<p>A few days ago, I had a tough time sleeping because of all the screen talk. No, I had not watched a horror movie – but the task assigned to me was a step more terrifying. I had to stand in front of the camera and teach. To add to my frayed nerves, I had to coordinate with the display screen too. If this had been during the pandemic, it would have been fairly routine, but the scenario was entirely different now. Back then, online classes came with familiar and comforting background noises—the cooker whistle, the occasional vegetable vendor calling soppu beka soppu, and, not to forget, the garbage collector blaring out kasavannu haaki in all possible tunes of film songs.</p>.<p>So the fear was greater this time--mainly because I am not a ‘smart’ teacher. Connecting my mind to technical skills is almost beyond my reach. I still remember recording a video once, for over an hour, brimming with confidence. My heart swelled up with pride as though I’d won an Olympic gold. But that pride shattered like a glass door. When I watched the video, it was completely muted. I sat back, cursing myself for such a silly error. For the next few recordings, I made it a point to check the audio before hitting record.</p>.<p>Now, three years later, I had to record another lesson. This time, it was even more challenging – because I had to assume students were present. Had it been a physical or even a live online class, I’d have felt a little more at ease. If I’d made a calculation error in such a setting, the students would have immediately shouted it out, helping me correct it. But now, the awareness that I had to be hyper-aware only made me more nervous.</p>.<p>I reached the studio ahead of time. The butterflies in my stomach were enough to make me skip my breakfast. The pre-recording adjustments felt like a mirror game. I stood before the camera for the visibility test, completely confused. My right side now appeared as my left – and I was left with nothing feeling right. Yes, quite confusing indeed.</p>.<p>I started my first recording, and for the first 50 minutes, everything went smoothly. Perhaps, buoyed by overconfidence, I relaxed a little too soon. In the second-to-last question that I was solving, I made a mistake. “Oh no!” I exclaimed – on camera, during a live recording. On the verge of tears, I walked out of the studio.</p>.<p>Later, when I watched the session back, I realised that watching myself teach was oddly entertaining. What all did I notice? Well...Let’s keep that a secret for now and just thank artificial intelligence. But I must admit – AI, for all its artificial nature, is technically beautiful. And thanks to it, I ended up learning things I never knew before. For that, I must say, Thank you, AI!</p>
<p>A few days ago, I had a tough time sleeping because of all the screen talk. No, I had not watched a horror movie – but the task assigned to me was a step more terrifying. I had to stand in front of the camera and teach. To add to my frayed nerves, I had to coordinate with the display screen too. If this had been during the pandemic, it would have been fairly routine, but the scenario was entirely different now. Back then, online classes came with familiar and comforting background noises—the cooker whistle, the occasional vegetable vendor calling soppu beka soppu, and, not to forget, the garbage collector blaring out kasavannu haaki in all possible tunes of film songs.</p>.<p>So the fear was greater this time--mainly because I am not a ‘smart’ teacher. Connecting my mind to technical skills is almost beyond my reach. I still remember recording a video once, for over an hour, brimming with confidence. My heart swelled up with pride as though I’d won an Olympic gold. But that pride shattered like a glass door. When I watched the video, it was completely muted. I sat back, cursing myself for such a silly error. For the next few recordings, I made it a point to check the audio before hitting record.</p>.<p>Now, three years later, I had to record another lesson. This time, it was even more challenging – because I had to assume students were present. Had it been a physical or even a live online class, I’d have felt a little more at ease. If I’d made a calculation error in such a setting, the students would have immediately shouted it out, helping me correct it. But now, the awareness that I had to be hyper-aware only made me more nervous.</p>.<p>I reached the studio ahead of time. The butterflies in my stomach were enough to make me skip my breakfast. The pre-recording adjustments felt like a mirror game. I stood before the camera for the visibility test, completely confused. My right side now appeared as my left – and I was left with nothing feeling right. Yes, quite confusing indeed.</p>.<p>I started my first recording, and for the first 50 minutes, everything went smoothly. Perhaps, buoyed by overconfidence, I relaxed a little too soon. In the second-to-last question that I was solving, I made a mistake. “Oh no!” I exclaimed – on camera, during a live recording. On the verge of tears, I walked out of the studio.</p>.<p>Later, when I watched the session back, I realised that watching myself teach was oddly entertaining. What all did I notice? Well...Let’s keep that a secret for now and just thank artificial intelligence. But I must admit – AI, for all its artificial nature, is technically beautiful. And thanks to it, I ended up learning things I never knew before. For that, I must say, Thank you, AI!</p>
