In the Heat of a Moving Night - Theyyam, Kannur

The first thing you notice is the heat. It rises from the earth in waves, carrying the smell of burning wood, ash, and something ancient. The crowd presses in from all sides, a quiet hum beneath the chaos, their faces flickering in the firelight. Somewhere inside that circle, a drumbeat grows steady, not loud, but insistent, like a pulse the night has borrowed.

Then he runs.

A young devotee, bare‑feet and bare‑chested, leaps. For a fraction of a second, the world stretches itself thin. The burning woods splatter as he runs through, his shadow disappears into the smoke, and the sparkles arching around him. You can almost hear the crackle of embers breaking open under his weight, even though you are too far to feel them burn.

The crowd watches with the kind of stillness that only faith can shape. No one speaks. No one breathes too loudly. Every eye follows him as he cuts across the night, a single, bright arc above a bed of glowing coals.

And yet, behind all the noise, the frame stays quiet. The camera sees only contrast — dark silhouettes, a body suspended mid‑air, the smoke softening the world like a thin veil. In black and white, the colour of the ritual falls away, but its intensity stays. Sometimes even becomes clearer.

As I stood there, I felt something familiar, the tension that comes with photographing Theyyam. Nothing waits for you. The movement is constant. The light is never enough. And the moment you want is always a second faster than your reflexes.

But when everything aligns, it feels like the night allows you a small gift. A frame that holds the emotion without needing to explain it.