Ulath Ekai Pilath Ekai Lyrics by Rookantha Gunathilaka

Burned on one side or the other, it’s all the same to us
Dead or alive, it’s all the same
We live in peace every single day
The gods know, and we don’t
Who can say which day we die
Whether we have it or not, it’s all the same
Near or far, it’s all the same
We came to this place having eaten our share of mud
At the stream, the flower, the canal, the brook
Our voices can still be heard

Even though they say it, stringing songs together
Even though they sing it, making up verses
For love you can do anything, they say
Even with no money, you become a king

Don’t build a wall, throw down a fence, and cut off a love
Don’t glare at the man who climbs step by step
(If you come along with us, we’ll laugh every single day
What I’m telling you is the truth, little brother..//)

Burned on one side or the other, it’s all the same….

What will the future be like
Why sit fretting, thinking and thinking about it
Why cry inside, saying there’s not a cent in the bank book
(If you come along with us, we’ll laugh every single day
What I’m telling you is the truth, little brother..//)

Burned on one side or the other, it’s all the same….

Even though they say it, stringing songs together
Even though they sing it, making up verses
(For love you can do anything, they say
Even with no money, you become a king..////)

This is a song of plain, contented wisdom, an older brother (or anyone who has lived a little and made peace with life) leaning over to a younger one and telling him how to carry himself. It opens with a well-worn Sinhala saying, “ulath ekai, pilath ekai,” literally “burned on one side or the other, it’s all the same.” It is the kind of phrase a villager uses about a roti on the hearth: flip it or don’t, either way it cooks. Here it means that none of the things people lose sleep over, having or not having, near or far, even living or dying, really change who you are. Whatever way it falls, it’s the same to us, and we go on living in peace.

The line “we came having eaten our share of mud” is the heart of that humility. To have “eaten mud” in Sinhala is to have grown up rough, worked hard, struggled through the dirt of ordinary life. The voice isn’t claiming to be above anyone; he’s saying he came up the hard way, and that’s exactly why he can speak about contentment with such ease. He points to the stream, the flower, the canal, the little brook, the plain things of the countryside, and says our voices still carry there. Simple lives leave their own quiet mark.

Then the song turns gently sharp. People dress up love in pretty verses and stringed-together songs, he says, claiming love can do anything and that with love even a man with no money lives like a king. But he doesn’t want fine words; he wants you to actually live it. So he warns against the small cruelties that kill love in real life: don’t wall someone off, don’t throw down a fence between you, don’t cut a love short, and above all don’t look down with scorn on “the man who climbs step by step,” the one rising slowly, with nothing handed to him. Come walk with us instead, he tells his little brother, and we’ll laugh together every day. This is the truth.

The last turn is the comfort the whole song has been building toward. Why torment yourself wondering what the future holds, why cry inside because the bank book shows not a single cent? The money isn’t the measure. A life lived in peace, with love and good company and no shame about where you came from, is the real wealth, and that is a richness no empty bank book can take away.