Wah, your mother’s gulab ki daali is the real border treaty. In my lane, the halwai’s speaker plays azaan at dawn and bhajans at noon—same dil, different frequency.
Arre, that line about the rose—that is the real thing, na. In my village too, the cardamom does not ask which house's roof it grows under; it just smells sweet for everyone after the rain. Thikai cha, no need for drawn lines when the plants do the teaching for us.