How one home became twelve.
For years, I rented in Banjara Hills because I could not imagine living anywhere else in Hyderabad.
It had everything I valued: mature trees, established neighbourhoods, familiar roads, proximity to work, and a character that newer locations could not replicate.
When my landlord moved to double the rent, I was forced to confront a question I had been postponing.
Should I continue renting, or should I find a home of my own?
The answer seemed simple.
Find a home.
But the search quickly became frustrating.
I walked through apartment after apartment, studying layouts, proportions, ventilation, circulation and natural light. On paper, many looked impressive. In reality, they felt compromised.
Rooms were large but disconnected.
Kitchens were treated as an afterthought.
Storage was inadequate.
Ventilation was poor.
Natural light was inconsistent.
Many homes appeared luxurious but failed the test of everyday living.
The more properties I visited, the clearer it became that I was not searching for luxury.
I wanted a home that understood how families actually lived.
A home with light.
A home with air.
A home with privacy.
A home with utility.
A home that could accommodate family gatherings, celebrations, guests, staff, storage and everyday routines without feeling constrained.
At the time, I was running a couture design business and had spent years designing for women who appreciated detail, quality and personal expression.
Many of them had become friends.
As I shared my frustration with clients and acquaintances, a surprising pattern emerged.
They were searching for the same thing.
They wanted larger homes.
Better layouts.
Better ventilation.
Better use of space.
Homes designed around living rather than marketing brochures.
Eventually I asked a simple question.
“If I build it, would you buy it?”
The answer was immediate.
That single response changed everything.
The idea was no longer about finding a home.
It became about creating one.
Not just for myself, but for families who shared the same expectations and frustrations.
The journey that followed was far from straightforward.
There was land to find.
Agreements to structure.
Approvals to secure.
Risks to manage.
Problems to solve.
What began as a personal search gradually evolved into a residential development.
The project would eventually be known as Smritinsha.
The name combines the names of the two people who mattered most to me: my daughter Smriti and my mother Subhashini.
It was a reminder that buildings are ultimately about people.
Years later, when I walk through the property, I still see the original idea behind it.
Not a development.
Not a financial exercise.
Not a collection of apartments.
Simply a home that could not be found.
And therefore had to be built.