Just Two Words
They say one should use words wisely. Words are those weapons that can wound, and also heal. They are considered divine in form—brahm-svaroopa. Perhaps that's why the concept of do shabd (two words) was born. On public platforms, it is often seen that a speaker is invited to say do shabd. But the truth of do shabd goes much deeper than that.
Words should be spent sparingly, which is why silence is called the ornament of fools. Because if a fool remains silent, it’s tolerable, but the moment they speak, their foolishness becomes evident. Sometimes I feel that even those draped in the cloak of so-called wisdom are asked to say do shabd only to expose them. I've often seen that when they go beyond two words, the plaster of their intellect starts crumbling.
Sometimes, just a few words—two or three—can change someone’s fate or leave another on the verge of despair. A doctor saying “I’m sorry” or “Congratulations” can define the line between life and death. A three-word text—“Salary is credited”—becomes the budget declaration of a hardworking soul’s entire month. A girlfriend’s “I love you” or “Need to talk to you”—these are all the milestones in the timeline of love.
There's a shortage of jobs; daal and aata might not be available, but data is in full supply. That’s why everyone has started vomiting words on social media. Words have been rebranded as “content.” Mass production is happening everywhere. And now, the biggest problem is disposal of this garbage. When the mind is overfilled, it erupts like an overflowing municipality dustbin left unattended—such is the stench that even walking past is unbearable. Humans have turned into walking trash cans!
The opportunity to say do shabd isn’t granted to every aere-gaere-naathu-khaere (random person), sir! In every city, there exist a few selected speakers who are always invited to say do shabd on any topic, anywhere. Whether it’s a condolence meet, an institutional function, an inauguration, or a seminar—these people are in high demand everywhere.
Now, this art of speaking do shabd also comes in two types. First: those who obtain the license to speak via generous donations. Second: those who, without spending a single penny, manage to sneak in through the backdoor with a wild-card entry. These are the ones who seem to have been born just to say do shabd. Wherever they spot a crowd of four people, their do shabd spontaneously tumble out.
Once, a gentleman took the stage and was invited to say do shabd. He went on to speak twenty-one thousand words. When asked the reason behind such a speech assault, he replied, “Bhaiya, I’ve donated ₹21,000. Now if I’m not allowed to speak 21,000 words, then what’s the point?”
As for me, my entire life runs on do shabd. For me, simple words like “Thank you” and “Please” are enough. Life goes on just fine with them.
You can hurt anyone, and anyone can hurt you. But you must always have two words in your pocket—just like an emergency fund—ready to use.
Just like everyone has their own version of Ram, everyone also has their own do shabd. Like:
For the politician: “Bhaiyo aur Behno” (Brothers and Sisters)
For the editor: “Khed hai” (We regret)
For the publisher: “Books didn’t sell” and “Royalty went to hell”
For the writer: “Manuscript is lost”
For the wife: “Suno ji” (Listen, dear)
For the husband: “You’re right”
For the lover: “Jaanu please”
For the girlfriend: “Shopping kab?” (When are we going shopping?)
For the officer: “Leave approval pending”
For the employee: “Sir, leave”
For the minister: “Treasury empty”
For the contractor: “Bill pending”
For the doctor: “Sorry”
For the actor: “Camera, roll, action”
For the singer: “Hello, hello, mic testing”
For the cricketer: “No ball”
For the bachelor: “Shaadi kab?” (When’s the wedding?)
For the mother-in-law: “Kaisi bahu?” (How's the daughter-in-law?)
For the neighbor: “Chai feeki rakhna” (Keep the tea light)
For the teacher: “Homework kahaan?” (Where’s the homework?)
We had the misfortune of inviting one such intellectual creature, known for saying do shabd.
We reached his home. Pressed the doorbell. The dog came to the gate and started saying his own do shabd. We didn’t quite understand his language. Just then, the gentleman himself appeared. With a few gestures, he sent the dog away. The dog tucked in his do shabd along with his tail and retreated to a corner.
Sir offered a smile—just as stingy as his words—barely escaping from one corner of his mouth.
We entered. The interior of the drawing room instantly confirmed that everything living or non-living connected to him had to meet intellectual standards. On the wall were portraits of three or four ideal intellectuals, much like himself.
There were shelves lined with almost 50 books—his own, peeking from behind the glass. A few were lying face down on the center table, their titles in clear view. His glasses lay on top of the pile, as though tired of bearing the burden of so much wisdom.
His intense eyes, his posture on the sofa, his expression—everything screamed “intellectual.” He had twisted his body in such a way that he wouldn’t have to exert himself to fully face us. Perhaps his brilliance would’ve been too much for us to handle.
As soon as he learned that I was a new writer, he bluntly asked, “How many of my books have you read?”
I froze. I didn’t even have the courage to ask which ones he had written—none had ever crossed my radar. A wave of guilt washed over me. How could I dare to call myself a writer without having read him?
I gestured to my companion, who handed over the invitation. We tried to leave immediately—before sir wasted any more words on insignificant beings like us.
We had made it out, just in time.
