Artificial Intelligence. The name AI makes me comfortably uncomfortable.
Comfortable because it’s like the brainchild of computers – learning, gathering data, and getting results – all in a few seconds, perfectly researched, intelligent, and efficient.
Uncomfortable, because it throws up a few questions. Am I human? Am I a robot? Is everything it’s telling me the whole truth and nothing but? There’s more, and we’ll come to it soon.
There is no denying that AI is a revolution in industry, commerce, finance, healthcare and medicine, research, automotive, aeronautics, space, and more. Much more. It’s powered by data and algorithms, which lets it perform tasks that would be time-consuming or impossible for humans. From CPU, we have moved to GPU, and the world’s best-performing stocks belong here. When I keyed in “Machine Learning” on ChatGPT, it gave me almost a thousand-word article under nine headings and ended with a condescending “Let me know if you’d like to dive deeper into any specific area.”
On the flip side, AI isn’t there yet when it comes to tasks that require creativity, emotion, or deep human interface. Of course it can compose music or write a book, but it will not have that special human touch (me!) that is quirky, weird, or meaningful. While AI is a powerful tool, it’s not without its ifs and buts.
Poetry? For me, it’s a no-no. Let me tell you why. Its composition picks and chooses from billions of words sitting in the machine’s brain and cranks out sonnets or perfect rhymes and meter, but where is the human experience, where are the hopes, joys, flaws, sorrows? And melancholy, angst, mixed metaphors, and stanzas that need a hundred “deletes” on the keyboard and waking up at three a.m. with a phrase that you think weaves magic? That, to me is the essence of poetry.
I am not being judgmental (a word that sticks in Sridevi’s head in the movie “English Vinglish”), but only airing an opinion.
Six months ago, I asked ChatGPT to compose a poem on the dosa and its culinary journey, and I read this out in The After Lunch Lounge at Suvai.
With my limited knowledge of AI and even more limited expertise in poetry writing, I composed two poems – one by AI, and the other, that felt was more me, more human.
Here are the two. For you to read and decide.
| AI (with a small brief) | Krishnan |
| The Dosa: A South Indian Odyssey The Dosa, oh the Dosa, a legend of the South, A crispy, lacy wonder, a comfort to one’s mouth. From Chennai’s bustling streets to Kerala’s verdant coast, It reigns supreme, a breakfast king, a meal for any host. Made from fermented batter, thin as paper sheets, It sizzles on the griddle, a symphony of heats. Crisp on the outside, soft and fluffy in, A blank canvas waiting for culinary sin. But fear not, dear adventurer, for toppings come in waves, From creamy coconut chutney to sambar that enslaves. Potato masala dances, a fiery onion blend, Each bite, a revelation, a story without end. It crosses borders boldly, a global superstar, From London’s trendy cafes to markets near and far. Confused tourists gawk at its UFO-like form, But one delicious mouthful, and they’re begging for the storm. Of course, some imposters try to steal its crown, Those pale and flimsy pancakes, a sad and sorry frown. But the Dosa stands triumphant, a champion of its kind, A taste of India’s soul, forever in our minds. So next time hunger gnaws, and cravings take their hold, Don’t settle for the mundane, a story yet untold. Seek out the Dosa, king of all it surveys, And let its crispy magic brighten up your days! With sambar’s gentle warmth and chutney’s vibrant tang, The Dosa’s melody lingers, a flavor that won’t hang. A symphony of textures, a dance upon the tongue, A South Indian odyssey, forever to be sung. | Every Dosa Tells a Story At dawn in Mylapore, the tawa’s steady heat awaits its mate, As Grandma’s practiced hands pour circles, with bated breath we wait. The batter spreads and whispers – rice, lentil, fragrant oil, While chutney mingles with sambhar, a perfect, spicy foil. Two days of fermentation, with nature’s yeast in play, The bubbling broth inside yearning to rise and sway. The griddle’s expert circle, and a sixty seconds’ wait That first edge gently lifting, tells us the timing’s great. The sides tell deeper stories – each home’s unique flair, Red podi mixed with sesame oil, beyond compare. Recipes unwritten, passed down through watching eyes, Hold wisdom of our mothers, their love that never dies. Each region tells its story: Chennai’s morning grace, Mumbai’s bold variations set a different pace. The Brits with awkward forks, savoring the golden brown, Echo histories of kitchens where masters earned their crown. With sambhar’s layered taste and chutney’s vibrant tang, The dosa’s melody lingers, a flavor meant to hang. A symphony of textures, a dance upon the tongue, A South Indian classic raga, forever to be sung. It crosses borders boldly, a global superstar, From New York’s trendy cafes to markets near and far. In yesteryears they gawked at its sizzle and shape, But one delicious mouthful, and all stood totally agape. While some imposters try to steal its golden crown, With pale and flimsy pancakes that earn a weary frown, The dosa’s a different world, a champion you can rarely find, A taste of India’s soul, forever heart and mind. |
AI, we need each other. I am waiting for the day that the algorithms within you start talking to each other.
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By
Mr V Krishnan
Covai S3 Retirement Community
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