As someone with a long association with South Block, I entered it daily when I was serving with the Ministry of Defence on deputation with a sense of awe and majesty – an awareness that these sandstone corridors were not merely government offices, but the veritable seat of India’s political and administrative power.There was a sense of historical gravitas to the place that could not be replicated elsewhere: a quiet, almost ceremonial somberness that came from knowing decisions taken within these walls shaped the country’s direction over decades. And, even on the most routine mornings, as one passed through its guarded entrances and into its cavernous corridors, a sense of history somehow seemed ever palpable.Set atop Raisina Hill and facing its twin, North Block, South Block has, since 1931, stood at the centre of India’s governing apparatus – first as the nerve centre of the British imperial administration, and later as a principal seat of authority for the independent Republic. Lying astride Rashtrapati Bhavan, another colonial relic, these two awesome and imposing structures formed the architectural and symbolic core of power in New Delhi, one end of what was once King’s Way – later Raj Path, and more recently Kartavya Path. Designed by Sir Herbert Baker, Lutyens’ British architectural partner and city planner, the two practically named Blocks were conceived to project imperial presence – an ambition expressed through its vast scale and commanding elevation.Yet, for all its imperial intent, these Blocks were never entirely alien in character.Their Indo-Saracenic Revival style blended European classicism with Indian architectural elements – jaali (stone lattice screens), chhajja (projecting eaves), chhatri (domed pavilions), inner courtyards and long colonnaded corridors. Fashioned from rose pink, pale yellow and cream Dholpur sandstone from then Rajputana, the buildings seemed to absorb and reflect the changing light of Delhi’s seasons, appearing alternately austere and luminous. Each of the two Blocks contained close to a thousand rooms, laid out in a manner that was at once imposing and disorienting, particularly to the uninitiated.Illustration: Pariplab Chakraborty.Meanwhile, the Union cabinet’s symbolic meeting in Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s office in South Block on February 13, 2026, marked more than a ceremonial farewell as they shifted to nearby Seva Teerth. It effectively brought down the curtain on the building’s long tenure as a functioning seat of government, almost eight decades after independence. Some vestiges of the four great ministries that operated from the twin-blocks – finance, home, defence and external affairs – still linger here, but they too are gradually vacating these storied corridors. What remains is a structure in transition, poised between its past as a citadel of governance and its future as a museum and repository of national memory.Over the years, both Blocks witnessed decisions and deliberations that shaped India’s political, military and economic trajectory. Its rooms hosted generations of civil servants, military officers and policymakers, many of whom went on to occupy positions of national and global prominence.One such is external affairs minister S. Jaishankar, who served as foreign secretary from an office within South Block before entering political life as the country’s foreign minister. His family’s association with the building reflects a continuity spanning three generations: his father, K. Subrahmanyam, one of India’s foremost strategic thinkers, worked from here as secretary for defence production, while his maternal grandfather served in the senior-most financial role as financial advisor in the Ministry of Defence, in the late 1950s, from these premises. Such intergenerational links are not merely historical anecdotes but illustrate how South Block functioned as a crucible of institutional continuity, where experience and tradition were passed down, often informally, across decades.For those, like me, who worked within South Block, however, its ambience, meaning and import cannot be fully captured in architectural descriptions or institutional histories. It was a living organism, shaped as much by its occupants as by its design. And over the decades, that life left its mark – often in ways that rudely eroded the very grandeur that initially inspired awe. But the decline was not dramatic; it was incremental, clumsy and without imagination or architectural consideration in order to meet the demands of free India’s expanding government machinery and attendant bureaucracy.Air-conditioning units called for sealing the jaali that had once facilitated natural ventilation. Open courtyards, designed to admit light and air, were covered with steel meshes to keep out the ever-present monkey population that had made these corridors their own.So much so that powerful officials walked warily down cavernous passageways in these buildings for fear of being set upon by monkeys, concealed in their dark niches and cornices. The tough wire netting also stretched across the windows of the Indian Army chief’s office to safeguard the head of the world’s third largest and nuclear-armed military from marauding monkeys.Amusingly, legend has it that, once frolicking monkeys made their presence felt during a tense news conference with US defence secretary Donald Rumsfeld in late 2001, by hanging from window ledges and ecstatically screeching at the gathering below. The monkeys were especially fearsome at night as they sometimes vandalised offices, looking for food.Alongside, cornices sprouted iron spikes to deter pigeons, while walls and floors were mercilessly pierced to accommodate the growing web of electrical and communication cables that powered an increasingly digitised administration.Inside South Block, the transformation was equally evident. Large, high-ceilinged rooms – once intended to evoke a sense of space and proportion – were crudely partitioned, refitted and repurposed to accommodate expanding departments. Interiors were modified, not just for functionality but also to reflect hierarchy.Navigating South Block required both familiarity and caution.Its layout, though logical in its original plan, could be bewildering in practice in its later avatar. Corridors seemed to lead into one another without clear markers; staircases opened into unexpected sections; and one could easily find oneself at a security checkpoint or a restricted zone without quite knowing how one had arrived there. For newcomers, it was a labyrinth; even for seasoned occupants, there were corners seldom visited and passages rarely used that led to confusion.There were also unwritten rules that governed movement within the building. Certain areas – particularly those occupied by senior officials and top military brass, were effectively out of bounds to the uninitiated. These zones unsubtly announced themselves via obvious cues: a row of well-tended plants in shiny brass planters flanking an entrance, the presence of uniformed orderlies or simply the watchful gaze of staff who ensured that only those with legitimate business proceeded further.Within this ecosystem, routines developed that were at once functional and faintly absurd. Adjoining rooms with a connecting pathways for visitors, ensuring that access to senior functionaries was mediated through layers of staff. Nameplates – polished to a high sheen, particularly for senior military officers like the army and naval chiefs – served not merely as identifiers, but as status indicators.Despite these changes – perhaps even because of them – South Block retained its aura. The overpowering sense of awe that greeted one at its entrances never entirely dissipated inside it. If anything, it was deepened by the awareness that this was a building that had endured, adapted and continued to function across radically different rulers and political eras.Beyond these everyday peculiarities lay a deeper reservoir of institutional memory: witness to less visible, but equally consequential histories. The finance division of the Ministry of Defence (MoD), for instance, one of the oldest arms of government, traces its lineage back to the early 20th century in South Block, long before the imperial capital shifted from Calcutta to Delhi. Decisions taken within these corridors ranged from the management of military finances during World War II to the complexities of Partition, including the division of resources and pension liabilities between the newly formed states of India and Pakistan.These are stark, but little-known reminders that the administrative decisions taken in South Block often had repercussions far beyond the moment of their making, extending for decades into the lives of tens of millions of people on both sides of the newly created boundaries.The future of both these Blocks is already taking a new shape.In December 2024, India’s National Museum entered into an agreement with France Muséums Développement to repurpose South and North Block into the sprawling “Yuge Yugeen Bharat National Museum,” envisioned as the largest of its kind in the world. The ambition is sweeping: to narrate India’s civilisational journey from antiquity through independence – what Jawaharlal Nehru memorably described as the nation’s “tryst with destiny” – and into the present.There is an undeniable irony, though, in this transformation. Buildings designed by the colonial rulers to embody imperial authority will now house the story of a civilisation that long predates, and ultimately outlasted, that very empire. Yet, if executed with imagination and restraint, the conversion could become one of the most compelling and fascinating cultural spaces in the capital.Comparisons with institutions like the Louvre in Paris are inevitable, though the contexts differ. While the Louvre evolved from a royal palace into a repository of art, South and North Blocks’ transformation will be from a seat of governance into a space of collective memory. The challenge will lie in preserving not just its architectural features but also the intangible heritage embedded within its walls.For those who have known both or one of the Blocks as a place of work, the change will inevitably carry a sense of nostalgia – and loss. The rhythms of daily life – the movement through corridors, the quiet exchanges, the tense moments, the highs and lows of professional life, the countless rounds of coffee served by the Indian Coffee House, and the occasional absurdities – will give way to curated narratives and guided tours.But perhaps that is as it should be. Buildings, like institutions, must evolve. South Block has served its purpose as a centre of power; it will now assume a new role as a custodian of memory. In doing so, it will invite a broader public to engage with a past that was once accessible only to a privileged few.Still, for those of us who occupied one of its stately rooms and walked its corridors, the memory that endures is not of its later adaptations or even its historical significance, but of the unfailing sense of awe and majesty with which one entered it each day.To most people of my generation of civil servants, South Block was never just a building: it was, in every sense that mattered, the unmistakably grand embodiment of the state.Amit Cowshish is a former financial advisor (acquisitions), Ministry of Defence.This piece was first published on The India Cable – a premium newsletter from The Wire – and has been updated and republished here. To subscribe to The India Cable, click here