The Road Trip Without a Destination
It wasn’t a client visit. It wasn’t a study tour. It was a road trip—three friends: Ar. Sudhir, my classmate, along with another builder friend, no agenda, no timeline. Somewhere along the winding green of Konaseema, I began to see scale differently. We were drifting through villages—some known, some forgotten. At one point, without any enquiry or plan, we entered a village called Turpupalem. Later, some villagers mentioned that a group of architecture students had visited their village for a case study nearly 25 years ago. We listened with interest as we recalled that those students were our classmates. It felt like the past and present had quietly overlapped, not by plan, but through a shared curiosity and affection for places like this.
There was one house. A celebration was on. The courtyard filled with people, laughter, and ritual. Something about that moment made time slow down. I didn’t just observe the space—I felt it. It wasn’t about proportion or balance. It was something else.
I remember thinking: If this courtyard were a person, it would be a great-grandparent, surrounded by all their great-grandchildren—calm, complete, and utterly fulfilled. It held everyone with grace—not with architecture, but with memory, emotion, and rhythm. The courtyard was not beautiful because of symmetry or finish. It was beautiful because it was full of life.
“In that instant, I realised beauty isn’t what we design. It’s what emerges when architecture creates a setting for life to step in.”
The Quiet Streets That Hug You
On a previous trip to Europe, I had coffee in a café barely twelve feet wide. Streets rarely exceeded 25 feet, yet they never felt cramped. There was a rhythm, a calm, a human sense of proportion. Strangely, I felt the same in Konaseema. Agraharam streets, verandahs that faced each other, plinths just high enough to sit and watch the world go by. People talked. Doors were open. Nothing grand, yet everything felt grounded.
This wasn’t a scale of aesthetics. This was the scale of participation.
The Disconnect Between Scale and Experience
When we talk about scale in architecture, it is often reduced to proportions, measurements, dimensions, and aesthetics—how a building fits into its surroundings or how proportions create harmony. But scale is much more than that. It is about perception, experience, and human connection. It is about how we, as individuals and as a society, relate to the spaces we inhabit.
For me, scale is not just physical—it is social, economic, and cultural. It is about the way space feels, how it brings people together or keeps them apart, and how it reflects power, privilege, and accessibility. In India, We see an overwhelming number of residences with massive double-height spaces, 10-foot doors, and grand, imposing volumes, where only three or four people live. The details may be exquisite, but the intimacy of a home is lost.
Scale is often dictated by trends, wealth, and status, rather than by human experience. A space can be grand, yet uninviting. It can be vast, yet isolating. It can be impressive, yet uncomfortable.
What My Daughter Asked
Years ago, my daughter, then an architecture student, visited a lavish villa project with her friends. Later that evening, she asked me, almost puzzled:
"What is human scale? Are these people different-sized human beings?"
It hit me then—and stayed with me. Because the answer wasn’t in the drawings. It was in what was missing. The reality is, in many cases, the human scale is missing in our built environments.
Scale as We Misunderstand It
Architects document villages. They measure the depth of verandahs, the height of courtyards, the width of plinths. But what do we bring back?
In most modern designs, these features return as visual elements. Verandahs become cantilevered boxes. Courtyards become atriums with skylights. Plinths become stone benches with no one to sit on. The spatial gesture is copied—but the meaning is left behind.
We remember the dimensions, but we forget the dynamics. The courtyard in the village function didn’t just host people—it was alive because of them. Without them, it would have been a space. With them, it became a story..
Have You Seen an Architectural Photograph with People?
Here’s a real question:
Have you seen an award-winning architectural photo with real people in it?
Not models. Not blurred silhouettes. Real people—living, laughing, praying, sitting, sleeping, celebrating?
Architecture today is photographed as a product—clean, still, untouched. Life is considered a distraction. Magazines rarely publish mess, or rituals, or actual use.
But what is architecture if not used? What is a courtyard if not filled with people? What is scale if not felt?
We’ve made beauty about form, not about feeling. We’ve made scale about height and width, not about belonging.
Beauty Is Something Else
That day in Konaseema, I understood:
Beauty is not what meets the eye. It’s what holds the moment.
It’s the courtyard that absorbs laughter, the veranda that witnesses gossip, the room that remembers your silence. Beauty isn’t created by design—it’s revealed by presence.
That courtyard would not win a design award. But it would win hearts, effortlessly.
Because it was alive.
Why Scale Needs a Purpose Beyond Aesthetics
Comfort comes from familiarity, proportion, and emotional connection to space. The right scale can bring people together—or separate them. It can invite interaction—or create isolation. It has a purpose beyond just beauty—it has meaning.
But in the way our cities are expanding and our buildings are being designed, we are losing the essence of meaningful scale. Instead of designing spaces that are inherently human, we are designing monuments to status, symbols of excess, and urban spaces that exclude rather than embrace.
So, What Is Scale?
Scale is not just about size or proportion. It is: Emotional, Cultural, Rhythmic, Human, Shared
Scale is about how space invites, not intimidates. How it receives life—not how it performs in a photo. Today, we are building more, but feeling less. We are scaling up, but scaling out of touch.
Where Do We Go From Here?
We need to redefine scale—not just in terms of dimensions but in terms of impact. Scale should be about how space serves people, how it connects communities, how it feels to live in and move through.
This is where architects must step in—not just as designers of objects, but as curators of experience, creators of balance, and advocates for spaces that make sense for people, not just for portfolios.
So, what should scale mean in today’s architecture? Should it be a reflection of wealth, or a response to human needs?
A Gentle Reminder!
To my fellow architects, teachers, students, and clients:
This is not a critique, but an invitation. An invitation to go deeper. To reconnect with what drew us to architecture in the first place—the human experience, the everyday rituals, the quiet poetry of shared spaces.
Let us not just draw verandahs. Let us draw people into them. Let us not design courtyards for style. Let us design them for rituals. Let us not photograph homes as still lifes. Let us capture them as stories.
Because ultimately:
A house becomes a home not when it is built—but when it is filled. And scale is not a style. It is a feeling in the heart.
Let us design for that.