A wandering Yakadaya

50 years on, the much feared Sanchi Aratchige Jinadasa is an old vulnerable man.

“They seek him here,
They seek him there,
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.
Is he in heaven?
—Is he in hell?
That dammed, elusive Pimpernel.”

With apologies to Baroness Orczy who wrote the above lines in her popular series ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel’ set during the time of the French Revolution about an anonymous hero who daringly rescued aristocrats from the guillotine, The Sunday Times too went on a different quest.

That of “seeking” not a hero but a villain who terrorized the Anuradhapura area years ago. Earlier, The Sunday Times had followed a newspaper trail, pointed out by yellowed and frayed clippings, about a campaign of terror by the infamous Yakadaya who, in cold blood, shot dead the Maradankadawela Postmaster for a few hundred rupees, his capture on the run in Matale after a massive police hunt, conviction of murder after a crowd-pulling trial and sentencing to death on June 15, 1956 but subsequent release, 14 years after, because the authorities were confident that “he was a changed man”.

More than 50 years later, where was the Island Reconvicted Criminal (IRC) 881/47 Sanchi Aratchige Jinadasa alias Yakadaya? Attempting to pick up the trail, The Sunday Times called up the Polonnaruwa Police Station, knowing that Yakadaya, who had been born in Peradeniya in March 1921 had moved while still a child, with his father to Manampitiya.“Yes, he was around doing cultivations in Manampitiya, call the police post there,” said a very helpful policeman. Next it was Manampitiya on the list.

“He used to grow vegetables here but moved to Dambulla or somewhere there,” was the answer, following which it was a call to the Dambulla Police. “No,” said a policeman, “he was around at the bus terminus but now he has moved to Thambuttegama.”
The Thambuttegama Police confirmed that Maradankadawela Yakadaya was living at the main bus halt there. In fact, “he came in to complain about someone who played the fool with him,” said the policeman.

The Sunday Times then set off in search of Yakadaya. “He used to rest in the Time Keeper’s room,” said a person manning the Thambuttegama bus terminus, “and get food from Nangi’s te kade. Recently he had a problem with someone here and left. We heard he was in hospital.” The trail grew cold from there. Numerous calls, trips to different towns and temples close to Thambuttegama yielded nothing.

It was the elusive Maradankadawela Yakadaya, he simply could not be found. And then, in early January, there he was………in The Sunday Times offices at Colombo 2. He had a message for the public, he informed us loudly. “Ekama asava, saamaya ethi wenawata. Angalak hari bedanawata mama sathutu ne. Sinhala, demala, muslim okkama nedeyo,” said Yakadaya explaining that his only happiness would be to see peace dawning in this country. He is opposed to even one inch of the land being divided and he believes that the Sinhalese, the Tamils and the Muslims are all relatives, he says in no uncertain terms. Clad in full white, clutching the hallmark heramita (walking stick) not of wood but of iron, with trembling hands, Yakadaya’s steps are stumblingly slow but the dimming eye (one eye is blind) piercingly sparkles fire.

His mind seems to wander at times as he says that he would like to talk at the United Nations on peace. When The Sunday Times offers him a cup of tea he refuses and requests a glass of milk and quickly pulls out a ten-rupee note to pay for it and reluctantly, when declined, tucks it away in his national suit pocket.

He carries his pillow, his cup, his plate and his comb for he fears that his long silvery-white hair, tied in a konde, will get infested with lice. Refuting the fifties news reports that he was born in 1921, Yakadaya insists that he is 106 years old, holding out his palm with a long life line, adding that he could live another 50-60 years. The tears come when he speaks of the woman in his life who he claims was killed by the “Kapiri” (Blacks) who had padlocked lips, ever so long ago. Until she was killed he had led a wanton life, mainly gambling (booruwa gehuwwa) the whole day. “Then one day she appeared among the clouds and told me to lay off.”

When asked not only about the Maradankadawela murder but also his thuggery and villainy in the days of yore when gun-toting Yakadaya terrorized villages, he with a hint of temper, dismisses them as the “fabrications of the police”.

Now into “manthara-gurukam”, is it signs of paranoia that make Yakadaya claim that he will never go to hospital because people are attempting to poison him or that he was taken to look for nidhana (treasure), then tied up and beaten? But those days are over. He doesn’t have family, he says, but currently lives with a distant relative in Balanagala in Katugastota, Kandy. As the evening shadows lengthen and The Sunday Times concludes the interview, Yakadaya suddenly looks uncertain and vulnerable. Spending the twilight years of his life at bus-halts, carrying his worldly possessions in a single bag and dependent on the goodwill of the people to get even a scrap meal a day, Yakadaya’s final request is: “Drop me off at a temple where I can spend the night.”