Killing me softly: I once met Indrani Mukerjea and saw her for who she is

The Bombay monsoons can be rather wicked. Much like many bachelors in the city with salt and pepper hair who frequent news debates, the rains can destroy your very being in one aggressive downpour. To take shelter from both, I, Socialite Sethi, a self-confessed person of impeccable morality and monetary strength, once entered Nature's Basket in a posh Bombay locale.

The vegetables in the store were a ripe and succulent green and the meat fresh to a plush pink. All of this, of course is not relevant to the story at hand and there is only so much pertinent information I can share, but the editor has demanded a 1,000-word article and I have information enough to squeeze in about four. So, do not be bothered by the fact that the remaining 996 will be shameless self aggrandising and a detailed description of the weather.

So, here I am, browsing through the confectionary display (us well-to-do people enjoy overpriced cupcakes, usually made with kale and asparagus) and in walks a charming, young woman. I knew instantly that she was Indrani Mukerjea, whom I had never seen or met before.

How, you ask? Well, because she's in the news now and the woman in the photographs being splashed across news channels kind-of resembles the lady in the departmental store that night many years ago. Anyway, I also knew instantly that she was a vixen and a social climber because... reason. In fact, I could tell from a distance. It was in her (seemingly designer) jeans.

As Mukerjea "The Evil Omen" walked across the store, her umbrella (which I now realise was a dangerous weapon with which she would one day commit murder) in tow, there was an air of homicidal neuroticism about her, which was hidden under the garb of what a driven and ambitious woman she was. I know of these two qualities in her because of the way she, starry eyed, navigated the loaded shelves to find unpretentious foods and hoped no one would judge her in this upscale hipster haven of a store.

Let me take a moment here to mention that I am a philanthropist who throws some of the best fundraisers in town, most of them in places that are blessed with the hallowed patronage of others such as myself, whom I will speak ill of when there are accusations flung in their general direction. I am a career-oriented person, so I figured observing "Satan Reincarnate" Mukerjea and eventually inviting her to a do would further my talk-aboutability because of her media contacts. Also, an additional person who would talk about my soirees to exponentially up my societal cred never hurt anyone.

As "One Of The Three Witches" From Macbeth, Mukerjea scrutinised the vegetables, I knew for certain that she had been divorced thrice. "Colourful" one, this. Her predatory nature was revealed in the way she picked up and tossed aside bunches of unimpressive broccoli. A psychiatrist once told me (at a party, of course, the likes of me rarely require therapy), that a woman can effectively be judged by the way she behaves in an incident related to me, or in which I happen to be a fly on the wall. More so if she is all the mainstream media can talk about. So, this character evaluation of Mukerjea AKA Bane has been given a medical stamp of approval.  

After this stimulating broccoli incident, I lost sight of Raavan Inspired Mukerjea for a few moments. There was something in the stealth with which she escaped my only borderline-criminal gaze. It exposed a side of her that her innocent appearance, fitted starched shirt with velvet blue buttons and fitted jeans could never unveil. This was her ability to hide secrets. And so I knew almost instantly that the woman she called her sister was in fact her daughter. A revelation that is now SHOCKING my socialite brethren, was something I had deduced years ago as the rain poured down.

I owe my power of deduction in a most contrived way to my frequent visits to exotic destinations, to which I fly business class and drink nothing less than Dom Perignon and politely chew on only the finest caviar -- light, imported fish eggs cured with stacks of 1,000-rupee notes.

But the truly telling incident was the way in which Adolf Mukerjea tasted one of the sample cheese varieties on display. This is when I knew that she had murdered her daughter. There was something brutal in the way she maneuvered the toothpick, penetrating the cheese with murderous precision. I knew.

As the rain slowed to a trickle, Mukerjea The Manic Necromancer walked over to the cashier to pay the bill and eventually walked out into the promising Bombay night. We would never cross paths again, because she was a successful HR professional-turned-media tycoon and my profession largely entailed screaming "ME TOO PICK ME!" every time someone rich made headlines. But rest assured, this is the most faultless description you will find of Murderous Mukerjea.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment with my psychiatrist to help cure me of my self importance to go make friends with other rich and famous people. One can not be disqualified from comment, betrayal and feigned outrage when an accusation of murder may one day be hurled at them.

(This column is the result of a conversation with my friend, Dushyant Arora. And is a work of complete fiction.)