I have always found Deepak Chopra’s books interesting because they approach life’s big questions from different angles. Whether he is writing about life after death, the relationship between our genes and our well being, or the search for spiritual truth , there is a recurring curiosity about what makes us human and how much of ourselves we are yet to understand.

His book Digital Dharma takes that curiosity into unfamiliar territory. This time, the conversation is about artificial intelligence and what it means for us as we learn to live with technology that can respond to our questions, imitate human expression and produce work that once required hours of human effort.

What makes this book different from his earlier work is the world in which Chopra now places these questions. Life After Death explores the possibility of consciousness beyond physical existence. Super Genes, co-written with Rudolph E. Tanzi examines the relationship between our minds, bodies and potential for change. The 13th Disciple uses fiction to explore spiritual discovery. In Digital Dharma, Chopra turns his attention to artificial intelligence, asking whether a technology created by human beings can help us understand ourselves better.

It is an interesting transition. The questions have not changed as much as the circumstances in which we ask them. We are living in a time when answers are available at the touch of a button, conversations can be simulated and machines can produce essays, poems and stories in seconds. Yet having access to information is not the same as possessing wisdom.

Chopra approaches AI with curiosity rather than alarm. He suggests that it can help us reflect on our thoughts, examine our behaviour and explore ideas we might not otherwise consider. Written in an accessible style, Digital Dharma does not demand technical knowledge from its readers. Instead, it encourages us to think about how we use these tools and what we hope to gain from them.

I find the idea of AI as a mirror particularly interesting. A machine can reflect our questions, our assumptions and even our prejudices. It can help us organise our thoughts, but can it truly understand the experiences that shape them? Can it know what heartbreak feels like, or why a particular memory stays with us for decades? It can describe these things convincingly, but describing an emotion and experiencing it are two different matters.

This distinction becomes even more important when we turn to literature.

The literary world has also found itself grappling with questions about AI and originality. The 2026 Commonwealth Short Story Prize came under scrutiny after some readers questioned whether artificial intelligence had been used in the winning entries. Trinidad and Tobago writer Jamir Nazir, whose story The Serpent in the Grove went on to win the overall prize, was among those whose work attracted attention. The Commonwealth Foundation investigated the claims and later stated that it was satisfied that AI had not been used to write the winning stories. The episode nevertheless sparked an uncomfortable debate about authorship and the growing difficulty of distinguishing suspicion from evidence.

The Caine Prize for African Writing faced similar questions after Zimbabwean writer Simbarashe Steyn Kundizeza won the 2026 award for The Blue Fighter. Allegations of AI involvement prompted the organisers to investigate. The claims must be distinguished from proof, and the outcome of any inquiry must be respected. Yet the controversy raises a larger question for writers and readers alike: in an age when machines can produce convincing prose, how do we protect the integrity of creative work without casting doubt on writers unfairly?

For someone who writes, this debate strikes close to home. Writing is not simply about putting words together in a way that sounds impressive. Sometimes a sentence comes from something we witnessed years ago. Sometimes a story emerges from an uncomfortable truth we have struggled to articulate. Our experiences, observations and memories find their way into our work, often without even realising it.

AI can reproduce the language of grief, love or loss. It can imitate a writer’s style and construct a story that appears polished. But where does imitation end and originality begin? And when a literary award is given, are we recognising the story alone or the human imagination and effort behind it?

These are not easy questions, particularly when the technology is advancing faster than our ability to establish clear rules around its use. Nor should we assume that every piece of polished writing is machine generated. The danger lies in both directions: accepting artificial output as original human work without disclosure, and casting suspicion on writers without sufficient evidence.

This is where Chopra’s argument becomes relevant. An open mind does not require blind acceptance. If AI is to become part of our lives, we must learn to use it thoughtfully, question its responses and recognise its limitations. Technology can assist us, but it cannot relieve us of the responsibility to think for ourselves.

Unlike Chopra’s earlier books, which explore the mysteries of existence, spiritual discovery and human potential, Digital Dharma confronts a change already taking place around us. It asks us to consider how we might preserve our humanity while embracing tools that promise to make life easier.

I am not convinced that we need to choose between spirituality and technology. Both can occupy space in our lives. But I do believe we need to be careful about what we surrender in exchange for convenience. If we begin to depend on machines not only for information but also for our opinions, our creativity and our understanding of ourselves, we may eventually stop asking the questions that matter.

Perhaps that is the real value of Digital Dharma. It brings us back to a familiar question in a new setting: as our machines become increasingly capable, how do we ensure that we continue to grow as human beings?