NCERT Textbook - The Portrait of a Lady | English Class 11 PDF Download

 Page 1


The Portrait of a Lady 
A Photograph
“We’re Not Afraid to Die... if We 
Can All Be T ogether”
Discovering Tut: the Saga 
Continues
The Laburnum T op
The V oice of the Rain
The Ailing Planet: the Green 
Movement’s Role
Childhood
The Adventure
Silk Road
Father to Son
Chap 1.indd   1 12/6/2024   11:29:38 AM
Reprint 2025-26
Page 2


The Portrait of a Lady 
A Photograph
“We’re Not Afraid to Die... if We 
Can All Be T ogether”
Discovering Tut: the Saga 
Continues
The Laburnum T op
The V oice of the Rain
The Ailing Planet: the Green 
Movement’s Role
Childhood
The Adventure
Silk Road
Father to Son
Chap 1.indd   1 12/6/2024   11:29:38 AM
Reprint 2025-26
Effective reading is receiving from others
their ideas and feelings.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Effective reading involves
?? understanding the text
?? talking about the text
?? thinking about language
?? working with words
?? noticing form and patterns.
Chap 1.indd   2 12/6/2024   11:29:38 AM
Reprint 2025-26
Page 3


The Portrait of a Lady 
A Photograph
“We’re Not Afraid to Die... if We 
Can All Be T ogether”
Discovering Tut: the Saga 
Continues
The Laburnum T op
The V oice of the Rain
The Ailing Planet: the Green 
Movement’s Role
Childhood
The Adventure
Silk Road
Father to Son
Chap 1.indd   1 12/6/2024   11:29:38 AM
Reprint 2025-26
Effective reading is receiving from others
their ideas and feelings.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Effective reading involves
?? understanding the text
?? talking about the text
?? thinking about language
?? working with words
?? noticing form and patterns.
Chap 1.indd   2 12/6/2024   11:29:38 AM
Reprint 2025-26
1.  The Portrait of a Lady
Khushwant Singh
Notice these expressions in the text.
Infer their meaning from the context.
My grandmother, like everybody’s grandmother, was an old woman. 
She had been old and wrinkled for the twenty years that I had known 
her. People said that she had once been young and pretty and had 
even had a husband, but that was hard to believe. My grandfather’s 
portrait hung above the mantelpiece in the drawing room. He wore a 
big turban and loose-fitting clothes. His long, white beard covered the 
best part of his chest and he looked at least a hundred years old. He 
did not look the sort of person who would have a wife or children. He 
looked as if he could only have lots and lots of grandchildren. As for 
my grandmother being young and pretty, the thought was almost 
revolting. She often told us of the games she used to play as a child. 
That seemed quite absurd and undignified on her part and we treated 
it like the fables of the Prophets she used to tell us.
She had always been short and fat and slightly bent. Her face was 
a criss-cross of wrinkles running from everywhere to everywhere. No, 
we were certain she had always been as we had known her. Old, so 
terribly old that she could not have grown older, and had stayed at the 
same age for twenty years. She could never have been pretty; but she 
was always beautiful. She hobbled about the house in spotless white 
with one hand resting on her waist to balance her stoop and the other 
?? 	the thought was almost revolting
?? 	an expanse of pure white serenity
?? 	a turning-point
?? 	accepted her seclusion with 
resignation
?? 	a veritable bedlam of chirrupings
?? 	frivolous rebukes
?? 	the sagging skins of the dilapidated 
drum
Chap 1.indd   3 12/6/2024   11:29:38 AM
Reprint 2025-26
Page 4


The Portrait of a Lady 
A Photograph
“We’re Not Afraid to Die... if We 
Can All Be T ogether”
Discovering Tut: the Saga 
Continues
The Laburnum T op
The V oice of the Rain
The Ailing Planet: the Green 
Movement’s Role
Childhood
The Adventure
Silk Road
Father to Son
Chap 1.indd   1 12/6/2024   11:29:38 AM
Reprint 2025-26
Effective reading is receiving from others
their ideas and feelings.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Effective reading involves
?? understanding the text
?? talking about the text
?? thinking about language
?? working with words
?? noticing form and patterns.
Chap 1.indd   2 12/6/2024   11:29:38 AM
Reprint 2025-26
1.  The Portrait of a Lady
Khushwant Singh
Notice these expressions in the text.
Infer their meaning from the context.
My grandmother, like everybody’s grandmother, was an old woman. 
She had been old and wrinkled for the twenty years that I had known 
her. People said that she had once been young and pretty and had 
even had a husband, but that was hard to believe. My grandfather’s 
portrait hung above the mantelpiece in the drawing room. He wore a 
big turban and loose-fitting clothes. His long, white beard covered the 
best part of his chest and he looked at least a hundred years old. He 
did not look the sort of person who would have a wife or children. He 
looked as if he could only have lots and lots of grandchildren. As for 
my grandmother being young and pretty, the thought was almost 
revolting. She often told us of the games she used to play as a child. 
That seemed quite absurd and undignified on her part and we treated 
it like the fables of the Prophets she used to tell us.
She had always been short and fat and slightly bent. Her face was 
a criss-cross of wrinkles running from everywhere to everywhere. No, 
we were certain she had always been as we had known her. Old, so 
terribly old that she could not have grown older, and had stayed at the 
same age for twenty years. She could never have been pretty; but she 
was always beautiful. She hobbled about the house in spotless white 
with one hand resting on her waist to balance her stoop and the other 
?? 	the thought was almost revolting
?? 	an expanse of pure white serenity
?? 	a turning-point
?? 	accepted her seclusion with 
resignation
?? 	a veritable bedlam of chirrupings
?? 	frivolous rebukes
?? 	the sagging skins of the dilapidated 
drum
Chap 1.indd   3 12/6/2024   11:29:38 AM
Reprint 2025-26
4 Hornbill telling the beads of her rosary. Her silver locks were scattered untidily 
over her pale, puckered face, and her lips constantly moved in inaudible 
prayer. Yes, she was beautiful. She was like the winter landscape in 
the mountains, an expanse of pure white serenity breathing peace 
and contentment.
My grandmother and I were good friends. My parents left me with 
her when they went to live in the city and we were constantly together. 
She used to wake me up in the morning and get me ready for school. 
She said her morning prayer in a monotonous sing-song while she 
bathed and dressed me in the hope that I would listen and get to know 
it by heart; I listened because I loved her voice but never bothered to 
learn it. Then she would fetch my wooden slate which she had already 
washed and plastered with yellow chalk, a tiny earthen ink-pot and a 
red pen, tie them all in a bundle and hand it to me. After a breakfast 
of a thick, stale chapatti with a little butter and sugar spread on it, 
we went to school. She carried several stale chapattis with her for the 
village dogs.
My grandmother always went to school with me because the school 
was attached to the temple. The priest taught us the alphabet and 
the morning prayer. While the children sat in rows on either side 
of the verandah singing the alphabet or the prayer in a chorus, my 
grandmother sat inside reading the scriptures. When we had both 
finished, we would walk back together. This time the village dogs 
would meet us at the temple door. They followed us to our home 
growling and fighting with each other for the chapattis we threw to 
them. 
When my parents were comfortably settled in the city, they sent for 
us. That was a turning-point in our friendship. Although we shared 
the same room, my grandmother no longer came to school with me. I 
used to go to an English school in a motor bus. There were no dogs in 
the streets and she took to feeding sparrows in the courtyard of our 
city house.
As the years rolled by we saw less of each other. For some time she 
continued to wake me up and get me ready for school. When I came 
back she would ask me what the teacher had taught me. I would tell 
her English words and little things of western science and learning, 
the law of gravity, Archimedes’ Principle, the world being round, etc. 
This made her unhappy. She could not help me with my lessons. She 
did not believe in the things they taught at the English school and was 
distressed that there was no teaching about God and the scriptures. 
One day I announced that we were being given music lessons. She 
Chap 1.indd   4 12/6/2024   11:29:38 AM
Reprint 2025-26
Page 5


The Portrait of a Lady 
A Photograph
“We’re Not Afraid to Die... if We 
Can All Be T ogether”
Discovering Tut: the Saga 
Continues
The Laburnum T op
The V oice of the Rain
The Ailing Planet: the Green 
Movement’s Role
Childhood
The Adventure
Silk Road
Father to Son
Chap 1.indd   1 12/6/2024   11:29:38 AM
Reprint 2025-26
Effective reading is receiving from others
their ideas and feelings.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Effective reading involves
?? understanding the text
?? talking about the text
?? thinking about language
?? working with words
?? noticing form and patterns.
Chap 1.indd   2 12/6/2024   11:29:38 AM
Reprint 2025-26
1.  The Portrait of a Lady
Khushwant Singh
Notice these expressions in the text.
Infer their meaning from the context.
My grandmother, like everybody’s grandmother, was an old woman. 
She had been old and wrinkled for the twenty years that I had known 
her. People said that she had once been young and pretty and had 
even had a husband, but that was hard to believe. My grandfather’s 
portrait hung above the mantelpiece in the drawing room. He wore a 
big turban and loose-fitting clothes. His long, white beard covered the 
best part of his chest and he looked at least a hundred years old. He 
did not look the sort of person who would have a wife or children. He 
looked as if he could only have lots and lots of grandchildren. As for 
my grandmother being young and pretty, the thought was almost 
revolting. She often told us of the games she used to play as a child. 
That seemed quite absurd and undignified on her part and we treated 
it like the fables of the Prophets she used to tell us.
She had always been short and fat and slightly bent. Her face was 
a criss-cross of wrinkles running from everywhere to everywhere. No, 
we were certain she had always been as we had known her. Old, so 
terribly old that she could not have grown older, and had stayed at the 
same age for twenty years. She could never have been pretty; but she 
was always beautiful. She hobbled about the house in spotless white 
with one hand resting on her waist to balance her stoop and the other 
?? 	the thought was almost revolting
?? 	an expanse of pure white serenity
?? 	a turning-point
?? 	accepted her seclusion with 
resignation
?? 	a veritable bedlam of chirrupings
?? 	frivolous rebukes
?? 	the sagging skins of the dilapidated 
drum
Chap 1.indd   3 12/6/2024   11:29:38 AM
Reprint 2025-26
4 Hornbill telling the beads of her rosary. Her silver locks were scattered untidily 
over her pale, puckered face, and her lips constantly moved in inaudible 
prayer. Yes, she was beautiful. She was like the winter landscape in 
the mountains, an expanse of pure white serenity breathing peace 
and contentment.
My grandmother and I were good friends. My parents left me with 
her when they went to live in the city and we were constantly together. 
She used to wake me up in the morning and get me ready for school. 
She said her morning prayer in a monotonous sing-song while she 
bathed and dressed me in the hope that I would listen and get to know 
it by heart; I listened because I loved her voice but never bothered to 
learn it. Then she would fetch my wooden slate which she had already 
washed and plastered with yellow chalk, a tiny earthen ink-pot and a 
red pen, tie them all in a bundle and hand it to me. After a breakfast 
of a thick, stale chapatti with a little butter and sugar spread on it, 
we went to school. She carried several stale chapattis with her for the 
village dogs.
My grandmother always went to school with me because the school 
was attached to the temple. The priest taught us the alphabet and 
the morning prayer. While the children sat in rows on either side 
of the verandah singing the alphabet or the prayer in a chorus, my 
grandmother sat inside reading the scriptures. When we had both 
finished, we would walk back together. This time the village dogs 
would meet us at the temple door. They followed us to our home 
growling and fighting with each other for the chapattis we threw to 
them. 
When my parents were comfortably settled in the city, they sent for 
us. That was a turning-point in our friendship. Although we shared 
the same room, my grandmother no longer came to school with me. I 
used to go to an English school in a motor bus. There were no dogs in 
the streets and she took to feeding sparrows in the courtyard of our 
city house.
As the years rolled by we saw less of each other. For some time she 
continued to wake me up and get me ready for school. When I came 
back she would ask me what the teacher had taught me. I would tell 
her English words and little things of western science and learning, 
the law of gravity, Archimedes’ Principle, the world being round, etc. 
This made her unhappy. She could not help me with my lessons. She 
did not believe in the things they taught at the English school and was 
distressed that there was no teaching about God and the scriptures. 
One day I announced that we were being given music lessons. She 
Chap 1.indd   4 12/6/2024   11:29:38 AM
Reprint 2025-26
THe Por Trai T of a l ady 5
was very disturbed. To her music had lewd associations. It was the 
monopoly of harlots and beggars and not meant for gentlefolk. She 
said nothing but her silence meant disapproval. She rarely talked to 
me after that.
When I went up to University, I was given a room of my own. The 
common link of friendship was snapped. My grandmother accepted 
her seclusion with resignation. She rarely left her spinning-wheel to 
talk to anyone. From sunrise to sunset she sat by her wheel spinning 
and reciting prayers. Only in the afternoon she relaxed for a while to 
feed the sparrows. While she sat in the verandah breaking the bread 
into little bits, hundreds of little birds collected round her creating 
a veritable bedlam of chirrupings. Some came and perched on her 
legs, others on her shoulders. Some even sat on her head. She smiled 
but never shooed them away. It used to be the happiest half-hour of 
the day for her.
When I decided to go abroad for further studies, I was sure my 
grandmother would be upset. I would be away for five years, and at 
her age one could never tell. But my grandmother could. She was not 
even sentimental. She came to leave me at the railway station but did 
not talk or show any emotion. Her lips moved in prayer, her mind was 
lost in prayer. Her fingers were busy telling the beads of her rosary. 
Silently she kissed my forehead, and when I left I cherished the moist 
imprint as perhaps the last sign of physical contact between us.
But that was not so. After five years I came back home and was 
met by her at the station. She did not look a day older. She still had 
no time for words, and while she clasped me in her arms I could 
hear her reciting her prayers. Even on the first day of my arrival, her 
happiest moments were with her sparrows whom she fed longer and 
with frivolous rebukes.
In the evening a change came over her. She did not pray. She 
collected the women of the neighbourhood, got an old drum and 
started to sing. For several hours she thumped the sagging skins of 
the dilapidated drum and sang of the home-coming of warriors. We 
had to persuade her to stop to avoid overstraining. That was the first 
time since I had known her that she did not pray.
The next morning she was taken ill. It was a mild fever and the 
doctor told us that it would go. But my grandmother thought differently. 
She told us that her end was near. She said that, since only a few hours 
before the close of the last chapter of her life she had omitted to pray, 
she was not going to waste any more time talking to us.
Chap 1.indd   5 12/6/2024   11:29:39 AM
Reprint 2025-26