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Journalism of Courage
Coming from a family without an architectural legacy, when Nuru Karim said he wanted to pursue architecture, he was politely asked ‘why’. “Architecture felt like the natural intersection, an avenue where numbers and imagination could come together in meaningful ways.” Recently, Karim’s firm, NUDES, won The International Architecture Awards for Lokpriya Gopinath Bordoloi International Airport (Guwahati Airport).
For Mumbai-based Karim, each project starts with inquiry into “the culture, the climate, the people and the stories that shape a place”.Though brief, his early stint at Zaha Hadid Architects brought to his work not so much the tools for style but about empowerment. “My experiences in housing, sanitation and disaster mitigation have reinforced the belief that architecture must go beyond aesthetics or form-making. It must address complexity, diversity and resilience. Perhaps the provocation is whether we, as designers, can push architecture to truly become an agent of change,” says the Architectural Association London graduate.
In this interview, Karim talks about the future of aviation architecture, why advocacy is important and what the vision of ‘Mumbai 2050’ can become if we work with water rather than against it. Excerpts:
In the Guwahati airport, what made you choose bamboo?
Airports are our first handshake with the world — a space where culture, climate responsiveness and innovation converge. When airports become cultural ambassadors, they redefine travel. India is undergoing a profound transformation in aviation architecture — fueled by aggressive infrastructure expansion, visionary design and strategic economic integration. They are emerging as cultural and logistical landmarks, shaping not just travel but the future of Indian cities.
The Guwahati International Airport (Terminal 2) serves as the principal aviation hub for the Northeast and stands among India’s top 10 busiest airports, with nearly six million passengers annually. When we set out to design the terminal, our intent was to root the architecture in the ethos of Assam and the Northeast. Bamboo became an obvious choice — not just as a material but as a symbol. It embodies resilience, flexibility and deep connections with Assamese life and craft traditions. For us, it became a metaphor for the strength and spirit of the people of the region. In that sense, T2 isn’t just an airport terminal. It is a cultural gateway, a living museum of the Northeast’s traditions expressed in a contemporary idiom, welcoming travellers with a sense of place.
Your projects — People’s Tower, Bookworm Pavillion and the Rain Water Catcher — are all about harvesting natural resources and making the most of parametric tools. How does parametric design (an algorithm-based technique) inform your project?
For us, parametric design is not about style but about performance and responsiveness. At the studio, we use computational tools as a way to engage directly with data — climate conditions, material behaviour, structural efficiency and resource management. These projects have emerged from this approach, where form was driven by research and performance criteria rather than aesthetics alone.
Parametric workflows allow us to iterate rapidly, test multiple scenarios, and optimise design outcomes — be it harvesting rainwater, controlling daylight or minimising material waste. In that sense, parametric design becomes a bridge between intent and execution, enabling us to create architecture that is contextual, sustainable and future-ready
As an architect who works in Mumbai, what can be some of the urban solutions for the city?
Water remembers the past. Mumbai was once seven islands, divided by creeks and tidal inlets, later stitched together through centuries of reclamation. Yet every monsoon, the floodwaters return to trace those ghost lines, reminding us that the city’s foundation is hydrological, not cartographic.
For too long, the monsoon has been a paradox — life-giving and yet feared. Streets flood, trains stop and the city holds its breath. But what if that changed? What if the rains were something we looked forward to, a season of renewal rather than disruption?
A vision for Mumbai 2050 begins here: by working with water instead of resisting it. Restored mangroves and reopened blue-green corridors would hold the tide, rainwater harvesting would become a citywide habit, and waterways could double as transport routes.
Shaded walkways and cycling paths would follow the creeks, while flood-resilient transit hubs would keep the city moving. Cleaner modes of transport, more green corridors and stricter emission controls would also mean healthier air.
Public life could anchor itself in common grounds — maidans, parks, plazas and waterfronts that absorb excess water while giving people space to gather. Circular construction would reduce waste, turning debris into building material and energy, with every ward functioning as its own engine of sustainability.
Technology would provide foresight through digital twins, while participatory platforms would give citizens a direct role in shaping their neighborhoods.
If Mumbai embraces the logic of water, the city of 2050 can be resilient, breathable, and balanced. Mobility, housing and public life would no longer collide with the forces of nature but flow with them — just as the seven islands once did.
At a time of polarisation, when architects are taking a stand for Gaza and Ukraine, do you think Indian architects should speak up more — for the city, for migrants — basically, should advocacy be part of practice?
Architecture, at its core, is about people and place. Our work inevitably intersects with questions of equity, access and resilience. In that sense, advocacy need not always be political — it can be about speaking for the city, its public spaces, the environment and for communities that are often unheard.
For architects in India, this could mean drawing attention to issues like housing, migration, climate resilience or infrastructure gaps — areas where design thinking can add real value. Advocacy, in this sense, becomes part of practice, not as an external gesture but as a natural extension of our responsibility to society.
The challenge is to go beyond producing buildings and to also generate conversations, frameworks, and prototypes that address systemic urban concerns. Whether through research, public engagement or built work, architects have the tools to shape both the discourse and the physical reality of cities. For me, that is where advocacy finds its most meaningful expression.
Each story, each project changes us. How do you see your journey through your projects?
I see each project as a moment in time, and together these moments form a body of work. Time feels less like a straight line and more like a spiral — where ideas recur, evolve and transform as they move forward. The ability to adapt to an ever-changing world shapes that spiral.
For example, the Bookworm Pavilion was about access to knowledge in a public, playful space; the Rainwater Catcher questioned how design can directly respond to survival and ecology; and the Guwahati International Airport scaled those ideas up, exploring how culture, sustainability, and technology can converge to shape infrastructure that serves millions.
Each of these projects occupies its own place on the spiral, but they are also connected—part of a larger narrative about resilience, equity, and coexistence.
Architecture, in that sense, is a continuous baton-passing exercise. Every generation contributes ideas that move the spiral forward, adding layers of meaning, memory, and innovation. Civilisations are built not on isolated works, but on stories and questions that flow across centuries.
Our projects are part of that ongoing dialogue — resonating with existential questions of being and survival, while pointing toward the possibilities of the future.
