Filmmakers, always on the lookout for a script that will set the box office on fire, have gleefully latched on to the Indrani Mukerjea case hoping that this tawdry tale, liberally peppered with sex, greed, murder and possible incest, will help them chortle all the way to the bank.
No sooner had some squalid reports appeared about the alleged Sheena Bora murder that Mahesh Bhatt announced that he had written a script that was uncannily similar in terms of plot. While we breathlessly await the auteur’s magnum opus about a desi Lady Macbeth and her wayward daughter, no less than three other moviemakers have jumped on the bandwagon.
The irrepressible Rakhi Sawant proclaimed that Mukerjea is her “best friend” and that she will be portraying the ex-media maven in an upcoming film. Sawant is also trying to enlist the support of doughty Union Minister Smriti Irani as the duo had allegedly worked together on a show produced by Mukerjea. A stranger set of bedfellows one
cannot fathom and this should prove a most excruciating film if it is ever made and released.
In an effort not to miss the bus, the Tollywood brigade has announced their version featuring Rituparna Sengupta as Indrani, Riya Sen as Sheena and a bunch of other Bengali worthies in stellar roles. It is scheduled to go on the floors on September 27 so the filmmakers have presumably drawn their own conclusions as to who actually dunnit.
Meanwhile, the unparalleled king of smut, Kanti Shah has launched Sheena, his imaginatively titled take on this seamy imbroglio. The media has kindly enlightened us that Sheena was named and probably conceived after Mukerjea and her paramour Siddharth Das watched a racy film by the same name. Shah has promised that his movie will feature six bold scenes and frontal nudity so I’m sure that lovers of quality cinema will be queuing in the tens to watch this film.
Vacationing in Europe and believing that I was far removed from the madding brouhaha surrounding the Indrani Mukerjea case, I suddenly found myself inundated with phone calls, text messages, emails, Whatsapp and Facebook pings asking for my comments on this “murder most foul.” Having written a novel called Scandal Point, a scathing social satire about the shenanigans of the rich and famous and the mayhem that is often unleashed by the media, I found it ironic being asked to participate in the very tamasha that I had mocked. At last count, I had declined 14 invitations to expound on the “murder of the millennium” maintaining that we should hold our horses and allow the law to take its course before publicly vilifying the key players in this exuberant trial by media. Clearly, Bollywood has no such compunctions.
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