Rishtey wo nahi hote jo duniya ko dikhaye jaye,
Rishtey wo hote hai jo dil se Nibhaye jaye.
Rishtey nibhana har kisi ke bas me nahi,
Ab to bs rah gyi hai yadon ki haseen gali,

Rishtey wo nahi jo sirf sukh me kaam aate hai,
Rishtey tou wo hote hai jo dukh me sath nibhate hai,
Rishta agar es dil se hota hai,
Wo rista bda hi atut hota hai,

Rishta banao tou use dilon jaan se nibhana,
Kisi ki bhawnao ka mazak na udana,
Kisi ki zindagi bankar uski zindagi na chhen lena,
Aankhon mein aansuo ka tohfa na dena,

Rishtey me khatas nahi mithas hona chahiye,
Rishtey me bahas nahi vishwas hona chahiye,
Wo rista ek na ek din tut jata hai,
Jo rishta dil se nahi dimaag se nibhaya jata hai,

Saath chhodne wale tou bus majburiyon ka haath thaam lete hai,
Nibhane wale tou maut ka darwaza khatakne kya aakhiri saans tak hamare saath hote hain,
Rishtey tou milte hai mukaddar se,
Sanjo lo unhe dil mein,

Jis rishtey ko us khuda ne bnaye hai,
Ek na ek din use jaroor milaye hai,
Jab do dil ek ** jate hai,
Tab wo ek anmol rishtey kahlate hai....

Collaboration  by Shrivastva MK and Sonia*Paruthi

Kya baat hai Merai Dost.
Ghar bhi Bananna Hai
Aur Darwaza Bhi Nahi.

Ghar bhi Bananna Hai
Aur Darwaza Bhi Nahi.

Yeh Kaisi Hi Teri Dosti.
Dost Banna Chahatai Hai Dosti Nahi

I do not live with Baba.
But sometimes, it feels like I am endlessly circling him in a city that does not notice me.

At the traffic light, when a man’s voice cracks the air, sharp and impatient, I always look. I always hope. Some foolish, bone-deep part of me thinks — maybe it’s him this time.

When I see a hand raised to order karak chai, or when someone softly says sirf roti dedo, something inside me leans forward, as if recognition can pull him back into the room.
But it is always a stranger.
It is always someone else.

When I hear Chacha murmur darwaza band karke sona,
When someone repeats dawai nahi leni,
I find myself turning, slowly, helplessly.
But the streets have learned to swallow voices. He is never there.

So I carry the ache home. I fold it into silence. I do not tell Mama the things that hurt, as though speaking them would make them heavier.
I drink chai until I feel full of him.

When I lose my temper and later peel the guilt off my skin, I know it is his shadow moving through me.
When love fills my chest like a storm, but the words die in my throat, I know it is him again—this unfinished sentence I am forced to carry.

He is in me.
He is me.

I have been told we are the same.
A cruel symmetry.
A perfect reflection split by distance.

How can you be so alike
and yet feel like you are forever walking opposite streets,
forever missing each other by a breath,
forever not quite arriving?

Somehow, I am always reaching.
Somehow, I never find him