“The couches look so much better in the sunlight,” he smiles.

I almost forget to hit record. This is an interview, yes, but first a chat between friends.

“How are you Armaan!” I grin. I ask him about the last few days, and how he feels now that the big moment has arrived.

“It was hectic, but fun — lots to learn. These couches weigh a ton, and they came all the way from India. Six modules flew in and everything that could go wrong, went wrong.”

I sigh, “Heathrow was even on fire…”

He nods and laughs, “First time ever. Seeing the couches here after all that… they made it through everything. I feel like it wouldn’t be as satisfying if everything went smooth.”

Absolutely. Obstacles make the story.

“Well, let’s get into it,” I turn to my list of questions. “Firstly, how did this debut collection for anda_ba come about?”

“This collection came out quite organically. I had done a bunch of retail stores in India back in the day, and then somebody saw them and wanted me to do their house. And then I did the collection for that house. The whole idea is to put in what I feel is me — so something quite contemporary, but still sitting within the Indian landscape.”

“That’s amazing,” I say, “The fact that it all flowed so naturally and provided you these incredible stepping stones to the collection. Tell me about these sofas!”

“They have been made by two materials: a steel sheet that was patinated in the rice fields in India — with crops hitting against them to get this really nice finish — and a canvas engineered by friends at a studio called Outbreak Lab, working with natural cottons. If you go close to it, you can see the grain of the plant in the canvas of the couches, that gives it this really nice warm, earthy tone.”

We lean in to peer closer at the sofas. The fabric really does hold an entire landscape.

“The couches are part of a 25-piece collection,” Armaan adds. “For this exhibition, I thought that the couches were something better understood in a European context. I felt it was important to show the Indian audience how they fit in here, how they can be used, and then put them back into context in India.”

There’s something powerful about this reversal, of taking objects deeply rooted in Indian design principles and history and then placing them in a Western museum. In doing so, Armaan has allowed the pieces to be seen through a different lens — one that recognises their innovation, modularity, and modern elegance. It’s a clever kind of mirror held up to the Indian audience back home, saying “this is how your heritage translates globally.” It’s an interesting thought, that you might need to see your culture celebrated abroad to truly understand its value at home.

Armaan continues, “This super-low, modular seating style, it all traces back to old Indian ways of sitting and ways of meeting. From the king’s courts to the village gatherings, it was all low and quite flexible in some way.”

I ponder on the fact that so many East Asian and South Asian seating arrangements in the home are close to the floor. It feels instinctively communal — you’re not perched above anyone, you’re at eye-level, sharing food, conversation, or even silence. Armaan’s sofas are rooted in this cultural memory yet are not replicas of tradition, but rather reinventions that are playful and sculptural.

I point to my favourite module — the pyramid. It has one corner lifted, forming a triangular shape perfect for a back to lean against.

He laughs, “It was more logical than design. There’s only one way to have four modules: where zero corners lift, where one corner lifts, two corners, and then three corners. We came about this using origami and just modelling stuff by hand on paper.”

Origami indeed. So beautiful.

“And title of the collection — Between Two Minds. What does that mean to you?”

Armaan pauses for a moment, thinking as he regards the sofas. “Well, I think this couch is the most representative of Between Two Minds. It lies in an Indian context as Indian-made couches inspired by Indian history. But when you look at it in the V&A right now, the couch looks very, very contemporary.”

He continues, “I also think it is my background of being a foreigner in both countries, which is both good and bad. This thing of purist versus tourist. I hope the more that I work within this design realm between the two countries I will understand more where my position in the world lies.”

I wonder aloud, “What are the purist elements of the collection and what are the tourist ones?”

“ The purist comes from my approach to design through my educational background as an architect. The engineering — how the couches sit, how they take load, move, are stitched, are posted. All of those are the purist side of views. The tourist elements are where play comes in — them being modular, upholstering them in something which can take so much stain.”

Anyone living between cultures knows that dance, and I speak for myself too here. The purist keeps the lineage, rules, logic; while the tourist disrupts, experiments, asks what if. This is at the core of what is so compelling about Armaan’s work. He doesn’t see one as more valid than the other, he simply weaves them together. The tension between the two becomes the heart, where the pieces honour tradition in their bones and experiment in their expression.

The sofas refuse to choose sides.

Armaan tells me about an Instagram post where he shared his blue Indian OCI and his red British passport together, like “the red and blue lenses of 3D glasses.”

I laugh. On-the-nose, but true.

That double-vision is real. It’s having duality exist within you. These two passports are not just paperwork: they are filters, lenses, dimensions. That is the superpower of being in-between. Of walking that line.

With my Austrian father and Hong Kong mother, I know that limbo well. Being from mixed heritage separated me from either one of my parents’ countries, kept me feeling like I was neither. It made the notion of belonging somewhere, of being from somewhere, quite alien. That in-betweenness can be disorienting and isolating, but it’s also fertile ground for creating your own culture, your own frameworks, and being an unexpected bridge.

I glance at the drawings and photographs on the panels again. “So you’ve brought a whole array of friends with you tonight. What is this family affair?“

“The exhibition is titled Family Business, which I thought was funny because in my city the traditional route is to go into your family business. This is me taking another route and going into another sort of family business, where my family is my collaborators, people I design with, people who inspire me, people I have conversations with — like this.”

I smile. “That’s beautiful, Armaan. It’s a different type of family here, one you’ve built yourself through love and support and shared creation.”

He nods. “We’ve got the guys who upholstered the couches, Outbreak Lab, who work with natural cotton fabrics that are dyed with leaves and pods. Then the couches were manufactured by Wriver, amazing craftsmen from India who make traditional furniture, so this was me convincing them to make something quite crazy by their books. Devashish Gaur took beautiful images of the furniture in the house they were built for — House 59 in Punjab, a wood and casted-concrete house. And the drawings were made by Paris Horstmann, who drew and documented the entire house by hand.”

“And lastly, we have these lotuses casted by Daniel Swarilov,” Armaan says, waving Daniel over.

Daniel sits down next to me, and explains:

“The lotus is India’s national flower because it holds a lot of cultural significance. It grows in muddy soil, emerging from the dirty murky water — something unclean and impure — to become something incredible. A beautiful white blossom signifying purity and cleanliness. That speaks directly about the transcendence of the soul into the afterlife, ascending to a higher state of being. From the mud to the heavens, essentially.”

Fascinating. I enquire about Daniel’s use of bronze for the casting.

“ I work a lot with impurities and freezing fleeting moments within the passage of time. The lotus pods hold the seeds that are a vital step for this transcendence, but we usually turn our attention to the beautiful flower, which soon starts to wither and decay. I chose bronze for this, as it is a material normally used to create monuments for kings and people of high importance to immortalise them.”

“What is it about the passage of time that interests you?” I ask, “Immortality? Mortality?”

He shrugs. “Both. It’s more about entropy, how everything kind of decays into chaos ultimately. I’m very interested in natural processes and the alchemy of materials, especially the imperfections that come with it. Therefore I work with fabrication methods that produce moments of serendipity. I’m not after perfection. I highly encourage little moments where the metal appears to be corroded or impurities to appear in the work.”

As Daniel speaks, I find myself thinking about how rare it is to hear someone speak of decay with such reverence. His perspective alters my eyes as I regard the bronzed lotus pods once more, now so obviously existing beyond simple aesthetics, but as keepers of time. Carriers of life, then death, then something beyond.There’s an alchemy to the way all these collaborators work: bronze turned sacred, couches born of soil and steel, drawings pulled from hands into form. It’s all deeply material and deeply spiritual work that honours process just as much as product.

Armaan reappears, and adds:

“There’s a little surprise guest too. Navinder Nangla, the “Fashion is my Passion” guy, is gonna graffiti a board with anda_ba and have his own little twist on it. This is the tourist stuff that I talk about, the elements of play and putting things into a new context. I think it’s quite amazing to have a graffiti board on the brick wall at the V&A, quite similarly to how you would usually see graffiti spray painted on brick arches.”

“Graffiti at the V&A,” I laugh, “that sounds fun.”

I wonder aloud what Armaan might want people to feel tonight as they enter the exhibit. An emotion, a thought, an understanding?

He thinks for a moment. “I hope they understand what we’re trying to do with the collaborative aspect of the exhibition, and to appreciate the effort it took for all of them to get here for just one night. Also, I just wanted to take the opportunity to show what I’ve been working on, because I don’t really post a lot. I believe more in showing in person, having real conversations.”

He continues, “I want them to feel a sense of where the Indian design landscape might be heading, and I hope that it encourages many other conversations after this event.”

I ask Armaan how it has felt to be part of a lineup of South Asian creatives all coming together under the curation of Diet Paratha.

“Everybody else who’s exhibiting is way more talented and established, and are people who I take a lot of inspiration from. It’s amazing that somehow I’m here exhibiting with them, I’m the youngest so there’s so much to learn. Big thanks to Diet Paratha! Anita put me on after one conversation we had.”

“We were one of the communities which was always quite confused, I think,” he explains, “Indian artists don’t really support each other publicly, maybe just because of how the country or the culture is set up. Everybody got their position by fighting for it, so to finally see that there’s collaboration and appreciation — it’s wonderful.”

We both exhale dramatically. Collaboration over competition — yes.

Showcasing the fact that you can work together to create rather than stepping on necks to get ahead is a really important thing. We need more of that in this world. There’s space for everyone, and we should be proud and supportive of our peers.

When I ask whether he ever feels satisfied with what he’s made, he laughs and shakes his head.

“I’m definitely always taking notes. The one thing that I put in the brand book for anda_ba was always in progress.”

He clarifies, “Similar to anything that I do. We’re doing these hoodies right now, I think we’re on version 13. The aim is not for perfection, but constant improvement and refinement. Everything changes so rapidly today, something’s trending today and not trending tomorrow, so the idea of always being in progress allows us to stay relevant.”

I ask how he envisions this next phase — what he’s working on now, and where it’s all headed.

“There’s three collections ongoing as we speak. One is stone and metal, one is metal and light, and one is experimenting with Bidri art, which is silver inlaid into metal. Then there’s also Sindhu casted terracotta, the uniform hoodies, we’ve also got rugs coming up. some jewellery, the house in Punjab, sculptures, branding, lighting, music, a little music event…

“Wait, music?” I can’t help but interrupt.

“Yes, old Indian music”, Armaan grins. “And again, how do we enjoy it today? This music was written likely in the 15th century, and I’m here enjoying the lyrics right now. I like thinking about why we enjoy it, how we enjoy it — there’s something quite nice about that.”

“So, what you’re telling me,” I shake my head in amusement, “is you’re about to do everything.”

Armaan laughs, “I guess.”

“You’re on some ‘multi-hyphenate’ level now,” I joke.

“When I do anything, the first thing I think about is ‘how is this me?’ And then I start thinking, ‘what is me?’ Instead of just thinking about it, this work helps me really understand it. This is why the studio exists, just to play.”

I love that. Play is so important. Play is how we begin to figure out who we are as children, what we like and dislike, how we relate to others. Armaan’s attitude towards his creations contain such an admirable lightness and un-seriousness, where he is so open with his view that creation is a constant flow of movement, discovery and improvement.

Quite a beautiful note to end on.

I’m excited for tonight.

𓇢𓆸

A couple hours, a Spanish lesson and a matcha latte later, I am whizzing back to the V&A on my Lime bike.

Parking in front of the V&A steps, I sprint through the towering halls towards the Daylit Gallery. Navinder’s about to graffiti live and I couldn’t miss it. I was running late, but the V&A being a mere 6-minute bike ride from my flat was a logistical blessing that suddenly felt like fate.

I make it just in time.

Armaan and Daniel are lifting a large wooden panel and Navinder Nagla is animatedly mid-sentence, spray can in hand for the ceremony that is about to begin.We exchange quick greetings — there’s no time for anything else — and I squeeze in a few minutes of conversation with Navinder, who tells me almost offhandedly that he’s dyslexic, and that he created the life of his dreams from the moment he chose to lean into that reality instead of fight it. His signature tagline ‘Fassion is my Pashion’ can be seen decorated on walls, clothes, canvases, people and merchandise all over the world.

“Wow, that’s insane. Congratulations,” I remember myself saying.

I take out my little Samsung camcorder — a sleek little silver bullet that is my favourite, always — and follow them as they carry the panel through the grand entrance of the V&A. The crowd is already thickening. I film quietly, capturing the contrast between the museum’s ornate formality and the spontaneity we’re bringing into it.

Outside, we prop the panel against the museum steps. Navinder begins.

With confident, deliberate strokes, the words ‘anduh bah’ — a phonetic spelling of anda_ba — slowly materialise in thick black paint across the wood.

Museum-goers slow their steps to watch. A few raise eyebrows, some take photos, others look on with curiosity. Security eyes us with a mixture of suspicion and hesitation — do we have permission to do this?

All in a day’s work.

An orange squiggle, like the spell-check underline we all know too well, finishes the piece. A wink to the dyslexia he’s reclaimed and repurposed into something beautiful.

Panel complete, Armaan and Navinder lay it down gently to dry. I take in the moment — the blur of paint, the growing crowds of attendees, rising adrenaline — and suddenly, we’re back inside.

The main hall is packed, DJs are playing, drinks are flowing, people are chatting.

So, it begins.

𓇢𓆸

Later, I hear that over 6000 people showed up at the V&A that night, with queues down the street and the museum reaching capacity early in the evening.

But in the moment, numbers didn’t matter. All I remember is the blur — the sea of faces, the roar of voices, the impossible task of trying to be everywhere all at once. I barely made it into any of the other rooms, the crowd packed together like festival lines snaking through the marble halls.

So I stayed where I felt most grounded: around anda_ba. I documented what I could of people approaching the sofas, studying the drawings, lingering over the photographs, conversing with Armaan. I remained until closing.

It was a beautiful night. I feel lucky to have lived it in by Armaan’s side, and share in the exhilaration, warmth, and community.A night charged with purpose and possibility.

𓇢𓆸

Four days later, I’m back at the V&A. This time, I’m helping Armaan pack the sofas back into crates for Milan Design Week.

It’s in those quiet hours of manual labour that the phrase family business lands for me. Because that’s what it felt like — not just the title of the exhibit, but the actual spirit of it. This wasn’t about commerce or legacy in the traditional sense. It was about people — a chosen family, a crew of friends who show up, not because they’re obligated, but because they believe in what you’re building and want to be part of it. Because they care.

Walking back home exhausted after 4 hours of cosplaying as Bob the Builder, I spot it: “Fassion is my Pashion” spray-painted on the side of a cardboard wall right on Brompton Road, like a secret message from the universe.

A heartwarming full-circle moment.

And in that moment, I feel proud. Proud of Armaan, for creating a space where creativity feels communal, where friendship and softness and generosity have a home in a city where creatives are infamous for being cold.

Proud of an incredible designer and creator, and an even more incredible friend.

That is the magic of Family Business. It isn’t just an exhibit, it’s a living breathing archive of invention and reinvention. It feels like a reclamation of identity through making.

It feels like a metaphor of my own existence — not quite from here, not quite from there, but somewhere in-between. It’s the third space we build ourselves, brick by brick, word by misspelled word.

A new kind of heritage. A new kind of home.

A new kind of family.