Deb was grossly obese.
From the moment he joined our school, he was the butt of many jokes. He tried to be friendly, but the other boys and I would have none of it. I did not particularly want to be unkind to him, but I considered it important to be one of the crowd. That Deb was from a wealthy family and came to school in a chauffeured car somehow made it easier to laugh at his expense.
One day I fractured an ankle on the school playground. The headmaster called my father, but it would be a long time before he could find a taxi and come to fetch me. Deb asked his driver to give me a lift home. After that Deb and I started spending time together, and I found him genuinely good-natured and amiable.
To my surprise he ate very little; a thyroid problem accounted for his corpulence. Doctors continued to treat his condition, but he seemed placidly resigned to it.
I hid my friendship with Deb from our classmates, even going along with their cruel jokes, though those made me increasingly uncomfortable. Then Deb began coming to school less regularly. He told me he had begun to feel unwell, as a specialist had warned his parents he might.
Finally Deb stopped coming to school altogether. The teacher told us he had become quite sick. Without telling my classmates, I went to see him. When I sat down next to his bed, he smiled wanly. He was writing in a notebook – keeping a journal of his illness, he said, so that he could later tell our class what he had been through. He wanted his classmates to understand why he was so large.
I admired his beautiful fountain pen, a Montegrappa. I had never before seen such a fancy writing instrument. Deb readily said I could borrow it and return it to him the next time I visited. Maybe it was his way of ensuring I would come back. I took the pen and showed it off to friends the next day, though I avoided mentioning where I’d gotten it.
I never visited Deb again. The following week the headmaster announced that Deb had passed away in his sleep.
I went home and looked at the elegant pen and wished I had openly acknowledged him as a friend.

(The writer is a Washington-based international development advisor and had worked with the World Bank. He can be reached at mnandy@gmail.com)

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