Denzil Reviews Singlish
Denzil Reviews Singlish
(From a Safe Distance and a Return Ticket)
Denzil has lived abroad long enough to pronounce his T’s aggressively and say “schedule” as though he personally invented it. But every December — and August, because nostalgia apparently comes in instalments — he returns to Sri Lanka and to Singlish: that elastic dialect of agreement, ambiguity and strategic delay. Not the famous Singapore version — this is the island remix.
His fieldwork begins at the airport.
The Uber driver beams. “Traffic very bad today, no?”
Denzil nods obediently. The “no?” is not a question. It is a conscription. You are being enrolled in consensus.. Resistance is futile.
At his friend’s house, inspection commences.
“You have put on weight, no?”
He inhales to defend himself.
Later, Denzil attempts to fix the Wi-Fi, armed with foreign confidence and YouTube tutorials.
“Not like that one,” a worker says, watching him as though he is defusing a bomb incorrectly.
“Can, can,” the worker adds.
Nothing improves.
“Can, can” means: in principle, in spirit, in imagination.
Time, meanwhile, behaves differently on the island.
“I’m coming now,” his friend says on the phone.
Denzil is already at the cafรฉ, sitting upright like a punctual emigrant.
Forty-five minutes pass.
The friend arrives, cheerful. “Little bit late.”
In Sri Lanka, “little bit” has diplomatic immunity. It can mean five minutes. It can mean the next government.
“And the package?” Denzil asks.
“Just now.”
“Just now” is a philosophical concept. It exists somewhere between the past, the future, and divine intervention.
At dinner, the bill arrives and so does theatre.
“Aney!” cries his cousin. “Why you like this?”
No one is certain what “this” is, but it has clearly wounded the family.
“Don’t put scene,” murmurs another cousin, while actively enjoying the scene.
To “put scene” is to dramatise what could otherwise be silently judged.
“Machan,” his friend says, squeezing his shoulder. “Shape ekak daamu.”
Translation: Let us fabricate a plan with enthusiasm and zero logistics.
When Denzil suggests a disciplined, scheduled reunion trip to the south — itinerary, bookings, spreadsheets — the room grows reverently quiet.
“We’ll see,” says one cousin.
This is Singlish for: bury it gently.
“Somehow manage,” adds another.
This means: chaos will occur, but we will survive with snacks.
“Let us see,” murmurs another.
This is the ceremonial burial.
By the end of his visit, Denzil understands. Singlish is not broken English. It is advanced emotional technology. It cushions criticism, stretches time, and allows contradiction without open conflict.
At the gate, his aunt sighs.
“You are going back already, no?”
“Yes.”
“Come again soon.”
Denzil smiles. “I will come and go.”
For once, everyone laughs.
They know exactly what he means.
Another story –
Written by Denzil Jayasinghe
Lifelong learner, tech enthusiast, photographer, occasional artist, servant leader, avid reader, storyteller and more recently a budding writer
Comments
Post a Comment