City.
St. Peter’s Square, a grand elliptical expanse encircled by majestic colonnades, loomed large, both awe-inspiring and intimidating. As they strolled beneath the colonnades, the guide’s voice echoed, explaining how Bernini envisioned them as the church’s outstretched arms, embracing the world.
“Like how our parents stretch their arms to keep us in check?” Shirin quipped, her sarcasm cutting through the guide’s monologue. The guide shot her a pointed glance, while her mother clenched her jaw in disapproval. Shirin lowered her gaze, hastily brushing away a tear, feeling the colonnades closing in on her more oppressively than the packed chapel. The colonnades seemed to close in, their shadowy embrace suffocating. She bolted to the center of the plaza, where part of her group was engrossed in clicking photos. Overwhelmed, she collapsed onto the cool paving stones, eyes squeezed shut, hands clamped over her ears, seeking an escape from the sensory overload.
The sharp rays of the Italian sun pierced her closed eyelids, forcing them open with a huff of irritation, only for awe to steal her breath away. She gasped at the sight of the expansive, cloudless blue sky, the semicircular colonnades framing it like an oversized James Turrell installation. This boundless expanse of sky offered a relief, a release that the painted skies lacked. It transported Shirin back to her childhood, to evenings spent lying in the angan (courtyard) of her ancestral home in Rajasthan. The angan, surrounded by a gallery of rooms like the plaza’s colonnades, framed the sky similar to the plaza. There, she, and her grandfather would gaze at the night skies and stars, weaving dreams about adult Shirin’s exploration of the world. Those days were gone, as was her grandfather and the open angan, now filled in for air-conditioning to mimic urban living. Did they do that to box in her dreams and prevent exploration, Shirin wondered?
Today, we confine ourselves to man-made boxes, far removed from our origins. Human evolution is rooted in the embrace of nature, which once nurtured our growth. We thrived in natural habitats that met all our needs. Now, do our modern spaces foster this growth, or are they simply adapting to technological constraints of construction? Building boxes might be efficient, but is it natural? From caves to apartments, our constructions were meant for protection from harsh conditions, but in our quest for survival, are we stalling our evolution?
Urbanization and the migration to cities for work and education are now global norms, packing people into ever-smaller living spaces in high-rises. This trend, born in the West, is now being mirrored in the East. We redesign our homes and offices, where we spend most of our time, reducing space and, consequently, our scope of thought and innovation. Have we considered whether the West’s approach is truly beneficial before discarding our ancient architectural wisdom? Do these enclosed boxes truly nurture and nourish us? If so, how are Marriotts of the world able to command the highest prices for retreats in nature? Why are we spending more than ever before for weekends in the habitats that were once our natural homes?
Just as doctors prescribe medicine, architects prescribe spaces. Sometimes, natural spaces heal what medicine cannot. How much longer before we recognize the profound impact of environment on humans and give architecture the significance it deserves? Architects and designers must be central to urban planning and policy-making, their voices are crucial in crafting spatial experiences that nurture our physical, psychological, and social well-being. Harmonious environments can propel us toward our fullest potential as envisioned in ancient texts like the Upanishads and Vedas. It’s crucial for everyone to ask: Are we creating spaces that foster growth, learning, and connection, or are we building environments that alienate and confine us?
These are questions we must address before we immerse ourselves in the boundless virtual reality—a new realm of spatial exploration. As we advance in technology and artificial intelligence, crafting virtual worlds, it’s vital that our physical spaces ground us, anchor our senses, and help us distinguish between the virtual and the real. Our built environment should foster human adaptability, creativity, and harmony with future technologies, while preserving our humanity. Do we want to design spaces that elevate our humanity or confine it? How do we want to shape our story?