Gal Lena Bindala Len Dora Arala Lyrics

Breaking open the rock cave, opening the cave door
Cannot bear it, cannot bear it… cannot bear it…
My darling… my… darling… my darling…

Sinha Seewali… my beloved daughter

Breaking open the rock cave, opening the cave door
Everyone has gone, there is no one left
I took her and fed her, I cared for her
Cannot bear it, cannot bear it… cannot bear it…

Lying inside the cave, turning over and over
Lying inside the cave, turning over and over
I took her and fed her, I cared for her
I took her and fed her, I cared for her

My sweet daughter, with her tender words
I comfort her, I prepare her food

Feeding her, giving her drink
Frightened on her behalf
Could there be a sorrow in the forest?
Listening for her, searching for her

She has gone away
She has gone away
Why, my fair daughter, were you not here?
If it is your brother, he has a cunning mind
Upon you it falls
Did you obey even his command,
and come away, freeing yourself from him?

This is a song from the old Sinhala nurthi theatre, the early stage dramas that gave Sri Lanka some of its most loved songs. It is not a love song but a mother’s lament, the voice of a mother speaking about and to her daughter, Sinha Seewali. The name itself ties the piece to the legend of Sinhabahu and Sinhaseevali, the old story of the lion’s children raised in a forest cave, so the whole song lives in that world of stone caves, the wild forest, and a parent watching over a child she cannot keep safe.

The scene opens at the mouth of a rock cave. The mother breaks open the cave door, “gal lena bindala len dora herala,” and the picture of splitting stone tells you how desperate she is to reach her child. She keeps repeating “sinha baa,” she cannot bear it, the kind of broken refrain a grieving parent falls into when words run out. She remembers everything she did, how she took the girl in, fed her, raised her, sat up with her inside the cave while the child tossed and turned. That ordinary, tender labour of feeding and comforting a daughter is the heart of the song, and the lyric returns to it again and again like a memory she keeps touching.

Then the fear comes in. Everyone has gone, no one is left, and the mother starts listening and searching, terrified there is some sorrow waiting in the forest, “wanaye dukak wee da.” In the old tale the forest is not gentle, it is the wild place outside the cave where danger lives, so a child wandering out there is every parent’s worst dread. Her mind turns to the brother, the one with the “ola mola gathi,” the sly, scheming nature, and she wonders if her daughter obeyed even him and slipped away, leaving the safety of the cave behind.

What the listener is left holding is the ache of a mother who has given a child everything and still cannot hold on to her. The breaking of the stone, the empty cave, the calling out into the trees, all of it carries one old and very human fear, that you can feed and shelter and love a child with your whole life and still watch the wide world take her from you.