A teacher's dilemma with chatGPT

(Opinion Column in Khaleej Times dated 8 February, 2023)

As a creative writing coach for children, the hardest thing I have had to face after lessons turned online is to keep my students out of the right-mouse-click habit whenever a red line appeared in their passages. The moment the red herring appeared, they sought correction from the language processing program embedded in the system and did the wrong thing rightly. Error found and fixed without a thought spared to the fundamentals of language.

It took constant monitoring and remonstration to make them quit the habit of using instant grammar tools and additionally, to deter them from using the internet for completing tasks that did not need research. A teacher can smell a student’s felony from a mile, and she will do everything within her means to stop learning from getting smeared by con jobs.

‘If I hadn’t learned to write from you, I would have used chatGPT for my essays now,’ one of them tittered during a recent discussion about the new viral phenomenon that is making anyone capable of typing words in English into instant story tellers, poets, essayists and content creators.

The student’s candour should have made me balk, but did it? No. Instead, I took comfort in the thought that the student had chosen to write by the rules he had picked up from me than take the shortcut to crafting his essays. What I saw in him and all the others, who by now are amply equipped, is a sense of confidence in a set of linguistic and creative skills that they could call their own.

This is what makes true intelligence stand out from its artificial counterparts that are now spawning tools and techniques like guppies. A lot has been said and written about the new response generating program, ChatGPT, most of which has been positive for the apparent benefits it offers someone with literary and conceptual deficiency.

Anything that makes a task easier establishes symbiotic connection with our brain. In the end, it is ease that makes us choose one way over the other, and artificial intelligence has helped us steer through a futuristic world rather smoothly.

As a teacher who is also an author to whom words are sacred and every written sentence is a hymn, the emergence of tools that appropriate human thought is a dilemma. While the teacher in me weighs in on the advantages in terms of allowing children to be helped in their assignments, there is a question that looms large in the background. ‘What do I want my students to be? Robots and response generating machines, or thinking individuals who can take responsibility for their lives?’

The idea of AI-aided-writing is not intimidating on its own, but when it is stacked up against ethics and emotions, two major components of human intellect and conduct, pertinent questions begin to emerge. Add one more element – creativity – to it and the writer in me begins to squirm.

Despite the widespread concerns raised, the popular views that have sprung up in the wake of chatGPT’s acceptance give me solace. None of what I have heard dismisses it as superfluous; it is being given the benefit of doubt by evaluators and educators. When employed moderately, with checks and balances in place, students can probably find a lot of value in it. But where do we draw the line? How do we stop people from falling victim to temptations – of filching ideas and calling them their own for quick gains? Should seeking advice, albeit from an artificial source, to write our ballads and bestsellers be labelled illicit, or should we normalise it?

Even as I am typing this piece into my laptop, the AI in the background is relentlessly prompting me with words and sentence completions. While an enterprising content creator who is only aiming at churning out passages for commercial use might be thrilled at the suggestions that are coming her way, the true literary aficionado in me is giving it a royal ignore.

The predicament for people of my ilk is only just beginning. With Google announcing plans to launch its own rival version of ChatGPT, there is going to be a glut of imitation ideas out there for us to lunge at and leverage. I will have to strive harder to let my students realise that they have the liberty to use the platforms, but true creative satisfaction comes only when the piece they write is drawn from their own intelligence and presented in their own voice.

My task now will be to make them see the difference between ingenuity and borrowed talent and let them decide for themselves what would give them a true sense of accomplishment. As I often suggest to them, the choice is theirs – to usurp their writing or to give it a personal voice. As their mentor, I give them an option – AI for artificial intelligence or AI, for the initials of my name. Time and again, they have chirruped in unison, ‘the latter, ma’am.’ And therein lies my hope.

Jacinda Ardern deserves a standing ovation for quitting on her terms

(Opinion Column in Khaleej Times dated 24 January, 2023)

To be able to retire in the forties, with a lifetime’s accolades in the kitty, is a dream that many cherish but fail to accomplish. But Jacinda Arden has just done it, not at a point where people ask, ‘why not, yet?’ but at a peak where people wonder, ‘why, after all?’ She had everything going for her, at least in the public arena; she was the cynosure of all political eyes, she was noncontroversial, and above all, she was an undisputed icon. She symbolised gentle but persuasive woman power, represented the idea of success by dint of performance alone, and when everyone thought she was here for the long haul, she hung up the boots by merely saying, ‘no more in the tank.’

I found the reason for her ‘stepping aside’ more noteworthy than the announcement itself. It made me take a harder look at what life entailed for a successful woman who apparently had it all yet felt compelled to toss everything in a trice. I felt it was time to take stock of what women wanted in life at the end of the day, and how much load they could take to put themselves on the map and be counted in a lopsided world that grudged them their dues.

Many years ago, when I graduated with a journalism degree, I had a choice - to plunge into a world hitherto dominated by men and held little promise for their counterparts or adopt a safer vocation that would keep me sheltered from the rough and tumble of reportage. At that time, when women were still taking baby steps in the media world, I made an informed decision to stay away from it because the ‘breaking news’ life that I was staring at seemed to be a recipe for an early burnout. Despite the grand career avenues, I renounced it before it sucked me into its vortex, and I took an alternative path in the world of words.

In deciding so, I may have probably jettisoned the basic tenets of feminism and women’s empowerment that call for pushing the envelope and breaking the bounds, but I am better off today. What I did many years ago is what Arden has probably done today - putting her priorities as a human and a woman with a personal life in order, and making a call that may not precisely be popular with the women’s lib advocates but fits perfectly into her own scheme of things.

For all the glorious din we women make about gender equality, and for all the moves we make towards empowering ourselves in a milieu of conservative social mores, the truth remains – there is a lot at stake for the ‘women of true substance’. There are trade-offs and hard bargains that they do not speak of often for the fear of being labelled infirm and wasted by a constantly scrutinising gender militia.

There are no two ways about the amount of sacrifice women in the higher echelons make, be it in politics, business or any other domain that they are claiming a rightful and equal place in. Their successes carry hefty price tags, and their lives bear battle scars that they cleverly conceal under high-end cosmetic brands. Their homes are an ensemble of half-met expectations and unspoken letdowns; their mind space is a roulette constantly betting on the outcomes of their empowered existence, the end game is never clear till they make a final call.

At some stage of their advancement, women will have to come to terms with the fact that life is not about being equal, invincible or entitled, but about knowing what is worth wagering and what is not. It is about knowing how far they can stretch themselves to prove their mettle to the world and to themselves. To many the awakening happens earlier, and to the others, it comes when they are on the precipice of self-destruction.

Five years may not be a long span in a politician’s life, but it is enough time for a woman who counts herself as human first to know which way her life must go. It is long enough to snuff the zest out of her personal life and reduce her to a shadow of what she originally had been. The right to decide whether she wants to spend a major part of her stint on this planet in professional duress or in the pleasant company of her dear ones is entirely hers. It is when every woman takes the courage to decide what is right for her, irrespective of how the world might judge her, that a woman becomes truly empowered. To that end, Arden’s decision deserves a standing ovation. In my view, she didn’t quit; she merely ‘stepped aside’ to make room for things she deemed important in her life.

Off the beaten trek

(Travel piece in the wknd. magazine of Khaleej Times dated 20 Jaunary, 2023)

Among the many fall outs of two years of Covid confinement was a sudden rise in the number of people transiting airports and crisscrossing the world to get the ennui of the pandemic out of their system. It was christened ‘revenge tourism’. Travel plans overflowed with destinations of every kind and all the saved-up money went into getaways, many of them randomly fixed at short notice. The only intention was to blow fresh air into their covid-worn lungs.

People I know rattled off familiar names of places from the far east to the American coasts. They wanted to see places and knock off items from exotic bucket-lists. I too longed to break the monotony that had set in the pandemic years, but not in the manner that most people in the world did. I didn’t want to see the big cities and bring home urban memories. I wanted to do something that wouldn’t be just snazzy insta treats. I wanted the real results – a boost to my psyche, a shift in perspectives, a genuine new path to get out of the morass of death, doom and destruction that the world had sunk into.

I looked out for options to do an off-beat tour to some place the world hadn’t heard about much and I found a little destination no one I knew had ever visited. Pokhri, a town tucked in the folds of the Himalayas, at an altitude of 5900 feet above the sea level, in the Chamoli district of Uttarakand in India. It was as remote as I could realistically get from the noise of the world and be immersed in birdsongs and beautiful mountain views. It wasn’t a tourist spot, per se. It wasn’t a place that people located on Trip Advisor. It was a place that only those with a soul will seek and find.

Spurred by an instinct to escape to a hideaway that will not have many of the tourist trappings, I booked a homestay cottage, Birdsong and Beyond, in the Guniyala village of Pokhri. As per villageinfo.in, Guniyala has an estimated population of only 83 people with 15 households. Such anonymity and isolation may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but it seemed perfectly tailor-made for me, although it was my first outing of the kind, and I had no clue what to expect from such seclusion from the mainstream.

The place is 210 kms from its nearest airport in Dehradun. Although there are helicopter services that can take us faster to Gauchar, a helipad that is 45 minutes away from Guniyala by road, I arranged a cab from Dehra. My journey would last an estimated six hours, winding through the hills, passing by rivers, crossing many a significant point of interest. An hour into my ride from Jolly Grant airport, I was greeted by the grace of the Ganges in Rishikesh. A pitstop here would have given my impending tour an added impetus, but the thought having 210 kms to cover by road made me shelve the idea.

The next point that I wanted to register in my tourist diary was Devrayag, where the clear, light green Bhagirathi, coming from Gangotri and the muddy brown Alaknanda coming from glaciers beyond Badrinath, merged like two souls in love to give birth to what flowed further down as Ganges. The Sangam of the two rivers symbolized a holy communion. It was solemn moment that I absorbed both into my consciousness and camera for posterity. Pictures may be useful reminders of experiences, but it is what the eyes absorb in the moment that remain etched in the soul.

The sun had nearly set at that point and Guniyala village was still a long way off. Steering up the Kedarnath highway towards a destination about which neither me nor my driver had much clue about, we passed Srinagar and Rudrapayag. Had it been a day drive, Alaknanda would have glistened throughout the journey, but a full moon that shone on it was enough to compensate on that long, lonely drive.

Leaving many miles behind across rough roads and unmanned terrains, I reached my homestay in Guniyala late in the night, two hours behind ETA, where Kamla and her husband, Ramesh waited for me eagerly. They were people I hadn’t met or known previously, but it was for this experience of connecting with the simpler threads of life that I had gone to that place. Nothing could have been more welcoming that a piping hot dinner with rotis, dal and sabji that the caretaker couple served me with such care and love that I knew they were going to be part of my life forever.

A pinewood cottage with French windows was going to be my lodging place for two weeks, and I settled in cozily, eagerly looking forward to daybreak. What vistas waited to present themselves before me outside the windows, I couldn’t say because of the darkness, but I knew it was going to be life changing.

Although not an early riser, a unique birdsong that I had never heard before awoke me around sunrise, and the view that I saw outside wasn’t breath-taking. It was heart stopping. A whole range of the Himalayas clad in snow was emerging into view in the early morning light and the sun slipped out from behind giving me a sparkling solitaire moment to capture on my camera. This bounty is what I woke up to every morning. My evenings were graced by the golden glow of the sun falling on the snow crown of the distant mountains. The time spent between the two spectacles at dawn and dusk were to be to my daily staple for the next two weeks.

As I was sufficiently briefed by the owner of the Birdsong cottage, Kiranjeet Chaturvedi, there was very little to do in the place. I chose not to go trekking, nor did I go to bigger places of tourist interest. I didn’t want to ‘see’ places or tick lists. I merely wanted to experience the present moment in the pristine confines of nature and some naïve hearted people.

I spent my time wandering in the hills aimlessly, meeting the locals, making friends with them and enjoying their love in oodles. The essence of rustic life and its simplicity, the love of the common people, the joy of idling in the mountains and the release of the spirit into nature couldn’t have come to me at a better time.

Kamla, Ramesh and her sons soon became my extended family, and pampered by their home-grown food, love and care, the stay at Birdsong and Beyond turned into more than a holiday. The boys and girls I befriended there became my children, I celebrated Diwali with them, shared stories with Kamla and others and watched a new script for life unfold in front of me. Guniyala, I believe, has now adopted me as its foster child for such is the bond I have formed with it and its people. It is where I will return whenever my spirit needs nourishment. And that, I presume, will be oftener than I think.