feminine, life, Love, Nature, poetry

Mamma (Mother)

(This poem is a tribute to my mamma ( as I call her) for being an amazing mother, for raising two children single, working hard to put food in our hungry bellies, for loving us so much, for setting us free and fad away)


Carried in warm waters of her womb

for 280 days ,raising two children along

with abuses of father who existed in

his absence.


Ran from pillar to pillar, shore to shore

in scorching heats and icy colds to put

a loaf of bread on that severed table

brutal reminder of wedding that

once too  place. 


The sheer poise in her demeanor will 

guard her children from, the evil that

dwells in this world,that assuring smile

would blanket her little ones from the

coldness that only humans are capable of.


And when the time came she walked

two steps behind waning and waxing

like the aged moon,for sons who were

once lovers turned blind, feebly tamed 

by the shrewd ways.


What she achieved was extraordinary

no bills or coins of worth but the 

glorious grace to stand on her own, 

A lesson  learnt since she a woman 

came into the world.


It didn’t matter there was a beautiful

symmetry in her fragile body, the 

enthralling rhythm in her walk and

that charm, a rare one that some 

poets celebrate…


She was to be a vision which shines

without rays of cruel Sun, she was to

guard her place of work, learn to be

loved without a man on her side.


From the high cliff now that I see, this will be

be the world of some father and sons,

of few dimes and family names but I’ll

always be my mamma’s little girl!



feminine, Humanity, Kindness, Compassion, Inspiration, Legend, Love, poetry, Self-Help, woman

A Brute For A Man

What evil dwells in men who lock up

their women in golden cages and deny them

the freedom which nature bestows upon them

the freewill which the lord rests on them 

What kind of love justifies binding up feet

of their women so they can never walk freely,

strangulate their feelings so they never have any

dreams of liberation? They  suffer silently with men

of such devilish brutality, for whom their wives

are just trophies and machines to bear children

which they threaten to take away because the

law is on their side and the house is on their land.

These wives are made to bow more and everyday

and any last vestige of  shredded-esteem that is left

in the gaunt  hollow body and parched heart is

trampled and crushed upon. Even the wisest and

fairest of damsels fall into the charms of these

kinds of brutes who walk ten feet in front of women,

for they are men and carry the burden of their mothers

while their women have already paid for six feet deep.

Their women smile and carefully mask their purplish

dark circles with concealers and expensive mascaras,

however the blueish veins still remain visible beneath

the six layers of dark makeup, The diamond ring

of unholy matrimony used as a bait to catch the

rare fish, digs deep in fragile fingers obstructing the flow

of any life present inside, the wedding gown lay hanging

of a bride who ordered a pretty shroud for herself. 

Still these wives carry neat appearances and smile even 

when chained with hot iron shackles of pride and disdain.

Thoughts of mercy- killing  lingers and echos all the time

but still they carry on for the sake of the newborn babies,

they  bear every-year with a single wish if they are born

as girls never to mistake brutes for men as their mothers did.

For she  can have an unfortunate fate like mine or yours….

Tanya Shukla


Another Lolita

Stretching apart her thin toothpick legs 
Sat robustly on his stunted arthritis legs
Suckling chocolate lollypop euphorically 
Careless licking melted cocoa from corners of lips 
Droplets of sweat accumulated on the forehead
A raw beauty in the care, guardian of
Venus two steps behind womanhood
Could feel the-hard bony rib cage against
His sagging rotten flesh, pulse palpating swift 
Impoverished  bosoms like two sand dunes, 
adorning  emaciated slender waist, yet 
not evolved into any shape, resting on a thin frame 
Could sense a ruffle beneath trousers
Serpents crawling underneath, slowly gradually
Raising  heads out of Ecdysis, sloughing old skin
Squishy, velvety pulsating reddish fleece 
Held his tremoring hands back, a young passion 
Taking birth in his heart, an urgent yearning to 
Explode with rapture at this rare rendezvous 
Odorless Scent of a young body filled his nostrils 
Like on opiate he fell into an ecstasy unparalleled
ready to  burst like a volcanic rapture, dormant for 
Seventy years, a malady damping elated spirits
Frightened maybe he has forgotten the tricks
Nervous fisted his hands with a fractured ego
Mustering courage extends forth sweaty palms
Trying to feel the touch of virgin demoiselle
Heart missing a beat gushed into million stars.
Little snakelings crawled back to the hood.  



Lately, we are hearing a lot about the migrant crisis in Europe and here in America. It is a hot topic which is played 24/7 on news channels. But no one has ever really tried to understand what it feels like to be in someone’s country esp if your there out of compulsion. There can be many different compulsions, social-economic, political or a job. My migrant journey began with the middle east where I worked for four years, trying to teach Wordsworth to Arab students. Sometimes as difficult as blooming daffodils in Saharan desert, where the only plant capable of sprouting is cactus.


Sometimes I would wonder what on Earth I am doing here, I am right in the middle of a crazy war. The war which is not even mine and no one knows why it is taking place nor the locals nor that NATO soldiers.  But it was the trill and adventure which took me to far-flung lands. Walking on the roads adorned by palm trees I would be mesmerized by the sheer brash beauty of the dry and parched landscape. Since I was an outsider that too a woman I had a hard time finding an accommodation despite my education, which was at times humiliating. First, you’re relegated to a third-rate citizen because you are not native, then if you are a woman you became a fourth rate. The only oasis was the grand shopping malls, which became an instant hit with me.


But I was not a burden on the great Arab land instead I was tasked with educating young minds and empowerment of veiled women. That was my small contribution to the land of boudin nomads which I did sincerely.


When I got married I became a migrant again, from the land of nomadic tribes, I suddenly found myself in the land of free. When the rude custom officer at the JFK  asked me about documents, I so wished to be sent back to the dirt hole I came from, because I had no wish to be an outsider again or rather go through the grilling interrogation. It’s better to be a queen of squalor than a dirt in a golden palace. Seven months pregnant with crazy hormones and a clueless husband, away from my family and any support, I  tried to keep myself warm with the help of Irish whiskey in the frigid cold of Connecticut. The numerous yummy double patty burgers I devoured while making sense out of my perpetual migrant existence.

I knew I am now entrapped in the land of free, without a job, a driving license and a support system I am totally at the mercy of my husband, so I better be a good wife. But I discovered something familiar, the seminary of every young girl, the grand shopping malls which again became comforting.  Curious natives at times would compliment me for my exotic complexion or a lovely accent or simply ogle (of course for my beauty as I would have liked it to be)   in an attempt to figure out what alien creature I was. At times I would joke that I am from Jupiter, which would bring a sweet smile on their faces.


I realized there are many women who find themselves in a similar predicament, alone and supportless in foreign lands. Some situations are worse if there is domestic abuse or children are involved, its a feeling of complete entrapment. I know many who would like to escape the dreariness of a solitary life in an alien land midst curious natives.I guess every migrant has a story to tell some more dramatic than others, but I always felt my story is more interesting because I had no compulsions as such, I simply enjoyed traveling, got married to the only man who gave me the ring, crossed the great Arabian Sea on one clear night with no albatross around my neck, flanked by dimpled smile hostesses.


In no other century, have women had so much on our platter as in the twenty-first century? In old times, a woman’s role and behavior were established by the society. The conventional woman was trained to be a good wife and a moral custodian. Her world revolved around her husband and children. She didn’t have a real job outside the home. Modern women through successful by the professional standards are grappling with a myriad of issues. Many women are battling depression and obesity. In developing countries, women are still struggling to find a fair footing.  How does a woman protect her grace and dignity in such trying times? How does one become a woman of substance?

Treat Others The Way You Want To Be Treated

The golden role is to treat others the way you want yourself to be treated. Be the change that you want to see in others. If you expect others to offer you respect then you will have to offer the similar courtesy to them. Is there any woman out there who wants to be treated rudely, my guess is no. A woman of substance is never rude and impolite to others. She is never mean and will treat others with kindness and compassion. She leads by example in both her speech and actions.

Accept Your Feminine Side

You must have heard the phrase act like a woman and think like a man, haven’t you? A woman of substance is one who acts like a woman and thinks like a woman. She is perfectly comfortable in her skin and control of her emotions. They don’t have to behave like a man to be accepted or approved. She considers her femininity as an asset and takes pride in its subtle strength. Also, she is neither defensive or combative about herself, instead, she exudes great confidence and poise.

Universal Sisterhood

There is something alarming when one woman demeans the another. We live in a male-dominated world steeped in patriarchy; it’s disheartening to see many women becoming agents of such patriarchy. A dignified woman will never take the joy out of other woman’s misery. The world will become a better place if women of all casts and creed come together to support each other. Rather than bashing each other, we should live as soul sisters.

Taking Care Of Yourself

We, women, have always adorned the role of nurturer and a caretaker in the society. It is then an irony that we don’t take care of our needs. A woman of substance is not only cognizant of the needs of others but is also aware of her requirements. She takes care of herself both physically and mentally. She is confident and carries herself with dignity and grace.

Let’s not feel guilty about our flaws but embrace them. No one is perfect in this world; human beings are bound to make mistakes. A mature woman accepts her shortcomings and welcomes constructive criticism. She doesn’t focus on other’s imperfections and concentrates on the good. She considers life as a learning process and leads an enriching life. A woman of substance is confident and exudes positivity. She knows her mind and treats everyone with respect and kindness. There is no instructional guide that we can follow and become a woman who is admired.