King Devakonda counseled me: “Go, to the island of Sinhala.”
And Koman, the Arab trader, promised: “Ask of me anything you desire.”
If fate decrees the journey, then I must go—
For there lies an island paradise, rising from the sea.
Let us follow the signs spoken by the ancients,
Of a land most fertile, praised by Indians of old.
When we reach the Sinhala isle,
We shall forget Malabar… and make a new life there.
I cannot remain in India, defying the king’s command.
Yet I cannot journey alone—Koman must go with me.
The rains begin to fall—let us board the ship at once.
Already, the sailors quarrel of the Mukkara Hatana.
Let us chant the mantras from the Malayalam book of spells,
Recorded long ago upon Lanka’s sacred soil.
And let us seek our kin—the Nayakkaras,
Who came to Senkadagala from distant Andhra lands.
Because Koman, my husband, willed it so,
I sailed with him across the sea to Sinhala.
But on the eastern shore he left me,
Returning by ship—leaving me alone.
Now, there is no returning to India.
So I built my dwelling upon the eastern coast—
This island of Sinhala, paradise in the midst of the sea.
For one who has reached heaven never returns to hell.
So, O King Devakonda, here I remain.
I have not forgotten Malabar—
Yet how can I abandon heaven,
And go back again?
