thaumaturgist

 For a while the weather hadn't been something to write home about, it had been dull and dismal, the cold, damp air doing nothing to one's mood. My booted feet squelched on the wet and muddy leaves gathering on the steps in front of the university building as I walked into my department to attend early morning classes, clinging onto my thermos of coffee, the only source of warmth. This had been going on for almost 3 weeks, the same bleakness in the air when a brief flurry of wind blew away the remaining weak, yellow leave still clinging on to dear life.. But today is what an Autumn day should be like in my mind, clear blue skies, sunshine, sparkling golden leaves and a nip in the air. I have friends who adore rain, who are inspired and rejuvenated by it, but I believe that the damp and constant drizzle that go on for days would  fail to evoke any inspiration even in the most ardent of rain lovers. The monsoons and the torrential rains are very different kinds of rainfall

Waking up in a strange bed, in an unfamiliar room- sleep last night was elusive, interjected by restlessness.The streets this morning look dull and the sky is a flinty grey. I can hear the pitter patter of constant rain, a drizzle, but never pouring down unabashedly, as if it is waiting eternally for someone's arrival. We drink our coffees, bite into something sweet purely as a complement to the strong, black brew. Ready to go on our exploration, we quietly close the door behind us as we leave the strange dwelling for the day. The drizzle not being a deterrent, I let it lash on my face, I had abandoned my glasses for the much disliked contact lenses so that the water droplets wouldn't come in the way of my eyes and the sights that lie before me.  We are walking down Potter Street, ironic, I think, as it could've been Privet Drive. In the tube we count the number of stations we would need to pass to reach our destination. A little girl beside me is playing around holdi