From time to time, readers may wonder whether tools based on artificial intelligence play any role in the preparation of these posts. In an age when such tools are becoming increasingly common, the question is understandable, and it seems only fair to address it openly.
The answer is yes, though perhaps not in the way one might imagine.
When I first encountered these tools, I approached them with some hesitation. Writing that deals with reflection, experience, and the subtleties of the inner life seemed unlikely territory for something so technical. There was a concern that a machine might smooth the language while missing the spirit behind it.
Over time, however, it became clear that, when used carefully, such tools can serve a limited but useful purpose. They can help refine language, improve clarity, and gently polish a piece once it has already taken shape.
The reflections themselves still begin in the same way they always have: with a thought, an observation, or a moment of experience that gradually finds its way onto the page. Earlier, drafts would go through several rounds of revision. Now, on occasion, the tool assists at that stage of refinement, helping the writing read more smoothly while preserving the essence of the original thought.
Why mention this at all?
Because it is understandable that some readers may feel that anything refined with AI loses a measure of authenticity. That concern is not unreasonable. Yet a tool remains just that—a tool. Much like a dictionary, a musical instrument, or an editor’s pencil, its value lies not in its presence but in how it is used.
The larger concern perhaps lies elsewhere. Indiscriminate use of such tools for writing may gradually erode the trust between reader and writer. Readers value original thought and develop a certain familiarity with a writer’s voice. When that voice shifts to generated content, the change, however subtle, may be felt.
This distinction becomes clearer when one looks at a simple example.
Take a passage generated in response to the prompt: how Asha Bhosle negotiated life after the death of her father, Dinanath Mangeshkar, in the early days of her career:
“Following the death of her father, Deenanath Mangeshkar, Asha Bhosle entered the film industry at an early stage in order to contribute to the family’s financial stability. Her initial years were characterised by the acceptance of a broad range of assignments, including those associated with lower-budget productions and less prominent musical formats. This period facilitated the development of technical proficiency across varied styles, as well as an increased familiarity with industry practices. Over time, sustained participation in diverse musical contexts contributed to the establishment of a differentiated professional identity within a competitive playback environment.”
All of this is factually correct, with no loose ends. It is complete, well-structured, and neutral in tone, with information presented clearly and without subjectivity.
Now consider what was actually written:
“After the death of her father, Dinanath Mangeshkar, the family was suddenly pushed into survival mode. Much is said about the struggle, but what is less spoken of is this.
She began working not with a sense of artistic calling, but almost as a practical necessity. Unlike some artists who are nurtured into refinement, she entered the field without the luxury of artistic ego. This shaped a lifelong trait.
She never saw any work as “beneath her”.
While others hesitated to sing for B-grade films or cabaret-style songs in the early years, she took them up without hesitation. Not out of ambition alone, but because she had already shed the burden of “what should suit me”.
That is a rare psychological freedom.”
The difference is not in correctness, but in where the writing comes from.
What is written here is rooted in personal reflection and carries a unifying thread—her fluid strength. It observes her lack of artistic vanity and senses her way of not confronting struggle dramatically, but flowing around it. It lingers on the experience and dwells on its emotional texture.
This is not a standard production output from an AI system, but an interpretation born of a certain way of seeing. It carries what may be called an authentic presence.
There are also tools designed to detect AI-generated content. A friend, well-versed in such tools, once asked whether these articles were produced using AI. He even shared a report indicating a high percentage of AI-generated content.
Such tools rely on pattern recognition. They look for consistent sentence structures, predictable phrasing, smooth transitions, and an absence of irregularity. Over time, however, a writer develops a certain way of expression. In my case, the writing tends to be simple, clear, unornamented, and reflective—qualities that, ironically, resemble what such tools are trained to identify as “AI-like”.
Some of these detection tools also offer the option to “humanise” content. They operate by altering surface patterns—introducing sentence variation, controlled imperfections, structural shifts, and a more conversational vocabulary—so that the text appears less uniform.
One could, in theory, generate content and then modify it to pass such tests. But even then, something essential remains beyond reach.
What cannot be generated is the originating thought, the lived experience behind it, or the continuity of an inner voice that carries through a body of work with depth and intention.
What ultimately matters is whether the writing retains its sincerity and integrity. If a reflection manages to illuminate a thought, evoke a memory, or touch something quiet within the reader, then it has served its purpose, regardless of the means through which its final form was shaped.
At this point, the question becomes a little larger than the tool itself. It touches on the nature of writing and creativity more broadly.
Many writers recognise that ideas often arrive in ways that feel less like deliberate invention and more like discovery. One begins with a small seed of thought, and gradually the words gather around it, forming something that seems to reveal itself rather than being manufactured.
For this reason, there is no claim of authorship in the deeper sense. When reflections such as these are written, the writer is not necessarily the source of the truth they convey, but simply a medium through which it momentarily finds expression.
At their best, the words carry the quiet authority of something universal rather than the echo of an individual ego. They arise from a place within that does not belong exclusively to the writer.
And when something speaks from that universal ground, the distance between writer and reader becomes less distinct. The same quiet recognition that gives birth to the words is also what receives them.
So if, at any time, you find yourself wondering, “Who wrote this?”, perhaps the silence offers its own quiet answer:
“The same One who reads it.”