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On a still, sun-washed afternoon in Tamil Nadu's Chettinad region, light plays across Belgian stained glass, turmeric-and-sea-green Athangudi tiles (traditional handmade floor tiles) and pillared verandas of Burmese teak. Down narrow lanes of century-old mansions, dust swirls around crumbling facades, as if keeping the houses breathing one more day. It is here, among decaying courtyards, abandoned wedding halls and silent streets that a team from Bengaluru's Christ University is steadily building one of India's most ambitious digital heritage repositories.

They are racing against time, armed with 360° cameras, microphones, scanners and sketchbooks. Their aim is not to restore these grand homes but to preserve the knowledge locked inside them before it disappears forever. Over two years, they have recorded 1,042 heritage houses, collected 600 survey responses, conducted spatial and thermal studies, mapped water systems and digitally captured 360-degree walkthroughs. Every visit helps them understand a culture whose architectural brilliance is at serious risk of fading. The project, funded by the Indian Council of Social Science Research (ICSSR) and running from April 2024 to March 2026, brings together architecture, computer science and media studies in a rare multidisciplinary effort.

The common perception of Chettinad often begins and ends with its sprawling, ornate mansions. Dr Balakrishnan, project co-ordinator and associate professor in the department of computer science at Christ University says, "The architecture here is truly unique," he adds. "These buildings were designed with eco-friendly features and sustainable practices long before such terms even existed. A century ago, they already understood how to build in harmony with the environment." High roofs, clever cross-ventilation systems and the use of local, sustainable materials, from lime mortar to egg whites, allowed these structures to stay cool and comfortable long before air conditioners existed. These choices reveal how deeply the builders understood their climate and how thoughtfully they responded to it.

On a still, sun-washed afternoon in Tamil Nadu's Chettinad region, light plays across Belgian stained glass, turmeric-and-sea-green Athangudi tiles (traditional handmade floor tiles) and pillared verandas of Burmese teak. Down narrow lanes of century-old mansions, dust swirls around crumbling facades, as if keeping the houses breathing one more day. It is here, among decaying courtyards, abandoned wedding halls and silent streets that a team from Bengaluru's Christ University is steadily building one of India's most ambitious digital heritage repositories.

They are racing against time, armed with 360° cameras, microphones, scanners and sketchbooks. Their aim is not to restore these grand homes but to preserve the knowledge locked inside them before it disappears forever. Over two years, they have recorded 1,042 heritage houses, collected 600 survey responses, conducted spatial and thermal studies, mapped water systems and digitally captured 360-degree walkthroughs. Every visit helps them understand a culture whose architectural brilliance is at serious risk of fading. The project, funded by the Indian Council of Social Science Research (ICSSR) and running from April 2024 to March 2026, brings together architecture, computer science and media studies in a rare multidisciplinary effort.

The common perception of Chettinad often begins and ends with its sprawling, ornate mansions. Dr Balakrishnan, project co-ordinator and associate professor in the department of computer science at Christ University says, "The architecture here is truly unique," he adds. "These buildings were designed with eco-friendly features and sustainable practices long before such terms even existed. A century ago, they already understood how to build in harmony with the environment." High roofs, clever cross-ventilation systems and the use of local, sustainable materials, from lime mortar to egg whites, allowed these structures to stay cool and comfortable long before air conditioners existed. These choices reveal how deeply the builders understood their climate and how thoughtfully they responded to it.

On a still, sun-washed afternoon in Tamil Nadu's Chettinad region, light plays across Belgian stained glass, turmeric-and-sea-green Athangudi tiles (traditional handmade floor tiles) and pillared verandas of Burmese teak. Down narrow lanes of century-old mansions, dust swirls around crumbling facades, as if keeping the houses breathing one more day. It is here, among decaying courtyards, abandoned wedding halls and silent streets that a team from Bengaluru's Christ University is steadily building one of India's most ambitious digital heritage repositories.

They are racing against time, armed with 360° cameras, microphones, scanners and sketchbooks. Their aim is not to restore these grand homes but to preserve the knowledge locked inside them before it disappears forever. Over two years, they have recorded 1,042 heritage houses, collected 600 survey responses, conducted spatial and thermal studies, mapped water systems and digitally captured 360-degree walkthroughs. Every visit helps them understand a culture whose architectural brilliance is at serious risk of fading. The project, funded by the Indian Council of Social Science Research (ICSSR) and running from April 2024 to March 2026, brings together architecture, computer science and media studies in a rare multidisciplinary effort.

The common perception of Chettinad often begins and ends with its sprawling, ornate mansions. Dr Balakrishnan, project co-ordinator and associate professor in the department of computer science at Christ University says, "The architecture here is truly unique," he adds. "These buildings were designed with eco-friendly features and sustainable practices long before such terms even existed. A century ago, they already understood how to build in harmony with the environment." High roofs, clever cross-ventilation systems and the use of local, sustainable materials, from lime mortar to egg whites, allowed these structures to stay cool and comfortable long before air conditioners existed. These choices reveal how deeply the builders understood their climate and how thoughtfully they responded to it.

On a still, sun-washed afternoon in Tamil Nadu's Chettinad region, light plays across Belgian stained glass, turmeric-and-sea-green Athangudi tiles (traditional handmade floor tiles) and pillared verandas of Burmese teak. Down narrow lanes of century-old mansions, dust swirls around crumbling facades, as if keeping the houses breathing one more day. It is here, among decaying courtyards, abandoned wedding halls and silent streets that a team from Bengaluru's Christ University is steadily building one of India's most ambitious digital heritage repositories.

They are racing against time, armed with 360° cameras, microphones, scanners and sketchbooks. Their aim is not to restore these grand homes but to preserve the knowledge locked inside them before it disappears forever. Over two years, they have recorded 1,042 heritage houses, collected 600 survey responses, conducted spatial and thermal studies, mapped water systems and digitally captured 360-degree walkthroughs. Every visit helps them understand a culture whose architectural brilliance is at serious risk of fading. The project, funded by the Indian Council of Social Science Research (ICSSR) and running from April 2024 to March 2026, brings together architecture, computer science and media studies in a rare multidisciplinary effort.

The common perception of Chettinad often begins and ends with its sprawling, ornate mansions. Dr Balakrishnan, project co-ordinator and associate professor in the department of computer science at Christ University says, "The architecture here is truly unique," he adds. "These buildings were designed with eco-friendly features and sustainable practices long before such terms even existed. A century ago, they already understood how to build in harmony with the environment." High roofs, clever cross-ventilation systems and the use of local, sustainable materials, from lime mortar to egg whites, allowed these structures to stay cool and comfortable long before air conditioners existed. These choices reveal how deeply the builders understood their climate and how thoughtfully they responded to it.

On a still, sun-washed afternoon in Tamil Nadu's Chettinad region, light plays across Belgian stained glass, turmeric-and-sea-green Athangudi tiles (traditional handmade floor tiles) and pillared verandas of Burmese teak. Down narrow lanes of century-old mansions, dust swirls around crumbling facades, as if keeping the houses breathing one more day. It is here, among decaying courtyards, abandoned wedding halls and silent streets that a team from Bengaluru's Christ University is steadily building one of India's most ambitious digital heritage repositories.

They are racing against time, armed with 360° cameras, microphones, scanners and sketchbooks. Their aim is not to restore these grand homes but to preserve the knowledge locked inside them before it disappears forever. Over two years, they have recorded 1,042 heritage houses, collected 600 survey responses, conducted spatial and thermal studies, mapped water systems and digitally captured 360-degree walkthroughs. Every visit helps them understand a culture whose architectural brilliance is at serious risk of fading. The project, funded by the Indian Council of Social Science Research (ICSSR) and running from April 2024 to March 2026, brings together architecture, computer science and media studies in a rare multidisciplinary effort.

The common perception of Chettinad often begins and ends with its sprawling, ornate mansions. Dr Balakrishnan, project co-ordinator and associate professor in the department of computer science at Christ University says, "The architecture here is truly unique," he adds. "These buildings were designed with eco-friendly features and sustainable practices long before such terms even existed. A century ago, they already understood how to build in harmony with the environment." High roofs, clever cross-ventilation systems and the use of local, sustainable materials, from lime mortar to egg whites, allowed these structures to stay cool and comfortable long before air conditioners existed. These choices reveal how deeply the builders understood their climate and how thoughtfully they responded to it.

The Mysore City Corporation building stood close to the palace and Janani and Vinod had been taken to the palace on the very day of their arrival, Sesha Uncle hurrying them along as if royalty itself were under threat and some fairy godmother had warned that come midnight, the palace would turn into a pumpkin. It was in the hope of tracing the official records of a writer's house that they had come to the corporation that morning. The corporation was housed in an ornate building with domes that resembled those of the palace. The exterior was painted the colour of egg yolk – pale yellow, with cornices in white. The crown molding was a cheery mix of red and maroon that matched the colour on the domes. It was hard to tell if the people who thronged the external corridors and the inner hallways were employees or members of the public.

Sesha Uncle and his entourage wandered around the labyrinthine hallways, peering into a honeycomb maze of dusty offices. Janani was glad Sesha Uncle and Rukmini Aunty had insisted on coming with her and Vinod. She was thrilled at the prospect of entering a den of intrigue. The reality was more banal: a cavernous room where sunlight filtered weakly through cracked glass, dust drifting lazily in the air. Clerks sat behind desks, some glued to their phones, others chatting. Files lay in precarious towers, abandoned mid-fall as though the building itself had given up on order.

Sesha Uncle found a clerk. Leaning in conspiratorially, he launched into a winding comparison between Mysore and Hannibal, Missouri. If Americans could preserve Mark Twain's house, he argued, surely Mysore could honour its greatest writer too. Sesha Uncle then asked about the ownership of R.K. Narayan's house, only to be redirected to another desk, empty because the responsible official was on personal leave for a festival. Mustering up whatever dignity he had left, Sesha Uncle hustled everyone out of the office. On the way home, he unleashed a torrent of abuse at the bureaucracy and its indifference to writers, and by the time they reached the house, Rukmini Aunty declared the subject finished and insisted on eating her lunch in peace.

The Mysore City Corporation building stood close to the palace and Janani and Vinod had been taken to the palace on the very day of their arrival, Sesha Uncle hurrying them along as if royalty itself were under threat and some fairy godmother had warned that come midnight, the palace would turn into a pumpkin. It was in the hope of tracing the official records of a writer's house that they had come to the corporation that morning. The corporation was housed in an ornate building with domes that resembled those of the palace. The exterior was painted the colour of egg yolk – pale yellow, with cornices in white. The crown molding was a cheery mix of red and maroon that matched the colour on the domes. It was hard to tell if the people who thronged the external corridors and the inner hallways were employees or members of the public.

Sesha Uncle and his entourage wandered around the labyrinthine hallways, peering into a honeycomb maze of dusty offices. Janani was glad Sesha Uncle and Rukmini Aunty had insisted on coming with her and Vinod. She was thrilled at the prospect of entering a den of intrigue. The reality was more banal: a cavernous room where sunlight filtered weakly through cracked glass, dust drifting lazily in the air. Clerks sat behind desks, some glued to their phones, others chatting. Files lay in precarious towers, abandoned mid-fall as though the building itself had given up on order.

Sesha Uncle found a clerk. Leaning in conspiratorially, he launched into a winding comparison between Mysore and Hannibal, Missouri. If Americans could preserve Mark Twain's house, he argued, surely Mysore could honour its greatest writer too. Sesha Uncle then asked about the ownership of R.K. Narayan's house, only to be redirected to another desk, empty because the responsible official was on personal leave for a festival. Mustering up whatever dignity he had left, Sesha Uncle hustled everyone out of the office. On the way home, he unleashed a torrent of abuse at the bureaucracy and its indifference to writers, and by the time they reached the house, Rukmini Aunty declared the subject finished and insisted on eating her lunch in peace.

The Mysore City Corporation building stood close to the palace and Janani and Vinod had been taken to the palace on the very day of their arrival, Sesha Uncle hurrying them along as if royalty itself were under threat and some fairy godmother had warned that come midnight, the palace would turn into a pumpkin. It was in the hope of tracing the official records of a writer's house that they had come to the corporation that morning. The corporation was housed in an ornate building with domes that resembled those of the palace. The exterior was painted the colour of egg yolk – pale yellow, with cornices in white. The crown molding was a cheery mix of red and maroon that matched the colour on the domes. It was hard to tell if the people who thronged the external corridors and the inner hallways were employees or members of the public.

Sesha Uncle and his entourage wandered around the labyrinthine hallways, peering into a honeycomb maze of dusty offices. Janani was glad Sesha Uncle and Rukmini Aunty had insisted on coming with her and Vinod. She was thrilled at the prospect of entering a den of intrigue. The reality was more banal: a cavernous room where sunlight filtered weakly through cracked glass, dust drifting lazily in the air. Clerks sat behind desks, some glued to their phones, others chatting. Files lay in precarious towers, abandoned mid-fall as though the building itself had given up on order.

Sesha Uncle found a clerk. Leaning in conspiratorially, he launched into a winding comparison between Mysore and Hannibal, Missouri. If Americans could preserve Mark Twain's house, he argued, surely Mysore could honour its greatest writer too. Sesha Uncle then asked about the ownership of R.K. Narayan's house, only to be redirected to another desk, empty because the responsible official was on personal leave for a festival. Mustering up whatever dignity he had left, Sesha Uncle hustled everyone out of the office. On the way home, he unleashed a torrent of abuse at the bureaucracy and its indifference to writers, and by the time they reached the house, Rukmini Aunty declared the subject finished and insisted on eating her lunch in peace.

The Mysore City Corporation building stood close to the palace and Janani and Vinod had been taken to the palace on the very day of their arrival, Sesha Uncle hurrying them along as if royalty itself were under threat and some fairy godmother had warned that come midnight, the palace would turn into a pumpkin. It was in the hope of tracing the official records of a writer's house that they had come to the corporation that morning. The corporation was housed in an ornate building with domes that resembled those of the palace. The exterior was painted the colour of egg yolk – pale yellow, with cornices in white. The crown molding was a cheery mix of red and maroon that matched the colour on the domes. It was hard to tell if the people who thronged the external corridors and the inner hallways were employees or members of the public.

Sesha Uncle and his entourage wandered around the labyrinthine hallways, peering into a honeycomb maze of dusty offices. Janani was glad Sesha Uncle and Rukmini Aunty had insisted on coming with her and Vinod. She was thrilled at the prospect of entering a den of intrigue. The reality was more banal: a cavernous room where sunlight filtered weakly through cracked glass, dust drifting lazily in the air. Clerks sat behind desks, some glued to their phones, others chatting. Files lay in precarious towers, abandoned mid-fall as though the building itself had given up on order.

Sesha Uncle found a clerk. Leaning in conspiratorially, he launched into a winding comparison between Mysore and Hannibal, Missouri. If Americans could preserve Mark Twain's house, he argued, surely Mysore could honour its greatest writer too. Sesha Uncle then asked about the ownership of R.K. Narayan's house, only to be redirected to another desk, empty because the responsible official was on personal leave for a festival. Mustering up whatever dignity he had left, Sesha Uncle hustled everyone out of the office. On the way home, he unleashed a torrent of abuse at the bureaucracy and its indifference to writers, and by the time they reached the house, Rukmini Aunty declared the subject finished and insisted on eating her lunch in peace.

The Mysore City Corporation building stood close to the palace and Janani and Vinod had been taken to the palace on the very day of their arrival, Sesha Uncle hurrying them along as if royalty itself were under threat and some fairy godmother had warned that come midnight, the palace would turn into a pumpkin. It was in the hope of tracing the official records of a writer's house that they had come to the corporation that morning. The corporation was housed in an ornate building with domes that resembled those of the palace. The exterior was painted the colour of egg yolk – pale yellow, with cornices in white. The crown molding was a cheery mix of red and maroon that matched the colour on the domes. It was hard to tell if the people who thronged the external corridors and the inner hallways were employees or members of the public.

Sesha Uncle and his entourage wandered around the labyrinthine hallways, peering into a honeycomb maze of dusty offices. Janani was glad Sesha Uncle and Rukmini Aunty had insisted on coming with her and Vinod. She was thrilled at the prospect of entering a den of intrigue. The reality was more banal: a cavernous room where sunlight filtered weakly through cracked glass, dust drifting lazily in the air. Clerks sat behind desks, some glued to their phones, others chatting. Files lay in precarious towers, abandoned mid-fall as though the building itself had given up on order.

Sesha Uncle found a clerk. Leaning in conspiratorially, he launched into a winding comparison between Mysore and Hannibal, Missouri. If Americans could preserve Mark Twain's house, he argued, surely Mysore could honour its greatest writer too. Sesha Uncle then asked about the ownership of R.K. Narayan's house, only to be redirected to another desk, empty because the responsible official was on personal leave for a festival. Mustering up whatever dignity he had left, Sesha Uncle hustled everyone out of the office. On the way home, he unleashed a torrent of abuse at the bureaucracy and its indifference to writers, and by the time they reached the house, Rukmini Aunty declared the subject finished and insisted on eating her lunch in peace.