Artificial intelligence

 My first line ever on an AI-assisted tool happens to be a question.  "In what way you are different from a human's  creativity?" I ask.

ChatGPT is very honest I must say. It replies:

"As an AI language model, my ability to create and generate content is based on statistical patterns and algorithms derived from vast amounts of text data. While I can generate language that appears to be creative and original, my output is ultimately limited by the data I was trained on and the rules programmed into my algorithms.

In contrast, human creativity is often driven by personal experiences, emotions, and the ability to think outside the box. Human creators can draw inspiration from a wide range of sources, including their own imaginations, personal perspectives, and interactions with the world around them. They can also intentionally break the rules and patterns of traditional language to create something truly unique and original.

While I can generate content quickly and accurately, I do not have the same level of intuition, emotions, or personal experiences that drive human creativity. In this sense, my creative abilities are fundamentally different from those of a human being."

I, yours truly, find it more honest than most of we humans. But it can be misleading,  brutal, inhuman in the ways we can't imagine. Perfect lack of subjectivity has the potential to take it to the threshold of limitless objectivity,  which in turn may undo what we have created so far, or change the meaning of all the elements of human civilization as we know it. Of all our inventions so far, this one has the potential to turn the tables against the humans, as it introduces a mechanical replacement for spontaneous emotions, open ended volition,  fluctuating feelings, teasing Mysteries,  ever chiding curiosity and numerous other checks and balances that keep the destructive monster in us under check, somehow.  Now we want to hand over even our thinking to mechanized tools. And get busy in creating solutions born of our brain-substitute. AI-generated  mail drafts, chatting messages,  planning documents, summaries and reports...it will standardize the way we act, think, behave, even feel..a mass produced newage mentality and emotionality.  But then maybe it's inevitable.  It was fated to be. In our craze to surpass all life forms on earth, we were always expected to create something even above mankind.  It's not a doomsday portrait of a poetic man. I would accept it as one more dimension in evolution.  Moreover,  it seems a pretty communist concept,  this AI: A mass standardization of ideas, thoughts, emotions.

PS: This isn't tech-phobia. My only concern is that we get easily addicted to tools. So within a generation, we will be acting, planning,  thinking,  emoting the way algorithms want us. Then will we be the same humans, or some new avatar?

Chronicles of Ballu and Taqdir

 

Ballu is around 47 years in age but he is a proud grandfather for the last few years. That entitles him to leave an impressive heritage. The pangs of poverty make one petulant and self-serving. On the dirt-paths of survival, one becomes ever-perky and anxious. The frozen cluster of ‘need’ is unyielding in its grip. As a poor man liquor comes handy with its promise of unconditional surrender. He is no exception.

But childhood is all about ecstatic swings between dreams and reality. As a boy he loved horses. He galloped like a horse and made whining and neighing sounds of a horse even while we played monkey games. He was also far ahead of his times. At a time when any thought beyond cleaning oneself after ablutions with water seemed like shaking the foundations of the established religion, he cleaned himself Western style. Just that he had a green patch of grass to rub himself clean instead of the toilet paper.

This was a very nice little round patch of grass where we, saturated with childhood satisfaction, rolled in fun. We found it highly objectionable that he should use his ultra-modern style at that place. As a token of self-esteem, we plotted a scheme. We would fix acacia thorns, like booby traps, in the grass to wound the enemy. But luck was with him and we always missed the mark as his habit of continuous experimentation of seeking fresher grass for his rubbing fun saw him choosing the not-booby-trapped areas.

He came to know of the plot and knew that I was the ringleader. Naturally, he counter-plotted. He invited me to ride their old horse, saying it was the most docile creature on earth and hence would just tread at a snail’s pace, giving me the pleasure and fun of life. I enjoyed the slow ride, a kind of nice music with one note gracefully beckoning the next one with each step of the horse. Ballu then kicked the horse with full force from behind. The offended creature gave a sudden spurt and took to the capacity of its old legs. There was no bridle or saddle. I was holding just the cord of the neck-bell. As I perilously bounced on the back of the trotting animal, I slipped down to the neck and the human-garlanded horse went pretty fast. Thank God it felt thirsty and stopped by the pond and inclined its neck to drink water. I allowed myself to be dropped into the water like a little frog.

As we are talking of horses, mentioning another episode from those bucolic days won’t be out of place. Paltu Potmaker had a fine mare. Young Taqdir Singh had a penchant for horse riding. After grazing at the public lands around the village, the light-footed mare would return lumbering and tired instead of coming out fresh after grazing. It was an invasive trauma to the owner as he came to know about the adolescent boy’s fun rides on his mare.

Paltu was a startingly simple man, shy and self-effacing. But he felt offended in this matter. One day, Paltu was returning after relieving himself by the village pond. He carried his empty brass lota with him. Taqdir came full gallop raising dust on the majestic mare. In groove with the subtlest sense of time, Paltu gave the best shot of his life. Perfectly aimed. Paltu threw the brass utensil at the rider as he passed him on the path. The potmaker instantly proved that he had all the traits of a great marksman. He hit the rider on the forehead. Taqdir rolled over and fell in the sand on the path. The cut mark on his forehead continued to tell the fact that he was a once fine horse rider.

A poetic whisper in prose

 

Carried by our savage, irrepressible optimism, and the gutsy tradition to progress at any cost, our footprints now crisscross every inch of earth. Our penetrating feudalism now lords over the entire planet, forcing down the rest of the species into subjugation and slavery. With shrinking hearts and broadening brains, we are evolving grotesquely with our supra-physical desires and experimental mysticism. Stuffed into a definitive mindset, we sing the eulogies of human spirit in a monochromatic tone.

Open spaces are losing their relevance. The riveting drama is making us more and more insecure. There are lavish designs and props for the interiors. We feel uncomfortable with open skies and untamed wilderness. The gardens and yards are vanishing and so are the flowers. I’m but happy that my humble house is primarily decorated with the little garden and the unkempt yard. It’s a little world but sufficient to host a love-struck purple sunbird couple. They flit around spurred by their exulting, soaring emotions. After taking nectar from the flowers, they let out a full-throated musical ecstasy comprising duets, chorus or even an orchestra. I see them daily as they fly around in their little world. Their joy pervades the air with incorruptible lucidity.

A big party of brown house sparrows goes darting across the smog-blotted sky. It’s an assurance that, despite all the telltale signs of natural imbalance, there is still hope because the birds still fly and sing their songs amidst the taunting and tantalizing smog. We have hope till there are free birds singing joyfully.

There is an old dog in the locality. She has all the age-related issues including itching that hasn’t left a single hair on her body. We gave an injection. It helped her and she lumbered back from the door of death or deliverance. The fur is coming back. But maybe she has terrible pain somewhere and piteously whines at regular intervals. A puppy gives her ample company and howls to the histrionic capacity of his little lungs. He is learning the art of howling pretty nicely. When he lets loose his symphony, you get anxious as if the doomsday is coming. In any case, he seems a nice companion to the old dog in pain.

The kittens are handsome cats now. They spend most of the time in hunting for rats and female affection. They aren’t interested in purring around legs for measly human dole-outs. They carry a selecting and scrutinizing air around them. But they still remember the milk bowl as I find them sitting near it as I step out of the room in the morning. That’s my first sight of the day. They mew loudly as if blaming me for getting up late. They vanish for the day after taking their little share of milk. It’s a big world to explore, after all.

As I have said, there has been a proletarian revolution in the simian society. The band of lithe, cunning young monkeys has taken away the prettiest females from the ex-king’s harem, including the handsome most, curvy-limbed gal, his favorite. He has now the tail-less old crone to lick his scars. As a bruised scholar and beaten strategist, he is learning good manners now. I saw him taking lice off the funny coat of his tail-less old queen. He has to pamper her now; otherwise, she will also ditch him. Now I can understand how it must feel to lose one’s kingdom. His attitudinizing airs are gone. It’s a pretty methodical development as he doesn’t growl and threaten like earlier. Buckling under the episodic treatment of ill-favoring times, he just walks away sadly. Acceptance of the inevitable change is a good thing. But there are too many male monkeys, many of them sired by him only, and one of them will surely take away his old queen as well. It’s a narrative of love, lust, cruelty and revenge. Not willing to court any controversy, and far away from the burst of defiance and exuberant idiosyncrasies, his male callousness severally blunted, he seems sexually handicapped, all sedate and subdued. Life is all about farcical reversals. Now the elegant social capital—with its balls, music, gambling and reception—lies in the coffers of the younger generation.

जाट धर्म

 हरियाणा में एक कहावत है! जाट का हिंदू होना क्या, और मेवाती का मुस्लिम होना क्या। इसका अर्थ है: एक जाट केवल नाम मात्र का हिंदू है, उसकी मुख्य पहचान उसके कर्म से परिभाषित होती है जो धर्म, जाति, वर्ग और पंथ की सतही पहचान से ऊपर है। वह, एक अलग समूह के रूप में, अपनी मात्र धार्मिक पहचान से कुछ अधिक है, चाहे वह हिंदू, सिख या मुस्लिम हो। इसलिए हिंदू जाट, मुस्लिम जाट और सिख जाट अपने-अपने धर्म से कुछ बढ़कर हैं। वे एक विशिष्ट नस्लीय या जातीय समूह की अपनी एक विशिष्ट समानता, गहरी जड़ें साझा करते हैं, जिन्होंने समय बीतने के साथ विभिन्न धर्मों को अपनाया। लेकिन वे सभी जानते हैं और महसूस करते हैं कि वे अपनी मात्र धार्मिक पहचान से ऊपर और परे हैं। इसी तरह मेवाती मुसलमान नाम का मुसलमान होता है। यह केवल मुंडा मूंछ और टोपी वाला जाट है; बाकी सब तो वही का वही है: भाषा, तेवर, अल्हड्पन, एक खट्टी मीठी अपरिपक्वता, व्यक्तित्व मे एक ठेठ उन्मुक्त हवा का अह्सास। अभी एक प्रयास किया  जा रहा है की तमाम हिन्दू जाट अपने आपको सिर्फ हिन्दुत्व से परिभाषित करे। तमाम छद्म धर्मनिरपेक्ष और वास्तविक साम्प्रदायिक प्रचार को देखते हुए मेवातियों को भी मजबूर किया जा रहा है कि वे पहले खुद को 'मुस्लिम' मानें।

एक विचार

 पंंजाब मे फिर से खालिस्तानी आतंकवाद सिर उठा रहा है। ये सब चरमपंथी, अति-राष्ट्रवादी विचारधारा के काले उपोत्पाद हैं। आप "हिंदू राष्ट्र-हिंदू राष्ट्र" का नारा लगाते रहते हैं और यह तरंग प्रभाव पैदा करता है। यह (बेशक गलत तरीके से) दूसरों को भी ऐसा करने के लिए प्रेरित करता है। यदि आप पूरे देश को एक रंग में रंगने वाले हिंदुत्व की बात करते हैं, तो अल्पसंख्यकों को उचित रूप से खतरा महसूस होगा। अति-राष्ट्रवादी हिंदू विचारधारा स्वयं कट्टरपंथी मुस्लिम मौलवियों के अंध धार्मिक उत्साह की प्रतिक्रिया है, एक ऑफ-शूट है. इस्लाम के ठेकेदारो ने मुस्लिम जनता में एक खतरनाक तथ्य ड्रिल किया है कि उनकी पहली पहचान केवल ओर केवल एक मुस्लिम के तौर पर है। नागरिकता, पदनाम, भूमिका या जिम्मेदारी जैसी किसी भी अन्य कम पहचान से पहले उनकी पहचान एक मुस्लिम की है। इससे प्रेरित होकर हिंदू धर्म के दबंग लड़के अपने धर्म के नाम पर भी शोर मचाना उचित समझते हैं। मूल रूप से कट्टर इस्लाम ने अन्य धर्मों के बीच गलत तरीके से उग्र भावनाओं को प्रेरित किया है। शांतिप्रिय सनातन धर्मियों में से कुछ अब त्रिशूल धारण करने वाले हास्यास्पद, शरारती तत्व हैं। इसमे मुख्य अपराधी तो संप्रदायवाद की आग है। यह अब कई सारे हिंदुओं के दिलों में जल रही है। लेकिन उग्र हिंदू हृदय अन्य धार्मिक हृदयों को भी प्रेरित करेंगे। इसलिए जैसे-जैसे राष्ट्रवादी सूर्य की किरणें भारतीय विविधताओं पर पड़ती हैं, हमारे सामने खालिस्तान आंदोलन का पुनरुत्थान होता है। यदि आप चरमपंथी विचारधारा को बढावा देते हैं, तो वे भी ऐसा करेंगे। आजकल की दुनिया मे, 'सही' की तुलना में 'गलत' युवाओ को प्रेरित करने में कहीं अधिक प्रभावी है। मुसलमानों के खिलाफ व्यवस्थित भेदभाव की नीति ने 1947 के बाद सांप्रदायिक आधार पर अलगाववाद की दूसरी लहर के बीज बो दिए हैं। और जब भी कोई ईसाई मिशनरी जंगलों में किसी आदिवासी का धर्मांतरण करता है तो प्रलय के अनुपात में शोर उत्तर-पूर्व के ईसाईयों को अलगाववाद से जुड़ाव के लिए मजबूर कर देगा। भारत इतना विविधतापूर्ण है कि एक वैचारिक रंग में रंगा नहीं जा सकता। चमकदार राष्ट्रवादी रंगवादियों को सरकार बनाने जैसा अस्थायी लाभ तो मिल सकता है लेकिन दीर्घकाल में यह भारत की नींव को दीमक की तरह खा जाएगा। गायों के लिए जब मुस्लिम युवकों की पीट-पीटकर हत्या कर दी जाती है, तो निश्चित रूप से सिख युवकों को भी सांप्रदायिक आधार पर उत्पात मचाने और पवित्र गुरु ग्रंथ साहिब को कानून और व्यवस्था को चुनौती देने के लिए पुलिस थानों में ले जाने की खुजली होती है। कल को उत्पाती हिन्दु लडके भी पवित्र गीता को ढाल बनाकर कानून को चुनौती देगे। अति दक्षिणपंथी विचारधारा शरारती तत्वो के पागलपन को देशभक्ति के रंग में रंग देती है। लेकिन इस अवस्था मे भारत में हमारे सामुहिक महल को गिराने के लिए हमारे पास पर्याप्त धर्मो की विविधता हैं। भलाई एसमे है की समावेशिता की बात करे। आम आदमी से जुड़े मुद्दों पर चुनाव लड़ा जाए। आइए, राष्ट्रवादी क्रांति के चकाचौंध करने वाले रंगों को किनारे रख दें और राष्ट्र निर्माण के सरल उपकरण उठा लें।

उपसंहार: सभी बहिष्कृत सिद्धांत के पालनवादी एक कमजोर परिसर, यानी श्रेष्ठता के परिसर से अपना पोषण प्राप्त करते हैं। यदि एक पुनरुत्थानवादी हिंदू राष्ट्रवादी के रूप में आप अपनी विशिष्ट विचारधारा में न्यायसंगत महसूस करते हैं, तो क्या आपको नहीं लगता कि दूसरे भी ऐसा ही महसूस करते हैं? क्या आपको नहीं लगता कि एक खालिस्तानी भी उसी तर्ज पर अपने विश्वास को सही ठहराने की कोशिश करेगा? या आपको लगता है कि संकीर्णता का आपका विशिष्ट अधिकार उनसे अधिक है क्योंकि सनातन धर्म सिख धर्म से पुराना है? वर्षों में वरिष्ठता के इस सिद्धांत के आधार पर, दक्षिण भारत के गहरे जंगलों में  द्रविड़ आदिवासियों द्वारा पालन किए जाने वाले जीववाद का धर्म इस विशेष भौगोलिक इकाई के धर्म-शोषित विश्वास पर कॉपीराइट रखने का और भी बड़ा दावा करता है क्योंकि आर्यों के आगमन से पहले वे पहले से ही एक मानव समाज के रूप में जीवनयापन कर रहे थे। आर्यों के आने से पहले, जिसे अब हम हिंदू धर्म के आरंभ के रूप में पहचानते हैं, उनकी एक विशिष्ट संस्कृति थी।

Pa and the Elephants

 

My father demanded peace. New clothes, with their authoritative tautness and showy bickering, pinched his skin, burdened his bones and ruffled his philosophical demeanor. ‘New clothes are very hard on the skin. They put a kind of weight on you,’ he would complain. ‘They pinch and intimidate you,’ he would add. So the new set of clothes would go into watery deluge for three or four days to beat out their pinch, showmanship and gimmickry.

As the clothes would wear down with usage and mellow down to old age softness under the rigorous scrutiny of hundreds of washings, he would get in groove with them, finally accepting their presence in sync with the repose inside. ‘The only problem is that when a pair of clothes is really worth wearing in softness, it’s the time to discard it,’ he complained. My mother and sisters won’t allow him to feel at his best and go decked up in extremely soft, read it tattered, kurta-pyjama just because he found them suitably soft and non-pinchy.

Pa loved smoking, first huge cigars during dandy youth, cigarettes in the slowing-down middle age and coming to a chain-smoking spree of beedis in the later part of life. But ganja was a strict no. Once while visiting Rishikesh, he got inspired to taste the unfamiliar substance. An old sadhu was taking majestic draughts at his ganja-filled chillum. Pa followed as a well-obliging newly hatched disciple. Then standing at Ram Jhoola swaying over the watery sprawl of Ma Ganga and a cold wind buffeting down the valley, he saw philosopher Plato walking over the Ganges waters. Many will term it as hallucination. But to me these are the realities belonging to a different dimension. Pa loved the works of ancient philosophers and had thoroughly read Plato’s works. So maybe Plato decided to give him a darshan, albeit when Pa was a bit tipsy on the swinging bridge.   

Father felt it best when he visited Rishikesh. ‘I feel it so light in my being when I’m there,’ he told us. Once Father returns from his Rishikesh trip. The bag isn’t yet on the floor before he tells the biggest news spinning out of his time by the Ganges. ‘Elephants would have eaten us!’ he reads out the scary news. Maybe still under shock because elephants don’t eat humans, they trample them. ‘Oh did they attack you?’ Ma is concerned. We prepare ourselves to listen to the hair-raising episode. ‘Yea, very near to that!’ Father builds up the momentum of the scary news. ‘How?’ Mother is serious. ‘We were going in the forest and there we come across them!’ Father stops as if still haunted by the biggest land animals on earth. ‘How many?’ Mother wants to judge the scale of danger on the numerical ladder. ‘Well, must be a big party because there were many heaps of dung on the path. We were saved just by a whisker!’ Father’s eyes are wide open with fear. ‘You guys got scared of the elephant dung,’ Mother laughs in her simple ways of a hardworking woman. Pa is irritated, ‘They were just couple of minutes away because the dung was still steaming.’ It was winter and fresh elephant poop let out vapors as a proof of its freshness and hence the just recent presence of the elephants. Mother has to accept the gravity of the danger. ‘What did you people do?’ she asks innocently. ‘We took a U turn and tried to run to the capacity of our lungs and legs,’ Father seems tired like he has been running all the way from Rishikesh to our village.  

Mid-November Musings

 

A bluejay or Indian roller (neelkanth) sits silently on the top branch of a dead neem tree. Dry, dead trees are nice perch points for birds because they can have an unrestricted view of the surroundings. A brooding fellow it seems, a silent bird with stagnant emotions right in the middle of some breezy, fluid moments floating around its beautiful navy blue and reddish brown colors. Then suddenly breaking its scholastic insights, it gives a vocal blast as it takes off yelling pakrr-pakrr-pakrr. The resounding warning startles almost all the birds around. Maybe it finds the morning too boring and decides to ruffle a few feathers. The pair of hummingbirds that is enjoying on the marigolds, which seems a novelty in taste because I haven’t seen them feasting on the marigolds before this, also shoots off for cover among leafy canopies.

Marigolds, the sturdy, unassuming flowers that keep their smiles for weeks. I have seen honeybees taking a siesta under the warm afternoon sunrays on the marigolds.

A Parijat branch hangs low. Whenever I pass under the tree, it touches the crown of my head. I feel blessed. When a tree’s branch braces against you, take a pause and feel the touch. The tree is extending its hand to greet you, bless you, touch you to heal. We just need to accept it.

I missed it to tell you before. There was only one rockchat in the house to begin with. It spent considerable time in the garden, yard and the verandah, and sometimes in the room itself. It shared my solitude with an equal right to the house. It looked a lonely bird that seemed to somehow feel the solitudional vibes emanating from the house. Then one fine day it had a partner. In this species both the sexes look the same, so I would take the liberty of christening its gender as per my convenience. I would say he is a boy of the house who has wooed a lady after having a feeling of getting well settled in the house. Now both of them are very happy together. All of us are looking for a touch of solace through companionship. Now they are spirited enough to enjoy their playful supper till dusk. The mosquitoes are flummoxed by a sudden dive in temperature. They keep knocking at the window panes and door wire-mesh. The rockchat couple nicely jumps around to take airy morsels. The littlest inconvenience is that now I cannot make out which one is the boy who got his partner here.

The skies have a treat. A group of eleven ducks goes quacking in V-formation. These sights are vanishing. There is no free waterbody in the village now. I saw thousands in the village during childhood. The village pond is engaged for fishing. It’s almost a little lake but they have spun a wire netting over the entire area to deny entry to the visitors from the Himalayas. Imagine a world where the ducks are denied entry to swim. The fish swim, of course. But only till the net is cast.  

Quite miraculously, the banana cone is still there after many weeks. Its deep maroon leaves peel off very slowly to the tug of dew and mist. It’s lucky to be still there because there are monkeys in the village. The bully alpha rhesus male faces a challenge. There are many lithe, adolescent heroes who are lustily eying his harem. He carries a big scar on his right shoulder and seems to have lost confidence apart from the prettiest female with whom he loitered around with much majesty, pride and big-time pomp and show as his queen consort. The young swashbucklers have surely lured her away. Well, she is within her rights to choose the prince of her heart. This morning the beaten king was seen with the tailless old queen. He had forgotten her altogether. But now she provides succor to his bruised soul. Earlier he would turn back and challenge we humans right on the spot. Today he simply showed his beaten bum and screeched a bare-toothed abuse from a safe distance. Times change. Nothing is permanent. But he has already crammed the village with his pedigree and this thought should give him some solace.

We match the monkeys in more ways than one. We mess things around—ironically even when we suppose we are organizing things, we are in fact sowing the seeds of more disorder and chaos later on. Our gallant spirit has seen us launching 8400 tons of objects into earth’s orbit. Our space-conquering spirits have seen us catapulting 25000 objects into earth’s orbit. As a result, there is a huge amount of junk that is floating in space. The future spacecrafts and satellites will need decluttering of space. So we will have space kabaris. The trash pickers can take pride in their profession now. It will be much esteemed in the coming decades. Your trash is someone’s treasure, very aptly said. But we are mindlessly turning mother earth’s treasures into piles of trash.

I light a diya a dusk. It’s a beautiful, little beacon of faith that lights my path into the dark folds of night. The next day the clay diya has a left out cotton swab of the wick. I put it in the flowerbed. There are a few tailorbird couples. Cotton is the basic building block of their nest made by sewing three leaves together. They are nice, skilled chaps and expertly stitch leaves to make a nesting cup. I think to be a great human tailor, it must be mandatory to be a diligent tailorbird in the previous birth.

It’s mid November. Gone are the pure mists. We now have the metallic haze, the smog. It kills slowly. Right now it burns the eyes and gives the throat an itch. But the birds still have their morning songs and that is an assurance for the time being. We have to believe in nature to save us like it has done so far.  

During the winters, the entire Delhi NCR, covering many districts in the neighboring states apart from the national capital, gets shrouded under smog. Stubble burning by Punjab farmers is generally blamed for Delhi’s smog. If Punjab fires are majorly responsible for the winter fog in Delhi, then Chandigarh should be equally polluted in November but it stays almost unaffected. Stubble burning is just one of the factors and that too temporary. The political class passes the buck onto poor farmers every year and keeps ignoring the long-lasting issues that make Delhi a gas chamber throughout the year.