The level of communication you can achieve with an infant is

Host: The morning began in soft gold, the kind that slips gently through curtains, touching wooden floors and quiet hearts. The small apartment was still, except for the distant hum of the city beyond the window — buses, birds, and the faint cry of life in motion.

At the center of it all sat Jeeny, on the worn rug, cross-legged beside a tiny crib. A faint cooing came from within — soft, uncertain, pure.

Across the room, Jack leaned against the doorframe, his arms folded, still half in the shadow. He was freshly awake, unshaven, his eyes heavy, watching her with something between awe and confusion.

Host: The baby’s laugh — small, gurgling, absolute — cut through the air like sunlight through glass.

Jeeny: (smiling) “Mayim Bialik once said, ‘The level of communication you can achieve with an infant is really profound.’ I think I understand that now.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Profound? Jeeny, it’s babbling and drooling. There’s no philosophy in that.”

Jeeny: “No philosophy — just truth. They speak without words, Jack. You don’t listen with your mind; you listen with your heart.”

Jack: “I prefer words. At least they come with logic attached.”

Jeeny: “Logic can’t hold this.” (she gestures to the baby, who’s reaching toward her hand) “He doesn’t know a single word I say, but somehow he knows when I’m calm, when I’m sad, when I love him. Isn’t that communication?”

Jack: “It’s instinct. Animals do the same thing. It’s biology — not poetry.”

Jeeny: “You always have to choose between the two.”

Host: The baby stretched his little arms toward her, his eyes like two drops of liquid curiosity. Jeeny leaned in, her voice lowering into a rhythm, a kind of soft music that wasn’t about meaning but melody. The baby responded — a sound, half laugh, half echo.

Host: And for a brief second, something shifted in the air — something beyond language, something older than speech.

Jack: (quietly) “You know, I read once that babies recognize tone before they recognize faces. Maybe that’s what you’re calling profound — tone. The original truth before vocabulary corrupted it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s the raw form of connection — before the walls of words. Maybe that’s what adults lose, Jack — we forget how to feel before we think.”

Jack: “Or maybe we learn because we think. Words gave us civilization.”

Jeeny: “And also wars.”

Host: A thin beam of sunlight touched the baby’s cheek, and he blinked, his tiny fingers opening and closing in wonder.

Jack watched him closely, the lines of skepticism in his face softening for the first time.

Jack: “You make it sound like silence has grammar.”

Jeeny: “It does. It’s written in breath, in eye contact, in heartbeat. Babies understand that language perfectly. They’re fluent in being.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Fluent in being — you should write that on a bumper sticker.”

Jeeny: “Laugh if you want. But think about it — every poet, every philosopher, every monk spends their life trying to return to that kind of purity. Babies start there.”

Jack: “So you’re saying enlightenment wears diapers?”

Jeeny: “Maybe enlightenment drools, yes.”

Host: The laughter between them was soft, genuine — the kind that loosens something unspoken. The baby, catching their energy, laughed too, as if echoing the sound of understanding.

Jack: “Still, Jeeny, we can’t exactly run society on coos and smiles. Words matter. They build bridges, contracts, laws. They keep chaos in check.”

Jeeny: “Yes — but what builds love? What builds trust? You can’t legislate tenderness. You can only share it.”

Jack: “And you think that’s what’s happening there? In that crib? Some kind of silent revelation?”

Jeeny: “Yes. A reminder that meaning exists before articulation. Look — he smiles because I smile. He cries because I flinch. It’s empathy in its purest form.”

Jack: “So you’re saying communication doesn’t need understanding — it needs recognition.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Jack’s voice faltered — he hadn’t expected her clarity to land like that. The baby, sensing the calm, made a soft sound, something between a sigh and a hum, as if approving.

Jack: “You know… my mother told me once that when I was an infant, she used to hum to me every night. The same tune, over and over. She said I’d stop crying instantly. I asked her what song it was. She said she didn’t remember — she made it up.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point. She didn’t need words. She was singing herself into you.”

Host: The room grew still. Outside, the traffic softened, and a kind of fragile peace settled between the walls. Jack looked at the baby again, and his expression changed — from detached observation to quiet awe.

Jack: “Maybe we lose that kind of honesty when we start speaking. Every word becomes a disguise.”

Jeeny: “Not every word. Just the ones that hide what we feel instead of revealing it.”

Jack: “So you think the truest form of communication is… what? Silence?”

Jeeny: “Not silence. Presence. The willingness to be understood without explaining yourself.”

Host: The baby yawned, his tiny mouth forming a perfect “O,” and the world seemed to pause in reverence. Jeeny gently laid him back into the crib, her hands trembling slightly — from love, not fragility.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack — he doesn’t need me to speak. He just needs to know I’m here. That’s communication.”

Jack: (softly) “I envy that. Words always feel like they fail me.”

Jeeny: “Then stop trying to master them. Feel them instead.”

Host: The camera would linger here — on the baby’s face, serene and wordless, the rhythm of his breathing a kind of heartbeat for the room. Jack and Jeeny stood side by side now, their shadows stretching together across the wall — long, intertwined, temporary, like everything else that’s beautiful.

Jack: “You’re right, Jeeny. He doesn’t need our language. He is the language.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s what Bialik meant — that before we learn to speak, we already know how to mean.”

Host: The baby stirred, the faintest smile crossing his lips, as if he’d heard and understood.

The light shifted one last time, wrapping all three of them in a quiet gold. No words. No need for any.

In that moment, communication was not an act — it was a state of being.

And as the scene faded, the camera caught the smallest detail — Jack’s hand, trembling slightly as it brushed against Jeeny’s, and how both stilled — perfectly, profoundly — in the gentle rhythm of the infant’s breathing.