O Indra, thou rain-bringer! When the earth doth parch and cry out for moisture, when the cattle low in their distress and the crops do wilt beneath the merciless sun—then we lift our voices unto thee, O mighty one!

Thou art the master of the waters. When thou dost command it, the clouds gather above the mountains. They darken the sky until noon appeareth as twilight. Then thou dost smite them with thy thunderbolt, and the rains descend in torrents. The earth drinketh deep; the rivers run full and swift; the very ground seemeth to rejoice at the return of abundance.

Thou freest the waters that are bound in the clouds! Thou piercest the vessels that contain them! Just as a man must pierce the vessel to spill its contents, so dost thou pierce the clouds that they may empty themselves upon the thirsting land.

We have heard the stories of old—how in times of drought thou didst smile upon our ancestors. The rains fell at thy command. The riverbeds, which had been dry as bones, flowed again with living water. The green returned to the plains. The cattle found grass. The herds multiplied. Life itself did return to the land.

Yet we have also seen the terror of thy waters when thou dost become wrathful. The rains that give life can also bring death if they come too fiercely, too long. The floods sweep away villages and fields. The waters drown the livestock. We know that thy power can destroy as well as sustain.

Therefore we honor thee with great respect, O Indra! We do not take for granted thy gifts. We do not forget thy power. We ask thee—grant us thy rains in measure. Give us water enough to live, but spare us the terrible floods. Be merciful, O rain-bringer. Free the waters for our sake. Thus do we pray unto thee.