-By Special Correspondent
(Lanka-e-News -07.June.2025, 9.20 PM) In a country famed for its miracles, the island of serendipity has outdone itself again this Vesak season. While thousands of devotees lit lanterns and recited sermons in remembrance of the Buddha’s enlightenment, one enterprising gentleman — W.H. Athula Tilakaratne — took the holiday spirit to new heights by allegedly enlightening himself right out of prison, without so much as a by-your-leave from the President.
According to the now-blushing Presidential Secretariat, Mr. Tilakaratne — a convicted white-collar criminal sentenced for a rather ambitious financial fraud at Anuradhapura Prison — was not on the official list of 388 fortunate inmates slated for clemency under the President’s Vesak 2025 pardon. But somewhere between the reverberating gathas, the poya-day mercy, and the bureaucratic shuffle of documents, our man walked out of prison as if karma itself had cut him a break.
Unfortunately for Tilakaratne — and even more so for the red-faced officials now under CID scrutiny — karma appears to have a vengeful sense of humour.
Presidential pardons during Vesak are nothing new. They’re a ritual in Sri Lanka as routine as coconut oil on the forehead or shoving last week’s bribe under this week’s file. Codified in Article 34(1) of the Constitution, the practice allows the Head of State to grant clemency — ideally based on rehabilitation, good conduct, or terminal boredom of prison authorities.
In this year’s clemency cycle, the process — supposedly ironclad — unfolded like clockwork: prison authorities drafted a list, the Ministry of Justice reviewed it, the President affixed his signature, and voilà — a new batch of prisoners rejoined society, vowing to abandon crime and, presumably, embrace vegetarianism.
The only catch? Mr. Tilakaratne’s name wasn’t on the list.
In fact, his name appears nowhere in the document submitted to the Presidential Secretariat on May 6, 2025, under the iron-clad reference number 06/01/Proposal/Pres.Pardon/List/05-12/2025. And yet, he glided out the Anuradhapura gates with the serenity of a man stepping out of a temple.
Sources within the Justice Ministry were quick to draw boundaries, declaring, “We are absolutely confident the list we sent did not include this individual. If he’s out, it wasn’t through us.” The Prisons Department chimed in with a statement vaguely resembling a shrug: “A clerical error, perhaps? Maybe he changed his name to Buddha.”
The CID, now on high alert, has begun probing this curious vanishing act under the evocative file title: “Release of a Prisoner Without Presidential Approval Under the Presidential Pardon.” The department has reportedly dispatched a special team to Anuradhapura Prison, where senior jailors, record keepers, and probably a few startled temple cats are all being questioned.
As for Tilakaratne, no one seems quite sure where he is. Some say he’s fled the country. Others believe he’s merely lying low — possibly meditating at a temple, possibly flipping through offshore account ledgers somewhere near Wellawatte.
In true Sri Lankan fashion, social media exploded like a Diwali firecracker in an ammunition dump. Memes, conspiracy theories, and TikTok explainers cropped up overnight.
Was this a rogue pardon? Was someone bribed with more than a basket of bananas? Did a sympathetic official see Tilakaratne’s aura glowing during Vesak meditation and decide to release him on divine merit?
Political watchdogs suspect the worst: “This is not the first time a convict has miraculously benefited from bureaucratic amnesia,” said one anonymous official, sipping tea like a man who’s seen too much. “But usually, they at least pretend to follow procedure.”
Ironically, President Anura Kumara Dissanayake, who ran on a platform of zero tolerance for corruption, now finds himself explaining how a convicted fraudster strolled out of prison without his signature.
The President's media team released a tightly-worded statement:
"The President has not approved the pardon of W.H. Athula Tilakaratne. Any release outside the scope of his directive is illegal and will be fully investigated. The sanctity of the Presidential Pardon cannot be compromised."
Of course, sanctity and Sri Lankan statecraft rarely appear in the same sentence, unless there's an impending election.
For those unfamiliar with the man at the centre of this Vesak jailbreak, Tilakaratne is no street criminal. He’s a polished fraudster — the sort who wears a tie while forging signatures and smiles politely while siphoning millions. Convicted in a complex embezzlement racket involving regional development funds, he was once lauded for his “efficient fiscal planning” — until the money vanished faster than accountability in Parliament.
Some say he had friends in high places. Others say he was a “pawn in a larger game.” And now, everyone is saying: “How the hell did he get out?”
For the 388 officially pardoned inmates, the news of Tilakaratne’s Houdini act was met with bemusement.
One such prisoner, released from Kalutara, commented wryly, “I was told I had to pass a psychological assessment, get good conduct certificates, and even wash temple floors. If I knew all I had to do was not be on the list, I’d have skipped the broom.”
Another remarked: “This is why we never trust lists. They’re like government budgets — never quite reflect reality.”
In a country where ministers routinely forget which portfolios they hold and secretaries suffer sudden amnesia during committee hearings, this scandal is almost banal. But it also raises larger questions about the systemic fragility of Sri Lanka’s pardon process.
Who has access to the final list? Who authorizes the prison gate to open? Is the process digitised, or is it still being scribbled on napkins from Temple Trees luncheons?
Legal analysts suggest a full digital audit trail must now be implemented. “At this point, even Google Docs would be more secure,” one sarcastically noted.
Meanwhile, back at the Anuradhapura Prison, wardens have reportedly been told not to release anyone unless personally blessed by the Justice Minister, the CID, and possibly the Dalai Lama.
For President Dissanayake, the timing couldn’t be worse. With local elections looming and anti-corruption rhetoric still fresh from his campaign, a rogue release undermines his image faster than a leaked WhatsApp voice note.
Opposition leader Sajith Premadasa was quick to seize the moment:
“We warned this government about putting novices in charge. Now even criminals are deciding when to leave prison.”
The Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna (JVP), normally allergic to humour, simply said: “We will not tolerate misuse of state power for personal gain.” That statement, according to one observer, may have been the funniest line of the week.
As the CID begins what it describes as a “priority investigation,” and as the bureaucrats scramble to verify which list went where, the man in question — W.H. Athula Tilakaratne — remains free. At least for now.
Whether he’ll be re-arrested, offered a job at the Finance Ministry, or simply declared a national mystery, is anyone’s guess. After all, in Sri Lanka, reality often reads like satire — and satire, too often, becomes reality.
As for the President’s pardon system? One suspects future recipients may need not just clearance from the Justice Ministry but a GPS tracker, retinal scan, and affidavit signed by the tooth relic itself.
This Vesak, the Buddhist message of compassion, forgiveness, and release from suffering was taken perhaps too literally by some in Sri Lanka’s penal system. But one wonders what Lord Buddha himself would say if he saw a man slip through the bars not by merit — but by manipulation.
Maybe he’d sigh and say, “All things are impermanent. Even jail time.”
-By Special Correspondent
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by (2025-06-07 15:54:31)
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