https://www.studiosree.com/about10 daily 0.75 2026-02-27 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/dd4655fd-4665-459e-9452-3fa591dd30ec/IMG_1761+copy.jpg https://www.studiosree.com/words daily 0.75 2022-12-23 https://www.studiosree.com/words/untiled-poem monthly 0.5 2022-02-06 https://www.studiosree.com/words/h4237z6tg6dczwq4pc3dhyc9zpsuu6 monthly 0.5 2022-01-29 https://www.studiosree.com/words/hello monthly 0.5 2022-02-06 https://www.studiosree.com/bay-area-indians daily 0.75 2025-10-16 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/0784002d-6606-48cc-b190-12b4657bc4f1/webelong-DSC_9212-2.jpg We Belong: Bay Area Indians Manjula and Viggy Mokkarala stand in their Los Altos Hills backyard vineyard amongst their Pinot Noir vines. The family makes their own wine, their first vintage produced in 2012, and gifts it to friends and family.  “I’ve traveled to dozens of countries. Very quickly, I realized that the diversity of India is unmatched. So many languages, so many religions, so many local customs and practices. And yet the country is just held very tightly together. So those kinds of things you look at and you admire more and more as you travel around the world.” – Viggy Mokkarala https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/b51fea7d-e0db-44a8-b3f3-c82980b2c6ca/webelong-DSC_0952.jpg We Belong: Bay Area Indians Tanya Gupta dances to Bollywood music in her Fremont home. Tanya was born and raised in the Bay Area and is a recent college graduate in Computer Science. She often anchors and reports  for Sitaarre TV and loves singing Bollywood music. “I was lucky enough to be raised in a way where my parents never forced the Indian culture on me. I got to choose what I wanted to see in the Indian culture and, what I got to take from the Western culture. I never felt conflicted.” – Tanya Gupta https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/a3b30a64-d782-42a8-88b1-5b3ac0c61864/webelong-DSC_1143.jpg We Belong: Bay Area Indians Sarang Bhatt, a queer Gujurati Hindu, sits in his San Francisco apartment next to a large photo of Lord Krishna, his favorite deity. “Religion I carry with me all the time. There may not be an active discussion or understanding of what queerness is and what it could mean, in a contemporary setting amongst Hindus, but at least in my spiritual community, there isn’t a predefined denigration of it.” – Sarang Bhatt https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/3acfcc3d-de50-4477-b0b2-f24b9e80d79c/webelong-DSC_9482.jpg We Belong: Bay Area Indians Pragati Grover came to the US, newly married with just two suitcases and a Ganesh statue from her mother. She not only learned how to cook, drive and fall in love with Oprah Winfrey and soap operas, but also developed a deeper love for Ganesh, the remover of all obstacles. “I like all kinds of Ganesh.  I don’t mind a dancing Ganesh.  I don’t mind a Ganesh who’s playing the drums or whatever.  What form Ganesh takes doesn’t matter. I think of Ganesh as my friend.” – Pragati Grover https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/9ee479cf-8ce1-44ee-84a6-cfd3a210ce0a/webelong-DSC_0212.jpg We Belong: Bay Area Indians After her experiences with religion and ritual in India, Sumiti Mehta and husband consciously raised their sons Akshaj and Atiksh (seen here playing video games) in a more secular and non ritualistic environment.  “When we are not able to get across to Atiksh, the younger one, we often ask Akshaj’s  help because he’s able to talk to him and make him understand. Atiksh always listens to Askhaj. So that is one good thing and I hope it remains.” – Sumiti Mehta https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/35aba0bb-15fb-4f78-b118-ee8ac1b36ed3/webelong-DSC_0301+copy.jpg We Belong: Bay Area Indians Shalini Chandra moved to Minnesota after marriage, eventually ending up in Sacramento with her family. She created a network of friends by inviting neighbors and local community members to her home for tea parties, introducing them to saree fashion and Indian culture. “This was the first time that I invited them into my life. And it kind of opened a window that to belong, I need to share, I need to bring them into my life for me to belong to them. And those were some of the relationships that I still treasure. They taught me so much.  American thinking is very different from how an Indian thinks. And that kind of shaped everything.” – Shalini Chandra https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/d9162314-4ba9-43ce-a1d1-84ec462e7721/webelong-DSC_0130.jpg We Belong: Bay Area Indians Anshoo Tikoo Zutshi (center) sits in her living room with sister Esha (left) and daughter Ariana (right) in her San Ramon home. Both mother and daughter are wearing outfits featuring traditional Kashmiri embroidery. “I am a Kashmiri folk singer. So I continue to volunteer at all our events where I perform these folk songs so that they are not forgotten. We are a minority community. And sadly, I might be the only folk singer here in all of, not just California, but the United States.” – Anshoo Tikoo Zutshi https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/2b8ca400-aac7-412b-93e0-7051262eb3de/webelong-DSC_0560.jpg We Belong: Bay Area Indians Sudha Rajagopalan was a software engineer in India and continued that profession for over two decades after marrying and moving to the US. After being denied a promotion at work she quit her job to become a radio jockey, RJ Sudha. “Women were not being promoted and being an Indian woman  was a double whammy. I thought, if you guys don’t want me want to promote me, if you don’t want to celebrate my skin color, I would rather go to a place where my skin color and my femininity is being celebrated. That‘s when I saw I told my boss, I’m done with this place. I want to go out and do something of my own.” – RJ Sudha https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/eba54248-491e-41b9-ae46-db202b623619/webelong-DSC_9839.jpg We Belong: Bay Area Indians Paramita Bhattacharjee and husband Satadal stand together in their Fremont home. Paramita first immigrated to St. Louis, Mo. after marriage. She recalls walking on the street during her first two weeks and being honked at. It took 6 months before she was able to start adjusting slowly. “Do I feel more Indian in a saree? Absolutely. If I’m not wearing a sari, do I not feel Indian? I don’t think so. A saree makes me feel more at home because I have memories of my mom and my grandmother, and my aunts.” – Paramita Bhattacharjee https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/bf3460eb-8c1d-40db-b634-00769effc249/webelong-DSC_0776.jpg We Belong: Bay Area Indians Born in India, raised in Ontario, Canada and Chicago, author Raj Oza has been through more than one immigrant experience. An arranged marriage and a few kids and grandkids later, Raj has a unique view of life in America as an Indian. “In actuality, I’m what I call an in between person. I’m  just in between all these generations, and they’re very different. There aren’t too many of us, and very few have  experienced life this way … For quite a few years, we had four generations living under one roof … family passes along that sense of what it means to be an Indian and an American.” – Raj Oza https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/ab6b91f0-88fb-4920-822b-a656baf03f36/webelong-DSC_0435.jpg We Belong: Bay Area Indians Srishti Prabha uses the pronouns they/them and identifies as non-binary. Srishti sits in their room, where they normally attend virtual kathak dance class. After moving to Sacramento Srishti was unable to find a local dance community or teacher like what they had in the South Bay. Srishti has been dancing kathak since age 3. “One of the biggest things I think you get from Indian classical dance is that not only is it the dance of my ancestors, but it’s this idea of dedication to the practice of the art form.” – Srishti Prabha https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/2d901fc3-3f4e-41d3-8a27-a131f843f8f5/webelong-DSC_7587.jpg We Belong: Bay Area Indians Sikh artist Sarabjit Singh (left) works on a painting while her mother Darshan Kaur  takes in the process at the artist’s Santa Clara home. The painting is of the artist’s parents when they were younger. Sarabjit started painting portraits of Sikh culture and her own history after 9/11. “Sometimes they [people] don’t understand out of fear. So it’s good to bring them closer, through love and through kindness. And that is the way I chose to do art, and talk about my art.” – Sarabjit Singh https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/5151d8e7-8df5-479e-b273-e7e38e92d226/webelong-DSC_0644.jpg We Belong: Bay Area Indians Reshma Hyder is an American Muslim grandmother and entrepreneur from Saratoga. She was born and raised in the Middle East, but studied in India, where her father was from, and visited Pakistan frequently, where her mother is from. “When I took my citizenship, I said, I need to pick up one identity. I was going to be an American Muslim, with heritage from India, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia. And I will live my life as a Muslim first. It’s a blessing that I belong to India and Pakistan.”  – Reshma Hyder https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/32dafda7-8aa0-46e5-ba8b-228aa1fcab88/webelong-DSC_9642.jpg We Belong: Bay Area Indians Tiya Mohanty, 12, lies in bed surrounded by the books she loves to read in her Sunnyvale home. Her mother, artist Pragati Sharma, says Tiya is a bit of an Indophile. Tiya reads a lot of Indian mythology books and her favorite character is little Krishna. “Krishna as a kid, he would do mischievous things. But in the end, he would save the day or  help someone, or spend time in the forest with his friends.” – Tiya Mohanty https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/44259a73-3145-478c-9383-9e61385dbee8/webelong-DSC_9746.jpg We Belong: Bay Area Indians Saumya Balasubramanian draws on her bharatanatyam training and dances in her kitchen to classical Indian music  while cooking lunch for her family in her Fremont home. “You spend two hours cooking and then everyone comes together for half an hour and it’s done. I think I dance because it removes the monotony of this thing but also because I have some quality time that I use for myself.” – Saumya Balasubramanian https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/9c93bfea-923f-4a65-8aa7-e1363efb32d2/webelong-DSC_3070.jpg We Belong: Bay Area Indians Saadhvi Das, 10, holds a commemorative plate given to her late father, legendary kathak dancer Pandit Chitresh Das in her San Rafael home. Saadhvi learns kathak at the Chitresh Das Institute, where her mother, Celine Schein Das, is Executive Director. Saadhvi says she feels closer to her father when holding the commemorative plate. “I would like to try and dance as long as I can. And I want to learn more about my history and about India itself.” – Saadhvi Das https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/bf4522ec-2685-49e4-bc36-e24ce4941557/webelong-DSC_4013.jpg We Belong: Bay Area Indians Natasha Kehimkar with husband Derek, children Sela and Zev and dog Roti in front of their Foster City home. Natasha comes from a family of Indian Bene Israel Jews. Her husband Derek converted to Judaism and they’ve raised both their children, originally from South Korea, in the Indian Jewish tradition. “I was the only non white kid in the whole Jewish Day School. Or that I knew of. I learned early on that I have to deal with bigotry, just like everywhere else.” -Natasha Kehimkar https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/4b0a79e5-5595-492e-957e-65addb2cf16c/webelong-DSC_9384-2.jpg We Belong: Bay Area Indians Transgender rights activist Anjali Rimi looks in the mirror in her Bay Area home after dressing in a traditional saree. Anjali is president of Parivar Bay Area, the only transgender-led and focused South Asian organization in the  U.S. “I don’t struggle with being trans or being my whole self, and what religion I follow and how I express my gender and wear a saree or a salwar, or ride a motorcycle in a salwar. I don’t have inhibitions.” – Anjali Rimi https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/13844d6c-4a21-46d6-a42a-024269bd88ae/webelong-DSC_0740.jpg We Belong: Bay Area Indians Vijayalaxmi Oza, 84, stands in her downstairs prayer room in her Morgan Hill home. Vijayalaxmi immigrated with her family to the U.S. in the 1960’s and worked as the head seamstress for major department stores. She picked up multiple languages through her work as a seamstress. “When I came to Canada, I didn’t speak English at all. 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https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/50d6c86e-9ff9-4bff-88ea-e703b99cc9d3/DSC_3841_Edited_1500.jpg The Ministry of No Rhyme or Reason Early morning mist envelopes the street before No Rhyme or Reason opens its doors. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/3786bb0f-edae-4299-8294-2d8874e1d561/DSC_3830_Edited_1500.jpg The Ministry of No Rhyme or Reason John Kelley and his employee Kytle Gibson work closely together throughout the day. “I want to do more,” John says. “I want this to become a living, breathing thing.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/c298bf78-1aea-49a4-a392-7c099d8121c0/DSC_3632_Edited_1500.jpg The Ministry of No Rhyme or Reason Employees and visitors gather inside the store, talking about this week’s news. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/42063be1-6538-413e-8c42-94ada130fc6e/DSC_3660_Edited_1500.jpg The Ministry of No Rhyme or Reason John’s measuring tape and gloves on the floor of his truck. “I gear up. I work. I want to get my cardio up again.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/2c707383-bf67-4eb0-9429-75dfc6b5a630/DSC_3773_Edited_1500.jpg The Ministry of No Rhyme or Reason John looks through a trailer of furniture, figuring out pricing for what he can buy and sell in his store. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/6fcefffa-2f20-4192-aa0a-d8784f25e8e2/DSC_3789_Edited_1500.jpg The Ministry of No Rhyme or Reason John brings friends in the backdoor of his store, to look at a stall that he rents on a monthly basis. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/9ddf38a0-09d9-4c34-a7b4-ebd6fcff1aaa/2018-mpw70-sripathy-07-1024x684.jpeg The Ministry of No Rhyme or Reason A queen mattress from No Rhyme or Reason is delivered to a Mountain Grove resident who is a recent transplant from Chicago. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/96a37a54-a028-4130-ac1d-7e40b7319e48/DSC_3682_Edited_1500.jpg The Ministry of No Rhyme or Reason Jared Merchant and Jon King, help load furniture from a Mountain Grove resident who’s decided it’s time to move out of her home. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/49b54a2f-00d8-4b25-8e40-eeb86d2de1ab/DSC_3695_Edited_1500.jpg The Ministry of No Rhyme or Reason Local resident Danielle’s new cabinet is delivered from No Rhyme or Reason as she hears about some new acquisitions. She decides to come to the shop the next day to take a look. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/6d933d28-69ae-4148-b21c-667be98ddd6f/DSC_3669_Edited_1500.jpg The Ministry of No Rhyme or Reason Four-month-old Dawson lights up as he sees his Grandpa for the first time that evening. “I feel such a bond with Dawson. I was the only one who could get him to sleep in the middle of the night,” says John. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/f9ffac1e-f619-4f7d-b7dd-cf492d4c2adc/DSC_3731_Edited_1500.jpg The Ministry of No Rhyme or Reason After two deliveries, one estate pickup and a garage clean-up, John rests for a moment before he heads out for another furniture assessment for an old friend. “The Lord spoke to me and said he was going to give me the desires of my heart,” said John. “I want to see this whole town completely renovated and changed.” https://www.studiosree.com/home-old-2024 daily 0.75 2025-01-01 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/829d0029-0532-4c18-92cd-60d1c5c5cf7d/DSCF9992_EDITED.jpg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/1a19f62d-3221-4ee3-9297-db068995ff53/DSCF5279.jpg 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https://www.studiosree.com/home daily 1.0 2026-02-27 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/0228fe13-3e7d-4336-8e81-b90fa6c2f3df/DSC_7431_WEB.jpg https://www.studiosree.com/new-page-2 daily 0.75 2025-10-16 https://www.studiosree.com/30-days-of-pd-journal daily 0.75 2026-02-27 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/132d2a3f-3427-45ea-a3f5-248ca46b948d/IMG_2005.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 1, 2022 Only my breath exists at 3:00 am, coming in bursts from tremored lips, sharp black edged letters trying to find their way scraping the insides of the tender pink flesh inside my mouth, no honey, but a blunt hammer yelling work work work when nothing works, the eyes closing as dawn creeps in stealing five minutes when there was only ten. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/fbfba021-3ef2-4789-81a3-4a165eb7934f/IMG_2025.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 2, 2022 I struggle to find words, textures for the imagery of fatigue. The cool glass refreshes my tired eyes, just for moments. Wake up I yell through the deep layers of cells in the center of my body. I cannot. Weary the wet hotness of the kitchen towel rest against my eyes. His snores across from me percolate like the coffee he drinks so often. I am her rested for an eternity contained in those scant minutes. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/38083abd-296b-495b-8e7a-4381f6b5b2fc/IMG_2112_WEB.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 3, 2022 Shadows are my timepiece, my other place where I store my self. They hold the feet that would move to the sharp syllables of sollukattu. They hold the legs and arms that would gyrate to the beat of hip hop on Folsom. They hold the fingers that would click clack on the keyboard delighting in the speed of pads against keys. They hold all that I used to be, following me in daylight separating and reminding me of the past. The press into my body at night, against my eyes and lungs, until shaky stiff fingers peel them away. I try and talk to them, these shadows, but I do not have the words yet. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/fa94af54-8fee-4db7-9f3d-2f6b94448686/IMG_2161.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 4, 2022 Down by the athangarai where they would bathe in the cool mornings and balmy afternoons, sarees clinging to sun moist skin, the red soil pulsing with minerals like the vibration of translucent attendant antennae wings, they replenished, resurrected cell by cell, after chasing ten twelve children, brown feet dusted in dirt. the sun rays and waters of the riverbank would soak earth into them, planets rotating inside their bodily universe, brining ife glow and rest. And so too do I seek rest after rest, afternoon after morning, praying to Surya, heal me as the athangarai gave life before my life. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/4090e1b6-2019-457c-93bc-675c5a4b60ca/IMG_2226.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 5, 2022 Today, opening my eyes as the alarm rings next to my right ear I hear the white noise of the small column fan that soothes me at from morning until night. I hear the chattering chirp of birds through double paned windows and 24.99 dollar curtains. I feel the creaking stiffness of my fingers as they grab for the 16-inch laptop, gripping tightly, consciously clenching around the textured pink case, pushing strengh into slippery pads, slippery due to the dopamine that flows away, sometimes a trickle sometimes like surge of a dam unleased or that scream loud in the night, inside my brain. I feel the plump warmth of the heating pad and the cool touch of the metal footstool that the tips of toes rest against. I feel movement, as the house awakens, confirming that it is alive, and so am I, and it feels good. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/fd6e79bf-13f5-49e3-8ce8-4609067cc08e/IMG_2288.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 6, 2022 The calla lilies are blooming. I’ve killed them more than once. Rusted scythe in hand, the crunching of the stems sounded in my eyes, sharp as the teeth bite of tart peppers, as the snap of the spoon on floor, as my cracked soul, unvoiced screams in my throat, tears that fall too frequently falling then, I destroyed. And yet they bloom. On this day. The day the seed of the plant of me was born. Dark smudged lines only the Nadi can see, curled up into withered edges, bounded by twine, or a Rolodex, foretelling my fate. And just as Devavrata vowed to live with his terrible curse, so must I. Reborn again and again, choosing my own death by choosing life. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/a10ec4a2-1227-4b29-a8b7-8ff2c71f98ff/IMG_2308.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 7, 2022 This is what it’s like, she says to herself. Taco Bell at 10 PM. Sprite, 7-Up, Soda. Not she, but her. Thought vines coil, blossoming and killing as Bhimasena wields sword delivering death, redemption, the latter, maybe. New vines entwine and surround, there is no Prince Phillip to be found. Who wields the sword? Not her, not she. But we. Moonstones skipping over creaking frogs and smooth toes, not toads, or roads but odes to toes rolled out flat and supple. Shaky the hand, wielding that spoon. Mind, where are you? Medusa on Tuesday. Thataka on Wednesday, the vines intertwine, one long dangerous intestine, until she, not her, left with figs and cherry yoghurt after midnight, thinking thinking. Steady the mind she says to her, she says to she. She says. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/f3de7fe0-55e1-4c4b-885d-38d5b54c0649/IMG_2393.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 8, 2022 The stars beckoned me last night. The crisp night air as sweet as vadai made on Krishna Jayanthi, rolled back and forth in Amma’s hand, I felt the breeze move over me in whifts and gentle shadows. Yet sleep came uneasily, in smoky tendrils of a forest chimney, the humid heat clinging to my skin hugging my stiff limbs. The morning came and weighted honey coated my lashes, everything was a golden smudge. And then the sun beckoned me, bathing me with knife sharp heat, slicing into my skin. I espied the manjal covered thengai shell, a gift of the archana two days back. Little hands pressed it against me. They look little houses, she said. And so I am home. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/9819f6ec-2c9c-4dfc-90b0-ddaf21b57855/IMG_2542.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 9, 2022 The leaves shake in the wind saying hi to an old friend. It’s not Parkinson’s but it is. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/46ea4c03-e26d-4966-bec9-6c36285bdf63/IMG_2635.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 10, 2022 Sunlight against rose petals against skin pressed together by five year old fingers with faded nail polish. Like a mask, she says. Yes. Who wants a headband she asks. Me. What colour she asks. Rainbow. Rejuvenation. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/7cdbac83-7328-41a3-bd28-7f6cd2ed7e79/IMG_2341.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 11, 2022 The need to be perfect is a strong demon. It is not one that aids in creation and health, but rather one that destroys. I'm letting go of perfect and fighting myself every step. April is the month where I would share a new image and post taken that very day and post it online, sharing my experience in the moment. I could not serve up anything old and recycled. My Paati would cook fresh daily in the 50s and 60s! How could I do less. And then I stopped, heard my Paati's voice laughing at me saying, "With four young children and no modern equipment do you think we made everything fresh daily? That I would sit on the ground grinding dosai maavu every day?" and I heard her give a hearty laugh again at my foolishness. And so I share this image. And while it was taken a couple days ago, the idea of it was only created today, so my need for perfection is slightly appeased. As someone who learned dance for a few years and continued to remain in love with it, I have always regretted not working hard enough nor being disciplined enough to perform my arangetram. In my 20s, I went back for a moment and thought, I can do this. In my 30s, I'd perform jathis in the kitchen, thinking, maybe. In my 40s, I looked to stunning and powerful female dancers my age wondering what their story was. And now, as 50 knocks on my door, I stepped out into the fresh night air and cool light of the moon on Friday, energized, feeling my body move and thought, let's give this a go and see how my arms move. I can at least attempt alapadma. And so I started with my left hand, encouraging my fingers to flow out into a lotus. My fingers did not want to listen. They curled and cramped until I gently coaxed them outward. But they were wilted. Not the lotus I imagined. Surely my right arm will work, I thought. And yes, it was easier, but much harder than I thought. I wasn't the same. The disease was progressing. Looking at my shadow, my arms and fingers clearly outlined, I saw my future. I could resist and deny or adapt and grow. I could be present, or devolve into past comparison and misery. On most days I chose the former. Some days, though, I cannot and choose the latter. A lotus does not bloom to look beautiful. It blooms because it blooms, and closes when it closes. And so my fingers and hands will move when they can. Some days I may force them to work and push them hard. Other days I may let them be as they are. On some days everything may word in order. On other days it might go all waterfall pike into hell. But today, on World Parkinson's Day, I choose reality, I choose acceptance, I choose joy. I am learning when to open and when to close. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/63feac2a-cbf3-47fa-975e-145d7a555039/IMG_2710.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 12, 2022 gripping the delicate black outline of keys, fingers pressed into the keyboard the breath underneath pads of skin breathing heavily, holding, waiting and then a subtle power moved through ligaments, bone, and tendon fingers flew over a s d f, lifting words into the air, not poetry, not a love letter but a work memo, love in another way for just five minutes. just five, and then . . . nothing https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/e51ef9e1-d190-4224-8ff1-105f0a284d49/IMG_3032.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 13, 2022 fingers twist inside petals curl, darken and fall does the flower bloom https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/28421300-5ca4-4baa-9642-36d8cf5097b3/IMG_3059.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 14, 2022 eyes stay open like frogs at the pond’s edge, waiting for the buzzing insect to land on their pink tongues, they look at and ask, how do you sleep with eyes open? I do not, I reply. I lay awake. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/999d65c1-4824-4e82-8a85-a6b4781aa38a/IMG_3100.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 15, 2022 toes curl in as calves stretch taut, teaching in the taughtness of muscles into ligaments into bone stretching to cue into pointed toes upwards into the clouds on the ceiling. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/3f42c8c5-3287-4bf3-a667-4ed0ac343c5b/IMG_3157.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 16, 2022 A shadow bright shadow passes through, a phantom of past lives, when fingers would nimbly hold silver negatives, gently pushing them into archival sleeves, but now they tear, bend, twist, as the shadow weaves its escape through the lines pressed into my fingers. I hold my hands within my own hands. I press on. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/3fa3d312-1f0f-4cea-a53c-68e996ffd2f4/IMG_3170.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 17, 2022 Caramel cat stretched out sun rays cloaking skin like a toast chestnut, book in hand, mind in other worlds, the weekend was a friend. Cloaked in shadow and light, I wait now for lazy contentment, remembering the river at noon, the sand underneath toes like cool red silk, and the ocean breeze curling around my ears. The sun beckons as I cloak myself in shadow. Yes, I will meet you at 3:00 pm. And we will walk together. And be friends. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/8a428161-5c91-43a1-9017-baaaf0cd04f1/IMG_3201.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 18, 2022 People say you look well, you’re doing good! Maybe you don’t have Parkinson’s because today is a good day, right? There are no good days with Parkinson’s. No day is a good day when you have an incurable, degenerative brain disease that takes away everything at whatever pace it decides. It can never be the good of the past. That is gone forever. But a good moment possible for as long as you can have it. And maybe they might lead to good days. And this moment, right now, is a bloody good moment. The mail has arrived. Par avion. A tingle shoots through my body whenever I see that. Something magical is in that package. All the fatigue has left, adrenaline pours through. I feel energized, renewed. Pajamas off, floaty top on. Shaking fingers take minutes to leave sh in earrings. I almost give up. Deep breaths. I can have this moment. Glasses on, reading light pressed to my skin, I pose. Head keeps shaking, tilting one way. I can work with this. I must. Timer at 3 seconds I click away. And I feel like old me but new me. And I love it. Not the photo I was feeling earlier. Not the words. Should I post? Does it fit? Fuck it. My thoughts. My experiences. My words. My story. My self. And I’m shaky, dyskinetic but man am I feeling good. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/da968565-c88f-40f4-a349-64227ee3f5d3/IMG_3259.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 19, 2022 She’s in the hospital. Again. Nothing is working. Body as stiff as the trees that burned from the wildfires that one fall. Brain as tired as Sisyphus. The same thing over and over. It’s not working. See him. It’s not working. See her. Nothing is working. See them. Brave bold beautiful powerful her. Who will see her? No one is. No one does. But I saw her. That post. She’s suffered major loss of motor function it says. Why didn’t she call? She couldn’t. I could. Phone a friend is powerful. Our network is strong. We must be titanium spiderwebs to survive. And so she’s in the hospital again. Getting help. And I am cocooned. Wondering. Will this be me? And I watch. And I listen. And try to remember. Breathe. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/1b52ffb3-b017-46c3-959c-8fcb8708ef37/IMG_3276.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 20, 2022 Memories tear apart threads that connect myself to myself. Traditions stitch myself back into myself with threads as thin as the zari in Paati’s sari, as strong as the gold of their birth. The red earth of my motherland, cool sidewalks of my homeland weave together into my cells, and hold me. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/3d449435-b782-47e6-a9d7-5a34f54afcf8/IMG_3291.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 21, 2022 I slept the sleep of those who know the end comes soon. Vines from the plant in the right side twisted around my body. Upon awaking, Amma’s smile and barely buttered toast and a warm shower revived the faded silk of my body. But the mirror told something different. Large with black framing, attached to the dresser, sunlight filtering nearby, it said to me such things. You’re old. Haggard as Mantara, yet without cunning or intelligence or talent. The saree is for those with skin of the morning flower, not the ancient rose. Look closely at the skin beneath your chin. Your skin is wrinkled and saggy. It hangs. It betrays you. Saggy skin, no hair, degenerative disease. Who will want you? And so I looked and looked and looked more and listened to the mirror. But I am not happy with this mirror, I thought. And so I went to the other mirror above the bathroom sink, underneath the yellowish fluorescent light. The mirror that has seen my grief, my sorrow, my silly faces. And it also spoke to me. You survive and thrive with kohl rimmed eyes that show your strength, your humour, your zest. Your skin glows with the kasturi manjal of apsara maidens. When the leaves curl and brown they still belong to the earth. When the malllipoo wilts its scent becomes sweet and luscious. When the skin wrinkles, creases and sags, tilt your chin, stretch your skin, and walk proud, your feet embedded into the earth that birthed you. Choose your lens it said. Choose your mirror. You are alive. You have survived. You will thrive. Look! And so I looked and looked and looked more. And I saw. Me. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/5924da06-fd3b-453e-ae79-f1d6e21804e7/IMG_3297.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 22, 2022 Disabled. The word doesn’t fit. But when I tremor, when words slur like fermented molasses, when I gyrate like a demented Ferris wheel, when I’m not ADA compliant, the normal ones might think I am. Disabled is their word. Not mine. I am me. I can click that shutter, I can race up and down the street, I can twist and shout. I can. Whatever it is I can. But I must be disabled for you, for that big house to give me the rights and treatment that are humane, for those normal ones to understand with limited perception. For you I am disabled. Not for me. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/cdcf42e6-e94f-4286-99d3-17b8c9c1bc9d/IMG_3335.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 23, 2022 Breaking News. The personal assistant for the Suprachiasmatic Nucleus, who disappeared last Sunday, has been found. When asked about their boss’s whereabouts the response given was as follows. “I can neither confirm nor deny the location of the Suprachiasmatic Nucleus. I can only say that I saw SN getting into a black Lamborghini with the Optic Chiasm and heard a mention of Bali and something about needing sleep and relaxation.” Incoming Wire: We have a report that since we shared this information five minutes ago, tickets to Bali have been sold out and a group of shaky zombies seems to be converging in major airports works wide. And now on to Saturday’s Home & Garden update. We will be talking about the latest craze in nightshade vegetables. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/c4481f9a-5022-48f0-8258-82ed16838e0b/IMG_3497.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 24, 2022 Breeze against window My hand claws into myself I too am a bird https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/1e9d62ba-0835-446b-b864-3db6668dfa28/IMG_3536.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 25, 2022 after the watermelon sticks in my throat, frog to my crane, after the head bobs and weaves yet remains as tight as the pill bottle in my tired hands, after the tongue wraps around lips teeth and gums struggling to get words out, as the creamy soup of the ramen waits to splash against awkward fingers and mouth, as my torso sways in the still flatness of the cement, as 10 pm arrives and I wait for sleep, as 12 am descends and my eyes open longing for more, after dusk glides into the room I wait for night, racing thoughts hopping between synapses, unable to unplug, when night neither soothes nor inspires, yet I wait. Hoping. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/32f7a4a8-936a-40d2-9def-3c114f10c2de/IMG_3590_Day26.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 26, 2022 I wait for you morning and night I wait for the warmth of your palm in mine I wait for the stillness of your touch I wait for your fingers to stretch, lengthen and curl firmly into mine The cool breeze carrying a bright green crispness winds around us, waiting for us (what I overheard the hand tell the other hand one morning) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/3b12dcd8-6ce3-4e39-b618-9a14f9ec1f4f/IMG_3614_Day27.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 27, 2022 sunlight flows onto my skin like water on rocks from my last walk in the dawn magnolias bloomed later that night, the jasmine vines winding around me that flowering tree, whose name I forget, walks next to me in bright footsteps I remember in faded newspaper clips the breeze between my fingers and the way my feet moved down the street in front of the house with the tomatoes the color of my third favorite lipstick I remember that it was just last year that I moved like the gale calling the moon. I remember that I can still move like the morning mist as it dews against the garden leaves my body moves like the saree flowing through Amma’s hands and I, yes, I rise up. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/a71f65be-3d2b-4bd9-a62c-6205568a7c1f/IMG_3720_Day28.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 28, 2022 I licked my collarbone with my chin and tongue The short silver hairs on my scalp dancing like dandelions in the fall My arms and shoulders listened to the music of the 60s, all that twisting, but the shouting was only inside. The fight stopped for moments. The pain was ever present. I accepted it and could breathe. Nothing worked yesterday. Yet everything worked. I made it. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/83582772-ca8d-40c8-ba44-742ea429b132/Day29_PD_AwarenessMonth_2022.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 29, 2022 Last night she told me, outside in the cool air, that she had noticed my movements upon first meeting me. Is there something I should know about Sree? she asked my boss after that first meeting. Ask her, she’s pretty open about it, he said. She didn’t ask. Two days later, after a late night, of pasta, police and pole dancing, preceded by a Limoncello chaser with the potency of last year’s petrol, I told her. And last night she told me. I didn’t think to hide it, I told her. I cannot. But I did not think it was that obvious, and I hope that people may not notice. The moment I adapt, my body changes. The moment I think I have found a method to rest and calm, the body moves like a pigeon named Elaine, arms jerking, twisting, head moving right and left, chin tucked in and pushed out in warped geometrical movements. Knowing people notice, wondering what they think, if they judge, makes the pot boil anymore. The only time watching a pot will make it boil. And yet there is no other course. I must adjust and accept and accommodate as the world cannot, will not. I watched myself the next morning, today, to see how I move, if it , if I look as awkward as it feels, as I feel. And in the watching my wounds opened up more. I felt shame. Why can I not control this? What am I unable to reign in my mind. And so I watched. And in the watching, I found some acceptance. And in the watching I found some beauty. And in the watching I must be as firm as the mountains behind the home of my youth, as fluid as the leaves that fall in Autumn from the tree in the home of my memory, as gentle as the breeze that arrives during the purple dusk, until I too become part of the red earth, the same earth that my grandmother walked and that my mother ran in, barefoot and joyous, until I too fade. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/dd461efe-c5ef-406e-b99d-3b463d29b801/IMG_3866.jpeg 30 Days of PD Journal April 30, 2022 As much as I vehemently and passionately want to do this all on my own, this meaning life, with Parkinson’s and without, I cannot. There are people who do it all on their own, a voice whispers. Don’t be a wimp, be strong, you can do it. And on this last day of Parkinson’s Awareness Month, I am thinking deeply. For the mountain needs the earth to support it, the flowering jasmine vine needs a trellis to tenderly cling to, the monk is only helped by community of the sangha. And so do I rely on the support, love, understanding and kindness of family and friends. My mother folding my laundry and always cooking for me when she doesn’t have to. My father waiting up for me whenever I go out late. My siblings bringing me lemonade daily or calling always calling me or texting just to say without my asking. My brother-in-law offering me a home if things get rough. My niece giving me a pillow and blanket when I’m sleepy and then cuddling with me, my cousin spreading Parkinson’s awareness by presenting a paper to her team, my cousin-brothers making the most terrible jokes about sex and Parkinson’s to make me laugh. And my friends, knowing me in my ugly and tired moments, in happy beautiful moments, loving me and finding me worthy, worthwhile and important regardless, allowing my body to move and twitch and rest without judgement or discomfort, offering to take care of me, live with me and love me bedridden or not. My online community for showing such constant support, encouragement and realistic hope and utter frankness. These are the moments that make the pain, frustration and emotional and physical upheavals bearable. This is why it’s important for me to share in ways that I never would have thought to previously. In ways that shock and surprise my friends and myself. This is not me yet it is. I am me but I am other. It is a duality. Just as I am Parkinson’s but I am not. As I become more comfortable being vulnerable as an advocate and artist I am able to connect more with people and with myself. And so the work continues. Along with the search for Godiva truffles. Because damn it, that matters. https://www.studiosree.com/covid-diaries daily 0.75 2025-10-16 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/85e2f481-eaae-41a4-8f60-1a37a5928405/Untitled+2.001.jpeg covid diaries https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/1b44586b-66c1-4e3d-a21b-d175df187e47/Untitled+2.002.jpeg covid diaries https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/7d76fb2d-cd15-4be2-a204-77aef0345fba/Untitled+2.003.jpeg covid diaries https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/9724a6c1-0bc4-4fe3-bf3f-5dafed61c653/Untitled+2.004.jpeg covid diaries https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/8f60eda1-3195-465d-970e-d1b22dab2c07/Untitled+2.005.jpeg covid diaries https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/61bc1a1aa28b363fa1d29763/fe04f69b-aa72-477e-a94e-2eba8bcece3e/Untitled+2.006.jpeg covid diaries 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