Divya Hemant Kharnare’s 'P for Paparazzi' opens with a familiar scene: flashing lights, shouting crowds, and the sound of shutters firing in quick succession. But instead of centring the celebrities who usually occupy these frames, the camera follows Manoj Mahara: a paparazzo from Nepal who works for the well-known celebrity photographer Viral Bhayani. The 26-minute documentary captures the grind of a man who spends his nights chasing the perfect shot, not for fame, but to make a living and to save his brother’s life. Through Manoj’s story, the film peels back the glamour of the entertainment industry and exposes the desperation and moral conflict that lie beneath.

The strength of P for Paparazzi lies in how it humanises a figure most people dismiss or ignore. Paparazzi are often seen as nuisances — those who invade privacy for profit — but here, we see Manoj’s vulnerability, exhaustion, and emotional turmoil. His constant movement between airports, parties, and film sets reveals a job defined by unpredictability and survival. A single photo can mean a day’s meal or a medical bill. The irony is stark: Manoj’s camera captures lives of unimaginable wealth while his own remains precarious. The film’s power lies in this juxtaposition. It asks us to look beyond the image and confront the system that makes such disparities both visible and invisible at once.

The film also invites reflection on the peculiar nature of India’s celebrity culture. In the West, paparazzi have long been part of a profit-driven media industry. From TMZ to the Daily Mail, they thrive on public curiosity and scandal. There is regulation, though limited, and a sense of boundaries that celebrities can occasionally negotiate or legally enforce. In India, however, the relationship between the paparazzi and stars is far more symbiotic and unregulated. The so-called “paps” are not outsiders but integral to the PR machinery that sustains Bollywood’s image economy. Celebrities often informally collaborate with them, calling them before events or flights, ensuring that 'candid' photos circulate online. What appears spontaneous is often orchestrated. Yet, as P for Paparazzi shows, the workers behind this machinery rarely share in its rewards.

Indian paparazzi culture is also shaped by a deep class divide. For many photographers like Manoj, this work is a means of upward mobility, a chance to be near fame even if it is never their own. Their presence reflects a larger truth about our society: the coexistence of devotion and deprivation; glamour and grit. In this sense, the paparazzo becomes a mirror of the Indian dream itself — always reaching for something brighter, often just out of reach. Western paparazzi culture, while invasive, stems from consumerism and voyeurism; in India, it is more closely tied to aspiration and survival.

P for Paparazzi ultimately asks a simple but powerful question: who gets to be seen? By turning the camera on Manoj, Kharnare gives visibility to the invisible; to those who sustain the fantasy of celebrity but remain faceless in its glare. The film doesn’t moralise or romanticise; it observes. And in doing so, it exposes how the very act of looking — whether through a camera or a screen — is never neutral. Someone always profits, and someone always remains unseen.

P for Paparazzi is less about fame than about the price of proximity to it. It is about the fatigue of chasing other people’s dreams, the loneliness of watching joy through glass, and the dignity of those who keep clicking even when the world doesn’t look back. Through Manoj, we see not just one man’s struggle, but an entire culture based on visibility; a culture that worships images while forgetting and othering the people who make them possible.

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