The Passport Photograph

My father Ibrahim Cassimally was a modest trader who bought on credit, took the articles to Rodrigues Island where he sold them, also often on credit, paying his suppliers on his return, although the debts were never entirely erased. This was something which worried him much. When he was younger and relatively prosperous, he loved wearing fine clothes and a watch with chain, but in later years he went about with shoes without

socks, and almost always wore trousers and suit in white cotton twill, which he proudly called “cotes de cheval”. He had a fine sense of humour. When his first-born son Ahmad was getting married, only because he did not wish to shame him, did he agree to having a proper woollen suit made to attend the wedding ceremony. He never wore it after. Except once more.

One Saturday morning, he said I was to come with him as he was going into town. I loved it when that happened. Rabi, he said to mother, get that coat out. It was wrapped with naphthalene in the cupboard. He then told me to fold it and to put in a tente bazar. I would have the honour of lugging the bag. Let’s go, he said.

We made for Kwon Pak Yin’s photographic studio in Rue de l’Eglise. He explained to the photographer that he needed a photo, as he was going to renew his passport. He then took off his cotton twill coat, and put the elegant blue tailor-made jacket on. Mr Yin instructed him to tilt his fez

slightly to one side, look at the camera, before muttering his usual three words: Pa-eh la hein? The Chinese had difficulty saying r. This means You ready? And he pulled the trigger. He gave Papa a slip and said the photo would be ready in 2 days’ time. Ibrahim took his fancy jacket off, folded it and put it in the tente bazar, and told me to go home, whilst he continued on his trip to town. That night we asked him what this rigmarole was about, and he took a quick breath of air, as was his wont, and explained. When like me, you owe people money, you do not parade yourself in finery.