Pahana Thiya Budu Saduta Lyrics

Lighting a lamp for the Buddha at the break of dawn,
the two of us leave home every single day.
Leaving our blind mother alone in the house,
we come to the train to sing viridu (improvised devotional verses).
We come to the train to sing viridu.

As much as we longed to study,
we left school behind.
We come along without even glancing back that way.
We look after our mother by reciting our verses.

The room of our home falls into darkness,
yet a familiar light comes near.
For everyone heading to Colombo we ask the Triple Refuge,
and with hands joined we worship, wishing them safe arrival.

Lighting a lamp…

When the next stop comes, we step down and move on,
heading toward Kandy…
If you have even a single cent, drop it as a deed of merit.
We bear no ill will. Even when there are no coins, we go on our way.

This is the song of two blind street singers, brothers who ride the trains making their living the only way they can, by singing. The “viridu” they perform is a traditional Sinhala form of improvised verse, often devotional, chanted aloud for an audience, and here it is both their craft and their begging bowl. The whole song is told in their own voice, and from the very first line it sets the tone of quiet faith rather than complaint.

It opens at dawn, with them lighting a lamp before the Buddha. In a Sri Lankan home that small act of placing a “pahana” (oil lamp) at the shrine is how the day is begun in devotion, asking for blessing before stepping out. Then comes the line that catches in your throat: they leave their blind mother alone in the house and head for the train. Blind themselves, looking after a blind mother, they have made the railway carriage their workplace. They tell us plainly that they once wanted to study, that they loved school, but had to leave it behind, and now they care for their mother by reciting verses. There is no bitterness in how they say it, only the fact of it.

The imagery in the third verse is the heart of the song. Their home is sunk in darkness, the line says, both the literal dark of a poor “bin ge” (a small earth-floored room) and the darkness of their own blindness, and yet “a familiar light comes near.” For people who cannot see, that light is not something they look at, it is the warmth and routine they know by touch and habit, the comfort of a life they have learned to live inside. Then they turn outward to the passengers: for everyone travelling on to Colombo they wish the Triple Refuge (the Buddhist taking of refuge in the Buddha, his teaching, and the community) and join their hands in worship, asking that these strangers reach their journey’s end safely. People who have so little are praying for the good fortune of those who have more.

The song closes on the road again, stepping off at the next stop, moving on toward Kandy, carriage after carriage. Their plea is gentle: if you have even a single cent, give it as an act of merit, a “pin” that earns you good karma. And then the line that makes the song unforgettable, that they hold no grudge against anyone, that even when no coins come they simply move on. What you are left holding is not pity but a kind of awe, two blind brothers with almost nothing, blessing the very travellers they beg from, asking nothing in anger, carrying their faith and their mother through the dark with more grace than most people manage with everything.