Animation: From Children's Treat to Universal Language

Or: How I Discovered That Adults Sobbing Over Animated Characters Is Considered Normal Behaviour

"So you write… cartoons?"

My cousin’s voice had that particular lilt people use when they’re talking about a slightly odd hobby - like collecting bottle caps or defending pineapple on pizza. We were at a family wedding in Mumbai, and I’d just made the tactical error of telling the aunties’ informal interrogation squad about my work on Disney adaptations.

The silence that followed wasn’t dramatic, just… pointed. The sort you get when you’ve said something a bit off at a dinner party - not enough to scandalize, but enough to make everyone suddenly find their mangoes extremely interesting.

"Animation," I corrected, knowing it wouldn't help.

"Ah yes, for the children," nodded one of them with the satisfied air of someone who'd successfully diagnosed a minor ailment. "Very sweet. When will you write proper stories?"

And there it was. The word that's haunted every conversation about my career since I started: proper.

The Great Indian Animation Shame

In India, animation occupies the same cultural space as children's birthday clowns – necessary for keeping small humans entertained, but hardly something a grown person admits to taking seriously. It's tolerated with the kind of benevolent condescension usually reserved for finger painting or believing in fairy tales past the age of eight.

I spent years watching relatives' faces glaze over when I tried explaining the narrative complexity of animated storytelling. My aunt once asked if I planned to "graduate" to real writing, as if animation were some sort of creative nursery school I'd eventually outgrow. The assumption being that anyone with actual talent would obviously move on to live-action films or, at the very least, books without pictures.

Even within India’s animation scene, there was this faint air of apology about it. Productions either dished out moral lessons with all the finesse of a public health ad, or retold mythological tales with the emotional depth of a Wikipedia entry. Suggesting that animation could offer sophisticated, adult storytelling felt about as plausible as claiming nursery rhymes contained hidden philosophical truths.

My work was always on the defensive. I was crafting stories with real depth-complex characters, layered themes - but forever explaining why adults might actually enjoy them. It was exhausting, like being a stand-up comic who has to pause after every punchline to explain the joke.

London: Where Cartoon Tears Are Socially Acceptable

Then I moved to London and watched The Boy and the Heron at the local cinema.

The audience was packed with people my age and older. No children dragging reluctant parents - these were adults who'd actively chosen to spend their evening watching a heron help a boy find his dead mother. I could hear some sniffs around while wiping my own eyes. It was as if we were all a part of this animated universe, which was real as reality can be.

Nobody was apologising. Nobody was explaining their presence. Nobody looked around nervously to check if other adults thought they were weird for being emotionally invested in animated characters. It was revolutionary.

At Flame Tree Publishing, where I work now, colleagues discuss animated films with the same analytical depth they'd apply to Charlie Kaufman or Denis Villeneuve. Animation isn't segregated into some special category that requires qualification or apology – it's just another form of storytelling, judged on its narrative merits rather than dismissed for its medium.

The first time someone asked me about the thematic implications of a Pixar film I'd mentioned, I almost looked around to see if they were talking to someone else. No preamble about "I know it's just a kids' film, but… " No defensive justification. Just genuine intellectual curiosity about story structure and character development.

The Dignity of Not Having to Explain Yourself

Working here has taught me something I never expected: how much creative energy I was wasting on justification. In Mumbai, I spent more time defending my medium than perfecting my craft. Every conversation about my work began with explaining why animation mattered, why it deserved respect, why adults might find it engaging.

Here, I just… create. I don’t write for animation much, but still adapt them for the India market. My last animated adaptation being Disney’s The Little Mermaid. Adapting content has taught me something valuable about making dialogues feel authentic across cultures. Years of figuring out how to make Hindi conversations sound natural while staying true to the original story, crafting exchanges that felt like real families talking rather than translated scripts - that skill translates into everything I write now.

At Flame Tree Publishing, the stories stand or fall on their own merits. Whether it's dialogue in a fantasy novel or character interactions in a short story collection. The difference isn't just professional respect - it's personal liberation. I no longer have to defend why dialogue adaptation matters, or explain how making animated characters speak like real people requires genuine skill. Whether I'm working on Hindi adaptations of Disney films or crafting original stories for a folk-horror series, the focus is on the craft - making conversations authentic, characters believable, emotions genuine.

Publishing here reflects this attitude. Graphic novels sit next to literary fiction without segregation. Visual storytelling isn't treated as training wheels for "proper" books – it's recognised as its own complete art form with unique strengths. The medium serves the story, not the other way around.

What strikes me most is how this acceptance creates space for more sophisticated work. When you're not constantly proving your legitimacy, you can push boundaries, take risks, explore complex themes. Animation here tackles subjects that would make live-action filmmakers sweat – death, depression, existential crisis, political corruption – because the medium isn't assumed to be inherently childish.

The Tears of Grown-Ups

I've developed a theory about why animation works so powerfully on adult audiences here: without the distraction of celebrity faces or photorealistic settings, you connect directly with the emotional truth of the story. A well-animated character expressing grief can devastate you in ways that mannered live-action performances might not achieve.

But more than that, there's something honest about adults who allow themselves to be moved by animated stories. It requires a kind of openness that cultural sophistication often trains out of us. The willingness to engage with characters who don't exist, in worlds that couldn't be real, through an art form that some consider childish – it's actually quite brave.

The Revolution in My Living Room

These days, when I video call my daughter in Mumbai, she sometimes asks about the projects I'm working on. She wants to know about the stories, the characters, the creative challenges. Not when I'll move on to "serious" work, but how the current series is developing. She's started to understand that the skills I learned making Ariel sound like a real Indian teenager - crafting dialogue that flows naturally, creating conversations that feel authentic - those same skills shape everything I write now.

The shift is gradual but real. Her friends are impressed that her mum works on "international films." The medium is becoming secondary to the global reach, the artistic recognition, the creative possibilities. Animation is slowly losing its cultural quarantine status, at least among younger Indians who've grown up with Pixar and Studio Ghibli as part of their cultural landscape.

But I treasure something else: living somewhere that allows me to cry at cartoon fish without shame. Where emotional investment in animated characters is seen as evidence of good storytelling rather than emotional immaturity. Where animation is recognised as a powerful way of exploring what it means to be human, using tools that make the impossible feel devastatingly real.

My work finally exists in a world that understands what I always knew but couldn't always articulate: that the most profound truths about humanity are often best told through characters who never lived, in worlds that never were, using an art form that makes magic look effortless.

Though I still feel a secret thrill when I see businesspeople sobbing at Inside Out. Some validations never lose their shine.