Way before 'Moonwalk' flickered to life on screen, Sreejith P, ‘dance master’ of the film, had already choreographed it in spirit. Decades ago. In the bylanes of Tripunithura, on the dusty grounds of Thoppumpady, along vacant corridors, and inside tiny rented rooms.
For Sreejith, 'Moonwalk' is not a film. It’s a memory. It’s survival. It’s poetry. It’s an ode to those who danced before they knew what a dance studio was, before Instagram reels turned a pirouette into a punchline.
“I saw myself in every scene,” he says. “When the film wrapped, I cried. I remembered the kid who danced alone in a corridor, mimicking Michael Jackson moves seen once on a neighbour’s TV. I remembered the years where I had no floor to rehearse on, just imagination.”
Sreejith grew up in Tripunithura. But his first true steps into dance began in Thoppumpady. Every summer, his parents would send him and his brother to their grandmother’s home. And it was here, outside the Thoppumpady church, that he encountered something transformative.
“They had these local shows, sometimes with recorded music playing from a speaker, sometimes with just claps. It wasn’t polished. But it was raw, powerful. It was breakdance. I was 10. It lit a fire in me,” he recalls.
His brother, who passed away in 2007, was a quiet cheerleader. “We used to try moves at home, watching street performers and imitating them. Those were our masterclasses.”
Sreejith began his formal journey at Kalabhavan, learning under the legendary Johnson Master, a name that echoes in most breakdancers’ memory from that era. “There would be 300 people in a batch. I always stood at the back,” he recalls. “I was shy. I had no confidence. Johnson sir saw me and pulled me to the front. That moment changed my life.”
Today, Johnson Master runs a cycle shop. But for Sreejith, he remains a monument. “He was the best dancer India never knew. He didn’t chase fame. He danced with madness. Passion. That’s what I miss in today’s generation,” says Sreejith.
Now, Sreejith runs Dazzlers Dance Studio, with branches in Kadavanthra, Vyttila and more. But his proudest creation is Boho Space — a sanctuary in Tripunithura for any artist needing silence, solace, or a place to just be.
Sreejith believes he helped birth a new dance language in Kochi — one rooted in breakdance but blossoming into cinematic storytelling. “There was a time when dance in Malayalam cinema meant a few steps behind the hero. We changed that. Now it tells a story,” he says.
Sreejith's entry into films came through the film 'Cinema Company' (2012), directed by Mamas K Chandran, a student of his. “He believed in me. That film opened doors.”
But the biggest recognition came with 'Amen', for which Sreejith won the State Award for Best Choreographer. “You’d think it would bring more work. But it didn’t,” he says.
“I actually got fewer offers. But I didn’t dance for remuneration. I danced to live. To feel.”
Then came 'Moonwalk', directed by A K Vinod. “For many of us, it is just another film. It is a tribute. A dream,” says Sreejith.
“There were times when I cried while choreographing. Memories of struggle would flash in my mind. Each rejection. I remembered dancing alone in a corridor because I had no studio.”
From robotic to lyrical hip-hop, from folk to fusion, 'Moonwalk' explores multiple dance styles. Sreejith credits workshops at Attakkalari (Bangalore) for expanding his vocabulary.
“You never stop learning. I learned new things every year. I was obsessed. I still am. I am still learning.”
Lunch with ‘Jackson’ chettan
Retracing the moonwalk, we land next at a humble eatery in Nazareth, Fort Kochi. The food here is homely, heavenly. But what makes the shop truly unique is its owner — Joseph Rodriguez, better known as ‘Jackson Joseph’ in this part of the city.
The first thing that strikes one here are the Michael Jackson posters that adorn his little shop. There is funky mural too. Then, of course, an old music system that belts out MJ hits.
“Did you have lunch? First food, then interview,” he smiles. Relishing steaming fish-curry meals while vibing to the beats of 'Dangerous' is quite an experience.
Joseph’s love story with dance began with what he called “bum dancing” and “boom moves” — early experiments with rhythm. “I didn’t choose Michael Jackson. He entered me like a spirit,” he says, pointing to his chest, eyes gleaming.
His true treasure lies in his memories — MJ birthday flex boards, street corner flash mobs, and stage performances where he became the ‘smooth criminal’ himself. “I remember shaving my beard, putting on the black jacket and hat, and dancing to that track. It was like my offering to MJ,” Joseph smiles.
Among those shaped by Joseph’s passion was Xavier Charles, better known as Shibu Master, who enters the shop during our interaction.
From humble beginnings, Shibu danced in over 20 countries, choreographed for Malayalam films like 'Vasanthiyum Lakshmiyum Pinne Njanum', and even shared the stage with Shah Rukh Khan in 'Dil Se'.
He’s worked on reality shows like Star Singer and choreographed Mohanlal’s IPL promo. Today, he runs Srishti Dance School (formerly Kochi Kala Communications), where he has coached stars like Shane Nigam, Neeraj Madhav, and Arjun Ashokan.
“Kochi’s breakdance scene wasn’t just spontaneous — it was a brotherhood. Legends like Break Antony aka 'Break Auntie', Rajesh Master, and the late Biju Michael formed the backbone of this movement,” Shibu recalls. “For me, Biju was bigger than Prabhu Deva. He lived — and died —for dance.”
During promotional shows at G Cinemas and Vanitha Theatre, Joseph, Shibu, and others paid tribute to Biju with live performances. “We were in tears. Some members in the audience also cried,” he adds.
Joseph and Shibu gush about the film 'Moonwalk'. “I hadn’t seen a Malayalam movie in 28 years. I watched this one five times,” Shibu laughs.
The film, they say, transported them back to a time when they danced like nobody cared to MJ, Boney M, and ABBA — “often on streets, in school halls… public junctions”.
“Your generation might assume flash mobs are something new. We danced at Ernakulam bus stand, major junctions… wherever there’s a crowd,” Joseph and Shibu laugh out.
Joseph’s wife, quiet until then, says softly, “People called them crazy. Some still do. But it’s not madness. It’s devotion.”
Dancing for the moon
In the narrow lanes of Palluruthy, far from today’s curated Instagram dance reels, lives a man who once lit up stages with nothing but raw rhythm and passion. Sooraj Palluruthy was once fondly called ‘Michael Jackson of Kochi’ by his friends.
However, he is now into tile work, living a quieter life. He remembers the early '90s clearly. “Palluruthy became a dance hub. Terraces, temple premises, and school corridors became makeshift studios,” he says.
“We would dance anywhere, anytime. Sometimes the only ‘audience’ for our moonwalks would be the moon itself (chuckles).”
Mention MJ, and Sooraj goes boom. “Thriller, Bad, Dangerous… we watched the videos on rented VCRs until the tape wore out! One cassette would pass through 10 of us. No YouTube tutorials. No reels. No AC studios,” he says.
Sooraj, like many peers, danced for as little as Rs 50 per show. “We were broke. But rich in rhythm,” he says. “We didn’t just dance — we engineered it. Costumes were stitched from old jackets. Shoes glued together. Stages improvised.”
But life intervened. Financial stress pushed Sooraj away from dance. “You can’t moonwalk when there’s rent to pay,” he says, with a bittersweet smile.
Still, the film Moonwalk did rekindle his fire. “I haven’t danced in years. But while watching the film, my body remembered every beat. I could feel the moves,” he says. “Maybe I will dance tonight — one for the moon!”
The other ‘Johnson Master’ of Kerala
2023 marked an unexpected turn in George V V aka Johnson Master’s life — a golden year, as he calls it. “I felt the music inside again,” he says, standing under the faded awning of his cycle shop in Amaravathi, Fort Kochi. “Like it never left.”
That year, on a whim, he and a few old dance friends — including one endearingly nicknamed “Break Auntie” — took out their old cycles and rode into the heart of Fort Kochi. They didn’t have a plan. Just music and muscle memory.
They danced. On pavements. At junctions. Outside cafés. “We didn’t ask for a stage,” he smiles. “We made one.”
What began as a casual act of reclaiming their past quickly caught on. Passersby clapped. Some joined. Others simply watched, confused and charmed. Within weeks, it became routine.
Soon, the energy snowballed into something larger: a free, open-air Zumba class. “We started with ten people. Before we knew it, there were over 40,” says Johnson, whose name is highlighted in our interactions with almost every breakdancer of ‘old Kochi’.
Today, that class continues — attracting everyone from college students to retirees, all drawn to Johnson’s raw, joyful spirit.
And even now, in his late sixties, he travels to local schools for competitions, choreographing routines, mentoring children, and dancing like time has no claim over him. “No illness, no money problem, nothing can stop me,” he says. “Dance is in my blood.”
Back in the 1980s, breakdance was barely a whisper in India — let alone in Kerala. But something about the electric footwork and acrobatic flow of the genre spoke to Johnson, even before he had seen it.
“It was a Gulf-returnee who showed me a tape,” he recalls. “Michael Jackson. Then a breakdance movie. We didn’t even know what the steps were called. But we tried everything.”
With a crew of teenage friends, Johnson formed one of Kochi’s earliest breakdance groups. They had no formal training, no imported sneakers. What they had was passion, pavement, and pockets of stolen time.
“We danced under streetlights, at temple courtyards, near the beach. We didn’t need sound systems — we had each other’s beats.”
The iconic ‘Breakdance’ album and Kamal Haasan’s moves in 'Sakalakala Vallavan’ were their go-to for josh. “We copied. We improvised. We invented,” says Johnson.
They won local competitions. They became fixtures in Fort Kochi’s club circuit. But Johnson’s contribution didn’t end at performance.
He became a teacher. Unpaid, often uncredited. “I used to teach in Kalabhavan. I just loved sharing what I knew,” he says.
Among his early students were names that would go on to shape Malayalam cinema — Soubin Shahir, Vinayakan, and Vineeth among them.
Johnson wasn’t just a teacher of steps — he was a cultivator of confidence, his old disciples say. He made dancers out of kids who had no mirrors, no stages, no plans. Most yesteryear breakdancers gush about him
“He never acted like a guru,” says Sreejith, the choreographer of 'Moonwalk’, which pays homage to Kerala’s forgotten dance pioneers.
“He was just someone who showed you that movement was possible — even if you didn’t have the means,” says Sreejith.
As responsibilities mounted, Johnson took over his father’s cycle shop. Dance was pushed to the margins, but never erased.
Now, decades later, as Zumba classes bloom on Fort Kochi’s tiled paths, the cycle master spins once again — in rhythm and in purpose. His daughters dance too. “I couldn’t give them money. I gave them rhythm,” he says, a quiet pride in his eyes.
He doesn’t seek recognition. But it’s coming anyway. “He was our first hero,” says Sreejith. “He showed us that dance doesn’t need luxury. It just takes love.”