Where The Spirits Speak: A Journey into The Daiva Traditions of Tulu Nadu

It was Kantara that lit the match.

Like many across India, I walked into Rishab Shetty’s film expecting a tale of land rights and rural resistance. What I encountered instead was something far older, stranger, and harder to categorise—a world where forest spirits judge the living, where men whirl into gods under torchlight, and where the line between myth and memory is as porous as a trance.

A few months later, I found myself in Mangaluru, on the humid western edge of Karnataka. I wasn't here for beaches or seafood or temples—at least, not the kind most tourists seek. I was here to meet a spirit. More precisely, a Daiva.

The cab driver who dropped me off at the Koragajja Adisthala smiled knowingly when I told him why I’d come. “He listens,” he said, meaning Koragajja, the guardian spirit of Mangaluru.

Tucked behind a clutter of apartment buildings and shops, the shrine is more unassuming than I’d imagined. No towering gopurams, no marble grandeur. Just a simple compound pulsating with incense, music, and the hum of steady faith.

In front of the shrine, rows of whiskey bottles and betel leaves lined the floor—offerings to a spirit who, locals say, punishes liars and protects the wronged. On the side, a man sat cross-legged, eyes half-closed, slowly rocking. A priest gave instructions. Somewhere, a woman wept. A rooster crowed in the background, although there were no birds in sight. The veil between worlds, I realised, was thin here.

Offerings are simple but deliberate: a quarter bottle of whiskey, chakkuli (spiral rice snacks), and tambulam—betel leaves and areca nuts. Following the advice of a trusted guru, I carried toddy—local palm liquor—instead of whiskey. “Go with a kind heart,” he had told me. “Offer what you can. Ask for what you truly wish.” I did both.

And so began my journey into the world of Daivas and Bhoota Kola—a spiritual system that resists neat categorisation, and still commands real authority in Tulu Nadu. A world where spirits dispense justice, where deified ancestors receive offerings through fire and dance, and where tradition is not just remembered but enacted—year after year, body after body.

This article is not a primer on Kantara, though that film gave language and visibility to a tradition long dismissed as tribal or superstitious. Nor is it just a travelogue. It is, instead, a layered exploration—of myth and memory, ritual and resistance, folklore and faith. From the origins of Koragajja to the pan-Indian echoes of possession and spirit worship, from caste dynamics to the pressures of modern tourism, I set out to understand a living tradition that continues to blur the lines between performance and prayer.

The People’s Spirit: Who Is Koragajja?

In the pantheon of Tulu Nadu’s Daivas, Koragajja occupies a special, almost intimate place. He is not a distant cosmic force but a Sahaja Swami—a spirit of the people, for the people. His image, often rendered in rough stone or humble bronze, depicts him in a seated, meditative pose, sometimes with a bidi (local cigarette) in his mouth, a bottle nearby. It’s not irreverence—it’s relevance. Koragajja drinks what the people drink. He lives as they live. He punishes as they cannot.

Local legends vary, but most agree that Koragajja was once a devaru, a wandering protector of the land. His backstory is as layered as the land he watches over. Some say he was a forest-dweller who took on divine qualities after passing away; others say he is an emanation of Shiva himself, taking on a fierce but benevolent form to protect the vulnerable.

Koragajja never left the village. He remained immanent—invoked, remembered, and feared.

At his Adisthala, you won’t find elaborate rituals or hymns. What you will find is theatre charged with belief. You’ll see whiskey being poured thrice with urgency, tears flowing freely, and trance states taken seriously. You’ll smell flowers, chakkuli, sweat, and toddy, not incense or diyas. And if you wait long enough, you may see justice delivered—not by court or police, but by Koragajja’s invisible but inescapable hand.

He is, above all, a dispenser of truth. In Tulu society, it’s not uncommon for people to swear innocence before Koragajja, especially in disputes over land and inheritance. If one tells a lie before him, it is believed that the spirit will exact revenge—accidents, losses, even death. Many claim they’ve seen it happen. 

In 2021, Mangaluru witnessed a troubling incident when three individuals, Nawaz, Abdul Raheem and Taufeeq, residents of Jokatte, dropped objectionable materials into the offering box of the Koragajja temple. In a few days, Namaz fell seriously ill and died, urging his accomplices to admit their guilt to Swami Koragajja and seek forgiveness. The accused came forward and confessed their involvement before the temple priest and surrendered to the police.

What struck me most was the blurring of categories. Is Koragajja a god? A ghost? A cultural memory? The answer is both all and none. He doesn’t fit into the neat brackets of religion or anthropology. He is simultaneously spirit and symbol, actor and arbiter, personal and political. When people speak of him, it is rarely in metaphor. “Koragajja saw it.” “Koragajja knows.” “Don’t lie to Koragajja.” These are not poetic flourishes—they are instructions for living.

And this isn’t confined to Mangaluru. In recent decades, Koragajja’s fame has spread beyond Tulu Nadu. His shrines have appeared in Bengaluru, Mysuru, Shivamogga, and even Mumbai. Migrants from coastal Karnataka carry him with them, erecting makeshift shrines and invoking his name before starting businesses or building homes. Devotees across castes and classes have taken to venerating him, some out of tradition, others out of experience. Even politicians, it is said, make quiet offerings before elections.

But why now? Why this sudden popularity?

He may not be found in ancient scriptures, but in the coastal villages of Karnataka, Koragajja is real. Not because of what he is, but because of what he does.

The World of Daivas

To the outsider, Bhoota Kola might appear like performance art—vibrant costumes, frenzied dance, haunting music. But behind the spectacle lies a dense spiritual universe. Daivas are not “gods” in the classical sense. They are spirits, often of human or semi-human origin, that have been deified by the collective memory of a community. They protect, punish, possess, and participate. They don’t dwell in the skies—they linger among trees, homes, crossroads, and coastlines.

In the cosmology of Tulu Nadu, Daivas form a parallel divine order—less celestial, more territorial. Unlike the traditional pantheon of deities with universal scope, Daivas are fiercely local. Each has a name, a backstory, and a jurisdiction. They emerge from the soil, from memory, from trauma, from folklore. In fact, many are believed to be deified ancestors, forest spirits, hunters, tribal chieftains, or even outcast rebels.

Each Daiva has its own domain and disposition. Some are fierce, others gentle. Some demand strict ritual discipline; others accept offerings with casual grace.

--Panjurli is perhaps the most well-known—a boar-faced forest spirit associated with fertility, wildness, and primal justice. He is believed to be an avatar of Vishnu or Shiva in certain localised myths, but also described as a guardian of wild animals and forests. He is worshipped to protect crops from wild animals.

These Daivas are not abstract energies; they are embodied in ritual—possessed, performed, and propitiated.

The performance of a Daiva is not theatre—it is arrival. During Bhoota Kola, a performer—usually from the Nalike or Parava community—is ritually prepared through music, costume, fasting, and sacred makeup. The performer is not acting; he is becoming.

Each Nema or Daiva ritual varies slightly, but typically follows a powerful and symbolic sequence.

The ritual begins with the arrival of the Daiva’s sacred paraphernalia—often placed on a swinging cot, the royal seat of the spirit. The impersonator, usually from the Pambada, Parava, or Nalike castes, prepares through chants from the paddana (oral epics), costume, and make-up. Once adorned with the shrine’s ornaments and handed the sword, bell, and flaming torches by the patri and patron (jajman), the trance begins.

As the spirit possesses the dancer, the performance becomes charged and ecstatic, with fire, rhythm, and movement blurring the lines between the human and divine. Offerings—ranging from chickens and puffed rice to coconut and betel nut—are made to ensure fertility and protection.

In the latter half, the Daiva holds court, dispensing justice on matters like land disputes, thefts, or family feuds. The decisions, considered binding, are often delivered through oral exchange or symbolic acts like tossing betel leaves. Mastery of this ritual form is passed down generationally, not just by training but by cultivating the spiritual receptivity necessary for possession. The patri, usually of the Billava caste, and the impersonators from the Scheduled Castes communities together mediate between spirit and society, embodying both continuity and transformation in this vibrant living tradition.

The moment of trance is central. As drums crescendo and torches rise, the impersonator enters a state of possession. The voice changes. The body contorts. The gaze fixes on something beyond the visible. This is when the Daiva arrives, borrowing the body of the impersonator to interact with the people. The medium speaks in riddles, poetry, scolding, or benediction. The crowd listens not to the man, but to the spirit.

At the same time, an oracle or patri—usually another ritual specialist—helps channel the spirit’s commands and interprets signs. Unlike the impersonator, who performs the Daiva in dance, the patri enters a subtler trance, often while seated. Both roles are hereditary and caste-bound, though modern times have introduced flexibility in some places.

British missionaries and administrators were often baffled by Daiva worship. In their writings, they oscillated between describing it as “pagan superstition” and “tribal savagery.” The trance states and blood offerings didn’t sit well with Victorian Christianity. Post-independence, this attitude lingered. Daiva traditions were ignored in national narratives of religion, deemed too wild or too local to matter.

Only recently, especially in the wake of Kantara, have these traditions begun to receive serious attention—not as exotic curiosities, but as living, complex religious systems that challenge dominant narratives of what constitutes “Hinduism.”

Role of Daivas in Tulu Society

In one village outside Mangaluru, I met a middle-aged woman who had recently conducted a ‘swearing before Daiva’ ceremony. Her brother had accused her of hiding ancestral property documents. She denied it. But instead of dragging the matter to court, the family took it to the shrine.

She stood before the Daiva, lit a lamp, and declared her innocence aloud. “If I’m lying, let him take everything from me,” she said. Weeks later, her brother fell seriously ill. He withdrew the allegation. Whether coincidence or consequence, the community saw it as the Daiva’s verdict.

The Daiva Nema, or annual spirit festival, is more than just a religious ritual. It is a village reunion, an economic exchange, a therapeutic performance, and a spiritual upheaval all rolled into one. At its heart is the Kola—the night-long ritual where the Daiva is invoked through music, dance, fire, and possession.

Preparations begin days in advance. Families return to their native homes. Offerings are gathered—coconuts, bananas, toddy, chakkuli, tambulam and in many cases, a quarter bottle of local whiskey and bidi. The channel applies his make-up and adorns the sacred garments and ornaments.

As drums throb and flames rise, the impersonator—possessed by the Daiva—leaps, spins, cries, and speaks. The crowd watches in reverence and fear. Some weep. Others seek advice. Some silently ask for justice. The performance is intense, often overwhelming. But in its depths, the community experiences release, renewal, and reordering.

Daiva worship is not caste-neutral, but it complicates caste in interesting ways. While Brahmins and the 'upper castes' often sponsor the rituals, the ritual authority lies with the 'lower-caste' communities—particularly the Nalike, Parava, and Moger groups who perform, invoke, and become the Daivas.

This creates a space where caste hierarchies are temporarily inverted. During the possession, a man from a socially disadvantaged community becomes the voice of divine authority—a vessel that even landlords and officials must bow to. This inversion is not permanent, but it is powerful. It offers a glimpse into a society where power is fluid, not fixed—where ritual can reorder the social.

This is one of the most fascinating paradoxes of Bhoota worship. It both reinforces tradition and disrupts it. It sustains older forms of community structure while also providing a spiritual counterbalance to entrenched hierarchies.

Kantara portrayed this tension well—the film’s climax, with the protagonist possessed by the spirit of Panjurli, captures the fury, compassion, and charisma of the Daiva. It was stylised, yes, but emotionally and philosophically faithful to the spirit of Bhoota Kola.

When I asked locals what they thought, reactions varied. Someone said, “They got the look right. The dance was good. But what they showed in 15 minutes takes us all night.” Another performer nodded approvingly: “At least now people ask us what we do.”

The film has brought attention, tourism, and newfound respect. But also risk.

There’s a fine line between celebration and commodification. The challenge now is preservation without distortion, pride without parody.

Echoes Across India

As I left the Koragajja Adisthala, the chants still humming in my ears, I couldn’t help but ask: is this unique to Tulu Nadu? Or are there others, in other parts of India, who also speak to spirits, enter trance, dance with the gods?

The answer is resoundingly yes. Bhoota Kola may be Tulu in tongue, but its spirit is pan-Indian. Across the subcontinent, especially in regions where forest and folk memory remain strong, one finds similar traditions—of gods who possess, spirits who intervene, and humans who become divine for a night.

Far to the northeast, at the Kamakhya Temple in Assam, the Deodhani tradition offers a striking parallel. Here, men—called Deodhas—undergo intense ritual training to serve as vessels of the goddess. During specific festivals like Manasa Puja, they perform a trance-dance, invoking deities like Kali, Tara, Manasa, or Kamakhya herself. Accompanied by drumming and chanting, the Deodhas enter possession, holding the sacred khadga, sacrificial animals such as lambs and pigeons and dance in front of a huge audience of devotees.

There are commonalities: the ecstatic trance, the oral oracularity, and the presence of ritual specialists (Ojhas) who facilitate the possession. Like in Bhoota Kola, these performances often blur the line between devotion and drama, between worship and theatre.

Also like the Daivas, the spirits invoked in Assam, goddesses of disease, fertility, and vengeance, are deeply rooted in local cosmology rather than textual orthodoxy.

In Kerala, the Kodungallur Bharani festival in honour of Bhadrakali erupts each year into a tumult of blood, song, and spirit. Women and trans persons, often from marginalised castes, take on the role of Velichappadus (oracle-mediums), entering states of possession and uttering prophetic speech.

Malaraya of Kodlamogaru, Kasargod, who has the head of a wild boar and the body of a woman, is another well known Daiva who is worshipped in Kerala, and has a distinct Kola tradition that looks similar to Panjurli Kola.

The visuals too are uncannily similar—flowing red and yellow costumes, blood-letting, open hair, and entranced eyes.

People approach the ritual seeking help with illness, infertility, land conflicts, or family feuds—much like Koragajja’s devotees. Here, too, the body becomes a bridge between the mundane and the divine. The music is different—raw and melancholic—but the intention is the same: to bring the invisible into view.

In Jharkhand, Chhattisgarh, and Madhya Pradesh, tribal traditions involve ojhas, baigas, and deos—spirit specialists who heal, exorcise, or predict. These practices have been historically dismissed as “superstition” or “witchcraft” but are increasingly seen as culturally coherent spiritual systems.

In Himachal Pradesh, Nati oracles perform rituals similar to the Bhoota impersonators—becoming vehicles for mountain deities who advise the village on everything from harvest to health.

Despite regional differences in language, costume, cosmology, and ritual structure, these traditions share key elements:

--Trance and possession as central modes of divine contact.

--Localised deities or ancestors with specific territories and temperaments.

--Performance as prayer—rituals that rely on song, dance, and embodiment.

--Subaltern agency—many mediums come from communities considered 'lower castes', yet wield spiritual power in specific contexts.

They remind us that Indian spirituality is not a monolith. Beneath the pan-Indian umbrella of “Hinduism” lies a rainforest of local faiths—each wild, rooted, and alive.

These are not museum pieces. They continue to evolve, adapt, and survive. And just like Bhoota Kola, many are today facing both renewal and risk—celebrated in pop culture, yet vulnerable to distortion.

The Future of Daiva Worship

There’s a moment after the trance ends—when the Daiva departs the impersonator’s body, when the drums go quiet, when the air clears and dawn breaks—where everything hangs in balance. That moment captures the state of Daiva worship today: between sacred continuity and the pull of spectacle, between quiet devotion and viral curiosity.

The 2022 film Kantara did what no cultural initiative, museum archive, or academic thesis had ever managed—it made Bhoota Kola visceral, mainstream, and cinematic. For audiences across India, it was a first brush with the blazing intensity of Tulu Nadu’s spirit worship.

The visual poetry, the mythic narrative, and the climactic possession scene were widely lauded. For many Tuluvas, it was a moment of pride. The film had, finally, given voice to a tradition long dismissed as rural obscurity.

But popularisation is a double-edged sword. What enters the mainstream risks distortion. Post-Kantara, Bhoota Kola became an aesthetic. Tourists arrived with DSLR cameras and hashtags. Merchandising followed. Videos of Kola performances began trending on Instagram and YouTube, often stripped of context.

A patri in the outskirts of Bantwal put it poignantly: “They come to see a show. But this is not a show. This is our truth. You don’t clap for a god.”

There have been calls to recognise Bhoota Kola as intangible cultural heritage, even as some suggest formalising it into curated festivals. While preservation is vital, practitioners warn against institutionalising a living ritual, where spontaneity, local variation, and personal relationship with the divine are key.

A temple trustee told me, “The day we put up signboards and time slots for the Daiva’s arrival, it will no longer be the Daiva. It will be a programme.”

In recent years, Daiva traditions have also entered the legal and political discourse. In Karnataka, debates have emerged over recognising Daiva shrines as public religious institutions. Issues of land ownership, shrine management, and hereditary rights of performers are being contested in courts.

Politicians, too, have begun invoking Daivas—sometimes as symbols of regional identity, sometimes as tools of electoral mobilisation. There’s pride, but there’s also posturing.

The danger lies in reducing living faith to identity token—where spirits are summoned only during elections, or ritual roles become caste-credentialed privileges devoid of actual belief.

One of the biggest questions hanging over the tradition is generational continuity. Will the youth carry it forward?

The answer is mixed. In villages, many young men from Nalike and Parava families still train to become impersonators. Some see it as calling, others as duty. Yet, there are growing pressures—urban migration, modern education, social stigma.

Among city-born Tuluvas, the connection is often nostalgic, not participatory. They may fund a Nema, but not feel possessed. Still, some are returning—reclaiming roots, learning songs, filming documentaries.

As one college student told me, “I may not feel the trance, but I feel the pull. There’s something ancient here. Something real.”

The Spirits Are Watching

The sun was beginning to slip behind the coconut palms when I left the Koragajja Adisthala. The air still carried traces of chakkuli and toddy, and the chant of Daiva nama echoed faintly from a corner where devotees lingered. I walked away barefoot, as I had arrived, unsure if anything tangible had changed. And yet, something inside felt shifted—subtly, irreversibly.

I had come seeking stories, perhaps even spectacle. What I found was something far more intimate: a world where faith is not abstract, but embodied; where gods walk not in heaven but on earth, wear anklets, demand toddy, and speak in fierce, unpredictable tongues. In that world, belief is not a choice—it’s a current you’re pulled into, whether you resist or not.

My Guru had told me, “Go with a kind heart. Ask whatever you wish. The Daiva listens.” I had offered toddy and chakkuli, a humble prayer tucked into the folds of my mind. I didn’t expect an answer. But in the silence that followed the trance, I felt as though I had been heard.

What does it mean to believe? Must we accept the metaphysics of possession to feel the presence of the divine? Or is it enough to witness, with humility, that there exists a mode of experience beyond language, beyond intellect—where the body trembles and the heart knows, even if the mind does not?

Daiva worship, like many folk traditions across India, offers a mirror: not just to the divine, but to ourselves. It shows us a society negotiating power, justice, and memory—not through courts or manifestos, but through ritual, trance, and myth. It reminds us that India’s spiritual grammar is not uniform. It is plural, embodied, and wildly alive.

As I looked back one last time at the shrine, I remembered what a patri had said to me, smiling knowingly:

Maybe that is enough.