How much is that doggie in the window?

Cast: Mohawk Mata as herself / Hero-none-the-wiser as himself / Joy Dehradun as himself and introducing Henry the Rottweiler as his dog self.

This is a short one-act, off-key musical play about a feisty parliamentarian, her ex-boyfriend Joy Dehradun, a Rottweiler named Henry and Hero-none-the-wiser, a wealthy, off-shore industrialist (at least, he seems to spend much of his time off India’s shores) who has access to the feisty, at times hysterical, parliamentarian’s official login id, through which he can periodically feed awkward questions for the over-the-top parliamentarian to parrot faithfully, and histrionically, during (un)parliamentary debates. The general idea being to bring disrepute to some other fat cat industrialist, and through him, to the supreme head of our government, hoping to make him squirm and with any luck, fall. Not just fall from grace, but fall period. Like the Roman empire. Let us see how they get on.

(As the curtain rises, the stage reveals a fierce-looking, black Rottweiler sitting on a plush sofa and gnawing contentedly on a bone. Enter stage left, a youngish lady, sporting Randolph Amelia shades and dressed in a colourful sari, with a Louis Vuitton bag ostentatiously slung over her shoulder. She is our feisty parliamentarian, Mohawk Mata, waving her LVMH bag to go with her Gucci scarf. Her western fashion accoutrements are contrastingly set off by a prominent large, red bindi on her forehead. Her joy knows no bounds upon seeing Henry as she breaks into song, while hugging and slobbering all over the canine. Henry joins in too, as you will see).

Mohawk Mata – ‘There’s a hole in the cushion, dear Henry, dear Henry / There’s hole in the cushion, dear Henry a hole.’

Henry – ‘Then mend it, dear Mohawk, dear Mohawk, then mend it, dear Mohawk, then mend it. I am trained to gouge out holes in cushions. How is that for a doggerel, Mohawk?’

Mohawk Mata – ‘Very cute. But it was you that bit into the cushion, dear Henry, dear Henry. Why should I mend it, dear Henry, you naughty, naughty boy?’

(Readers will have observed that they have gone clean off script from the original song and have started improvising. The rest of the song goes to pot, while Henry goes potty on the sofa).

Henry – ‘Because, dear Mohawk, you did not teach me how to mend cushions. You taught me how to bite and chew, which is what I do for a living. Mending is your affair. All that once bitten, twice shy nonsense does not apply to me. Anyhow, sitting at home, I see that you are quite adept yourself at biting, chewing and spitting out bits of your opponents’ flesh in parliament. The cameras are never off your scarily mobile face. But mind, you tend to froth at the mouth. People might think you’ve contracted rabies. Not from me, thank God, but clearly, I have taught you something.’

Mohawk Mata – ‘Yes, my dear sweetie-kin, you have taught me so many things. My bark is now fiercer than my bite. Oops, there goes my mobile. Excuse me, Henry, I have to take this. Oh God, that is Hero-none-the-wiser on the line. I shan’t be a tick, Henry. Ok, ok, I will attend to your ticks in a moment. Hullo, hullo, is this who I think this is?’

As Hero-none-the-wiser is calling from Dubai, his voice is heard over the theatre sound system.

Hero-none-the-wiser – ‘Like you didn’t know. Listen Mohawk, I am in deep excrement, thanks to you. Why couldn’t you keep your trap shut? How much more do you want for questions? This ‘cash for query’ nonsense is hitting the roof, and I am tired of having to answer awkward questions from the media with that same old ‘I have said whatever I want in my affidavit.’ For crying out loud, tom-tomming to the whole world about your Italian handbags and your Ferragamo shoes, not to mention your French perfumes. Look where it has landed you? And me. All over social media as well.’ At this point, Hero-none-the-wiser, on cue, breaks into a recent Van Morrison hit song.

‘Why are you on Facebook? / Why do you need second-hand friends? Why do you care who’s trending? / Or is there something you’re defending? / Get a life, is it that empty and sad? / Or are you after something you can’t have? / Did you miss your fifteen minutes of fame? / Or do you not have any shame? / Put yourself in the frame / For what some people work very hard to attain / Or are you looking for a scapegoat to blame / ‘Cause you’re a failure again / Why are you on Facebook? / Why are you on Facebook?’

As the chorus line fades, Hero-none-the-wiser waits for Mohawk Mata’s response.

Mohawk Mata – ‘Catchy song Hero, but you have been had. Spilling the beans under pressure from ‘we-know-who’ in your affidavit, what were you thinking? So I gave you my login and password. Big deal. Everybody’s got everybody else’s login and password in parliament. Nothing to make a big song and dance about. By the way, I am more an X (ex-Twitter) person than a Facebook fiend.’

Hero-none-the-wiser – ‘You mean you were a twit and you are now an X-twit.’

Mohawk now throws her head back and begins to warble, a la John Lennon with a streptococcal infection.

‘Here I stand, head in hand / Turn my face to the wall / If he’s gone I can’t go on / Feeling two foot small / Everywhere people stare / Each and every day / I can see them laugh at me / And I hear them say / Hey, you’ve got to hide your love away / Hey, you’ve got to hide your love away.’

As the song comes to a close, Mohawk Mata’s erstwhile boyfriend enters stage left, Joy Dehradun. On seeing him, Henry the Rottweiler leaps from the sofa straight on to Joy Dehradun’s chest, knocking the handsome lawyer base over apex, simpering, whining and licking the poor man all over his face.

Joy Dehradun – ‘There, there, who’s a good boy then Henry? You love me? Of course, you do. You see, Mohawk. Henry is mine and there is not a damn thing you can do about it. He is coming home with me.’

Mohawk Mata – ‘Like hell he is. He stays right here with me. I have put out several videos of me and Henry virtually rolling in the hay, in a manner of speaking. Once the judge sees that, you will have about as much chance of canine custody as a snowball in hell.’

Joy Dehradun – ‘Henry it’s now or never. Remember that Elvis Presley classic?’ Joy begins to sing.

‘It’s now or never / Come hold me tight / Kiss me my darling / Be mine tonight and forever / Tomorrow will be too late / It’s now or never / My love won’t wait. Come on Henry, jump into my Merc.’

Henry – ‘I can’t come with you now, Joy. The Ethics Committee has called me for a hearing this afternoon. They’ve got a bone to pick with you, Mohawk and that Hero-none-the-wiser fellow, Mr. Moneybags. So they have promised to throw some chunky bones for me to pick on. I think I shall spill the beans, if not the bones. And please Joy, don’t try to cover Elvis, if you want me to come with you. Much better if you can belt out that old classic, How much is that doggie in the window, bow-wow. That is more within your vocal range. And mine.’

Joy Dehradun – ‘That is perfectly fine, Henry. You give that Ethics Committee hell but tell them your future lies with me. I will be waiting outside in my Merc. Just jump in at the back.’

Henry – ‘Who is that guy sitting in front? Didn’t know we had company.’

Joy Dehradun – ‘That is just my good friend, Rishicant ‘Scooby’ Dooby, who has been firing a few hot ones at Mohawk in parliament. Don’t worry, he is on our side.’

At which point, Mohawk Mata goes into a convulsive epileptic fit, recovers and dials that former cricketer’s son from a leading news channel and fixes an appointment for her 16^th interview with that same network. She then jumps on to the sofa where Henry was reclining and begins to wail her swan song. For a dog lover she elects, rather incongruously, to tearfully render Memory from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats. However, the lyrics are appropriate and poignant, as the curtain comes down. There is no curtain call.

 ‘Memory, all alone in the moonlight / I can smile of the old days / I was beautiful then / I remember the time I knew what happiness was / Let the memory live again.’

The emotional impact of the song is completely ruined by the sound of a dog barking behind the curtains. Which respectable dog wants to hear a cat singing?

                                           THE END