‘Words are easy like a wind, faithful friends are hard to find,’ says Shakespeare. In literature, we keep seeing friends everywhere, and faithful friends are not that hard to find. But excepting a well-known few, the rest remain in the mist of our memory, reluctant to come to the fore. I’m reminded of a story about Mirza Ghalib. He had a very close friend with whom he shared many things—except mangoes. The friend did not care for mangoes. One day, he was seated in the veranda of Ghalib’s house, and Ghalib was there as well. A driver drove his donkey-pulled cart through the lane. Some mango peels were lying there; the donkey took a sniff but left them. The friend said, “Look—even the donkey [gadhā bhī] doesn’t eat mangoes!” Ghalib said, “Exactly, a donkey doesn’t eat it.” This story, apart from being a fine example of Ghalib’s biting wit, says one more thing—only with close friends could one take such liberties. The funny thing was that I couldn’t remember the friend’s name. I had to search online for long before I could find it—Hakim Razi ud-Din Khan. There are several such people lurking in the pages of literature.