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Shooting with Vish Puri in Delhi

When I needed to find a local actor in Delhi to play Vish Puri, I called a veteran film director friend of mine. Arun assured me that finding a suitable amateur thespian wouldn’t pose a problem. “Gentlemen of that build are not hard to come by in these parts,” he said.

In the event, only a few candidates came forward. The most suitable was Mr. Ashok Bajaj. His ‘manager’, who I suspect was his nephew, assured me that Mr. Bajaj was a big thing in Haryana soap opera (Haryana being a state abutting Delhi with a TV industry that enjoys huge audiences, though the production standards have room for improvement).

There was just one thing Mr Bajaj was missing: a moustache. Not an issue, his manager told me at the casting interview – a makeup man would “do the necessary”. Did he own a Safari suit? I asked. No, they were not Mr. Bajaj’s style. He did not have a flat cap, either. These I would have to provide, along with transport and chai.

With the fees and other sundries agreed upon (and the manager’s large lunch paid for), I set out to hire a white Ambassador, Vish Puri’s trademark car. When I first lived in Delhi in the late 1990s, the only cars plying the roads were Ambassadors and Marutis. But white Ambys are a rare sight these days, the only ones being Government of India vehicles with whirring emergency beacons and antennas affixed to their roofs.) Sure enough, when I asked around at all the local taxi stands, I came up empty handed. No one I knew owned an Amby, either. I was going to have to go without.

On the day of the shoot, Mr. Bajaj arrived with his manager. The makeup man brought an assistant, too, and once Mr. Bajaj had changed into the Safari suit, they set about affixing the moustache: a piece of synthetic hairy fluff that looked fake from 10 paces. Adjustments were duly made. A great deal of glue was used.

When at last we headed over to India Gate to get some shots of Mr. Bajaj eating at various snack stands, he could hardly move his upper lip. This resulted in quite a lot of golgappa water dripping down his chin and onto his suit. Worse, when I asked Mr. Bajaj to deliver a couple of scripted lines to the camera, he was unable to say them – his upper lip was almost frozen.

We carried on regardless, shooting in Khan Market and Connaught Place, before heading over to Bengali Market. And there we had a stroke of luck.

As we emerged from one of the restaurants (where Mr. Bajaj had struggled to eat lunch, dropping quite a bit of his rajma and pickle into his lap), a white Ambassador pulled up across the street. Anu, my wife, who had been helping me all morning, hurried over to speak to the owner. The young man didn’t seem the least bit phased at the prospect of lending his car to strangers, and promptly handed over the keys, inviting us to use his Ambassador while he had his lunch.

Thanks to that trusting, generous man, I got the shots that I badly wanted. I was especially pleased with those of Vish Puri driving through Delhi on the back seat, something I had pictured him doing so often while writing the novels. And although Mr. Bajaj was unable to deliver a single line, it didn’t seem to matter very much at all.

You’ll find the photos from the shoot here.

If you’d like a limited edition hardback copy of The Delhi Detective’s Handbook, please go here.


Delhi, National Geographic Traveller (UK)

Nat Geo DelhiMy piece on my relationship(s) with Delhi will appear in the January issue of National Geographic Traveller UK. You can read it in advance here.

Otherwise here’s the text:

When I was posted to Delhi in the mid-1990s it was a sleepy, parochial backwater.  There were no imported cars, and the Ambassador, which was modelled on the post-war Oxford Morris, still ruled the roads.  Non-Indian restaurants were few and far between.  If you wanted a change from chicken tikka and dosas, you invariably ended up in one of the luxury hotels, or Rodeo, a Mexican joint where the Indian waiters were an incongruous site in Stetsons and the enchiladas were essentially rotis rolled into wraps.  The city’s cultural life was equally limited.  Jaded intelligentsia gathered regularly at the same old cultural centres where the staid atmosphere was indicative of the malaise that gripped the country.

Still, there was plenty for me to explore.  Delhi’s history is unparalleled, dating back at least two and a half millennia.  British ‘New’ Delhi, which became the capital in 1911, is but its eighth avatar. The landscape is dotted with the domes, battlements and mausoleums of conquerors, emperors and saints.  During time off from work as a journalist, I would take long walks along the leafy avenues of this former colonial capital, with its whitewashed bungalows and columned edifices.  I would root around in ‘Old’ Delhi, the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan’s walled citadel with its magnificent Red Fort standing sentinel over a warren of frenetic bazaars. And I will never forget the first time I visited the colossal red sandstone tomb of the Emperor Humayun and was mesmerised by its calming symmetry.

But I didn’t feel any great emotional connection to Delhi.  And had a certain Indian-American woman not walked into my office one afternoon, I doubt I would have remained beyond the length of my employment contract.

Anu was 23 at the time with short black hair, dark, intelligent eyes, and a playful, beguiling laugh. It wasn’t long before I found myself hopelessly in love. Suddenly Delhi was a special place – our place.  Riding in the back of three-wheeled auto rickshaws was no longer a tedious, bone-rattling experience, but one softened by entwined fingers and whispered sweet nothings.  We would spend afternoons lolling on the lawns between the 13th century tombs in Lodi Gardens; eat bathure chhole and gulab jamuns at Nathu’s in Bengali Market; and although the cinemas generally offered the cheesiest Hollywood and Bollywood had to offer, it no longer mattered just as long as we could secure two quiet seats together.

I had a flat in one of Delhi’s posher areas, but started spending all my free time at her pad in Amar Colony, a busy, congested quarter inhabited by boisterous Punjabis.  On our first Holi, the spring festival, we spent the day fighting with water balloons and packets of powdered colour out on the street along with all the neighbours.  On Diwali, when the place erupted with fireworks and diyas appeared on balconies and in doorways, the landlady invited us in for chilli pakoras and spicy green chutney, and we played cards with her extended family late into the night. I attended engagements, weddings and even the odd funeral.  And gradually, with Anu as my guide, I came to appreciate – even relish – what north Indians refer to as tamasha, the unending chaos and spectacle of the place.

Delhi is where I proposed marriage (in a private dinning room in the Oberoi hotel); it’s where we eloped (secretly before a disapproving judge and two cuffed local thieves); and where we are now raising our two children.  It’s also where I’ve set a series of novels starring a Punjabi detective whose resemblance to some of Anu’s uncles is by no means coincidental.

Since our courtship and the reforms to the economy, India’s capital has experienced rapid change.  Its population has more than doubled.  Its concrete sprawl of suburbs have grown exponentially with clusters of office towers, apartment blocks and metro lines marching out into the retreating farmland.  Every day, thousands of people pour in from rural India searching for work. For every new golf course, there is a slum to match it in size, if not allure.  The Ambassador is now an endangered species, replaced by plenty of Toyotas and even the odd Ferrari.

For the vast majority of the city’s inhabitants, life is complex and tough. Corruption and sheer negligence make living in Delhi often frustrating, sometimes dangerous.  But there’s nowhere I would rather be.  Asia is resurgent and I wouldn’t miss this show for the world.  Besides, as a mystery writer, there’s always something new to discover: from Kathputhli, an entire neighbourhood inhabited by street magicians, to the new microbreweries of Gurgaon.  And just occasionally, when we want a break from the kids, the power cuts or the maddening bureaucracy, Anu and I can always jump in an auto-rickshaw and hold hands all the way to Lodi gardens.

© Tarquin Hall, 2103


Radfoot Strongdoctor

Background image courtesy of Eileen Kroll