Notes from the Underbelly

Paharganj at seven in the evening smells of diesel, marigolds and frying dough, in that order, and the light comes down between the buildings in shafts the colour of over-brewed tea. I stand outside a guesthouse whose name changes depending on which of its three signs you trust, watching a man repair a suitcase with dental floss and total concentration, and I am — officially, at least — here for research.

This is what writing a thriller does to a…