The decrepit classroom of the village primary school with its ghastly walls shone dimly on a cold winter morning. The blackboard was crowded with algebraic formulas; the children sat before it, visibly weary. But their eyes lit up when the teacher offered to tell them a story after the grueling math lesson. As he began narrating the tale of ‘King Midas and his Golden Touch’, all the students were instantly absorbed. Every time the word “Touch” was mentioned, Paso felt a pang deep within. The idea of a golden touch enchanted him, lingering in his mind for days. He longed for that touch, even though he understood why his people were kept outside the village—the mere touch of the downtrodden threatened the guarded privileges of the dominant castes. The mere act of touching water, entering public land, walking on common streets, raising cattle, choosing food, or accessing spiritual and educational resources was enough to warrant punishment. Even at his tender age, Paso had seen these realities play out frequently when he and his community were insulted or beaten for daring to use public resources. The tale of King Midas captivated him.
Paso’s thoughts began drifting away from his studies, overtaken by daydreams of the golden touch. In his mind, he saw everything around him turning to gold; the plumb bob and trowel his father used, a rotting dead dog his mother dragged to dump, his sister’s sickle — all glowing with a golden sheen. These visions bloomed within him like thick lilies, popping in and out of his imagination. After hearing the story, he started praying to some unknown god, hoping for the same magical touch. Each morning, he would wake up and try touching objects around him, checking if the golden touch had been granted, but always to no avail. Disappointed and weary, he clung to hope.
While the other students soon forgot about Midas, Paso’s unwavering belief remained. One day, while the teacher was discussing Equality in Indian Democracy during a Social Science lesson, Paso caught sight of his elder sister through the window. With one hand she was dragging a deformed dead cat tied with a string; in the other, she carried a tattered school bag. The cat had been run over by a speeding car. Heads turned to watch her pass by—some students laughed, others looked disgusted, and some turned away in horror. Paso fumed with anger, wishing he could touch the dead cat and, with his golden touch, turn it into a shimmering golden carcass. Then, his sister, dragging it through the streets, would astonish everyone. The sight of a Dalit girl pulling a golden carcass would leave the entire village awestruck. Paso smirked at his own daydream as he watched her fling the dead cat into the mesquite trees before entering her classroom.
On the way home from school, Paso saw his parents building a fence around the village headman’s house. They were drenched in sweat, panting as they moved the heavy stones. Paso hugged his mother and sat on a nearby rock, observing their hard work. After a while, his mother, parched with thirst, asked for water. An earthen pot stood under a ghaf tree, but it was forbidden for Dalits to touch it. Someone from a so-called higher caste would pour water from a height to avoid direct contact. His mother was told to fetch the separate vessel—a battered steel bowl reserved for Dalits instead of a proper steel lota (drinking vessel). That bowl symbolized the daily insults his people endured despite their back-breaking labor. She eventually found the bowl on the toilet roof, in its worst condition. After cleaning it, they drank. Paso was enraged, wishing he could turn that bowl into gold. Then, it would no longer be tossed onto the toilet roof but carefully stored in a locker, and they could finally drink from it like anyone else. He sniggered at the thought as he walked away.
These daily humiliations and acts of discrimination stirred Paso’s imagination, making him think more and more about the golden touch. The next day, during afternoon recess, when the midday meal was being prepared, Paso, carrying his plastic plate, stood staring at the brass bucket filled with Dal-Dhokli, its golden hue reminding him of the food King Midas must have touched. Fixated on the brass bucket and the golden food, his eyes locked on the steel ladle, wishing it too would turn to gold. But he knew he could not touch it—the food server was always from the higher caste. He slipped into a daydream of a world where everything he touched transformed into gold. Trees, stones, animals, birds, rivers—he imagined them all gleaming. He touched plants, flowers, pebbles, and fallen twigs, all turning into gold. Even the river water thickened into a slow-moving golden stream. Paso boarded an abandoned boat that immediately transformed into gold. The oar in his hands became so heavy it was difficult to row. The thicker the river became, the harder he tried, his efforts futile.
“You bastard! How dare you touch the ladle in the vessel? I’ll make you pay!” The thunderous voice shattered his dream. He had reached out and touched the brass bucket, stirring the ladle as though it were the golden river and the oar. Before he realized what was happening, a rib-crushing kick lifted him off his feet and sent him flying out of the kitchen area. His teacher stood there, enraged, the same teacher who had told him the story of the golden touch. Paso trembled with fear, his hands shaking, as the desire for the golden touch vanished. The other children stood up, abandoning their plates and refusing to eat. The teacher, with the same mouth that had sparked Paso’s golden dream, now unleashed a stream of insults. The brass bucket, filled with thick golden gravy, was tipped over onto a large black stone, as if it had been contaminated. Paso watched as the golden liquid slowly spread across the stone, a final remnant of the dream that had consumed him.
Photo by Risto Kokkonen on Unsplash
