Theyyam: Living Gods on the Malabar CoastGods own Country

Welcome to this installment in my series on mastering photography as an art form. I’m Avanish Dureha and whether you’re just picking up a camera or you’re an experienced photographer aiming to reignite your creative spark, this series is designed for you.

As we journey together through sacred spaces, hidden trails, and transformative destinations, we’ll delve into the essential skills that transform simple snapshots into compelling stories. At the heart of all visual art lies “the art of seeing.” Each article in this series blends hands-on photography advice with the spirit of mindful exploration, illustrating how travel and contemplation can profoundly enrich your visual storytelling.

Photography note: All images presented in this series are captured with deep respect for local customs and permissions. Especially at temples like those in Bidiyal or Nileshwar, it is crucial for photographers to be considerate and avoid offending the local community. Sometimes, the most profound moments are best experienced through presence rather than through a viewfinder.

If you find this exploration inspiring, subscribe on Substack (Dureha.substack.com) for more articles, photography tips, travel insights, and exclusive challenges. Together, let’s embark on a journey to see the world through the lens—and sometimes beyond it—in ways you’ve never experienced before.

My Journey from Bidiyal to Nileshwar

In the lush, mist-kissed hills of northern Kerala, where ancient palm groves whisper secrets to the wind and temple bells echo through time, I discovered a living tradition that would forever change how I understood the divine: Theyyam. More than just a performance or ritual, Theyyam is a sacred communion between the human and the divine, a dance of transformation where mortals become gods, spirits, and ancestral guardians.

OM-3, OM 12-40 F2.8, F2.8, 1/400s, 12mm, ISO 200

When I Watched Men Become Gods

I’ll never forget the first time someone explained Theyyam to me. “It’s not a performance,” my guide insisted as we walked through Bidiyal village. “The deity actually enters the dancer’s body.” I was skeptical, until I witnessed it myself.

OM-1, Olympus M.40-150 2.8, f/2.8, 150mm, 1/125s, ISO 200

Theyyam is a traditional folk art form originating from the Malabar region of Kerala, India. It combines dance, music, and dramatic enactment to honor deities, ancestors, and nature spirits. The term “Theyyam” comes from the Malayalam word “Theyyattam,” which means “dance of god.” But these dry facts don’t capture what I experienced.

What I learned during my visits is that Theyyam (also spelled Teyyam, Teyyāṭṭam) is a ritual possession in which the deity temporarily occupies the body of a human medium. Rooted in pre-Brahmanical spirit cults, the word itself is a contraction of daivam (god). Between the twelfth and sixteenth centuries, as Brahmanical temples and Nayar militias moved southward along the Kerala coast, they absorbed local spirits into a pantheon headed by Vishnu, Shiva, and the Mother Goddess. But these village spirits didn’t disappear they were given bodies, literally, through Theyyam.

OM-3, OM12-40mm F2.8, f/3.2, 40mm, 1/80s, ISO 200

Today, 450 distinct deities “come down” each winter (October–April) across Kannur and Kasaragod districts. I watched these transformations happen in kaavu (sacred groves) and tharavadu courtyards, surrounded by entire villages and people of all castes and religions gathering together.

Understanding the Pantheon

During my travels, local priests helped me understand how scholars divide these rites into three classes:

Vishnu-Murti Theyyams: Heroic ancestors legitimized as Vaishnava avatars (like the Vishnumoorthy I photographed)

Mother-Goddess (Bhagavati) Theyyams: Fertility and epidemic controllers (including the fierce Raktachamundi I witnessed)

Spirit/Guardian (Bhootham, Kshetrapalan) Theyyams: Boundary keepers and revenge agents (the unforgettable Gulikan)

What fascinated me most was learning that each Theyyam is distinguished by its origin myth, costume code, drum pattern, and the community that “owns” the right to impersonate it. About 30 different castes, from Malayar toddy-tappers to Vannan washermen, serve as ritual specialists, receiving dakshina (cash, areca, rice) and shares of sacrificial offerings.

Witnessing Caste Reversal

One moment stays with me above all others. During a Theyyam ceremony in Bidiyal, I watched a ritual specialist, a man from a historically marginalized caste, become completely transformed. As the deity possessed him, he began commanding the wealthy landlords in attendance, even making them prostrate before him. For those hours, the entire social pyramid inverted before my eyes.

OM-1, Olympus M.40-150 f2.8, f/2.8, 64mm, 1/60s, ISO 200

A young performer later told me how his generation uses smartphone videos to negotiate better pay, forcing temple committees to publish rates on WhatsApp. But he also pointed out something that troubled him—women are still excluded from possession roles. Even the “Bhagavati” (goddess) forms I photographed were performed by men wearing breasts molded from coconut shells.

The Theyyams I Photographed

Vishnumoorthy in Bidiyal: The Moment Time Stopped

My first morning in Bidiyal village, I arrived at the Sree Vishnumoorthy Temple during the Makaravilakku festival. Through my lens, I captured the intricate face paint being applied layer by layer, the towering mudi (headgear) being positioned just so. Then, as the drums began, I watched the performer close his eyes and raise his arms in invocation.

An elderly villager leaned close to me and whispered, “When Vishnumoorthy appears, the earth itself seems to pause.” Looking through my viewfinder at that radiant energy, I believed him.

OM-1, Olympus M.75mm f1.8, f/1.8, 75mm, 1/400s, ISO 200

Vishnumoorthy is revered as the guardian of agricultural cycles and fertility, all things crucial for this farming village.

Kaliyachan: The Guardian Who Commands

The second Theyyam I photographed in Bidiyal was Kaliyachan, and nothing prepared me for his intensity. Dressed in red and black, adorned with iron chains and carrying a skull-topped staff, the performer’s transformation was complete. His fierce expression, captured in my photographs, still gives me chills.

OM-3, OM12-40 F2.8, f/3.2, 12mm, 1/100s, ISO 200

“He does not dance, he commands,” a devotee told me, and watching Kaliyachan circle the courtyard, I understood. This is a legendary warrior spirit who defended the village from invaders, and even now, he’s believed to ward off evil spirits and natural disasters.

Gulikan: Dancing with the Forest

The third Theyyam I witnessed—and this happens only once in six years, Gulikan arrived at the site of Bidiyal temple where Vishnumoorthy and Kaliyachan were performing. But the tribal Theyyam stayed outside the temple premises. As a tribal forest deity, he is not allowed entry into the sacred temple grounds.

I had earlier followed the villagers to the sacred grove to experience the preparations for Gulikan. This forest deity, associated with wild animals and untamed nature, performed among the trees themselves. My photographs show the dancer moving with a very different quality of movement, and I realized I was witnessing something ancient, the acknowledgment that divinity doesn’t just reside in temples, but in the wilderness itself.

OM-1, Olympus M.40-150 F2.8, f/2.8, 90mm, 1/8s, ISO 200

My Night at Nileshwar: When Four Gods Met on the River

The journey to Nileshwar was the culmination of my Theyyam pilgrimage. On the banks of the Tejaswini River, I witnessed something I’ll never forget the four major Theyyams coming together in a night-long procession.

Bhootham Theyyam: The Guardian Spirit

The first to emerge as darkness fell, Bhootham appeared with elaborate costumes that seemed to glow in the torchlight. I steadied my camera on a tripod, trying to capture the grandeur of the moment.

OM-3, OM12-40 F2.8, f/2.8, 40mm, 1/40s, ISO 320

Bhagavati Theyyam: Beauty in Motion

As musical accompaniments filled the air, Bhagavati Theyyam began, a beautiful, vibrant, and utterly mesmerizing experience. My shutter clicked continuously, trying to freeze the flowing movements and brilliant colors.

OM-3, OM 12-40 F2.8, f/2.8, 35mm, 1/40s, ISO 320

Raktachamundi: Power Unleashed

Then came Raktachamundi, and the entire atmosphere shifted. This was power, raw and fierce. The dramatic reenactments and intense expressions challenged my skills as a photographer, how do you capture something that feels almost too powerful for a frame?

Gurudevan Vellattu Theyyam: Wisdom Embodied

Gurudevan Vellattu Theyyam is a distinguished ritual performance rooted in the centuries-old Theyyam tradition of northern Kerala. This folk art honors Gurudevan, frequently represented as a divine sage or revered ancestral spirit, and is performed during temple festivals to invoke blessings, support community healing, and celebrate local folklore.

Gurudevan is customarily depicted as a wise and benevolent figure, embodying protection and wisdom. Participants wear elaborate costumes, intricate face paint, and headdresses crafted from natural materials such as feathers and leaves. The ritual incorporates rhythmic drumming, singing, and trance-like dances that narrate the myths surrounding the deity’s life and deeds.

OM-3, OM 12-40 2.8, 1/40s, 40mm, f/2.8, ISO 640

My most treasured photograph: the night-time scene with firelight flickering on the river water, dancers circling in unison, their masks glowing under torchlight. It’s the image that best captures what I felt—that these weren’t performances for entertainment, but spiritual offerings meant to cleanse the community, bless marriages, ensure harvests, and honor the departed.

OM-3, OM12-40 2.8, f/2.8, 40mm, 1/160s, ISO 2500

This is Living Heritage

Through my lens and through conversations with villagers, priests, and performers, I came to understand that Theyyam is more than theater, it’s a spiritual heartbeat.

Elders shared tales of kings, warriors, and saints, passed down through generations via Theyyam narratives. One grandmother told me her grandfather’s story, preserved in a Theyyam that’s performed once every twelve years.

I watched villages unite around preparation : making food offerings of appam and payasam, holding nightly vigils, preparing together. I visited mask-makers, costume designers, and musicians who’ve spent years mastering their art. The thudi, chenda, and kombu drums aren’t just instruments butt carriers of tradition.

I observed young performers learning from elders, a chain of knowledge that’s threatened by modernization but still holding strong in villages like Bidiyal and Nileshwar.

The Economic Reality Behind the Ritual

Something else I discovered during my stay is that Theyyam isn’t just spiritual and cultural; it’s economic survival for many families.

I watched temple committees negotiate performance fees with performers. The mask-maker who showed me his workshop supports his entire family through this art. The homestay owner who hosted me said Theyyam season is now her primary income source.

During festival season, villagers open their homes to visitors, food stalls appear overnight selling traditional snacks, markets bustle with vendors selling coconuts, turmeric, rice, and flowers for rituals, and artists sell miniature masks and recordings.

The homestay owner shared a surprising statistic: according to a 2023 Kerala State Tourism Development Corporation study, tourism related to Theyyam now contributes up to 15% of annual village income in places like Nileshwar.

A Note of Gratitude

This journey would have remained on the surface a combination of beautiful photographs without deeper understanding, if not for two extraordinary people who opened doors for me in Bidiyal.

Mr. Ram Krishna, Secretary of Bidiyal Theyyam, became more than just a facilitator. He became my teacher. His deep knowledge of each ritual, his patient explanations of the symbolism behind every gesture and costume detail, and his willingness to introduce me to performers and priests transformed my experience from tourist to student. Without his guidance and trust, I would never have been able to capture the intimate, powerful images that fill this collection.

Adithri Krishna, our beautiful, intelligent 12-year-old friend and guide, possessed a wisdom far beyond her years. What amazed me most about Adithri was how she could translate the complex spiritual and cultural nuances of Theyyam into language I could understand, all while maintaining the reverence and depth these traditions deserve. She didn’t just tell me what was happening; she helped me feel why it mattered.

Watching the performances through Adithri’s eyes, hearing her explain the stories behind each deity, and seeing her own genuine connection to these traditions reminded me that Theyyam isn’t just being preserved by elders, it’s being carried forward by young hearts who understand its value.

To both Mr. Ram Krishna and Adithri Krishna: thank you for your generosity, your patience, and your passion. This collection of photographs and words is as much yours as it is mine.

What Theyyam Taught Me

As I packed my camera gear on my last morning, I realized Theyyam had taught me something profound. Divinity doesn’t just live in grand temples or distant heavens—it lives in the soil, in the river, in the human body willing to become a vessel.

My photographs capture more than just elaborate costumes and painted faces. They capture the fire in Kaliyachan’s eyes as he commanded the courtyard, the grace of Gulikan moving through jungle shadows, the collective breath of an entire village united in worship, and the moment a marginalized man became, for one night, a god.

These images are my testimony. They prove that in remote villages of northern Kerala, ancient traditions aren’t dying—they’re breathing, evolving, and thriving.

As long as these rituals continue to be performed, witnessed, remembered, and yes, photographed, Theyyam will remain a beacon of Kerala’s soul.

And I’ll carry these memories, frozen in pixels and burned into my heart, forever.