Sapathneeroshayak Lyrics by Abhisheka Wimalaweera

The Wife –
There is no co-wife’s jealousy in my world,
the mistress’s fragrance is not your fragrance
making a flock of two was a curse upon beauty,
the pleasure of stolen kisses is painted on the ceiling

The Lover –
Are you so certain there is no co-wife’s rage?
Even a foul-smelling flower, you know, still has its scent,
for a flock of three, what use are a mate’s feathers?
kisses cannot be stolen, do you know the thing that is freely given?

The Wife –
Though history wrote it down as “Radha and Krishna,”
Krishna’s very life rested in Rukmani’s eyes
that deadly, ravishing, amorous smile,
the day it fades is near, go count it in the sky

The Lover –
Does love across saṃsāra even need a law?
To the signature will fall only that body’s coldness,
what I loved was the living, beating heart,
and even if it fades, the memory belongs to the new Radha

This is a rare and clever song written as a duel of words between two women over one man, the roles named in the lyric itself: biriya, the Wife, and pemwathiya, the Lover. Its title, sapathnee roshayak, means a co-wife’s jealousy, and the whole song circles that phrase. The Wife opens with cool composure: there is no such jealousy in my world, she says, the mistress’s scent is not yours; splitting a marriage into a flock of two only cursed its beauty, and the pleasure of stolen kisses is a mere picture painted on the ceiling, unreal and out of reach.

The Lover answers with sharper wit. Are you really so sure there’s no jealousy? she asks, and turns the Wife’s own logic around: even a foul-smelling flower still carries a scent, so don’t pretend indifference. For a flock of three, what good is a mate’s loyal feathers? And the barb that cuts deepest: kisses cannot be stolen, meaning what he gave, he gave freely, so do you even know the difference between what is taken and what is offered?

The exchange rises into myth and philosophy. The Wife invokes Radha and Krishna, the famous lovers, only to remind the Lover that Krishna’s true life lay in the eyes of Rukmani, his lawful queen, and warns that the deadly, ravishing smile of an affair has its fading day close at hand. The Lover keeps the last word: does love that runs across saṃsāra need a legal signature? A signature wins only the coldness of a body, she says, while she loved the living, beating heart, and even when it all fades, the memory will belong to the new Radha, herself. Written and sung by Abhisheka Wimalaweera, it is a strikingly modern, morally unresolved drama about marriage, desire, and who truly owns a heart.