Sofia, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun, sits perched on the arm of a faded sofa, legs curled beneath her. Jay, broad-shouldered and cheerful, leans against a bookshelf crammed with English novels and Punjabi cookbooks. A news reporter adjusts the microphone, signaling to begin.
"Stulbais cilvēk, ej ārā no manis, ej paspēlēties ar draugiem!"
"See, that’s what I’m talking about, I don’t speak Latvian, she doesn’t speak a word of Punjabi—well, except the curse words. I can say anything to her in Punjabi and she doesn’t understand!"
"Mūrakha aurata, tū āpaṇē dēśa vāpasa ki'uṁ nahīṁ calī jāndī, jithē uha tērē nālōṁ bihatara agarēzī bōladē hana."
"tu runā angliski, tu muļķi, apmaldies, ej, ej, ej, kusties, spēlējies ar saviem draugiem."
"See? She doesn’t understand Punjabi,"
"But I understand the idiot."
Laughter crackles in the room as the tension breaks, and the crew scribbles notes.
Jay leads the way, gesturing expansively at passersby and rundown shops. He points to a cracked pavement by the corner store.
"England has moved forward since I was a kid in the '80s. No more skinheads or punks—now just vapers and lady haters. I was one of the only brown families here. Over there, I lost two teeth—my mum, her purse, a mugger, bam! Different times."
They pause at a weathered wooden bench as Cracky Craige, a wiry man in dirty trainers, approaches with a cardboard box.
"Craige, got any good steals today?"
"Bacon. Thirty-six packs, six already sold."
"£2 a pack? Sticky Steve does them for £1. Tenner for the lot."
Craige hesitates, shrugs, and accepts. The crew watches, amused.
Sofia wipes her hands on an apron, phone pressed to her ear, speaking rapidly in Latvian.
"Sveika, mīļā! Man te ir vietējā ziņu komanda, kas runā par divvalodu attiecībām. Zini, kas nav divvalodu attiecībās, mīļā?"
She hangs up, turning to the reporter.
"That was my friend in Latvia. Yes, bi-lingual relationships are great. He thinks I don’t understand Punjabi, but I understand the idiot. Why do I call him that? You have met him—idiot, but he takes care of me, and I do love him. Sometimes."
She laughs, stirring a bubbling pot.
Jay leans forward, belly prominent under his shirt, as he answers questions over the din.
"What brings us together? Sofia’s a good cook, and I love my food. But you know what really brings us together? Jiggy jiggy! Pom pom ridin', you know what I mean."
"And the difficulty? Women, my friend. Whether you speak the same language or not, women don’t speak English."
He takes a hearty gulp, grinning as the reporter scribbles furiously.
Sofia stands in the doorway, eyebrow raised.
"Kur tu biji? Tu kavē jau vairākas stundas, un kas tas ir, 'bekons'!"
"Hi babe, I am back, bringing home the bacon!"
They exchange laughter and a flurry of playful insults in their respective languages, blowing kisses as the crews slip out the door.
Ronald Denis, the anchor, faces the camera with a practiced smile.
"Thank you, Ronald, for that in-depth report on bi-lingual relationships. And that’s all for tonight from all of us at Channel 5. Good night!"
The screen fades to black, leaving audiences pondering love’s many tongues and the private dialects forged in every home.
