In the flicker of torchlight and the rhythm of pounding drums, a sacred dialogue begins. Bhuta Kola is not a performance—it is a pact.
Here, beneath canopies of fire and flower, the Daiva descends. Not as myth, but as presence. The possessed dancer becomes a conduit, the mask a vessel, the body a bridge.
Villagers gather not to watch, but to speak—with folded hands, whispered prayers, and silent hopes. Questions are asked, justice is sought, blessings are pleaded for.
Through my lens, I capture this moment suspended between the divine and the earthly—where gods walk barefoot on soil, and humans listen for answers carried in chants and flame.
This is not theatre.
It is memory.
It is faith, moving.