• Nayan Jain

MY DAD HAS A TWISTED TONGUE

Introduction:-

My dad is the biggest inspiration in my life but his English pronunciation is something I am going to cherish! In the light of my father’s pronunciation, I aim to highlight the inferiority complex among Indians for not being good enough with English pronunciation and being shunned for their dialect. I believe everyone is unique and so is their pronunciation and we should be proud of it!

Please note:- some of the words are intentionally misspelt which serve as a crux of my poem.


As inescapable as it can get,

my innocent dad’s dialect.


‘Berry good’, he exclaims,

that has earned him a ‘very’ fame.


Well, in the figments of my rich ‘memoory’,

his green deep eyes shall always provide me with ‘eerie’.


Memory is not ‘memery’ but ‘memoory’

and mom asks him to switch sugar with jaggery.


Highly ‘untrustborthy’ is his notorious sleep,

by the way it’s not ‘weep’ but ‘beep’.


‘Tamarrow’ shall be the day of judgement

when he astonishes us with his English scent.


His ‘bootiful’ smile reflects his brilliance

and his soul shines like radiance.


Quite a mouse, he is

when he munches sweets to his bliss.


‘Good Sot’ he shouts

when badminton shots, we do not flout.


Always eager to watch films

when mom hurdles as an imp.


His senseless jokes, imbecilic sarcasm,

are just a part of his ‘genteel’ mannerisms.


His ‘sirt’ buttons are always ‘embellised’,

just the way James Bond cherishes.


Highly juggled up is his pronunciation,

Which kills King George’s fascination!


No, he does not shy away from ‘peepul’

and articulately voices his opinions, not like an extraterrestrial.


‘Haloo’ he aims

when mom starts the blame game.


I asked him one day, “What makes your lingo dear?”

He replied, “Daughter! I am an engineer.”


The austerity in his coveted diction

is made up of sugar, spice and fiction.


The bite of the ‘aeppel’,

makes his tooth shrivel.


Just like the struggling bite,

the funny language has always ventured to seize the might.


As the white colour slowly gains momentum,

the fad of ‘Michaels’ and ‘Edwards’ procures a broad spectrum.


No! the world isn’t fair,

divided between the moderns and the glare.


Breaking the racial jargon,

my dad comes to the rescue as a ‘dargon’.


Smelling the words like freedom

is a dream like martyrdom.


“You’re accent isn’t correct, Rs should be soft.”

My poor dad is in a dilemma, how’s he supposed to ‘craft’(R is emphasized).


As the pronunciation faces a glitch,

the upper class comes with a hitch.


Illiteracy, backwardness are profusely measured

when the proper elocution doesn’t sit on the tongue and treasured.


The brain wasn’t exactly biased towards the browns,

just the way uptown wasn’t to the downtown.


Before my ‘memoory’ gets fader,

this piece of advice shall be as wise as a trader.


Come on! Cherish the way you speak,

as the chances of Joey interrupting you to measure his pants is bleak.


By the time the perfection blister runs over us,

The western butcher might chop our tongues over a fuss!


Cover Image: Ante_Kante


About the author: Nayan Jain is an Economics Student at University of Delhi. She enjoys poetry, brainstorming, watching movies and philosophical discussions on the 'tragedy of commons'.

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