“She was beautiful, but not like those girls in the magazines. She was beautiful, for the way she thought. She was beautiful, for that sparkle in her eyes when she talked about something she loved. She was beautiful, for her ability to make other people smile even if she was sad. No, she wasn’t beautiful for something as temporary as her looks. She was beautiful, deep down to her soul.” ~ F.Scott Fitzgerald

For my daughter and my son. To see beauty differently and fight for that.

International Women’s Day, March 8, 2026.
Women’s History Month, March 1—March 31, 2026.

“She was Beautiful”
Original Art by Bela Suresh Roongta
Acrylic & Ink on Paper.
6 x 6.

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i last wrote on january 19th. since then i have thought about writing many times, but then i stop.

what do i write about when the world is so . . . ?

this week i wanted to write about holi, the indian festival of color, which hundreds of thousands, millions across the globe, celebrated. i wanted to tell you that it is one of my favorite holidays, one that takes me back to india to one of my favorite memories— walking the streets of jaisalmer and being covered in color— yellow, red and orange— from my head to my toes.

but then there was the news, of the suffering of young girls and going to war...

before holi, i wanted to share my art— the making of lilies in paris, a painting of lilies in brilliant blue, or one of my hearts for the strange-little-day-in-february-that-is-supposed-to-be-about-love-but-for-many-is-not.

but then there was the news, of people being taken from the streets and the suffering of young girls...

in between holi and the sharing of my art, i wanted to write about my love of skiing, of sitting in a chairlift all by myself after catching the last chair up and watching the sun light up the mountains and thinking how beautiful, how lucky, how in awe i am of the human spirit and our capacity to innovate and create something that lets us play on top of and inside a mountain, in and out of its trees and between its peaks, but also in wonder of how that same spirit can be so exclusive, so constrained, so cruel, so unkind.

most recently i wanted to write about paper & pens and how much i love them. how they bring me so much joy. i wanted to write about how i found the most perfect new journal with the most perfect paper. blank inside & silky smooth, the perfect size. i wanted to write about how the feel of my pen across the paper makes me want to keep on writing even when i have having nothing left to say or run out of time and how the best part is that i can buy these journals, replenish my supply or choose something new, in person at a store nearby, and that when i went to visit it for the first time with my daughter last weekend i was so completely satisfied that i forgot about the world outside.

but then i thought, how can i write about that when the state of the union is not what he said, when now, always with me, is a copy of my passport and my real ID.

what do we write about when the news is of going to war, the losing of lives, long-ago hidden files and the suffering of young girls?

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I keep trying to write a story to share, mostly writing in my head because every time I start to type, the words get lost on the page. It is hard not to think about Minneapolis & St. Paul— I have been going there for almost 30 years to be with family and friends. But a year or so ago, I got a little place of my own. And now, along with Milwaukee, I call it home.

One of my favorite things about Minneapolis are the bridges. They are often what gets me outside for a run. Three bridges, five miles. Even when my legs are heavy and I am struggling, the bridges make me smile. But they are not safe for me, at least not now. If ICE drives by, all they will see is brown. They will not see my citizenship. They might not ask. They could just take me.

I think about all the people who have been lost. All the families we have broken apart. All the walls we have put up— the love & friendship, art & history, music & food, design & culture, collaboration & partnership that has been, will be lost.

Who are we without each other?

I keep thinking about this one day when I was making a batch of my homemade chai with a chef from Puerto Rico. He had been on vacation but was back in the kitchen with my water already boiling. He greeted me with a smile and asked me about my walk. A tight muscle, I assured him, nothing serious. He spoke to me in English but grew up speaking Spanish. As he worked, he bantered back and forth with Jose and the other cooks and staff. I loved the rhythm of their banter. The way it ebbed and flowed in harmony with the sounds of the kitchen. He lost a father and became one when he was young. He moved from couch-to-couch and friend-to-friend. He was just living, he told me. Doing what he had to do all of those years ago. He talked with a quiet kind of honesty. One that is free of pride or longing. He spoke as if he was a man with everything. He told me about finding love when he was young. And that all of these years later, they are still together—she likes it when he makes pasta—with chicken and lobster.

He talked of our ancestors. His and mine. Coming together to make the chai. I listened and imagined them dancing, sharing their wisdom and watching over us. Watching over all of us.

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The sun is my first design and at three by three feet hangs impressively between the two south facing windows in my studio. It started as a doodle, black ink on paper, sitting on the floor where I often sat. I was drawing in the tradition of my East-Indian ancestors, borrowing from the ancient art of Mehndi or henna as it is more commonly known here in the West. The art form is a celebration of prosperity & good fortune traditionally applied to a bride’s hands & feet. The paste is made from the finely ground leaves of the henna plant, itself auspicious and believed to have medicinal & healing qualities. The skin is stained an orange or deep red with an intricate pattern of designs that symbolize love, luck & joy.

My parents immigrated from India before I was born. My father went to Africa first. My mother followed— leaving India & the only home she had ever known, crossing an ocean, alone, pregnant with me. Together, she and I made our way to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania where I was born. She did not know then that India would never again be her home. And that it would never be mine.

From Africa we went to England where my sister was born. We did not know India or the family to whom we belonged. Going back was rare & difficult. It should have felt like home but it was lonely, impossible to find our place, foreign.

But there were moments, flashes of time, when we did belong. For me that moment, that flash of time, always came on the day of henna, sitting on the floor of my grandfather’s flat, waiting my turn— surrounded by the women in my family singing, eating & talking as they prepared the food and readied the bride.

I did not know it back then but these moments, each time my hands were adorned with henna, and every time since, brought me closer to the family I so desperately wanted to belong.

So when I sat down and started drawing that doodle that would become the sun, borrowing from the shapes & patterns of the art form I have loved since I was a little girl, it was my ancestors taking my hand in theirs, showing me the way to my roots, to who I am and to who I would become— a daughter of India, a mother, an advocate for women, an artist.

The sun was the beginning.

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As I write this, it is 11:19am in Mumbai, where most of my family live. They are ten and a half hours ahead in a time zone oceans away. Here, I am winding down for the night. There, they have been up for hours, preparing for the day. Today, is Diwali, the Indian New Year. While we wait until December 31st for ours, they are celebrating theirs.

I have often thought of time zones as a sort of time travel. Cultures too.

There, this is a time for prayer and ritual. Diyas, earthen candles, are lit and tumeric powder & vermillion, betel leaves & betel nuts, sandal paste & marigold flowers, silver coins & sweet dishes are set out as offerings to the Gods. Prayers are said for joy & prosperity, wealth & knowledge, and light over darkness.

I wonder, as we watch and listen to the stories of people from different cultures being disappeared, how much we will lose. And I hope against all hope that the prayers of the more than one billion people around the world celebrating Diwali, will help us time travel, light the darkness, and make it stop.

Wishing you a Happy Diwali. From my heart to yours.

Bela

the blood moon
made me believe in so much more
than what seemed possible...

a super moon eclipsed by the earth’s shadow,
a brilliant cascade of deep red
turned to blood

passing through
timeless

it fills in the beauty and
lights the darkness


~bela

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i recently took a break from social media, a long break. a break that gave me space to adjust to living between two cities. a break that gave me time to struggle through injuries and get back to running. a break that led me to mexico where i fell in love with mexico city, to france where i finished a commission and painted ‘lilies in paris,’ and to india where i discovered the Great White Desert of Kutch. i began practicing law again and this summer, continued my studio advisory role at uw madison for their masters of innovation & design capstone project. the students were asked to create into the future, and answer the question “what if everything turned out okay?” for eight weeks i helped them explore and discover, and as their installations came to life, i thought about my own work. i have a place to practice law and a place to draw, but what i have been missing is a place to write. so i started a substack— a place to travel, experiment and not just imagine but be a part of a future where everything turns out okay.