When the rain gods were done With their hail-o-rama run The koyal wailed its all-clear call The roadside gutters beckoned all Us frog hunters to a fresh attack Charging to the rhythm of the squeaky smack Of rubber chappals flicking at calloused heels And slushy whining mudguards on bicycle wheels
To where Paper boats meandered on the water (puddled) By the banyan tree where the orphan huddled Crushing hailstones between his chattering teeth While the scent of halva swayed to Natya Sangeet
