Bijoy Jain has never believed in boundaries—between swimming and architecture, India and the West, tradition and modernity. A former marathon swimmer who once trained for the Olympics, he went on to study and work in the United States before returning to India to found Studio Mumbai in 1995. Celebrated internationally for buildings that appear rooted in place yet defy easy categorization, he insists his work is not about nostalgia but about presence and resilience. In this wide-ranging conversation, he speaks about his formative years, the influence of loss and travel and why his work is not about saving craft traditions but finding the common ground that connects us all.
You were born in Mumbai in 1965. How did that environment shape you?
It was a city of 5 million, which is still a lot of people, but not in the way we experience it today. My parents were doctors and we lived by the beach. It was post-independence—India was a new country, reinventing itself. We were surrounded by musicians, professionals, artists and people from all over the world. It was also the beginning of the hippie movement. Before everyone went to Goa, they would come to Juhu. Just being a witness to this unfolding shaped my sensibility more than I thought. Every year from the age of four or five, we traveled for two months across the country—east, west, north, south. That period is really what is embedded in me, not towards architecture specifically, but towards the density of civilization. That’s what I carry with me. It was a very happy time—green, by the sea, vibrant. Of course, all of that now is not present anymore, but those 10 years from the ’60s to the ’70s were potent. At that age you’re a sponge—you just absorb everything.
You were a professional swimmer before becoming an architect. How did that transition happen?
I don’t see it as a transition. It was very seamless. I was a competitive swimmer, I swam for the country, I was a marathon swimmer. Then I walked into architecture as if it were the most natural thing. It wasn’t leaving one thing for another. What I learned from swimming is what I carry with me. It takes tenacity to swim long distances, a resilience that I bring to architecture. For me, the two are interchangeable. There’s no separation at all. It’s just another part of my life. It gives me great joy in doing what I do.
After studying in Mumbai, the loss of your brother and parents led you to leave India. How did that affect you?
In 1982, I had just finished swimming the English Channel and races in Europe. Then, in a few months, everything changed. I lost my brother and, shortly after, both my parents. It just made sense to discover other places and spaces, and that’s when I went to America. I had done two years of architecture school in Mumbai with a fabulous teacher who taught through storytelling, which I loved. Then in the U.S., I rediscovered everything again. It has always felt like one continuous journey.
What did you take away from your time in America?
In St. Louis, I met Robert Mangurian, my professor from Los Angeles, who passed away this a couple of years ago. He really impacted the way I saw the world. But my connection to America began earlier. At 14 or 15, I was put on a plane and sent to the U.S. to train as a swimmer for the Olympics. That did not happen, maybe thankfully. But I had already experienced America by myself at a young age, so going back felt familiar. Later, I worked as a carpenter for four years, making models for the Getty Museum. It was intense—morning to night—and absolutely wonderful. What I took away most was self-reliance. In India, the family is always the construct, with a kind of dependency. America gave me the confidence of being self-reliant, to care for oneself. That’s what stayed with me.
You returned to India in 1995 to set up your practice. What brought you back?
Everyone said I wouldn’t handle the weather. I thought, how bad can it be? But really, I wanted to reconcile some unfinished things about the nature of home. When I returned, I was commissioned to build a small house outside Bombay. I had no other work, but that was the beginning. That house is still there. I saw it again during the lockdown, and what I loved is that it’s the same as it was on day one, only more. That, for me, is the nice part of what one can do.
You’ve said your first architectural project happened when you were a child. What do you mean?
At the age of four or five, a friend of mine lived in a small house made from thatch and bramble. His family were construction workers, nomadic, and they stayed for about three years. Every three weeks, we would render the floor with earth, with our hands. I absolutely loved being there. If I ask myself, that was really the beginning of being connected to what we call architecture.
Your architecture is often described as contextually relevant, incorporating local materials and traditional craftsmanship. How do you see it?
Or irrelevant. No, that has never been my priority. Every place has something to offer, and to tap into the immediate environment—so I’m at home everywhere. It has nothing to do with saving a craft or engaging in that. For me, craft is within yourself, not necessarily outside. It’s about making contact, craft to craft, embedded in us. It’s not about being local, traditional or nostalgia. If I had to become nostalgic about things, I would have strangled myself. What I’ve learned through loss, travel and discovery is that it’s more rooted in the capacity of what we are able to do as human beings—the potential we have, how pliant and amiable we can be, provided we work outside of prejudice. Because even tradition or local can become a prejudice. I’m more tuned into the idea of something present and direct, finding common ground for exchange. It’s more like free jazz: you play the drums, I play the guitar, someone else does the music. We find a space to connect, even if we come from different parts of the world, passing through. For me, it’s about collecting that idea of craft that is embedded within ourselves.