Hyderabad: It begins in the early hours, in some courtyard corner or under a bare bulb in a side lane. A young man sits still while another works on him with a brush dipped in yellow paint. The stripes go on slowly — careful and deliberate — black over yellow, jaw to ankle. By the time the tail is tied and the mask settles into place, the man is gone. In his place is a tiger.
This is Peddapuli Panduga, the tiger festival, and across the towns and villages of Telangana, it returns every year alongside the solemn observance of Muharram.
A festival within a festival
Muharram, known locally as Peerla Panduga, marks the martyrdom of Imam Hussain at Karbala. It is a time of mourning, of procession, of dappu drums and deep prayer. But woven through its observances across Telangana is something older and considerably wilder – men becoming tigers, roaming the lanes, crouching and pouncing through crowds, drawing shrieks of delight from children.
The two traditions have long been inseparable. To see one without the other, in many parts of the state, would be like arriving at a feast and finding half the table bare.
How the tiger came to Muharram
The tiger has always carried weight in the Deccan. In village ritual, in wall painting, in seasonal ceremony, it has stood for power, protection and something beyond the ordinary world. Historians and folklorists trace Peddapuli to these older folk practices of celebrations, strength and courage that long preceded any formal religious framework.
Over time, the tiger dance found its way into the Muharram calendar. It caught on most in rural Telangana, where folk culture and religious custom have always lived side by side. No one planned it that way. It simply grew, the way most traditions do — through habit, through community, through people finding joy in the same things year after year.
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Yellow paint and deep conviction
In Jagital, Karimnagar, Nizamabad and parts of Hyderabad, the preparations are taken seriously. Groups spend days working on costumes. The painting of the body is itself something of a ritual — stripes applied with patience, the effect studied in a mirror or a phone screen before the performer steps out into the lane.
When the drums start, the transformation is complete. They crouch. They circle. They pounce. They stare children down from inches away, then leap back, grinning. Groups compete whose stripes are sharper, whose movements most convincing, whose roar carries farthest down the lane.
For some, the performance is entertainment, pure and joyous. For others, it is something altogether more serious. Peddapuli Vesham, the term for the full tiger costume and performance, is undertaken as a vow, an offering, an act of gratitude or supplication.
Families watch from doorways, believing the painted tiger carries blessings in its wake. And for many performers, particularly those who have inherited the tradition from a father or an uncle, stepping into the stripes is also a way of keeping faith with the past — a deliberate act of preservation as much as devotion.
It begins in the early hours, in some courtyard corner or under a bare bulb in a side lane. A young man sits still while another works on him with a brush dipped in yellow paint. The stripes go on slowly — careful and deliberate — black over yellow, jaw to ankle. By the time the… pic.twitter.com/Iov2ZetLZG— The Siasat Daily (@TheSiasatDaily) June 21, 2026
A tradition that crosses every line
What is striking about Peddapuli Panduga, and about Peerla Panduga more broadly, is what it reveals about Telangana’s social fabric. Hindus and Muslims alike step into the festival’s orbit, as participants, as audiences, as neighbours sharing a wall to lean against. The occasion does not require everyone to pray the same way. It requires only that they show up.
The tiger dancers move through Muharram processions, past temple walls, in front of crowds that include everyone. Nobody checks who belongs to which faith. They are all just watching the tiger.
Younger, louder, still here
There were years when people worried. Urbanisation was eating into village custom. Young men were leaving for cities. The old practitioners were ageing out.
But the tigers kept coming. Social media turned what was once a neighbourhood spectacle into something people across the state and beyond could witness. A painted tiger going low in a Karimnagar lane finds its way to a screen in Hyderabad by nightfall. Local cultural organisations have begun documenting and actively promoting the performances, aware that what is neither recorded nor celebrated tends to disappear.
The younger generation, it turns out, is not indifferent to the tradition. They simply needed a different window into it.
The roar that returns
As Peerla Panduga arrives again this year, the courtyard sessions will begin. Brushes will be dipped. Stripes will be drawn. Somewhere, a tail will be tied with the same knot a father tied before, and a grandfather before him.
The dappu drums will start, and the tigers will take to the lanes. The children will scatter and come back. The elders will watch from doorways, recognising something they cannot quite name — not merely a performance, but a covenant between the living and everything that came before them.
Peddapuli Panduga is many things – folk art, religious expression, street theatre, athletic display. But at its heart, it is the oldest kind of story a community tells about itself: we were here, we endured, we roar.
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