Sithul Pawwa Lyrics by Namal Udugama

A moon rose over the Sithulpawwa temple
Gathering up a heap of merit, I set off
Like a great offering hall, my eyes wouldn’t stay still
There’s no leave for me, the two of them won’t stop, they keep resting on you

Like a girl who lives nearby, when you bow low at the gateway
A fair face and so dear, you’re well worth noticing

You’ve gone deep into my heart and become my whole road now
I won’t be able to forget you once I’m back in Colombo

In the village the little birds will start to compete
And the peahen will grow jealous of your beauty

In just a moment the bus will leave the temple
Don’t go far away from me, my princess of Ruhuna

A young man is on a pilgrimage to Sithulpawwa, the ancient rock temple deep in the dry southern jungles of Ruhuna, and right there in that holy place he loses his heart to a girl he sees among the worshippers. The whole song is his light, teasing, lovestruck plea, half a prayer and half a flirtation, that she not disappear before his bus pulls away. There is a gentle joke running through it: he came to gather merit and quiet his mind, but his eyes refuse to behave.

That tug between the sacred and the smitten is the heart of the song. When he says a moon has risen over the temple, the moon in Sinhala song is the standing image of a calm, lovely face, so he is really saying she appeared like moonlight over that ancient shrine. He compares his restless eyes to a “wisal pura,” a great offering hall always full of movement, admitting they will not settle on the Buddha when they keep drifting back to her. He notices her bowing low at the temple gateway and the fairness of her face, and confesses, almost guiltily, that he simply cannot stop looking.

Then the feeling deepens past teasing. He tells her she has gone so far into him that she has become his whole road, the only thing on his mind, and that once he is back in the noise of Colombo there will be no forgetting her. To say how lovely she is, he reaches for village images a southern listener feels at once: the little birds of the countryside will compete to match her, and the peahen, the very picture of grace in Sri Lankan poetry, will grow jealous of her. Putting her above even the peahen is high praise.

The ache lands in the last lines. His bus is about to leave the temple and carry him back north, away from this chance meeting, so he calls her his “ruhunu kumari,” his princess of Ruhuna, and begs her not to slip out of reach. It is a small, sweet moment that so many of us know, falling for a stranger in a place you are only passing through, and knowing the clock is already running out.