Often, this is the thought that crosses our minds, in our day-to-day interactions. For no two people use a word in the same context. And sometimes you experience a maddeningly violent impulse to shake someone by the shoulders and say, ``Look, this is what I really meant.''

Mere words, one would say. Silence, not verbosity, essentially could be the key. And what about those of us who make a living out of words? Do they mean more to our tribe than to the man in the street? Are they mere objects of survival, of a salary at the end of the month which enables us to exist? Or do they mean an iota more? Do we look at them as our only roads that traverse uneven terrains to reach a friend or a thought?

Perhaps not. The sanctity of the written word has been quietly, effectively killed. And like most murderscommitted in our times, a fearful silence is the answer. Ours is a culture that believes in non-action and ignorance. Ignorance as the non-thought of received ideas, as Kundera puts it aptly.

Our degree of acceptance has appreciably gone up, from the degradation around us to our selves. Vague smart excuses that are the modern-day logic and reasons for justifying our actions. Time magazine recently ran an essay on the ``dumbing'' of our culture. About our running short of ideas and running to the past as is evident in the latest Hollywood movies that seem to borrow the thoughts of Jane Austen and Shakespeare. But there the author seems to see some sort of hope, too, for he believes this is our reluctance to let the screens overtake Life.

The reluctance that he sees is hope for many. But I wish it was as clear to others as it seems to him. Pessimism, as I see it, is not about the death of optimism but a constant reminder to work for a better tomorrow. Our contentment with our present is a dangeroussign, for we willingly accept the absurdities of today. And what if they become the truths of tomorrow?

And as I sit typing this, I know, at least the reason behind this action. It is a purely selfish motive, words and the endless vistas they open thrill the life out of me. It is a pure, selfish love. Because this matters to me, because I would rather sit in front of this PC for years to come, trying to get to the right expression. It is a love which grows every time I read a few words that seem to convey something which hitherto was lying unsaid.

Flaubert, critics say, discovered ``stupidity'' in Madame Bovary. That, they feel, is as great a discovery as was the invention of the aircraft by the Wright brothers. And that is how a word assumes significance. The word ``genocide'' was coined by a speaker describing Hitler's atrocities in the UN Assembly. He gave mankind one word. Original and true. Conveying the horrors so aptly that today it is an expression we frequently use to sketch the worst imaginablehorrors. So much for words, did you say?

Ten years in exile. A big chunk of one's life, for what? For love. For the freedom to your truths, for the courage to question, but do we care? Apathy could be another word worth studying. Wonder why we made a word of Kafka in the dictionary. Sounds like a pat on mankind's back.

I come back to this piece after an hour and a half's absence. An old man, a victim of the '84 riots wanted to talk, wanted his story to be put in the paper so that the indifference of the government could be shaken. With tears streaming down his cheeks, he asked for help. And he gave me my final answer, he did away with my apprehensions, reminded me of another sad reason behind this love. Of why words would always matter, why at times the only hope after years of wilderness, the Word still carries hope. He gave me an aching pain to nurse, and a face to recall when the faith might shake, as it often does.