Dressed to Kill

The ravages of time stare back at Moni Mukherjee from the mirror. With competition from a young and sexy co-star in hot pursuit, she plots a last-minute change to the action sequence to keep the whistling wolves coming her way.

Moni Mukherjee stared at the reflection looking back at her from the mirror. Unforgiving spandex tights struggled to hold back wayward bulges. This was not the sleek, lithe, and sexy young action heroine from super hit thrillers like Phir Se and Woh Hai Kaun, the one who had sent hearts racing with a glimpse of her bare shoulders. Makeup masked grey streaks in her jet-black hair, it covered up wrinkles around her eyes, but it would not help her compete with the firm, youthful curves of Pinky Sharma, her up and coming co-star.

“Take is ready, madam,” announced the production assistant.

Moni’s eyes narrowed, her jaw hardened. “Tell them to hold for ten minutes,” she said, “I am coming.”

“Pinky madam is already on set,” the production assistant murmured hesitantly.

“Tell her to wait, also,” Moni snapped, “I told you I am coming, na.”

Moni retreated to the comfort of her memories. Her eyes as bright as the flash from the gun in her hand, her slim, sculpted body floating weightlessly, caressed by the sheer muslin barely covering it. Her daring stunts and edgy outfits regaled the raucous crowds in the lower stalls even as they nurtured the hopes and aspirations of entire generations. Every young woman wanted to dress as sexily as Moni, be as daring as Moni. Every young girl dreamed of being as bold and beautiful as Moni when she grew up.

Images of ten hectic years flashed by in an unending stream of ground-breaking super hits marking a convention-changing career and an era of adoring acceptance. She was the epitome of an emancipated, modern young woman, the girl next door who was as much at home in a traditional kitchen as in a racing Bugatti, whose wide-eyed innocence was laced with an intimate knowledge of the ways of the world.

Moni snapped out of her reverie, peeled off the spandex, and draped herself in the soft, cool fabric she had picked off the costume rack. Then the expert hands of her trusted makeup artist went to work.

Six minutes later, sensuous strands of hair framed an exquisite oval face, arched eyebrows and kajal laden outlines highlighted large, luminescent eyes. Earrings danced on delicate ears and a necklace rested on the shapely neck, its pendant reflected in the glittering designs of the soft fabric draped over her.

All eyes swiveled away from Pinky Sharma lounging on the set in her revealing outfit. Necks craned to gaze unabashedly at Moni Mukherjee deftly infusing her demure walk with intense undercurrents of sensuality that made pulses quicken and hearts beat faster.

“Pravin-bhai,” she said in her husky voice that turned the dumbfounded director’s knees to jelly, “for this final action scene, I will wear this Gujarati sari and jump into the water as I throw the grenade. No need for Pinky,’ she continued, smiling sweetly, “you can just show blood coloring the water as I step out of the pool. “It will be a shot to die for.”