My earliest memory of Om Puri is answering the doorbell for him one early morning in Calcutta (as it was known then). There he stood in a dirty worn out white vest with a red gamcha over his shoulder, hair dishevelled, face unwashed and scruffy with stubble. I remember opening the door, taking one look and announcing nonchalantly that Om Uncle was here. His shock and dismay that a child barely five years old had seen through his elaborate costume was instant. A loud litany of