When Chandu Salim Kumar lashed out at those filming his family's grief, he was not merely expressing anger. He was demanding something that should never have required asking for in the first place: the right to mourn a loved one in peace. The incident has once again raised uncomfortable questions about celebrity culture, media intrusion, and our growing appetite for turning private sorrow into public spectacle.
A day after veteran Malayalam actor Salim Kumar's death and funeral, a television journalist wrote a post lamenting the lack of privacy at the funeral, describing how random YouTubers intruded upon a family's moment of grief. What was even more interesting was how he ended the post: "But there weren't any real journalists among them."
There is a striking irony in that declaration, considering that the predecessors of such an insensitive trend can be traced, at least in part, to television news over the years. The only difference is that these YouTubers, mostly young and largely unregulated, arrive without institutional credibility or editorial restraint, except perhaps the pressure to garner views.
That is not to accuse the television news industry of single-handedly creating the trend, but to point to a disturbing reality that has also been amplified by social media. What once seemed like journalists pushing boundaries under the pressure of TRPs has now transitioned into a far more chaotic and troubling YouTube culture, one that routinely breaches privacy, decency, and consent.
So, when Salim Kumar’s son, Chandu Salim Kumar, lashed out at those craning their necks and shoving phone cameras forward to capture his family's moment of immense grief, it felt oddly tragic. It was a son begging for something basic, a moment to privately cry and grieve his father's final moments. What once seemed taken for granted now has to be loudly demanded, as though mourning in peace were a right that needed defending. The real indignity lies in the fact that we have turned grief into a form of voyeurism.
In the last few years, especially after the social media boom, celebrity funerals have increasingly been transformed into sites of surveillance. One wonders how actors and public figures navigate this new reality of walking into a colleague's funeral only to have every reaction, inaction, and even absence scrutinised.
In fact, a similar scene unfolded last December at the funeral of actor-writer Sreenivasan. Though there was no public outburst, what remained uncomfortable to watch was the absolute lack of privacy afforded to a grieving family. When director Sathyan Anthikad placed a pen and paper on Sreenivasan's body before the cremation, even as his son Dhyan Sreenivasan wept uncontrollably beside him, it should have remained a deeply personal moment of remembrance, friendship, and mourning. Instead, cameras turned it into yet another spectacle for public consumption, an intrusion into grief at its most vulnerable.
But there is also evidence that this culture of intruding into the private spaces of celebrities predates social media. Actor Manoj K Jayan once recalled in an interview how a young Prithviraj Sukumaran was furious at the behaviour of the crowd gathered at his father's funeral in 1997. According to him, Prithviraj felt that many were there not to mourn Sukumaran's passing, but to catch a glimpse of the actors in attendance. It was an observation that revealed how easily even a funeral could be transformed into a media event, where the presence of the living overshadowed the loss of the dead.
Then there is the question of how YouTubers, news channels, and social media platforms monetise these moments of grief. Take, for instance, the numerous reels circulating Chandu Salim Kumar's outburst, often uploaded under titles such as "Chandu Salim Kumar shouting" or "Chandu Salim Kumar angry", with many garnering hundreds of thousands of views. Then there are the reaction videos from influencers, dissecting and repackaging the same moment for yet another round of engagement and revenue. News channels, too, have joined the cycle, moderating discussions on whether the young man's reaction was justified. So once again, more views, more TRPs.
The irony is that in such moments, the credibility of the channel or the news organisation scarcely becomes a point of contention. What matters is shock value, outrage, and the ability to provoke a reaction. The very ecosystem that profits from these intrusions then turns around and laments the culture that sustains them.
Is there a solution to stop these prying eyes? Doubtful. Celebrities today are often treated as public entities who are entitled to little privacy, even in their everyday lives. These largely unregulated cameras are everywhere.
At airports, they follow celebrities as they walk in or out, only to release reels the next day set to dramatic background music. If a celebrity ignores an entitled demand for a selfie, a new reel appears condemning their "arrogance". If they forget to wave, smile, or acknowledge the camera, it triggers yet another round of “be grateful, we made you what you are" comments, rants, and reaction videos.
For women celebrities, the situation is often even worse. The gaze becomes more invasive, giving way to objectification, voyeuristic camera angles, body-shaming remarks, and unsolicited tutorials on their appearance, makeup, or clothing choices. Look at what happens every year during Attukal Pongala, where cameras operated by YouTubers relentlessly trail celebrity devotees, often filming them from angles that would be considered objectionable in almost any other context.
In public spaces, these “content” creators relentlessly pester celebrities with needless questions, and many of them, conscious of how quickly silence can be interpreted as arrogance, respond despite their discomfort. The problem, then, extends far beyond funerals. It is rooted in a culture that increasingly treats public visibility as a surrender of privacy, and access as an entitlement rather than a privilege.
And this phenomenon is not just confined to celebrities. We have all seen footage of cameras being shoved into the faces of a mother whose child has just been killed, or a father struggling to speak after losing his daughter to a horrific crime. The names and circumstances may differ, but the impulse remains the same: to turn grief into content and suffering into something to be consumed.
Perhaps the more uncomfortable question is not why cameras keep intruding into moments of grief, but why so many of us keep watching them. If television news channels started turning celebrity funerals into live spectacles, it was also because of rising TRPs. So, one is inclined to believe that the demand existed long before the algorithms arrived.
Since when did private grief become a public performance, and why have we become such willing spectators?
Neelima Menon has worked in the newspaper industry for more than a decade. She has covered Hindi and Malayalam cinema for The New Indian Express and has worked briefly with Silverscreen.in. She now writes exclusively about Malayalam cinema, contributing to Fullpicture.in and thenewsminute.com. She is known for her detailed and insightful features on misogyny and the lack of representation of women in Malayalam cinema.
Views expressed are the author’s own.