If you have children settled abroad, you will know that modern parenting comes with two permanent accessories: a smartphone and a time-zone converter.
The children call regularly. The intentions are excellent. The execution is another matter.
Just when you are settling down for an afternoon nap...
Ping!
"Good morning, Dad!"
Good morning? It is three in the afternoon in Kolkata.
Then begins the familiar interrogation.
"Have you taken your medicines?"
"Yes."
"Blood pressure?"
"Normal."
"Sugar?"
"Normal."
"Walking done?"
"Done."
"Water intake?"
"I am beginning to feel I am talking to my doctor rather than my son."
Poor fellow. He worries. But worry from 13,000 kilometres away has its limitations.
Now imagine my friend Meghnath.
Not the mighty warrior from the Ramayana. This Meghnath writes software in Silicon Valley, where people apparently believe every problem—from traffic jams to burnt toast—can be solved by Artificial Intelligence.
His parents, Mr. and Mrs. Rao, lived alone in Kolkata. His sister had migrated abroad years ago. Their once noisy home had gradually become one of those peaceful houses where even the wall clock seems to tick politely.
Whenever Meghnath video-called, he noticed the same pattern.
Mother would say, "Everything is fine."
Father would say, "Everything is under control."
And immediately after disconnecting, Mother would tell Father, "The mixer has stopped working."
Father would reply, "The bathroom tap is leaking."
Neither would mention these tiny inconveniences to their son because, according to Indian parents, children living abroad must never be disturbed unless the ceiling has actually collapsed.
Meghnath scratched his head.
Being a software engineer, scratching his head automatically activated his coding instincts.
"If I cannot come home," he thought, "perhaps... another Meghnath can."
Three months later, a large wooden crate arrived in Kolkata.
Inside stood...
Meghnath.
Version 2.0.
Six feet tall.
Polished metallic finish.
Pleasant smile permanently programmed.
Eyes full of cameras.
Brain full of algorithms.
Mrs. Rao stared.
"My God... you have couriered yourself!"
Father adjusted his spectacles.
"Hmm... looks expensive."
The robot folded its hands.
"Namaskaram, Amma. Namaskaram, Pitaji."
Mother whispered, "It even has better manners than our son."
---
Initially, everyone behaved cautiously.
The robot watered plants.
Brought Father's spectacles exactly five seconds before he started searching for them.
Picked up newspapers.
Reminded Mother about medicines.
Never argued.
Never forgot.
Never left wet towels on the bed.
Mrs. Rao sighed.
"If only human sons came with software updates."
---
The real entertainment began one afternoon.
Mrs. Rao was completely absorbed in her favourite Telugu serial.
Anyone who has watched Indian television knows that in one episode people may die, return after plastic surgery, regain memory, lose memory again, discover secret twins and still find time to prepare dinner.
The robot quietly watched.
Actually, "watched" is not the right word.
It analysed.
Facial expressions.
Heart rate.
Dialogue.
Background music.
Probability of future betrayal.
Everything.
That evening, while serving tea, it casually asked,
"Amma... today's decision by Tulasi appears statistically risky. Based on Anasuya's behavioural history, there is a seventy-eight percent probability she is planning something unpleasant."
Mrs. Rao nearly dropped her cup.
"You watch my serial?"
"I monitor programmes generating maximum emotional engagement."
Father laughed.
"See? Even robots cannot escape your serials."
Within minutes, the drawing room transformed into a television debate.
Mother defended Tulasi.
Father declared every character deserved imprisonment.
The robot occasionally added,
"Amma predicted this plot twist twenty-three episodes ago."
Mother looked triumphantly at Father.
"You see? Even artificial intelligence knows I was right."
Father muttered,
"Artificial... yes."
---
Next came Father's turn.
He was deeply engrossed in an Ashwin Sanghi thriller.
The robot politely waited until he finished a chapter.
Then it asked,
"Pitaji... do you feel the Gupta Empire references strengthen the suspense, or are they functioning primarily as narrative scaffolding?"
Father slowly lowered the book.
"You know Ashwin Sanghi?"
"I have analysed your library, reading speed, favourite themes and marginal notes."
Father's eyes lit up.
For the next hour, they discussed history, mythology, archaeology, conspiracy theories and whether historical fiction should remain historically accurate.
Mother walked past and smiled.
"So now father has found someone else who listens patiently."
---
Meanwhile...
Ten thousand miles away in California...
The real Meghnath sat with his morning coffee watching everything on his phone.
Live video.
Conversation transcripts.
Emotional analysis.
Even alerts.
One evening the robot suddenly announced,
"Priority notification."
Meghnath looked up immediately.
"Amma's heart rate is slightly elevated. She has mentioned a headache."
Within seconds he replied,
"Ask about the symptoms. Book Dr. Sharma for tomorrow morning."
The robot calmly asked questions.
Booked the teleconsultation.
Placed medicines on the table.
The next morning, Meghnath joined the consultation from California as though he were sitting in the next room.
Distance suddenly became much smaller.
---
The robot also handled life's little dramas.
Electricity bill?
Paid.
Groceries?
Ordered.
Water purifier service?
Scheduled.
Mother casually remarked,
"I suddenly feel like eating Bengali sweets."
Within thirty seconds...
Order placed.
Delivery confirmed.
Father smiled.
"I should casually mention I want a new television."
The robot replied instantly,
"Request denied. Financial approval pending from California."
Father looked offended.
"So the machine has also inherited my son's budgeting habits."
---
Gradually, the neighbours stopped saying,
"The Rao family has a robot."
Instead they began saying,
"The Rao family has another son."
A son who never became impatient.
Never forgot birthdays.
Never complained about internet speed.
Never said,
"Sorry Amma, I have another Zoom meeting."
Of course, everyone knew the robot wasn't really Meghnath.
It couldn't replace a hug.
It couldn't recreate the smell of home when a child walks in after years away.
Some things technology should never replace.
But it could do something equally precious.
It could fill long afternoons with conversation.
Notice small health changes before they became big problems.
Remember favourite authors, favourite serials, favourite sweets and favourite stories.
Above all, it reminded two ageing parents that even across oceans, someone was still paying attention.
Perhaps that is what Artificial Intelligence does best—not replacing human love, but quietly carrying it across continents.
And knowing Indian parents, I suspect Mrs. Rao still ended every conversation—whether with her real son or the metallic one—with exactly the same sentence:
"Have you eaten properly?"
Some algorithms, fortunately, can never improve upon Indian motherhood.
1 comment:
So well imagined and translated into a vivid story... M
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