The Empty Scales
Mr.Somadoda sits every morning at his wooden desk, coughing like an old motor and blinking through the dust. On that desk rests a tiny brass scale, shining faintly as though it remembers better days. Every time a debtor defaults, a new lead weight appears on the scale- uninvited, unearned, heavy as hunger and twice as sharp. And each weight brings a stabbing pain to Mr. Somadoda's chest, the kind that reminds a man he is both judge and prisoner.
His wife warns him over and over.: "Mercy costs lest than medicine, my husband." But Somadoda only tightens his collar and clears his throat in that strict way of his.The scale sits there, growing heavier, groaning under the small stones of other people's struggles.
One afternoon a young mother enters, eyes shining wet, voice trembling with overdue sorrow. She cannot pay. She begs him softly. But Somadoda, thin as a late-autumn shadow, whispers, "It is the way of things." As he speaks, another lead weight blinks onto the scale-and the pain in his ribs sharpens like a cold nail.
He is rich, yes. His house glitters with purchased pride. But his chest? His chest carries a different ledger. Each weight- every missed payment- settles inside him, growing its own roots.
By evening the scale is crowded, almost tilting off the desk. The mother leaves, wiping her face with a tired hand, and Somadoda stares out his window at the fading light.
He wonders, not the first time, whether a full scale is worth an empty heart.
And the pain-like the debt- never leaves.
Comments