SiliconAndhra / Logo

About twenty-five years ago, my friend Sanjay Kavaveru and I drove to Valley Green Apartments in Cupertino to meet a young engineer newly arrived from Boston. His name was Anand Kuchibhotla, and he wanted to start another Telugu organization in the Bay Area.

We went with a simple mission: to convince him not to.

The Telugu community in Northern California was smaller then, and we felt another organization would divide the community further, competing for the same members, volunteers and donors. It seemed like common sense.

Also Read: SiliconAndhra sets 3 world records at silver jubilee celebrations in California

Around the turn of the century, most Indian associations in North America focused on helping first-generation immigrants build community through conventions, social gatherings and visiting personalities. Anand was not criticizing that model. He simply asked whether it was enough for the next generation.

After nearly two hours of conversation, I came away with a different conclusion. Anand wasn't trying to create another Telugu association. He was trying to build an institution that, in my view, did not yet exist.

He believed the community needed something devoted primarily to Telugu language, literature, classical music, dance, poetry, theatre and civilizational heritage. Existing organizations already did important work bringing families together through conventions and entertainment. His vision was complementary, not competitive: fill the gap they weren't designed to address. That distinction has stayed with me for twenty-five years.

One early event crystallized his vision: an Aṣṭāvadhānam, a demanding classical Telugu poetic performance tradition, by scholar Dr. Garikapati Narasimha Rao at the Livermore Hindu Temple. I remember my surprise at seeing hundreds turn out for a program built around one of Telugu literature's most rigorous traditions. For me, that evening challenged the common assumption that audiences in America were interested only in entertainment.

Over the years, I watched the organization grow in ways that now feel inevitable but didn't then. Large cultural festivals at De Anza College celebrated Telugu literature, music and dance with remarkable quality. Volunteers returned year after year. Children who once attended with their parents became performers themselves.

But those events were only the visible layer. Silicon Andhra was not building events. It was building institutions.

The clearest example is ManaBadi, its Telugu-language school system. Every immigrant community eventually confronts the same question: will children inherit only memories of the language, or actually learn it? Silicon Andhra asked a different question: how do you create an environment where children want to learn Telugu themselves? Language then becomes a doorway to poetry, music, history and identity.

That same philosophy extended into higher education through what is now Aria University, offering accredited graduate programs in Indian classical music, dance, Telugu and soon Sanskrit. A community movement had evolved into an educational ecosystem.

I had the privilege of delivering the convocation address at the university's first graduation. It struck me that a vision that began with preserving Telugu language and culture had evolved into an institution awarding advanced degrees in India's classical knowledge traditions. One graduate, Kiran Simhadri, now teaches Telugu at Stanford—evidence of how far that journey has come.

Earlier this week, Anand summarized his original aspiration in a way that clarified everything I had observed over the years. He never wanted Silicon Andhra to become an organization centered on movie stars, political speeches or entertainment. His dream was an institution where children growing up in America would discover the richness of Telugu language, literature, music, dance, food and values — and feel proud that these were part of who they were.

After four decades in leadership development and organizational change, I have learned that enduring institutions do not ask, "How do we organize better events?" They ask, "What future are we trying to create?"

Most immigrant organizations ask: how do we bring our community together? Anand asked a different question: how do we help future generations choose to carry their culture forward? When parents tell children to preserve heritage, responsibility stays external. When children discover meaning themselves — learning Telugu, performing Kuchipudi, reciting the poet Vemana, studying Carnatic music, eventually teaching others — culture becomes identity.

Lasting cultural transmission happens not because traditions are protected, but because they are practiced. That, in my view, is Silicon Andhra's most significant contribution.

The three Guinness World Records celebrated during last weekend's Silver Jubilee at Oakland Arena were remarkable. But they weren't isolated achievements — they were the visible outcome of twenty-five years of patient investment in teachers, students, volunteers and families. 

Few institutions reveal their significance in their early years; their purpose becomes visible only across decades. Twenty-five years ago, Sanjay and I wondered whether the Bay Area really needed another Telugu organization. Today, I believe we asked the wrong question. The better one was whether the community needed an institution dedicated to transmitting its language, arts and civilizational heritage to future generations.

Twenty-five years ago, I thought Silicon Andhra might divide the Telugu community. Looking back, I believe it did something very different. It expanded our imagination of what a diaspora institution could become. Its greatest achievement is not that it preserved a culture. It created the conditions under which future generations can renew it.

 

(The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of New India Abroad.)

Discover more at New India Abroad.