I speak a little less when I fear my voice would crack up. Someone dropping me off at the airport, an emotionally charged movie scene, a genuine act of kindness, saying goodbyes are some moments where I find myself taking a deep breath to make sure I hide the tremble in my voice. One such moment of paucity of speech was when Khushi drew a greeting card for her Maiju Carmina. The value of this piece of art, the pricelessness of each perfectly imperfect stroke, and the very definition of true love that it represents deserve a much more mellifluous writer than I ever dream to become. But, as Carmina and I rode back home on the NJ Transit after a stupidly long wait, I ruminated on a topic I have been very curious about lately. I am someone who is riding the AI hype. So why does it feel like it is robbing us of something?
May 27, 2025 around 10 a.m. is when a tool for, at least emotionally, understanding what ChatGPT is robbing us of was incepted in my psyche. Thanks, Khushi!
A day later, I copy-pasted the image in ChatGPT and used the following prompt. It was by design that I tried to be as vague as possible in instructing it.
The prompt: “This is what my 5-year-old niece made for my wife as we were saying goodbye. We visited them in New Jersey and were returning to New York. She described it as a tree and Carmina (my wife, one near the tree). When Carmina said “but I am alone”, Khushi (my niece) quickly added herself to the picture. Recreate it.”
The recreation is perfect in so many ways. It is what I’d want Khushi to be able to draw sometime next year. I’d even dare say it is what Khushi sees when she drew the picture. But despite all the right strokes, it fails to shut me up. It does not make me take a deep breath to try to stop my voice from cracking. It does not make me want to preserve it forever. And that is what AI will never deliver. That is not a loss as long as Khushi doesn’t stop drawing. The loss I fear is one day, I’d be too tired to compete with ChatGPT, and Khushi would be too.