Birmingham’s mills wrecked Indian weavers.
Now AI is doing the same to Studio Ghibli.
An 84-year-old tradition.
Thousands employed. Millions enchanted.
Such magnificent art.
Such beautiful storytelling.
Gone. With a single, dumb prompt.
I’ve seen this before.
Unions striking against computers.
My father watched tongawallas in Pune block autorickshaws at Swargate.
Even Mahatma Phule opposed Pune Mandai once.
(Yes, that Mandai, which is now named after him.)
Every revolution comes dressed as disaster.
We know this.
Progress always kills something.
Usually, something beautiful.
I understand the outrage.
I do.
Plagiarism. Empathy. Human connection.
Art. Culture. Ethics.
But we also know the rules.
Tech marches on.
It does not wait.
It does not blink.
And it does not apologise.
It cannibalises the past.
And eats its ancestors.
Without remorse.
Burps. And carries on.
So here’s my real question:
We cry. We rage.
But for how long?
To what end?
If we know this is inevitable,
If we know AI is not a passing fad,
If we know fighting it is just shadow-boxing…
Then how much mourning is enough?
When does grief become performance?
And when do we stop clutching at tradition
and start building what’s next?
Asking for a friend.
Who also loved Totoro.
