Amma Sandaki Lyrics by T.M. Jayarathne

Mother is the moon, and I am the sun of that world
By that sun and that moon, your world was lit
To keep her sons safe she bore the pains and hardships of life
The poems and songs written for a father’s love are far too few…..

It’s my blood that runs in your body, son
Though I never carried you in my womb, the weight of caring for you stayed with me
A mother’s love for her child stands taller than the great mountain, deep in the heart
It’s a wonder, son, that my blood did not turn into milk for you…..

Hiding myself as a mother, I gave my life to you
I am the one, son, and only I know it
Is a father’s love not something we recognise, children?
Is it only mothers who will one day become Buddha?….

This is a song about the love between parents and a child, and in particular a quiet, moving plea on behalf of a father. It opens in the voice of the child, then shifts into the voice of the parent, and it carries a tender secret: this is the love of someone who raised a child that was not born to them.

The first verse sets up an image that runs through the whole song. In Sinhala writing the mother is almost always the moon, the soft, cooling light that watches over the home, while the child is called the sun, the bright thing the parent’s whole world turns toward. “By that sun and that moon your world was lit” means the parents only found light and meaning in life because of the child. Then the verse turns to the father, saying so many songs have been written about a mother’s love that the ones written for a father’s love feel too few. That small line is the seed of the whole song.

The middle verse is where the secret comes out, and it is the heart of the piece. The parent says, “It’s my blood that runs in your body,” yet also admits, “though I never carried you in my womb.” So the child was not born from this parent, and still the parent insists the bond is real, that the weight of raising and worrying over the child has lived inside them all along. The line about love being taller than the great mountain reaches for Sri Lanka’s image of the highest, most unshakable thing to say this love has no limit. And then the most aching wish of all: it’s a wonder my blood did not turn to milk, a parent longing to have nursed this child, to have given everything a birth mother gives, even though the body could not.

The last verse opens the secret fully. “Hiding myself as a mother, I gave my life to you, and only I know it,” is a father who has loved and provided like a mother and asked for no credit. The closing question is the gentle protest the whole song has been building to. In Sinhala culture there is a much loved saying that a mother is like a living Buddha to her child, the highest honour love can be given. Here the singer asks, softly and without bitterness, is it only mothers who can be honoured that way? Does a father’s quiet, hidden love really go unrecognised? You are left holding the ache of a parent who gave everything and only wants to be seen, and a reminder to look again at the love that asks for nothing in return.