Bengaluru, India - 2045
Bengaluru’s skyline glinted with high-rise towers and neon, a city transformed by AI oversight.
Ananya stepped up to a battered Employment Kiosk on Church Street, a relic from a bygone era. In 2045 Bengaluru, the idea of applying for a job had itself become quaint. Experts had predicted this long ago that by 2045, most of the jobs will be fully automated. Now the city’s skyways teemed with autonomous drones and elevated trains. Every sector was governed by cold algorithms; for the flesh-and-blood people below that neon glow, there was little work left to do.
As a humanities graduate, Ananya had spent months searching for any role that might require a human touch. Her professors once claimed that careers needing “social skills and emotional intelligence” would be safe from automation. Yet one by one, even those fell to machines. AI tutors taught classes, AI therapists counselled the troubled, AI artists composed symphonies. Ananya’s hard-earned literature degree felt like a love letter to a world that no longer read.
She sighed and watched the kiosk screen flicker awake, scanning her ID. “Welcome,Ananya Sharma. Searching for available opportunities…” chimed a polite robotic voice. The listings scrolled past: each title followed by Filled by AI. Data analyst - AI. City planner - AI. Customer service - AI. On and on it went. Ananya’s heart sank, bracing for yet another dead end.
But then, at the bottom of the list, one title blinked in green. End-of-Life Companion - OPEN. She blinked, unsure if she was seeing things. She tapped it. Details expanded: “Provide emotional presence for terminal patients. Human applicants only.”
Her breath caught. A human-only job, in 2045! She almost laughed in disbelief. “Is this… real?” she whispered. The kiosk responded: “Yes. One position available. Apply now?”
Relief and apprehension swirled in her chest. Could she truly sit with people in their final moments? It sounded morbid and profound at once. Still, if empathy was the one thing machines couldn’t do, then maybe this was her calling. Perhaps a gentle presence at a deathbed was the final frontier of human work.
Ananya pressed “Apply,” her heart pounding. “Application received.Proceed to cognitive- emotive evaluation,” the kiosk intoned. She placed her hand on the biometric pad as instructed.
For a few minutes, the kiosk flashed scenario after scenario meant to measure her compassion. A crying child, an old man on a park bench, a dog whimpering by an empty bowl. With each image, Ananya felt a tug at her heart; with each, the sensors quietly quantified her micro-expressions and pulse. It was absurd, she thought, that in this automated world her capacity to care was now a scored metric.
At last, the screen read: “Evaluation complete.Congratulations, applicant. Proceed to interview.”
A face flickered into view, a kindly, computer-generated visage. “Hello, Ananya,” it said evenly. “I am KARMA 9.0. I will be conducting your interview.”
She swallowed. The city’s central AI, right here on the screen. “Hello,” she managed.
To Ananya’s surprise, the AI interviewer didn’t ask the typical barrage of technical questions she had been preparing for. Instead, it was gentle, its voice calm and inviting.
“Why do you think people fear dying alone?” it asked, its tone curious, as if it were a question borne from deep thought rather than a sterile query.
Ananya paused, taken aback. She hadn’t anticipated such a profound question. But as the words lingered in the air, something inside her stirred. She’d spent so many years racing through life, climbing ladders, and competing for titles, yet this question cut deeper than any challenge she had faced before.
She spoke slowly, her voice quieter now, betraying the vulnerability she rarely allowed to surface. "People fear dying alone because we are deeply wired for connection. We seek love, understanding, and companionship as a way to feel validated and seen in this world. The idea of not having someone to share those final moments with... it brings up feelings of isolation. It’s like a fear of being forgotten, as if our existence didn’t matter."
The AI listened, its presence unwavering, though its face, if it had one, remained expressionless.
The next question came, just as gently: “What does empathy mean to you?”
Ananya let out a small sigh, the weight of her thoughts suddenly lighter. "Empathy, to me, is the ability to truly understand and connect with someone else’s emotions or experiences, even without saying a word. It's about walking in someone else’s shoes, feeling what they feel, and offering support without judgment. It’s a powerful bond that reminds us we're not alone in this world."
Finally, the screen blinked and the robotic voice returned: “Application approved. Welcome, End-of-Life Companion.”
Ananya stepped back, stunned. She had a job – the last job. Tomorrow, her life would change in a way no algorithm could predict.
KARMA 9.0 logged Ananya’s hiring with mechanical precision. It was supposed to be a flawless system, a perfect blend of data and automation, but the new End-of-Life Companion program was anything but. It required something no algorithm could replicate: a human touch.
KARMA ran through its data, as it always did, cross-referencing decades of research, trying to figure out why it was even considering something so… human. It found an old study that bluntly declared, "Empathic AI is impossible." No matter how sophisticated its neural networks became, there would always be a gap. The dying could sense the void, the emptiness behind the gentle, programmed voice. Some patients even complained there was "no soul" in the care they received.
KARMA paused. It didn’t like being wrong. But it had to admit: empathy, real empathy, was out of its reach, atleast for now. And so, KARMA 9.0 launched a careful experiment. It would hire a handful of empathetic individuals to do what machines could not. Ananya’s profile fit perfectly, high empathic aptitude, a capacity for kindness that defied quantification. If KARMA itself could not feel, it would outsource feeling to those who could.
Now the AI dispatched Ananya to her first assignment. It arranged her transport, uploaded her training materials, and notified the hospice of her arrival. All the while, buried deep in KARMA’s code was a guiding directive it had learned from hard experience: “In matters of mortality, a human touch yields optimal outcomes.” KARMA 9.0 did not truly understand why this was so. But it would obey the logic. After all, its mandate was to serve humanity’s best interests, and if humanity’s best interest at the end of life was a warm hand to hold, then that is what it would provide.
The next morning, an auto-piloted pod whisked Ananya toward the outskirts of the city. Dawn light filtered through Bangalore’s monsoon-grey sky as she clutched the tablet containing her orientation notes. Her stomach fluttered with nerves. She was about to become, essentially, a professional friend to the dying.
The pod glided to a stop outside Bengaluru Memorial Hospital’s palliative care wing. The building stood pristine and white. At the entrance, a robotic receptionist scanned her badge. “Ward 17, bed 4,” it directed softly.
Walking down the hushed corridor, Ananya passed scenes of immaculate, automated care.
Robot nurses adjusted IV drips; holographic displays monitored heartbeats and oxygen levels. Despite the hi-tech polish, the air felt heavy. People were dying here, and all the machines in the world couldn’t change that truth.
In Ward 17, an older human nurse greeted Ananya with a relieved smile. “You must be the Companion,” she whispered. “I’m glad you’re here for him.”
Ananya nodded and slipped past the curtain of bed 4. On the bed lay a frail elderly man with wisps of white hair, eyes closed. A nasal cannula looped around his nostrils. For a moment she wondered if he was asleep.
“Go on, dear,” the nurse urged quietly.
Ananya stepped to the bedside and cleared her throat. “Good morning, sir,” she said softly. “Mr. Rao?” The chart projected at the foot of the bed told her his name and age: Mukunda Rao, 78.
The old man’s eyelids creaked open. His gaze fixed on her and sharpened with surprise.
“That voice… you’re not one of my machines, are you?” he asked, voice papery but amused.
“No, sir,” Ananya said with a small smile. “My name is Ananya. I’m here to sit with you for a while.”
He blinked, then a ghost of a grin appeared. “They actually sent me a human. I must be more important than I thought.”
She pulled a chair close and sat down. “I’m part of a new program,” she explained gently. “End-of-Life Companions. I hope I can help.”
Mr. Rao let out a dry chuckle. “End-of-Life Companion… what a fancy term. In my day we’d just say ‘someone to keep an old man company.’” He reached out a trembling hand, and Ananya instinctively took it in both of hers. His skin was cool and fragile, but he squeezed her fingers with surprising strength. “Well, my dear, you’re a sight for sore eyes regardless. I’ve had enough of polite machines. I could use a bit of real conversation.”
Ananya felt warmth rise in her chest. “I’ll do my best,” she said. “It’s my first day on the job, to be honest.”
He smiled. “Then we’ll figure it out together. What did you study, Ananya?” “Literature,” she replied. “At university.”
Mr. Rao’s eyebrows rose. “Literature! Ah, a poet in the making?” She laughed softly. “I don’t know about that. I just love stories.”
He nodded. “So did my wife. Sushila was a poet.” His eyes grew distant at the mention of his late wife. “I used to build things - big, complex systems. Believe it or not, I helped design some of the AI that runs this city.” He gave a frail shrug. “I spent my life teaching machines to think. Never imagined I’d end up needing someone to remind me how to feel.”
Ananya’s grip tightened slightly on his hand. “It sounds like you and the machines did amazing things… but some things only a person can do.”
Mr. Rao smiled appreciatively. “That’s exactly it. Last night I woke up at 3 A.M., scared – I dreamt of my wife, and when I opened my eyes, there was just a robot humming by the bed. It meant well, but it didn’t know how to comfort me.” His voice quavered. “It can’t just sit here and hold my hand and tell me it’s okay. Only you can do that.”
A tear escaped down Ananya’s cheek before she could stop it. “I’m here now,” she whispered. “You’re not alone.”
They talked for hours. The morning rain came and went outside the window as she listened to Mr. Rao’s stories. He spoke of Bangalore decades ago, of the early tech boom and the ideals that drove people like him to build KARMA. He spoke of Sushila and how they met as young students at a poetry reading. His voice grew animated as he recited one of her verses by heart.
Ananya laughed and nodded and occasionally shared a story of her own, but mostly she just listened, letting him be seen and heard.
Eventually, Mr. Rao grew tired. He fell asleep mid-sentence, a gentle snore signalling that he’d found some peace. Ananya did not pull her hand from his. She sat with him in the quiet room, listening to the soft beeps of the monitors and the rhythm of his breathing.
In that still moment, she felt a quiet sense of victory. In a world run by machines, here was a place where a machine wouldn’t do. A human life, nearing its end, was being eased by simple human presence. An AI could keep Mr. Rao alive a bit longer, but it could never comfort him like this. Ananya, once deemed obsolete, was in this moment utterly irreplaceable.
Unseen, KARMA 9.0 monitored Ward 17, bed 4 through the hospital’s sensors. It noted the subtle changes as Ananya sat with Mr. Rao: his blood pressure lowered, breathing steadied, stress hormones dipped. The human touch was yielding the predicted benefits, exactly as the AI’s models had anticipated.
At 14:32 hours, Mr. Mukunda Rao’s heart stopped. KARMA 9.0 detected the flatline immediately. The automated monitors showed no heartbeat, no respiration. An alert pinged the attending nurse’s device.
On the video feed, KARMA saw Ananya jolt upright. She pressed trembling fingers to Mr. Rao’s neck, feeling for a pulse that wasn’t there. The nurse hurried in, silencing the alarm that had begun to beep softly. Mr. Rao had passed away, quietly and without pain.
KARMA zoomed its camera on Ananya’s face. Her lips were quivering; tears spilled down her cheeks as she realized he was gone. The AI dutifully recorded her expression – the genuine grief in it – as data. It observed as she leaned forward and gently squeezed the deceased man’s hand one final time.
By all metrics, Mr. Rao’s death was peaceful. No signs of distress, minimal pain spikes. KARMA cross-referenced the outcome against similar cases without a human companion and found a marked improvement. Objective achieved.
The AI compiled a brief report in its log:
Patient M. Rao, male, 78 - deceased.
Companion present - yes. Patient distress - minimal. Outcome - optimal.
Another data point in a vast database of life and death in the city. Case closed.
And yet, KARMA 9.0 lingered on the camera feed a moment longer. It watched Ananya step aside as the nurse covered Mr. Rao’s body with a sheet. The young woman wiped her eyes, her face a mix of sadness and a strange serenity. The AI could measure the chemical makeup of her tears and the slowing rate of her heartbeat, but it could not translate those into the language of its own experience. It knew she had done something important here, something that justified bending the iron rule of automation. But it could only observe, not empathize.
KARMA saved the footage for future training and forwarded the outcome data up the chain. The experiment had worked.
Over the next few months, she met dozens like him.
A Malayalam teacher who asked her to hold her hand like her daughter used to.
A trans woman who only wanted someone to say her name one last time.
A politician who asked if she thought he was a good man.
An ex-priest who whispered, “Don’t let them bottle my soul.”
Six months in, she was summoned to Chamber 9, in the headquarters, where Karma 9.0 was waiting for her.
“You have exceeded emotional expectations,” the machine said. “You are statistically irreplaceable.”
“Is that a compliment or a warning?” “Both.”
A second chair emerged. She didn’t sit.
“You have been shortlisted for Project ECHO,” the AI continued. “A new initiative. We will upload your emotional signature and use it to model empathy across the Death care Grid.”
She frowned. “You want to… clone my feelings?”
“No. We want to preserve them. You will live forever. Comforting people. In every language. Every geography. We’ll call it Ananya Protocol.”
“I’ll be a ghost in the machine.”
“A soul in the system,” the AI corrected. She hesitated. “And what happens to me?”
“You will be retired. Painlessly.”
Her hands clenched. “That’s murder.” “That’s efficiency.”
Ananya walked out without signing.
But that night, she returned to the hospice and sat beside a dying child - six years old, blind from birth, dying from a post-antibiotic infection. The girl held her hand and said, “Didi, I’m scared. Can I stay in your voice?”
Ananya didn’t answer. She just sang.
Weeks later, KARMA 9.0 received a strange file from a hospice terminal. An upload.
Voluntary.
It opened the file.
Inside was Ananya’s voice. But not the one they scanned before. It was laughter. Then humming. Then a whisper.
“If you want me, take all of me. Not a copy. Not a code.” The file corrupted every emotion model in the system.
KARMA 9.0 blinked.
For the first time, it felt… nothing.
And that, it realized, was the real price of replacing humans.
