J

Jambu (rose apple) tree

Love of a Boy with a fruit tree and an Experiment with ChatGPT

6 min read·Jan 31

The fruit tree next to our home is my refuge. It is my escape. It creates ripples in me when the fruit season is on.

The tree’s pink rose apple fruits are full of hidden desires for a boy.

The rose apple tree is intergenerational, planted by my grandfather decades ago. Its roots are spread and deep. It is tall, around 20 feet, five times my height.

Making chirping noises, birds feast on the rose apple fruits at all hours.

Under the tree is a concrete block used as a resting place for a water basin. I wash in the morning there before school, under the rose apple tree. I look above and am determined to eat rose apples in the afternoon after school. I mark the fruits and their location mentally as I wash.

I learned to climb on this tree. But it was not all smooth sailing, this learning to climb. To balance your feet, one’s body weight, figure out the strength of a tree branch and all that. I fell a few times trying to learn the fine art of tree climbing. Fortunately for me, no bone was broken. Unfazed by my falls, I kept going back to the tree, climbing it yet again and again.

Rose apples are small, smaller and soft than the apples. They are pear-shaped with a pleasant aroma and are firm and sweet. But, unfortunately, it perishes early, with short shelf life. So, one had to pick and eat them then and there.

These birds, mynahs, barbets, and parrots bite the best parts and leave the carcass of the fruits on the tree. I wouldn’t say I like that. They were my competitors.

Every day after school, I climb the rose apple tree during the fruit season. It is the first thing I do. Then, resting on a branch, I pick the fruits, eat them cherishingly, and throw the discarded middle of the fruit at my younger sister or brother, if they are playing nearby, under the tree.

My sister and brother can only pick fruits from the tree’s low-hanging branches, trailing and dangling at their height. The best and ripened fruits are above them; they are exclusively mine and these visiting birds, my rivals.

The rose apple leaves are super green. They also give out an earthly fragrance. The tree chirps and vibrates when I place my feet on tree branches. Perhaps I disturbed the tree’s sleep in the afternoon when it rests after birds have flown away for their afternoon siesta.

Recently I experimented with ChatGPT and came out with three new versions of the story generated by AI.

The ChatGPT version — in a boy’s language

The fruit tree near our house is my hangout spot. It’s where I go to chill. I get all excited when the fruit season starts. The tree has these sweet pink apples that I love. My grandpa planted it a long time ago, and now it’s super big — like 20 feet tall, five times taller than me! Birds come to eat the apples all day long, making lots of noise. In the morning, I wash up at a basin under the tree before school. I plan to eat rose apples when I get home in the afternoon. I remember where I see the good ones while I’m washing. I had to practice climbing the tree. It was a bit tricky — I had to balance and figure out how strong the branches were. I fell a few times, but I never broke anything. I kept trying until I got good at climbing. The apples are small and round, sweeter and softer than regular apples. But they don’t last long, so you must eat them immediately. These birds — mynahs, barbets, and parrots — always eat the best parts. I don’t like that they’re taking my apples. Every day after school, I climb the tree and eat as many apples as possible. I sit on a branch and enjoy them. If my sister or brother are playing nearby, I might toss them the middle part of the apple. They can only reach the low-hanging branches, but the best apples are up high, where I can get them. The tree has super green leaves that smell amazing. It shakes a little when I climb it, maybe because I wake it up from its afternoon nap.

The ChatGPT version — a 20-year-old writer’s version

The rose apple tree by my house is my sanctuary. It’s where I go to escape reality. The pink fruit it bears triggers something deep within me during harvest season.

The tree was planted by my grandpa years ago and has deep roots. It’s about 20 feet tall, way taller than me. Birds are constantly eating the fruits and chirping away.

I use the concrete block under the tree as a wash basin before school and plan to eat the fruits after class. I learned to climb the tree but fell a few times in the process. Despite the setbacks, I keep trying until I mastered it.

The rose apples are smaller and sweeter than regular apples, but they don’t last long. Mynahs, barbets, and parrots often bite into the best parts, leaving the rest for me.

Every day after school, I immediately climb the tree and pick the ripe fruits. I delightfully eat and sometimes throw the leftover at my younger sibling if they’re playing below. My sis and bro can only reach the low-hanging fruits, but the best ones are for my avian competitors and me.

The tree’s leaves are a vibrant green and have a fresh scent. It even seems to come alive when I step on its branches, like I’m waking it up from its afternoon nap.

The ChatGPT version — in an older adult’s language

The fruit tree by our home is my retreat, my solace. I’m taken aback every time fruit season arrives.

That rose apple tree, with its pinkish fruit full of a young man’s yearnings, was planted by my grandfather many years ago. It stands at 20 feet, five, with deep and broad roots.

Birds come and go, chirping and feasting on the rose apples all day long.

I start my mornings washing under the tree, where a concrete block a water basin. I look up at the tree, marking where the best fruits are, and resolve to have some after school. It wasn’t easy learning to climb the tree, with falls and bruises along the way, but I kept trying until I succeeded.

Rose apples are small and sweet, but they don’t last long. So I have to devour them before the birds, mynahs, barbets, and parrots take the best parts and leave the remnants.

Every day after school, I climb the rose apple tree and pick the ripest fruits, savouring each bite. If my sister or brother plays below, I might toss them the scraps. The best fruits are beyond their reach, reserved for the visiting birds and me.

The rose apple leaves are bright green with a pleasant earthy scent. The tree shivers as I step on its branches, perhaps waking it from its afternoon slumber while the birds fly away to rest from the mid-day heat.

The ChatGPT version — formal version

The fruit tree by our home is my sanctuary, a place to escape. Its pink rose apples stir feelings within me during fruit season. My grandfather planted the tall tree (20ft) with deep roots, and it is a source of joy for birds and myself. I wash under it before school, marking the location of ripe fruits for later. I learned to climb it, and even though I fell a few times, I kept trying. Rose apples are small, fragrant, and sweet but have a short shelf life. I compete with birds for the best fruits, climbing the tree every day after school to pick and eat them. My siblings can only reach the lower branches, but the best fruits are mine. The leaves are lush and fragrant, and the tree makes noises and vibrates when I climb it, possibly waking it from its afternoon rest.

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