The scales on the table are no longer paired, one side holding the weight of pomegranate seeds, split and scattered, the other left bare. The chair behind the bench sits empty, a worn leather seat, its warmth faded because no one comes to claim it. The ledger stands open, the neat columns untouched, each figure awaiting a hand that hesitates or is missing altogether. This chamber of balance is silent except for the soft drift of dust over a clay bowl once used for mixing earth and pigment, the remnants now dry as old newsprint.
Once, in the lands of the Deccan and Malwa, traders arrived with sacks of cinnabar and armsful of sandalwood, stopping beneath the cool awnings of the bazaar. They ground minerals into powder, blending them into wax for sealing contracts and into paste for marking doorframes at festivals. In the morning, when monsoon winds swept through, the air thickened and the village paths darkened with muddy streaks, their lines crossing like the unresolved stories of every absent witness. Court scribes recognized the power of sealing stones, the promise of an untouched oath, but when the chief was away traveling on a long, uncertain pilgrimage, the wax was left unstamped, and the letters waited for judgment that would not arrive.
Under these cloudy skies, the roofs of the houses, tiled with terracotta, glistened with the evening’s rain. The villagers brought in baskets of fruit from the tamarind trees, their thick skins mottled from last night’s storm. In the kitchen, a cooking pot simmered over a slow fire, its iron rim marked by years of use, inside stewing the tang of lentils and the flesh of roots taken up from a broken field. The hearth reminded the absent that justice is not only a decree, but an everyday necessity: dividing the last of the grain, remembering which hands sowed and which hands reaped.
In the cool shade, an old cotton sari hung from a clothesline, embroidered with the patterns of distant towns—diamonds and petals stitched during seasons of peace. The garment’s edge carried the ghost of ochre pigment, traced by a careful hand in an autumn long gone. It was here, beneath such garments, that elders told the stories of lost settlements: of those who wandered out before trial could be called, of potsherds unearthed with no tale to tell except an interrupted bargain. In the quiet, the air held the scent of brick dust, damp and sharp after rainfall, a reminder of things left unresolved.
Today, someone can bring out a clay bowl and fill it with water, letting it settle on the threshold as a sign of invitation. One might seal a letter with wax, even if there is no immediate answer, just to honor the motion of decision. Stew root vegetables slowly, using an old pot, as if nourishing the ones who cannot come home. Or hang a woven cloth outside, to catch the wind, allowing any message to drift where it is needed.
Today's lucky color is IndianRed.
Lucky Color: IndianRed — #CD5C5CMay it guide the absent home, or give weight to your waiting decisions.