The bullshit detector
You don’t know how to use ChatGPT?” Ekya asked incredulously, her eyes wide as saucers. “Nana, everyone uses AI. I even got Waldo to help with some of my class assignments.”
I must have muttered something daft, because my granddaughter launched into a sermon that would have made any preacher blush. “Stop fretting about costs, nana! These AI engines cost billions to cook up; but the apps? They are absolutely free!”
Before I could protest, Ekya commandeered my ancient laptop and performed some digital wizardry. In minutes, my screen was cluttered with icons—Claude, Bert, Yolo, Gemini, Waldo and… Grok? The names sounded like the guestlist for a dorm party, with Grok hailing from some remote galaxy.
I jabbed at the Grok icon, half-expecting a puff of smoke. Instead, a rapid-fire text appeared on the screen. “What do you want to know?”
Oh, Grok, you poor, naive genie! My mind is a convoluted labyrinth of unanswered questions: “Does God play teen-patti at Diwali?” “When will politicians stop fooling the public?” “Did that little girl whom I met in wonderland love me?” “Will the air quality in Delhi ever improve?”
But no; I played it safe. “Grok, what’s two plus two?”
“O, Master, it’s four!” the genie replied, instantly.
“Brilliant,” I deadpanned to Ekya. “That’s exactly what my 50 Palika Bazaar calculator says. Tell me, is this AI thingamajig just a fancy abacus?”
“Nana!” Ekya wailed, “Ask something smart! Something that needs logic and analysis. Something that is really, really rocket science!”
“Logic? Analysis?” I scoffed. “So, this AI only works for stuff divorced from reality, eh? Fine, let’s give Grok a real challenge.” I took charge of the keyboard and typed with all seriousness: “How do I build a bullshit detector?”
The computer went berserk, with Grok spewing advice as if it had had several cans of some energy drink. It instructed me to “be a discerning listener” and “watch for red flags” and “synthetic inputs”. It threw in some technobabble about “synohaptic alternate truths”, and “bio-feedback algorithms” concluding with a limp, “Truth is slippery, but tech can help you grab it.”
“Grok, you dimwit,” I typed, “I don’t want to be the detector. I want a gadget to do it for me!”
Again, there was a digital tantrum and scads of advice. Grok suggested a hardware configuration with software loaded for awareness of deep fakes in the post-truth era, capacity for critical thinking, source verification, evidence consistency, fallacy detection, and bias identification. It also churned out a blueprint for a wearable device, complete with audio alarms and a buzzer. This sent me scavenging to an e-waste dump from where I gathered bits of circuitry, dodging stray dogs and two bleary-eyed vultures. Back home, I created the Bullshit Detector of the Future, which I named BSDF2047.
Calibration of the gadget was easy. I fed it a potpourri of nonsense: political speeches, election manifestos promising free unicorns, and Instagram reels of Bollywood actors with digitally enhanced six packs and other assets. For extra spice, I tossed in Reddit threads on Trump’s tariffs and the entire script of Baron Munchausen. Ekya insisted that I add The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.
Testing day arrived, and BSDF2047 performed meticulously. It emitted a discreet ‘tsk-tsk’ at a toothpaste ad on FM radio. It beeped indignantly at a TV advertorial peddling “miracle hair oil”. But then, chaos! A political party spokesperson flickered on the TV, and BSDF2047 let out a banshee wail, which was not even programmed into its circuits! And when I accidentally placed it on the morning newspaper, it screamed because of the front-page ad for ‘Luxury Flats in Gurugram’.
Soon I found that it was impossible to go anywhere with that bullshit detector because it kept sounding alarms. It detected bullshit attempts in TV news, discussions of friends and even when Bassa Ram, my driver, asked for leave. At a distant uncle’s anniversary bash, BSDF2047 let out a wolf whistle when aunty claimed she had made the dessert. It raised alarms, sniggered, howled or shrieked whenever anyone spoke a half-truth, white lie or held out a political promise.
Gopu was thrilled. “Now let’s upgrade it to be a Bullshit Neutraliser! The neutraliser will blast counter-narratives to shut up all nonsensical claims!” My wife, ever the visionary, suggested the creation of a Bullshit Avenger—a device that would ‘encounter’ any person spouting propaganda, asserting technical inexactitudes or taking liberty with facts.
With great regret, I realised a neutraliser or an avenger would shove me into perpetual conflict with the rest of the world. As it was, the BSDF2047 was driving me nuts with its ceaseless buzzing, tut-tutting and screaming. Out of sheer exasperation, I took it to the Lohawala Pul on the Yamuna River and caressed it one last time. “Over you go,” I whispered, hurling it into the abyss. “Find peace in the clean Yamuna.”
As it sank in the murky waters, BSDF2047 let out one final, defiant screech, in protest against my terming the Yamuna as “clean”. I swear I could see huge bubbles of indignation rise to the surface. Back home, I had to face a very miffed Ekya. “Nana, you lost your one chance to become a crorepati,” she lamented. “You could have made a fortune selling the BSDF2047 to every WhatsApp uncle in India!”
K.C. Verma is former chief of R&AW. kcverma345@gmail.com
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