AI and my old father

My 86-year-old-father is a great fan of generative AI. He ideates with it. He authors stories for magazines in Kannada. He is sharp as a razor to be able to use the latest technology available for his work. I tip my hat to him. 

He called me the other day and shared his experiences with generative AI and suggested that I do the same—use AI for my work. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was useless to me.

The best synthesis of ideas comes from seminal ones. AI can help a little yes when one is looking for perspective. But original ideas triumph in the market; not ones that have been done to death on the Internet. Anyway, this is not about GPT-4. It is about my old man.

When Dad told me that I need to use AI, I didn’t feel patronised. I was amazed by his curiosity at that age. His thirst for new knowledge. His child-like curiosity. His enthusiasm. I dared not tell him that GPT-4 has been around for a while now, and I have explored it and found it to be “ineffective”. Most of the content on GPT-4 is generic and always comes with disclaimers. We are not there. Not yet. Happy to be a part of the journey. I foresee remarkable things for the future, and I am excited! I am not a cynic. I believe that the world can be a better place as long as we are asking new questions. Like how to do something better.

Back to the topic. My parents are the ultimate intrepid intellectual explorers that I have known. My mother, when she was alive, would finish reading a whole Kannada novel of 250 pages in 24 hours. She would stay awake all night. She never asked my dad for anything other than books. And she was a home-maker and a schoolteacher who inspired children. Very much a career woman.

But she always made time to read widely. No wonder that dad and mom made such a lovable couple. My mom never wrote a syllable. Dad on the other hand is a writer. He has successfully published articles and authored a book. At his age, making time to write and finding motivation is incredible! But he does it with relative ease. Because he was born inspired like my mother.

I fancy a scenario where my mother is a literary critic, and my dad is the writer. What would have transpired? My mom would have said things matter-of-factly and dad would have retaliated with an eloquent mail beginning with “Dear Madam.” And he would have deliberated on why he is right, and she is wrong. And the argument would never end. Why bother to go on anyway?