It's raining outside
and we are jostling for space
on the three steps of the doorway.
Taj Mahal, the tea, boils wantonly
with an aroma wafting to encircle us.
No one wishes to give up their place
Neither us kids nor the grownups.
Even the rain, yielding no room
splatters onto the muddy road.
Little rivers gurgle along downwards.
The paper boats sailed only too carefully
spread out like rafts in the stream.
Twigs and leaves, are stuck like our gaze
in a whirlpool of water.
Wind turns the tables now and then
and grabs us by surprise.
There are peels of laughter.
One with the other
and one within another.