SAATH TERA: POETRY BECOMES SONG

by Vinta Nanda August 22 2026, 12:00 am Estimated Reading Time: 5 mins, 2 secs

Ahead of Saath Tera’s 24 August release, Vinta Nanda speaks with poet-filmmaker Barnali Ray Shukla about longing, Old Delhi, handwritten memories, and the delicate journey from writing poetry to becoming a lyricist.

There is a great distance between a poet writing lyrics for a song and a lyricist merely exploring poetry through songwriting. I have believed this for years, and when I said it to Barnali Ray Shukla during our conversation, she paused before responding. To me, the difference lies in intent. The former draws upon memory, metaphor and emotional architecture to give a contemporary song its soul. The latter often borrows the vocabulary of the moment—its slang, jargon and fashionable expressions—to manufacture the illusion of relevance. Sometimes it captures an era brilliantly; sometimes it means nothing at all.

Perhaps that is why Hindi film music since the 1980s has lived at both extremes. We have inherited unforgettable poetry alongside delightfully absurd lines that became cultural phenomena simply because they were catchy. Between those two worlds stands Saath Tera—a song that unapologetically returns to language as feeling.

Releasing across digital platforms on 24 August 2026, Saath Tera brings together the unmistakable voice of Kailash Kher, music composed and produced by Protijyoti Ghosh, lyrics by Barnali Ray Shukla, and is presented by Dark Chocolate Films. At just three minutes, it unfolds as both a song and a cinematic letter to Old Delhi.

A song born from an old city

Barnali begins our conversation not with music, but with paper. “In the lanes of Old Delhi, like the rest of the world where WhatsApp and e-invites have erased the intimacy of handwritten wishes, we wanted to write a letter to Delhi.”

That image becomes the emotional foundation of Saath Tera. Greeting card shops survive like fragile museums. Tapri chai competes with boba tea. Chhole kulche quietly resist the invasion of superfoods. The city isn’t disappearing; its rituals are simply becoming “the other”—present, yet increasingly exiled from everyday life.

The accompanying musical film, Yours Truly (Return to Sender), now travelling through the festival circuit, extends this meditation on intimacy, memory and human connection.

Why Barnali wanted to abandon her pen name

Before Saath Tera existed, Barnali had almost decided to hide behind another name. She tells me she often contemplated adopting a pen name—not because she wished to disown her writing, but because filmmaking had consumed every other identity she possessed. “Trying to make the next film as writer, director and co-producer takes away everything—sleep, friends, self-care, trips home and even the idea of a real break. I was running on empty.”

What changed her mind was composer Protijyoti Ghosh, with whom she had previously collaborated on her film Joon. His argument was disarmingly simple: “Being a filmmaker, writer and a poet, lyrics could well be a natural progression.”

Is Saath Tera about hope or longing?

I ask Barnali whether the song belongs to hope or longing. She doesn’t hesitate. “If I had to choose, I would say it is more about longing.” But it is not romantic longing alone. It is the loneliness of contemporary cities, where connection has become increasingly transactional.

“When ‘getting lucky’ becomes an algorithm of physical proximity and endless swiping, I’m amazed that people from thirteen to eighty still return to playlists filled with songs that value words and melody.” She laughs while admitting that a good groove is always welcome.

Yet beneath the humour lies an observation many of us recognise: technology has accelerated communication without necessarily deepening companionship.

The leap from poetry to lyrics

I return to the distinction that opened our conversation. I tell Barnali: A poet writing lyrics applies memory and metaphor to give contemporary music emotional permanence. A lyricist exploring poetry often plays with contemporary jargon to produce an expression of the times—which may, or may not, endure.

She reflects on it thoughtfully. “It hasn’t been easy at all. I was quite conflicted about writing a song. It is certainly different from writing a poem.” What unites both forms, she says, is their relationship with time. “The joy is when you can think slant—with complete freedom—but within metre. You’re curbed by nothing except your own thinking.”

Writing Saath Tera demanded something more than literary skill. It demanded surrender. “The courage came from being unafraid of speaking from the heart, entering a new country called songs, and allowing a poem to become production.” That phrase lingers long after our conversation ends.

More than another creative identity

Barnali is already known as a filmmaker, writer and poet. Does becoming a lyricist feel like another title?

She gently rejects the idea. “I would actually call it a need.” Films, she explains, take years to reach audiences. Their delays are often determined by forces beyond the creator’s control. Songs offer another way of remaining creatively alive. “Either you sink into the quicksand of excuses, or you keep exploring new ways of communicating, working with new collaborators while staying loyal to those who’ve travelled with you.”

For her, songwriting isn’t expansion. It is survival.

The poetry of presence

At the heart of Saath Tera lies extraordinary simplicity. Saath tera… bas itna kaafi hai. Your companionship. That alone is enough.

The lyrics wander through crowded bazaars, winter light, the fragrance of attar, razais, kulchas and steaming chai—not as nostalgic souvenirs, but as living metaphors for belonging. Old Delhi becomes less a location than an emotional geography where memory still has an address.