The Tribute-I Summary

The Tribute-I Summary” is a heartfelt tribute to the power of love, resilience, and the indomitable human spirit. This article captures the essence of a heartwarming story that follows the life journey of the protagonist, depicting their triumphs, trials, and the profound impact they have on the lives of those around them. Through powerful storytelling and captivating narrative, “The Tribute-I Summary” offers a poignant exploration of the universal themes of love, loss, and the pursuit of purpose. Read More Class 10 English Summaries.

The Tribute-I Summary

The Tribute-I Difficult Word Meanings

The Tribute-I Summary 1
The Tribute-I Summary 2
The Tribute-I Summary 3

The Tribute-I Summary in English

As I reached my desk in the office, my eyes stopped over a letter. It contained that familiar, petite handwriting of my elder brother. After a very long time he had written to me. I shrank within for not writing letters home, all these days.

In my student days, it was almost a routine affair. I used to go home to that distant village on a rickety bus, caring nothing for the strain of the journey. My home-my village-they used to pull me away from the moribund city life. Now things have changed and I too have changed, a great deal at that! A lot of cobwebs have settled around me. I am swept by that invisible tide of time, and business. I was studying at Bhuvaneswar, where I got my job and now for these two years, I have thought of home not even once. Many a time my mother has written letters complaining about my negligence in writing to her. She has even reminded me of those pre-marriage days of mine.

Yet I have never been able to break standards of complacency which have coiled around me. I have kept quiet to prove that I am busy and preoccupied. Now she does not complain. Probably, she understand my position.

Usually my elder brother does not write to me. He does not need anything from me. He has never sought a token from me in lieu of his concern for me as an elder brother. In those days when I was a student, the only thing that he enquired about was my well-being. During my stay at home, he would catch fish for me from the pond behind our house and would ask his wife to prepare a good dish, for I loved fish. When the catch was scantly, the dish would be prepared exclusively for me. He would say to his wife. “You must make the dish as delicious as possible, using mustard paste for Babuli.” Even now, he is the same man with the same tone of love and compassion. Nothing has changed him-his seven children, father, mother, cattle, fields, household responsibilities. He is the same-my elder brother.

the tribute story

I handled the letter carefully. He had asked me to come home. Some feud had cropped up. The two sisters-in-law had quarelled. Our paddy fields, the cottage and all the movables and im-movables were to be divided into three parts amongst us. My presence was indispensable.

It was my second brother who was so particular and adamant about the division. He wanted it at any cost.

I finished reading the letter. A cold sweat drenched me. I felt helpless, orphaned. A sort of despair haunted me for a long time. Quite relentlessly, I tried to drive them away yawning helplessly in a chair.

In the evening when I told my wife about the partition that was to take place, I found totally unperturbed. She just asked me: “When?” as if she was all prepared and waiting for this event to take place! “In a week’s time,” I said.”

In bed that night my wife asked me all sorts of questions. What would be our share and how much would fetch us on selling it? I said nothing for a while but in order to satisfy her, at last guessed that it should be around twenty thousand rupees. She came closer to me and said, “We don’t need any land in the village. What shall we do with it? Let’s sell it and take the money. Remember, when you, sell it, hand over to me the entire twenty thousand. I will make proper use of it. We need a fridge, you know. Summer is approaching. You need not go to the office riding a bicycle. You must have a scooter. And the rest we will put in a bank. There is no use keeping land in the village. We can’t look after it, and why should others draw benefits out of our land?”

I listened to all this like an innocent lamb looking into the darkness. I felt as if the butcher was sharpening his knife, huming a tune and waiting to tear me into large chunks of meat, and consoling me saying that there is a better life after death.

Gone are those days; gone are those feelings, when the word ‘Home’ filled my heart with emotion. And that affectionate word ‘Brother’! What feeling it had ! How it used to make my heart pound with love! Recollecting all these things, I felt weak, pathetic.

Where is the heart gone? Where are those days? Where has that spontaneity of feeling gone? I just can’t understand how a stranger could all of a sudden become so intimate.

But I became my normal self in two days. I grew used to what had been a shock. Later on, in the market-place, keeping pace with my wife. I enquired about the prices of the different things she intended to buy. Buying a fridge was almost certain. A secondhand scooter, a stereo set and some gold ornaments. I prepared a list of the prices. She kept reminding me about her intentions, and was showing a lot of impatience.

It was Saturday afternoon. I left for my village. The same bus was there, inspiring in me the old familiar feeling. I rushed to occupy the seat just behind the driver, my favourite seat. In my hurry, I bruised my knee against the door. It hurt me. The brief-case fell off and the little packet containing the prasad of Lord Lingraj’, meant for my dear mother, was scattered over the ground. I felt as if the entire bus was screeching aloud the question: “After how many years? You have not bothered in the least to retain that tender love you had in your heart for your home! Instead you have sold it to the butcher to help yourself become a city Baboo!! Curses be on you!”

a tribute lesson of 10th class pdf

I boarded the bus, collecting the brief case and the content of the soiled packet, wearing a shameless smile for the cleaner and the conductor of the bus.

It was five in the evening when I got down; I had written beforehand. My elder brother was there to meet me at the bus stop. He appeared a little tired and worn out. “Give that brief case to me. That must be heavy.” He almost snatched it away from me. I forgot even to touch his feet. This had never happened earlier. He was walking in front of me.

We were walking on the village road, dusty and ever the same. I remembered my childhood days.

I was usually crossing the street alone to go to a teacher in the evening for tuition. It was generally late and dark when I returned from my studies. Unfailingly my elder brother would be there to escort me back home lest I should be frightened. He would carry the lantern, my bag of books and notes. I had to follow him to do so. If I lagged behind, he would ask, “Why! you are perhaps tired. Come, hold my hand and walk with me.” He sometimes used to carry me – on his shoulders while going to the fields for a stroll.