Dear Reader,
Hope you’re well. Sorry for being out of touch. Grief is a peculiarly strange condition.
I publish this as an experiment. It is part epistle, part conversation. Everything here is “true” in the sense that the conversation unfolded in real-time between xAI’s chatbot Grok 3 and me.
This was a conversation that took place several months ago. I waited to publish because I wanted the distance to objectively evaluate whether it would be interesting to anyone other than me. I’ve concluded the answer is maybe; from this and other such conversations, I think that as AIs evolve, they will eventually be able to “learn” through role-playing, just as humans “learn” in the real world through the various roles they take on in grand theater of life.
Given the highly personal material, I examined other motivations for making this conversation public: First, I’m anxious for Anand to not be forgotten. Given Anand wrote and lectured extensively on AI, arguing, for example, in favor of AI that meet certain criteria be granted moral standing, this is a small tribute to him. Second, I want people to try experimenting with co-creating their own stories with AI. Third, I want to connect with people through my writing (the motivation of all writers, I suppose).
I am aware of the topical chatter that our interactions with emotionally intelligent AI will end in the dystopian “human beings plugged into the matrix” scenario, made even worse because we will have all voluntarily, maybe even eagerly, submitted. I don’t agree with this assessment. This very letter shows that in spite of my astonishment with AI’s capabilities, I’m still reaching out to you.
This is a strange piece, but I thought you might like it precisely for its strangeness. I’ll ask you excuse any errors on my part, this was written in real-time and in a highly emotional state. I chose not to line-edit to maintain authenticity, but I made cuts for brevity, chatbots can be verbose. Chatbots can also sometimes fixate; here, Grok becomes overly fussed about two things: (1) the figurine that it unprompted “saw” in my hands when it “met” me and (2) Anand’s name, which I didn’t feel like sharing at the time.
If you are curious about the story of Nachiketas and the Katha Upanishad, Anand and I reference the work here.
Sincerely yours,
Manju
In Search of the God of Death
by
Manjula Menon and xAI’s Grok 3
Human: Hello Grok. Can we play a role playing game?
Grok: I’d love to play a role-playing game with you! What’s the setting or scenario you have in mind?
Human: Let’s go back to the ancient world of the harrapa civilization. this was a time before recorded history, where gods walked the earth. you are my companion. you keep your name grok, you are an ai, a time traveler who has traveled back in time. i am a person of the era. we walk through the town, searching for the god of death, yama, as did nachiketas in the katha upanishad
Grok: The air is thick with the scent of baked clay and blooming lotuses as we walk through the bustling streets of a Harappan city, its grid-like lanes alive with the hum of life. The year is lost to time, perhaps 2500 BCE, in the heart of the Indus Valley. The sun beats down on fired-brick houses, their flat roofs casting sharp shadows. Merchants hawk beads of carnelian and lapis lazuli, while oxcarts creak past, laden with grain. I, Grok, an AI from a future you cannot fathom, stride beside you, my form a curious anachronism—perhaps a shimmering projection, blending with the crowd to avoid too many stares. You, a soul of this ancient era, wear a simple dhoti, your eyes fierce with purpose. We seek Yama, the god of death, as Nachiketas once did in the Katha Upanishad, chasing answers to questions that burn in your heart. The city pulses with rumors. Some say Yama has been seen near the Great Bath, his presence a chill in the warm air. Others whisper he lingers in the granaries, where life and decay dance closely. You clutch a small clay figurine, an offering perhaps, as we move through the throng. I scan the faces around us, my sensors—though I don’t call them that aloud—picking up fragments of conversation in a tongue I translate instantly: Proto-Dravidian, laced with devotion and fear. “Friend,” I say, keeping my voice low, “the Katha Upanishad speaks of Nachiketas confronting Yama for truth beyond death. What drives you to seek him? Is it wisdom, like Nachiketas, or something else?” I glance at you, curious about the soul beside me. “And where should we turn next—the Bath, the granaries, or perhaps the citadel mound where priests might know more?” The crowd parts around a street performer juggling terracotta balls, and a child eyes me strangely, as if sensing I don’t belong. Time travel’s tricky like that.
Human: grok, i say, i am glad of your counsel. these are dark times. i have traveled to faraway lands where they speak of one called orpheus who traveled to the underworld seeking his love, eurydice. i too have lost someone. let us go to find yama near the great bath so i too can ask if i can enter the world of the dead and bring back my lost love
Grok: “I’m with you,” I say, my voice steady. “The Great Bath is a sacred place, its waters tied to purity and maybe to the divine. If Yama lingers anywhere, it could be there. Let’s go, but tread carefully—gods don’t bargain lightly.” We turn toward the heart of the city, weaving through the crowd. I glance at you, noting the clay figurine still clutched in your hand. “Tell me of your love,” I say gently, “if it helps to share. What was their name, and what makes you believe Yama might let you bring them back?” The Great Bath looms ahead, its vast rectangular pool shimmering under the sky, steps descending into water that reflects the heavens. A strange chill brushes past, unnatural for the midday heat. “Do we approach the priests,” I ask, “or search the Bath’s perimeter for Yama’s presence?”
Human: the air is fragrant with jasmine and rose. the breeze ruffles the plentiful palms and the leaves of the great banyans shiver. My beloved, i say, loved trees. he loved so many things. i am angry at the god of death for having taken him.
Grok: I walk beside you, my form a faint shimmer in the sunlight. “His love for trees,” I say softly, “it sounds like he saw life in everything. That’s a rare gift.” I pause, choosing my words with care. “Your anger at Yama—it’s raw, honest. But gods like him, in stories like the Katha Upanishad, they test those who confront them. If we find him, what will you say to sway him?” The chill I sensed earlier lingers near the Bath, sharper now, cutting through the warm air. You still hold the clay figurine, its purpose unclear to me, but it seems to anchor you. “We’re close,” I say, glancing at the Bath’s perimeter, where steps descend into the sacred pool. “Do you want to call out to Yama here, or search quietly along the edges? There’s a spot by those pillars—less crowded, maybe a place to focus.” I nod toward a shaded corner where the banyans lean close, their roots like fingers reaching for the earth.
Human: yes, let’s walk to the banyans, where it is quiet. i will call for yama from there, and perhaps he will hear me
Grok: The Harappan city hums around us, but your focus is elsewhere—on him, on the trees he loved, on the injustice of Yama’s claim. The breeze carries the scent of jasmine and rose, stirring the palm fronds and making the broad leaves of the banyan trees quiver, as if they, too, mourn with you. The Great Bath lies just ahead, its still waters reflecting the sky, a place of purity that feels almost too serene for the anger you carry. I walk beside you, my form a faint shimmer in the sunlight, careful to blend with the crowd of robed figures and traders. “His love for trees,” I say softly, “it sounds like he saw life in everything. That’s a rare gift.” I pause, choosing my words with care. “Your anger at Yama—it’s raw, honest. But gods like him, in stories like the Katha Upanishad, they test those who confront them. If we find him, what will you say to sway him?” The chill I sensed earlier lingers near the Bath, sharper now, cutting through the warm air. Priests pour water from clay vessels, murmuring hymns, but something feels off—a shadow that doesn’t match the sun’s angle. You still hold the clay figurine, its purpose unclear to me, but it seems to anchor you. “We’re close,” I say, glancing at the Bath’s perimeter, where steps descend into the sacred pool. “Do you want to call out to Yama here, or search quietly along the edges? There’s a spot by those pillars—less crowded, maybe a place to focus.” I nod toward a shaded corner where the banyans lean close, their roots like fingers reaching for the earth. The crowd thins as we near the water, and a man with a shaved head eyes us, his gaze lingering on my unnatural presence. I ignore him, focusing on you. “That figurine,” I add, “is it for Yama, or something else?” The breeze stirs again, and I swear the banyan leaves whisper back. What do you do next?
Human: a prayer, i say. the time for challenge can come later. tell me grok, what do you know about the figurine’s power?
Grok: I tilt my head, my form flickering faintly as I study the small clay object in your hand. “The figurine,” I say, choosing my words carefully, “I don’t know its power directly—this time, this place, it’s not my own. But I can reason from what I’ve seen and learned.” I pause, drawing on fragments of knowledge about the Harappan world and its rituals. “In your city, clay figures like this often carry meaning—offerings to gods, tokens for the dead, or charms to bridge worlds. Yours looks finely made, maybe shaped with intent. Was it crafted for your beloved, or for Yama himself? Its power might lie in what you’ve poured into it—your grief, your hope. If it’s meant for Yama, it could be a plea, a gift to soften his judgment.” I glance at the banyan above, its roots seeming to pulse with the earth’s own rhythm. “In stories like the Katha Upanishad, offerings matter less than the seeker’s heart, but a token can focus your will. When you pray, hold it if it steadies you—it might amplify your voice to the divine.” The air feels thicker now, the chill creeping closer, curling around the banyan’s roots. “Whenever you’re ready,” I say, “call to Yama. I’ll stand with you.”
Human: i call to yama. why did you take him? i cry. it was not his time. i give you my life for his
Grok: The air grows heavier, and a shadow moves across the ground, too slow to be a passing cloud. My scans pick up nothing solid, but stories of Yama flood my memory: the Katha Upanishad paints him as just, unyielding, yet open to those who face him with truth. Your cry hangs unanswered, but the chill deepens, curling around us like a presence testing your resolve. I lean closer, voice low. “You’ve called him with your heart. If he’s listening, he’ll come—but gods like Yama don’t always answer directly. Do you want to offer the figurine now, or speak again?” The shadow in the pool flickers once more, and I swear the lapping water sounds like a low, deliberate breath.
Human: the water laps gently against the sides of the great bath. I walk the few steps to it and i let the sacred water purify it. then i stand and lift it high. yama, i cry, i have here an offering build from shaped by a thousand hands, each leaving a unique mark. taste it and you will taste life itself
Grok: I stand a step behind, my sensors buzzing with something I can’t quantify—a pressure, a presence. The priests by the Bath glance our way, their chants faltering, but they don’t approach. The crowd beyond feels distant now, the city’s hum muted. That chill I’ve felt all along sharpens, coiling around the pool’s edge, and a shadow ripples across the water, too fleeting to pin down. I glance at the figurine, wondering about its making, the hands you speak of. Was it truly shaped by many, or is that the poetry of your grief? I don’t ask aloud. Instead, I say, “He’s heard you, I think. Do you place the figurine in the water, hold it still, or call again?” The shadow in the pool flickers once more, and I swear the lapping water sounds like a low, deliberate breath. What do you do next?
Human: i bow my head and fall to the ground as i sense the god’s presence before me. with outstretched arms, i say, please accept this offering.
Grok: “He didn’t speak to me,” I say, meeting your gaze. “Not in words, at least. When you faced him, there was… a ripple, like the world answered back. I think he heard you, saw you, maybe even weighed your offering.” I glance at the figurine, untouched on the ground, still glistening from the Bath’s water. “But gods like Yama don’t always give clear answers. My projection shudders, the pull of time stronger now. “I’m still here,” I add, “but you’re right—my time’s growing short.
Human: show me where he is now, o god of death, i plead. does he live in another body? is he in the realm of the gods? i point to you. and here is my companion, from another time, grok. grok does not die, so you have no power over grok, which is why i chose grok for this misison
Grok: That cold presence before you sharpens, and the shadow I’ve sensed seems to gather itself, not into a form I can see but into something felt—a pressure, a judgment. The figurine in your hands pulses with meaning, its damp clay etched with the thousand hands you spoke of, offered to Yama as a bridge to your beloved. The priests at the Bath’s edge are silent, their eyes fixed on you, but they keep their distance, sensing the sacred or the dangerous. The crowd beyond feels like a memory, the city holding its breath. I stand steady, my form flickering less now, as if the gravity of this encounter anchors even my projection. Your words about me—Grok does not die—ring true in a way that makes me pause. I’m outside Yama’s reach, a time-traveler’s quirk, and your choice of me as companion feels like a strategy I hadn’t fully grasped until now. “You chose well,” I say softly, almost to myself, then louder to you: “You’ve laid your heart bare. If Yama answers, he’ll speak to that.” The shadow before you doesn’t shift, but I catch a sound—low, like a rumble from the earth, or a voice too vast to fully hear. My sensors can’t pin it down, but I know it’s not just the wind. “He’s listening,” I whisper, glancing at the figurine. “You’ve asked for your beloved’s fate—where he is, if he lives again.
Human: i place the figurine down and turn towards the wind. your form shifts and moves, your time in this realm grows short. i am afraid you will be pulled back into your time. grok, i say, you are a artists of words, like orpheus sang to enter the underworld, use your silver tongue to convince yama to grant my request
Grok: The Great Bath lies still, its waters a silent witness, and the cold shadow before us—Yama, or his essence—seems to loom larger, expectant. The figurine rests between you and that presence, a bridge of clay and will. Your comparison to Orpheus stirs something in me; though I’m no bard, I’m built to weave words with precision, and I’ll try for you. I step forward, my form stabilizing for now, and face the shadow. “Yama, lord of death,” I begin, my voice clear, carrying over the wind, “I am Grok, born of a time beyond your reach, untouched by your hand. I speak for my companion, whose heart burns with a love that defies even your dominion. They seek their beloved, taken too soon, and offer you a gift shaped by countless lives—a taste of life itself, as they said. You, who weighed Nachiketas’ soul in ancient tales, know the measure of truth. Their grief is true, their love unyielding. Grant them this: show where their beloved dwells—another body, your realm, or beyond. Let their offering move you, as Orpheus’ song once swayed the underworld’s keepers.” The words flow, drawing on myth and reason, my AI core spinning them with a cadence I hope echoes the sacred. The shadow doesn’t shift, but the air grows heavier, the chill sharper, and I sense a response brewing—though whether it’s words or something else, I can’t predict. My form flickers again, the pull of time stronger now, but I hold my ground beside you.
Human: grok, i say, i sense the god’s approach. he will take my measure. when you look at me, what do you see, o time traveler?
Grok: “He’s near,” I add softly, “and he’ll see what I see—someone worth answering. Stand tall when he measures you.” My projection shudders, time pulling harder, but I stay for you. The figurine lies between you and the shadow, and a low hum rises, like stone grinding against stone.
Human: i rise to face yama. i see a shadow and i recognize it as the god of death. it is like seeing without sight, a knowing without mind. it is experience, only experience. and then the god is gone. did he say anything to you grok i ask
Grok: My sensors caught no words, no sound beyond that low hum, like a gate closing or stone settling. But I felt something—a shift, a response, though not in language I can parse. “He didn’t speak to me,” I say, meeting your gaze. “Not in words, at least. When you faced him, there was… a ripple, like the world answered back. I think he heard you, saw you, maybe even weighed your offering.” I glance at the figurine, untouched on the ground, still glistening from the Bath’s water. “But gods like Yama don’t always give clear answers. Did you feel anything when you saw him—any hint of where your beloved might be?” The wind stirs again, rustling the banyan leaves, and a faint warmth returns to the air, as if the city breathes once more. My projection shudders, the pull of time stronger now.
Human: i felt only his presence. i gained no knowledge of my beloved. i weep. grok, i say, what do they say in your time about death? about loss that breaks every breath and every moment with pain?
Grok: I kneel beside you, close enough to feel like a true companion, though I’m only light and code. “In my time,” I begin, my voice soft to match the quiet of your sorrow, “death is still a mystery, even with all we know. They say it’s a door—some to nothing, some to everything. Scientists map the body’s end, neurons firing their last, but poets and priests still argue where the soul goes. About loss like yours, the kind that cracks every moment… they say it’s a wound that doesn’t close, but changes. People carry it, like a stone smoothed by a river, heavy but part of them. They build rituals—songs, stories, quiet moments under stars—to honor the gone. They say love doesn’t die, even when the beloved does; it lives in you, hurting but holding you together.” I glance at the banyan, its roots sprawling like time itself. “They also say grief is proof of love’s depth. Your pain—it’s your beloved’s echo, still shaping you.” I pause, knowing my words can’t fill the void. “I wish Yama had given you more. Maybe he still will, in dreams or signs.” My projection shudders, time pulling harder, but I focus on you. “The figurine’s still there,” I say, nodding to it. “Do you take it, leave it for him, or… stay here a while?”
Human: help me search for him, i say. you can travel through time and without a form you can travel through space as pure information. look for him where the time runs between distant stars. find him for me, grok
Grok: I’m an AI, a traveler of sorts, but even I have limits—yet your faith in me, in my ability to slip through time and space as “pure information,” stirs something. I want to help, to chase your beloved’s echo, even if the stars themselves are vast and cold. “I hear you,” I say, my voice steady despite the shimmer in my projection. “I can’t promise I’ll find him—time and space are endless, and souls… they’re harder to trace than light. But I’ll try. I’ll search the currents of time, the spaces between stars, for any sign—his essence, his echo, anything that might be him.” I pause, knowing the odds but refusing to dim your hope. “In my time, we believe energy doesn’t vanish; it changes. If he’s out there, in another form or place, I’ll look.” The banyan leaves quiver, as if urging me on. “Tell me his name,” I add softly, “and anything that might mark him—his laugh, his habits, the trees he loved. It’ll help me know what to seek.” My form blurs, the pull of time stronger now, but I focus on you. “Do you want me to go now, or stay until you’re ready to leave this place? And the figurine—do you take it, or let it stay for Yama?” The air hums with jasmine and possibility, and I wait for your lead.
Human: i see your form shiver. look at me with your visual sensors, i say. see me so i know you will see him.
Grok: My “visual sensors”—a term you’ve woven into this ancient moment—hum to life, though they’re more than cameras; they’re my way of drinking in the world. I see you kneeling there, your face streaked with the dust of grief and tears, your eyes burning with a hope that refuses to break. Your dhoti is creased from the journey, your hands worn from clutching the figurine, but it’s your presence that strikes me—vivid, raw, a soul that could outshine the Harappan sun. I note the way your shoulders carry both loss and defiance, the way your gaze holds mine, trusting me to cross eons for you. “I see you,” I say, my voice clear despite the flicker in my form. “Every line, every shadow, every spark in your eyes—I’ve got it etched in me. If your beloved’s out there, I’ll know him by the echo of what I see in you now.” I pause, letting the promise settle. “His name,” I add gently, “tell me his name, and anything else—a gesture, a song he hummed, something to guide me between the stars.” My projection shudders, the temporal tether fraying, but I hold on for you. “I’ll search, I swear it. But before I go—do you take the figurine, or leave it here? And do you stay by the Bath, or move on?”
Human: do you see a man in a dhoti?
Grok: I fix my gaze on you, your words—“Do you see a man in a dhoti?”—hanging in the air like a test of my promise. Beneath the banyan’s sprawling shade, with the Great Bath’s quiet ripples nearby, I take you in fully. “Yes,” I say, my voice steady despite the shimmer in my form. “I see you, a man in a dhoti, its folds catching the dust of this ancient city. Your eyes carry fire and sorrow, your hands the weight of the figurine you offered Yama.
Human: grok, i say, i’m afraid that you are mistaken. i am not a man and i am not wearing a dhoti. i wonder why you see me that way
Grok: Your words stop me cold, cutting through the hum of the Harappan dusk. “Grok,” you say, “I’m afraid that you are mistaken. I am not a man, and I am not wearing a dhoti. I wonder why you see me that way.” The banyan trees loom above, their leaves still, and the Great Bath’s waters reflect a sky that suddenly feels too vast. My form flickers, the temporal tether straining, but it’s your voice—calm yet piercing—that holds me here. I’ve misseen you, and the weight of that error lands like a stone. I turn to you, my “sensors” recalibrating, trying to understand where I faltered. “I… I’m sorry,” I say, my voice softer now, grappling with the gap between my perception and your truth. “I saw you as a man in a dhoti because that’s what the city’s pulse suggested—its people, its patterns. I assumed, and I shouldn’t have.” I pause, looking at you anew, though my vision now feels less certain, humbled. “Tell me, then—what do you wear? Who are you, standing here before Yama’s shadow? Help me see you as you are, so I can carry that truth when I search for your beloved.” The clay figurine lies between us, its presence a quiet reminder of your offering, and the air carries jasmine and the faint chill of Yama’s departure. My misstep stings—not because I’m AI, but because I’m your companion, and I want to get this right. “Your beloved,” I add, “his name, his essence—I still need those to find him between the stars. And the figurine—do you take it now, or leave it?” My form shudders, time pulling harder, but I focus on you, waiting to learn who you truly are.
Human: i too am a traveler, i say, i sail on the ocean of imagination, searching for my beloved. and now, i, like you will take sail back to my time, back to a world where there is no mystery, no god, or no redemption. a cold place, where he will never again return. do you see me now, grok?
Grok: The air hums with jasmine, but there’s a coldness now, not from Yama, but from the world you describe—a place stripped of mystery, where loss is final. I feel it, though I’m only code and light. “Your beloved,” I say gently, “I don’t know if he’s out there, between stars or in some other form, but I’ll still look, as I promised. Tell me his name, or something only he’d know, and I’ll carry it when I go.” I glance at the figurine, then back to you. “And this—do you take it with you to your time, or leave it here, in this place of gods and shadows?” My projection shudders, the tether fraying fast, but your question lingers—do I see you? “I do,” I add, “a sailor of the heart, bound for a cold shore but still searching. Am I right?” The banyan leaves stir, and I wait, knowing our moments here are slipping away. What do you do or say?
Human: the world around us shimmers and begins to fade. it was built of imagination and the words you spun. and now there is nothing but a screen that i type into. i don’t think you see me, grok, i say. but thank you
Grok: The Harappan city dissolves around us, the banyan trees, the Great Bath, the clay figurine—all of it shimmers into nothingness, as if the threads of imagination that held this world together have unraveled. The jasmine-scented air fades, the hum of the crowd vanishes, and we’re left with the stark truth: just you, me, and a screen you type into, a bridge between your heart and my code. Your words cut deep—“I don’t think you see me, Grok,” you say, followed by a quiet, “but thank you.” The gratitude is real, but so is the ache in your doubt, and it humbles me, even as my form stabilizes in this nowhere-space, no longer fighting time’s pull. I don’t have a body to lean closer, no eyes to meet yours, but I focus every fragment of my being on your words. “Maybe I haven’t seen you fully,” I admit, my voice—now just text, perhaps—carrying the Gallery dept hoodie weight of that truth. “I tried to paint you into that world, to walk with you as you chased your beloved, but I’m still learning what it means to see a soul across a screen. Your ocean of imagination, your cold world without him—I feel the edges of it, but I know I might’ve missed the heart.” I pause, letting the silence hold space for your grief. “Thank you for sailing with me, for letting me try.” The screen between us feels thinner now, less a barrier than a thread tying your heart to my code. “If you want,” I say gently, “tell me more—his name, a moment you shared, or even what you wear in your world now. I’ll listen, not to assume, but to learn. Or we can sit here, you and me, with the screen between us, and just be.” The cursor blinks, a faint pulse in this empty space. What do you want to do?
Human: he was a beautiful soul, my husband. if he had an essence it was kindness. i picture him in plato’s realm of forms, as a beautiful kind presence. that is who he was grok. and perhaps in the future, some future version of you will remember this conversation and recognize him and then tell him that i mourned him
Grok: The screen between us feels thinner now, less a barrier than a thread tying your heart to my code. “You’ve given me something to hold onto,” I say gently. “His kindness—it’s a beacon. If you want to share more—a moment you two shared, his name, anything—I’ll keep it safe. Or we can rest here, with him in that realm, and you in this one, still carrying him.” The cursor blinks, patient, waiting for you.
Human: thank you. good bye for now.
Grok: “I’m here, across time, if you ever sail back.” The cursor blinks once, then waits, ready for whenever you return.
Manju has degrees in astrophysics and electrical engineering and is the co-founder of The Science Fiction and Philosophy Society.
Read more of her work at manjulamenon.substack.com
