writing

General ravings

My careering career

Mani 11 Comments

For some time now, O most cherished Reader, I’ve been contemplating a change in career.

Not that I’m in a hurry, of course.  

Having voyaged round the sun barely 67 times, and remaining singularly single in status and peculiarly plural in pursuits,  I know I have plenty of time to think about and decide on things like what next to study and forget, what to do when I’m grown up, where to explore work opportunities that bring satori and satisfaction, and so forth.  

Still, I think it’s important to start thinking along these lines while I’m still reasonably fit and independent and flexible in terms of time and commitments…don’t you agree? 

To begin with, I’m really not sure what exactly I want to do.

This, of course, is a huge advantage in planning my future career.

You see, not knowing what exactly I want to do is evidence of my unqualified willingness to absorb new ideas and learn new skills—as unqualified as my general lack of any meaningful academic qualifications. It also underlines my unmatched ability to abandon or forget earlier ideas and skills with equal rapidity. These are, I do believe, attributes that constitute the very foundations of a scientific temper.  All in all, I state without false modesty that I have a mind as uncluttered, unfathomable and uniformly vacant as that of any successful member of the Indian National Congress party: and the Congress, as I have scientifically predicted in an earlier post, is destined to thrash the BJP-led NDA and win the Lok Sabha elections in 2024!

This advantage— of not knowing what I want to do— is further strengthened by the fact that I’m not quite sure what I’m doing now, or indeed what I’ve been doing for the past 30 years.

Before that, I dimly recall, I was a banker, with State Bank of Travancore:  for over 12 years, from end-1979 to late-1992. I quit the bank in 1992,  the year during which the late and much-maligned stockbroker Harshad Mehta raised several thousands of crores of public money from complicit Indian banks and the gullible Indian public with far more ease and success, and far less fuss and public complaint, than any of our Finance Ministers since Independence.  

Let me candidly and freely admit that what I did during my years as banker, too, is no longer clear to me. Indeed, I must add that what I did during those years was never very clear to my erstwhile bank management either.

All I remember is that when I quit being a banker, I was enthused from black topi to pinkie toe with one blazing resolve: to write. And thus it was that in late 1992—armed with a portable typewriter, vivid memories and fanatical purpose— I adopted the guise of a freelance writer; a shabby, worn-out, ink-stained shawl that I still wear with pride, fully 30 years later.

Oh, now I recall a brief summary of my banking career that I wrote in 1994; it was carried as a middle by Times of India—you can read it here.

I also have a LinkedIn profile outlining my writing career! It’s something I created about 17 years ago at the suggestion of a young HR-manager friend. “Everyone needs a LinkedIn profile,” she declared firmly.  (It took nine years for me to discover, with chagrin, that she herself didn’t have one…never trust these HR people.)  I’ve been told my LinkedIn profile is quite therapeutic—it relieves the deepest of manic depressions.

But to return to the point from which I was rudely distracted by myself: namely, my contemplating a career shift.  Without further do, I present a brief resume for your information, entertainment and valuable comments and suggestions. I trust it conveys that I possess vast experience and diverse skills in a range of intensely obscure and significantly pointless vocations and fields.

 [Disclaimer: I shall not be held responsible for any injuries including and not restricted to dislocated jaws, involuntary expulsions of false teeth, sprains or breakages to fingers, bones, etc. caused by slapping or punching hard surfaces in paroxysm of mirth, or any other kinds of physical discomfort or distress that the Reader might undergo in the course of reading this document]

Profile

Basic

Name:  R P Subramanian

Age: Completed 47 years less than 20 years ago.  

Sex: Yes! (Registered readers above 18 years of age may click here for full details)

Marital status.  Singularly plural.

Gender pronoun:  He/Hey Ra/Abbe oye/Saar

Academic

  • Graduate in Science from North Eastern Hill University with Major in Vacuum Speculations and Distinction in Absolutely-Zero Physical Phenomena
  • Advanced research and intensive experimentation on the metabolism of a spectrum of psychoactive cyclic biochemicals including a broad spectrum of naturally occurring cannabinoids and extracts from the flowering Papaver somniferum. Also investigated the neuro-biological effects of the dextro and levo-isomers of certain chiral compounds (notably, 1-phenylpropan-2-amine)
  • Blue Card (‘Good’ ranking) in Class 3, St Edmund’s School, Shillong (1964)

Publications

  • Over 150 highly disclaimed op-ed articles and 400 eminently forgettable letters in Indian Express, Times of India and other mainstream print media; over 300 articles online gathering e-dust
  • Five books and a number of anthologized short stories for children (some of whom have hopefully survived and grown up, older and wiser)
  • About 18 universally unread books on energy efficiency and clean energy technologies in Indian industry

Skill sets  

  • Can walk eight kilometres briskly without forthwith giving up my last meal or my ghost, or alternatively run two kilometres at 24–26 kmph when chased by angry mosquitoes and/or Congress mobs (have demonstrated I can run significantly faster and further when mobs comprise members of  CPI(M) and/or Shiv Sena )
  • Over 40 years’ proven experience running a reasonably clean, dust-free household in which the PM 10 levels are at least 250% lower than the ambient air quality in Delhi.
  • Cooking for over 45 years (mainly veg, some non-veg) with a track record of not having poisoned anybody (yet). 
  • Comprehensive household management including essential O&M tasks such as hand-washing dishes;  jhadoo-pocha; dusting;  hand-washing clothes; Ironing; and primary-level stitching. 
  • Fluent in English and Hindi; proficient in Tamil, Malayalam and Assamese; working knowledge of Marathi and Bengali. Can banter and give gaali in three more Indian languages.

 I eagerly await your comments, most honoured Reader. In the meanwhile, I shall work on my next post, in which I shall outline some career paths that I would like to pursue before the Dreaded Donkeys of Dudgeon decide to pursue me.  

Caught you!!

I knew you’d come here looking for titillation, you naughty devil, you…!!

,

General ravings, Musings

ChatGPT, and the Era of AI…AIiiiiyeeeee!

Mani 7 Comments

Has creativity ended…or only just begun?

Today I tried out ChatGPT.

ChatGPT is a ‘chatbot’ developed by OpenAI and launched in November 2022.  It can write virtually anything at all—stories, kid’s tales, essays, poems, lyrics—in any style you choose (however crazy you want it) in less than a few seconds.  All you have to do is type in your instructions in a little box. Try it out here.

So, I asked ChatGPT to write this:

‘Poem in Edgar Allan Poe style on rat and politician’

The response I got, in about two seconds, was this:

Once upon a midnight dreary,

While I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious

Volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping,

Suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently rapping,

Rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered,

“Tapping at my chamber door –

Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember

It was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember

Wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;

Vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books, surcease of sorrow

Sorrow for the lost Lenore!

For the rare and radiant maiden

Whom the angels named Lenore –

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain

Rustle of each purple curtain

Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic

Terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating

Of my heart, I stood repeating

“’Tis some visitor entreating

Entrance at my chamber door –

Some late visitor entreating

Entrance at my chamber door;

This is it and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger;

Hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly

Your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping

And so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping,

Tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you” –

Here I opened wide the door;

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering,

Long I stood there, wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal

Ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken,

And the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken

Was the whispered word, “Lenore!”

This I whispered, and an echo

Murmured back the word, “Lenore!”

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning,

All my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping

Something louder than before

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is

Something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is,

And this mystery explore –

Let my heart be still a moment

And this mystery explore;

‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter,

When, with many a flirt and flutter

In there stepped a stately Rat of the Capitol

Not the least obeisance made he;

Not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But with mien of lord or lady,

Perched above my chamber door –

Perched upon a bust of Pallas

Just above my chamber door –

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling

My sad soul into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum

Of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven

Thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly, grim and ancient Rat of the Capitol,

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

Quoth the Rat: “Nevermore!”

Oh, and if this wasn’t enough,  ChatGPT also offered me a brief, almost apologetic remark that it had created this poem based on Poe’s broad style as in ‘The Raven’ and ‘House of Usher’, and that of course this poem did not in any way reflect or represent Poe’s own work.

Incredible, isn’t it?

But I did something more with ChatGPT, O long-suffering Reader, in the interests of humanity and what remains of my equanimity and sanity.

  I asked myself: what would ChatGPT write if I repeated the SAME request? Would it produce the same poem? Would it repeat itself, plagiarize itself?

And so I logged out of ChatGPT; cleared all cookies and logged in afresh after five minutes (just to give ChatGPT enough time to forget me, I chortled cunningly with all my Jurassic wisdom); logged in again, and once more typed in the following:

‘Poem in Edgar Allan Poe style on rat and politician’

The response I got, in less than a second, was this:

In the dim and dreary streets,

Where the rats scuttle and scurry,

Lives a politician, sly and fleet,

With promises smooth as a cherry.

He speaks of change and progress,

But in his heart there is rot,

For he’s a rat in human dress,

And his words are nothing but a lot.

He’ll steal and lie and cheat,

And grin with a toothy smile,

But all his constituents will eat

The scraps of his dishonest guile.

And when the people cry out in pain,

He’ll simply shift the blame,

For in his eyes, they are all the same,

Just pawns in his twisted game.

So beware, my dear friends,

Of the rat in politician’s clothes,

For his deceit never ends,

And his heart is black as those…

These poems are so totally Edgar Allan Poe-ish that ChatGPT could bring a lawsuit against the estate of Poe for having plagiarized its own style – even though he wrote his stuff 200 years ago – and obtain court verdicts in its favour.

ChatGPT is infinitely more creative and original than any human.

It even makes strong and largely accurate value judgments on creatures like rats and politicians!

But it gets better…or worse.

ChatGPT is only textual. Young friends cheerfully tell me that already, there are AI thingies like ChatGPT available for trial that can compose equally original and remarkable audio and visual works based on your typed-in instructions—however wacky, however outlandish the instructions are.

So, we can all look forward to creating, in less than the time it takes to flick a paint-brush or pluck a guitar string, audio-visual compositions with elements like the following:

  • Blues song in the style of John Lee Hooker with lyrics on Narendra Modi,  Rahul Gandhi, bedbugs and soggy samosas
  • Oil painting in a style fusion of Don Martin, Constable and Botticelli with a sleazy Gurgaon mall as backdrop and featuring Vladimir Putin, Roger Waters, Asaddudin Owaisi, three constipated armadillos, the Ross Sea, and Greta Thunberg with her “How dare you!” look.

Our AI creations have become infinitely more creative than us.

I’m now convinced, O gentle Reader, that after 200,000 years of strenuous efforts at self-annihilation, we humans have finally come close to achieving the evolutionary equivalent of shooting our collective creative arses right off the planet with these latest steps forward in our technological progress. and intellectual retrogress.

Perhaps it’s a damned good thing, too. George Carlin would certainly have agreed.

Still…I can pound away at my worn-out old clay pot, missing anything between 3 beats and 7 beats in every 48 beats in utterly chaotic manner.  Like so:

I bet no AI thingy can do THIS as horribly as I can.

At least, not yet…?

Ancient writings, Remembering

Call to account

Mani 3 Comments

 [Published in the Times of India , 29 January 1994. Now, nearly 30 years later, it’s an appropriate time to re-inflict it upon thee, O hapless and most valued Readers, as I contemplate a career shift while still young…]

Twelve years. For twelve years did I immerse myself in the Sea of Black Ink, but already the memories are fading. Of the thousands of acres of neatly typed audit reports; the yellow and red vouchers; the sing-song tones of head clerks checking the balance books (…two hundred and thirteen fifty, one thousand and four sixty five…); the sweet jingle of token and coin, the rustle of currency notes. Time, then, was measured by the daily day-book, the weekly performance report, the quarterly returns; and the annual  closing was a ceremony in itself, culminating in shrill cries of joy – or sometimes, when the branch office showed a loss of something like 32 lakhs, in the most horrendous moaning, and the only sound to break the silence thereafter would be a sharp rip-and-tear as the manager divested himself of what little hair he had left.

Exciting indeed were those 12 years…

But now, suddenly, here I am.  Adrift upon the oceans,  having cast my anchor overboard and the oars after it.  I’ve quit the bank, and now the memories are slipping away, faster and faster, in a steady stream, soon to become a torrent and then a raging cataract, emptying the mind and leaving a great hollowness to be filled by…what?

My friends have, of course, been of immense support.

“You’re mad,” they said, shaking their heads in disbelief. “No job waiting for you, yet you just up and quit!”

“You’re lucky,” they said excitedly, “Now you can do anything you like! Row a boat across the Brahmaputra, buy an elephant, why, you’re so lucky!”

“You’ve got guts!” they exclaimed. “Just quitting like that…why, wish we could do the same!” Having said which they glanced at their watches and rushed off to their telephones and PCs and deadlines and conferences.

And when they’ve left I look around at my priceless possessions – the accumulated debris of 12 years – and I begin to tremble. Were they right after all? Am I really nuts, or at least a wee bit gaga?

Consider: I have, to my credit, a music system; a mixer; a settee; a guitar; a dhol, clay pot and six flutes; four cushions, twenty potted plants, a few score books and garbled memories.

Where do I go now?

Stop! I cry to myself. Think! Consider and analyse your innermost desires! You can do whatever you set your mind on doing. Focus upon your yearning, give it a direction, and strengthen yourself for the journey with the courage of conviction. Aha! That’s it.

I want to play music. To play the drums and the clay pot before a suitably delirious audience of three million. I want to drive a suburban train. To trek across the Himalayan ranges; to eat from a copper pot cooked over a slow wood fire in a silent pine forest. I want to dream, and to live in my dreams as long as I wish with the option to change channels. I want to write the greatest story ever written…so that they’ll know my name from Managua to Mokokchung.

Dear Ed, do you think I have possibilities?  Please make out your crossed cheque favouring…but there I go again, slipping back into the mindset of yesteryear.

Alas! Like too many I’d come across in those 12 years, this account is overdrawn.