It had been an old dilapidated building, standing guard resolute and proud - to a street that was the clogged artery of the city. Through sun and rain it stood there, its peculiar mix of architecture lending the street a piquant charm. A typically Victorian facade that the British left behind in so many of our cities. Elaborately decorated openings set into amazingly thick stone and brick walls. The edifice was a symbol of time gone by. The past. And finding its way into the past was the present. Venetian blinds that could be glimpsed at the third floor window. A dog-legged marble staircase a new addition bloodied with paan stains despite all the Ganapati tiles placed at strategic positions.Now it stood, its back broken. All that was left was crumbled, unshapely stone. And a whole lot of clunkers. Friends could not understand my getting upset over it. "It was just a building, for God's sake. A bunch of bricks bound together by concrete," said one. "And it is not as if this was some heritage building protected by the Archaeological Society or INTACH."No, this was no heritage building. It was just another piece of architecture that was brought down to make way for another. Death. It was the story of life, but then death is a sad affair. Even when it is the death of a building strongly perceived as "unalive." In a way it signifies the death of an environment. A living environment.This one had been there for as long as I could remember. Full of life, bursting with vitality and burgeoning with people who came and went. But this five-storeyed structure remained erect as ever and ready to weather all storms. It was a home, it was grocery shops, it was a doctor, it was an STD booth. It was a drug store. It was life, now snuffed out.A building is not just an inanimate thing. It lives, breathes, exists through its occupants. And then takes on a life all its own. Regardless of its furnishings and fittings, notwithstanding other frills and fripperies, every structure has its own intrinsic character. Long have I heard stories of how it is people who make a home. But think about it. Doesn't the grandeur, the pristine whiteness of marble, the symmetry of the plan contribute to making the Taj Mahal what it is? This teardrop of Shahjahan's frozen into marble would not have been the symbol of undying love without its scale. A sense of peace washes over you when you step into a cathedral even the simplest, smallest one. It's the aura, the feel that pervades the atmosphere and makes you whisper, unwilling to break the sanctity of silence.I remember a trip to Tirupati. Outside the garba griha all was chaos flower-sellers and agarbatti-wallahs going about their daily jobs, people laughing and talking as they waited in the long queue for their chance to meet God. Total chaos. But walk inside and what a sea change. Peace and quiet reigned. Perhaps an effect of all those closed, clustered walls. The ringing of the bell. This place was alive and in the process affected the lives of many others.What would Mumbai be like without its skyscrapers telling you that it was all right to keep looking up, going ahead into the future. To be optimistic. And those Mangalore-tiled houses built around a courtyard in South India. The courtyard playing connector was what set the tone for family living.It is the building that ultimately decides what kind of life is going to be lived in it. Why else would a block of apartment blocks have been demolished for "introducing a criminal bent of mind" into people?Le Corbusier said every city was alive and throbbing. It had a heart, pumped by arteries and veins that is, roads and lanes. But what made the city alive? Its buildings, structures, parks, open spaces. And with the passing away of every building heritage or not the pulse of a city slows.
