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In 2007, a photograph was taken for a UNICEF charity calendar.
A 20-year-old Lionel Messi, still years away from becoming the greatest footballer of his generation, is gently bathing a six-month-old baby.
The baby is Lamine Yamal.
At the time, it was simply a beautiful photograph, nothing more.
Nobody looking at that image could have imagined they were looking at two footballing eras in the same frame.
One was just beginning.
The other hadn't even taken its first steps.
That's what makes the photograph prophetic today.
Not because Messi somehow passed the baton to Yamal.
He didn't, because the baton was never his to give.
Every generation inherits it from the game itself. Messi's responsibility was never to create another Messi - It was to leave football in a richer place than he found it.
Yamal's responsibility isn't to replace him, it's to take the game somewhere it hasn't been before.
That, perhaps, is how every meaningful legacy survives.
Not through imitation, but through continuation.
I've found myself thinking about that photograph far beyond football.
Because in many ways, every project we begin is its own version of that image.
When we sketch a masterplan, we aren't designing for the people standing in our sales gallery today. We're designing for people we may never meet.
For the child who'll learn to ride a bicycle on those pathways.
For the grandparents who'll spend winter mornings beneath that tree.
For neighbours who don't yet know they'll become lifelong friends over evening walks.
The strange thing about our profession is that we rarely build for the present.
We build for photographs that haven't been taken yet.
The morning a family moves into their first home.
The birthday celebrated in a backyard.
The child standing in the same doorway twenty years later, now holding the hand of their own son or daughter.
Like football, architecture is a long game. A building may take three years to complete. A neighbourhood reveals itself over thirty. A city over generations.
That's why I've never believed the measure of a development lies in how quickly it sells.
I think it's measured by something much quieter.
Whether, decades later, someone feels grateful that the people before them cared enough to think beyond themselves.
Perhaps that's why that photograph has stayed with me, not because it captured two extraordinary footballers.
But because it captured something every generation eventually discovers.
At Tattvam, every decision begins with the same belief: we're never building our own legacy. We're borrowing it from the future.