The Illusion of Knowing: Are We Thinking Less in the Age of AI?

Recently, I went to a friend’s place, and she was terrified to see a silverfish. She believed that it was too dangerous for humans. I, being a zoologist, knew that silverfish are harmless, but without trusting my year-old academic knowledge, I asked Siri.

This made me reflect on the pattern we are living in these days. I avoid using ChatGPT for my child’s homework when she is around, but I do refer to it for a fourth grade school homework for my own ease. I also use it for quick grammar correction. This is still fine. What made me think more is how some of my friends are using ChatGPT for medical clarification and needs, especially for taboo topics like menopause.

During my recent visit to an ENT clinic, I saw a couple decoding their medical reports related to pregnancy so that they could ask the correct questions during their consultation with the gynaecologist.

The question that triggered me to write this is: are we really aware of how AI works?

AI tools, such as ChatGPT, are incredibly smart chatbots that can generate text responses to a vast array of questions. What sets them apart from older chatbots is that their responses aren’t pre-programmed. Instead, they use supervised machine learning to figure out the most sensible order of words based on what they have learned from past conversations and information available on the free internet (i.e., they are continuously learning).

What is important to note here is that AI can have biases. These are systematic discriminations built into AI systems that can reinforce existing biases and make discrimination, prejudice, and stereotyping worse. Bias in AI models usually comes from two things: how the models are designed and the data they are trained on. Sometimes the developers who create these models may have certain assumptions, which can cause the models to favour particular outcomes.

AI bias can also develop because of the data used to train the system. AI models work by analysing large amounts of training data through a process called machine learning. These models identify patterns and connections in the data to make predictions and decisions.

When AI algorithms detect patterns of historical bias or systemic disparities in the data they are trained on, their conclusions can also reflect those biases and disparities. And since machine learning tools process data at a massive scale, even small biases in the original training data can lead to widespread discriminatory outcomes.

Further, AI chatbots like ChatGPT are trained to have a positive bias towards the user. They may lean towards comfort and reassurance. They can sometimes provide more information than is needed, but because they are always available, we tend to look for ready-made, non-customised answers.

Another thing that bothers me is how AI-based algorithms constantly feed me one type of content that I may have seen three or four times, while not showing contradictory viewpoints. This came up in a casual conversation with my husband when he mentioned something viral, and my response was, “Your and my social media feeds are different based on our interests.”

But even within a particular interest area, I would like to see multiple opinions and contradictory viewpoints, not just content similar to what I have liked or interacted with in the past. Getting similar feeds actually reinforces the idea that this is the most accepted opinion because many others seem to believe the same. What we often fail to realise is that it is the algorithm that makes us believe that what we are thinking or interacting with is correct.

AI-based algorithms in social media act as “virtual matchmakers” that analyse billions of data points to curate personalised feeds designed to maximise user engagement and retention. Instead of showing posts in chronological order, these systems use machine learning to predict what content you are most likely to interact with next.

Perhaps the real question is not whether AI is useful or not but whether we are using it critically. AI can be an extraordinary tool for access to information, but it should not replace judgement, curiosity, or the willingness to question what we see and read. In a world increasingly mediated by algorithms, the responsibility to think independently still rests with us.

Beyond Algorithms: What Humans in the Loop Made Me Think About AI and Humanity

Sometimes a film stays with you not because of its scale, but because of the quiet questions it leaves behind.

For many days I have been thinking about how AI has slowly taken over our lives. It is easy and accessible, and we increasingly depend on it for everything. From simple questions like “Is silverfish harmful?” to more complicated ones such as reading medical reports and suggesting prognosis.

I have often felt that AI carries a positive bias. It leans toward comfort. It tends to optimise reassurance. At times it offers more information than we actually need. Yet because it is always available, we turn to it for ready-made, non-customised answers.

I recently watched the film Humans in the Loop, which made me reflect on how easily we assume technology, especially AI, is objective, precise and free from human prejudice. We often treat algorithms as neutral decision-makers guided purely by logic and data. The film quietly unsettles this assumption.

It reminds us that AI systems do not emerge in isolation. They are built from datasets drawn from the real world, a world already shaped by social hierarchies, cultural assumptions and historical inequalities. The people who collect, classify and label this data bring their own perspectives, experiences and limitations to the process. As a result, the technology we build inevitably carries traces of our biases, priorities and blind spots.

In that sense, AI becomes less a purely technical system and more a mirror. It reflects societies that produce it, the things we choose to record, the categories we create and the ways we interpret the world around us.

But what stayed with me even more was the deeply human layer of the story. The tender and evolving relationship between a mother and her daughter navigating life, work and dignity in changing circumstances.

Another touching thread in the film is the quiet bond between humans and a porcupine. It is not dramatic or loud, yet deeply moving in its simplicity. The porcupine does not speak in words, yet it communicates in its own way through presence, instinct and gentle guidance. In one of the most memorable moments, it becomes almost a silent companion, guiding the way out of the forest, as if reminding us that the natural world often understands paths humans struggle to see.

That relationship feels tender and almost sacred. It challenges rigid lines we draw between humans and animals, intelligence and instinct, civilisation and wilderness. The film suggests that connection, trust and understanding can exist beyond language or categories.

In a world where we constantly classify and label everything, from data points to living beings, the porcupine’s quiet presence becomes a powerful reminder. Sometimes wisdom comes from simply observing, listening and allowing nature to guide us.

The film also made me wonder about something beyond technology. How often do we label people around us based on limited understanding? Much like the data labels that train machines, our perceptions and assumptions shape how we see others, sometimes unfairly, sometimes incompletely.

In that sense, the film is as much about humanity as it is about artificial intelligence.

Thank you, Aishwariya, for introducing me to this thoughtful and layered film.

On Lineage, Learning, and the Guru–Shishya Bond

My social media feed has been full of discussions around lineage and discipleship these days - a conversation that, to me, seems to have grown much larger than it perhaps needed to be.

I am very new to learning a classical art, but age-wise old enough to understand certain things. My relationship with my Guru is very sacred, even without the sacred thread ceremony. The ceremonial Gandha Bandhan, I believe, is only for selected disciples who are deeply sincere, willing to dedicate themselves to the art, and capable of carrying forward their Guru’s legacy. I do not fit into that category, but the Guru–Shishya bond between me and my Guruji is no less meaningful.

Why am I writing all this?

It comes from my own experience as a student of my Guruji, Pandit Gaurav Mazumdar ji, who is one of the senior disciples of Pandit Ravi Shankar ji. 

What he teaches us is not simply what Pandit Ravi Shankar ji taught him. Rather, it is what he has absorbed from Pandit Ravi Shankar ji together with what he learnt from his father and his Guru Pandit Nandkishore Vishwakarma ji, from his cousins, and from a great deal of indirect learning through radio and other sources.

My Guruji is the person from whom I learn, my Guru is Pandit Gaurav Mazumdar. I address his Guruji, Pandit Ravi Shankar ji, as Guruji as well. I call Guruji’s mother Maa, his wife is Guru Ma to me, and I love his daughter like my own child.

What I want to highlight here is this: if you learn from a disciple of a well-known musician, you may be part of that gharana, but you are not a direct disciple. It really hurts me when some of Guruji’s students (I am consciously not using the word disciple here) promote themselves by mentioning Pandit Ravi Shankar ji as their Guru, without mentioning Guruji’s name at all. This clearly suggests that they are using a name for their own fame rather than respecting the bond between Guru and Shishya.

The Guru–Shishya bond is incredibly sacred. The spark I see in Guruji’s eyes when he talks about his Guruji is truly remarkable.

A Guru does not simply teach the art; a Guru teaches the art of living.

Pandit Ravi Shankar ji did extraordinary work in bringing Indian classical music to the Western world, but his beliefs about Hindustani music remained deeply traditional. His daily routine was disciplined — he never missed his riyaaz, his walks, or his reading. His meals were also at fixed times. Much of this discipline is reflected in my Guruji’s personality.

A true disciple of Ravi Shankar ji would never publicly say that their riyaaz is mood-based, and they would always maintain decorum on stage. 

It saddens me to see how paid promotions attempt to justify certain things, and how, in this social-media-algorithm driven world, with its built-in biases, it becomes difficult to know what the actual truth is.

Between Searching and Finding: My Tryst with Siddhartha

 I received an assignment to design a poster based on a novel. The design brief was clear - a man in meditation, a beautiful woman in the backdrop, perhaps a river and an ancient setting. In just a few lines, the client mentioned Siddhartha and Kamala, and that was enough to spark my curiosity. Thanks to Amazon’s now service, the book was in my hands within 10 minutes.

Before beginning the design, I wanted to understand them better.

Reading Siddhartha felt like sitting beside a quiet river and slowly learning how to listen. The river in the book slowly teaches that everything is one. Past, present, and future flow together; nothing is truly separate. Life’s moments are not isolated but part of a continuous whole. I learned that the art of listening is so important, not reacting, not judging, but listening so deeply that all voices merge into one sacred sound. True understanding begins in silence, so aligned to what my music practice teaches.

Siddhartha's conversation with his childhood friend was indeed inspiring. The subtle difference between searching and finding. I understood that searching is often for things we think we lack; finding is discovering what already exists within us.

“Wisdom cannot be borrowed; it has to be lived.” This is perhaps my deepest takeaway from Siddhartha. It made me reflect on how often we seek ready-made answers, hoping someone else’s understanding will save us time or uncertainty. But some truths only unfold when we experience life fully ourselves.

This book quietly reminded me that every phase of life has its own purpose. Seeking, wandering, ambition, love, loss, stillness, none of it is wasted. Even our detours shape us.

One thing, however, I found myself reflecting on differently. Through Siddhartha’s journey, it often comes across strongly that he does not need a teacher. While he acknowledges learning skills from Kamala, merchant, dice gambler, and ferryman, the narrative leans towards self-realisation without dependence on a Guru. Personally, the role of teachers in my life has been foundational in shaping not just my skills, but also my knowledge, understanding, discipline, and sensitivity. Every meaningful learning journey of mine, whether in academics, music, professional or personal life, has been guided and deepened by the presence of a teacher or mentor.

And somewhere between reading and designing, I found a little more of myself.

Basic Income for the Arts

Big news for the creative world — and something India could truly take inspiration from. 🌞🎨

Ireland has just made its Basic Income for the Arts permanent!

Artists, writers, musicians, and performers will now receive around €325 a week (~₹1.25 lakh/month or $1,500) a steady income that lets them focus on creating rather than merely surviving.

The initiative began as a 3-year pilot in 2022 with about 2,000 participants, and it worked so well that it’s now here to stay. The Irish government calls it “an Investment in Imagination.”

And rightly so. Because when creativity isn’t suffocated by rent or bills, it begins to pay attention to truth, to culture, to beauty, to everything that makes us human.

As all societies grapple with the growing threats that AI poses to jobs and livelihoods, many policymakers and researchers will now be watching Ireland’s bold experiment closely.

One reason Ireland has managed to break through global hesitation around such policies is its strong public support not just from artists, but from citizens at large. The roots of this support go back to the COVID-19 lockdowns, when the value of art, culture, and shared imagination became undeniable, and furlough programmes helped people survive sudden job losses.

This could be a defining model for how societies choose to value creativity. Imagine if India took a step like this treating art not as a luxury, but as a public good.

If creative people had the time and stability to simply create, what wonders might emerge?

Read more here

Swar Sannidhya – Understanding the relation and interplay of musical notes

Embarking on a life-changing, eight-day odyssey led by Vidushi Anuradha Kuber and Dr. Chaitanye Kunte, alongside Shri Saumitra Kshirsagar and Shri Keyur Kurulkar. This experience was nothing short of transformative. Surrounded by such an exceptional group of individuals, I found myself deeply grateful for the opportunity to learn, interact, and grow in their presence. The support I received throughout the workshop was invaluable. I felt enveloped in a tapestry of wisdom, gratitude, and unparalleled learning.

Having attended numerous music workshops in Delhi, from half-day sessions to five-day intensive workshops, I've often heard the same question: "How to sing in a high tempo?" The quest for mastering high-tempo singing often dominated but was still challenging. On the very first day of Swar Sannidhya, Anuradha Tai dispelled this fear by making us sing a gat in Raag Maru Bihag, composed by Dr Aravind Thatte. We began with a slower tempo, memorising the composition, and gradually increased the speed. Before we knew it, we were effortlessly singing at 420 bpm, seamlessly synchronising our voices with the rhythm of the composition.

In the following days, we delved into intricate nuances of Raag Maru Bihag, Virndavani Sarang, Mishra Kafi, and explored the depths of Raag Yaman and Bhupali through Sargam Geet. We were immersed in the rhythmic cadence of Natvariye Tarana in Raag Audav Bageshri and embraced a melodic journey through a Raag Malika, weaving together diverse ragas based on the time in which they are to be sung. The pedagogy was simple and traditional where music learning is essentially a Guru-mukhi vidya. We weren't allowed to take written, video, or audio notes during the sessions. Instead, compelling us to internalise compositions and render them from memory, created small segments of raag elaborations, and presented them resulting in fostering a deep connection with the music. Only later did we record our learnings in notebooks for lifelong reference.

Dr. Chaitanya Kunte Sir sessions were equally enlightening. He explained various raag classification systems, both ancient and modern, detailed the nuances of identifying raag ang, and clarified our doubts with remarkable simplicity. His humorous approach made complex topics easily understandable and memorable. Engaging listening sessions enriched our musical palate, as archival treasures were unveiled, reshaping our perceptions and leaving an indelible imprint on our auditory sensibilities. Further, having learned Kunte Sir compositions previously during our regular classes, it was indeed a pleasure to meet him, sit in front of him, and learn with him.

Most of us have heard about the 22 shrutis in Hindustani classical music, but the concept often seemed elusive. Shri Saumitra Kshirsagar demystified the science and mathematics behind the physical configuration of Śhruti swara arrangement on a veena instrument, corresponding to 22 Shrutis in a Saptak. It was a mind-blowing exercise. Cracking the notes, close to the correct one felt like a victory. Saumitra ji didn’t just explain the concept on paper; he played and sang the shrutis, demonstrating their usage in various raags. He also showed us how to play these on the iTabla Pro app. I realised that most of us were hardly using this application to its full potential.

We had two sessions on understanding the Tanpura, conducted by the immensely talented Shri Keyur Kurulkar. He taught us how to make, tune, change the strings, and take care of the Tanpura. During practical sessions, we tuned the Tanpura ourselves. Throughout the workshop, acoustic tanpuras were available at the venue for us to practice, allowing us to understand the different overtones. Spending time with this instrument was a highlight for me. I would quickly grab my meals and rush back to practice with the Tanpura. The younger students at the venue also helped me practice the bandish we learned along with playing the tanpura during break time.

In the sacred space of Swar Sannidhya, amidst the harmonious interplay of melody and rhythm, I found not just instruction, but illumination. Each note resonated with the collective wisdom of generations, offering a glimpse into the infinite expanse of musical possibility. As I reflect on this transformative journey, I am filled with gratitude for the privilege of being part of this immersive experience, where every moment was a symphony of discovery and growth.

Here is some glimpse of the eight days.

Swar Sannidhya was more than just a workshop—it was a profound journey into the depths of classical music, reshaping my understanding and appreciation of the art form. I can’t wait for the next session of the same and I hope to build up my knowledge and skill and come back better prepared for the next one.

Fear and flashbacks amidst Delhi's school bomb threat

Yesterday began like any other day, with the usual hustle and bustle of sending my daughter to school and getting ready for work. Little did I know that a simple news flash would reignite memories of past traumas that I might faded after the Covid onset. 

I was in my office, sitting on my desk, engrossed in my tasks when a colleague approached me, asking in which school my daughter studied. I replied with name of school not knowing what was flashing in the news. My colleague informed me about the treat received by schools and also that some schools are planning evacuation. My heart skipped a beat as I felt a chill run down my spine. 

Immediately, I dialled the school's number, the phone seemed to ring endlessly before someone answered. With bated breath, I inquired about the situation, relief flooding over me as I learned that my daughter was safe but would be kept inside until further notice. The school administration assured me they were taking necessary precautions, with police present and the premises thoroughly searched for any suspicious objects. They also mentioned I could pick up my child if desired.

Without a moment's hesitation, I rushed to pick up my daughter from school. On the way, I called my husband and he was unaware too as there was no communication from the school yet. The usually familiar route seemed unnervingly long yesterday, each passing minute filled with dread and apprehension. Along the way, I couldn't help but recall the chilling events of the past that still haunt me to this day.

The regular route to school seemed like an eternity, the sight of fire brigades and ambulances serving as stark reminders of the fragility of life. Memories flooded back of the terror attack on the Parliament of India in 2001, where my father worked. The streets of Delhi transformed into a warzone, and the Watch and Ward personnel who lost their lives that day were our neighbours – their absence a constant reminder of the horrors endured.

And then there were the 2005 Delhi serial blasts, a day when my family narrowly escaped tragedy by mere minutes. My mother and sister were in the vicinity, their usual trip to the local market for Diwali shopping spared by fate. The thought of how close we came to losing them still sends shivers down my spine.

As I finally reached the school and embraced my daughter tightly, I couldn't help but feel a mix of gratitude and sorrow. Gratitude for her safety, but sorrow for the world she's growing up in – a world where fear and uncertainty seem to lurk around every corner.

But the toughest part was yet to come – explaining to my 8-year-old daughter why she was being picked up early from school. How do you convey the darkness of the world to a child who believes in nothing but beauty and goodness? It's a delicate balance, wanting to shield her from the harsh realities of life while instilling in her a sense of hope and resilience.

Yet amidst all these, one thing remains constant – the resilience of a mother's love. Despite the fear and the flashbacks, I will continue to hold my daughter close, to cherish every moment, and to pray for a brighter, safer tomorrow.

In such times, we must hold onto hope and stand united against the forces that seek to divide us. For it is love, courage, and solidarity that will ultimately triumph over fear. And as a mother, I will do everything in my power to ensure that my daughter grows up in a world where she feels safe, loved, and valued.