It began with a need within our own homes: children who could follow Kodava takk but not answer in it, and nothing anywhere that could help. There was nothing to build on — no translator, no dictionary a computer could read, not even a word list in a form a machine could use. The big language collections that hundreds of other languages sit in, the ones every new tool gets built from, simply did not have Kodava takk in them.
That absence is what a language looks like shortly before it stops being written. Not dramatic — just missing from every list, so every new tool built on those lists is built without it, and the next generation grows up with a mother tongue that their devices cannot spell.
So we built the translator, then the dictionary, then the lessons. And then, following the same absence backwards, we found that the written record of Kodagu itself was in the same state — present, scanned, and effectively unreadable. So we read it back.
Everything since has come from the same instinct: find the thing that ought to exist for Kodavas and does not, and make it. That is how a translation project ended up with five programmes.
Because preservation on its own has a ceiling. A language nobody uses to talk about a job, a harvest or a family crisis becomes a museum piece, however well archived. The most useful thing we can build for an eighteen-year-old in Gonikopal is not a dictionary — it is somebody in Bangalore who will take their call. For a grower in Virajpet it is knowing what a curer paid a neighbour last week. For a family that has just moved to Pune it is one person who answers.
So Connect, Market and Community sit under the same roof as the language and the archive. None of those three is built. We would rather publish the thinking and be held to it than announce them when they are safely finished.