Christmas Day dawned bright and pleasant, and, as usual, friends dropped in. First in was a lady, a professor at an architecture school, bearing gifts and worry. She handed me a box of chocolates for my wife Prita and a gift-wrapped rectangular object for myself. “Open it,” she said when I looked at my present hesitantly. It turned out to be a book, Why Nations Fall.
She’s a nice lady, so I knew I was going to try to read the book though it was beyond my pay grade and all. “Are you afraid this country’s going to fall?” I asked, wondering whether that was her worry.
I was wrong, as usual. “No,” she replied, sitting down. “I worry about the future of teaching and architecture!”
“Why?” I asked.
“An essential part of teaching is finding out how much students have learnt from classes,” she explained. “The trouble is that I haven’t figured out how to ask students to do assignments that they can’t get AI tools to do for them, so I don’t know how to figure out whether they’ve learnt anything or not.”
I had nothing to offer her except sympathy and a vast ignorance of teaching, AI, and architecture, so I nodded and asked the question that struck me immediately: “Does it matter so much what they’ve learnt?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“If they can get what they need out of an AI program,” I said, “that’s good enough, isn’t it? Does the student have to mug up all that stuff?”
“Look, they’re budding architects,” she said. “They’ve got to know something about architecture when they finish their course.”
“What does the university tell you?” I asked.
“Nothing useful,” she replied. “Maintain the status quo until we tell you otherwise.”
I tried another tack. “Isn’t it enough that students know how and where to find out what they need to know?” I persisted.
She muttered something under her breath — I think I heard the word “ignoramus” — and began to clench her fists, something people do frequently when talking to me. I’ve never understood why. “Architects have to know some technical details of architecture to be able to experiment and innovate,” she said. After a pause, she added, an edge to her voice, “Besides, depending entirely on AI would make the teaching profession redundant.”
Prita, who had been busy in the garden, joined us at this point. “What’s going on?” she asked.
Our visitor’s fists came unclenched. “We were discussing AI and exams,” she said.
Prita looked at me. “And what do you know about AI or her subject?” she asked.
“Very little,” I said.
“Okay,” she said, and turned to the professor and began discussing chocolates and I lost interest. After all, chocolate is meant to be eaten, not discussed.
The professor left soon after. “Why so grim?” Prita asked when she returned after seeing the lady off.
“I’ve been thinking about AI and what it might do to us,” I replied, “and I have no idea!”
“Have you tried any AI programs?” she asked.
“N-no,” I stuttered. “I don’t know how.”
She, too, muttered under her breath. After a moment’s thought, instead of clenching her hands, she picked up her cellphone and said, “Let’s try it now. There should be an app on the phone. Google said so.” She looked at the apps on her phone for a moment, then said, “Here it is!” She showed me the icon on her phone.
“Great!” I said. “I don’t have it on my phone. I never installed it.”
“You don’t have to install it,” she said. “Google’s done that for you without being told. Look for it.”
I looked, and, sure enough, there it was! “I didn’t know,” I said lamely. “I don’t know what these people mean by sneaking apps on to our phones.”
“They didn’t sneak anything onto your phone,” she said. “I told you Google told you so. Pay attention!”
“Right,” I said. “How do we find out what it can do?”
“Simple,” she said, beginning to clench her fists, “we ask it!”
“Ah!” I said.
She was already making progress. In a firm, clear voice, she said to the app, “What can you do for me?”
After a pause, she continued, “Wow! It says it’s good at brainstorming ideas, clarifying tricky concepts, recapping meetings and helping with research! It can even chat!”
“Thank goodness we’re retired!” I said, echoing the professor’s fears. “Otherwise, it would have made us redundant!”
“Let me see how I can get something out of this,” said Prita. “Umm… Yes! I need curtains.” She turned to the phone. “Fetch me some good designs for curtains!”
“Sure,” said a disembodied female voice with a noticeable American accent. “What kind of designs are you looking for?” It continued, offering some options that I don’t remember. Then I remembered that I was supposed to have my medicines and rushed off to find and swallow them, and it took me some time because I have trouble remembering where I leave small things like tablets.
When I got back, I asked, “Did you get any designs?”
She shushed me with a finger to her lips. Her voice was louder when she spoke to the app. “Give — me — some — designs — for — my — drawing — room — curtains!”
“Would you prefer prints or checks?” asked the app in the same disembodied, emotionless voice.
That was the last straw. “Stop asking questions and give me some designs!” snapped Prita, thumping the table. “Stop talking so much and do something!”
I had only got her clenching her hands. AI had got her thumping the table. AI wouldn’t be a problem, I thought, reassured.
