The Golden Elephant by Chen Qiufan

Author: Chen Qiufan, translated by Blake Stone-Banks

Chen, Qiufan. “The Golden Elephant.” AI 2041: Ten Visions for Our Future, by Kai-Fu Lee and Chen Qiufan, translated by Blake Stone-Banks, Currency, 2021, pp. 3-21

CHAPTER ONE of AI 2041: TEN VISIONS FOR OUR FUTURE by KAI-FU LEE AND CHEN QIUFAN (pages 3-21)

STORY TRANSLATED BY BLAKE STONE-BANKS

IT IS BETTER TO LIVE YOUR OWN DESTINY IMPERFECTLY THAN TO IMITATE SOMEBODY ELSE'S PERFECTLY.

-BHAGAVAD GITA SONG OF GOD (भगवद्गीता, OR HINDU SCRIPTURE), CHAPTER 3, VERSE 35

NOTE FROM KAI-FU: The opening story takes readers to Mumbai, where we meet a family who has signed up for a deep-learning-enabled insurance program. This dynamic insurance program engages with the insured in the form of a series of apps intended to better their lives. The family's teenage daughter, however, finds that the Al program's persuasive nudges complicate her search for love. "The Golden Elephant" introduces the basics of Al and deep learning, offering a sense of its main strengths and weaknesses. In particular, the story illustrates how Al can single-mindedly try to optimize certain goals, but sometimes create detrimental externalities. The story also suggests the risks when one company possesses so much data from its users. In my commentary at the end of the chapter, I will explore these issues, offering a brief history of Al and why it excites many but has become a source of distrust for others.

ON THE SCREEN, the three-story statue of Ganesh swayed in the surf of Chowpatty Beach as though synced to the sitar soundtrack.

With each wave, the towering idol descended lower until it was engulfed by the Arabian Sea. In the salty brine, the statue dissolved into gold and burgundy foam, washing onto Chowpatty Beach, where the colors clung like blessings to the legions of believers who had gathered for the Visarjan immersion ritual celebrating the end of the Ganesh Chaturthi festival.

In her family's Mumbai apartment, Nayana watched as her grandparents clapped their hands and sang along to the TV. Her younger brother, Rohan, took a mouthful of cassava chips and a deep swig from his diet cola. Though he was only eight, Rohan was under doctor's orders to strictly control his fat and sugar intake. As he wagged his head in excitement, crumbs sprayed from his mouth and flew across the floor. In the kitchen, Papa Sanjay and Mama Riya banged on pots and crooned like they were in a Bollywood film.

Nayana tried to shut them all out of her mind. The tenth-grader was instead focusing all her energy on her smartstream, where she had downloaded FateLeaf. The new app was all Nayana's classmates could seem to talk about lately. It was said to possess the answer to almost any question, thanks to the prescience of India's greatest fortune tellers.

The app—its branding and ad campaign made clear—was inspired by the Hindu sage Agastya, who was said to have engraved the past, present, and future lives of all people in Sanskrit onto palm leaves, so-called Nadi leaves, thousands of years ago.

According to the legend, simply by providing one's thumbprints and birthdate to a Nadi leaf fortune teller, a person could have their life story foretold from the corresponding leaf. The problem was that many leaves had been lost to meddling colonial-ists, war, and time. In 2025, a tech company tracked down and scanned all the known Nadi leaves still in circulation. The company used AI to perform deep learning, auto-translation, and analysis of the remaining leaves. The result was the creation of virtual Nadi leaves, stored in the cloud-one for each of the 8.7 billion people on Earth.

Nayana was not dwelling on the ancient history of the Nadi leaves. She had a more pressing matter on her mind. Users of the FateLeaf app could seek to uncover the wisdom of their Nadi leaf by posing various questions. While her family watched the Ganesh Visarjan celebration on TV, Nayana nervously typed out a question within the app: "Does Sahej like me?" Before she clicked "Send," a notification popped up indicating that an answer to her question would cost two hundred rupees. Nayana clicked "Submit."

Nayana had liked Sahej from the moment his stream first connected in their virtual classroom. Her new classmate didn't use any filter or AR background. Behind Sahej, hanging on the wall, Nayana could see rows of colorful masks, which, she learned, Sahej had carved and painted himself. On the first day of the new term, the teacher had asked Sahej about the masks, and the new student shyly gave a show-and-tell, explaining how the masks combined Indian gods and spirits with the powers of superheroes.

Now, in an invitation-only room on her ShareChat, some of Nay-ana's classmates were gossiping about Sahej. From the way his room was furnished to the fact that his surname was hidden from public view in school records, these girls were certain Sahej was among the "vulnerable group" that the government mandated make up at least 15 percent of their student body. At private schools across India, such children were practically guaranteed spots and their tu-ition, books, and uniforms were covered by scholarships. "Fifteen percent" and "vulnerable group" were euphemisms for the Dalits.

From documentaries she had watched online, Nayana knew about India's old caste system, which was deeply embedded in Hindu religious and cultural beliefs. A person's caste had once determined one's profession, education, spouse-their whole life. At the bottom rung of this system were the Dalits, or, as they were sometimes referred to with derision, "untouchables." For genera-tions, members of this community were forced to do the dirtiest jobs: cleaning sewers, handling the corpses of dead animals, and tanning leather.

The constitution of India, ratified in 1950, outlawed discrimination based on caste. But for years following independence, Dalit areas for drinking, dining, residing, and even burial were kept separate from those of groups considered higher in the system. Members of the higher castes might even refuse to be in the same room as the Dalits, even if they were classmates or colleagues.

In the 2010s, the Indian government sought to correct these injustices by establishing a 15-percent quota for Dalit representation in government positions and in schools. The well-intentioned policy had sparked controversy and even violence. Higher-caste parents complained that such admissions weren't based on academic performance. They argued that their children were paying the price for previous generations' sins and that India was just trading one form of inequality for another.

Despite these pockets of backlash, the government's efforts seemed to be working. The 200 million descendants of Dalits were integrating into mainstream society. It had become more difficult to recognize their past identity at a glance.

THE GIRLS IN NAYANA'S ShareChat couldn't stop talking about the new boy in school, Sahej, debating his background—but also whether they would consider going out with him.

You shallow snobs, Nayana silently huffed.

For her part, Nayana saw in Sahej a kindred artistic spirit. Inspired by Bharti Kher, Nayana dreamed of becoming a performance artist, and she often had to explain that this was nothing like being a superficial pop entertainer. She believed great artists had to be brutally honest about their innermost feelings and should never accept the perspectives of others. If she liked Sahej, then she liked Sahej-no matter his family background, where he lived, or even his Tamil-accented Hindi.

The question Nayana had posed to the FateLeaf app seemed to take forever to process. Finally, a notification popped up on Naya-na's smartstream accompanied by a palm leaf icon: "What a pity! Due to insufficient data provided, FateLeaf cannot currently answer your query."

The clink of Nayana's refund vibrated from her smartstream.

"Insufficient data!" Nayana silently cursed at the app.

Annoyed, she finally raised her head from her screen to notice her mother, Riya, putting the finishing touches on dinner. Something was off. In addition to a number of Indian holiday delights, Nayana saw several super-expensive dishes from a Chinese delivery place on the table. Such treats were rare for her penny-pinching fa-ther. But there was something even more unusual: Riya was wearing her favorite pure silk Parsi-style sari. She had her hair up and was wearing a complete set of jewelry. Even Nayana's grandparents seemed different—happier than usual-and for once, her fat brother, Rohan, wasn't pestering her with all kinds of stupid questions.

The Ganesh Chaturthi festival couldn't explain all this.

"So, is anyone going to tell me what's going on?" Nayana said as she stared at the spread on the table.

"What do you mean, what's going on?" Riya shot back.

"Am I the only one who thinks all this is a bit out of the ordinary?"

Nayana's parents glanced at each other for a second then burst out laughing.

"Take a look and tell us what's different," Riya said.

Nayana felt like she was about to lose her mind. "What are you hiding from me?"

"My sweet little girl, eat first." Grandmom began to pull apart the naan.

"Wait. Did Dad get promoted? Did we win the lottery? Did the government cut taxes?"

Dad wobbled his head back and forth. "All beautiful ideas. But no. It's all for your mother—"

Nayana spun toward her mother. "Mom, what did you buy this time?"

"Your tone should be more respectful when talking with your elders," Riya chided.

"It wasn't me who got taken to the cleaners for buying cheap ..." Nayana's voice trailed off into a sigh.

Nayana exhaled. "And what exactly is it you bought?"

"Ganesh Insurance! They had an amazing sale for the holiday. First time ever that GI was fifty percent off! All the neighbors got it, too, and they're even more thrifty than me."

Dad clapped his hands in excitement. So did Nayana's grandparents.

"Wait! Hasn't our family always had a policy from the Life Insurance Corporation of India?"

"That policy wasn't nearly enough! Your grandparents are old and rely on us. What if something were to happen to us? Where will the money come from? We have to save where we can. And you and your younger brother are both in private school, and don't you still want to go to SOFT at Rai University? Tuition and dormitories cost a lot more than public universities in Mumbai."

"Why does the conversation always have to twist back to blaming me?"

"To plan for the future, you must also think about what's in front of you," Grandfather observed.

"So, what's the deal with this insurance exactly?"

"Well, Mrs. Shah from next door filled me in," explained Riya. "It's a platform that uses AI to adjust the insurance plan according to the family's needs. And for a very good price. And it's not just the one platform, more like a little family of apps. There's one for calculating and paying insurance fees, and one for investments, and my favorite one is the home goods shop. Another one shows you deals in your area. And just look at my hair. The salon the Cheapon deals app recommended only cost four hundred rupees."

Just as Rohan was about to steal a sweet, Nayana slapped the back of his hand, which he withdrew with a sheepish look.

"You sound like an advertisement," Nayana told her mother. "Why would an insurance company tell you where to get your hair done? And how exactly does this Al insurance know so much about our family?"

"This, well..." Mom searched for a way out of the question.

"To get the benefits of Ganesh Insurance, we share data link access for each member of the family."

"What?" Nayana's eyes grew as wide as brass bells.

"It's all kept strictly confidential, unless we give permission for GI to use it."

"What right do you have to share my data link with some insurance company!"

"Hey, don't talk to your mother like that." Dad wagged his finger at Nayana. "Don't forget you're still a minor. As your parents, we have the right to make data decisions for you."

Nayana's face turned bright red; she was unaccustomed to such a sharp rebuke from her father. She threw her knife and fork down onto the plate and raced back to her room. She grabbed her quilt and pulled it over her head, imagining that somewhere on her Nadi leaf, it was written that today was the worst day of her life.

NAYANA AND HER MOTHER'S cold war lasted a week, until Nayana's smartstream began pushing some unusual new notifications:

IT'S GOING TO RAIN TODAY
SO TAKE AN UMBRELLA.
RESPIRATORY ILLNESSES ARE BECOMING MORE
PREVALENT, SO YOU SHOULD WEAR A MASK.
THERE'S A TRAFFIC ACCIDENT ON YOUR ROUTE
SO TO AVOID THE CONGESTION . . .

At first, Nayana was skeptical about the endless stream of noti-fications. But she found she couldn't stop reading them. From time to time, she actually got a useful tip. A clothing deal, a discount at a lunch place she liked ... Of course, to actually redeem the deals, Nayana had to install the Cheapon deals app and other various golden-elephant-branded Ganesh Insurance apps on her smart-stream and permit them to access her data.

It seemed Mom had already forced the golden elephant onto all the family's smartstreams. Women controlled data sharing in more than 60 percent of Indian households. All that personal data was linked to the national ID Aadhaar card and the unique identifying number issued to all of India's 1.4 billion residents by the Unique Identification Authority of India. Since implementing the system in 2009, after twenty years of development, the government had collected data including citizens' fingerprints, retina sig-natures, genetic histories, family information, occupations, credit scores, home-buying history, and tax records. With its clients' con-sent, Ganesh Insurance was able to tap into this rich trove of data to personalize its services.

Of course, there were some privacy restrictions. For example, social media data needed to be separately authorized, and use of minors' data required consent of their legal guardians.

Nayana aimed to be vigilant in every interaction with GI. In her data literacy class in high school, she had learned that on the Internet every click might sell you out. She carefully studied the fine print before choosing between "I accept" or "I need more time to consider." Yet it seemed every time she selected "I need more time to consider," GI would send appealing new discounts and suggestions for how to solve her immediate problems.

For example, how exactly could she attract Sahej's attention?

Sahej was really cute, especially his sheeplike eyes. He instinctively wanted to please every classmate. He had even sent each classmate a wood carving he had made of a small animal head. But the virtual classroom had its limits. Sometimes all Nayana could see was just a blurry headshot icon and a glitchy voice due to Sa-hej's poor connection. After finally meeting Sahej during one of the school's "in-person" days, Nayana found it even more difficult to contain her feelings for him. She sought any excuse to talk with him. But for some reason, the boy kept his distance.

Does Sahej not like me? Or is it another reason?

Could Sahej's background, Nayana wondered, account for his shyness around her?

AS THE QUESTION LINGERED in Nayana's mind, little golden elephants popped up in a notification from MagiComb, GI's lifestyle advice app, about "how to make yourself more attractive to guys." Nayana guessed that the Al was able to use her online browsing and shopping data to infer what she was thinking, but these recommendations disturbed Nayana for another reason. Why should women need to change themselves to win a man's favor? Why couldn't women show men who they really were and see if they were or weren't a match?

Though she was still feeling annoyed at her mother, Nayana decided to ask her about the golden elephant's odd messages.

"Silly girl, machines only learn what is taught to them by human beings." Riya looked at her newly bought long skirt in the mirror and turned. "But what's this all about? Have you met someone?"

"Not at all," Nayana replied, with a tinge of guilt.

"You can hide it from me, but not from the AI," her mother joked. "Are you sure you don't want me to help you scheme? You know, your mother knows a thing or two about men."

"I just don't know how I can find out what he really thinks of me. I give him likes online, but he never seems to respond."

"Ahh, so there is someone! It's not enough to give someone a like online. You've got to have guts. And that reminds me. If you permit GI to access your ShareChat account data, its recommendations will be better. Not to mention, the premium for our family will also dip just a bit more."

Nayana shook her head and left the room. She recalled that only a few weeks earlier, her mother had rejected Nayana's request to share her data link with a different app—FateLeaf—to obtain more accurate fortune-telling. Now, their positions were reversed. Of course, now money was on the line.

It wasn't just her mother. To Nayana, everyone in the family had been brainwashed by that little golden elephant. They had become hyperaware that any change in behavior might raise or lower their premiums. Once something was linked with money, it seemed to Nayana that the human brain went on autopilot. They'd do whatever it took to score an award and evade a penalty.

It wasn't that GI didn't have its plus side. The little golden elephant would remind Nayana's grandparents to take their medicine and nudge them to schedule doctor appointments. Even Nayana's father, who had never listened to anyone, gave up smoking when the little golden elephant kept chiding him. He swapped his favorite arrack for a healthier single nightly glass of red wine. His driving style even became more restrained. At the app's urging, he no longer zigzagged through Mumbai's congested streets like an out-of-work race car driver. GI had given him an incentive—by changing his behavior, he was able to lower his auto, health, and life insurance premiums.

If anyone in the family could resist the GI app's nudges, Nayana suspected it would be her brother, Rohan. After all, fat and sugar were as addictive as heroin, especially for children with no self-control. But that golden elephant made it happen. Even if the eight-year-old didn't understand insurance premiums or delayed gratification, the rest of the family were conditioned to see any sweet near the boy as a threat to their bank account. Their former indulgence of Rohan's sweet tooth was over.

It naturally made sense. Insurance companies wanted people to live healthier, longer lives—it made for better profits.

As for herself, Nayana was still on the fence. Should she hand over the data link of her ShareChat?

Equally puzzling was the question of Sahej. When Sahej had given everyone in the class a handmade wood carving, he chose a crow's head covered in patterns to give to Nayana. The tenth-grader practically tore her hair out thinking about what hidden meaning the gift might hold.

Doesn't the crow symbolize bad luck? Is he telling me to not be so loud and annoying? Am I coming on too strong? What's he saying exactly?

Nayana tortured herself with such questions. Her first thought was to turn to FateLeaf for a divination, but her mother had forbidden her to permit that app to access her data. What about MagiComb? Nayana wondered. Lovesick, she decided she would see what the elephant's omnipotent algorithm had to say about her future.

The future the little golden elephant imagined, however, wasn't anything like the one she'd hoped for.

EVERYTHING FELT IMMEDIATELY WRONG.

Granting GI access to her data on ShareChat, Nayana knew from her data literacy class, was like opening the door to your bed-room. Your whole private life might be visible at a glance. Although GI guaranteed that all data was fed anonymously to its Al for purposes of federated learning and that no third party could access it, Nayana thought that sounded a bit like a farmer telling the turkey a week before Thanksgiving, "Hey, you're safe here."

Whenever she was browsing, chatting, liking, or even selecting emojis on ShareChat, all Nayana could think about now was how her choices would affect the family's insurance premiums. She found the whole system infuriating and ridiculous.

But perhaps, she wondered, it's even more ridiculous to expect this Al to act as my matchmaker.

Sahej posted almost nothing on ShareChat. He was like a person from some bygone era who had failed to keep up with technol-ogy. He occasionally posted a news article, quotes he liked, or outdated memes. But his usage was sporadic and unpredictable. His account, Nayana thought, looked like a fake zombie account.

The Al was supposed to help Nayana get together with Sahej, but how could it learn anything important about Sahej from his boring account? Meanwhile, it was all too easy for AI to understand Nayana's intentions, given her incessant clicking. To the AI, such things were a matter of math, not love.

To Nayana, something fishy was going on with GI when it came to Sahej. She found it odd that every time she refreshed Sahej's page or liked one of his posts, GI would send her a weird notifica-tion, as if trying to break her focus. If she tried to come up with a reason to talk with him, browsed online for a gift for him, or even just thought about inviting him out to coffee, that little golden elephant would pop up with some totally ridiculous recommendation or seemingly load a page in error.

The only possible explanation Nayana could think of was that the little golden elephant didn't want her to get close with Sahej at all. It was actively working against her.

Was the elephant like this with everyone? Is it because I'm too young? But isn't coupling up and marriage a good thing? Aren't we told that as a country of 1.4 billion, our reproductive capacity will make us invincible on the world stage? What's the problem?

As her thoughts spiraled, Nayana noticed her mother watching her from the doorway.

"What in the hell have you been up to, young lady? Our premium is going through the roof!"

"Me?" Nayana didn't know what to say. It was clear to her the little golden elephant was determined to turn her whole virtual world upside down.

"Tell me now, or I'm taking your smartstream away!"

"No, you can't!"

"Sorry, but yes, that's exactly what I'm going to—"

Before Riya could finish, Nayana shot up, rushed past her mother, and raced out of the house as fast as her legs would carry her.

Clenching her smartstream, Nayana ran until she no longer recognized where she was. Finally, she saw the familiar relief sculptures of the New India Assurance Building in the Fort district. Sunset lit the weathered façade's artfully sculpted farmers, potters, spinners, and porters as Nayana decided it was the perfect moment to give Sahej a call, no matter how much it raised her family's premium.

The boy's avatar image popped onto her smartstream as the screen flickered with GI notices. Nayana could see that her family's premium had already increased by 0.73 rupees. It was a long time before he answered, and Nayana was about to give up when the phone finally connected with a videostream so dark she could barely make out the contours of a face and white-toothed grin.

"That you, Sahej?" Nayana asked timidly.

"It's me. Nayana?"

"I was afraid you weren't going to answer."

"Ermmm... it's a bit complicated. I can't speak long. But I really do want to talk with you."

"Me, too." Nayana's heart jumped. "I'm going to give you the address of a restaurant. Can we meet there?"

Sahej glanced about in silence for a moment before finally whispering, "Okay."

After hanging up, Nayana couldn't help but cheer.

Then someone called her name. She spun to see her mother shining gold and red against the setting sun, as though the goddess Saraswati had come down to Earth.

"How did you find me?"

"I'm the data manager of our house, and don't you forget it!" Her mother glared at her.

"I'm sorry." Nayana didn't dare look into her mother's eyes. "But, remember I told you about that guy? I'm going to meet up with him. But GI won't allow it, so.."

"You think that's why the premium's going up? GI wants to keep us living healthier and longer—and prevent us from doing stupid things that will harm us, not . . . Unless this is some kind of dangerous person?"

Nayana shook her head. "No, he's just my new classmate, Sahej. He's smart, a real talent. And this is the present he made for me. He carved it himself."

Her mother inspected the wooden crow head Nayana handed her.

"He doesn't sound like such a dangerous person. Is he handsome?"

Nayana let slip a shy smile, but it quickly turned into a grimace. "This sucks. What does GI know that I don't? Maybe I'll live longer if I never meet up with him."

"Sweetie, let me tell you something." Nayana's mother draped an arm over her daughter's shoulder. "I know we don't always see eye to eye. But I'm not as blind as you may think! You know, talking to you makes me think about something I read recently. Actually—it was an old ebook suggested by the MagiComb, come to think of it."

"What was it?" Nayana became curious.

"It was a book from 2021, and there was a story in there about a mom who is so superficial and proud and obsessed with her image that she ignores her daughter's growing distress. And the family was Indian just like us! It hit me hard.

"When I was your age, my parents wanted me to marry as soon as possible. I wanted to go to school to become a lawyer. But they didn't want me entertaining suitors or making my own decisions. I wasn't brave enough to stand up for myself. I gave in, and I regret it to this day. And that's why I would never be mad at you for wanting to follow your heart, whether it's about a boy or who you want to become in the world."

Nayana's mother kept her hand on her daughter's shoulder. Nayana noticed the sun glinting in her mother's eyes.

"I have always worked to give you the sense of security and comfort I never had, so you won't ever have to rely on who you marry to bring you happiness. Go to SOFT at Rai University and become whoever you are supposed to be. Don't let anyone tell you who you are. No one, human or Al. If they try, don't you dare listen. There is no easy answer, and you'll never find it unless you try."

"So you don't mind if I leave Mumbai for Ahmedabad?"

"Well, if you study and pass the exam." Her mother smiled. "Don't forget the competition is fierce."

"You won't mind then if our family's premium keeps going up because of me?"

"Some risks are worth taking."

"Thank you, Mom. I'm going to see Sahej now. I'll bring the answer back for you."

A red double-decker SmartBus turned the corner. Nayana kissed her mother and skipped toward the station as the sun dipped below the horizon.

THROUGH THE WINDOW, WAITERS were busily setting tables and lighting candles, waiting for customers to enter Indigo on this romantic night. Sahej was on the corner. His skin looked even darker in the night. Nayana could tell he didn't want to enter the restau-rant.

"I'm sorry." He shook his head. His eyes glowed like fireflies.

"Why?"

"If I go into that restaurant with you, my mother will not be happy. Going to such a restaurant is an indulgence—it would increase our premium."

"You mean . . ." Nayana put it together. "Your family's on Ganesh, too?"

"Yeah. My mom is sick. We're lucky GI offers a special insurance premium for vulnerable groups, otherwise we would never be able to afford—"

"I understand," Nayana said. "But what I don't understand is why you would give me a crow instead of a peacock, a rabbit, or any other animal?"

Sahej flashed a slight smile. "You're a girl with a lot of questions. Maybe we shouldn't stand at the door of this dumb fancy restaurant staring at each other like two idiots. Let's walk around a bit."

THE MUMBAI STREETS WERE full of traffic this time of night, and car horns beeped one after another across the vast city of thirty million people. It wasn't always a city of tall buildings, bright lights, and digital displays. But it had been crowded with people for a long time. This place, its history, could be traced all the way back to the Stone Age. When the ancient Greeks arrived here, they'd named the city Heptanesia, meaning "seven islands." Mumbai had since seen the rise and fall of many dynasties and rulers. It had been baptized in blood and reborn countless times before the country was granted its independence.

Such thoughts of history were far from the minds of the two high schoolers strolling the city's brightly lit streets. Nayana noticed Sahej was careful to keep his distance from her, as though she carried a dangerous electric current.

"Sahej, why? Why can't we get close to each other?" Nayana chose her words carefully.

Now it was Sahej's turn to look surprised. "Nayana, do you really not know?"

"Know what?"

"My last name."

"The schools and virtual classroom keep your surname protected just like you're the offspring of a big star or some famous family."

"On the contrary, it's because they don't want it to trigger any discomfort."

"What kind of discomfort?"

"In the past, it was described as a feeling of being polluted."

"You're talking about your caste? But that whole system was outlawed years ago."

Sahej gave a bitter laugh. "Just because it's no longer permitted by law and doesn't appear in the news doesn't mean it's gone."

"But how would the AI know about it?"

"The AI doesn't know. The AI doesn't need to know the definition of the castes. All it needs is its users' history. No matter how we hide or if we change our surnames, our data is a shadow. And no one can escape their shadow."

Nayana thought about what her mother had said, that Al only learns what humans teach it. She rolled the thought about in her head, then looked at Sahej. "So you're saying that Al identifies the invisible discrimination in our society and quantifies it."

Sahej's expression became serious, but he exhaled a soft laugh. "I almost forgot. There's also the color of my skin. The Sanskrit word varna once meant both caste and color."

"It's all so absurd!"

"No, it's reality. And in reality, women of low caste can date and marry men of higher caste. But the other way around will never be accepted. The reputation of the girl's family would be damaged."

"But does the Al really care about those things?"

"Sure, Al doesn't care about our old social mores. It only cares about how to reduce the premium as much as possible, and that's why GI wants to stop us from being together."

When she heard Sahej say "together," Nayana's ears felt hot.

"Objective function maximization."

"What?"

"Humans give the Al its objective, which here is to decrease insurance premiums to the lowest cost possible. Then the AI does everything possible to achieve that goal. The Al won't consider anything at all beyond those factors, certainly not whether or not we're happy. Machines aren't smart enough to interpret all the feelings going on behind the data. Plus, these injustices and biases are still real. All Al does is lift that veil of shame."

"Why do you know so much about it?"

Sahej gave a little smile. "Because I want to go to Imperial College to become an Al engineer, so I can help change it."

They reached the crossroads near Nayana's home, and Sahej paused to prepare his goodbye.

"But why can't we change it now?" Nayana said. "Are we so ready to let Al arrange our fate? Like those predictions on FateLeaf that were written thousands of years ago?"

A strange expression emerged on Sahej's face. "Have you opened FateLeaf since connecting to GI?"

"Ugh, I'm so sick of that little golden elephant. What does it have to do with FateLeaf?"

"FateLeaf is in the GI family of apps, just like MagiComb and Cheapon. If you accept the data-sharing terms, you'll get more accurate fortunes."

"Of course! How did I not figure this out before? So the so-called fates of the Nadi leaves aren't real after all. I guess, like everyone else, I wanted it to be real-and for it to tell me what I wanted to hear." Nayana didn't know whether to rejoice or feel cheated.

Sahej looked at the girl before him. He paused, then pointed at the street he was going to take home.

"This road leads to where my family lives. It passes through the Dharavi construction site. There used to be more than a million people crowded into that 2.4-square-kilometer slum. Tourists visited to take photos, but not one ever wanted to stay. The government's finally transforming it into a community suitable for ordinary citizens. But I promise you, if you ever get close to Dharavi, your GI will flood with illness alerts, or warnings not to drink the water. The app will implore you to stay away. Nayana, I appreciate your sense of justice, but that path just isn't for people like you. The world is on your side, not that side. If we're going to talk about fate, that's what our fate is."

"Take me there." Nayana was startled by how quickly the words left her mouth, but she stepped forward nonetheless. "I want to prove I'm not that person you're thinking of."

Sahej tilted his head. "You sure?"

Nayana glanced at the road stretching into a forbidden hollow at the heart of Mumbai. She was afraid, but she remembered what her mother had told her before saying goodbye: Some risks are worth taking.

Sahej smiled, bent his arms, and gestured her forward in a gentleman's bow. "As you please."

The young couple made their way deeper into the ancient city, where centuries of renovation and innovation had branded every corner. Towers old and new lined their path like reincarnated souls. Of course, these souls, too, would eventually be broken up and reconstituted by tomorrow's machine gods.

"So, will you now finally tell me why on earth you made me a crow's head?"

"My astrological animal is the crow, though perhaps I'm more socially awkward than most crows."

"It's that simple?"

"It's that simple."

Nayana's smartstream vibrated with increasing frequency. She knew every vibration was an alert from that little golden elephant trying to save her, warning her to walk away from what was once the world's largest slum, incentivizing her to turn her back on its poverty, disease, discrimination, and untouchables, like the boy next to her.

She pulled her collar tight and continued forward at his side.

In the dark ancient streets ahead, an answer was waiting

DMU Timestamp: May 05, 2026 21:37