What if, one morning, you woke up and found that language was gone? Not just your own language, but all words everywhere—no way to speak, write, or even whisper your thoughts. The world would still be there: trees, birds, the sun rising. But you couldn’t share your dreams, your worries, or even warn someone about a banana peel on the floor. (Though, let’s be honest, some people might still slip for our silent amusement.)
Without language, the past would be a mystery. The wisdom of old books and poems—gone. No Tirukkural, no Shakespeare, no bedtime stories, no secrets shared at midnight. Imagine loving someone but never being able to say “I love you.” Imagine losing someone and not having the words to say “I miss you.” Imagine a world where you can’t even tell a joke. Would we still laugh, or would laughter feel empty without a reason?
Words are curious things—simple sounds or marks on a page—yet they transcend time, carrying the weight of ancient dreams and fresh hopes. A word written centuries ago can reach across ages and stir our hearts as if spoken this very moment. Consider the profound truth from the Gospel of John: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”
What a wonder that is—that words are not just tools, but something divine, the very essence of creation itself. Words are our closest glimpse of real magic. Whisper “freedom,” and hearts soar; say “home,” and warmth spreads through the room. Words can wound deeply, yet they hold the power to heal. They open doors between strangers or quietly close them. In every way, words shape the world we share, weaving the fabric of our lives and connecting us across time and space.
But what if we never had words? Would we still be curious? Would we wonder about the world, or just focus on surviving—finding food, staying safe, sleeping at night? It’s questions that make us human, and language helps us ask them. Without words, would our curiosity just be a quiet ache, something we feel but can’t explain?
Maybe we will find new ways to reach each other—a glance could become a poem, a wave of the hand a melody. Perhaps we’d learn to read whole stories in a single look, or sense joy and sorrow in the smallest gesture. Yet, would that ever truly fill the space left by words? Could a hug or a smile ever capture the thrill of sharing a secret, the weight of a promise, or the wonder of telling a dream? Something precious might always remain just out of reach, waiting for words to set it free.
Sometimes I wonder if words choose us as much as we choose them. The poet who wrote the Tirukkural never told us his name, but his words have lasted for centuries. That’s the power of language: it lets us send messages to the future, lets us become more than just our bodies. Still, words can be tricky. Sometimes we say the wrong thing, or can’t find the right words. Sometimes we hide behind language, or use it to hurt. Maybe, in a world without words, we’d have to really look at each other, to really feel. Maybe we’d lose poetry, but gain honesty. Or maybe we’d just be lonely—each of us an island, unable to reach out.
Now, imagine a day without words—a simple breakfast turns into a comedy. You want your sibling to pass the salt, so you point, wave, and make wild shaking motions. They stare at you, confused, and hand you the pepper instead. You try again, this time miming a waterfall, hoping they’ will get “salt.” Instead, they hand you a glass of water. Soon, everyone at the table is waving, pointing, and making faces, and the dog is the only one who understands what is going on. Breakfast becomes a silent movie, full of laughter, mistakes, and wild gestures—funny, yes, but also a little frustrating. All it would take to fix the mess is a single word.
I would rather live in a world with words. I would rather risk being misunderstood than never be understood at all. I would rather try to say what I feel, even if it is hard, than be silent forever. Words are the footprints we leave behind, proof that we were here, that we loved, that we wondered, that we tried.
So next time you speak, write, or even think, remember: you’re using the oldest and greatest magic. You’re reaching out, hoping someone will understand. And that, more than anything, is what makes us human.
Justice N.Anand Venkatesh Judge Madras High Court
