Rallen Rallata Pawena Oruwe Lyrics by Vijaya Kumarathunga

Ho.. ….. …….

On a boat tossed from wave to wave
I go out to the open sea in the night
On a boat tossed from wave to wave
I go out to the open sea in the night
May the gods watch over my wife and children
Until I come back, in the morning
Ho.. ….. ….

In the pitch-dark night, on the wide sea
the wind blows with a moaning sound
I go out, with this stretch of water in my hands
fate calls me to this night’s journey
On this passage along the far shore
let my children sleep
On a bed of woven reeds gone limp
I am alone on the sea

On a boat tossed from wave to wave
I go out to the open sea in the night
On a boat tossed from wave to wave
I go out to the open sea in the night
May the gods watch over my wife and children
Until I come back, in the morning
Ho.. ….. ….

The lantern’s light is snuffed out by the wind
and my heart begins to tremble
A drizzle comes blown in on the wind
the sea’s waters churn and rise
The helpless ones are like me
O gods, where are you, I am poor and alone
Watch over me, with no one to turn to
I am alone on the sea

On a boat tossed from wave to wave
I go out to the open sea in the night
On a boat tossed from wave to wave
I go out to the open sea in the night
May the gods watch over my wife and children
Until I come back, in the morning
Ho.. ….. ….
Ho.. ….. ….
Ho.. ….. ….

This is a fisherman’s song, sung in the voice of a poor man pushing his small boat out into the open sea in the dead of night. He is leaving his sleeping wife and children behind on the shore, and the whole song is the prayer he carries with him onto the water: that the gods will keep his family safe until he rows back home at dawn. Anyone who has lived in a coastal Sri Lankan village knows this scene, the men going out after dark when the fish run and the families left waiting through the long night.

The fear and the loneliness build as he gets further from land. The opening picture, a little boat thrown from one wave to the next, already tells you how fragile his life is out there. He calls the journey his “irana”, his fate or destiny, the night crossing he has no choice but to make to feed the people he loves. The reed mat back home that has gone soft and worn (“kadamalu wu pan padure”) is a quiet detail of how poor this family is, and it sharpens the tenderness when he asks that his children be allowed to sleep peacefully on it while he is gone.

Then the sea turns on him. The lantern, his one small light against the huge dark, is blown out by the wind, and that is the moment his courage cracks and his heart starts to shake. A cold drizzle blows in, the water rises and churns, and he feels utterly small. His cry to the gods here is raw and human: he calls himself “dilindu”, destitute, and “asarana”, helpless with no one to turn to, and he asks where the gods even are, the way a frightened person calls out when the danger is real. “The helpless ones are like me” is him saying he is one of the countless poor people the gods are supposed to protect.

What stays with you is the line that ends each verse, “thaniwe ma saagaraye”, I am alone on the sea. Under all the prayer and the fear, this is a song about a working man’s loneliness and his love. He is risking his life out on the black water, and every thought is bent toward the family asleep on the shore. The ache of it is that his only comfort, the only thing he can do for them from out there, is to hand them over to the gods and hope to see the morning.