Located in the midst of a lush forest, the Bhagawathy temple near Cheruvattur in Kerala’s Kasaragod district draws large crowds during the Theyyam season every year, which falls during the months of Kumbham and Medam in the Malayalam calendar. The temple, which is located in a hill village, witnesses a variety of Theyyams during the two months. While the Vishnumoorthi and Raktheshwari Theyyam performances are held within the temple, close to the sanctum sanctorum, the Kurathi and Chamundeshwari are performed in a paddy field outside, on ground lower than the temple premises. The basis for allotting spots for the performances? The caste of the performers.
Theyyam, a ritualistic performance, is presented by male members of seven SC and Scheduled Tribe (ST) communities. It is performed to the rhythmic beats of the chenda and elathalam (percussion instruments) by artistes donning heavy jewellery and bright red costumes. The performers are often called ‘dancing gods’ as they enter a trance-like state in which they are believed to embody various deities. The ritual, practised in the districts of Kasaragod, Kannur, and some regions in Kozhikode, receives the patronage of the dominant castes.
In March this year, during the last Theyyam season, TNM attended a performance at the temple of a tharavad, the ancestral house of a dominant caste family. The temple is currently managed by a committee that consists of local residents and the members of a family of Maniyanis, a dominant Other Backward Caste (OBC).
When TNM entered the temple premises, the performance of the Vishnumoorthi, a Theyyam that enacts the Narasimha avatar of Vishnu, was at its peak. Simultaneously, a Chamundi Theyyam was being performed outside the boundary wall of the temple. No one questioned why the Vishnumoorthi Theyyam performed by a Malaya (Scheduled Caste, SC) artiste was welcomed inside while the Nalkadaya (SC) artiste performed the Chamundi outside.
Even though widely celebrated as a display of secular values, the Theyyams of north Kerala are ridden with casteism.
Theyyam is often glorified for being an artform of the oppressed communities, thriving in secularism and unity. Unlike in other more prevalent temple practices, Theyyam performers accept toddy, fish, or chicken as offerings. An instance of a Theyyam artiste telling a burqa-clad Muslim woman, “Nee vere onnumalla” (You are not different) was widely celebrated for upholding secular values.
In addition to its secular image, a variety of Theyyam called Pottan Theyyam is even known for questioning casteism. The thottam (chant) of Pottan Theyyam goes, “Neengale kothyalum choralle chovvaru? Nangale kothyalum choralle chovvaru? Pinnenthe chovvaru kulam pishakennu? Theendikondalle kulam pishakunnu?” (Isn’t it blood that oozes out when you are wounded? Isn’t it blood that oozes out when I am wounded? Then why do you say my clan is bad?)
The often celebrated secular and purportedly anti-caste credentials of the artform is, however, far removed from ground reality.
Being the border district between Kerala and Karnataka, Kasaragod has a mixed population of Malayalam and Tulu speakers. The Theyyams performed by two Tulu-speaking communities – Nalkadaya (SC) and Mavilan (ST) – are not allowed within the premises of temples in the district. Instead, they have to perform in the fields nearby or in a corner far removed from the sanctum sanctorum. Performers from other castes, including the SC communities of Malaya and Vannan, are allowed inside temples.
Venu, a Theyyam artiste belonging to the Mavilan tribe, described an instance of discrimination he faced in 2019. A 17-member team, including Venu, had been invited to perform during the Perumkaliyattam at the Kalliott Bhagavathy temple that year. Perumkaliyattam is a week-long Theyyam festival held in various temples once in 12 years, decided in consultation with astrologers. Organisers at the Kalliott temple claimed that it was held there after a long 700 years. The temple spent around Rs 2.5 crore for the Perumkaliyattam, which began on December 23 and continued until January 1, 2020.
“At the temple, we were provided space in a secluded corner where people removed their footwear before entering the temple. The entire area was littered. Meanwhile, Malaya and Vannan Theyyams were accommodated close to the temple. When we were about to leave in protest, they cleaned the space a bit. We were still asked not to cross the temple boundary,” Venu recalled.
In September this year, TNM travelled to the Bhagawathy temple near Cheruvattur, where the temple priest spoke at length about the Theyyam performances. Upon being asked why some Theyyams are performed in the field, he said, “The temple follows spiritual practices and rituals, including an order in performing Theyyams. The place where they perform depends on these age-old practices,” he said. When it was pointed out that the basis of these “age-old practices” is caste, he said, “How is it casteism when the communities allowed inside as viewers include Dalits?”
As pointed out by Sudheesh Chattanchal, a Nalkadaya Theyyam artiste who is also a writer and anti-caste activist, all caste-based oppressions are justified in the name of ritual. Understanding the feudal system that prevailed in the Kasaragod region will shed light on why these communities are discriminated against.
The Vannan community were traditional healers who were believed to possess the powers to heal dosham (issues in a person’s horoscope). The Malaya community were midwives and were believed to have healing powers for drishti dosham (evil eye). Both communities were also said to have been involved in sorcery, which, combined with their ‘healing powers’, made them close to the dominant castes.
“Malaya and Vannan Theyyams are allowed inside temples as they had access to the houses of dominant caste people for purposes of sorcery or treatment,” Sudheesh noted.
An elder in a Nair (dominant caste) tharavad near Nileshwar made a similar observation. “Malaya and Vannan communities were close to us. They were part of our beliefs, rituals, and daily life. All these traditions are reflected in Theyyams,” he said.
On the other hand, the Tulu-speaking Nalkadayas and Mavilans were engaged in agricultural labour. The traditional occupation of Mavilans was weaving baskets using bamboo and cane.
Nalkadaya means those who dance. The community is locally called Koppala, which means those who weave with pala (arecanut fronds). Members of the community consider being addressed as Koppala an insult and prefer Nalkadaya, which refers to their dance, over Koppala, which calls them frond-weavers. When they are called Koppala, they believe the name Nalkadaya is being erased.
The Theyyams performed by these communities mainly use Tulu and Malayalam, usually refraining from using Sanskrit in the thottam. “We were tenants working under the sun and the rain, which is why we are forced to perform outside in nature,” Sudheesh said.
Even though most varieties of Theyyams are performed by all communities, there are a few that are specific to certain communities. Bootha, Maari, Jogi, and Galinjan are examples of Theyyams that are specific to the Nalkadaya community. Similarly, the Mavilan community also performs a few specific Theyyams.
A majority of the local political leaders as well as temple committee members, priests, local residents, and even Malaya and Vannan artistes deny that caste-based discrimination is practised in Theyyam. To them, what is visible in the Theyyam seasons of Kasaragod is not casteism or untouchability, but tradition.
In several family-run and other temples in and around Kanhangad, Mavunkal, Chittarikkal, Edneer, Bovikkanam, Chengala, Mangad, and other places in Kasaragod, Nalkadaya and Mavilan communities performing outside the temple is the norm.
TNM visited the Kammadam Sree Bhagavathi temple, which is a kavu (sacred grove), in Kunnumal near Chittarikkal. On one side, the temple shares borders with paddy fields, where the Mavilan Theyyams are performed. According to some of the artistes, they have made multiple requests to be allowed to perform inside the temple premises, but to no avail. A temple authority justified the discrimination in the name of a ‘belief’ that Mavilan Theyyams should be performed in open spaces in nature.
Sunil, a Theyyam artiste from the Mavilan community, said, “Sometimes we don’t even get tarpaulin roofing, while others perform under a sturdy makeshift roof. We have to carry on under the hot sun or in rain. They need our Theyyams, but we are untouchable.” He added, “Theyyams are believed to be an avatar of god. It is their god we are enacting. In each temple, they decide which Theyyam should be performed according to the beliefs and the popular deity of that particular family or community. So in a way, they are keeping their gods outside.”
The casteism is not limited to Theyyam alone. Tulu Theyyam artistes listed numerous other instances of untouchability, discrimination, and othering — how Brahmin priests refuse to touch them, how they are denied basic facilities while performing, and how they are ostracised when they react against the discrimination.
Shimjith, a Theyyam artiste from the Mavilan tribe, said that the temple priests refuse to touch or provide offerings to them directly. “In many places, priests place the bell, sword, and other holy weapons that are used in the performance on a plantain leaf on the floor. Then, some assistant will have to take it and hand it over to us. After the performance, it is expected to be kept on the same leaf or on the floor, from where they take it back after a purification ritual,” he said.
Another Mavilan artiste recounted that earlier, the artistes in the fields would face intolerance even mid-performance. The Theyyam performances in the Kammadam temple usually involved a debate between the Kammadath Chamundi and the Aradath Chamundi, the one playing outside and the one inside. “When the Theyyam artiste inside the temple makes a good argument, he would be cheered, while the audience would jeer at us. That is not so evident now, but the caste-based feelings that people have towards us remain,” the Mavilan Theyyam artiste said.
“The Chamundi Theyyams performed inside by non-Tulu communities are called Malavazhunnor (rulers of the hills) while the Chamundi we perform are called Kaatumoorthi (forest deity). These names are used even mid-performance, when the two Theyyams (those performing inside and outside) have a conversation,” Shimjith said.
Sudheesh, the Nalkadaya writer-artiste, recounted another instance of caste-based segregation and abuse. “In a tharavad near Edneer in 2019, we were allotted a space near the washing area to perform the Chamundi. When we moved towards the courtyard due to space constraints, the elders there shouted at us, asking us to move out. They justified this by saying that only Theyyam artistes are treated as untouchable, not other members of our community,” he said.
Narayanan Nair, a temple committee member near Kanhangad, asked, “How is it untouchability when only Theyyam artistes are denied entry while other members of all Dalit communities can enter the temples? We dine at their houses, we have no untouchability.” When it was pointed out that the artistes feel discriminated against, he said, “This is all part of belief, faith, and rituals. It cannot be questioned.”
Ashwin R, a research scholar who has studied Theyyam, too was of the opinion that even though the artform is “built on caste”, the practices that keep Nalkadaya and Mavilan Theyyams outside temple premises are only remnants of “age-old rituals” and do not indicate casteism. His reasoning? “Malayan and Vannan communities are also Scheduled Castes. Since they are allowed inside, how can one allege casteism?” His explanation brushed aside the fact that oppressive hierarchies exist within marginalised sections.
“If separated from the myths, beliefs, and century-old rituals, the foundation of Theyyam is lost. Every temple follows certain norms, rituals, and traditions. Theyyams performed outside temple premises represent the outcast communities and their legends. It does not signal casteism, but are the remnants of the past,” Ashwin argued.
Narayanan’s claims of “no untouchability” and Ashwin’s argument of “age-old rituals removed from caste” are refuted by another incident that Sudheesh narrated. “In 2020, two of us went to the same tharavad in Edneer to get the money they offered as help during Covid-19. We sat on the padippura (traditional arched gateway) while we waited, but they reacted to it so badly that we left without accepting the money. Members of other communities accepted it inside the padippura. So it's not just Theyyam artistes who are untouchable, but we as a community,” Sudheesh recalled.
Caste-based discrimination is practised not just by the dominant communities, as Sudheesh explained. “The Malaya and Vannan castes, in an effort to be close to the dominant castes, passed on the oppression to those below them in the caste hierarchy,” he said, reasoning that it could be an after-effect of Theyyams being acculturated with Brahminisation.
Even the artistes performing Theyyam are not above the casteist mindset, as an incident that took place in a temple near Kanhangad a few years ago showed. After several discussions and negotiations, a Kurathi Theyyam played by a Nalkadaya artiste was allowed a small space close to the temple rather than on lower ground as is custom. Performing across from the Kurathi Theyyam was a Pottan Theyyam artiste from the Vannan community, who shouted, “Why was the Kurathi allowed inside?” Ironically, this happened soon after the artiste had delivered the thottam against casteism.
Shankara Kaipady, a Nalkadaya Theyyam artiste who has been performing for the last 15 years, said, “Theyyam is much more than a job for us and we cannot live without it. Yet, there is not a single place where we have performed happily. Each time we return from a performance, the insult of discrimination follows us.”
“Reacting against the discrimination has cost us our jobs and resulted in tussles and clashes. The fear of losing the job prevents us from speaking out, as Theyyam sustains us for about eight months a year,” Shankara said.
A Kasaragod temple made national headlines in 2018 when it closed down after a Dalit went in through the front entrance. The controversial Shri Jatadhari Devasthanam is in Swarga, a picturesque village in Enmakaje panchayat where the Endosulfan tragedy unfolded. It is situated atop an elevated ground and is surrounded by arecanut plantations. Eighteen steps lead up to the temple facade, while a walkway towards the right, guarded by a small gate, takes one to the backyard. On one side of the path is a steep drop, making it a precarious walk up to the temple. At the end of the path, one has to cross yet another gate before entering the temple premises.
Round the temple runs a boundary wall of red laterite stone. Outside this are three sheds for Theyyam artistes — the farthest with a tin roof is for Mogeras (SC), the next for Nalkadayas, and the closest one with a tile roof for Thiyyas (OBC). Except for Brahmins and other dominant castes, no one can cross the boundary wall, not even Theyyam artistes. Dalits cannot use the front entrance but are required to enter through the back. No women, no matter their caste, are allowed inside the temple.
The temple opens only during Theyyam performances, which happens twice or thrice a year. During those days, the temple hosts a feast for all devotees. “The feast begins around 2 pm for the dominant castes. After they are done, we [Mogera] are called in by our caste name. Members of the Mogera (SC) and Koraga (ST) communities will have to wait till around 9 or 10 pm for all the other communities to finish their meal. We have to keep our bowls on the floor and step back. Once the food is served, we are expected to disappear with that, as we cannot eat near the temple. Since the feast is considered to be prasadam (food offered to god which is then distributed to devotees), boycotting the ritual is not easy for us,” said Krishna Mohana, a Dalit rights activist and a daily wage worker who belongs to the Mogera community.
In September 2018, Krishna protested against the Dalit entry ban by entering the temple through the front entrance, causing a huge furore. “Everyone turned against me, including the Theyyam artistes, who cursed me for breaking tradition. They all said that I would suffer for my actions," Krishna said.
Following the furore, the temple was closed in October 2018 and has remained so till date. Ever since, the path that leads to the temple backyard, meant to be used by Dalits, has remained overgrown with thorns, making it inaccessible. On October 1 this year, Krishna cleared the bushes to make it accessible again.
Sreenivasa Naik, a local Communist Party of India (Marxist) leader who has been in the forefront of the fight against the casteism practised in the temple, filed a police complaint against temple authorities. He recalled how some residents, with the support of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), took out a protest march against Krishna after he entered the temple through the front steps.
“A local BJP leader issued a violent message that day, asking people to take up the issue on a scale similar to the massive protest against Sabarimala women’s entry. The next night, a protest march was held in Swarga. They wanted to protect ‘traditions’. Initially, almost everyone was against us, but later people started lending us support,” Sreenivasa said.
“Earlier, even if my child caught a fever, people would blame it on my entering the temple. But now, the attitude of many has changed. My community also supports me,” Krishna said.
A person from one of the four Brahmin families that manage the temple told TNM that the temple was closed as there is no one to conduct the rituals. Krishna and Sreenivasa say that that is not the case. “They may make up a reason to justify the closing down now, but the Dalit entry was in fact the actual reason,” they said.
In a protest held in 2021, five men who were part of the Pattikajathi Kshema Samithi (Scheduled Caste Welfare Council), along with advocate Chandramohan, a local committee secretary of the CPI(M) in Enmakaje, entered the temple premise close to the sanctum sanctorum. Even after this protest, the families running the temple have continued to refuse to open it.
On September 17, Kerala Minister for Devaswom and Welfare of SC/ST and Backward Classes K Radhakrishnan recounted an instance of untouchability that he encountered at an inauguration he attended at a temple in Kozhikode in January this year. The Minister, who belongs to a Scheduled Caste, said that the temple priests placed a lighted lamp on the ground instead of directly handing it to him. After it sparked controversy, an association of temple priests came forward to clarify that the Minister had “misunderstood the ritual”.
The Minister’s revelation was a reminder that Kerala is yet to overcome the bane of untouchability. For a state that boasts of the rule of secular political parties for more than 60 years and where the Communist party has strong roots, Kerala has been not able to make the desired progress against the casteist practices that are promoted in the name of tradition.
While the Theyyam artistes of Kasaragod appreciate the CPI(M) Minister for calling out casteism, they are disillusioned by the party’s refusal to intervene in the everyday casteism they are subjected to. In fact, several party leaders believe that staying silent against ongoing caste-based oppressions is part of the party’s strategy to gradually introduce change.
Many of the villages where Theyyam performers face caste-based discrimination are, ironically, ‘party villages’, that is, strongholds of the CPI(M). The Bhagawathy temple is located in one such ‘party village’. Raghavan (name changed), a member of the temple committee, is also a local CPI(M) leader. Seated in the verandah of a small grameena vayanasala (library), Raghavan spoke to TNM about how the Communist party operates in these villages.
“You see the oppressed classes entering temples and moving around freely, but this did not happen overnight. There were Communists behind each of those revolutions. Other forms of casteism, which I agree still exist, too will vanish one day. For that change to come about, the party has to survive here. That is why even in villages with strong CPI(M) roots, you will see that the party is either silent or sympathises with the traditions of the place, even if they are casteist,” he said.
Some of the activities of the party seem to suggest that it actively supports caste-based segregation.
A CPI(M) worker from the Nalkadaya community detailed how caste plays a role in the party. “During elections when they visit the houses of Nalkadayas, they ask me to accompany them because I belong to the same community. They take a Nair person to visit Nair houses. Despite being a strong CPI(M) supporter, I think it is deplorable that our identity as party workers is not enough to visit the homes of voters irrespective of caste and religion,” he said.
A few local leaders of the party whom TNM met in Kasaragod, like Sreenivasa Naik and Chandramohan in Enmakaje, expressed strong dissent against caste-based discrimination and have even acted against it at times. Others like Raghavan, the party worker who is also a temple committee member, either defended the discrimination or called it a part of local traditions.
“Revolution doesn’t come in a day, it will take years, decades, or even centuries. Trying to bring revolution within a day is foolishness. You ask me why we don’t act against the prevailing casteism, superstitions, or discriminatory traditions in these villages, but that is because you don’t know about the Communist party in north Kerala,” Raghavan said with a smile.
Explaining the practical politics of survival, he added, “You have seen all political parties taking a wobbly stand on the issue of women’s entry into the Sabarimala shrine. CPI(M) was the party that supported the Supreme Court order [permitting women entry]. But when taking political stands on age-old rituals, traditions, gods, beliefs, and myths, the Communist party of north Kerala has to stand with the people.”
A Mavilan Theyyam artiste from Kanhangad who has links to the CPI(M) offered a contrasting perspective. “I belong to a CPI(M) family, my father was a prominent party leader. It is Communist blood that courses through our veins. However, being a Mavilan Theyyam artiste, I have come to realise that even those who proclaim ‘One caste, One god, One religion’ are casteist. The politics here is hypocritical,” he said. The artiste, whose father and uncles were former CPI(M) MLAs, did not wish to reveal his identity.
Theyyam artistes and activists say that it will not be easy to wipe out casteism for as long as the dominant castes refuse to acknowledge that it exists.