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off-loaded something.’
    The second dancer is now gazing intently in a small hand mirror at the entrance of the hut, identifying himself with the goddess. As I watch, the dancer stamps his feet, ringing the bells and cowrie shells on his anklets. He stamps again, loudly and more abruptly. Then he jerks his body suddenly to one side, as if hit by a current of electricity, before stretching out his hands and sinking into a strange crouching position. His body is quivering, his hands shaking and his eyes are flicking from side to side. The figure who had been still, silently staring, only seconds earlier is now transformed, twisting his head in an eerie series of movements that is part tropical fish, part stinging insect, part reptile, part bird of paradise. Then he is gone, bounding out into the clearing, under the stars, closely followed by two attendants holding burning splints.
    Hari Das is now getting to his feet and preparing to put on his own costume. I ask: ‘Is this a full-time job, becoming a god?’
    ‘No,’ he replies, a little sadly. ‘For nine months a year I work as a manual labourer. I build wells during the week, then at the weekend I work in Tellicherry Central Jail. As a warder.’
    ‘You’re a prison warder?’
    ‘I need to make a living. I am poor enough to be ready to do virtually anything if someone pays me a daily wage. It’s not for pleasure – it’s very dangerous work.’
    ‘In what sense?’
    ‘The inmates rule the jail. Many have got political backing. No one dares to mess with them. The jail authorities are totally under their control.’ He shrugs. ‘Every day the local newspaper has some new horror story. They are always cutting off the noses and hands of their political rivals on the parade ground, or in the cells at night.
    ‘In fact, there are two jails around here: one for the RSS [a far right-wing Hindu organisation] in Tellicherry, and the other in Kannur for their political rivals, the Communist Party [CPM]. The two parties are at war: only yesterday the RSS attacked a CPM village near Mahe, killing three people with home-made bombs. In Kannur it is said that the mouth doesn’t speak, the sword does. If you abuse someone’s father he may forgive you. But if you abuse his party, then he will instantly cut you into pieces. Both jails contain those the police catch for such crimes and they’re notorious for housing all the worst political goons [thugs]. If a Communist ever ends up in Tellicherry or an RSS kar sevak [activist] is put in Kannur you can guarantee he won’t last twenty-four hours – or at least will have lost several body parts by the time he comes to eat his next breakfast.’
    ‘Can’t this be stopped?’ I ask.
    ‘Occasionally someone tries,’ says Hari Das. ‘One day a new superintendent came here from Bihar and severely punished one of the big gang leaders. Before he got home that night, the superintendent’s home had been burned to the ground.’
    Hari Das laughs. ‘All the prisoners have mobile phones and can order any sort of act from inside the prison. The head warden once brought in a jammer to try to stop them, but within the week someone had got to it and poured seawater into it so that it jammed itself. That was the end of that.’
    He smiles. ‘I keep my head down. I never beat a prisoner, and just try to avoid being beaten up myself. I know that if I tried to do the job properly I would soon be beheaded – I would no longer have a body. Even the superintendent has the same worry. We all just try to get through the day alive, and intact.’
    ‘And all the theyyam dancers lead double lives like this?’
    ‘Of  course,’ says Hari Das. ‘Chamundi over there makes wedding decorations and Narasimha is a waiter at a hotel. That boy playing Bhagavati is a bus conductor and Guligan the Destroyer’ – he nodded at another dancer still putting on make-up in the back of the hut – ‘is a toddy tapper. It’s his job to pluck coconuts from