Kannur

We’ve all seen the images—the vibrant reds, the towering headdresses, and the frantic crowds. Lately, social media has turned Theyyam into a visual spectacle so loud that the quiet, sacred essence of the kaavu (grove) is often lost. There is talk of bans and restrictions, but perhaps the answer isn’t in locking the gates; it’s in opening our eyes to a different perspective.Documenting a three day Theyyam in Kannur last month, I chose to look at the people and document moments from my own lens. I am sharing these monochrome images as a souvenir of that experience.I’ve always been more fascinated by the person than the persona. To me, Theyyam is not a distant myth or a rigid ritual; it is a profoundly humane act of devotion. It is found in the tired shoulders of the helpers, the calloused palms of the drummers, and the steady, rhythmic breathing of a man being transformed by paint and prayer.These images aren't about the "Gods" we usually see. They are about the neighbors, the practitioners , and the families who breathe life into this tradition behind the scenes. It’s a reminder that before the spirit descends, there is a human who prepares, a community that supports, and a heritage that lives through the simple, quiet dignity of the people of Kannur.

We’ve all seen the images—the vibrant reds, the towering headdresses, and the frantic crowds. Lately, social media has turned Theyyam into a visual spectacle so loud that the quiet, sacred essence of the kaavu (grove) is often lost. There is talk of bans and restrictions, but perhaps the answer isn’t in locking the gates; it’s in opening our eyes to a different perspective.Documenting a three day Theyyam in Kannur last month, I chose to look at the people and document moments from my own lens. I am sharing these monochrome images as a souvenir of that experience.I’ve always been more fascinated by the person than the persona. To me, Theyyam is not a distant myth or a rigid ritual; it is a profoundly humane act of devotion. It is found in the tired shoulders of the helpers, the calloused palms of the drummers, and the steady, rhythmic breathing of a man being transformed by paint and prayer.These images aren't about the "Gods" we usually see. They are about the neighbors, the practitioners , and the families who breathe life into this tradition behind the scenes. It’s a reminder that before the spirit descends, there is a human who prepares, a community that supports, and a heritage that lives through the simple, quiet dignity of the people of Kannur.

We’ve all seen the images—the vibrant reds, the towering headdresses, and the frantic crowds. Lately, social media has turned Theyyam into a visual spectacle so loud that the quiet, sacred essence of the kaavu (grove) is often lost. There is talk of bans and restrictions, but perhaps the answer isn’t in locking the gates; it’s in opening our eyes to a different perspective.Documenting a three day Theyyam in Kannur last month, I chose to look at the people and document moments from my own lens. I am sharing these monochrome images as a souvenir of that experience.I’ve always been more fascinated by the person than the persona. To me, Theyyam is not a distant myth or a rigid ritual; it is a profoundly humane act of devotion. It is found in the tired shoulders of the helpers, the calloused palms of the drummers, and the steady, rhythmic breathing of a man being transformed by paint and prayer.These images aren't about the "Gods" we usually see. They are about the neighbors, the practitioners , and the families who breathe life into this tradition behind the scenes. It’s a reminder that before the spirit descends, there is a human who prepares, a community that supports, and a heritage that lives through the simple, quiet dignity of the people of Kannur.

Distant view of a traditional home.