Welcome to Swasti
A walk through the house Roopa built room by room, corner by corner, out of everything she was not willing to lose.
Every room in this tour is real. This is Swasti, the home Roopa built from the ashes of her own dreams, after years of loss. Not one loss. Her firstborn’s heart. Her father. A marriage. A financial free fall.
“I let go of things when it’s time, when I’ve stopped being afraid, when I can no longer go on with a situation as it is. I did it with my firstborn, when his heart no longer worked. I did it with a marriage, when it no longer worked. This house was simply one more entry on that list.”
It is also where she finally stopped running from what was left, and built with it instead.
Swasti, Masculine and Feminine
“I had an idea: masculine structure, feminine finishings, bold bones, soft layers.” Metal windows not wood. Cement roof not plastered. Exposed brick. What works, not what impresses.
“This IS the masculine I had imagined. Industrial. Unadorned. Honest. Strong.”
The Library
“Now, I am in my library, sunk into this in-your-face fuchsia armchair. The colour screams, on purpose. Bold, unapologetic, a middle finger disguised as decor.” Emerald velvet curtains, gold-framed mirrors catching light on brick, industrial bones draped in jewels. Books lined like witnesses to my ever-evolving identity. This room is built for contemplation. My sanctuary.
This is the room What Grief Could Not Take came from. Read the book →
The Workspace
A desk designed by the father of her children, repainted emerald with gold lining, moved room to room until it found this one, buried under trailing pothos and a birdcage that holds nothing but light.
The Puja Room
Diyas lit before anything else begins. Prayer, then the day, then everyone and everything it holds.
The Living Room
The Garden
Broken branches propped in old paint tins, a plumbing pipe holding up the vines. She calls it her kaleidoscopic crap corner, and means it as a compliment.
“Constraint had shown me that creativity doesn’t suffer from lack of money, only lack of imagination.”
The Bench
Built by her friend Bharati, it wandered the house for nearly three years before it found its corner on the terrace.
The Swing
Old doors nobody wanted, from her dance teacher Praveen, painted bold pink and hung with chains.
“Prayer, light, kids, garden. This rhythm is how I live here.”
“Built from the ashes of perfect dreams. But mine. All mine.
Not despite the ashes. But because of them.”
Growth doesn’t come from going somewhere new. It comes from becoming someone new where you are.