Mukerji turns a thunderstorm into a wild, ecstatic religious service. Thunder is the crash of cymbals, lightning a dancer, and the wind a chorus of devotees. But this is no orderly temple ritual—there are no priests, conch shells, or incense. Instead, it is a “worship of lunatics,” full of God-mad dervishes whose agony never rests. The storm offers not calm prayer but raw, restless energy. It feels less like a ceremony inside temple walls than like the sky itself losing its composure in devotion.
The mood is both awe-filled and unsteady: beauty and violence, peace and pain, exist together. The final image of rain as a benediction of liquid flowers poured through silver showers gives the storm a tender, generous power. The speaker seems moved less by conventional faith than by overwhelming passion—nature as a sacred force that cannot be tamed or contained. That is what makes it worship: not order, but total surrender.