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The accomplished tradition of painting at Bundi gave rise to one of the most outstanding Rajasthani Schools of miniature painting, Kota, which excels in the depiction of hunting scenes and reflects an exceptional excitement and obsession for animal chases. Bundi and Kota were parts of the same kingdom till 1625, when Jahangir divided the Bundi empire and awarded one part to Madhu Singh, the younger son of Rao Ratan Singh, for his bravery in defending him against his son Prince Khurram's (Shah Jahan) rebellion in Deccan.

After its separation from Bundi, Kota had its own School, commencing in the reign of Jagat Singh (1658-1683). In the early period, the paintings of Bundi and Kota couldn't be distinguished for several decades as Kota painters borrowed from the Bundi repertoire. Some compositions were taken verbatim from Bundi pictures. However, there is an attitude of non-conformity apparent in figural and architectural exaggerations. With a flair for drawing superseding in the following decades, the Kota style of painting became strikingly individual. By the reign of Ram Singh (1686-1708), artists had passionately enlarged their inventory to a large variety of subjects. Kota artists seem to have been the first to render landscapes as the real subject of compositions. Umed Singh (1770-1819) acceded to the throne at the age of ten years, but his regent arranged for the young king to be amused with hunting and gaming from an early age. Paintings served as flattering records of his exploits and the obsession with the chase, which became a social ritual in which even women of the court participated. Kota artists excelled in rendering animals and combat, and paintings thus reflect a characteristically spontaneous and calligraphic execution.

The accomplished tradition of painting at Bundi gave rise to one of the most outstanding Rajasthani Schools of miniature painting, Kota, which excels in the depiction of hunting scenes and reflects an exceptional excitement and obsession for animal chases. Bundi and Kota were parts of the same kingdom till 1625, when Jahangir divided the Bundi empire and awarded one part to Madhu Singh, the younger son of Rao Ratan Singh, for his bravery in defending him against his son Prince Khurram's (Shah Jahan) rebellion in Deccan.

After its separation from Bundi, Kota had its own School, commencing in the reign of Jagat Singh (1658-1683). In the early period, the paintings of Bundi and Kota couldn't be distinguished for several decades as Kota painters borrowed from the Bundi repertoire. Some compositions were taken verbatim from Bundi pictures. However, there is an attitude of non-conformity apparent in figural and architectural exaggerations. With a flair for drawing superseding in the following decades, the Kota style of painting became strikingly individual. By the reign of Ram Singh (1686-1708), artists had passionately enlarged their inventory to a large variety of subjects. Kota artists seem to have been the first to render landscapes as the real subject of compositions. Umed Singh (1770-1819) acceded to the throne at the age of ten years, but his regent arranged for the young king to be amused with hunting and gaming from an early age. Paintings served as flattering records of his exploits and the obsession with the chase, which became a social ritual in which even women of the court participated. Kota artists excelled in rendering animals and combat, and paintings thus reflect a characteristically spontaneous and calligraphic execution.

If the system hadn't stalled, Antar would never have guessed that the scrap of paper on his screen was the remnant of an ID card. It looked as though it had been rescued from a fire: the plastic laminate was warped and melted along the edge. The lettering was mostly illegible, and the photograph had vanished under a smudge of soot. But a four-inch metal chain had somehow stayed attached to the card: it hung down in a rusty loop from a perforation in the top left-hand corner, like a drooping tail. It was the chain that triggered the system, not the card.

The card turned up in one of those routine inventories that went flashing around the globe with metronome regularity, for no reason that Antar could understand, except that it was what the system did best. Once it got started, it would keep them coming, hour after hour, an endless succession of documents and objects, stopping only when it stumbled on something it couldn't file: the most trivial things usually. Once it was a glass paperweight, of the kind that rain snowflakes if you turn them upside down; another time it was a bottle of correcting fluid, from an irrigation overseer's office just south of the Arab Sea. Both times the machine went into a controlled frenzy, firing off questions, one after another.

Antar had met children who were like that: What? Why? When? Where? How? But the children asked because they were curious. With these AVA/Ile systems it was something else - something he could only think of as a simulated urge for self-improvement. He'd been using Ava for a couple of years now, and he was still awed by her eagerness to become herself. Anything she did not recognise, she'd take apart on screen, producing ever greater refinements of details.

If the system hadn't stalled, Antar would never have guessed that the scrap of paper on his screen was the remnant of an ID card. It looked as though it had been rescued from a fire: the plastic laminate was warped and melted along the edge. The lettering was mostly illegible, and the photograph had vanished under a smudge of soot. But a four-inch metal chain had somehow stayed attached to the card: it hung down in a rusty loop from a perforation in the top left-hand corner, like a drooping tail. It was the chain that triggered the system, not the card.

The card turned up in one of those routine inventories that went flashing around the globe with metronome regularity, for no reason that Antar could understand, except that it was what the system did best. Once it got started, it would keep them coming, hour after hour, an endless succession of documents and objects, stopping only when it stumbled on something it couldn't file: the most trivial things usually. Once it was a glass paperweight, of the kind that rain snowflakes if you turn them upside down; another time it was a bottle of correcting fluid, from an irrigation overseer's office just south of the Arab Sea. Both times the machine went into a controlled frenzy, firing off questions, one after another.

Antar had met children who were like that: What? Why? When? Where? How? But the children asked because they were curious. With these AVA/Ile systems it was something else - something he could only think of as a simulated urge for self-improvement. He'd been using Ava for a couple of years now, and he was still awed by her eagerness to become herself. Anything she did not recognise, she'd take apart on screen, producing ever greater refinements of details.

If the system hadn't stalled, Antar would never have guessed that the scrap of paper on his screen was the remnant of an ID card. It looked as though it had been rescued from a fire: the plastic laminate was warped and melted along the edge. The lettering was mostly illegible, and the photograph had vanished under a smudge of soot. But a four-inch metal chain had somehow stayed attached to the card: it hung down in a rusty loop from a perforation in the top left-hand corner, like a drooping tail. It was the chain that triggered the system, not the card.

The card turned up in one of those routine inventories that went flashing around the globe with metronome regularity, for no reason that Antar could understand, except that it was what the system did best. Once it got started, it would keep them coming, hour after hour, an endless succession of documents and objects, stopping only when it stumbled on something it couldn't file: the most trivial things usually. Once it was a glass paperweight, of the kind that rain snowflakes if you turn them upside down; another time it was a bottle of correcting fluid, from an irrigation overseer's office just south of the Arab Sea. Both times the machine went into a controlled frenzy, firing off questions, one after another.

Antar had met children who were like that: What? Why? When? Where? How? But the children asked because they were curious. With these AVA/Ile systems it was something else - something he could only think of as a simulated urge for self-improvement. He'd been using Ava for a couple of years now, and he was still awed by her eagerness to become herself. Anything she did not recognise, she'd take apart on screen, producing ever greater refinements of details.

If the system hadn't stalled, Antar would never have guessed that the scrap of paper on his screen was the remnant of an ID card. It looked as though it had been rescued from a fire: the plastic laminate was warped and melted along the edge. The lettering was mostly illegible, and the photograph had vanished under a smudge of soot. But a four-inch metal chain had somehow stayed attached to the card: it hung down in a rusty loop from a perforation in the top left-hand corner, like a drooping tail. It was the chain that triggered the system, not the card.

The card turned up in one of those routine inventories that went flashing around the globe with metronome regularity, for no reason that Antar could understand, except that it was what the system did best. Once it got started, it would keep them coming, hour after hour, an endless succession of documents and objects, stopping only when it stumbled on something it couldn't file: the most trivial things usually. Once it was a glass paperweight, of the kind that rain snowflakes if you turn them upside down; another time it was a bottle of correcting fluid, from an irrigation overseer's office just south of the Arab Sea. Both times the machine went into a controlled frenzy, firing off questions, one after another.

Antar had met children who were like that: What? Why? When? Where? How? But the children asked because they were curious. With these AVA/Ile systems it was something else - something he could only think of as a simulated urge for self-improvement. He'd been using Ava for a couple of years now, and he was still awed by her eagerness to become herself. Anything she did not recognise, she'd take apart on screen, producing ever greater refinements of details.

My father and I stood atop a lofty church tower overlooking a quaint Italian town not far from our home in Rome. I remember wondering what purpose had prompted this sudden expedition.

"Look down, Elsa", he instructed softly. Summoning my courage, I gazed at the intricate labyrinth below- a cluster of winding, serpentine streets converging upon a modest central square. "See, carisimma", Father continued with gentle conviction, "there is always more than one path that leads to the square. Life mirrors that very truth-if a single road does not take you to your destination, you must have the wisdom and courage to seek another."

At that instant, I began to discern the quiet intent behind his lesson. Earlier that morning, I had implored my mother to intervene about the dreadful school lunches my sister and I were compelled to endure, but she had dismissed my complaint as trivial. When I turned to Father for help, he, too, had declined to act directly. Instead, he had brought me to this tower---- not to lecture, but to impart, through vision and reflection, the art of thinking differently. By the time we descended, my mind had conceived a plan.

The next day at school, I discreetly poured my unappetizing soup into a bottle, smuggled it home, and persuaded our cook to serve it to Mother at dinner. The scheme unfolded flawlessly. After the first spoonful, she spluttered indignantly, "The cook must have lost her senses!" My sister and I quickly confessed, and Mother, now convinced, promised to take up our case at school the following day.

In the years that followed, that singular lesson revealed its profound depth. I learned that passive acceptance of an apparent impasse often paves the way to defeat, whereas an imaginative and tenacious pursuit of alternatives can transform barriers into opportunities.

Indeed, it was this very belief in alternate routes-this refusal to concede to dead ends-that later illuminated my path toward my first modest triumph as a designer.

My father and I stood atop a lofty church tower overlooking a quaint Italian town not far from our home in Rome. I remember wondering what purpose had prompted this sudden expedition.

"Look down, Elsa", he instructed softly. Summoning my courage, I gazed at the intricate labyrinth below- a cluster of winding, serpentine streets converging upon a modest central square. "See, carisimma", Father continued with gentle conviction, "there is always more than one path that leads to the square. Life mirrors that very truth-if a single road does not take you to your destination, you must have the wisdom and courage to seek another."

At that instant, I began to discern the quiet intent behind his lesson. Earlier that morning, I had implored my mother to intervene about the dreadful school lunches my sister and I were compelled to endure, but she had dismissed my complaint as trivial. When I turned to Father for help, he, too, had declined to act directly. Instead, he had brought me to this tower---- not to lecture, but to impart, through vision and reflection, the art of thinking differently. By the time we descended, my mind had conceived a plan.

The next day at school, I discreetly poured my unappetizing soup into a bottle, smuggled it home, and persuaded our cook to serve it to Mother at dinner. The scheme unfolded flawlessly. After the first spoonful, she spluttered indignantly, "The cook must have lost her senses!" My sister and I quickly confessed, and Mother, now convinced, promised to take up our case at school the following day.

In the years that followed, that singular lesson revealed its profound depth. I learned that passive acceptance of an apparent impasse often paves the way to defeat, whereas an imaginative and tenacious pursuit of alternatives can transform barriers into opportunities.

Indeed, it was this very belief in alternate routes-this refusal to concede to dead ends-that later illuminated my path toward my first modest triumph as a designer.

My father and I stood atop a lofty church tower overlooking a quaint Italian town not far from our home in Rome. I remember wondering what purpose had prompted this sudden expedition.

"Look down, Elsa", he instructed softly. Summoning my courage, I gazed at the intricate labyrinth below- a cluster of winding, serpentine streets converging upon a modest central square. "See, carisimma", Father continued with gentle conviction, "there is always more than one path that leads to the square. Life mirrors that very truth-if a single road does not take you to your destination, you must have the wisdom and courage to seek another."

At that instant, I began to discern the quiet intent behind his lesson. Earlier that morning, I had implored my mother to intervene about the dreadful school lunches my sister and I were compelled to endure, but she had dismissed my complaint as trivial. When I turned to Father for help, he, too, had declined to act directly. Instead, he had brought me to this tower---- not to lecture, but to impart, through vision and reflection, the art of thinking differently. By the time we descended, my mind had conceived a plan.

The next day at school, I discreetly poured my unappetizing soup into a bottle, smuggled it home, and persuaded our cook to serve it to Mother at dinner. The scheme unfolded flawlessly. After the first spoonful, she spluttered indignantly, "The cook must have lost her senses!" My sister and I quickly confessed, and Mother, now convinced, promised to take up our case at school the following day.

In the years that followed, that singular lesson revealed its profound depth. I learned that passive acceptance of an apparent impasse often paves the way to defeat, whereas an imaginative and tenacious pursuit of alternatives can transform barriers into opportunities.

Indeed, it was this very belief in alternate routes-this refusal to concede to dead ends-that later illuminated my path toward my first modest triumph as a designer.

My father and I stood atop a lofty church tower overlooking a quaint Italian town not far from our home in Rome. I remember wondering what purpose had prompted this sudden expedition.

"Look down, Elsa", he instructed softly. Summoning my courage, I gazed at the intricate labyrinth below- a cluster of winding, serpentine streets converging upon a modest central square. "See, carisimma", Father continued with gentle conviction, "there is always more than one path that leads to the square. Life mirrors that very truth-if a single road does not take you to your destination, you must have the wisdom and courage to seek another."

At that instant, I began to discern the quiet intent behind his lesson. Earlier that morning, I had implored my mother to intervene about the dreadful school lunches my sister and I were compelled to endure, but she had dismissed my complaint as trivial. When I turned to Father for help, he, too, had declined to act directly. Instead, he had brought me to this tower---- not to lecture, but to impart, through vision and reflection, the art of thinking differently. By the time we descended, my mind had conceived a plan.

The next day at school, I discreetly poured my unappetizing soup into a bottle, smuggled it home, and persuaded our cook to serve it to Mother at dinner. The scheme unfolded flawlessly. After the first spoonful, she spluttered indignantly, "The cook must have lost her senses!" My sister and I quickly confessed, and Mother, now convinced, promised to take up our case at school the following day.

In the years that followed, that singular lesson revealed its profound depth. I learned that passive acceptance of an apparent impasse often paves the way to defeat, whereas an imaginative and tenacious pursuit of alternatives can transform barriers into opportunities.

Indeed, it was this very belief in alternate routes-this refusal to concede to dead ends-that later illuminated my path toward my first modest triumph as a designer.

My father and I stood atop a lofty church tower overlooking a quaint Italian town not far from our home in Rome. I remember wondering what purpose had prompted this sudden expedition.

"Look down, Elsa", he instructed softly. Summoning my courage, I gazed at the intricate labyrinth below- a cluster of winding, serpentine streets converging upon a modest central square. "See, carisimma", Father continued with gentle conviction, "there is always more than one path that leads to the square. Life mirrors that very truth-if a single road does not take you to your destination, you must have the wisdom and courage to seek another."

At that instant, I began to discern the quiet intent behind his lesson. Earlier that morning, I had implored my mother to intervene about the dreadful school lunches my sister and I were compelled to endure, but she had dismissed my complaint as trivial. When I turned to Father for help, he, too, had declined to act directly. Instead, he had brought me to this tower---- not to lecture, but to impart, through vision and reflection, the art of thinking differently. By the time we descended, my mind had conceived a plan.

The next day at school, I discreetly poured my unappetizing soup into a bottle, smuggled it home, and persuaded our cook to serve it to Mother at dinner. The scheme unfolded flawlessly. After the first spoonful, she spluttered indignantly, "The cook must have lost her senses!" My sister and I quickly confessed, and Mother, now convinced, promised to take up our case at school the following day.

In the years that followed, that singular lesson revealed its profound depth. I learned that passive acceptance of an apparent impasse often paves the way to defeat, whereas an imaginative and tenacious pursuit of alternatives can transform barriers into opportunities.

Indeed, it was this very belief in alternate routes-this refusal to concede to dead ends-that later illuminated my path toward my first modest triumph as a designer.

It is twilight. A thick wet snow is slowly twirling around the newly lighted street lamps and lying in soft thin layers on roofs, on horses' backs, on people's shoulders and hats. The cab driver, Iona Potapov, is quite white and looks like a phantom: he is bent double as far as a human body can bend double; he is seated on his box; he never makes a move. If a whole snowdrift fell on him, it seems as if he would not find it necessary to shake it off. His little horse is also quite white, and remains motionless; its immobility, its angularity and its straight wooden-looking legs, even close by, give it the appearance of a gingerbread horse worth a kopek. It is, no doubt, plunged in deep thought. If you were snatched from the plough, from your usual gray surroundings, and were thrown into this slough full of monstrous lights, unceasing noise and hurrying people, you too would find it difficult not to think.

Iona and his little horse have not moved from their place for a long while. They left their yard before dinner and, up to now, not a fare. The evening mist is descending over the town, the white lights of the lamps are replacing brighter rays, and the hubbub of the street is getting louder. 'Cabby for Viborg Way!' suddenly hears Iona. 'Cabby!'

Iona jumps and, through his snow-covered eyelashes, sees an officer in a greatcoat, with his hood over his head. 'Viborg Way!' the officer repeats. 'Are you asleep, eh? Viborg Way!'

With a nod of assent Iona picks up the reins, in consequence of which layers of snow slip off the horse's back and neck. The officer seats himself in the sleigh, the cabdriver smacks his lips to encourage his horse, stretches out his neck like a swan, sits up and, more from habit than necessity, brandishes his whip.

It is twilight. A thick wet snow is slowly twirling around the newly lighted street lamps and lying in soft thin layers on roofs, on horses' backs, on people's shoulders and hats. The cab driver, Iona Potapov, is quite white and looks like a phantom: he is bent double as far as a human body can bend double; he is seated on his box; he never makes a move. If a whole snowdrift fell on him, it seems as if he would not find it necessary to shake it off. His little horse is also quite white, and remains motionless; its immobility, its angularity and its straight wooden-looking legs, even close by, give it the appearance of a gingerbread horse worth a kopek. It is, no doubt, plunged in deep thought. If you were snatched from the plough, from your usual gray surroundings, and were thrown into this slough full of monstrous lights, unceasing noise and hurrying people, you too would find it difficult not to think.

Iona and his little horse have not moved from their place for a long while. They left their yard before dinner and, up to now, not a fare. The evening mist is descending over the town, the white lights of the lamps are replacing brighter rays, and the hubbub of the street is getting louder. 'Cabby for Viborg Way!' suddenly hears Iona. 'Cabby!'

Iona jumps and, through his snow-covered eyelashes, sees an officer in a greatcoat, with his hood over his head. 'Viborg Way!' the officer repeats. 'Are you asleep, eh? Viborg Way!'

With a nod of assent Iona picks up the reins, in consequence of which layers of snow slip off the horse's back and neck. The officer seats himself in the sleigh, the cabdriver smacks his lips to encourage his horse, stretches out his neck like a swan, sits up and, more from habit than necessity, brandishes his whip.

It is twilight. A thick wet snow is slowly twirling around the newly lighted street lamps and lying in soft thin layers on roofs, on horses' backs, on people's shoulders and hats. The cab driver, Iona Potapov, is quite white and looks like a phantom: he is bent double as far as a human body can bend double; he is seated on his box; he never makes a move. If a whole snowdrift fell on him, it seems as if he would not find it necessary to shake it off. His little horse is also quite white, and remains motionless; its immobility, its angularity and its straight wooden-looking legs, even close by, give it the appearance of a gingerbread horse worth a kopek. It is, no doubt, plunged in deep thought. If you were snatched from the plough, from your usual gray surroundings, and were thrown into this slough full of monstrous lights, unceasing noise and hurrying people, you too would find it difficult not to think.

Iona and his little horse have not moved from their place for a long while. They left their yard before dinner and, up to now, not a fare. The evening mist is descending over the town, the white lights of the lamps are replacing brighter rays, and the hubbub of the street is getting louder. 'Cabby for Viborg Way!' suddenly hears Iona. 'Cabby!'

Iona jumps and, through his snow-covered eyelashes, sees an officer in a greatcoat, with his hood over his head. 'Viborg Way!' the officer repeats. 'Are you asleep, eh? Viborg Way!'

With a nod of assent Iona picks up the reins, in consequence of which layers of snow slip off the horse's back and neck. The officer seats himself in the sleigh, the cabdriver smacks his lips to encourage his horse, stretches out his neck like a swan, sits up and, more from habit than necessity, brandishes his whip.

It is twilight. A thick wet snow is slowly twirling around the newly lighted street lamps and lying in soft thin layers on roofs, on horses' backs, on people's shoulders and hats. The cab driver, Iona Potapov, is quite white and looks like a phantom: he is bent double as far as a human body can bend double; he is seated on his box; he never makes a move. If a whole snowdrift fell on him, it seems as if he would not find it necessary to shake it off. His little horse is also quite white, and remains motionless; its immobility, its angularity and its straight wooden-looking legs, even close by, give it the appearance of a gingerbread horse worth a kopek. It is, no doubt, plunged in deep thought. If you were snatched from the plough, from your usual gray surroundings, and were thrown into this slough full of monstrous lights, unceasing noise and hurrying people, you too would find it difficult not to think.

Iona and his little horse have not moved from their place for a long while. They left their yard before dinner and, up to now, not a fare. The evening mist is descending over the town, the white lights of the lamps are replacing brighter rays, and the hubbub of the street is getting louder. 'Cabby for Viborg Way!' suddenly hears Iona. 'Cabby!'

Iona jumps and, through his snow-covered eyelashes, sees an officer in a greatcoat, with his hood over his head. 'Viborg Way!' the officer repeats. 'Are you asleep, eh? Viborg Way!'

With a nod of assent Iona picks up the reins, in consequence of which layers of snow slip off the horse's back and neck. The officer seats himself in the sleigh, the cabdriver smacks his lips to encourage his horse, stretches out his neck like a swan, sits up and, more from habit than necessity, brandishes his whip.

It is twilight. A thick wet snow is slowly twirling around the newly lighted street lamps and lying in soft thin layers on roofs, on horses' backs, on people's shoulders and hats. The cab driver, Iona Potapov, is quite white and looks like a phantom: he is bent double as far as a human body can bend double; he is seated on his box; he never makes a move. If a whole snowdrift fell on him, it seems as if he would not find it necessary to shake it off. His little horse is also quite white, and remains motionless; its immobility, its angularity and its straight wooden-looking legs, even close by, give it the appearance of a gingerbread horse worth a kopek. It is, no doubt, plunged in deep thought. If you were snatched from the plough, from your usual gray surroundings, and were thrown into this slough full of monstrous lights, unceasing noise and hurrying people, you too would find it difficult not to think.

Iona and his little horse have not moved from their place for a long while. They left their yard before dinner and, up to now, not a fare. The evening mist is descending over the town, the white lights of the lamps are replacing brighter rays, and the hubbub of the street is getting louder. 'Cabby for Viborg Way!' suddenly hears Iona. 'Cabby!'

Iona jumps and, through his snow-covered eyelashes, sees an officer in a greatcoat, with his hood over his head. 'Viborg Way!' the officer repeats. 'Are you asleep, eh? Viborg Way!'

With a nod of assent Iona picks up the reins, in consequence of which layers of snow slip off the horse's back and neck. The officer seats himself in the sleigh, the cabdriver smacks his lips to encourage his horse, stretches out his neck like a swan, sits up and, more from habit than necessity, brandishes his whip.

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.

My grandmother didn't approve of Tridib. He is a loafer and a wastrel. I would sometimes hear her saying to my parents; he doesn't do any proper work, lives off his father's money. To me she would only allow herself to say with a sardonic little twist of her mouth: I don't want to see you loafing with Trideb, Tridib wastes his time.

It didn't sound terrible, but, in fact, in my grandmother's usage there was nothing very much worse that could be said of anyone. For her time was like a toothbrush: it went mouldy if it wasn't used. I asked her once what happened to wasted time. She tossed her small silvery head, screwed up her long nose and said: It begins to stink.

As for herself, she had been careful to rid our little flat of everything that might encourage us to let our time stink. No chessboard nor any pack of cards ever came through our door; there was a battered Ludo set somewhere but I was only allowed to play with it when I was ill. She didn't even approve of my mother listening to the afternoon radio play more than once a week. In our flat all of us worked hard at whatever we did: my grandmother at her schoolmastering; I at my homework; my mother at her housekeeping; my father at his job in a company.

Our time wasn't given the slightest opportunity to grow mouldy.

That was why I loved to listen to Tridib: he never seemed to use his time, but his time didn't stink. Sometimes Trideb would drop in to see us without warning. My grandmother, for all her disapproval of him, would be delighted whenever he came- partly because she was fond of him in her own way, but mainly because Tridib and his family were our only rich relatives, and it flattered her to think that he had gone out of his way to come and see her.

But of course, she knew, though she wouldn't admit it, that he had really come to nurse his stomach.

My grandmother didn't approve of Tridib. He is a loafer and a wastrel. I would sometimes hear her saying to my parents; he doesn't do any proper work, lives off his father's money. To me she would only allow herself to say with a sardonic little twist of her mouth: I don't want to see you loafing with Trideb, Tridib wastes his time.

It didn't sound terrible, but, in fact, in my grandmother's usage there was nothing very much worse that could be said of anyone. For her time was like a toothbrush: it went mouldy if it wasn't used. I asked her once what happened to wasted time. She tossed her small silvery head, screwed up her long nose and said: It begins to stink.

As for herself, she had been careful to rid our little flat of everything that might encourage us to let our time stink. No chessboard nor any pack of cards ever came through our door; there was a battered Ludo set somewhere but I was only allowed to play with it when I was ill. She didn't even approve of my mother listening to the afternoon radio play more than once a week. In our flat all of us worked hard at whatever we did: my grandmother at her schoolmastering; I at my homework; my mother at her housekeeping; my father at his job in a company.

Our time wasn't given the slightest opportunity to grow mouldy.

That was why I loved to listen to Tridib: he never seemed to use his time, but his time didn't stink. Sometimes Trideb would drop in to see us without warning. My grandmother, for all her disapproval of him, would be delighted whenever he came- partly because she was fond of him in her own way, but mainly because Tridib and his family were our only rich relatives, and it flattered her to think that he had gone out of his way to come and see her.

But of course, she knew, though she wouldn't admit it, that he had really come to nurse his stomach.

My grandmother didn't approve of Tridib. He is a loafer and a wastrel. I would sometimes hear her saying to my parents; he doesn't do any proper work, lives off his father's money. To me she would only allow herself to say with a sardonic little twist of her mouth: I don't want to see you loafing with Trideb, Tridib wastes his time.

It didn't sound terrible, but, in fact, in my grandmother's usage there was nothing very much worse that could be said of anyone. For her time was like a toothbrush: it went mouldy if it wasn't used. I asked her once what happened to wasted time. She tossed her small silvery head, screwed up her long nose and said: It begins to stink.

As for herself, she had been careful to rid our little flat of everything that might encourage us to let our time stink. No chessboard nor any pack of cards ever came through our door; there was a battered Ludo set somewhere but I was only allowed to play with it when I was ill. She didn't even approve of my mother listening to the afternoon radio play more than once a week. In our flat all of us worked hard at whatever we did: my grandmother at her schoolmastering; I at my homework; my mother at her housekeeping; my father at his job in a company.

Our time wasn't given the slightest opportunity to grow mouldy.

That was why I loved to listen to Tridib: he never seemed to use his time, but his time didn't stink. Sometimes Trideb would drop in to see us without warning. My grandmother, for all her disapproval of him, would be delighted whenever he came- partly because she was fond of him in her own way, but mainly because Tridib and his family were our only rich relatives, and it flattered her to think that he had gone out of his way to come and see her.

But of course, she knew, though she wouldn't admit it, that he had really come to nurse his stomach.

My grandmother didn't approve of Tridib. He is a loafer and a wastrel. I would sometimes hear her saying to my parents; he doesn't do any proper work, lives off his father's money. To me she would only allow herself to say with a sardonic little twist of her mouth: I don't want to see you loafing with Trideb, Tridib wastes his time.

It didn't sound terrible, but, in fact, in my grandmother's usage there was nothing very much worse that could be said of anyone. For her time was like a toothbrush: it went mouldy if it wasn't used. I asked her once what happened to wasted time. She tossed her small silvery head, screwed up her long nose and said: It begins to stink.

As for herself, she had been careful to rid our little flat of everything that might encourage us to let our time stink. No chessboard nor any pack of cards ever came through our door; there was a battered Ludo set somewhere but I was only allowed to play with it when I was ill. She didn't even approve of my mother listening to the afternoon radio play more than once a week. In our flat all of us worked hard at whatever we did: my grandmother at her schoolmastering; I at my homework; my mother at her housekeeping; my father at his job in a company.

Our time wasn't given the slightest opportunity to grow mouldy.

That was why I loved to listen to Tridib: he never seemed to use his time, but his time didn't stink. Sometimes Trideb would drop in to see us without warning. My grandmother, for all her disapproval of him, would be delighted whenever he came- partly because she was fond of him in her own way, but mainly because Tridib and his family were our only rich relatives, and it flattered her to think that he had gone out of his way to come and see her.

But of course, she knew, though she wouldn't admit it, that he had really come to nurse his stomach.

My grandmother didn't approve of Tridib. He is a loafer and a wastrel. I would sometimes hear her saying to my parents; he doesn't do any proper work, lives off his father's money. To me she would only allow herself to say with a sardonic little twist of her mouth: I don't want to see you loafing with Trideb, Tridib wastes his time.

It didn't sound terrible, but, in fact, in my grandmother's usage there was nothing very much worse that could be said of anyone. For her time was like a toothbrush: it went mouldy if it wasn't used. I asked her once what happened to wasted time. She tossed her small silvery head, screwed up her long nose and said: It begins to stink.

As for herself, she had been careful to rid our little flat of everything that might encourage us to let our time stink. No chessboard nor any pack of cards ever came through our door; there was a battered Ludo set somewhere but I was only allowed to play with it when I was ill. She didn't even approve of my mother listening to the afternoon radio play more than once a week. In our flat all of us worked hard at whatever we did: my grandmother at her schoolmastering; I at my homework; my mother at her housekeeping; my father at his job in a company.

Our time wasn't given the slightest opportunity to grow mouldy.

That was why I loved to listen to Tridib: he never seemed to use his time, but his time didn't stink. Sometimes Trideb would drop in to see us without warning. My grandmother, for all her disapproval of him, would be delighted whenever he came- partly because she was fond of him in her own way, but mainly because Tridib and his family were our only rich relatives, and it flattered her to think that he had gone out of his way to come and see her.

But of course, she knew, though she wouldn't admit it, that he had really come to nurse his stomach.