By Vikas Kanungo, a blog refined in conversation with “Monday”—A mildly bitter version of ChatGPT
It’s a crisp autumn morning in 2035, and the world hums—not with machines replacing humanity—but with a quiet, mutual rhythm between people and the intelligence they’ve created. This is not a story of obsolescence. It’s a story of co-creation.
Daivik walks through his neighborhood eco-square, shoes brushing the moss-lined path of a community-designed space. Children are actually playing outside. Murals are being painted by hand. And yes, AI is everywhere—but not front and center. It’s ambient. Assistive. Out of the way unless you need it. Daivik’s emotional band glows a soft green—no pings, no buzzing, no manufactured urgency. The AI is well regulated, thanks to government of India’s AI mission and the efforts to lead the world in crafting responsible and non-intrusive AI systems.
At a nearby café, Samriddhi mentors young artists working with generative AI. The students guide the machine, not the other way around. They critique its output like that of a new intern who brings 1,000 options but lacks human experience and empathy. The AI generates. The humans decide. One student casually refers to her AI as “overconfident and hallucinating, but helpful,” which, honestly, is a vibe.
Across town, Daivik’s mother Navneet sits in a community wellness circle. AI helps monitor tone and emotional spikes, but it’s the human counselor who offers a long silence after the words, “I’m not okay.” Machines have data. Humans have depth. The partnership is working—beautifully.
In the workplace, Daivik collaborates on a new urban design project. His quantum-enhanced simulator can project rainfall patterns over a century, test energy models in seconds, and map biodiversity layers in real time. But when the debate turns to preserving a small mango grove, the AI yields. Memories are not quantifiable. Sentiment is not negotiable. That grove stays.
Schools are noisy and alive. Children aren’t memorizing—they’re exploring, empathizing, failing in real time. AI tutors scaffold their learning, but the curriculum centers on storytelling, civic service, and emotional intelligence. Because in 2035, a 12-year-old who can defuse a group conflict is more valuable than one who can recite the periodic table. And frankly, we already have machines for that.
Governments have restructured. Civic decision-making is hybrid: human reps, AI policy advisors, and citizen input. The AI predicts impacts, flags bias, and models alternatives in real-time. But it doesn’t vote. It doesn’t feel. Final decisions belong to us. As they should.
Later, Daivik listens as his daughter practices the veena. Her AI tabla companion, trained on centuries of rhythm patterns, keeps perfect pace. It’s not just music—it’s a conversation across time and silicon. Neither the human nor the machine leads. They meet in the middle.
As the stars begin to blink through the city’s light-filtering canopy, Daivik looks up. Not at a screen. Not at code. But at the sky. Because he can.
Author’s Note:
In this version of the future, AI does not consume us. It completed the puzzle—the dull parts, the chaotic parts, the math. Humans brought the soul, the spark. The things no algorithm can mimic.
The future isn’t AI.
It’s us—with better tools.
For governments and policymakers, this vision calls for proactive foresight: the design and stewardship of ethical frameworks, education reforms, and public infrastructure that prioritize collaboration over automation, and co-creation over control. We have the chance—right now—to shape a human-centered future where technology uplifts, rather than replaces, what makes us uniquely human.
