Kishore Singh: How-to-host-a-murder party

My wife said we were invited to a theme party - which is the kind I dislike most because who wants to spend a grown-up evening dressed as Gabbar Singh? - and that it was mandatory to squire up. "I hope you declined the invitation," I hazarded, even though I should have known better. My wife has never actually turned down one out of abundant caution. At most, she's likely to say, "Let's see", keeping her hosts on tenterhooks, even though what she means is we're busy elsewhere but would still like to hedge our bets in case of a last-minute change of plans, or a falling-out between spouses. But in this case she'd confirmed with an unequivocal, "Of course, darling", so I knew I'd have to dredge up some awful costume if I was to get within sniffing distance of Sarla's husband's handsomely stocked bar.

In the evening, I was gazing moodily at our trick closet of wigs, false moustaches and cloaks, when my wife said I'd have to use a little more imagination since it wasn't just another fancy dress shenanigan but one that was rather more exciting. Since these had tended in the past to revolve around Bollywood vamps and villains, or a throwback to the nasty 1970s with their dog collars and bell-bottoms, I shrugged my shoulders. So, okay, who did she think I should dress as?

"Well, you might want to be Peter Mukerjea," she said, gazing at my bald pate, which I thought rather mean of her. I reminded her that I didn't have his girth for it, besides I hated Hawaiian shirts. "And why would I want to dress like him," I asked. It turned out that the evening's theme was to be l'affaire Indrani Mukerjea, and that all the women were dressing up as femme fatales in too-tight clothes and too-bright lipsticks. Manorama had loaned my wife false eyelashes, and they were both considering raiding their daughters' wardrobes for little dresses and pointy heels.

I groaned. For over a fortnight, all drawing room conversations had revolved around the Mukerjeas - who said what to whom, and did we know that Shanti had a cousin who'd once been in the parlour at the same time as Indrani? The equivalent of not knowing the Mukerjeas was social opprobrium. All those who'd ever travelled to Guwahati were sought out for their opinion on the "ambition and decadence" of those who lived in small-town India. Since I'd spent a few years in Shillong, it disappointed our friends that I'd wasted my time sans any acquaintance with either Indrani or her paramour. Blogs were read aloud with avid fascination, and tweets about her arraignment went viral in the blink of an eye. My wife's kitty gang spent an entire afternoon chirping "Didshedoit?" to each other by turn.

Now here we were, dressed up bizarrely so that Sarla and Mimi and Gotu and Pankhi and Mina could play 'How to Host a Murder' party. Sarla had called earlier to say she'd instructed the bartender to mix cocktails with bloodcurdling names - a little gross, I thought, resolving to stick to whisky on the rocks. I dreaded to think what Sarla was serving for dinner. But perhaps I worried too much. Because, in the end, I'd opted for a costume that proved to be a conversation pooper, having slipped my son's helmet over my head to replicate Mikhail's (Bora) father's appearance on television. The downside to it was that I had to end up sipping whisky with the help of a straw.