What does a building need to survive for centuries? Good materials? Clever engineering? Regular maintenance? Respect for nature? Apparently, it needs all these things, except perhaps a municipal certificate.

On September 6, Delhi witnessed another grim reminder of what happens when cities grow faster than their civic conscience. A five-storey building called Hostel Daze collapsed in Satya Niketan, a crowded student neighbourhood near Delhi University’s South Campus. At least seven people died. Most were young students from Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh and Chhattisgarh. Several others were injured.

The roughly 50-year-old structure was being used as paying-guest accommodation. It collapsed around 1.30 pm while repair and construction work was reportedly underway in the basement and ground floor. Rainwater had also accumulated around the structure, reportedly weakening its foundations.

A building does not usually wake up one morning and decide to collapse. Warning signs appear. Cracks develop. Foundations weaken. Extra floors arrive. Basements go deeper. Drains stop working. Then, one unfortunate afternoon, gravity delivers the final notice.

But the uncomfortable question remains: Why does governance become energetic only after the dead are counted? The Satya Niketan tragedy is part of a much larger urban crisis.

National Crime Records Bureau data indicates that nearly 33,000 people died across India between 2020 and 2024 in building collapses, fires, falls into pits and manholes, and similar accidents.

Fires accounted for more than 22,000 deaths. Building collapses claimed thousands more. In 2024 alone, structure collapses reportedly killed about 1,525 people. Delhi recorded 169 building-collapse deaths during the five years. These are not merely statistics. Behind every number was a family and somebody waiting for somebody to return.

India is building cities at breathtaking speed. Unfortunately, civic capacity has not kept pace. Ageing buildings are poorly maintained. Unauthorised floors are added. Basements are excavated without adequate engineering. Drainage fails. Waterlogging attacks foundations. Inspections become paperwork. And then comes the elephant at the construction site: corruption.

Public buildings are constructed with public money, but every rupee does not necessarily become concrete, steel and safety. Inflated bills, inferior materials, manipulated measurements and weak supervision can shorten a building’s life before it is properly occupied.

Corruption in construction does not merely waste money. It can manufacture hazards. A weak road cracks sooner. A poorly built bridge becomes vulnerable. A defective drain floods neighbourhoods. Substandard construction can turn an ordinary building into a potential death trap.

Nobody puts a warning board outside such a structure saying, “Built below specification to save somebody’s commission.” The consequences often appear years later, when files have gathered dust and contractors have moved on.

Independent quality audits, transparent digital records, third-party inspections and personal accountability for serious violations are therefore matters of public safety, not merely administrative reform.

The result is a dangerous urban cocktail. Concrete above. Water below. Corruption somewhere in between. Governance struggling to catch up. Yet India’s architectural heritage tells another story, one of longevity, climate intelligence and resilience.

Consider Agra. The Taj Mahal, Agra Fort and Fatehpur Sikri have faced scorching summers, monsoon rains, pollution and centuries of wear. They have survived emperors, invasions, neglect and changing climates.

Meanwhile, some modern buildings begin leaking within a few years. And some do not even wait that long. The question is obvious: What did traditional builders know that modern construction has forgotten?

Quite a lot. Traditional architecture was designed not merely to impress the eye, but to work. Thick walls moderated heat. Courtyards encouraged ventilation. Jaalis filtered sunlight. Deep overhangs provided shade.

Local materials were selected according to climate and geography. Lime, stone, timber, mud, bamboo and specially prepared mortars were used intelligently.

Lime-surkhi mixtures could accommodate movement and moisture better than rigid materials in many traditional structures. Solid plinths and load-bearing walls distributed weight naturally. Himalayan systems such as kath-kuni combined timber and stone to provide flexibility and resilience.

Modern construction has often replaced such wisdom with reinforced concrete, glass and mechanical cooling. Technology itself is not the problem. Careless technology is. A reinforced-concrete building can be extremely safe. But soil must be assessed, foundations properly designed, drainage maintained, and construction rigorously supervised.

Add another floor without strengthening the structure. Dig a basement beneath an old building. Ignore water seepage. Sooner or later, physics sends the bill. This is why the 23rd ARCASIA Forum in Agra was significant. More than 600 architects, academicians, students and experts from 24 Asian countries gathered around the theme, “Bringing Back Vernacular Wisdom.”

The phrase deserves more than a conference banner. Vernacular architecture contains practical knowledge about heat, water, materials, ventilation and structural resilience. The Taj Mahal is therefore more than a tourist attraction. It is a lesson in proportion, craftsmanship, materials and durability.

Across India, countless havelis, temples, forts and traditional homes tell the same story. They have survived centuries. Some newer buildings struggle to survive decades. The answer is not to abandon modern engineering and return nostalgically to mud houses. The future needs a marriage between traditional wisdom and modern science.

Courtyards can complement modern cooling. Local materials can reduce environmental costs. Traditional shading can cut energy consumption. Modern engineering can strengthen time-tested structural principles.

But technology alone cannot rescue badly governed cities. India needs stricter building-code enforcement, mandatory structural audits for older buildings and PG hostels, better fire protection, effective drainage and accountable municipal bodies.

Most importantly, cities must provide enough safe university hostels. Students should not have to gamble with their lives because regulated accommodation is scarce.

A city is not successful because it has glass towers, flyovers and smartphone apps. A city succeeds when its citizens can walk safely, live safely and sleep safely.

Perhaps the greatest irony is that India does not have to invent everything afresh. Some answers are already standing around us. Quietly. Patiently. For centuries.

Maybe the Taj Mahal, Agra Fort and forgotten havelis are trying to tell us something: Build with nature. Build for people. Build to last.

The future, it seems, may sometimes be hiding in the past. The question is whether our cities are wise enough to listen before another building falls.