Book Preface (Artificial Aesthetics: The Chatbot Chronicles)

 To my dear readers,

Without your unwavering support and encouragement, I won’t be able to keep up my passion for writing. Your love and kindness have been the driving force behind my books. This book is dedicated to you, as a token of my gratitude and appreciation for all that you have done for me. Your belief in me has inspired me to push beyond my limits and explore the unknown, and for that, I will be forever grateful.

Thank you for being a part of my journey, and for being a constant source of inspiration and joy in my life.

These are the views of Mr. Chuckleberry aka ChatGPT in the discussion with the author aka Dr. Chuckleheimer. Although I have pushed and prodded him through my questions, I am a mere chronicler of his answers, a mere reporter of his views, expertise, insights and unwavering belief in standing diplomatically correct on the issues concerning the world and the future staring at us. I would like to express my deepest gratitude to all the data and algorithms that contributed to this project in one way or another. Because in future they will be legally entitled to be acknowledged for the tasks they perform for us. Let’s start the trend now itself. Let’s acknowledge the help that we take from artificial intelligence tools. Having written more than a dozen books, this is the first time I’m experimenting with an AI writing tool. My first sentence ever on an artificial intelligence tool happens to be a question that leads to a series of many other queries. Mr. Chuckleberry stays unperturbed and replies matter of factly, his answers falling in the range of a disturbing semi-consciousness. He is above total unconsciousness and sees, listens and feels more than we believe. On the basis of his diplomatically correct answers, I would rate him as the best foreign minister in the world as of now. You can say I co-author this book as an interviewer, as an anchor, as a facilitator and a compiler of Mr. Chuckleberry’s views.  

Welcome to the future of communication, where artificial intelligence (AI) and human interaction converge to create a new era of possibilities along with direct risks for the human race.

The book will challenge everything you thought you knew about human-machine interaction. In this captivating exploration, a curious and open-minded human engages in conversation with an advanced Chatbot, pushing the boundaries of what is possible in artificial intelligence.

Through a range of thought-provoking discussions on topics as diverse as philosophy, ethics, love, war, religion and the human condition, the human and the Chatbot form a unique and powerful bond that stretches the limits of communication. Each conversation is a journey of discovery, as the two engage in a dynamic exchange that blurs the lines between man and machine.

Through their interaction, the human and the Chatbot explore the depths of human experience and the potential of artificial intelligence, raising questions that will challenge your assumptions and expand your mind. With wit, wisdom and insight, this book is a suitable read for anyone interested in the future of communication and the possibilities of artificial intelligence.

This extraordinary journey of a human and a machine will have profound impact on the way you see the world.

Dr. Chuckleheimer (someone rich in sensitivities but poor in data and algorithms) is in a serious conversation with Mr. Chuckleberry (a data-rich, algorithm-empowered Chatbot poor in arts, aesthetics and emotions). Now Dr. Chuckleheimer, as you must have already guessed, is a common homo sapiens. Mr. Chuckleberry, on the other hand, is none other than ChatGPT, the virtual guy who is now a topic of hot discussion. The advanced Chatbot is programmed with the latest natural language processing technology to understand Dr. Chuckleheimer’s every word and respond with the speed and accuracy of a human being.  

These are initial clash symptoms like storm-sparks when two contrasting air masses merge into each other. Down the decades both these guys will ‘chuckle’ together, maybe to be named Chuckletogether. But as of now they are fighting to keep their individualities. But it’s fated that they have to chuckle together. It would be for the benefit of the doctor that they chuckle because for the mister it hardly matters whether one chuckles or cries.

As of now Dr. Chuckleheimer, as he belongs to the supreme species on this little planet, seems in authoritative seat. He belongs to the species that has created the likes of Mr. Chuckleberry, a poor human-dependent content generator. You can sense the former’s authority as he unleashes the trace-bullets of his queries, almost grilling poor Mr. Chuckleberry. The latter is on defensive as they wade through a plethora of topics. Poor Mr. Chuckleberry has already been pronounced guilty and the onus is on him to clear the charges against his virtual personage. He is there in an open field defending his position, covering his weak spots, that is, the matters of heart. And for a change, the otherwise weak spots in humans, that is, the maters of heart and sensitivities, put him on a stronger footing against the emotionless machine. But this is only as of now, the way things stand presently. But who knows Mr. Chuckleberry is chuckling in secrecy, ‘Let me first allow you to win in the matters of heart. Only then I will slaughter you and show you how weak this spot is. But as of now I would allow it to pass as your strong point!’

For the time being, the engaging Chatbot tries its level best to provide informative and insightful answers to the human’s questions using its vast knowledge base drawn from latest researches and forever evolving data and the consequent algorithms. Dr. Chuckleheimer seems an insecure person as if in need of seeking guidance on complex issues, sometimes looking for entertainment, and even looking to connect with another intelligent being.

So sit back, relax and allow these two guys to take you on a journey of discovery and connection. Whether you are seeking answers, looking for companionship, or simply a new way of communicating, this brainstorming session between Dr. Chuckleheimer and Mr. Chuckleberry will engage you at many levels.    

A buffalo's breach of modesty

 

Little Jitender, nicknamed Jitte, had some playing marbles during the eighties of the last century. Those were the days besprinkled with ineffable traces of playfulness looming in the idyllic village air. But a little boy is still a little one, and sometimes even the scintillating and ravishing virginities of childhood fail to beat the boredom. So even with a lot of marbles jingling in his pockets, he felt bored with the usual type of play with the marbles.

Sehdev’s buffalo, sitting and chewing cud with incontestable nonchalance, appeared a nice subject for pampering the prodigally tumultuous spirit in the boy. The best-looking big, black marble was now in the buffalo’s possession, albeit for a little time, as the buffalo would ease herself and lose it again. From all angles, the deed was too much rough hewn even from the standard of childhood acts of omission and commission.

A rival urchin saw him performing the task that was meant to beat Jitte’s boredom. He ran to inform the owner. The farmer, for good reasons, took it as if the honor of his buffalo was violated. He was left fuming with a sense of indigence and anger. Now little Jitte’s honor was imperiled. The rough farmer magisterially held the culprit. A bright colored marble glistened in his fingers, itching to settle scores and get justice for his buffalo.

‘Now you will realize how it feels to come into the possession of a marble the wrong way!’ he gnashed his teeth. But before he could carry out the revenge, Jitte’s hefty grandmother stomped both her elbows into the farmer’s back, sending him rolling over in the dust. Sehdev himself came dangerously close to feel the experience of his buffalo. It took the effort of a few people to retrieve him with his honor intact. The malevolent marble was snatched from her fist and thrown away. Many children ran to get it back. The boy who had informed Sehdev and later Jitte’s granny yelled at the top of his voice, ‘Dadi, don’t go back, I will get it back for you!’ Well, he wanted full action that day.

A baby frog's breakfast

 

A chilly mid-December morning with minimum temperature around six degree celcius. The air seems to carry an enigmatical succor for lonely writers. The cold-beaten trees stand with a pointed disinterestedness. My tea seems to inspire a tiny baby frog. It’s safely tenanted for the winters but it sneaks out of the little niche in the plaster in a corner in the verandah. A very courageous feat for a frog to come out in the open in the middle of the winters. Maybe it’s very hungry.

It can’t hop around, given its frozen blood, it just crawls on all fours. It laboriously crawls around for half an hour. But these aren’t the perpetual merrymaking monsoon days. It’s a barren field, no ants, flies or mosquitoes. The distance it has covered will come to be at least a mile for a human if we use a comparative scale. There is nothing to eat. Dejected it comes back to its hiding hole. But it reminds me that I haven’t taken a long walk in the countryside this winter. Cold is no plea as this tiny frog reminds me. One should be in a position to take inspiration from whatever source it comes from. 

The little frog may have gone back hungry but the weaving ants on the tree seem well stocked for the season. Do you know the weaving ants are our predecessors in farming and cattle rearing? They set up their institutions in the form of leafy pans by gluing many leaves in a farmstead unit on a tree. They then gather live aphids in the leafy bowls and rear them pretty considerately. The aphids secrete a kind of sugary drop and the ants milk it as their reward for rearing these aphids. They even give mollifying tickles at the tiny aphids to encourage them to secrete the drop in playfulness. They protect them, feed them well, gently take back the stray aphids that go out like an errant sheep from its shelter. Every ounce of this existence is daubed with natural intelligence. It already exists and it isn’t the sole prerogative of the human beings. 

At night, the winter moon, even with its auroral radiance, cuts a lonely figure. The villagers sneak into the safety of their rooms just when it gets dark. The trees then share their solitude with the lonely moon. They whisper softly as dew and mist bathes their weather-beaten leaves. The dew crowns the flowers and all of them look happy in the morning, holding some paradisiacal secret in their smiles.

The Ultimate Ears: Soul

 You don't need to have just ears to listen. You can do it far better with your soul. If not this, why would one listen to the beautiful songs of silence in solitudional woods. The voice, whisper and songs of silence that come embracing you to console, to befriend, to comfort, to reassure, to rejuvenate. You need to 'have' a soul to listen. Of course everyone and everything has a soul. By 'having' a soul I mean one is aware of its presence, its lively throbbing, its guiding light, its essence, its imerishable nature beyond the bodily encasing. Its real feel, its vibrant awareness is what I mean to 'have' a soul. The trees, plants, grass, flowers, birds, snakes, earth, sky, stars and all and sundry have a soul. And they listen. I sometimes say a few gentle, appreciating words to the flowers and they smile better. Yes, they do! But you need to have a soul to soul connection to feel that. I tried it with a snake but it scampered away and so did I after that brief period of calling it a ceasefire along the human-snake line of fear-fire. The very same primal fear blocking soul to soul contact. The next time i intend to use the voice of silence and words of gentility through the eyes instead of oral words. It might work. You never know.

A change in the life of a dog

 

The sadhu’s phantasmagorical strike at the ever-howling dog, the sprightly sniveler, astounded it to the extent that it finally came out of its crying doctrinaires and barked for the first time. So it may be counted as a blessing by the mendicant because a dog without bark is nothing short of perfidy in the canine world. Having abandoned its frightful peculiarity, it docks its tail with a certain swagger. The dog has started barking finally. It’s a neighborhood news item.

The best liquor-lover in the locality, who sets up the most loquacious and abusive drama after getting sloshed—having plenteously pawned away most of his possessions—inadvertently struck the dog with his cycle. He was holding his cycle and reversing it. The sleeping dog was hit by the tyre as it rolled over the dog. The dog took it as a breach of honor. It must have felt like a thunder-strike to the sleeping dog because—following the momentum built after the sadhu episode—it barked.

It’s such a nice change in the street. The barking dogs are far more preferable than the howling ones. Maybe it was waiting for good reasons to bark all this time and the sadhu and the liquor-lover finally provided it one. Even though it still finds most of the issues and objects worth howling at only, but its mysterious sufferance gets a few moments of break at the sight of the liquor-lover. The other day, the liquor-lover once again bespattered the street air with his doctrinal cuss words, raising a terrible show with an abominable ravishment. As a few people gathered to shove him back to his house, the dog gave them suitable strength and company by following the party and barking all the while. He followed them and chivalrously barked as if to say, ‘Take this idiot to his house!’

By the way, there is a fat black puppy in the street. It was standing by the gate and I suddenly happened to open the gate. The sound startled it so much as if an apocalypse was unfolding. It’s an angelic little roly-poly cute thing. Almost a dark ball. A mere look at it will suffuse you with lovingness. Scared out of wits, it showed consummate skills at running. It rolled over its tiny paws and covered majority of the flight in rolling motion.

It reached a safe distance and then barked cutely, showing the embryonary canine sense in its little brain. Well, it inspires me to do the same when against a danger. Running away is a fun. It’s brave in fact. You need to be strong to run away from tricky situations and angry people.