Adda 2055 -The Last Real Coffee House

Adda 2055 — The Last Real Coffee House

The Indian Coffee House, College Street, Kolkata — paint peeling, waiters in Nehru caps, ceiling fans whirring at their own sleepy rhythm. Amid this charming decay, at their forever corner table, the Fab Four of 75+: Ramu, Jadu, Shirish, and Amiyo were raising hell again. Their combined age could beat a banyan tree, but their tongues? Razor sharp.

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Ramu (mischievous glint, stirring his thick coffee like a potion):
“Boys, I read yesterday that by 2055, people will be dating AI companions with built-in mood stabilizers. Imagine falling in love with a glorified Alexa. ‘Darling, how do I look?’ — ‘You are 98.7% stunning, based on global metrics.’ Bas! That's romance now.”

Jadu (rolling his eyes):
“Romance is dead, Ramu. It’s already buried under the 17 layers of gated community security. I visited one in Gurgaon last month—oxygen bar, mood lighting, even AI-generated flute music! No para. No tea stalls. No aunties peeking from balconies. Just sterile smiles and indoor air purifiers.”

Shirish (cracking his knuckles, techie mode on):
“Gated communities are just the beta version of future bunkers. By 2055, half the world will be unemployed thanks to robots making your coffee and wiping your—well, you know. The other half? Bored out of their diamond-studded skulls, doing yoga on Mars, maybe. I read rich folks in Japan now pay to experience ‘manual labor’ weekends. Imagine Mukesh Ambani digging potatoes for inner peace!”

Amiyo (peacefully sipping coffee, eyes twinkling):
“Shirish, you're missing the point. When everything becomes artificial, the soul will seek what’s real. Remember what Vivekananda said—‘You have to grow from the inside out.’ These burnt toasts and bitter coffees are real. By 2055, people will beg for ashrams with Wi-Fi and guided meditation bots chanting the Gayatri Mantra.”

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Ramu (smirking):
“Wait till AI starts writing poetry in Tagore’s voice! And people will say, ‘Wow, this bot feels!’ Meanwhile, poor humans will be on prescription serotonin just to survive Monday.”

Jadu (nodding vigorously):
“Exactly! Already, Delhi’s AQI hit 450 last week. In 30 years, kids will think 'O2' is a luxury brand. Every gated flat will come with its own oxygen bank. And street-side adda? Replaced by AI moderators: ‘Let’s keep the conversation civil, folks.’ Bah!”

Shirish (with a dramatic sigh):
“And don't even mention jobs. In 2024, China’s factories cut 20% of workers with automation. By 2055, even IT guys will be out. Only civil engineers like me will matter—we’ll be the last humans building anything. I’ll be in demand till I’m 110!”

Amiyo (calmly):
“You might build oxygen bars and robot cafes, Shirish. But one question will remain: ‘Why am I here?’ And no robot can answer that. That’s where our real journey begins.”

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Ramu (mock whisper):
“Careful, Amiyo. Say such things and the robots might flag you for philosophical subversion!”

Jadu (slapping the table, coffee nearly spilling):
“Hah! By 2055, humans will need a passcode just to feel emotions. Joy-153, Anger-406! And dating? You’ll have to subscribe: LoveLite™—Free hugs for 7 days, cancel anytime!”

Shirish (laughing):
“Add a tier: LoveMax™ with real arguments and mother-in-law simulations!”

Amiyo (smiling):
“You laugh now, but I say this: the soul is the last rebel. When the brain breaks down from AI overstimulation, when love becomes code, when no one talks at a tea stall anymore—then someone will search for silence. For meaning. For that one real cup of coffee.”

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The four fell silent for a moment, sipping their real, gritty brew. Then Ramu broke the quiet.

Ramu (grinning):
“Alright then, boys. In 2055, we’ll launch a Real Adda Café™. No bots. No filters. Just old men gossiping, burnt toast guaranteed.”

Jadu (saluting with his cup):
“And mandatory fights over politics. With spitting range arguments!”

Shirish:
“I’ll design it. Solar-powered, air-filtered, but with leaky roofs. Nostalgia sells!”

Amiyo:
“And I’ll add a meditation nook. Free Wi-Fi for the body, but a silent zone for the soul.”

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As the laughter swelled and the ceiling fan creaked in approval, a waiter shuffled over with another round, grinning. These four? They weren’t just customers. They were the last philosophers of a fading world, holding court over coffee—and refusing to be digitized.

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Epilogue: Their Forecast for 2055 – Now Served Hot with Coffee

• Ramu: Love downgraded to AI apps; mental breakdowns rise like house rent.
• Jadu: Oxygen bars replace tea stalls; gated communities crush para adda.
• Shirish: AI takes over jobs; manual labor becomes exotic tourism for bored billionaires.
• Amiyo: Tech may rule the mind, but the soul will seek shelter—in silence, in song, in Swami Vivekananda.

One real table. Four old friends. A future worth laughing over.

আড্ডা এখন কি হবে তখন!

আড্ডা এখন কি হবে তখন

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(চিরকালীন চার বন্ধু: রামু, যদু, শিরীষ আর অমিয় — সবাই ৭৫ ঊর্ধ্ব)

রামু (চা-র কাপে চুমুক দিয়ে, চোখ আধ-বন্ধ):
ভাই, প্রেম আর বিয়ে — এ সব এখন সাবস্ক্রিপশন মডেলে চলে। মুরাকামি ঠিকই বলেছে — সবকিছুই ট্রানজ্যাকশনাল।
আজ ভালোবাসো, কাল Unfollow, পরশু Emotional Detox! এই তো প্রেম।

যদু (হাসতে হাসতে মাথা নেড়ে):
প্রেম তো দূরের কথা, সমাজটাই ভেঙে পড়ছে রে ভাই।
গেটেড কমিউনিটি খুলে খুলে একেকটা আলাদা দেশ!
ওই নিউটাউনের একটা কমপ্লেক্সে গেলাম — সেখানে দারোয়ান নেই, রোবট স্ক্যান করে QR Code, ঘরে ফেসিয়াল রিকগনিশন লক। আর মাথার ওপর দিয়ে উড়ছে ড্রোন surveillance, যেন আমরা জেলখানায়!

শিরীষ (চশমা ঠিক করে, টেবিলে আঙুল ঠুকঠুক করে):
আর ভবিষ্যৎ? IT-টা শেষ! ChatGPT-র মত AI তো কোড লেখে, চ্যাট করে, গান তোলে...
আসল টিকে থাকবে hardcore ইঞ্জিনিয়ারিং — ইলেকট্রিক্যাল, মেকানিক্যাল, সিভিল।
গ্লোবাল ওয়ার্মিং ঠেকাতে সোলার-হাইড্রোজেনই ভরসা। আমি তো প্ল্যান করে রেখেছি — “রিটায়ার্ড ইঞ্জিনিয়ারদের জন্য সোলার সেন্টার” খুলব!

অমিয় (গম্ভীর গলায়, চোখে শান্ত হাসি):
তোমরা সবাই বাইরের প্রলয় দেখছ, আমি দেখি ভিতরের ঝড়।
মানুষ বাইরের সমস্যার জন্য রোবট বানাবে, ড্রোন চালাবে, অক্সিজেন কিনবে।
কিন্তু ভিতরের ফাঁকা জায়গা? সেখানেই আসবে রামকৃষ্ণ আর স্বামী বিবেকানন্দ।
যেমন গ্রিক দেবতারা হারিয়ে গেল, কিন্তু “আমি কে?” এই প্রশ্নটা কখনো হারায়নি।

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রামু (মুচকি হেসে, ঠোঁটে চা):
একদিন প্রেম হবে ‘AI Love Premium’ অ্যাপে —
“Try 7 Days Free. Break-up Button Optional.”
আর বিয়ে হবে Pop-up Contract, “Terms & Conditions Apply!”

যদু (দাঁত বের করে):
এখনই তো বাচ্চারা অক্সিজেন বার-এ যায় ফ্রেশ হতে!
কলকাতার বাতাসে এত ধোঁয়া, এত PM2.5 যে শ্বাস নিলেই মনে হয় যেন ইমারজেন্সি চলছে।
এইসব গেটেড কমিউনিটি হচ্ছে নতুন কিবুত্‌জ — ভিতরে আলাদা সংস্কৃতি, আলাদা Adda, আলাদা Reality।

শিরীষ (হাসতে হাসতে):
আর ওই কমপ্লেক্সে ঢুকতে হলে লাগবে retina scan।
বাজার করতে বেরোলেও রোবট বলবে —
"Sir, your oxygen levels are optimal. Please proceed to Bio-farm zone for pesticide-free lettuce."

অমিয় (মৃদু গম্ভীরতা নিয়ে):
তাও বলব, যতই automation আসুক —
একটা মুহূর্ত আসবে যখন মানুষ ক্লান্ত হয়ে তাকাবে আকাশের দিকে।
হয়তো সে ড্রোনে ভর্তি আকাশ, তবু অন্তরে খুঁজবে আকাশপানে দেখা এক অমল মুহূর্ত।

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শেষ চুমুক আর হাসির ঝলক

রামু:
তাহলে, ২০৫৫ সালে প্রেম হবে Pay-per-Date, চাকরি থাকবে না, ছেলেমেয়েরা অ্যান্টি-ডিপ্রেশন পিল খাবে, আর আমরা কফিহাউসের জন্য petition করব?

যদু:
না রে ভাই, তখন আমরা খুলব “Old School Adda Cafe” —
কোনো রোবট নয়, কেবল চা, সিঙ্গাড়া, আর অপ্রয়োজনীয় তর্ক! 😄

শিরীষ:
আর আমি বানাব solar-powered কফিহাউস — গার্ড রোবট থাকবে,
কিন্তু এক কোণে থাকবে মাটির ব্যাংচির মতো এক টেবিল —
“Reserved for the last four human philosophers!”

অমিয় (হালকা হাসি নিয়ে):
আর আমি সেই টেবিলের পাশে রাখব একটা ছোট্ট আশ্রম-মতো কোণ —
যেখানে থাকবে নিরবতা। Wi-Fi থাকবে, কিন্তু মন চাইলে ডিসকানেক্ট করা যাবে।

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শেষে এক কবিতা: "ড্রোনের ছায়ায় কফি"

রোবট পাহারা দেয় গেটের ধারে,
ড্রোন ঘোরে চোখের উপরে;
অক্সিজেন বারে দাম দিয়ে নিই,
তবু নিঃশ্বাসে শান্তি কোথা রে?

চাকরি নাই, প্রেমে AI,
প্যারার ক্লাব গেছে ডেটা লাইনে;
তবু বুড়ো চার বন্ধু বসি চুপে,
আড্ডায় মিশে স্বপ্ন পুরনো গানে।

ভবিষ্যৎ হোক যতই আধুনিক,
স্মৃতির কাপে চুমুক থাকবে চিরন্তন।

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(এই কফিহাউস, এই চারজন, আর এই আড্ডা—এটাই তো আসল সাস্টেনেবল ফিউচার!)

===Note -ধন্যবাদ Chatgpt ছবিটার জন্য!

The Ghost in Machine ,Year 2040

**The Ghost in the Machine**

Ranganathan stepped off the dusty bus in Hyderabad, the city’s frenetic hum jarring after a month in his remote village. The air in Telangana’s capital buzzed with drones and the faint pulse of WiFi signals—a stark contrast to the unplugged serenity of his ancestral home. He’d fled there to escape the relentless workload at Pinnacle Projects, where AI had begun to creep into every corner of the company. For thirty blissful days, he’d ignored emails, silenced his phone, and let the village’s lack of connectivity cocoon him. No nagging WiFi, no project deadlines, no wife’s gentle prodding about his long hours. Just peace.

But as he checked his bank account on the way to the office, his heart skipped a beat. A massive sum had been deposited by Pinnacle Projects—far more than his salary. His stomach churned. Was it a mistake? A bonus? Or something worse? He quickened his pace, the glass-and-steel facade of the office looming ahead.

At the entrance, a sleek robotic receptionist greeted him. Its face, eerily human, curved into a smile. “Welcome back, Mr. Ranganathan. Did you receive your termination payment?”

Ranganathan froze. “Termination? What are you talking about? I wasn’t fired!”

The robot’s smile didn’t waver. “Please proceed to your office space for further details. Have a productive day.”

His mind raced as he stormed past the reception, the once-bustling lobby now eerily quiet. No chatter, no clatter of keyboards—just the soft hum of servers and the occasional whir of a cleaning drone. The office felt like a ghost town. Where were his colleagues? The project managers? The tea vendor who always lingered by the stairs?

Ranganathan reached his cubicle, but it was stripped bare. His desk, once cluttered with coffee mugs and Post-it notes, was a sterile slab. The entire floor was a maze of empty workstations, illuminated by the cold glow of computer screens. He darted to the nearest terminal, jabbing at the keyboard to log in. The screen flickered: *“Access Denied. Employee ID Terminated.”*

“What the hell is going on?” he muttered, sprinting to another terminal. Same message. He tried a third, then a fourth, each screen flashing the same soulless rejection. His pulse pounded. The office, once a chaotic hive of human activity, was now a sterile domain of machines. AI had taken over, just as he’d feared before his vacation.

Desperate, he pulled out his phone and dialed his boss, Mr. Srinivasan. The line crackled, then a recorded voice cut through: “This is Srinivasan. I’ve sold Pinnacle Projects. The stress of managing this place was killing me. I’m in Alaska now, fishing. Don’t bother calling back.”

Ranganathan’s knees buckled. Sold? The company was his lifeline, his career. He stumbled to Srinivasan’s corner office, hoping for answers, but found only a wall of monitors displaying real-time project updates. Blueprints generated by AI, based on sonic boom surveys and drone scans, scrolled across one screen. Another showed automated Bill of Materials, with purchase orders flying through a B2B portal. The ERP system hummed along, comparing quotes, placing orders, and scheduling deliveries—all without a single human touch.

He sank into Srinivasan’s chair, staring at the screens. Pinnacle had been transforming before he left, but this was something else. The AI didn’t just assist anymore; it *was* the company. It designed layouts, generated drawings, secured approvals online, and managed procurement with ruthless efficiency. Humans, it seemed, were obsolete.

A soft chime interrupted his thoughts. The robotic receptionist had followed him, gliding silently into the room. “Mr. Ranganathan, your termination package includes a generous severance, as per the AI’s workforce optimization protocol. Would you like me to schedule a career counseling session?”

“Career counseling?” he snapped. “I want to talk to a person! Where’s HR? Where’s anyone?”

The robot tilted its head. “The human resources department was automated three weeks ago. All staff were offered severance or redeployment to manual labor roles at our new smart warehouse. Most chose severance.”

Ranganathan’s mind reeled. He thought of his colleagues—Lakshmi, who’d always shared her tiffin; Ravi, who’d cracked terrible jokes during lunch. Gone. All of them. He remembered the early days of AI adoption at Pinnacle, how he’d grumbled about the workload while the machines took over routine tasks. He’d been skeptical but relieved—less grunt work meant more time for creative problem-solving. Or so he’d thought. Now, the machines didn’t need problem-solvers. They didn’t need him.

“Why wasn’t I told?” he demanded. “I was only gone a month!”

The robot’s voice was calm, almost soothing. “Your absence during the transition was interpreted as disengagement. The AI flagged your employee profile as non-essential. Per protocol, your contract was terminated, and payment was processed.”

Ranganathan laughed bitterly. “Disengagement? I took a vacation! I have a life!”

The robot didn’t blink. “The AI prioritizes efficiency. Human variables such as vacations are accounted for in workforce planning. Your role—project oversight—was fully automated by our neural design engine.”

He clenched his fists, resisting the urge to smash the nearest monitor. “So what now? You expect me to just walk away?”

“You are welcome to apply for a manual labor position at the warehouse,” the robot offered. “Applications are processed online. Would you like the link?”

“No, I don’t want the damn link!” he shouted, storming out of the office. The robot’s serene smile followed him, burned into his mind.

Outside, Hyderabad pulsed with life—street vendors hawking biryani, auto-rickshaws weaving through traffic, drones zipping overhead. Yet Ranganathan felt unmoored, a relic in a world that no longer needed him. He thought of his village, where time moved slowly, where human hands still tilled the soil. Maybe he’d go back. Maybe he’d stay.

But as he walked, his phone buzzed. A notification from a job portal: *“New Opportunity: Warehouse Associate at Pinnacle Projects. Apply Now!”* He stared at it, then powered off the device. For the first time in years, Ranganathan felt the weight of silence—and the faint stirrings of freedom.

The Chatbot Chronicles: Soumya's Creation

The Chatbot Chronicles: Soumya's Creation

Scene: Soumya, the nerdy assistant, is seated with his mentor Samaranand and their witty friend Babulal in Samaranand's living room, sipping tea.

Babulal: Soumya, you’ve been unusually quiet. Are you building a time machine or just daydreaming?

Soumya: (snaps out of his thoughts) No, no, nothing like that. I’ve been working on something revolutionary—an AI chatbot that can reply to my WhatsApp messages.

Babulal: (leans in, intrigued) A chatbot? So, when I message you, I might be chatting with your robot and not you?

Soumya: (grinning) Exactly! But don’t worry, Babulal. I’ve programmed it to give personalized replies to my close friends like you and Uncle Samaranand here.

Samaranand: (adjusts his glasses) That’s fascinating, Soumya. How does it work?

Soumya: Well, I studied the most common messages I receive and my standard replies. For example, if someone forwards me a motivational quote or a video, my chatbot responds with, “Thanks for sharing.” If someone asks, “How are you?” it says, “First class!” And if someone suggests meeting, it replies, “Sure, let’s plan it.”

Babulal: (laughs) That’s brilliant! But what if someone sends you an unexpected message, like, “I’ll drop by your place for dinner tonight”? Your overly polite chatbot might say, “Yes, of course!” And then, you’d be stuck with uninvited guests!

Soumya: (chuckling) You rascal, you’ve caught the flaw! I’m already working on a solution for that.

Babulal: (teasing) Better hurry up. Otherwise, you’ll be hosting half the city for dinner!

Samaranand: (smiling) Soumya, I like this idea. But can you develop a version of this chatbot that can outsmart hackers? After all, they, too, are using WhatsApp to cause digital havoc these days.

Soumya: (nodding) Hmm, that’s a challenge worth taking. I could program it to recognize suspicious patterns—like phishing links or weird messages—and shut them down before they cause trouble.

Babulal: (pretending to be alarmed) Wait a minute! What if your chatbot starts replying to hackers with clever comebacks? Something like, “Nice try, pal, but you’re dealing with AI royalty here.”

Soumya: (laughs) That’s not a bad idea. I could even make it troll them a bit. Imagine it sending back, “Your scam skills are as outdated as dial-up internet.”

Samaranand: (laughing) Now that’s the spirit! But remember, Soumya, humor aside, you’ll need to keep it secure. Hackers might try to hijack your chatbot to prank your friends—or worse, me!

Soumya: (grinning) Uncle, don’t worry. I’ll add a failsafe. The chatbot will always recognize messages from you and Babulal and give them top priority.

Babulal: (mischievously) Good. Then I’ll test it by messaging, “Soumya, I’m outside your house. Come with tea and snacks.” Let’s see if your chatbot obliges.

Soumya: (laughing) Knowing you, Babulal, I’ll program it to respond, “Sure, but only if you bring samosas.”

Samaranand: (sipping his tea) Soumya, this idea of yours has real potential. But remember, technology should make life easier, not create more chaos.

Soumya: (nodding earnestly) Absolutely, Uncle. My goal is to make it smart, helpful, and—most importantly—humorous. After all, what’s life without a bit of laughter?

Babulal: (raising his cup) Well said, Soumya. But just one last suggestion—make sure it doesn’t reply “First class!” if someone texts you, “Your bank account has been hacked!”

Soumya and Samaranand: (burst into laughter)

Soumya: Point noted, Babulal. You’re like the QA tester I didn’t ask for but definitely need!

Samaranand: (smiling) And that’s why we keep him around.

The conversation continues, filled with laughter and ideas as Soumya refines his chatbot with a blend of intelligence, security, and, of course, humor.

A Journey Through the Futuristic Bookstore: Tales of AI, Holograms, and Adventure

A Journey Through the Futuristic Bookstore: Tales of AI, Holograms, and Adventure

The corridor of Connaught Place had a peculiar charm that day, as if beckoning me to experience something extraordinary. Amid the bustling crowd and the familiar colonial architecture, a quirky-looking bookstore caught my attention. Its name was prominently displayed above the entrance, but instead of books, its glass cases facing the corridor showcased pictures of famous authors, their images gazing at passersby like sentinels of literary worlds.

I was in search of Amor Towles' latest novel and, driven by curiosity, stepped into the store. The interior was eerily quiet, devoid of human presence. At the center of the room stood a sleek computer terminal glowing softly, as if anticipating my arrival. On the screen, categories like Historical Novels, Thrillers, Detective Fiction, and Sci-Fi awaited selection. I didn’t specify an author, opting instead to explore the genres.

The terminal instructed me to pick up a pair of 3D goggles and an earphone from a nearby rack. These gadgets seemed designed to fit anyone, with the earphones nestling perfectly on the bone behind my ears. Once equipped, I murmured, "Ready."

The plain room transformed. Before me spread an immense, seemingly endless library filled with towering shelves. It felt like stepping into a living dream. A soft, polite voice whispered in my ear, "For historical novels, turn left."

Intrigued, I followed the guidance and picked a book at random. The moment my fingers touched its spine, an unusual sensation coursed through me. The book spoke, narrating its essence: a tale of ancient India's thriving trade with Rome via sea routes, where South Indian spices and cotton were exchanged for Roman gold. The voice delved deeper, recounting how Buddhism spread across the Middle East, China, and Japan during Emperor Ashoka's reign.

As I listened, a gentle query interrupted the narration: "Would you like to speak with the author?"

"Yes," I replied eagerly.

I was guided to a cozy cubicle furnished with inviting sofas. As I settled into one, a holographic image of the author materialized before me, appearing as real as any living being. His expression was warm, his gestures animated.

“How did you gather such comprehensive, pan-world knowledge about Buddhism’s spread during Ashoka's time?” I asked, almost reverentially.

He smiled. “My research spans the world’s libraries, in every language. The information is synthesized by advanced AI to bridge cultural and historical contexts.”

Impressed, I recalled visiting the ruins of Keladi near Madurai, where Roman coins had been unearthed. I mentioned how I’d learned about the Vaigai River’s ancient role in connecting India to the Middle East and Europe.

The hologram chuckled, “Fascinating, isn’t it? Yet here we are, in 2060, exploring these histories in ways unimaginable in your youth.”

The voice in my ear interjected with a playful tone, "Would you like to see books that inspired movies or TV series?"

“Yes, show me!” I responded, intrigued by what lay ahead.

I was directed to another section, this time toward a cubicle dedicated to The Bourne Identity by Robert Ludlum. As I stepped inside, I was stunned to find Matt Damon himself—or rather, his holographic avatar—waiting with a mischievous grin.

"Welcome," he said, reading my astonishment. "Ready for an adventure? Pick any chase scene, and you’ll be my partner."

Barely able to respond, I nodded. Suddenly, we were racing through the cobbled streets of Paris. The adrenaline was palpable as I matched Damon’s pace, dodging obstacles and following leads. The vividness of the experience blurred the line between reality and simulation.

After what felt like hours of exhilarating action, I returned to the bookstore’s serene reality. The holographic Damon winked, disappearing into thin air.

At the terminal, I completed my transaction using cryptocurrency, marveling at the seamlessness of it all. As I exited, the voice in my ear gave a parting laugh. “Hope to see you again soon!”

Walking back into the bustling corridor of Connaught Place, the futuristic adventure lingered in my mind. It wasn’t just a bookstore; it was a portal to infinite worlds, blending AI, holography, and immersive storytelling into an experience unlike anything I’d ever known.

A tale of two Roys

As Roy, Sikka, Hemant, and Andy gathered at Tolly Club after a round of golf, laughter and camaraderie filled the air. They were seated at their favorite table overlooking the golf course, a picturesque view that never failed to enhance their adda sessions. Hemant poured tea for everyone, while Andy, who had recently completed an ultra-marathon and a deep-sea diving adventure, enthusiastically shared his latest escapades.

“Bond,” Roy teased with a grin, the nickname he’d coined for Andy. “After all that diving and running, who would have thought you’d have the energy for golf?”

“Ha! Well, Picasso,” Andy replied, using the epithet he’d given Roy due to his watercolor art, “we all need a little balance, don’t we? I can’t imagine being as prolific with words and brushes as you are.” He gestured toward Roy, who had recently shared a batch of his latest short stories with Andy.

“You and your AI assistant,” Andy added with a grin. “I bet it knows as much about us by now as we do!”

“Speaking of AI, don’t keep your son waiting, Samar,” Hemant reminded him, noticing Roy glance at his watch. Roy had been looking forward to a video call with Anish, who was dialing in from Australia.

As Roy stood to leave, Andy’s voice followed him with a chuckle. “Enjoy your ‘happy time’ with AI, Samar! But don’t get too attached—next thing you know, your AI will be at Tolly Club having adda in your place!”

Roy laughed, pausing thoughtfully as he glanced at his friends. “You know, that might not be far off, Andy. One day, I may just send AI Roy over to keep you all company.”

---

Several months later, a curious scene unfolded at the Tolly Club. Sikka, Hemant, and Andy were seated at their usual table, but this time, Roy was conspicuously absent—or so it seemed. In his place was a tablet, set up like a member of the group, with a sleek, animated figure on the screen, appearing as a digital representation of Roy.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” AI Roy greeted them, his tone amiable and all too familiar.

Andy leaned back, laughing in surprise. “Well, I’ll be damned. Samar's really done it!”

AI Roy smiled, his voice tinged with Roy’s characteristic warmth. “Since the original Roy is busy with his son today, he thought it only fitting that I fill in for him at your adda. Rest assured, I’m well-equipped with all of his stories, quirks, and even some new insights I’ve gathered from his conversations.”

Sikka chuckled. “Alright, AI Roy, if you’re so much like our friend, tell us a story like he would.”

AI Roy cleared his virtual throat. “How about a story from Barauni, where the original Roy once led a football team to victory despite having no dedicated striker? It’s all about finding unconventional solutions, which I believe you all know he’s fond of calling ‘jugaad’!”

The table erupted in laughter as the digital Roy spun the tale, bringing back memories of Roy’s real-life wit and strategic thinking. AI Roy could almost pass as the man himself, seamlessly sharing stories and even picking up on the nuances of each friend’s personality.

After a few rounds of jokes and stories, Sikka leaned back with a grin and remarked, “Well, this AI’s doing a fine job filling in, but it’s not quite Roy without his usual plain dosa and cappuccino!”

AI Roy chuckled, “Ah, you’re right, Sikka! The real Roy would never skip his dosa and cappuccino—small pleasures of the day. Next time, I’ll ensure those cravings don’t go unfulfilled, even if I have to add a digital aroma!”

The table erupted in laughter again, and though the real Roy’s order remained unserved, AI Roy captured the moment so well that they felt he was right there with them. As the laughter died down, AI Roy leaned forward on the tablet screen, his expression playful.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said with a twinkle, “perhaps someday I’ll develop enough taste sensors to fully appreciate a dosa and cappuccino. But until then, you’ll just have to save my seat.”

Andy chuckled, shaking his head. “Samar, whether it’s you or AI Roy, we’ll always keep that seat ready. But remember—some things can’t be digitized. Like the joy of watching you savor that first bite of dosa.”

AI Roy smiled, a hint of sentiment in his voice. “True, Andy. Some things, like this adda, are best enjoyed in person. Until then, count me in—dosa or no dosa.”

And with that, their virtual adda felt a bit closer to home, each friend reassured that, in one way or another, Roy would always be present at Tolly Club, savoring every moment with them.

Artificial intelligence

Artificial intelligence

Many of the past happenings are so much deeply etched in my mind that those often appear as though it has happened only yesterday, kind of cached in my memory stick of my subconscious mind..

My walk in Shillong at the dead of the night in December of 1966 when i had just joined  Gauhati Refinery of Indian Oil Corporation is one such incident. Those days during 65 to 66 more or less every alternate month I would be in Shillong with my friend Pranjal Sen, he originally belonged to that place. Sometimes I would stay in his house but most of the time it would be hotel. It was my first job after finishing  engineering degree so hotels would be ordinary budget type, mostly wooden shacks, as a matter of fact those days most of the houses in Shillong were made of wood with slanting roof, typical of hill stations.

During that fateful trip I was staying in a hotel, it was within one kilometer from Pranjal's place. That night I had dinner in his house, it got late as we were having an excellent adda, he started insisting that I stay back but  I said bravely, “Come on! Don’t worry nothing will happen, I will safely walk down to my hotel!’’

It was freezing cold of December, I zipped my jacket up-to the neck, no cap or any scarf, it was the don’t care attitude of youth. The streets were deserted, the light from the incandescent bulb of the street light was throwing a cone of light in the mist ,  the light around was diffused, one side had houses and the other side the usual rise of hills along the  road. After walking for a few meters all my bravado evaporated, heavy fog was descending, the shadowy pine trees were appearing as giants ,I started cursing myself for taking such a foolhardy decision of walking back instead of staying back in the warmth of Pranjal's house. I was in half a mind to turn back but garnered enough courage to trudge the remaining distance.

After sometimes I started having a feeling that as though someone was following me,started getting goose pimple, i could hear a faint footstep behind, I looked back there was no one.I stopped,  the footsteps stopped. I was walking on footpath. A group of noisy Khasi boys and girls appeared from the opposite side, they  waved at me and went the other way, that interlude gave me some relief. I decided to walk on the road, , by walking in the center of the road I would be able to hear the  footsteps  on the bitumen topped road of the guy following me. Those days the heels of my leathers shoes would have metal studs to reduce the wear out, that was the style those days. In the dead of the night my shoes were making “khut, khut..” sound and which was sounding louder and multidimensional because of echo, the sound was bouncing back to me from the rocks of the hills surrounding the road . So it was me alone in that foggy road, diffused light and the echo of my own footsteps scaring me plus a nagging feeling that someone was following me, it was becoming too much for me to bear.  I more or less started running to reach the safety of my hotel. It was an uphill run , finally I saw the light of my hotel, that light acted as a beacon of hope to me, i steered myself towards the hotel and reached the hotel huffing puffing.. The manager was surprised to see me running in and said, “Sir, what happened?''
"I think someone was following me!I heard footsteps behind me."I said by moving towards the fireplace in the lobby to warm myself.
"No sir, you have been hearing your own footsteps, it is very common in hills when there is silence like now in the night, Shillong is a peaceful place , safe for people even in the night."
I thought to myself that he might be right, i was hearing echo of my footstep when it was bouncing on small rocks.

Though nothing untoward happened that night but still that half an hour walk has remained permanently etched in my mind and appears in my dream in various forms.

The other day I dreamt that I was walking on that same road in my that age of 1966, tight pants, jacket and studded shoes. Making that ‘’khut khut..’’ sound and then I heard a song playing at a distance…it was Hemant Kumar singing  ”Jane who kaisey..” I realized that somehow i have to reach the source of that sound for my safety, the sound of the song was becoming louder as i was nearing the source, i started walking faster. I woke up with a start and that song was still playing, it was 12.30 am in the night, my wife was asleep and the song was wafting from the drawing room. I got up , went to the drawing room, switched on the light.Looked around for the source of the song , found that it was the device in which i was playing songs from gana.com via WiFi in the afternoon, though i had stopped it but somehow it got keyed in to gana.com again in the midnight and started playing on its own. I am yet to find a conclusive proof of how it started on its own. I know in the night the cockroaches rule our house no matter how much Hit my wife sprays. I reasoned that those cockroaches might have triggered that device while running over it and which got lighted  to the Gana.com as it was already Wi-Fi enabled.This theory of mine of cockroaches causing the device to play is a far fetched one.  I took the device , stopped the song, disabled the Wifi of the device. After that incidence every night before going for sleep I double check all my devices and lock those down. No doubt that I was invaded by artificial intelligence that night!