As AI Advances… EI Fades

By : Sanjay Shharma

As usual, I woke early—very early—at that hour when the world still sleeps and the house breathes in a quiet that is not empty, but waiting. I stepped into the lawn with my cup of chai and paused, for no reason I could name, and yet instinctively I looked around as if expecting someone.

I longed for companionship. My eyes searched for my usual shadow—my Nawab, the one who followed without being called, stayed without being needed, belonged without asking. He wasn’t there, and suddenly the silence changed. It was no longer calm—it was hollow. Not loud, not dramatic, just a quiet vacancy… the kind that stays. As if something that had always been present had slipped away unnoticed, and the space it left behind had not yet learnt how to be empty.

I took a sip of chai. The warmth rested in my hands… but did not travel inward. And that is when it struck me—absence is rarely about what is missing; it is about what was always there… but never fully seen.

The air was already warm. Too warm for that hour. The kind of warmth that doesn’t comfort—it warns. The sprinkler clicked alive. A pause, then release. Water rose in gentle arcs, scattering into the air. Droplets hovered for a moment, catching the first light, before falling onto the grass. A few touched my face—cool, delicate, momentary. Relief… that did not last.

Because the earth beneath told another story. Dry. Cracked. Waiting. Water touched it… and vanished. No absorption. No holding. Just contact… and loss. I bent down and pressed the grass. Some blades resisted—alive, still willing. Others yielded instantly, as if they had already stopped expecting nourishment. Quiet surrender has a texture—you can feel it.

My gaze shifted to the peach tree. Not young, not fragile. It stood mature, rooted, generous—its branches heavy with fruit. Ripe peaches hung in abundance, their sweetness carried faintly in the air. This tree had been cared for—season after season. Watered. Protected. Waited upon.

And yet… the monkeys had come. A branch hung wounded—not broken, just weakened. Beneath it lay fallen fruit—smashed, bitten, abandoned. Juice had dried into the soil, leaving behind dark stains of what could have been savoured. Not taken with need. Not received with gratitude. Just… handled carelessly and left.

For a moment, it felt personal. Because here was something that had given fully… and yet, what returned was not care, but casualness. And I wondered—how often does this happen, not in gardens… but in homes?

I stood there longer than I needed to. Chai in hand. Heat rising. Water falling… but not staying. And somewhere in that quiet, an uncomfortable clarity emerged. What I was witnessing outside… I had been sensing inside.

Everywhere today, we speak of AI—how it will think faster, work better, replace effort, simplify life. The world is preparing for intelligence. But standing there, watching water fail to soak into thirsty ground, one thought refused to leave—no one is preparing for emotional intelligence.

I have seen parents who travel across continents—to the United States, to Canada. The journey exhausts them now, but they never say it. At night, while the household sleeps, they sit awake—caught between time zones and silence—speaking softly, so as not to disturb. By day, they adapt. They hold children, manage homes, adjust to rhythms that are not theirs. They are needed—indispensable, even—but not central.

And when they return, they bring back stories… and something quieter. Because somewhere along the way, being needed begins to resemble being loved.

I have seen homes where children live under the same roof as parents. Spacious houses. Well-arranged lives. Nothing lacking—except presence. Evenings unfold in fragments. A television plays, but no one shares it. Meals are reheated, not served. Conversations are brief, functional, efficient. The father stretches sentences—one extra question, one extra pause—just to extend the moment. Not out of need… but out of longing. Everything is fine. And yet, something is missing that no one names. No conflict. No rupture. Just… a quiet misalignment.

I have seen homes where daughters return only on weekends. For two days, life spills over—laughter in the kitchen, voices overlapping, warmth returning to familiar spaces. And then, just as gently, it leaves. By Monday, the room is too neat, too still. And sometimes, midweek, the mother walks in—not to clean, not to arrange—but simply to sit, as if presence can be remembered… through absence.

And I have seen homes where the only son chooses to stay back in the United States. A decision well thought through. Logical. Necessary. The parents understand. They support him. But understanding does not fill space. The house remains—carefully built, thoughtfully planned, complete in every visible way. And yet, the father walks through it slowly… opening cupboards that do not need opening, adjusting things that are already in place. Not because something is wrong… but because something is missing. Everything exists—except the reason it was built.

And then, I think of a friend. His son is everything the world admires—a founder, an AI leader, a Unicorn success. His intelligence shapes systems. His decisions influence markets. His name carries weight. Everything the world celebrates… he has achieved.

And yet, when I sit with his father, there is a silence that success cannot explain. He does not complain. He does not question. He does not expect. But it shows—in the pauses, in unfinished sentences, in the casual—“Busy rehta hai…” They rarely meet. They hardly speak. Nothing is broken. Everything is just… distant.

Standing there, I looked again at the ground. Water kept falling. But under this rising heat… it was not enough. And suddenly, it was no longer about the lawn. It was about us. Care is present… but not sustained. Presence exists… but does not linger. Responsibility is acknowledged… but not owned. Like water on overheated ground.

And perhaps this is the discomfort—nothing is visibly wrong. No arguments. No complaints. Just a slow, acceptable distance… that continues to grow. We have become remarkably efficient at caring—without truly involving ourselves. We send money. We give gifts. We show up when required. And we reassure ourselves—I am doing enough.

And while we celebrate each other on —new roles, promotions, milestones—within our homes, conversations are quietly shrinking.

But a question lingers—if your presence disappeared… what would truly change? Would responsibility shift… or remain exactly where it has always been?

Because emotional intelligence is not about intention. It is about participation. Not occasional. Not convenient. But continuous. Not I will help if needed, but this is mine… so I take responsibility.

And somewhere, this is what is slipping. Not love. Not respect. But ownership. We are raising capable individuals… but are we raising emotionally responsible family members? Because a home does not run on success—it runs on shared weight.

I took another sip of chai. It had gone cold. The sun had risen. The heat was no longer a warning—it was real. And I realised—we prepare for the heat outside. ACs. Coolers. Shade. But the heat within—the dryness created by emotional absence—we don’t even name.

We are preparing for artificial intelligence… but neglecting the only intelligence that holds a family together.

So standing there, in that early morning silence… watching water fall and not stay… feeling the day heat up before it had even begun… and remembering how I had instinctively looked around for someone who simply used to be there… one truth did not arrive loudly.

It settled.

Quietly.

A family does not break because of lack of intelligence. It weakens… when presence is no longer felt, only assumed. And by the time we realise what was missing… sometimes, there is nothing left within the other… to receive what we finally try to give.

Because in the end—no system can replace this. No success can compensate for this.

A family survives… not on intelligence… but on emotional intelligence—lived daily… or lost quietly.

________________________________

About the Author

I write the way conversations happen over a cup of chai — unhurried, warm, and from the heart. I observe our everyday lives, our habits, our relationships… sometimes with a smile, sometimes with a gentle nudge, and often with a little leg-pulling.

I don’t claim to teach — I simply share what I notice and what I feel. If my words make you pause for a moment, reflect a little, or choose authenticity over appearance, then the chai has been well served.