Monawada Muththe Mokada Karanne Lyrics

What are you doing, grandfather, what is it you’re at?
Why are you digging up that ground over there?
“Children, I’m digging without a thought for whether I’ll be here,
to plant a young mango sapling.”

“If today I plant a single mango sapling,
will I even live to eat one mango from it?
Children, I’m not hoping for a mango from this tree.
I’m only doing my duty and leaving it at that.

To work for the world for something you’ll never get,
I can’t say whether that makes sense to you.
Your idea there is a strange one, children,
and if you grow up thinking that way, the fault is your own.

From the mango trees that those before us planted,
every one of us has eaten the fruit.
That the ones who come after us may have that fruit too,
to arrange that is our duty.

I have learned well what this duty is.
Farewell, grandchildren, I’ll be on my way.
That the ones who come after us may have that fruit too,
to arrange that is our duty.
I have learned well what this duty is.
Farewell, grandchildren, I’ll be on my way.”

This is one of the best loved Sinhala children’s songs, a little lesson set to music that nearly every Sri Lankan grows up hearing. It is not a love song or a sad song. It is a short conversation between some children and an old man, and through that conversation it teaches one simple, lasting idea: that we plant for those who come after us.

The song opens with the children’s curiosity. They find an old man, a muththa (grandfather), out digging in the ground, and they ask him plainly what he’s doing and why he’s bothering. When he tells them he is planting a mango sapling, they can’t make sense of it. A mango tree takes years and years to bear fruit. The children think it out loud: he is so old, will he even live long enough to eat a single mango from it? To them the work looks pointless.

The heart of the song is the old man’s answer, and it is where the real meaning sits. He isn’t planting for himself at all. He tells them he expects nothing from the tree, no fruit, no reward in his own lifetime. He is simply doing his duty, his yuthukama. Then he gives the children the thought that turns the whole thing around. The mango trees they already eat from were planted by people who came before them, people long gone who never asked for thanks. Because of those people, every generation has had fruit to eat. So it is now his turn to plant for the children of the future, people he will never meet. The mango tree here stands for anything we leave behind for the next generation, the quiet, unselfish work of giving to people who can never repay you.

He even gently warns the children: if you grow up believing you should only ever work for what you yourself will get, the loss is yours. Then, his small task done, he says farewell, aayubowan muththe, and goes on his way, leaving the children and the listener with a value to carry. It’s a gentle song, but the idea underneath it is one that has shaped how Sri Lankan parents and teachers talk to children for generations: think beyond yourself, and plant the tree whose shade you will never sit in.