Asha's Blog

~A Cauldron of Thoughts~

I wasn’t drunk…

I wasn’t drunk

when I spun my life around us

I wasn’t drunk

when I emptied my secrets

laid myself bare open

showed you into the room

where my fragile insecurities hid

naked as my ripped open heart

I wasn’t drunk

no, I wasn’t.

But I guess I’m drunk now

for I can’t see clear

those shifting shadows

is it you

or somebody else?

Guess I’m drunk now

for the restlessness shows

through my fickle scribbles

Guess I’m drunk now

look how I stammer

stumble, and fall

in the abyss




in the blankness



Asha Seth

Featured post


Going back in time, I ponder over the last hour. I begin by reading ‘If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller’ because that’s what I am reading presently. At the back of my mind, I’m thinking about what an overrated book ‘Paper Towns’ is. After 18 minutes gone and I know it’s 18 and not 20 or 25 because I am wearing a digital watch. So it is 18 minutes 31 seconds precisely. I realise I’m on page 7. Bam, that’s where I started. I’ve read this sentence more than a dozen times.

I am the man who comes and goes between the bar and the telephone booth. Or, rather: that man is called “I” and you know nothing else about him, just as this station is called only “station” and beyond it there exists nothing except the unanswered signal of a telephone ringing in a dark room of a distant city.

I read it once more to see if it means anything different. Nothing. I must be out of my mind. Lacking interest instantly, I shut the book. Stare at its cover for few seconds; the title with its letters tumbling over makes no sense either.

It doesn’t take a detective’s mind to figure that I am in no mood to read, which to my surprise, I don’t find surprising. I’m suddenly gripped with an urge to scribble down things. Picking up a pen, I search for my diary. One word down and my mind goes – where’s my black pen? I start hunting for my black pen because that’s who I am – The Black Ink Writer. When I’ve found the pen, I don’t want to write anymore. Half-fuming, half-exhausted, I am at a loss of things to do.

For no particular reason, I decide to call mum. But mum’s inquisitive as ever; she’ll ask exactly what I don’t want to talk about – life. Life that’s so screwed up. Shrinking a bit over the oddity of the situation, I feel terribly lonely.

I want to go hide under a rock. Fly off a roof and disappear in thin air. I bite hard into my knuckles and then peer at the bite marks. The imprints are just as obscure as are my thoughts. Like the dreams that ring a bell, but are hazy in the mind. Caffeine, I’ve heard, sets mood right. So I brew a cup of dark coffee. Sugarless. Dark. Just how I like. No sooner I’ve poured myself a cup, I let it rest on the table. And soon forget about it.

A rush of breeze with a whiff of freshly baked bread ushers in. I peek out the window, staring into nothingness. Minutes pass unnoticed. Oblivion is bliss. A loud call breaks the reverie. Men scurry to the mosque, like ants rushing to a mound of sweet.

With a blank mind and an empty satchel, I leave the house.

Indecision is deeply rooted in our inability to conclude. The reluctance to accept the obvious outcomes of circumstances. But courtesy of these indecisive moments,  even the most trivial matters become cumbersome.

I’d love to hear about your moments of indecision. What do you do? Are you also just as lost? Do write to me.

-Asha Seth

Featured post

A Game of Words

Work of Wonder by Advaita Inamdar
Peek into his fascinating world here:


If it’s just a game of words,

Then I must give it a try,

It’s like a challenge to me,

Gets me all mighty and high.

My pen is a sword,

And my poetry is a shield.

I never forget to bring my dreams along,

As I enter the battlefield.

There is no law in this game of words,

The only right is to choose,

The words you write in ink,

And you can’t dare to lose.

I am a master in this game of words,

Bravest among these selected few.

I will fight hard to get in,

And it will get ugly too.

The safety is off,

And my words will slay tonight.

It’s all just a game of words, baby,

And you wonder if I can put up a fight ?

The game is on,

And my sword is drawn to kill,

And on parchment ink shall be spilled,

It’s now just a battle of true skill.


Find the full post here:

Featured post


A glimpse

into the gone

in the tales of yonder

beyond the visage

of newness

there lies




and impish glee

such innocent bliss

such poignant memories

no place thus to be found

no where thus seen

Here’s to the child in each one of us!

👨 Happy Children’s day 👩


Asha Seth

Featured post


scarred by your words
the insolence of your allegations
coarse and obscene
have mercilessly
annihilated all of me

how heartless
blew apart
the love and the likes
a stream of dislikes
the insults and the strikes
to put up with these
no longer I wish

cut right to the bone
every breath let out
are residues of ignored appeals
and precipitated hopes
smeared with resentment
tossed to the pile
of your egoistic psyche

malignant as hell
treason then sedition
it’s a foul show
tremors shake me to core
but what’s it to you
never said a word
bet you can’t feel them too
remorse ain’t enough
not any more

cant wait
what for
play me for a fool
sorry, but no more
heart as cold as a corpse
steps as heavy as stones
away from you
they take me no care where


Asha Seth

Featured post

The Good Writer & The Bad Writer

Is there such a thing as a good or a bad writer? I have battled with this thought in my head for quite too long. I think it’s time to unleash my thoughts!

As a writer, I have experienced that newbies in writing are always chased by an incessant thought – they are not good enough. I’m sure to this many of you may agree. Or was it just me?😛

When I began writing, I would always feel that something’s amiss. Whatever I did felt insufficient, unsatisfying. A need to do better prevailed even after multiple edits were done. Thoughts somehow seemed insignificant, unrealistic. I’ll be downright honest – the nagging thought that I am not a good writer made most of my days worse, with no inspiration to scribble even a sentence.

So then how does one become a good writer? As many of you are prepping up for the NaNoWriMo, does this thought cross your mind too? Is there such a thing as a good or a bad writer?

I say yes. I have met them both. They both live inside of me, renting out rooms in my mind. Motivating yet belittling. Praising yet critising. At times, they drive me crazy with their endless banters, but I’ve got to find a balance if I do not wish to lose sanity.

So here goes, certain instances that both have enjoyed, leaving me restless.

Good writer (GW): I think this post is amazing, reflecting my thoughts perfectly.
Bad writer (BW): This writing is so bad, it makes no sense. You are too naïve to see through the gaps and will fall right through it. 


BW: You’ll never rise the pedestal. Look how shabbily you write!
GW: But I’m doing everything I can, why then you say this?
BW: And don’t you see how badly you fail?
GW: But I will learn it in time. I will be better.
BW: I bet you won’t. You will receive nothing out of this trial. Better quit, do something else.


And I’ve been pestered for years. Phew!

What I’ve learnt after careful observation is this –

The insecurities, uncertainties make the bad writer. The grit, the dedication make the good one.

I have struggled in vain, to eradicate these thoughts, but gained nothing. They are both here to stay. I better choose who I listen to, and who I ignore.

There’s no such thing as a good or a bad writer. So don’t be afraid or intimidated. One learns and grows – it’s as simple as that! Everyone has a unique style of writing, and that’s it. Nothing good, nothing bad. If you write, you’re a good writer. PERIOD!

What do you think guys? Do you think such a thing as a good or a bad writer exists? Share your thoughts. Let’s talk!

-Asha Seth

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Diwali Frenzy

Right since childhood, we Indians are taught that Diwali is a festival of lights. But I think there’s more to it. The festival of lights has a deeper meaning than what is propagated.

As I delve deeper into the religious background of the festival, I discover that lighting lamps, making rangolis, decorations, is just the authentic part of it. The real meaning of Diwali is cleansing one’s self from insecurities, ignorance, vengeance, hatred. Good riddance from unwanted and evil, is what Diwali is all about. And what’s why this festival holds special significance for me.

I stay away from the meaningless celebrations such as bursting firecrackers not only because they are anti-ecofriendly, but because animals are greatly impacted in these few days due to loud noise and pollution. So Diwali mood usually drags me into a cleaning spree. Uncluttering, organising, shifting things here to there, but mostly getting rid of unwanted stuff. By the by, I also enjoy the sweet delicacies made especially on Diwali and my mom’s an expert cook at that.

Few days ago I realised that I haven’t been receiving posts from most writers that I like. My reader would not populate their posts. For some time, it was all right and then it started to really annoy me to find only a few blogs and their posts repeatedly posted.

A little digging revealed that most blogs I follow have died out. And that’s when it hit me that I’m following way too many blogs – 1808 precisely. More than half of these blogs have gone inactive since years, while most others haven’t posted anything in a long time. These blogs have cluttered up the space barring other posts from showing up.

Since I’m frantic about cleaning up things, I started it with my blog. I have begun to unclutter it of the inactive blogs. In the last few days, I’ve gotten rid of about 565 blogs. Voila! Now I can see posts from writers who do write religiously. See! You see the sun, only when the clouds are gone.

And now, may the festive season inspire you to live happily surrounded by loved ones, that evil makes no home in your heart. Here’s wishing all you guys a sparkling and prosperous Diwali!

-Asha Seth

Featured post

On Writing Schedules

Why is a writing schedule essential?

I had never given this much thought. Been blogging for 5 years now and yet, I’ve never had a writing schedule. I sometimes feel as though I’m missing something. And so I decided to blog about it.

A schedule in any exercise is all about discipline; discipline that makes you better in the art. A writing schedule is meant to keep you in the practise of sharing your work on a timely and frequent basis.

But how important is it?

I have known writers who follow a schedule and who don’t. Author interviews always consist of the interviewee probing the author about his/her writing schedule; a takeaway for budding authors. I have been asked many times if I follow a schedule. I guess it’s more of a personal choice.

Like I admitted, I’ve never worked around a schedule. Trust me, I find it intimidating. I can’t have my mind work around a timeline. It is thought-restricting. Like in a traffic jam; traffic jam of ideas. It’s like working on a deadline and I detest the rush it brings.

For me,

Writing is about finding the peace, about settling my mind off things, discovering myself.
It is an escape; a long-sought refuge.

And this won’t be possible if I am time-bound. I feel it’s injustice done to your mind, your thoughts, and your passion for the art. Well, some of you may disagree and I’d love to know your take on this.

Not being able to write freely is no good. I have never followed a schedule. So I have no advice to share. What I do is – I write when the thoughts kick in, when something’s too significant to not be shared, or simply when words concoct tales in my head which I feel are too precious to be lost. And once I’ve bled through, I schedule them to be published.

So there’s a difference you see. I don’t pick a schedule and write. I do the opposite. I write and then schedule it. But I do make sure that I publish a post at least once a week. Rest of the days when I’m not writing, I indulge and enjoy wallowing in other writers’ works. After all, a writer needs his/her bouts of inspiration.

The answer to the question – whether a writing schedule is essential – is that, if you are someone who finds it difficult to write on a regular basis owing to multiple other commitments, a writing schedule can help you balance your priorities.

What I’m trying to say is,

Whether you write once a week or once a month, it doesn’t really matter as long as you are content. In the end, writing should leave you with a sense of completion.

What are your writing habits? Do you follow a writing schedule? Let’s get to know it. Share your thoughts, inspire the seekers.


Asha Seth

Featured post


Blue is the day
so is the air I breathe
the sky I look at
reflects how I feel

Blue is my heart
and the blood in my veins
 so is the sea that hides
what lies far away


Asha Seth


Featured post


Never knew what hate was
it was my love for you
that introduced me to it
a love that so completed me
is slowly poisoning
my mind, heart and soul

Hate is
the air around me
the roads I trudge
the sleepless nights
with the ashes of your memories
blackening my mind

Hate is
my new companion
killing every bit of you I knew
making me revengeful
angry, crazy

it’s mere mockery
that you swear
that you loved too
’cause my eyes
having witnessed the truth
now so resent

even a mere illusion of you

Hate is
the distance between us
the nightmares of what happened
it is the remnant
of the inconsolable pain you gave
of the undeserved love you used


So, it’s been a while I’ve wanted to do song posts. This simply means writing a poem or a verse, inspired from songs. This #SongPost is inspired from ‘Quit Playing Games‘ by Backstreet Boys.  Here, hope you enjoy listening to the song.🙂

You also can participate. It’s really fun. All you have to do is:

Choose a song and write a post around it.
Use the #SongPost tag.
Share a YouTube link of the song for readers to enjoy.
Tag friends you think might love the song.

Asha Seth

Featured post

When I’m Gone…

When I’m gone…
baby, walk the meadows,
where the dew tickled our toes
where we’d lie for hours
consumed with love

in that moment, I’ll be with you

When I’m gone…
baby, sit by the pond,
we’d toss pebbles into
and watched them
leave ripples on the surface
in that moment, I’ll be with you

When I’m gone…
baby, climb the hills
we’d wave the sun goodbye from
and sealed the day with a kiss
in that moment, I’ll be with you

When I’m gone…
baby, read Frost, Calvino, and Poe
that we’d wallow in sitting by the fire
in that moment, I’ll be with you

When I’m gone…
I want you to feel no grief
shed no tear, evade despair

baby, just know this
like the moss that cushions the stones
your love cushioned my damaged soul.


Asha Seth

Featured post


She daydreams
about the handsome princes
and knights in shining armor
the queens in glorious gowns
and castles with secrets galore

She’s mesmerized
by the magic conjured by wands
by the beauty of invisibility cloaks
by cursed rings, poisoned apples,
the elves, hobbits, and dwarfs

Her world lies between the pages
filled with miracles and fairytales
the real world is as insipid
as are the people and the places

She lavishes her days
amidst worded treasures
of the world around
She’s oblivious as ever


Asha Seth

Featured post

To all ye writers…

Revisiting my earlier days, I recollect how blog awards were quite a deal. I always felt, it totally justified, to have the efforts of bloggers, rewarded. After all, this is our won little world. We live a distinct life here; different than the one we live in the real world. We are somewhat ‘more we’ here, as I like to say.

I liked to see my blog mentioned in the nominations and also to share the joy with others. But after a while, I came to believe that these awards were better reserved for the newbie writers. Simply because, recalling my own days, all the motivation, assurance and push one needs in the nascent days is far greater than what we need after we have established a firm ground.

After all these years, the awards bring the same exhilaration and joy. Last month, I was fortunate to be awarded, and so generously at that. This post is therefore, to my humble friend Adarsha Karel, who found me worthy of the Blogger Recognition and Sunshine blogger awards. Thank you, Adarsha.

I find it unfair to award selectively, because each one of you out there, is doing a fantastic job. So, the award goes to each one of you. Cheers!

I usually skip doing the rules, but I’ll answer a few here, which might help the writing fraternity.

My most adventurous trip?
I am yet to make. A near-death experience would be the most adventurous experience for me. I want to live the moment and see how I escape it so I have tales to tell to my grandchildren. 

Favorite author and why?
I don’t have favorites. But these writers influence my works immensely: 
Leo Tolstoy, Charles Bukowski, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Vikram Seth, Jhumpa Lahiri, Daphne du Maurier, Khushwant Singh, and Stephen King.

Favorite book and why?
Many. Checkout this link 

One quote that sums up your whole life!
Find what you love & Let it kill you 

Story of my blog
A betrayal. A bit tipsy. An emotional explosion. And a blog was born.

Advice to new bloggers
I am not particularly good at advice, so I’ll make an attempt at humor. 

Write. Write lots. And if someone criticizes your work, flood their inbox, letterbox, their houses, through the keyholes, the windows, in every possible way, with nothing but your writings.

So be cool, because writing makes you who you are; different. And if anyone asks you to stop, make them write too.😛

Loads of love, to all ye writers.❤


Asha Seth

Featured post


Originally published on The Unread Book

Long did she stare at the books
Beyond the shiny glassdoors
Reluctant to enter those massive aisles
Not capable of holding herself back
From stealing a copy or two
Wishing for the umpteenth time
She had the money to buy a few

The last time, she’d entered the shop
She’d glanced around furtively
picking up a copy of her favorite Poe poems
And stuffed it under her frock
Tucking it away hastily in her ragged camisole

But she hadn’t escaped
the grumpy owner’s gaze
The book snatched
Insults slammed
Grabbed by the wrist
And led out of the shop

With tears and heightened craving
For her most beloved possession
She had left the shop
without so much as looking back
So much pain and shame
all for her love for books

unsatiated is her hunger
for the stories 
and the words  galore
Yet never daring to enter those pristine
bookshops any more


Asha Seth

Featured post

What writing takes…

I love to read. Not because I am a writer. But because there is no better teacher.
Reading always gives me new ways to write. Opens new windows with better perspectives.

Last week I finished reading Jhumpa Lahiri’s latest book ‘In Other Words’.
She is one writer I look up to when I need inspiration. If you’ve read her books, you’ll know why I say so.

‘In Other Words’ is her non-fiction debut. It’s her biography on her love for the Italian language.
Her writing style is inspiring and I’m quite fond of her books. They’re almost an addiction.
But somehow my thirst wasn’t quenched with this one. Nevertheless!

The novel is a chest of her personal struggles in learning the language. Her ideas in trying to overcome these struggles motivate enormously. Here is an extract, an advice for writers, something I could relate with; a good takeaway for any writer.

“I start with very short pieces, usually no more than a handwritten page. I try to focus on something specific: a person, a moment, a place. I do what I ask my students to do when I teach creative writing. I explain to them that such fragments are the first steps to take before constructing a story. I think a writer should observe the real world before imagining a nonexistent one.”

Soon I shall review the book over at my book blog.
For now, I shall spend time with my birthday gift that arrived early –
♥ The Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor by Gabriel Garcia Marquez  ♥


Asha Seth

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What is Love?

Growing up watching the mindless melodramatic romance in movies,
I always thought love was something that got you butterflies.
That a mere smile lights up your life
when that one person so much as looks at you.
How it sends shivers through your body
when they so much as accidentally touch you.
The tickling feeling that brushes your heart
when they lean in to kiss you.
Yes, all of this and a lot more!

Of late, however, I have a reason to believe differently.

What is love? It’s when…

He wakes up at 6.45 so you don’t miss waking up at 7.
When he stirs you a lemonade because you are feeling low
Getting pills and a glass of water ready, so you don’t miss them after dinner
He feeds you morsels when you come home spending an exhausted day fasting
Sends you an ‘I love you’ text in the middle of the day

Watches your favorite Harry Potter movies with you, even though he least likes them
Sends you your favorite ‘You’re my lobster’ FRIENDS quote just so you smile looking at it
Eats that dish you cooked with such fervor even when you’ve missed a thing or two
Tells you ‘You’re beautiful’ when you damn well know you couldn’t have looked worse

It all sounds just too ticklish romantic to be true, isn’t it?
Things you read in books. Things a girl dreams of.

Love, as I’ve come to believe, is not about flowers and chocolates,
or expensive gifts and candle-light dinners.
Love is a lot of little things put together.
It’s the start of a beautiful life in the most beautiful place possible; next to him.

And it takes just that one person to make you see what love is!


Asha Seth

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On Independence Day

While the nation celebrates
another year of independence,
I fail miserably in convincing myself
to join in the massive celebrations.
I don’t get a sense of freedom today.
Ask me why!
I struggle to understand,
what being free means.
Freedom from foreign clutches?
Is that what being free means?

Am I really free?
If I can’t walk the streets alone
without being scared?
If I can’t express thoughts in public
without being condemned?
Am I really free?
If my decisions have to be manipulated
by the so-called caretakers
for their selfish gains?

And that’s just the beginning!

Anti-social elements
are at large today, more than then,
when strangers invaded our land.
Corruption, rape, terrorism, bad politics,
know no bounds.
Then how are we free?

I feel asphyxiated.
The air around is polluted.
I can smell something wrong,
happening somewhere,
in some corner of the nation.
And this,
so does not make me feel free.

And yet
I shall celebrate
the sacrifices of the millions
I shall salute
their grit, their aggression,
for giving the nation,
their everything
in exchange for its freedom.

For me,
Independence Day,
is, was and will always be,
about these great fighters,
their struggles, their stories.
The custodians of the land.
The land called India.
Here’s to their winning spirit

“Happy 70th Independence Day, India.”


Asha Seth

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Remember those days
when all we fought about
were pencils and crayons?
When pages were canvasses
of trials and temptation
of the coming together
of ink and paper?

Remember those days
when all we cared about
were the paper boats
struggling to sail
in narrow ditches
carved with fallen twigs
in the pouring rains?
When missing a puddle
was an unsaid regret
etched across our faces?

Remember those days
when I didn’t think how’d you feel
you didn’t care what I’d think
chasing puppies and
catching butterflies
across green meadows
and secluded streets?

Oh, how I wish they were back!
Laughing, shouting,
scolding, yet growing
How we spent those childhood days!


Asha Seth

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When she got married,
her mother spent sleepless nights.
Oblivion engulfed her mornings,
tea went cold each time,
cups were returned to the kitchen counter,
unbelievably from a tea-addict like her.

Her favorite dishes, sweet and sour,
left untouched for hours,
begged to be devoured.
Morsels cut down to halves,
chewed painfully longer,
without appetite or hunger.

Sarees lacked her taste
and were replaced
by dull fabrics and shades.
Her agony was shut behind doors
of the welcoming smiles.
The inevitable was to happen
How could she part
from her sweetheart?

Was she happy?
Was she sad?
Her jovial demeanor
took shades of grey and black.
A daughter getting married,
a mother’s ultimate dream.
But a tangerine joy it was
that left her grieving inside.

Her dried, swollen eyes,
she hadn’t allowed them rest
Her lips raw and numb,
she hadn’t uttered a word.
For more than a fortnight,
she sobbed on the phone.
Fragmented, in pieces
She muttered this,

My heart can’t take the pain.
I’ll never ask for a daughter again.”


Asha Seth

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When Dad turned 50

As a kid, I loved to celebrate birthdays.
The best part about them were –
A week prior to the birthday,
Dad would ask what I’d loved to do
and he would get me a present around that.

When I was 8 or so,
I’d told him that I loved to read stories.
So for my birthday a week later,
he bought me a set of mystery books –
Mystery of the stolen egg
Mystery of the haunted house
and few more…
Those memories are so precious,
I’ll take them to my grave,
but never forget.

Yesterday was Dad’s birthday.
I too wanted to ask him
what I could give him.
But I knew the answer.
I’ve known it for 20 years.
He loves to ride bikes.
But I can’t gift him one.
He is suffering from chronic disease of the kidneys
and is going through dialysis sessions thrice a week.
Yes, it’s that bad!
He’s been advised to not so much as lift half a kg.
Riding a bike is off-limits.

The treatments and frequent hospitalization
is making him weaker.
He needs something that will keep him strong.
Something cheerful, something special.
So on his birthday yesterday,
I gave him nothing!

I’m at work, a new project.
Capturing our special moments,
in the form of a booklet
Is there a better gift?
I can’t think of one!


Dad turned 50 yesterday.
Given the present situation, could I be any more happy?


Asha Seth

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Shallow aspirations,
masked apprehensions,
callow words,
stories told.

Trials or tribulations,
finessed or artless,
but naivety is better than regrets,
experience does teach that.

It’s time to celebrate,
the victory of words,
over mindless reservations,
and mundane adversities.


Asha’s Blog completed 4 years today.


The beginning was harrowing.
But could it be more rewarding?
Every time that I have written something,
has brought joys and satisfaction, in plenty.
I owe a significant serving of this euphoric treat to you, my readers.

A heartfelt thank you to each one of you, for your love and camaraderie.

❤ Hoping you enjoy the cupcake.❤

Asha Seth

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An ethereal shift
An enter to exit
No backspace
Nothing to erase

No feelings
No control
Free as a dove
No more in love


Asha Seth

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Want more blog traffic? Here’s the trick!

Who doesn’t want more readers?
We might say,
I do it for self-satisfaction,
for thought-liberation,
to improve the language,
or create worded memories.

Right and agreed.

But has anyone ever felt they don’t much care about having an audience?
Having an audience to appreciate your work never hurt anyone.

As writers, all of us crave readers.
As writers, all of us want to know what readers feel about our work.
As writers, all of us wish that our words stay with our readers.
As writers, all of us wish to inspire other writers.

So, in the quest for knowledge, we seek answers to such questions.
But there’s one catch

Read no matter how many articles. Refer to no matter how many resources.
Speak to no matter how many experts. Share with no matter how many friends.

No one’s going to tell you this.
If there’s any rule to attract more traffic to your blog,
then it’s this –

Write More

And this, my dear friend, comes from experience.

My blog stats speak volumes about this trick.
Now, you wouldn’t want me to get into the titbits of it.
(Believe me, the numbers are truly embarrassing.)
So to overcome this, I resolved to publish about 4-5 posts each month.
So far, for the past 3 months, this has worked all right for me.
Getting me more readers than expected.
And trust me, having more readers to share their wonderful thoughts
is so much more fun and motivating.
It’s a sea of good people out there, and we know only a handful.

If you too wish to treat your blog right,
Write every day. Write more, each day.

Your thoughts deserve to be heard.
Your words deserve to be read.
Your blog deserves the traffic.

-Asha Seth

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The Boat

Work of Wonder by Manu S Kurup 
Peek into his fascinating world here:


The Primordial Man-U


Do you know how they
build a boat?
They find the
perfect tree.
They cut a portion of it
and test it for
its age.
Then they test the
roots and the soil.
Then, they make the

Much like the algae that
grows under a boat,
the life on a boat is
diverse, as well.
My Mother was born
in a Boat.
I lived in one.
For seven continuous
that changed my life.
I was much more abusive
when I stepped back
into land.

I pity those who have
never touched Earth with
their bare feet.
They have never lived.
I pity those who have
never breathed stale water
and Mud.
They’ve never felt the source
of life.

The Boat floats on top of all.
We are all boats.
This world is one.

– Manu

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Allow Me

What are you afraid of?
What’s stopping you?

Some pages are better torn off
and some meant to be burnt.
But don’t you stop me, baby,
allow me to fix you back.

Walk right by my side,
I’ll heal those scars
and take away the pain.
Cast your reservations aside.
Baby, open the door,
allow me inside,
in the darkest corners of your soul,
in the deepest recesses of your mind.
Allow me to fill every nook and cranny
of your heart, with pieces of me

Don’t you see
how you’re smothering me?
But I refuse to let go of you
To see you throw yourself
in the arms of despair.
Allow me to shower you
with nothing but love

Allow me to take you
to the meadows of happiness,
to the valleys of hope,
where there’s no room
for anguish and regrets.
Let bygones be bygones.
Let’s turn the page.
Baby, please allow me.
Let’s write a new love-tale.


Asha Seth

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At a quarter past nine
ith a candy bar and a smile
he left him waiting
under the tamarind tree 

At a quarter past nine
nineteen years since
his steps lead him unconscious
waiting for her incredulous

In the dark
under the dim stars
withered, weakened
stands he under the dried tree

Inconsolable sorrow
engulfing his heart and soul
Where has she gone?
When will she return?

And although, many such years
will come and be gone
and although, life will keep moving on
but to him, the waiting is all that’s left
to him, the waiting will go on forever


Asha Seth

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Long Lost

little things
like secrets, like stories
are bearers of poignant memories
of sobs and smiles
long lost  in the sands of time

little things
like secrets, like stories
they make home and stay forever
in some forgotten corner
of the mind
waiting to be sought and celebrated
like those broken toys
now left untouched, uncared
in some unattended, undisturbed
corner  in the attic
gathering dust and what not
fading away are their true colors
erasing away the fingerprints
you left on them
that now you hardly remember

little things
like secrets, like stories
come rushing back
in the dark, in loneliness
just to be with you
like companions
real and true
kissing upon wounds
like the way
perhaps, only words could do


Asha Seth

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When a writer bleeds

her world shrinks
as faces cease to exist
days lack brightness
nights miss the glow

walks become rambles
blank are the thoughts
no place is desirable
just she and herself

behind shut doors
are windows closed
and the solitary corner
beckoning her

not a speck of light
in the gloomy room
except a flickering
lamp at the table
she bleeds on

walls see her drown
in a gush of emotions
secrets they hold
that none will ever know

whimper to words
sorrow to scribbles
and yet another story
is about to be born

Asha Seth

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To me
you’ll always be
the colour black
concealing a part of me

So dark
so mysterious
so seductive
so rebellious

Engulfing me
heart and whole
like the darkness 
that surrounds

There you are
and yet not there
cease to exist
at the slightest touch

An illusion
a mirage
in the depths of my heart
all that’s of you
is an obscure view

Dark and distinct
just like shadows
out of my reach forever
you’ll always be
the colour black

Asha Seth

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Tell Me

Tell me
you love me
and there’s nothing more I need to know

 Tell me
you hate me
and there’s nothing more I want to know

Tell me 
you want to give it a chance
and there’s nothing I would not do

Tell me
you are done trying
and there’s nothing I’ll ask you to do


Asha Seth


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Words escape my mind,
but thoughts never leave.
Caught in a whirlwind,
this is what perplexes me…

What happens when you miss someone?
Do they miss you too?

What happens when your heart misses a beat?
Does it get passed on to someone somewhere
Needing it to live?

What happens when we blink our eyes?
The things we miss to see, are they not worth a view?

What happens,
when you bleed for someone?
Do they feel the pain too?

What happens when we lose something?
Does someone else find it?

What happens, when we steal a glance?
At someone, someone we love?
Do they get the butterflies too?

What happens when something you deserve
but never get?
When something you only dreamt of is finally a reality?

My mind, a cauldron of thoughts.
Words escape my mind,
but the thoughts never leave.


Asha Seth

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He walked tip-toed
To not wake her
from her sleep

Hardly did he know
She was not sleeping
but drifting away

In the arms of who
awaited her
on the other side

~ ~ ~

Asha Seth

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A writer’s anxiety

As a writer, it makes me anxious to not know exactly where I’m headed with my writing. Most times, I have no clear view of where I am going. It’s like walking in a tunnel with no end. It leaves me in a haze. Do such thoughts bother you too? Whatever is your big aim – to be a top-notch blogger or an accomplished author – if you find yourself pondering over it, you are not alone.

This post is for all those writers like me who are anxious about their writing goals or dreams.

Let me ask you this?

  • Do you crave to bleed out the best while at the keyboard, churning out the best story for your blog post, novel, short story?
  • Do you also cherish a hidden desire like writing a masterpiece that will blow all?
  • Do you also want to be as famous as let’s see, maybe, Poe, King, Doyle, Dickens, Rowling or Marquez?
  • Do you also dream of that day when you would get a dozen phone calls of readers wanting to, maybe, just hear you?

And you do not know which part of this writing journey will get what you want? You are welcome to the club I-don’t-know-where-my-writing-is-taking-me. In other words, I don’t know what is that secret ingredient to make my writing take me places.

Being a novice writer, I have read what most famous writers in history have done – their writing patterns, their reading patterns, their precious advice for writers and trust me, it’s a lot to do and be dedicated to. And even though I’ve been roping in most of these rules in my writing, there is that penetrating thought lurking in my head – Am I doing it right? What more do I need to do?

As writers, the single act of writing is all I ask for. So yes, satisfaction, there is. Immense. Fulfilling. Gratifying. And yet these desires rattle in my head with each word that I type. Reminding me of the miles there is to go before I finally go to sleep.

-Asha Seth


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I still believe…

I still believe that fairies exist.
I still believe that so does magic.

I still believe that I cannot watch a loved one die.
I also believe that I could kill for a loved one.

I still believe that lying is easier than convincing.
I also believe that people don’t think too deep when they lie.

I still believe that when someone dies they never really leave.
I also believe love can bring them back.

I still believe that I can never unlove him.
I also believe that I can never again trust him.

I still believe that things will one day change.
I also believe that life’s going to be a lot better.


Asha Seth

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Looking for Answers

What do you do when you seem to be fighting for peace
Every single day?
To be heard, to be understood.

Things running out of hands all the time.
But what do you do if not wait and watch them
slip from between the gaps in your fingers.

Every turn you take seems to be a wrong one. Every decision a bad one.
The ones you thought would stay, left without so much as a word.
The ones you’d rather never set eyes upon, linger in your thoughts all day.

Nothing ever spans out the way you want,
and nothing ever comes out of waiting long.
Everything you ever wanted, you might as well drop the hopes.
And making peace with what you have, if only it was that easy.

And why, oh why? Each day, do we wake up,
consoling that pretty little heart of ours,
that one day everything’s going to be fine.
Sometimes, you just know, it’s never going to be.

It’s going to be a mess in your head
A lump of sorrow in your heart.
And yet like someone who suffers from memory loss,
you convince yourself, it’s all good.

Endless questions. Answers, not one.
Confused as hell? Yes.
Looking for… answers, maybe.

– Asha Seth

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It doesn’t hurt as much
When you say you don’t love me
It doesn’t hurt as much
When you show you don’t need me
But it does hurt
When you walk away each time
It does hurt
When you say you’re not the one for me

Rid yourself off my thoughts
You can
You’re not denied
To ask the same of me
It does hurt
Live without me
You can
To expect the same of me
It does hurt
You prove that you’re right
It doesn’t hurt
Make me believe I’m wrong
It does hurt


Asha Seth

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In the middle of the night
When I turn out the light
I see your shadows
Following me

I push aside the curtains
Peeking out the window
Check over once thorough

Finding nothing
Less settles my restless heart
Bringing myself out on the porch
I tip-toe
Behind the bushes,
Beyond the fence
Waiting for the shadows
Following me

No shadows or figures,
That I see
But I know you are
Following me

I stay wide awake
Perched at the window sill
My heart hoping
To see those shadows again
Just this again

A light wind
Ruffles my locks
Sending a shiver
Down my spine
A smile settles on my lips
A drop of tear trickles down my cheek

I know it is you
Sending kisses on the wind
Like you have
Since the time you’ve gone
Keeping up your promise
Of following me


Asha Seth

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Be kind to others
Or pledge to transform yourself


Make someone smile each day
Or travel the globe


Teach someone to write
Or read a million words


Fall in love
Or make peace with your past


Pray for the deprived
Or share your fortunes


Swim, Trek, Travel or Laugh
Live differently or make someone live different



Do whatever makes your heart happy but make sure you do
And each night before you go to bed
Do ask yourself – Was the day useful enough?


Ask this each night
And let it change the following mornings


Because one day when
You will count your last breaths
And ask this to yourself
And take my word you’ll regret then
If you failed to leave a mark in this world


Asha Seth

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On Christmas

It’s Christmas
and the time of the year
when everyone around
is celebrating and enjoying
is praising and worshiping
moms busy making Christmas cookies
kids waiting for Santa and gifts

I too want to believe
that Santa is for real
and travels on sleighs
pulled by reindeer
that he grants wishes
and makes dreams come true

But if wishes were really granted?
What do I ask for?

I look around
It’s a pity picture
No humanity in hearts
No value for relationships
No sympathy for the helpless
No mercy for other creatures

I know now
what to ask for

I don’t ask for happiness
I ask for kindness
I don’t ask for love
I ask for compassion
I don’t ask for beauty
I ask for brains
I don’t ask for wisdom
I ask for understanding
I don’t ask for luck
I ask for hope

May all of us
be blessed with these
making the world
a better place to live in.

Wishing you a very happy Christmas!


Asha Seth

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Hidden with dense interpretations
Left to his mind’s contemplation
Her mysterious expressions
Stir his insides

A momentary pause
From the routine
Letting herself wander
Perhaps, in the world of her dreams

Those tiny little curves
Find him in a wonder
As she quietly saunters
Enjoying his unperturbed attention

A quick gaze and half a smile,
And his heart is so set to aflutter
He is amazed at the tricks
She mysteriously plays on his mind

Riding his curiosity
With her innocence
Piercing his senses
Desperation dripping

He wants more of it
And also an end to it

The sweet torture
The pleasant affliction
She casts on him

Goading him
To sweep her off her feet
Cradle her in his arms
Kiss her, Caress her

Unravel the mystery
That she is


Asha Seth

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The walks I take
In the evenings, cold and dreary
With the sun setting on the horizon
I’m uncertain where I want to go

The mornings I spend
Wishing this and that
Unhappy with what I have
I’m uncertain about what I want

The notes I make
Sitting on the porch
Writing and striking words
I’m uncertain what they mean

The many people I meet
The faces I smile at
The moment they leave
I’m uncertain if I know them

The nights I spend
Lying awake, eyes wide open
Brooding over hopeless desires
I’m uncertain why I’m holding onto them

What is my heart waiting for?
Why isn’t it at ease?
Who is it looking for?
And all it says is – Past

I want to move on
And not agonize over it
But the heart doesn’t.
It wants to keep the memories
Close and safe.

‘That’s all I have’, I hear it say.
Swear, I feel the same
But do I want to say it out loud?
I’m uncertain.


Asha Seth

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Why do birthdays bring a wave of nostalgia?

Pondering as much as I am,
I can only rejoice in the sudden rush of emotions the memories have fetched,
leaving me nostalgic.

It’s my little sister’s birthday today
and once again I’m back to the days when I cradled her in my arms,
sang her to sleep, taught her to put pen on paper,
walked her to school, held her close when she sobbed uncontrollably.

As she grew up, I made sure she knew
what it meant when a guy said can we meet after school,
or that you ensure no one is to inch so close as to make you uncomfortable.
What it meant when you find blood spots on your clothing for the first time,
changing the sanitary pads, choosing the first bra,
wearing a skirt that is short enough to look classy and long enough to cover your body.

That you must ignore when snide remarks are made,
but also be smart enough to not take shit from others.
Don’t put up a fight unnecessarily, but stand up and fight for what’s right.


A small girl, timid and shy, she was.
I always worried what would happen if she discovered things on her own,
if she happened to fall in situations that were beyond her control.
I was scared to let her out of my sight. Protective and paining.
I guess you do that when you love someone so much
that even a small scratch on their skin would get your heart bleeding.

But the sands of time have shifted, and today she is 20.

Celebrating her 20th birthday, I am happy to see her grown into a smart woman.
I find the kid I was so protective of, peeking at me from behind those mature laughs,
those mischievous eyes, that cute smile.

And I realise, no matter how old she grows,
she’ll always be the little girl
who stared at me for long,
from beyond the school gates,
not wanting me to let her go.

-Asha Seth

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The Old Man & the Dog

He sniffed everyone passing by.
Their scents, their dangling handbags,
And looked up at them, with pleading eyes…

The heartless drove him away, kids pelted stones at him,
Out of disgust, of fear or rage, scaring him to death.
Away he ran and stood staring at their backs as they walked on…

They looked at him, but didn’t bother to acknowledge his gaze.
The bones poking out of his skin went unnoticed.
Dying of hunger he was, but when has the rich understood that…

It was getting dark and for hours he had stood restless,
Hoping if someone would throw a few biscuits or dried rotis,
Or just some unusable rotting trash that he would devour with pleasure.

At last, when people thinned out of the street,
An old man dragged his feet who looked toward him.
A few seconds of eye meeting the eye, and he shyly wagged his tail…

Slowly, the old man went down the street turning around a corner to his hut,
That the dog had followed him, he had known.
But before stepping in, the old man turned to look at him.
With a slight glimmer of hope,
the dog wagged his tail, a bit vigorously this time…

Having spent days thirsty and starved himself,
The old man knew that look on the dog’s face all too well.
In a crooked plate, he fetched all that was left – dried pieces of bread,
And a coconut shell that held salt water just taken off the flame.

One by one, dipping the bread in the water,
He threw them all in the dog’s direction.
With such haste he swallowed them down.
His eyes met the old man’s once again as he rested at the hut’s doorway…

Kindness doesn’t cost much you would think.
But tell you what, kindness comes for a price.

One ate to his stomach’s content,
Hardly aware of the old man’s plight.
The other would sleep with hunger
now clinging onto his back…

Just as it had traveled on the dog’s,
for days, restless and concealed.
For as long as there’s negligence,
satiated, it never will be.


Asha Seth

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Nobody’s Business!

You shouldn’t care what I write. It’s my blog. It’s my thought. And it’s nobody’s business.

I snap, I am bad at people when they try to tell me that an idea about my post is bad. Or that the ending I chose for a story was wrong. If I could, I would swallow them alive. I mean, seriously, it is one thing to say that you don’t agree with a thought, but that you think it was totally wrong… hello?

I love my readers and followers; they are the reason I am here. They motivate me enough to go on, despite my writing being downright shitty sometimes. I know I mess it up at times and I’m okay with that. But readers who think they could do a better job with my post than me – go grab a pen and write your own stuff if you really think you’re so good.

This has never happened until now in the past 3 years. A random reader (who doesn’t even write) read an old blog post – Writing Simple – and had the nerve to say that,

The options suggested in the post for newbie bloggers seems ridiculous as they won’t help anyone go much far if they are aiming high such as to be an author or be a professional writer. And it is absolutely beyond me as to how the post managed 55 odd likes. It really needs a second thought.

Again, as writers and readers of our own blog posts, we know that the thoughts mentioned in our posts are born from personal experiences, struggles, mistakes and follies and not a result of some laborious survey. It is what we’ve learnt while on the road. I strongly feel that if we wish to share it with the world for the greater good, unless it misleads or leaves the reader with a dystopian effect, it is nobody’s business to be harsh or critical about it, or pass judgments. And it applies to you, to me or to anybody on the planet.

So here’s to all snobs, who hit my space or anyone else’s, just to throw dirt, once again – what I write is my word, and nobody’s business. If you liked what you read, come again. If you didn’t? Well, just don’t hit my space again, ‘cause it can survive without you.

– Asha Seth

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If We Ever Meet Again

On restless evenings, filled with utter hopelessness,
Lying sprawled under the ceiling, weaving mindless fantasies.
I wish for the hundredth time, that we crossed paths, someday.
And also curious, that if we ever met again, what would it be like?

A thousand memories lie scattered on the floor,
From that day, when it all ended.
Bleeding inside, aching right to the bone, I still am.
And yet, at the slightest thought of you, something inside stirs.

Eyes tired and sulky, looking for you, even now.
Hardly do I know how to convince them otherwise.
With every beat, each step inched towards you, all this time,
Who is to be blamed, and how?

I, I can live in the melancholy your memories bring,
But to stop myself from walking down the same lane,
To give up thinking about all that we had,
I am not sure if I want to do that.

To coax myself, to breathe in a space devoid of you?
It suffocates me, even the thought so much as chokes me.
How is the heart to be tamed again?
When, at the slightest thought of you, it wants you right back.

And with every passing moment, I find myself asking.
If we ever meet again, would you wait a second or walk away?
The yearning growing for months now, would it meet a dead end?
or will the moment resurrect lost opportunities?

Would you smile, acknowledging the longing?
Or just reflect another melancholy?

A silent passing of words,
And the little hope left in me, evaporating in thin air.
Or will it get the sea of my desires surging?
Wiping out the asphyxiation, that’s so drowning me,
Finally, breathing back life into me.


Asha Seth

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Waiting {Part II}


Where were you? Panic was starting to set in. It was no more a joke. Please come back!

Teasing me? Like I was teasing you minutes ago. You always played this game. Hide n seek. Only so you could come around me and hug me from the back. Startling me. But this was no play.

I scanned the near distance. Upon not finding you, I felt weak in the knees. My heart raced one instant, now it was struggling to breathe. Tracing steps back, I kept calling out your name, over and over again. First with worry, which was soon replaced by fear, then desperation, and then madness.

Where were you?

I tried to remember exactly when I stopped catching up with your footsteps. I couldn’t remember. How stupid? How irresponsible silly girl? I ran dodging the tangles, the dead trees. Not a bird in sight, not a soul. Where were you? My heart cried. Worried and cursing you, for if this was a prank, I’d make you pay well.

The woods that thus far seemed just one long road now appeared to have dense routes. Where did we come from? Which way do I take first? Tears came down, rushed, unstoppable, adamant. What am I to do? Where am I to go, with you lost and not a person in sight? Every turn seemed to deceive me, every tree another lost hope. Even trees started to thin out and yet no sight of you. Over the strewn logs, I’d sat and cried.

A vast expanse the woods were, and you but just a grain of sand. What was I to do? Where do I find you now? And how? The sun had started to set. Bereaving me of my last hope. Darkness it was all around, just like the darkness in life without you. Years it took before I’d found you. Years it’d take more. Helpless. Hopeless. Turning around the corner, I kept waiting for you at your grave.


Asha Seth

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RIP (Return If Possible) Dr Kalam

Mere 6 days ago, I saw this shocking update on twitter where Haryana Education Minister, at a school function, paid homage to the now Late Former President, Dr APJ Abdul Kalam. It was shocking and no matter what, it had to be joke. It had to be!

Within the matter of mere seconds, I brought the internet down hunting for any signs of the ‘Missile Man’s’ demise. Turned out, it was a rather ridiculous mistake. I could hardly stand the minister’s folly.

Yesterday, watching the news of his demise on national television, my heart sank. I could feel my insides go numb, with the reporter’s voice piercing my heart with every word he uttered. It was true. Very true. No follies this time. How I wished it was. For once, the minister’s folly didn’t seem as excruciatingly painful as the actual news.

Yes, Dr Kalam passed away last evening while delivering a lecture at IIM Shillong. A cardiac arrest and he could not be revived.

A heart stops beating. A nation suffers irreparably. The beacon of inspiration for crores left for heavenly abode.

My memories of Dr Kalam come a long way.

My grandfather who retired few years ago, after many years of service at BARC, Mumbai had worked closely with Dr Kalam on certain nuclear projects. I recollect an occasion from many years ago, when I was 4 or 5. A get-together had Dr Kalam under my grandfather’s roof when I had seen him for the first and only time.

It was my grandfather who introduced me to Dr Kalam’s books since he was himself personally very fond of his senior. As years passed by, I read almost all of the Former President’s books and there!

I grew to build a kind of bond with Dr Kalam. He became my role model, what with his consistent efforts towards the nation’s betterment and inspiring the youth to dream big.

He grew up in adversity and went on to become the ‘Missile man’ of India, more popularly named as ‘People’s President’ after serving his term in NDA’s regime. I guess, it’s when you know what a man has walked through, to lead himself to successful heights, is when you grow to love them. I’ve tried to imbibe his life-transforming way of thinking, secular approach, in my life too. And with time, I’ve changed to a different person. I owe a lot to the man who transformed the nation, made us all feel proud Indians.

Ever felt like you suffered a poignant loss by the passing away of someone you never met? With Dr Kalam gone, that’s exactly how I feel. Tears wouldn’t stop, nor will the heart stop aching. I guess, it’s a very different feeling. The loss is here to stay and the void very large to be ever filled by anyone.

My dream of meeting the man who shaped me to a better individual will remain a dream forever. And it is in no one I see that inspirational figure who could stand as tall as him in my heart and mind.

RIP (Return If Possible) Dr Kalam.

-Asha Seth

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Waiting {Part I}

You held my hand as I walked ahead of you. You trudged along. The dried leaves, tangled mass of branches, scattered everywhere. The leaves crunched beneath my feet reminding me just how much I love autumn. Sunlight crept in through the dense mass of leaves and branches overhead. I looked up, above me, loving the feel of the not-so-harsh rays of sun falling on my face, mildly warm and so comforting.

I looked back at you and saw you glancing on your right. Jealous as I get to what’s caught your interest in the woods, I tickled your palm slightly, just so much to have your attention back. You glanced at me, but I could say you were lost in thoughts. We walked on… Your grip loosened again and your fingers slowly slid away falling to your side.

“What if we are lost?” I asked to keep you, from whatever was distracting you. You took your time to answer like you always do. And I waited for several more seconds like I always do. The quietness amplified with every second. You must be lost in thoughts I’d assumed without realizing it was actually me who was lost all this while.

The sound of your footsteps following me had long died, but did I notice that? I’d tugged at a twig, dangling from a branch, almost stumbling. Gaining balance, I’d asked again, a little louder, this time. “Baby, what if we are lost, here, in these woods? What shall we do?” A little play in my voice, to tease you like I always did.

I’d heard a bird cry, in the far distance. It had sent chills down my spine. Was this the first cry that even registered with me or was I just…? I’d taken a turn about the tree, next to me. Holding on to its bark, dead, scathing. A twig pricked my finger and it immediately started to bleed. Putting it to my mouth, I came around the tree. The prick hadn’t hurt till then, but the pain came down on me as an avalanche just the next minute.

Blood drained out of my skin and eyes couldn’t see clearer anymore. You weren’t there. Just vanished into thin air.

Where were you?

…to be continued

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For a moment, let’s just…

For a moment, let’s just…
Stand still
And look around
Watch the birds fly
Or hear the rustle of autumn leaves
Or let the deafening silence reign

For a moment, let’s just…
Stand by the sea
And enjoy the waves
Crash against the rocks
And let us do nothing
But watch the bubbles disperse
Never to be found again.

For a moment, let’s just…
Blink our eyes
Ever so quick
And what forms?
In front of our eyes
The image we see
Is a broken one
Or perhaps just dark is all we see
What can we make of it?

For a moment, let’s just…
Let  a moment pass
In solitude
Where you get
To know nothing, no one,
And yet you know
You are everything there is,
And will be.


Asha Seth

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And for once…

For some unknown reason, I felt like sharing this again.

Asha's Blog

49acb4981e7e5a2e99a4f1d1d2faf0ea Image Credit: Pinterest

…and for once, I want to forget the sad memories,
and think of all the happier ones…
tonight, can I leave behind?
the heartaches caused by the impossible would-bes…
can I step aside?
and make way for the crippling afflictions to pass…
can I look past your cruel carelessness
that paralysed my affections…
…and, just this once, perhaps, just for tonight,
can I allow myself to fall in love with you again?

-Asha Seth

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