Making the India documentary the BBC never commissioned.
A British-Indian dad in his sixties, going home to India with a camera and his mum. New videos weekly.
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About
The short version.
Who is Papadom Diaries?
Papadom Diaries is Sunil "Bitti" Gupta, a British-Indian dad in his sixties making the India travel documentary the BBC never commissioned. It's a first-person homecoming to his roots, going back to India again and again: Delhi, the family village, and the roadside India in between.
Where does he film?
Mostly Delhi and his family's village, plus the roadside India in between: the chai stalls, the markets, the Ganges, the old family house. The heart of it is the places his family actually comes from, not the tourist monuments.
Where can I watch?
You can watch on Instagram, TikTok and YouTube, all @papadomdiaries. They're short, bite-sized videos, a new one every week.
Does he travel the Golden Triangle (Delhi, Agra, Jaipur)?
Sometimes. The Golden Triangle is India's best-known tourist route, and the odd trip takes in part of it. But Papadom Diaries isn't a tourist route, it's a homecoming, so the heart of it is Delhi and the family village, not the monuments.
Who is Sunil Gupta?
Sunil, known to everyone as Bitti, is the British-Indian dad in his sixties at the centre of Papadom Diaries. He came to England as a baby, grew up one of the only brown boys at his school, and now goes back to India again and again with a phone and his mum, filming the documentary he always wanted to make.
Why is it called Papadom Diaries?
It's called Papadom Diaries because he's everyone's Papa, and like a papadom, the crispiest thing on the Indian table, he's impossible to ignore. The "Diaries" part matters too: this is a travel diary, not a highlight reel.
What are the videos about?
Each one is a short, bite-sized video, a phone-shot slice of India: roadside chai, mango season, a one-pound thali, the family village, the old well, the drive through Delhi traffic. Warm, funny and real, with his own commentary over the top.
Is Papadom Diaries on YouTube?
Yes. Papadom Diaries is on YouTube, Instagram and TikTok, all under the handle @papadomdiaries.
Why "Papadom"?
Because he's everyone's Papa.
And like the crispiest thing on the Indian table, impossible to ignore.
Here's the short story. My father was a village boy who studied by an oil lamp while his mother brought him warm milk at night, and became a doctor, the sixty-fourth and last student admitted to his medical college. He came to England with three pounds in his pocket, all the rules would let you take out of India then, and brought us with him when I was a baby. I grew up one of the only brown boys at my school, and they did a fine job of making me a British kind of Indian. For years I went along with it. My father passed away recently, and something in me needed to go back to where he came from, properly this time. So now, whenever I go back, and I go back often, I film it: my phone in one hand, my mum not far behind. Delhi, the roadside food, the village, the mango trees, all of it. No crew, no script, just me telling you what I see. More later.
For Papaji
For my father, Ram Prashad Gupta.
The village boy who studied by an oil lamp and became a doctor, and the reason I'm doing any of this. More later.
A few family albums. Swipe through each one, and the note under a photo tells you what you're looking at.
Papaji and Mataji
Papaji and Mataji, my dad and my mum. Everything on this channel starts with them.
My father as a young man, before England, before any of us.Taken in India, in a garden full of flowers. He grew up in a village, studied by an oil lamp, and became the sixty fourth and last student to get into his medical college. 
Papaji with the paper, putting the world right.In the front room in England, glasses on, reading the Telegraph. The headline is Thatcher and the IRA, so this is October 1984. He never missed a morning paper. 
A young father in England, one of us in the pram.Shirt, tie and braces against a London brick wall, a baby parked in the pram at his feet. The early years, when everything was still new. 
My mum on Diwali night, sparkler in hand.She's the one who still comes back to India with me, phone in my hand and her not far behind. Diwali was always her night to light up the house. 
My mum as a young woman, a rose in her hand.In the back garden in her good sari, holding a rose and a little steel cup. She hasn't changed a bit, if you ask me. 
The three of us at Heathrow, coats on, about to fly.Bags packed under the Skyshop sign. Half our life was airports back then, going back and forth. Some goodbyes you never quite forget.
Growing up here
A brown boy finding his feet in England, one of the only ones at school.
Us lot as kids, told to sit still. Good luck with that.Four of us lined up on the grass for the camera. This is the England I was growing up in, one of the only brown families on the street. 
Me and my father, in our Sunday best.Sitting on the grass in a park full of flower beds. He never pushed, he just quietly showed you how it was done. 
Me, Papaji and my brother Anil, on our travels.Dressed up on a riverside abroad, a big bridge behind us. My father took us everywhere he could. 
The front room, the whole family in.Everyone squeezed onto the sofa, an elder in white at the centre of it. This is what a visit looked like. 
My mum by the old Mercedes, sari and all.Very English street, very Indian mum. That mix is basically my whole childhood in one picture.
Home, and the festivals
Diwali on the living room floor, and a family that never stopped seeing the world.
Diwali laid out on the floor at home.Fruit, sweets, the silver thali and the family gold set out for the Lakshmi puja. Exactly as it's done back home, just with an English carpet underneath. 
The three of us again, off on our travels.Under the departures sign, tickets in Papaji's hand. We were always seeing someone off, or being seen off. 
My mum's sister, up in the hills.Basket in hand on a little mountain railway in India, the green valley dropping away behind her. 
My father in Japan, of all places.Grinning on a jetty beside a great white pleasure boat, snow on the mountains behind him. He never stopped wanting to see the world. Now you know where I get it. More later.
For Raj Mamaji
My uncle, Raj Kumar, my mum's brother. We lost him this year, and I was glad I could be there to say goodbye.
Raj Mamaji in uniform, beside his Ambassador.His early days in the Indian Police Service, which he joined in 1974. In 1977 he sat one of the toughest exams in the world and entered the Indian Administrative Service, ranked in the country's top ten with a gold medal. 
Raj Mamaji with me as a boy, a little one on his arm.Sharp as anything and good company with it, never the nerd you'd expect. He rose to Chief Secretary to the Government of Haryana, and Financial Commissioner and Principal Secretary across the state's biggest departments. 
Every inch the officer, cap, cane and all.In full uniform at the family gate, the Ambassador behind him. The Hindustan Ambassador, built from an old Morris Oxford, was the car of India's officers for half a century. Retired IAS, 1977 Haryana cadre. A remarkable man, and family. More later.
Follow & watch
Come along for the ride.
Field notes
Longer stories from the road.
The bits that don't fit in a video: the village my father left, the story behind the name, what a pound actually buys you in Delhi. First few are on their way.
Press & partnerships
Let's make something.
Press & partnerships: hello@papadomdiaries.com
British-Asian press and heritage-travel / tourism brands especially welcome.
Contact
Say hello.
Anything at all: hello@papadomdiaries.com