Pivotal moments

Dr Fahim Chand | Sunday November 9, 2025 12:40

Yet somewhere in that chaos, our brains begin to map meaning. A mother’s coo repeats often enough that it becomes familiar; a father’s laugh becomes music we recognise. Slowly, sound starts to segment into patterns, and patterns into possibilities.

From babble to brilliance, we experiment, testing the edges of sound like sculptors of air. “Ma,” “ba,” “da”, nonsense at first, but thrilling nonsense. Then, one day, a sound lands. It earns a smile, a response, a hug, and language begins to bloom.

Each word is a discovery, a small conquest of the unknown, giving shape to thought that had existed only as feeling. But our mastery of language is never purely our own.

We absorb our surroundings; our parents’ accents, the rhythm of our culture, the melody of lullabies, even the television hum in the background, all these score the cadence of our speech.

Environment gives us our linguistic palette, yet our unique personality paints with it differently: the shy listener may grow precise and careful; the chatterbox, bold and improvisational. By the time we can tell stories, we’ve moved from receivers of sound to creators of meaning.

The once blank slate now writes back, scribbling its own sentences into the great, ongoing conversation of humanity. In it, language becomes our passport into the world, stamped and approved by our first coherent sentence. With it, we persuade, charm, negotiate, and occasionally talk ourselves into (and out of) trouble. The same mouth that once dribbled mashed peas and babbled nonsense now delivers poetry, wedding toasts, and whispers secrets into the dark. Words open doors, sometimes literally, getting us jobs, friends, partners, and the occasional refund.

Through language, we integrate ourselves into society’s grand conversation.

We argue, flatter, gossip, and post. We convince employers we’re “detail-oriented,” charm strangers into liking us, and smooth over domestic disputes with that magical phrase: “You’re right, dear.” Words can start wars or end them, make people fall in love or fall asleep. Remarkably, our species’ progress, lofty as it sounds, is really a series of successful sentences.

Every innovation, law, or philosophy began as someone saying, “Hear me out.” In the end, language doesn’t just mark our evolution, it talks it into existence, one witty word at a time.

Language may unite us, but it does so with a mischievous grin. The Englishman “fancies a biscuit,” the American “craves a cookie,” and the South African wonders why anyone would eat a dry cracker meant for tea.

In Australia, a friendly “How ya goin’?” requires no actual travel plans, while in France, a mere shrug can deliver the emotional depth of an entire paragraph. Each region takes the same alphabet and spins it into its own dialect dance.

Accents turn vowels into acrobatics, idioms become a national sport, and misunderstandings are the spice of global conversation. The Brits queue, Americans line up, and Italians, well, they simply gather dramatically. Our words reflect our weather, our temperament, and our sense of humour, or humor, depending on where you stand on the planet.

And though we may sound worlds apart, we’re all still saying the same thing: “Listen to me, I’m absolutely right.”

Indeed, some words transcend all boundaries. In our grand celebration of language, Dictionary.com has unveiled its Word of the Year, and in a plot twist worthy of modern times, it’s not even a word. It’s 67. Yes, two humble digits have elbowed their way past actual vocabulary to claim linguistic glory.

The site insists that “67,” pronounced “six-seven” (not “sixty-seven,” mind you, there are rules, apparently), “captures pivotal moments in language and culture.” Translation: Gen Z is at it again.

The term supposedly originated from a rapper named Skrilla and his song Doot Doot (6 7).

My playlist, sadly, remains a Skrilla-free zone, an omission that, until today, I viewed as an achievement.

The precise meaning of 67 is elusive, but many claim it’s a synonym for “so-so.” So, if you asked about my dancing, I’d confidently reply, “67,” before tripping over my own feet.

I adore language and pride myself on literary awareness, but I suspect this might be my first and last successful use of 67. And that, I fear, feels rather... sixty-seven.