KANNUR: For centuries, theyyam has belonged to the fire-lit courtyards of northern Kerala’s sacred groves, its gods summoned only within ritual boundaries, its performers bound by caste, custom, and control. But an artist from Kannur is asking an unsettling question: What happens when the deity steps beyond the kavu?
Biju Irinave, a National School of Drama (NSD) alumna and traditional theyyam performer, is breaking centuries-old restrictions that confine the art form to ritual spaces. For him, theyyam is not merely a sacred performance. It is one of the most complex, sensorially intense theatre traditions in the world, long denied the recognition accorded to other classical forms.
“When kathakali and koodiyattam are celebrated as classical art forms, theyyam is reduced to ritual,” Biju says. “But theyyam demands far more from the performer — physically, emotionally, and spiritually. It is theatre that consumes the entire body.”
At NSD, Biju was formally trained in kathakali and koodiyattam to sharpen his acting skills. Yet it was theyyam, the 43-year-old argues, that truly integrates all rasas. Popular representations often portray theyyam as a symbol of rage or divine fury, but Biju insists this is a gross simplification.
“Theyyam holds sringaram, bhibhatsam and hasyam. Every rasa exists within it. Thottam itself is a rich musical narrative, with each composition rooted in distinct ragas. And yet, the art continues to be dismissed, largely because it is practised by Dalit communities.” That dismissal, he believes, is deeply casteist.
Determined to challenge this marginalisation, he has taken theyyam far beyond Kerala. From workshops in Japan and China to performances across Gulf countries and Indian states, Biju has introduced the form to new audiences, often by reimagining it for theatre.
In Dubai, he played Shakespeare’s Macbeth and Othello. He adapted Ramesan Blathur’s novel ‘Perum All’, which has Ravana as the protagonist, into a one-man play performed entirely in theyyam attire.
“Ravana is a Dalit, black man, othered and vilified in Ramayana. However in Blathur’s Perum All, Ravana is the hero. That is why I chose theyyam makeup and costume to play him,” Biju explains. “It was not an aesthetic choice alone. It was political.”
But the greatest resistance, he says, comes not from outside but from within the system that claims to protect the tradition.
The ban imposed on Padma Shri Narayanan Peruvannan after he performed theyyam in Ajman remains a painful reminder. “That decision didn’t come from artists,” Biju says. “It came from temple committees dominated by the upper castes.”
Though Dalit communities perform theyyam, control over the art, its spaces, permissions and prohibitions, rests largely with upper-caste temple authorities. Biju grew up witnessing this imbalance firsthand. His uncle, Kannan Panicker, was a celebrated theyyam artist in Kannur and his first teacher.
“I learnt the form from him. I have performed many theyyams myself. But I always felt watched, restricted and controlled. This art speaks of resistance, but the artist is never truly free,” he says.
For Biju, liberating theyyam does not mean stripping it of its sacredness. It means allowing it to breathe, evolve and travel with the world and claim its place alongside globally recognised performance traditions.
Today, he trains artists to adapt theyyam for films and theatre, creating new possibilities without diluting its core. His efforts have earned him several recognitions, including the Dalit Sahitya Academy Award.
Yet Biju insists his struggle is larger than personal acclaim. “Theyyam has always spoken truth to power. Maybe that is why it has been kept confined,” he says. “If allowed to step out, it will not just perform. It will question.”
And perhaps that is the real fear. A god who refuses to remain within the kavu, and an art form that insists on being seen, not as ritual alone, but as radical, living theatre.