Schooldays

 

Those are the days stashed away in a dusty closet. But they hark my attention sometimes to those times of lovely sweet-nothings. The schools of the eighties of the past century in the villages appear like at the other end of the planet in the literary queue. These are fiercely creative and competitive times, unsparingly pushing us into the grip of selfish subjectivity. Modern education seems a savage downpour upon little heads.

But as students at a village school in the eighties, ours was a totally different world. Seeped in the sublimity of simple emotions, untouched by frustrated aspirations, we had all the time to be lazy within the premises, as if recuperating to go all agog after the school. We were all very lazy at the village school. The students and the teachers competed against each other in being relaxed and at peace with one’s being. The only time when the teachers showed some agility and quickness was while thrashing and shouting abuses with a cool nonchalance.

The students, in turn, were extra agile in evading anything distantly related to the studies. Laziness would get into an enchanting bloom during the winters. The winters would arrive with limitless grace to bestow the balmy days under the open sun for all of us to dose like a sunbathing python after a hearty meal.

It was a small world and the expectations weren’t high. In fact, there was hardly any expectation from almost all the students. As the temperature dipped, the main priority shifted to get extra Vitamin D. The classes would shift to the huge playground. Heavy on brunch, the teachers dozed on their chairs. They would bang the stick on the ground once in a while, throw some harsh word—they were very charismatic and ingenious in their favorite cuss words—and after the temporary fit of anger would again get cool under the warm sunrays.

We would also go into automation mode—like a drowsy cow mulching fodder with eyes closed. We munched upon the dry grass. We chewed a lot of it during the long-drawn days, waiting for the sun to cross the horizon. Doing jugali like a buffalo is a kind of meditative practice. It takes you beyond the hard edges of time. Time passes off without too much of a burden. The birds sang in the trees with a virtuous acclaim. And we would lose a bit of that poise only during the last period as we waited for the last bell to go active again the moment it was heard and go hopping for an active evening spurred by a voracious variety of childhood antics.

A Happy Man

 

Most of us are running after a job, car, house, man or woman under the belief that after achieving this we will become happy and joyful. The mirage keeps shifting and the misery of life follows us to the grave. Rashe but isn’t trapped in this game. I offer him two quarters of liquor for a small errand, a very small task in nature. He isn’t interested. I offer the option of giving the reward now itself with the additional choice of him carrying out the task later, at a time of his choice in fact. It doesn’t change anything. The fact is that he doesn’t require the thing today and taking the trouble of hoarding something for tomorrow isn’t in his dictionary.

Today his friend’s friend has a little function. Rashe’s friend will surely take him along. So why bother about a thing that is of no use today. I envy the stability of his mind. On the other hand, here we are the lesser fellows cowering under weightier issues, and forced on a precarious walk on a rope drawn between the poles of madness and genius. The walk is so heavy with the baggage of sizzling assumptions on the path of intellectual adventures. In a way, we are plagued with the fear of our own ideas. While he goes slowly and simplistically, moving like an elephant, coolly digesting all the melodrama around.

Tau's version of epics

 

Happy to be in his nineties, he would be still happier if he hits a century. He loves cricket and he knows the joy of hitting a ton and also the agony of getting out in nineties. He worked in the fields till a few years back and when his body could no longer keep up with his farming zeal, he tried his best to stay at the helm of the affairs and would lumber up to the fields and shout instructions at his son and daughter-in-law to do the chores properly. But even his vigilant overseer’s eyes failed him and his enthusiasm dimmed with the fading lights in his eyes. He now spends most of his time at home.

Well, farming has been his religion and agricultural tools his religious idols. His ears have also stopped keeping up with his enthusiasm to eavesdrop on what is going around. But his tongue is thankfully still prompt and spiffy. With all this background, Tau Hoshiyar Singh has his farmer’s version of Ramayan. We are talking about Lanka. ‘It was built by that devta who is often seen with his wife,’ he enlightens me on the subject. He means the God who is depicted with his wife in the pictures. ‘What name is that?’ he is asking his better knowing self slumbering in the subconscious chambers of his brain.

The problem is that lot many devtas are seen with their wives. We name a few trying to match what he has in mind but he clucks his tongue in a strong no. He then gives a clue. ‘It’s the one who has that snake around his neck,’ he hits the jackpot. ‘OK, you mean Bhagwan Bholenath!’ we chorus. ‘Yea, that’s him. He made Lanka but Ravana being a clever devotee and Bholenath being very simple, the city of gold was grabbed by Ravana as a reward for his penance,’ the story behind Lanka unfolds.

He has something to share about the masons and bricklayers also. ‘Lanka was made of gold bricks. Bholenath told the masons that the little pieces of bricks left out during the construction will be theirs as a reward. The workers but got greedy and would break far-far more pieces than required in order to increase their takeaway. In fact, they broke more than what was used in the walls. The angry God then punished them, “You guys will remain broken in economic means just like bits and pieces you have broken here!” So the masons and bricklayers are poor people. They keep on breaking bricks and however hard they may try they stay as poor as earlier.’ By the end of this narration, he felt sleepy and pulled over the sheet over his face and very soon we heard nice rhythmic snoring, giving enough clue to his bright chances of scoring a century of years on earth.

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.