Ra Ra Ra Bombiye Lyrics by Sunil Edirisinghe

Ra ra ra, the firecracker pops
Take cover, little sister
Ra ra ra, the firecracker pops
Take cover, little brother
The Japanese mandolin plays its tune
The New Year arrives at the junction

You may say it grandly, parade it before the world,
but borrowed tongues, one after another, are not the way of our land
On Sigiriya’s mirror wall there is music of our own
So let us sing sweetly, little brother, the seepada verses
The New Year arrives at the junction, take cover, little sister
The New Year arrives at the junction, take cover, little brother

Ra ra ra, the firecracker pops
Take cover, little sister
Ra ra ra, the firecracker pops
Take cover, little brother
The Japanese mandolin plays its tune
The New Year arrives at the junction

Even if you play “lalai lilai lai” on the violin or the banjo,
why do we need anyone else’s airs and frills, sinno?
Time and again all sorts of baila come into fashion
Work with wisdom to guard our land and our language
The New Year arrives at the junction, take cover, little sister
The New Year arrives at the junction, take cover, little brother

Ra ra ra, the firecracker pops
Take cover, little sister
Ra ra ra, the firecracker pops
Take cover, little brother
The Japanese mandolin plays its tune
The New Year arrives at the junction

This is an Avurudu song, a New Year song, and underneath its playful, rhythmic surface it carries a gentle plea to hold on to what is our own. The “ra ra ra bombiye” is the sound of the season itself, the pop of firecrackers and the lilt of a tune, and the singer calls out to a little sister and little brother to take cover the way children duck and scatter when the crackers go off at the village junction. That junction, the handiya where the lanes meet, is where Avurudu comes alive, and the line “the New Year arrives at the junction” sets the whole scene: the festival season has come, everyone is out, and music is in the air.

The heart of the song is a quiet worry about losing our own music and language to imported sounds. The “Japanese mandolin,” the violin, the banjo, the borrowed “lalai lilai lai” tunes, all the fashionable baila that come and go with the times, these stand for foreign styles drifting in and being copied without thought. The singer is not angry, just coaxing: why do we need anyone else’s airs and frills (the word “sinno” is an affectionate, teasing way of addressing the listener) when we already have something older and richer? He points to the mirror wall of Sigiriya, the ancient rock fortress whose graffiti verses are some of the oldest Sinhala poetry, as proof that we have had our own music and our own poetry for centuries. So he urges the little brother to sing the seepada instead, the traditional four-line folk verses sung at Avurudu.

The closing thought is the warmest part. “Work with wisdom to guard our land and our language” is the song’s real message, but it never scolds. It wraps that message in firecrackers and folk verse and the easy joy of the New Year, so that loving your own culture feels like part of the celebration rather than a lecture. By the end you are left with a simple, fond idea: enjoy the festival, let the crackers pop, but keep singing the songs that are truly ours.