The Portrait of a Lady
by Khushwant Singh
Khushwant Singh's autobiographical sketch remembers his grandmother through three phases of their closeness: the village years when they were inseparable, the quiet drift that began when the family moved to the city, and the calm distance of his student years abroad. He draws her not as pretty but as beautiful, spotless in white and forever at her rosary. The portrait turns on small, telling moments, the temple school, the fed dogs and sparrows, her one evening of song, and closes with the birds mourning silently at her death.
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In this affectionate portrait, Khushwant Singh describes his grandmother and the changing phases of their close relationship. In the village, the grandmother wakes him, gets him ready and walks him to the temple school, feeding the village dogs on the way; they are inseparable. When the family moves to the city, a turning-point comes: she can no longer go to school with him, disapproves of the English school's science and lack of religion, and is upset by music lessons. As the narrator grows up, going to university and then abroad, they drift apart, though she accepts her seclusion serenely, spinning, praying and feeding sparrows. On his return after five years she meets him unchanged; but that evening, breaking her lifelong habit of prayer, she gathers the neighbourhood women and sings of the homecoming of warriors. The next day she falls mildly ill, foresees her end, refuses to waste time talking, and dies peacefully telling her beads. At her death hundreds of sparrows gather silently in mourning, refusing the crumbs offered to them, and fly away only when her body is carried off.
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The sketch is a tender tribute to the narrator's grandmother and to the deep bond between them. It traces how their intimacy changed with time and circumstance, yet reveals her serene faith, quiet strength and beautiful character, and the mysterious love even the sparrows bore her.
An old, beautiful grandmother
The narrator finds it impossible to imagine his grandmother as ever having been young and pretty. Short, fat and slightly bent, her face a criss-cross of wrinkles, she moved about the house in spotless white, telling the beads of her rosary and murmuring prayers. She was never pretty but always beautiful, like a serene winter landscape in the mountains, breathing peace and contentment.
Friends in the village
In the village they were inseparable. She woke him, bathed and dressed him, murmured her morning prayer hoping he would learn it, and walked him to the temple school where the priest taught the alphabet and prayers while she read the scriptures. On the way home they fed chapattis to the village dogs. This was the happy first phase of their friendship.
A turning-point in the city
When the family settled in the city and sent for them, their friendship reached a turning-point. She no longer accompanied him to the English school, which he reached by bus. She could not help with lessons about Western science and the laws of nature, was distressed that there was no teaching of God and the scriptures, and disapproved of the music lessons, which she associated with beggars and undesirable company. She grew increasingly silent and withdrawn.
Seclusion, spinning and the sparrows
At university the narrator got a room of his own and the common link of friendship snapped. The grandmother accepted her seclusion with resignation, spending her days at the spinning-wheel reciting prayers, and relaxing only to feed the sparrows in the afternoon, her happiest half-hour, when hundreds of birds perched on her. When he left to study abroad for five years, she came to the station but showed no emotion, only kissing his forehead while praying.
Homecoming, the last song and death
After five years she met him at the station, unchanged and still absorbed in prayer. But that evening, for the first time, she did not pray, she collected the neighbourhood women, got an old drum and sang of the homecoming of warriors. The next morning she took mildly ill, declared her end was near, refused to waste her last hours in talk, and died peacefully telling her beads. As her body lay wrapped in a red shroud, thousands of sparrows gathered in mournful silence, ignored the bread crumbs, and flew away only when she was carried off.