Why we are so obsessed with Bollywood actors that we forget they are human

It begins with concern. It always does.

When news about Salim Khan’s health surfaced, it was met with genuine worry. After all, he is not just the father of Salman Khan, but one of the most influential voices in Indian cinema. His words shaped generations of films; his legacy is deeply personal to the industry. Wanting to know if he is okay is human. But somewhere between concern and curiosity, something slips. Camera lenses hover outside homes. Speculation replaces restraint. Private moments are turned into public updates. And before we realise it, empathy quietly mutates into entitlement.

This is the uncomfortable truth of our relationship with Bollywood stars today. We claim to love them, yet we rarely allow them the dignity of privacy—especially when they are at their most vulnerable.

India’s obsession with celebrities has always been intense, but the lines were clearer once. Stars appeared on screen, in interviews, and at premieres. Their personal lives were largely mediated through magazines and carefully curated appearances. Today, the boundary has collapsed. Social media, paparazzi culture and the relentless appetite for “exclusive” content have created a world where access is mistaken for affection.

When a senior figure like Salim Khan is unwell, the instinct should be silence and respect. Instead, what we often see is a media swarm—updates every hour, visuals without consent, whispered diagnoses disguised as news. Ageing, illness and fragility are universal human experiences. Yet when they belong to a public figure, they are treated like consumable content.

This pattern repeats itself across generations of Bollywood.

Consider Anushka Sharma and Virat Kohli. Their decision to shield their children from public view was not an act of arrogance, as some critics suggested. It was a conscious choice rooted in safety and sanity. And yet, the demand to see “how their babies look” persists. Photographers have secretly clicked children, fans have shared images without consent, and the internet has justified it as harmless curiosity.

But there is nothing harmless about stripping a child of anonymity. Childhood is not a privilege earned through fame; it is a right. When we normalise the idea that celebrity children are public property, we erode the very concept of consent.

The same entitlement shadows Deepika Padukone and Ranveer Singh. As a couple, they are celebrated for their openness and charisma, yet that openness is often demanded rather than offered. From mental health conversations to personal milestones, there is an expectation of access. Silence is treated as secrecy. Privacy is framed as strategy.

Ironically, we applaud stars for speaking about mental health, but rarely allow them the quiet required to protect it.

The obsession turns darker when illness and vulnerability are involved. The coverage around veteran actor Dharmendra was a particularly painful reminder of how far we have drifted. Reports of a medical staff member allegedly making a personal video during a sensitive moment were not just unethical—they were brutal. Hospitals are meant to be spaces of trust. When even medical professionals forget the sanctity of consent, it reflects a culture where celebrity status overrides basic humanity.

This is not journalism. This is voyeurism wearing a press badge.

Then there are moments that feel smaller but cut just as deeply. Videos made of Alia Bhatt’s home without permission circulated casually online, framed as “fan content” or “exclusive visuals." A home is not a set. It is where one feels unguarded. Filming it without consent is not admiration—it is intrusion.

What links all these incidents is a dangerous assumption: That being a public figure means forfeiting the right to boundaries.

“Yes, but they chose fame,” is the most common argument. But fame is not a contract that signs away one’s right to privacy, safety or grief. Visibility does not equal consent. Acting in films does not mean agreeing to be watched in hospitals, homes or moments of mourning.

The media ecosystem bears significant responsibility. In the race for clicks, restraint has become optional. A secretly recorded video often outperforms a thoughtful report. Algorithms reward speed, shock and intimacy—no matter how unethical the source. But media houses respond to demand, and demand is shaped by us.

Every time we click, share or comment on intrusive content, we vote for more of it.

What is often forgotten is that celebrities experience pain without filters. They worry about their parents’ health. They fear for their children’s safety. They grieve losses privately, even when the world is watching. The difference is not that their pain is lesser—it is that it is monetised.

This culture also sets a troubling precedent for society at large. When we justify violating a celebrity’s privacy, we quietly normalise surveillance, consent erosion and public shaming. Today it is a star outside a hospital. Tomorrow it could be anyone deemed “interesting enough”.

So, where do we draw the line?

The answer is not to stop reporting on public figures altogether. It is to report with humanity. Hospitals, homes and children should be non-negotiable boundaries. Health updates should come from consented statements, not leaked visuals. Ageing parents should be allowed dignity, not speculation.

As audiences, we must learn to pause. Not every update deserves attention. Not every video deserves a view. Choosing not to consume intrusive content is not apathy—it is ethics in action.

And as humans, perhaps it is time to remember why we fell in love with cinema in the first place. Bollywood taught us empathy, sacrifice, love and restraint through its stories. It is tragic that we forget these lessons when dealing with the people who brought those stories to life.

Salim Khan’s health should remind us of something fundamental: behind every famous surname is a family navigating fear, hope and vulnerability—just like ours. They do not owe us access to their pain.

If we truly admire our stars, the most respectful thing we can sometimes do is step back. Look away. Let silence be an act of kindness.

Because compassion is not proven by how closely we watch—but by knowing when not to.