Theyyam: Where Gods Come Alive at Night!

Did you ever dream of meeting God face-to-face? Perhaps you’ve yearned for a divine blessing or spiritual advice? In the North Malabar region of Kerala, India, you have the chance to do that—and then some.

It’s 8 PM. Night has just fallen when we arrive at the Kallumthara temple. A throng of people stand at the perimeter of a paved square in front of a shrine. The air is heavy with smoke. A smatter of drums accompanies the shrill, penetrating tone of a kurumkuzal horn and the clang of cymbals. I make my way to the front. Two orange-faced ethereal beings twirl their roly-poly bodies in a wobbling dance between the rows of drummers, stopping only now and then to bless someone in the crowd.

Mesmerized, I creep closer, shedding my sandals at the barrier, not caring if they get lost or stolen. The drums beat in time with my heart. I’m trying to make sense of what I see, but it feels unreal, as if I had stepped into an alternative world. The mythical divine creatures—both mortal and gods—stand at the side of the shrine, sermonizing, handing out personalized advice to one individual after another. The devotees listen with their eyes pinned. And then offer money, not as an exchange, but as an act of devotion.  

As the hours pass, more and more people arrive. There’s free food and stalls selling ice cream, toys, and bottles of water. When I take a rest and sit on a low wall, a group of young boys approaches me. I’ve heard them discuss among themselves how to say “Where are you from?” in English. After contemplating different options for a few minutes (and sometimes getting it right), one boy asks me, “Your country from?” I chat with them for a while. They make fun of me. I joke with them. We laugh together.

My husband comes to find me. “An elephant!” he says excitedly. “They brought an elephant!”

We cheer with the crowd as a life-size elephant on wheels is pulled into the square, its ears flapping and its trunk swaying. It looks alive, but it’s not. It doesn’t matter, everyone celebrates this holy animal as if it were real.

From far away, between the trees, a parade of flashing kaleidoscopic lights draws nearer, accompanied by booming staccato drumming and loud voices. At first, I’m not sure what I’m looking at. An amusement park? A carnival? As the parade approaches the shrine, colorful dancers come into view. The young girls (or perhaps men) are made up like dolls. They’re dressed in wide frilly skirts and carry halos of blinking neon lights. These beautiful goddesses dance through the crowd, bringing smiles to everyone’s faces.    

And the party is on! A DJ has set up a booth a bit further afield. Both men and women, young and old, get up and move to modern Indian hits while confetti shoots from canons and rains down over them. I get pulled onto the dancefloor by a group of young women. We don’t need a common language to communicate, we just enjoy the moment.     

Back at the shrine, a trio of birdlike gods (Garudan Thookam) have appeared. Their yellow faces and long beaks are as gorgeous as they are frightening. When they dance, they spin so fast, hopping from leg to leg, their striped skirts become a blurry wheel of colors. Behind them, fire breathers in straw dresses hurl projectiles of flames to the sky. The confetti on the ground catches fire and scorches their bare feet.

It’s now well past midnight. Four a.m. The celebration hasn’t stopped since we arrived eight hours ago. It’s just been one amazing, otherworldly performance after another.

An angelic-faced young man in an extravagant costume beats the large drum that hangs from his neck. He chants a melancholic tune. Then he twirls into a euphoric dance before he bows down in front of the shrine. This invocative ritual depicts how a mortal man transforms into its divine self.

I join a torch-lit procession that follows another deity through the woods to a nearby house, where the deity blesses the inhabitants with flower petals.

Back at the shrine, gods painted in white with black stripes perform a ritual dance, where the temple priests try to light their coconut-husk skirts on fire. Sparks fly as the gods try to extinguish the fire by spinning around and around, and stomping out the embers with their bare feet. As the sun is about to rise, these Gulikan Theyyam don impossibly tall crowns and balance them on their heads as they dance around the square.

By now, it’s close to 7 a.m. I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. A metal-eyed god steps out to perform his ritual, the Bhairavan Theyyam. The story behind the ritual, I’m told, is about how Lord Shiva was cursed when he nipped off one of Brahma the Creator’s heads.

And then—one of the highlights of the night (now morning)… The Khandakarnan theyyam. With a mask that looks like a mix between a frog and a bird, this is a ferocious deity whose role is to protect the devotees from evil forces. Dressed in palm leaves, with a dozen burning torches tied around his body, the Khandakarnan moves aggressively around the square. He spins rapidly until all the fires attached to his body fly off, one by one. The heat inside his costume must be unbearable, but he continues twirling and twirling, while pieces of the burning torches fall off all around him, threatening to light the spectators on fire. According to legend, this performance is a divine blessing that dispels fear, wards off negativity, and brings prosperity to those who witness it.

Once all the Khandakarnan’s fires are extinguished, other deities—one with giant silver fangs—appear on the scene and perform rituals with swords and money.

I wish I understood the story behind it all, but I don’t. I can only observe in amazement.

At 8 a.m., we decide to go back to our guesthouse (the Gangadharam Tiny House) for a rest.

When we return hours later, at 5 p.m., the celebration is still ongoing. Unbelievable!

A goddess clad in fiery red and an immense gloria of palm leaves stands upon a stool giving what sounds like a sermon or a mantra. Raktha Chamundi? A chest plate with women’s breasts indicates this is a female deity, not a male.

Behind a reed wall, another deity prepares for his theyyam. His face is black with bulging eyes, four ears and a long black tongue. He blesses the devotees that cluster around him with flower petals and takes a shot of HoneyBee Indian brandy, before he’s pulled into the masses of several dozens young men who dance and jump around him.

This deity (Sasthappan?) pushes his way through the cheering mob to a priest standing by a large vat filled with water and yellow flower petals. A few men grab his arms and hold him back as he struggles to get to the vat, but the men are stronger and once again the deity disappears back into the crowd. This repeats a few times until the priest offers him a live hen. The deity blesses the bird with water, and—holding the squirming hen in his hand—dances around, pulling its feathers, throwing them into the air.

Suddenly, the deity slits the hen’s throat and throws its head onto the ground. The men pull the deity back into the cheering crowd.

Meanwhile, the priest sits by the vat and splashes the water around in time with the drums until the deity returns and blesses the priest with his sword before—once again—he’s pulled back into the throng of young men.

The priest slams the water faster and faster. When the vat is almost empty, two men help him tip the vat over. As the water runs out on the ground, the priest lays immobile on top of the vat, until the other men carry him away.

The ritual comes to an end, and the deity returns to share blessings and spiritual guidance to the devotees.

Now, another deity appears; this one wearing a square dress, framed by a larger square piece of fabric. A similar ritual starts over with the crowds, a hen, and another vat of petal-filled water. Trance. Drumming. Cheering crowds.

It’s been 24 hours since we arrived, some 28 hours since the theyyam started, when the celebration finally draws to a close.

Exhausted but happy, I’m filled with immense gratitude. I feel like we won the lottery!

We were so lucky to have discovered the Kallumthara Temple of all places. Many other temples have a schedule of 8-10 hours, or they are overcrowded like Andallour Kavu, where we also spent a couple of nights among tens of thousands of devotees.

A huge thank you to the amazing Vijesh A P and Ritesh from the Kallumthara Temple who responded to our request for information and provided us with all the details we needed to make this a life-changing experience. Also a big thanks to Binoy and Vishnu from the Gangadharam Tiny House who assisted with autos (tuktuks) and other transportation.

Vijesh, Ritesh, and Vishnu

About Theyyam

I can’t pretend that I know everything about—or even completely understand—the theyyam ritual. I’ve done my best in interpreting what we saw an experienced, but there might be mistakes in the text, and I apologize for any misconceptions or blatant faults. They were absolutely not deliberate.

Theyyam is a religious ritualistic performance practiced at village shrines and local temples from October to May in the North Malabar Region of Kerala and some parts of Karnataka. This thousands-of-years-old ritual is believed to predate Hinduism. Originally, theyyam was an animalistic tribal ritual, a worship of nature spirits: animals, plants, etc. In the last several centuries, theyyam has incorporated symbolism from Hinduism and is now a celebration of many Hindu deities and legends. In addition, it features local deities such as Bhairavan, Kandakarnan, Gulikan, Chamundi, Kuttichathan, and Thamburatti. Some rituals (like the one we attended) still involve blood sacrifices.

Interestingly, the theyyam rituals must be carried out regardless of whether or not there is a captive audience!

The theyyam performers are always men, never women. They are often from a specific (low) caste, and their training begins at a very young age. They spend years learning the legends, the dances, songs, and mantras, how to make their costume, accessories, and ornaments, and how to paint their faces. This divine occupation is often handed down through family lines, from father to son, generation to generation 

For the rituals, the performers paint their faces in intricate orange patterns and don elaborate costumes, awe-inspiring masks, and fanciful head-gear to represent the different deities. It’s believed that by placing the mudi (headgear) onto the performers’ heads, they enter a state of trance, which allows the immortal spirits of the deities they represent to enter their bodies and they become one with the gods. This way, mortal men become gods and goddesses and can perform ritual dances, share divine revelations, give blessings for prosperity, and take away earthly worries.

Music is a fundamental part of the Theyyam ritual. The constant staccato drumming and the whining sound of the kurumkuzal horn crescendo and fall in line with the story. Other traditional instruments include the chenda drum, elathalam cymbal, instrument, and veekkuchenda.

Please remember, theyyam is a religious event, not a show. Be respectful. Wear appropriate clothing and take off your shoes when entering the shrine area. If you take photos, do not use flash. And—most importantly—mingle with the locals!

Donations

There’s no entrance fee to theyyam. However, I would suggest that if you attend one, to leave the temple a donation. It’s not expected or required, but absolutely welcome.

Check the times and locations for local theyyams at https://www.dtpckannur.com/theyyam-calendar. But make sure to contact the organizers before arriving at a temple to confirm, as the dates and times may have changed.

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