Looking back at my journey in architecture, I realise how much of it was shaped by the people I met rather than the curriculum itself. When I joined architecture, it wasn’t out of passion or choice—it was just the only option left.
Like any middle-class student, I attempted engineering too, but without much seriousness. Naturally my grades weren't enough to get into a decent college. That’s when my friend, Prasad Bulusu’s father suggested I try architecture in Hyderabad. I applied, got in, and that was it—I was an architecture student, without really knowing what it meant.
I wasn’t exceptionally talented at drawing, just better than friends who couldn’t draw at all. And even after getting into the course, I somehow managed to pass each semester (how, god only knows! ). But as I reflect on my years in college, I realise that my most profound lessons didn’t come from textbooks or classrooms. They came from people.
Here are three lessons—and the teachers who unknowingly shaped my journey.
1.
The First Time Architecture Made Sense to Me
Until my second or third year, I was utterly confused about what architecture even meant. Some seniors used to talk about buildings with great confidence, critiquing designs and debating theories. I had no idea what they were talking about. I didn’t even have the vocabulary to fake an understanding.
One day, frustrated with my own ignorance, I shared my confusion with Mahesh Senagala, a senior two years ahead of me. He listened patiently and said, "Let’s discuss this in the evening."
That evening, I went to meet him at the hostel. He asked me, "Where should we sit? In my room or on the terrace?" I chose the terrace. Once we got there, he asked again, "Where exactly should we sit?" I looked around and pointed to a cozy corner shaded by tree branches.
He smiled and asked, "Why did you choose the terrace instead of my room?"
"Because it's open and airy," I replied.
"And why this particular spot?"
"It feels comfortable, enclosed."
Then he asked, "Why do people like parks? Where do you usually sit and have tea in college?"
I answered instinctively—parks have trees and open spaces, and we usually sit on the steps or boulders to chat over tea and samosas.
Then he said something that changed my life:
"This is architecture. Observe where people feel comfortable, how they interact with spaces, what makes a place inviting or uninviting. Just observe."
That was it. No grand theory, no complex definitions. Just a shift in how I saw the world. From that day, I started paying attention to spaces—not just buildings, but the way people used them. I didn’t analyze anything; I just absorbed. Slowly, spaces started registering in my mind, and even memories of childhood places came flooding back.
That conversation was my first real lesson in architecture. And to this day, I am grateful to Mahesh for opening my eyes.
2.
A House, A Child, and a Silent Lesson on Neighbourhoods
In my fourth year, I went to Delhi for my internship. The office itself wasn’t particularly memorable, but something else left a deep impact on me—my stay at my cousin’s house in Safdarjung Enclave, New Delhi.
My cousin had a young son, about five or six years old. They lived in a beautiful, well-maintained house with plush sofas, a glass-top center table, and spotless walls. But something felt different.
I noticed that the boy always played alone. He never went outside to play with the neighbour kids. In five months, I never saw him running around with other children. Maybe the neighbours didn’t have kids his age, or maybe the environment just didn’t encourage it. He played either in the living room or in the small front portico, often careful not to break anything.
And then, suddenly, I thought about my own childhood.
I remembered running through the streets with my friends, playing cricket, cycling around the neighbourhood. The street wasn’t just a road—it was an extension of home. We knew every house, every family. The whole neighbourhood felt like ours.
It was the first time I truly saw the contrast between two different worlds—one where childhood meant freedom, and another where it was confined within carefully arranged furniture.
That experience made me question so many things. How do our homes shape us? How do neighbourhoods influence our sense of belonging? Do we design spaces that nurture interaction, or do we unknowingly create isolation?
Even today, when I think about designing homes and communities, I remember that boy. And I am grateful for the lesson he unknowingly gave me.
3.
The Teacher Who Taught Me How to Learn
It was thesis time. After serious persuasion, I managed to get Professor Ravi Anand Kamal as my thesis guide. His mentorship shaped not just my thesis, but the way I think about learning itself.
On our first discussion, he made his approach clear:
"I will not teach you anything. I will only question you. You must convince me."
Then he added something even more profound:
"Your thesis outcome—good or bad—is entirely your responsibility. The credit belongs to you alone."
That one sentence shifted my entire perspective. He wasn’t going to spoon-feed me. He wasn’t going to take responsibility for my work. The burden—and the pride—of my thesis was mine alone.
And that’s exactly what he did. He never gave me direct answers. Instead, he challenged every decision I made, forcing me to justify, rethink, and refine my ideas.
My thesis wasn’t particularly high-concept—it was about open and semi-open spaces in apartments. But through the process, he made me question even the most standard design norms. He pushed me to revisit time-tested references like Time-Saver Standards and challenged me to look beyond them.
He made one thing very clear—in architecture (or any design practice), you will never learn everything in college. The real learning begins when you step into the profession. This thesis is not about solving a design problem; it’s about learning how to learn.
At the time, I didn’t fully grasp what he meant.
After completing my B.Arch, I once asked him out of frustration:
"Why do we have so many subjects in architecture? Even without studying them, I still managed to get my degree!"
He smiled and said, "The importance of academics will reveal itself after ten years."
I laughed it off back then. But a few years later, when I was working on real-world projects—struggling with services, technical aspects, coordination—I finally understood.
There’s a reason we study all those subjects. And there’s a reason we need great teachers—not to give us answers, but to make us ask better questions.
A Grateful Heart
Today, as I look back, I feel immense gratitude. Not just for my degree, but for the people who shaped my journey.
To Mahesh Senagala, who taught me that observing space is the beginning of architecture.
To the little boy in Delhi, who made me think about home and neighbourhood in a way I never had before.
To Professor Ravi Anand Kamal, who showed me that learning isn’t about what you know, but how you think.
And to every teacher—inside and outside the classroom—who has shaped someone’s journey without even realising it.
To students:
If you feel lost, don’t worry. Keep observing, questioning, and absorbing. The pieces will fall into place with time.
To teachers:
The best lessons aren’t always from textbooks. Sometimes, they happen on a terrace, over a casual chat, or through a single, powerful question.
And those are the lessons that stay with us forever.