Vinod Panicker Thillankeri hasn’t moved a muscle in the last two hours. It feels like an eternity to him.

But, he must lie still; it’s not every day you get to turn into God.

Men hustle around him. They slip a chilambu (a metal anklet) onto his feet; on his boldly-coloured cheeks they paint deft strokes of red — the exact shade is achieved by mixing turmeric and limestone; then ease him into the voluminous skirt — a moodboard of blacks, reds, and whites held in place by armlets, chest plates, anklets and belts with their shells and beads clinking with every step he takes. Once deemed complete, the final touch is added — a 21-foot mudi (headdress).

Minutes later, it is no longer Vinod who walks out of the forest; it is God.

The litmus test lies in a dance he performs atop a four-legged rickety stool. As he swirls, so does his chromatic avatar. The headgear, too — precariously teetering on edge — obliges with the choreography. In Vinod’s hands are two flaming fronds. He wields these with master precision. The people around him are careful, but Vinod dances undeterred. He’ll only stop when God wants him to.

This isn’t make-believe. It’s theyyam, a time-tested ritual that you can witness for yourself if you head to Kerala between October and May (the Malayalam calendar dictates the dates), when the villages come alive with this 1500-year-old ritualistic dance native to the state. It’s a kaleidoscopic whirlwind, distinguished by moves that mere mortals can’t pull off — think devouring live chickens and throwing oneself face-first into a pile of hot embers.

The secrets of the theyyam

The sky holds its breath as Vinod performs. The audience sits rapt with attention. Two sets of eyes among them haven’t blinked at all. One belongs to Zafar Mehdi (31), a Lucknow-based filmmaker, the other is his camera.

© The Better India