AI can take our jobs, but not our jokes

Every week, a notification—either from a friend's tag on a news post or a mistakenly subscribed website—pops up on our phone, spitting: "AI is coming for our job." 

Let's face it, AI is doing everything we were supposed to do—writing emails excusing your sick leave, transforming your long-edited picture into "aesthetic" art, and, to some extent, even writing the code you were paid for. Everything!

But what's really haunting Bangalis is not whether AI will take our jobs or not, but that AI might take our humour too?

Bhai, that's where we draw the line. Because comedy, especially in Bangladesh, isn't about jokes or punchlines. It's about the people, the timing, and often the only therapy to survive everyday chaos.

Bangladeshi humour is not for the weak. It's a volatile mix of sarcasm and satire, seasoned with political spice and served with a side of emotional trauma.

See, humour in Bangladesh is a lifestyle. From a rickshaw puller's witty reply to the tea-stall philosopher quoting, "Ami ekta cinema dekhsi" as a historical reference—humour is the ultimate survival strategy.

The poor AI cannot even decode the matchmaking aunty's favourite line: "Apnar chele to boro hoye geche, ekhon to ekta meye khujte hobe"—which is not a compliment, it's an insult wrapped in societal pressure.

Will AI ever understand the tragedy of being single in a joint family? Or being surrounded by people with unsolicited life advice? Or the heartbreak of being scammed by a kebab roll that tasted like an eraser?

Doubtful.

Bangladeshi mums? One passive-aggressive "Amar kichu bolar nai" carries more emotional weight than the entire season of Breaking Bad.

Even in language, we are unbeatable. One single "Bhai" can mean excitement, fear, anger, or just, "please, move aside."

AI would fail to uncover the genius behind "Meyer graduation shesh?"

On the surface, it sounds like a proud relative celebrating your academic achievement. But in reality, it's a matrimonial alarm bell disguised as small talk meaning, "So, when's the wedding?"

An algorithm might detect the words, but never the pause after "shesh?"—the emotional equivalent of loading a gun. The side-eye to your parents, who are the real targets. The calculated cruelty of ruining your graduation joy.

And what about our political satire?

We turned a PM's metro rail tears into the year's biggest meme with only four words: "Natok kom koro piyo"—making it the meme of the year. It was everywhere, from social media's comment sections to the backseat banners of vehicles.

Could an AI ever come up with that?

Our rickshaw pullers can roast politicians while holding half a cup of overly sweet tea in one hand and toast in the other. How is a silicon chip even supposed to compete?

Then there's the ultimate scene of a crowded tea stall in Nilkhet during evening rush hour.

A tired customer slides a 10-taka note across the counter and mutters the fateful words: "Bhaiya, ekto kom mishti diyen."

What follows is Bangladesh's absolute cinema.

Without missing a beat or looking up from the cups, the tea-wala fires back: "Mishti kom dile diabetes kom hobe?"

Regulars chuckle into their cups, while the customer sighs, knowing they have walked into this trap.

This exchange contains customer service, social commentary on our healthcare system, and expert-level roasting.

The magic isn't just in the words, but everything unsaid:

The commentary on our collective health anxieties ("Will one less spoon of milk prevent diabetes?").

The subtle class jab ("Who do you think you are, ordering customisation?").

The fact that this entire exchange is delivered while the tea-wala simultaneously pours tea, calculates four separate orders in his head, and wipes sweat with his gamcha.

No AI could process these layers while maintaining the perfect balance of sarcasm and service.

AI might be powerful—but can it survive Dhaka's traffic, a heatwave, and still crack a joke when someone spills fuchka on your only ironed outfit?

Or will it ever be successful in understanding why bargaining with rickshaw-walas is a national sport?

Na Bhai, na.

So, is AI ready to take over Bangladeshi humour? Not until it learns the art of giving a look that says everything and nothing.

Not until AI understands the tension of tea-stall debate, or the pain of a man being asked about his salary before his name.

Not until it can decode "Mane bujhlam na" with a raised eyebrow and smirk, our humour is safe.

Because no algorithm can replicate the masterpiece that is a Bangladeshi aunty's side-eye.

Sinthia Kamal is an undergraduate student of Global Studies and Governance at Independent University, Bangladesh, with a passion for Bangladesh's chaotic humour.

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions and views of The Business Standard.