“You can find one or two of my paintings in every corner of the world,” he says.

The Norwegian and Indian Embassies were among those that held showings; for a time, the American Embassy even had a small gallery inside its compound, with Hamdards as a staple offering.

There is a photograph of him from the early part of the decade, vital and cheery in front of his work. He was often invited to art events, nearly always at embassies. His friend Karim Khosravi, a businessman and art lover, started the Bamiyan Gallery on Chicken Street and did well from his 30 percent commission on Mr. Hamdard’s paintings. A Swedish woman helped start a Web site featuring his work.

The money poured in steadily — not riches (his most expensive painting to date, “Wedding,” sold for $6,500), but in the Afghan economy, it was plenty, at least at first.

He moved into a large house with his seven brothers; none of them artists or professionals, they were taxi drivers and restaurant workers, government workers, shop clerks — people whose monthly salaries were often less than even an inexpensive Hamdard. He supported the entire family, and though he did not marry, his brothers did, until soon the house had 30 people including all the wives and children.

Mr. Hamdard stopped painting at home; it was just too crowded, he says. Yet he was honor- and culture-bound to remain with his brothers. According to friends, two of his family members suffered from mental illness; his mother had a stroke and was paralyzed. Their house collapsed one day, and he had to rebuild it, the expense devastating his savings.