To appreciate my mom’s exquisite talent and unparalleled skill at building bombs and grenades from the week-long media coverage of Indrani Mukherji’s crime, you must first be introduced to Mukherjea and her crime, which the Indian media is calling MOM or the Mother of all Murders!
Indrani Mukherjea, a rich socialite of 47-years or so has been blocking the Indian news pipelines for more than a week. Even Modi ver 1.0 and Rahul ver 2.0 haven’t been able to push her out of the limelight. Are you wondering what this woman must’ve done to have become so popular?
Well, she strangulated her daughter, kept her in the boot of her car for the night, then carefully made up her face, sprayed her with perfume, sat her daughter’s corpse between herself and her ex-husband in the rear-seat of her car, then disposed off the body by setting fire to it.
This is the question that mom has been asking. Each time Indrani’s face pops up on our television screen, mom props her glasses on her nose, and laps up every little detail of the crime.
Two days ago, the day before Janamashtami, we were watching the news – mostly watching, because listening becomes difficult when Mom starts commenting. That evening she was feel a lot more garrulous than usual.
“What sort of woman is she? She killed her own daughter!” she mused.
“Even if she was troublesome – killing her wasn’t the right thing to do. Puttar, you and your sister made my life hell for years, I suffered in silence,” she complained.
“Sometimes you would really drive me up the wall. There were times when I wanted to throw you off a cliff, but did I? I didn’t. ” she recalled.
Then she turned to me and asked, “Do you know why?”
“Because there were no cliffs around the place we lived?” I ventured.
“Silly boy. I didn’t, because mothers don’t kill their babies,” she said. Then as an afterthought, she added, “but you are right, there were no cliffs around the place we lived.”
So I learned that mom did want to throw me off a cliff.
“Puttar, think about it. You could’ve been born to a mother like Indrani. What then?” She quizzed me.
“What then?” I quizzed her back.
“Learn to appreciate the fact,” she said, looking into my eyes, pinning me down with her unwavering gaze.
“Oh, I totally do,” I replied, my voice turning somewhat squeaky as I imagined being throttled by a mother randomly picked from the barrel that contained child-murdering moms.
“You could’ve been her son,” she jabbed her index finger at the image of Indrani flickering on the screen.
Indrani was paying her son to keep his mouth shut; Mom was bamboozling me into keeping my mouth shut.
Indrani may have killed me through strangulation; mom usually tries to kill me with her effusive pampering that leaves me breathless!
“You are lucky,” mom said, now in a matter-of-fact, even voice.
I nodded. While probabilistically, being born to anyone of the 999 of 1000 non-killer moms may just be a normal statistical outcome; if mom says I am lucky, then to stay lucky, I must accept her evaluation and judgment.
I’m banking on the fact that mom’s being near-sighted would prevent her from reading the small font of this article. So here’s the conclusion in a bigger font-size – exclusively for her benefit.
My Mom is the Best!