‘If Idgah was the doorway, Do Bailon Ki Katha was the mirror': Remembering Premchand

Indian Express

01-08-2025

On what would have been Munshi Premchand's 145th birthday, I find myself returning to a story that reshaped how I saw the world. If Idgah was the doorway into Premchand's world, Do Bailon Ki Katha was the mirror he held up to society. Hamid may have taught us love and sacrifice, but it was Heera and Moti, the two oxen in this short story, who stirred something deeper in me when I was all of 13.
We often read stories with human protagonists, but this was different. It was not a tale of arrogant kings, powerful Gods, or even ordinary men. It was a story of two humble bullocks. Voiceless and speechless, these animals of burden, tirelessly toil in fields, yet Premchand lends them vivid personalities. I still remember reading that first page and feeling strangely emotional.
The story has stayed with me. Heera and Moti dearly loved their master, Jhuri, and shared a remarkable camaraderie. Both were self-respecting, brave, and benevolent. Their owner treated them with affection. One day, however, they were sent to Jhuri's in-laws' house, where they were mistreated and forced to plough fields beyond their strength. Once free-spirited, they soon found themselves bound in suffering. Unable to bear the injustice, they revolted. They broke free, caused chaos, and ultimately ran away, only to be separated. Eventually, they were auctioned off to a butcher. Miraculously, they escaped from the slaughter house and made their way back to their rightful owner. The narrative that follows is layered with humour, sorrow, and empathy. The two are reunited, but not before we see the world through their wounds.
What strikes me most, even today, is not only the animal friendship but how Premchand exposes human hypocrisy. The two oxen behave more honourably than the men around them. They do not speak, yet their protest is louder than any slogan. They refuse to become machines of greed. They walk away. And in that act lies the story of every worker, every underpaid laborer, every being resisting cruelty.
It was the first story that made me question authority. Why should endurance be expected simply because someone is silent? Why should loyalty be a license for exploitation? Heera and Moti were not just bullocks. They were symbols. Their pain was real, and so was their choice to escape it. For a ninth-grade student, this story offered the first glimpse of quiet rebellion.
In this seemingly simple tale, Premchand opens with a metaphor, of a donkey, often mocked and rarely understood. For him, the donkey represents tolerance. Regardless of what life offers, joy or sorrow, it remains unmoved, like a monk. In a world where emotions often scream louder than actions, Premchand praises the virtue of composure. Unfortunately, humans mistake this stillness for stupidity. Perhaps it is because we lack what the donkey possesses: patience and grace.
Similarly, Heera and Moti were not mere animals in a field. They were friends, brothers, comrades. The story begins with them licking and nudging each other: small gestures of affection that speak to a bond stronger than any chain. Whether feeding from the same trough or pulling the same plough, they carried one another's burdens. Even during hardship, they never abandoned each other.
Their trial arrives in the form of a violent bull. But this is not just a fight between animals. It is a metaphor for how all beings—human or otherwise—must stand together in moments of crisis. Heera fights to protect Moti, even when escape is possible. Later, when the wall of the slaughterhouse collapses and freedom is near, Moti does not run alone. He waits for Heera, who refuses to leave. Whether it is sharing food or enduring beatings, the bullocks consistently place each other first. That is not merely friendship. That is solidarity. Few human friendships reflect such depth of devotion. In those scenes, Premchand shows us that courage is not always about confrontation. Sometimes, it is about choosing to stay.
Premchand does not stop at exploring the bond between animals. He extends it to the relationship between humans and animals. When Heera and Moti return to Jhuri after fleeing from their new owner, Gaya, he is deeply moved. His wife may see them as mere beasts, but for Jhuri, they are part of his family. For Heera and Moti, love outweighs comfort. Premchand reminds us that animals feel. They crave affection. They mourn. They remember kindness.
'Azadi sabko chahiye.' Freedom, Premchand insists, is not limited to humans. Heera and Moti flee not from impulse but from instinct. They recognise oppression. They seek dignity. Whether it is the British colonizing India or a cruel master exploiting animals, bondage must be challenged. And when the moment comes, it must be escaped. Freedom, Premchand suggests, is always worth the struggle.
The symbolism in the story is subtle, but once perceived, it cannot be forgotten. Written during colonial rule, Do Bailon Ki Katha is not only about two bullocks. It is about India itself. Premchand channels national resistance through their rebellion. Just as Heera and Moti resist cruelty, so too were India's oppressed rising against imperialism. The story does not raise slogans, but it hums with the anger of a people awakening.
Premchand did not write for the intellectual elite. He did not try to impress with language. He told stories the way elders do under the shade of a neem tree. Simple, measured and unforgettable Do Bailon Ki Katha exemplifies that storytelling.
Reading it brought an odd kind of maturity. I began to see the world differently, not only the world of animals, but also the lives of laborers, domestic workers, rickshaw pullers, and farmers. The story was never didactic, but it made me uncomfortable in the best possible way.
Even now, when I read about animal cruelty or bonded labor, I find myself returning to that chapter in Kshitij. The scene where Heera and Moti collapse from exhaustion, while others stand around laughing, feels eerily familiar. We are still those bystanders. And in that sense, Premchand remains as relevant as ever.
What made Premchand timeless was not merely his choice of subjects, but the tenderness with which he wrote them. His stories were not meant to shock or preach. They drew you in gently, then turned the mirror toward you.
The beauty of Do Bailon Ki Katha is that it is not simply a fable. It is a human drama told through non-human characters. And perhaps that is why it stings. Because in those two oxen, we begin to see ourselves.
It is curious how we grow older, but some stories seem to grow with us. When I first read it, I saw pain. Years later, I saw resistance. Now, I see companionship. I read Do Bailon Ki Katha in school. But I suspect I will remember it in life. It was Premchand's way of reminding us that even the voiceless have choices. Even the beaten down can say no.
In a world that continues to normalise injustice, perhaps the most radical act is to walk away. Maybe we all carry a little of Heera and Moti within us. Maybe we are still waiting to find the courage to break free.
(As I See It is a space for bookish reflection, part personal essay and part love letter to the written word.)