By Syed Nissar H. Gilani

I still keep this photograph tucked away, its edges softened by time. It was taken in August 1979, and it was never meant for a family album.

The picture was for a passport, a very particular one.

The Haj passport issued then by the Indian foreign ministry came as a single-entry document, valid only for the duration of the pilgrimage. Its cover was brick red, the paper coarse and hard to the touch, a booklet that looked and felt provisional, as if it already knew it would soon be surrendered and disappear from use.

My father held that passport in his hands at the end of a long working life. He was a medical officer, known among colleagues for “putting a long innings” into public service, and retirement was due in December that year.

At 55, he decided this

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