“What does it mean to dwell?” — Martin Heidegger obtusely asks in his article — Building Dwelling Thinking.
Cloaked under the simplicity of this question lies the answer to why, what and how our aspirations for dwellings have shaped. What we have been taught to believe is that dwellings are buildings. Sure, they are. Yet, to equate a physical structure alone to the dwelling is premature. To dwell is to feel at home and when the word ‘home’ comes into play, we attach it to more than just a shelter. It represents a sense of belonging. So, can we take this forward to ask — what happens when we take the building out of dwelling?
For someone born in an Asian timeline transitioning towards the westernised idea of a nuclear family, this thought should not be absurd. I, personally have felt it much before I could put it into words. The domain of a Dwelling extends way beyond physical space and is not necessarily stationary. Household settings here continue to be wound around the interpersonal bonds that we share with people; in addition to the basic necessities of a shelter. Hence, a part of our aspirations for dwelling can be attributed to this connection.
This is, perhaps the underlying principle that connects the housing scenario in Asian countries. Be it in the polls of Ahmedabad, the agrarian houses of Kihn in Vietnam, traditional Chinese courtyard houses of Shanghai or the predominantly Newar architecture of Kathmandu; the individualistic idea is subversive to the importance given to family and affinity to tradition. Hence, when we try to define dwelling, we trace it back to questions of identity — both related to self and family. They form a microcosm in itself and reflect not just the socio-economic status but also their political, domestic and professional choice. Governed by this relationship combined with context, we stand in contrast to our western counterparts. Unlike them, we can’t establish a typology that will fit all cities.
However, with the advent of multinational capitalism and global influence, it gave way to the tremendous growth of our cities. It attracted more people and the economy trickled down their vast problems to define it, in a single dimension, as a housing shortage. This pivoted our aspiration from nourishing our filial bonds to finding a roof above our heads. The now globalised economy answered this issue by mimicking their typology on our lands, which has resulted in high-density structures dotting our landscape. This, in turn, led to a more self-conscious architectural attempt to straddle traditions with a broader approach for collective identity.
Many critical thinkers argue that this developing form of housing stymies the traditional way of thinking and that it leaves us, as dwellers, unhappy. This thought brings attention to the paradoxical situation where vernacular building traditions are declining, but they are repeatedly cited in the literature as exemplary models. Then where does the present dream for people to stay on the 20th floor of an apartment overlooking the streets come from? If what capitalism has brought to the housing scenario is such a misfit, how is the model still surviving? Why do we continue to dream for a bigger window on a higher floor?
This reverts us to the question that was put forth, “What does it mean to dwell?” more so specifically in the Asian countries? The pith of the matter still remains unchanged, that the definition of a dwelling depends on us. We have collectively chosen to accept this wave of modernity and I see nothing wrong with it. However, I believe we need to shift the question to explore how well are we adapting to our cities that now consists of people with mixed dreams? To state that we are people with the complete modernistic approach will be ignorant. Essentially we, as dwellers, are now people with modern dreams but traditional values. Is it then safe to say that our imaginations tied with our traditions have shown us a way that we need, but are slow to recognize?
The direction in which architects have tackled this is by drawing from broadly defined parameters of cultural, climatic, and political correctness. The Sri Lankan architect, Nihal Perera terms this approach as ‘critical vernacularism’. It does not romanticise the past and emulate it blindly but develops a new vocabulary by responding to the historical spatial concepts of the location. We have seen masters inculcate this concept in different places — Charles Correa in India, Geoffery Bawa in Sri Lanka, Marina Tabassum in Dhaka, and many more. This consciousness of the cultural context of design has taken the front seat is not just guiding architects and planners, but also giving way to the dwellers’ yearning; to not completely detach their past in their dream for a modernistic future.
