Guwahati, Assam, 2025
Just like anyone else arriving in a new place, I wanted to explore the city. I wandered, searching, expecting to find what I had imagined for so long. A land of bamboo.Instead, I found concrete.Not just in the city, but stretching outward into the outskirts, into the villages. Concrete everywhere.Not that I hadn’t seen it before, not that it was unfamiliar. But here, in a place I had associated with something else entirely, it felt different. Maybe I was expecting too much. Maybe I thought bamboo would shape not just structures, but entire landscapes, cities, towns, villages.But no. It looked like any other place in the country.And I paused.
Still searching, we moved further, crossing over, away from the city’s hold. And there, something shifted.I began to see mud.Not just beneath my feet, but rising into walls. Buildings shaped from it. Real, breathing structures. And suddenly, there was an excitement I couldn’t ignore.
I noticed the layers, the mix of cow dung and mud, mostly sand. Fibre laid over it. Thin grass woven into mats, held upright as walls. Some were damaged, some repaired, some barely holding on. Some walls breathed, some were sealed and suffocating under paint.There was variation, imperfection, life.And then a quiet realization settled in.These light structures, often overlooked, stood strong. Through time, through weather, and even through earthquakes.
In a place where concrete had taken over the imagination, these walls still held their ground.And I wondered again,not in surprise this time, but in understanding, what we choose to replace, and what quietly refuses to disappear.
