Are we free?


I wrote a poem about Genocide in Gaza and asked chatgpt to edit the grammatical mistakes. Voila. They censored my input message that speaks in high volume about how much they are afraid of a G-word. Also, one must realize how each and every message of ours is under surveillance. Future paints a bleak picture. From chatgpt to social media, you are under someone's control, who deletes what they don’t like, who decides what you are supposed to write and what you are not allowed to write. 

Are we free? No, our freedom is in someone's hands. It can be an algorithm, programme, robot, machine, or human itself!

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

On a fever day

Image
  We three- Inshal, Insha and Inzam [This is something which I started as scribbling my childhood stories, but I ended up writing an amalgamation of self-experience, a story, and a poem by using technique of time travel. I ended up in an imbroglio position wherein I am not able to categorize this piece into any of the above.] Fever days were always creative for me, at those times, I assume, I overthinks a lot. Whether it is dog's barking, full moon's charm, or it is tutti fruity on the top of a bun in red, green and yellow colors, or People's ‘blablabla’ outside your window, every miniscule sound and pictures attracted me as if I am a magnet. I kept tried to sleep, by hugging my cute pillow, by rolling this end to that end of my bed, by trying to blur lights on my cornea, but I failed shamelessly. Yet body pain wasn't sympathetic towards me, it kept tried to eat me from head to toe. Meanwhile I made a 'B-plan' to escape consciously from my room, as a corolla...
Read more

The Grandpa and Bus Conductor

Image
Yesterday, I was traveling by bus to appear for an exam. As usual, the bus driver was immersed in good old Malayalam songs from the 90s. But for me, it was a bit boring—maybe those songs weren’t my genre. Never mind. One thing, however, amazed me. Let me share the story. There was a grandpa who had difficulty stepping out of the bus when he was about to reach his destination. His weak legs trembled as he struggled to step out of the bus. Observing this, the bus conductor stepped in to help him, holding his bag. As the bus departed, the grandpa turned to the conductor and said, “Thanks,” with a wide smile. The bus moved on, and the conductor, smiling cutely, blushing slightly, blinking his eyes, and lightly nodding his head, turned to us and said, “Ayal oru adipoli manushyan aan, thanks okke paranju ennod” (“He is an amazing soul; he even said thanks to me”). A simple “thanks” had made the conductor’s day. A small act of carrying the bag had made the grandpa grateful to the conductor. I...
Read more

രണ്ടു പൂമരങ്ങൾ

Image
[This is a small satirical poem that I've written in reaction to Benyamin's comment on the picture of Divya Ma'am hugging Radhakrishnan Sir.] മുസാണ്ടപ്പൂവും നന്ത്യാർവട്ടവും പൂമരങ്ങൾ,  രണ്ട് പൂമരങ്ങൾ.  ആ വീട്ടുമുറ്റത്തു രണ്ടു പൂമരങ്ങൾ ഉണ്ടായിരുന്നു,  പരസ്പരം കെട്ടിപ്പിണഞ്ഞു കിടക്കുന്ന രണ്ടെണ്ണം.  നീ എന്നോ ഞാൻ എന്നോ തിരിച്ചറിയാൻ പറ്റാതെ, അത്രമേൽ,  സ്നേഹത്താൽ കെട്ടിപ്പിണഞ്ഞു നിക്കുന്ന രണ്ട് പൂമരങ്ങൾ. ഒന്നാമത്തേതിന്റെ പൂക്കൾ ചുവന്നതായിരുന്നു.  അതിന്റെ ഇതളുകൾ ചുമന്നു തുടുത്തു,  മനുഷ്യന്റെ ചെവി പോലെ തോന്നിക്കുമായിരുന്നു.  രണ്ടാമത്തെ, പൂമരത്തിലാകട്ടെ, നിറയെ വെള്ള നിറത്തിലുള്ള, കുഞ്ഞു കുഞ്ഞു പൂക്കൾ.  അതിന്റെ ഇതളുകൾ ഒത്തുചേർന്ന്, കുഞ്ഞു നക്ഷത്രങ്ങളെക്കണക്ക് മരം നിറയെ പൂത്തു നിപ്പുണ്ടായിരുന്നു. അങ്ങോട്ടും ഇങ്ങോട്ടും കെട്ടിപ്പിടിച് അവ രണ്ടും,  തിരിച്ചറിയാൻ പറ്റാത്തത്ര വിധം ഒന്നായി തീർന്നിരുന്നു.   ഒന്നും ഒന്നും ഒത്തു ചേരുമ്പോൾ വീണ്ടുമൊരാന്നായി തീരുന്ന പോലുളള, സ്നേഹത്തിന്റെ അപൂർവ മാന്ത്രികത.  ചെമന്ന ചെവികണക്കെയുള്ള മുസാണ്ടപ്പൂവിന്റ...
Read more