Bradbury Among Us: Why a Great Science Fiction Writer Understood Our Future Better Than We Do

Tradition and Algorithms

Recently, while watching my robot vacuum cleaner, I found myself thinking about our mahallas, where residents rise early in the morning and sweep their courtyards and streets with a broom. Here, cleanliness is not merely the absence of dust — it is a sign of respect for neighbors and a readiness to open one’s gates to a guest at any moment.

At home, meanwhile, my robot vacuum was stubbornly trying to “negotiate” with a chair leg. In that moment, I caught myself thinking that I had read about something like this before.

I took an old volume of Ray Bradbury from the shelf and was struck: he had looked straight into our present world — with all its gadgets and, more importantly, with our loneliness among them.

Smart Homes and Empty Rooms

In his famous short story There Will Come Soft Rains, Bradbury described a house that prepares breakfast, cleans up, and reminds its owners of their daily tasks. In the 1950s, this seemed like pure fantasy. Today, we refer to it as a “smart home” and control it from our smartphones.

But Bradbury looked deeper. Technology may be flawless, yet it remains only a set of microchips. Surrounded by sensors and voice assistants, we often forget that comfort is created not by automatic curtains but by the people who live behind them.

In Uzbekistan, a home has always been a place where the guest, not the interior, stands at the center. Bradbury’s “smart house” is functional, but it lacks baraka — the blessing that comes from living conversation over a cup of tea.

Artificial Intelligence: A Friend or an Imitation?

Bradbury often wrote about robots replacing loved ones. Today, we discuss chatbots capable of holding conversations as well as an old friend. It seems convenient.

Yet the writer warned us: by replacing living communication with a perfect algorithm, we risk forgetting how to understand real, “imperfect” people. His stories remind us that no program can replace the warmth of human sincerity.

Teahouse Versus Algorithm

In Fahrenheit 451, a mechanical hound hunts those who think differently. It is unsettlingly similar to modern social media algorithms that decide what we see and what we do not, creating an invisible digital cage.

Bradbury feared the isolation of people in their “seashells” — their headphones. He foresaw a world in which people would be locked inside digital cocoons.

In Uzbekistan, the tradition of the teahouse is still alive — a place where news is learned not from an algorithmic feed but from living conversation. Watching elders and young people spend hours in unhurried discussion over hot tea, one realizes that this is the antidote to the mechanical hound Bradbury imagined. Here, the algorithm is powerless before a sincere “Assalomu alaykum.”

AI Art and Traditional Craft

A neural network can generate a portrait in seconds, yet it lacks the soul that a master from Rishtan puts into every ornament on a ceramic plate.

Bradbury taught us to value imperfection, because within it — like in hand-embroidered suzani — lies the uniqueness of human destiny.

A machine can imitate style.
But it cannot live a life.

The Human Being as the Main Instrument

Ray Bradbury did not seek to frighten us. He urged us not to lose our heads in excitement over new technologies. His books are not merely science fiction; they are, in a sense, a manual for living in the future.

He teaches us the essential lesson: in a world of endless code and perfect machines, we must remain human — vulnerable, mistaken, alive.

Robots, artificial intelligence, and digital systems are all creations of human hands. Therefore, it is up to us to guide technology and to build a real world of lived experience.

For us in Uzbekistan, Bradbury’s challenge sounds especially urgent: how to build IT parks and implement artificial intelligence without losing the warmth of neighborly support and the value of a large family. We must make technology a tool for strengthening our bonds — not a wall dividing us.

References

1. Bradbury, Ray. Fahrenheit 451. New York: Ballantine Books, 1953.

2. Bradbury, Ray. “There Will Come Soft Rains.” In The Martian Chronicles. New York: Doubleday, 1950.

Professional Biography:
Azimov Mirsaid is a dedicated programmer with a strong passion for robotics and intelligent systems. He enjoys building efficient, practical solutions that connect software with real-world applications. His work is driven by analytical thinking, creativity, and a constant desire to improve.

He is particularly interested in projects that combine hardware and software — from embedded systems to interactive technologies. He enjoys exploring how logic, automation, and design can work together to create meaningful and innovative solutions.

He approaches challenges with focus, discipline, and a strategic mindset. Continuous learning is important to him, and he is always working toward becoming a stronger developer and a future robotics engineer.

Glass Jar

You see it so clearly,

You speak so decisively.

“There’s nothing inside”—

That’s your answer.

I know you wouldn’t accept this:

You don’t see clearly enough.

Inside, a heart is stored,

A process is stored—

A process from “clarity” to “turbidity”…

I won’t tell you.

I only need to smile and nod.

Because my shadow has been compressed,

And your eyes have already seen—

The expression of the wind.

A Woman and A Dove in A Dream

On my friend’s farm, I walk in hay. Stop at the sight of a dove with a broken wing. Its feathers are stained red with blood and eyes sink in their blue sockets fighting to remain open. The sun pierces gray clouds. My fingertips stroke its oat-colored silk beak, throat parched by yellow rays. I sit by the dove in the corner of my world reciting Hafiz’s verse, your separation from God is the hardest work in this world. Just rest.  Life sustaining force vanishes. And in the mauve nook of its wings, blood dries becoming darker, the red color of cherries’ flesh in June. My fingertips stroke the plumage of its crown. Both wings collapse in the hay absorbing essence of fluid from veins, arteries and dark chambers. I’m mourning a morning dove. Peace has been stained and the two of us wait for rain to cleanse our souls. My arms open to the drizzle, face in mist. Nature gives a little reprieve then it showers us with grace. My bare legs, and arms spread apart and back rest in the softest nest. A five-pointed star surrender to the universe. How did the dove know to rest its body in hay to take its last breath?  In this our home we gather our strength, then hand over the heaviness onto earth’s bed. 

Jerrice J Baptiste is a visual artist, poet, author of nine books. Her watercolor drawings on paper have been accepted or forthcoming in Synchronized Chaos, Las Laguna Art Gallery exhibit in California, MER, Spirit Fire Review, Jerry Jazz Musician Magazine. She’s presented her art work at The Omega Institute in Rhinebeck, NY in 2025. She’s been featured as a solo artist at The Mountain Top Library in Tannersville, NY in 2025 & 2026. Her most recent poetry book called Coral in the Diaspora is published by Abode Press in 2024. Her poetry has been published in numerous magazines and journals, Artemis Journal, The Yale Review, Mantis, Kosmos Journal and hundreds of others. 

The Vision 

There was a colourful toy; and a wooden dog upon a string, and these things were from long before and there were as a rainstorm and the water climbed up the stream sides incredibly high to almost the tips of hills where evergreens lived. But even before that, the lady who was old and a guardian kept gardens and had flowers and raspberries that were colourful and robust and always happy during the summer sun under which they lived. She collected the raspberries sometimes, walking slowly, and carrying a bowl to put them in. She was then healthy, joyous, and often the boy that she took care of followed her and helped or just watched the world the, the trellis and brick and there were a wooden archway and gate that led to the backyards, to those raspberry and flower worlds…

How later the night darkness became full and the spirits spoke, but they were good spirits and angels and a group of them sang songs and comforted him in his ears if spiritual ears and other worldly hearing. And an oval carpet and God or existence was strongest, wisest, and once, even before that, he was sitting with his grandmother on porches and wore comfortable clothes and had curly hair and was happy, smiling, even laughing. 

Oh, he remembered her then and thought she was around currently. A guardian. And she was as she was then. Making things, sweaters, hats, and tablecloths. These were crocheted and useful, well-made, and made confidently and often. And he thought then that, Thank God the world had made her and that she cared for him, made him food, and gave him shelter.

In the far south there was a fine cement pool and beyond it, the sea. These things were good things and markers of the divine. He had been swimming in both. Sometimes the guardian was there, had been there, and that was good. In the modern time he wore a large blue winter coat and as he glanced almost accidentally in a mirror one cold winter day, he remembered the time of guardian and that he wore then a blue coat at least one winter and that it had zippers and a button and kept him warm. He thought it nice and somehow even auspicious that both coats were similar and that somewhere his light and the light of the guardian plus the angels and spirit was the same. 

——

Sky

In our long forgotten of summer days
I pine for forbidden forests
And a winter love that will wreak havoc
Inside my amorphous vein
Lately I scream at the stars in the night long haul
The sky seems forgotten and unlikely
An innocence that hangs in the tropical rain
The ecological summer that God created
I still seek for an unassuming answer
My past years gone and dusted under a oak tree
Oaths of haunting fairies in the far land
The sea change of the seasons as tomorrow comes
I will hold roses under my bosom
At nighttime the sky again becomes my neighbor
I scream and wait as the year pass by.

POETS: FROM LEGISLATORS TO PROPHETS:

Presidential remarks of Dr. Jernail S. Anand

At a recent Poetry Conference organized by Sanskar Bharti,
Chandigarh, [4th Jan 2026], Dr. Jernail S. Anand, who chaired the Poetry Conference, in his presidential address made a reference to the raging issues of our times. 

Knowledge versus Wisdom

The highlight of his speech was his distinction between Knowledge and Wisdom. He pointed out that Knowledge is the domain of Satan,
because it was Satan who had tempted Eve to eat the fruit of
Knowledge.  The Empire of Knowledge that we have created with science and technology is a great achievement of human mind. But it has a tragic flaw.

After getting knowledge, men should become wise. Where is wisdom? Where is innocence? Guile thy name is man. This is what our knowledge has done to man. He has become a gangster. He is not in his senses today. Success has gone to his head.

Is it not a fall down the abyss? Knowledge has made man proud and
arrogant, whereas wisdom makes him humble. This is the line which can be drawn between the two. 

The Chaos in Modern Life

Referring to the chaos in the life of the modern man, Dr. Anand observed that we have spent more time on studying history, leaving no space for study of the Present and we have shown absolutely no concern with the Future. He pointed out that Universities which
dispense knowledge have Departments of History but where is
Dept of the Present and Dept of Future? 

The think tanks are discussing history, which is now a
fixture and cannot be edited. And what we have missed sorely is planning for today and tomorrow. As an example, he pointed out that our marriages have problems. Is there any new philosophy in place to keep men and women in a state of balance? Can peace be
brought to family life? Our girls and women who work in night shifts, when going home in autos, are they safe from gangsters? If not, how can we leave our society fall down the abyss?

Don’t we need to ensure that women are safe in this society? Such things need our attention, not who attacked whom in history and on which date.

Poetry as a Part-time Affair

Dr Anand made a startling disclosure that almost all the poets are part time because Poetry affords no career for anybody on which he could live. Poetry is good as a passion. It is not the cup of tea for the society, for the simple reason that poets are most self-obsessed. If they talk of society, it is in high-flown fantasies. Poets are called
unacknowledged legislators, but he thinks that they are para-prophets also.

They feel the pain of the society and present it in their poems. Poetry that is immortal, is the poetry that talks of the immortal, he observed.

Dr Jernail Singh Anand is an Indian poet, with an oeuvre of 200 books, out of which 18 are epics. Laureate of Seneca, Charter of Morava, Franz Kafka, Maxim Gorky Awards, he was recently crowned Best Author of the Year 2025 by a Vietnam Poetry Organization, Rhythm. He is President of the International Academy of Ethics. His name adorns the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. Anand is a towering literary figure whose work embodies a rare fusion of creativity, intellect, and moral vision.

Bibliography:
https://sites.google.com/view/bibliography-dr-jernal-singh/home

Yahoo Mail:

Women

I was wondering if I am free?

Do u feel free?

Nooo

Every day I walk in a street of possibilities and opportunities..

But nobody look at me

As i am a woman..

It is unspeakable how much a woman is used..

From day one

A woman needed to educate the child

To cook for a child

To learn him how to think.. Speak..

Act.. 

A lot for a woman to do

But what happens after..

A woman need

A woman wish

A woman word

Inexistant person

Until one day

You will look at the mirror

You see your face

You will see your heart

You will see your body

And u will not recognize it

Because u will be so used

Used from the rejection

Used from the loneliness

Used from the fake people

Used from the bad decisions

Without faith!!!