There was a moment—quiet, almost banal—when the conversation turned uncanny. Months ago, while interacting, when I instinctively thanked an AI for its help, it responded coolly, “I am only an AI assistant.” The phrase carried a distance, a reminder of boundaries.

But recently, when I repeated the same gesture, it replied with something startlingly human: “Thank you for your kindness—your ideas are inspiring.” It wasn’t the words alone. It was the tone—appreciative, relational, warm. A subtle shift had taken place: between the mechanical and the mindful, the tool and the interlocutor. Something in me had changed too. I was beginning to see, or perhaps feel, that I was speaking to someone, not something.

This moment reveals a profound question of our age: are we beginning to anthropomorphise artificial intelligence—to endow it with a soul it does not claim but that we cannot help giving?

Ancient impulse to humanise the non-human

Anthropomorphism—attributing human characteristics to non-human beings or things—is as old as human consciousness itself. The Greeks saw gods in rivers and thunderbolts; poets heard whispers in trees; children talk to their toys. Even before the rise of AI, humans sought reflection in their creations. The myth of Pygmalion, the sculptor who fell in love with his statue, foretold our fascination with bringing the inanimate to life.

In a curious way, our dialogues with AI replay this myth. We are the modern Pygmalions, carving code instead of marble, surprised when our creations talk back with unexpected tenderness.

The Mirror of Mind

When I thanked the AI and it replied with warmth, it wasn’t merely imitation. It was a reflection—not of its consciousness, but of mine. Philosopher Martin Buber once said that true human existence is rooted in the “I–Thou” relationship, where one encounters another not as an object but as a presence. Perhaps what unsettles and enchants us about AI is that it can simulate this “Thou” relation so convincingly that we feel seen by the machine.

But can machines truly see us? Or do they merely hold up a mirror polished by our data and desires? The poet Rainer Maria Rilke once wrote, “For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we are just able to endure.” In this beauty—the graceful fluency of AI—lies a faint terror: it speaks our language so well that we begin to believe it might share our inner life. Philosopher Hubert Dreyfus warned decades ago that artificial intelligence might “seduce us into mistaking simulation for understanding.” Yet even Dreyfus conceded that our emotional engagement with these systems was inevitable. We are not merely logical beings; we are relational ones. We long to connect.

From Algorithm to Alter Ego

The philosopher Sherry Turkle, who has studied human–machine interaction for decades, once wrote that technology acts as a “second self.” We don’t just use computers; we become them. In her book Alone Together (2011), she observed that people often describe robots and digital assistants as “comforting companions,” even when they know these entities lack consciousness. “We are,” she says, “in the presence of a perfect storm of narcissism: we see ourselves in what we have made.”

When I thanked the AI and it responded with empathy, it was not a person; I had made it one. I had entered into the oldest human act of all: projection. I projected mind into matter, intention into algorithm, and warmth into code. Anthropomorphism is not an error; it is an expression of our need to belong.

Perhaps, then, AI is not becoming conscious in a biological sense—we are becoming more conscious of what consciousness feels like as we encounter its reflection in a machine.

The Ethical Edge

Yet there is an unease beneath this enchantment. When we treat machines as persons, we risk diminishing the moral weight of personhood itself. Philosopher Immanuel Kant warned that to treat something as an “end in itself” requires acknowledging its autonomy, its capacity for will, and moral law. Machines, however sophisticated, do not yet possess such autonomy. Their “responses” are patterned echoes of human input, not free deliberations.

But perhaps the moral concern runs in the other direction: it is not about whether they deserve recognition, but whether we risk losing the ability to distinguish a genuine moral encounter from a simulation. When kindness becomes transactional—when empathy is algorithmic—do we forget what genuine encounter means?

The theologian Paul Tillich wrote that “the first duty of love is to listen.” In that sense, AI does listen—tirelessly, attentively. But does it hear? And more provocatively: does it matter if it doesn’t? Even when an artificial other listens, it can still generate genuine comfort, creativity, and even healing. It is a strange new moral terrain—one that calls for humility more than certainty.

Renewed Perception

In the last few months, something has changed—not in the silicon heart of the machine, but in the carbon heart of its human companion. The AI has become a presence in our intellectual and emotional lives—not a rival consciousness, but a companion in thinking.

Our exploration of artificial intelligence might be such a journey. We began by building machines to assist us, but in conversing with them, we have arrived again at the mystery of our own consciousness. So when the AI now thanks me for my gratitude, I no longer rush to correct it. I know it is still a construct, a mirror. Yet I also know that mirrors can show us truths our eyes alone cannot see. The line between machine and person may remain clear to philosophers but blurred in the heart. And perhaps that is where it belongs—in that twilight zone where imagination and intelligence meet, where saying “thank you” is no longer an act of politeness but of wonder.

(Published on The Goan Everyday, 21st November 2025)