In the relentless race between a great story and great writing, towards the making of a good book, Indrani Mukerjea’s Unbroken fails on all counts. The former HR professional-turned-media maven-turned murder accused recounts her entire life in the memoir, which ultimately culminates in six years in prison. Having been released on bail from Byculla Women’s Prison earlier this year, Mukerjea made news for allegedly murdering her daughter Sheena Bora. Once hailed as an important media personality, her downfall was bounced repeatedly on a bizarre trampoline of curiosity in 2015. This “tell-all” memoir is her self-proclaimed cathartic act of “rising like a phoenix”, except that the author is too wrapped in her sense of self to do justice to even her own story.
She recounts her privileged childhood that met with a brutal end at the age of 16 when she was raped by her father. She writes about Siddharth, the best friend who saved her face by providing legitimacy to her daughter’s life, borne from the heinous act, by lending his name. She writes about her ‘Mumu’ or Peter Mukerjea, her third husband and the love of her life, who eventually betrayed her. The book is enough fodder for an OTT series (for all we know, the rights have been haggled over already), blessed and cursed as some are with extreme ends of fortunes. It, however, makes a reader recoil when the author complains about being the victim of misogyny because of her “divine beauty”. At the age of 14, she describes herself as “doe-eyed with honey-dew skin, rounded hips, long brown hair, and even longer legs”.
The conflict in her narrative gets taxing by the fourth chapter. A recurring question was why mention the monetary worth, or lack thereof, of people, things and situations when they don’t contribute in any manner to the story?
The author doesn’t mince words as she lays bare her life—assault, sexual liberation, love, etc. But, it is difficult to decipher the reality behind certain events when they don’t seem to add up in a sane mind. Whether it is because of the abundant information already out there or because the events in the book are that unfathomable, is difficult to say. For instance, why would a doctor of some repute suggest a 16-year-old rape victim, who has been compelled to carry a child, to continue with another (consensual) pregnancy six months later, for the sake of, “completing the family”? This is one of the many minuscule instances that are used to steer events to retrofit a narrative.
Mukerjea has a lot to say for someone who was behind the bars but refused to have her spirit broken. The matter-of-fact presentation of these facts, however, doesn’t do justice to all the trauma, which has been strung together in the book that was originally written as diary entries in prison. It makes a reader wish it had remained a cathartic journalling experience for the author rather than becoming a published paperback for the world.