“Your passport please.” I was checking into a small hotel in Pushkar, India after traveling on a bus from Udaipur, 300 kms away. It had been a long, dusty, bumpy ride. I began looking through my bag, now painstakingly. My passport wasn’t there.

I then remembered using it to change some money at a bank, a day or two before I left Udaipur,  and relayed this to the hotel employee. The return trip was not one I looked forward to.

A Canadian man, whom I had just met, overheard my conversation and said, “I’m going to Udaipur tomorrow to buy some silver, then coming back here the following day. I can pick up your passport.” “Thanks, that would be great, but would they give my passport to you, a stranger?”  Fortunately I had a photocopy of my passport. I wrote a letter on the back, with the Canadian’s name and my signature hoping that this would be enough. It was worth a try.

Two days later, my passport was back in my hands. ” How did it go? Did they give you a hard time? Was my note sufficient? ” I asked. The Canadian explained, ” I got to the bank and told them that you’d left your passport. I was guided to one of the clerks who opened a drawer. Inside there were at least thirty passports strewn about. The clerk just looked at me and said, “Here, take hers.”