The kind of friendship that seems to be most cherishing (= desirable) in my life relates to a person who is no more. Others did not like him for some of his bad habits. He liked drinks and, lacking the means to purchase, befriended (= made friendship with) those who could. But this was his only vice, otherwise he was a paragon (= of excelling virtues). He sang well, painted well, though neither studious nor a lover of books. He was not truthful enough, because he often resorted to (= took recourse to or used) lies to satisfy his lust for drinks. But his lies were generally harmless. Above all he had a heart.
The last quality is, I think, a divine blessing. I have reasons to say so.
My friend’s name was Kamal. He came of a poor family and never had the means to go for drinks himself. Kamal became my friend in the school as he often helped me with my drawing’ works, in which I was miserable. Though it took its root in a petty (= insignificant) self-interest, if matured through years.
My other friends were ‘occasional’. Some I needed for sports and some needed me for similar ends. Kamal’s friendship seemed to me total. Whenever he felt alone he used to come to me. I knew of his poverty, but Kamal would never talk of it. He looked so happy inspite of it. He had a country-bred dog that he loved and tended with devout (= almost religious) passion and care. He had picked it as a pup (small one of the dog) when it lay shivering in cold beside a street tea-stall. I observed with what infinite care he nursed it and cured it of germs!
I do not know how, but somehow Kamal also became indispensable to me. I would go to him whenever the hours hung heavy on me (= bored me). His style of living was a perennial (= permanent) source of joy to me. He would be seen poring over his canvas. Some landscapes among his paintings seemed much beyond his age! They presented a tranquil (= silent) natural setting far from human habitation. Sometimes he painted the stress and toil (= labour) that poverty imposes on men. Most striking was his portrait of an old woman, her eyes darkened by the shadow of grim (= dangerous) poverty. Her sickly bony hand with prominent veins and almost every other detail reflected the deep recess (= inner chamber) of the painter’s soul.
I knew that often paintings reflected his own life. But sometimes they would reveal human grandeur, the joys of picnic excursions. His songs were seldom sad or heavy. In functions Kamal was always a must.
But lack of matching food and not infrequent drinks slowly ate into his life. The small company that met this demand in him was scattered.
Kamal’s health and future was my constant anxiety. I had not the courage to face his mother. Kamal died. Kamal’s soul was immortal and great. He was born with a zest (= strong energy) for life but, like all great heroes, damned with a fatal vice. I am not able to place Kamal into the normal category of friends. He must be, today, another star in the sky. Can one define such a friendship inhuman terms?
