Backstage at the Democratic National Convention this past August, moving speakers through security, green rooms, and tight schedules, I knew I wasn’t just there to manage logistics. I was there because somewhere along the way — through community organizing, long nights in campaign war rooms, and tireless behind-the-scenes work — I had carved out a place for myself in American politics. And in doing so, I hoped to help make more room for others too.
As a Tamil American and the son of immigrants — my father from a small town in Tirunelveli and my mother from Chennai — my path into politics wasn’t inherited. My parents aren’t political. They’re quiet, humble people who worked hard to build a life in a country that was never guaranteed to them. Growing up, I knew that if I wanted to feel a sense of belonging in my community, I couldn’t sit back and wait for it — I had to go out and find it.

So, I put myself out there — joining the Boy Scouts, playing every sport, I could, running for student government, and eventually serving as state governor of Key Club. I mentored through Big Brothers, volunteered at legal aid clinics, and showed up at every town hall, cultural event, and service project I could find. I didn’t always look like everyone else in the room — but I made sure I was in the room.
That instinct to engage — to serve, to build, to connect — eventually led me to political work. Over time, I was drawn deeper into organizing, campaigns, and public service. Roger Lau, the DNC’s Executive Director, helped me rise in the ranks. He’s not South Asian, but he understood what it meant to be one of the few minorities in the room — and the responsibility to hold the door open for others.

So, when I was assigned to the speaker tracking team at the 2024 DNC Convention in Chicago, I knew how meaningful that moment was — not just for me, but for what it represented. My role was to help ensure that key speakers got from the green rooms to the stage on time. In practice, that meant walking with governors, members of Congress, and economic advisors — managing credentials, rehearsals, and last-minute changes. It’s not work that makes headlines, but none of it happens without people like us.
During the week, I was responsible for tracking Governor Andy Beshear of Kentucky, Congressman Ruben Gallego of Arizona, and economic advisor Steve Rattner — an especially full-circle moment given my background in finance and business. But one moment that stuck with me came while escorting Governor Beshear through the back corridors of the arena.
As we turned a corner, we unexpectedly crossed paths with President Bill Clinton. They shook hands and caught up like old friends, and I quietly took it in. As someone who grew up in North Carolina and started organizing in the South, it was a surreal reminder of how this work can unexpectedly bring you face to face with the people and places that first inspired you.

That theme of representation hit me again when I stopped by the AAPI Caucus meeting. I scanned the room and saw South Asian faces — not just in the crowd, but on the stage. These weren’t just attendees; they were organizers, speakers, and surrogates helping shape the direction of a national political convention. Growing up, that kind of visibility felt rare. And yet here we were — visible, vocal, and trusted to lead. I stood in the back for a moment, just taking it in. It wasn’t lost on me how far we’ve come — and how much further we can go if we keep showing up.
Later that week, I had a chance to briefly meet CNN’s Manu Raju — one of the most respected Indian American journalists covering Capitol Hill. I’ve seen him on TV for years, often as one of the few South Asian faces in political media. Seeing him on the convention floor — in the thick of it, doing his job with the same clarity and urgency he brings every day — reminded me how far we’ve come, and how much further we can go when we’re not just watching history, but helping shape it.
Politics isn’t just about speeches and soundbites. It’s about who’s in the room — and who feels empowered to speak up once they’re there. I don’t come from a political dynasty. I come from a family that believed in education, service, and humility. My parents didn’t raise me to chase the spotlight. But they did teach me that showing up matters.

In 2008, I became a naturalized U.S. citizen at a ceremony in Monticello. President George W. Bush spoke at the event. I was twelve years old, standing beside my parents, watching as they took the oath of citizenship. I didn’t fully understand the gravity of that moment at the time. But I do now. It was the beginning of everything. The beginning of a life spent trying to honor their journey — from village to voting booth — by stepping into the arena myself.
Last year’s convention reminded me how far that journey has taken me. From my naturalization ceremony in Monticello to backstage in Chicago, I’ve tried to keep our community in mind — not just in name, but in spirit. I know what it’s like to be the only South Asian in the room. I know what it feels like to carry the quiet pride of your family on your shoulders. And I’ve learned that visibility alone isn’t enough. What matters is building spaces where we’re not only seen but heard — not just included but trusted to lead.
The convention was, at its core, a celebration of democratic ideals and political possibility. But for me, it was also personal — a moment to reflect on where I come from, how far I’ve come, and the kind of future I want to help shape for those who come next.
Because in the end, this work isn’t about personal glory. It’s about community. It’s about legacy. And it’s about making sure that the next Indian American kid — or Bangladeshi, Pakistani, Nepali, or Sri Lankan kid — sees someone who looks like them, helping things run, being trusted, and quietly shaping what comes next.
We’re not just part of the conversation. We’re helping shape it.
Disclaimer: The opinions and views expressed in this article/column are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views or positions of South Asian Herald.