What this sounds like is somebody too full of news to hold on to it. She never addresses the beloved once. Everything gets reported sideways to a sakhi, the female friend a woman tells everything to, one of the oldest frames in the North Indian song tradition, and it shows: the whole thing stays at the pitch of gossip rather than prayer.
Then the fourth stanza swerves. She has been describing her own good fortune, and she stops to consider the other case. The bride whose beloved is beside her through Savan has blessed nights. And the Savan in which he is not at home, let that season burn. Savan is the monsoon month, and she curses it outright. In a song about arrival she has made room for the possibility of absence, and then set fire to it.
The last stanza is stranger still, because it takes the certainty back. Having said twice that he has come home, she asks how on earth she is to reach him, says she is sinking under her own shyness, and asks the friend to do something about it. The arrival has not solved the problem. He is here, she still cannot get to him, and she needs somebody else's help to manage it.
In Sufi gatherings this gets sung as allegory, the waiting soul as the bride and the divine as the one who arrives, and it works perfectly well that way. It also works as exactly what it appears to be. Neither reading has to be given up for the other, and qawwali does not generally ask you to choose.
Fareed Ayaz and Abu Muhammad usually sing Khwaja in place of piya, which makes the second reading audible without changing anything else. Ustad Shujaat Husain Khan's is a sung version rather than a qawwali one, slow enough to catch every word.
