“My dearest son Yuddha,
“I have bad news. The doctor has just told me that I have a final stage cancer and don’t have long to live. As you know, you are my most beloved son. So after I die, I want you to handle all of my money and property, to make sure that you, your brother and your sister have fair shares. As you already know, as a farmer, I do not have much, but I hope what I give you will help you some. Please come to see me as soon as you can — before it is too late.
“Your loving father,
Yuddha felt as though he had been hit on the head with a mallet. He could not move. The superintendent stared at the letter and had a strange feeling that it was staring back at him, accusingly. Samarn was not his father. The superintendent’s parents had died in a road accident years before he finished high school. He had since been under the care of a poor uncle who lived from hand to mouth, with many mouths to feed, including Yuddha’s. The Police Officer Academy, for Yuddha, had been god-sent, as every cadet was given official status and pay that helped relieve his financial burden.
It was when Yuddha was in his second year at the Academy that he was sent, under a programme, to live like a stepson with a family in a rural province. The programme was designed for the cadet to familiarize himself with the rustic farmer’s life, and to demolish the traditional barrier that separates the police from the public. It was hoped that the experience would be imprinted on the cadet’s mind and memory so that, after his graduation and at the beginning of his police career, he would recall the hardship of his stepfamily and be understanding and sympathetic when serving the public.
Samarn’s family had been selected for Cadet Yuddha. The week of home stay had resulted in a strong bond between Yuddha the stepson and Samarn the stepfather and his family. Before Yuddha left the family to return to the Academy, Samarn gave his police stepson a bag of straw mushrooms as a going-away present. “Son,” Samarn had said, “you won’t be able to live on the low police pay. Grow the mushrooms and sell them. It will supplement your pay and enable you to maintain your integrity and be a good policeman.”
Samarn and his family were invited to witness the graduation ceremony. The man wept when he saw Yuddha kneeling down in front of the King, who presented Yuddha with a sword. The sword is symbolic but significant, as it marks the beginning of the long, hard road of police life.
After the graduation the bond between Yuddha and his stepfamily weakened and diminished. The ceremonial sword was kept in its scabbard, occasionally used together with white gloves when required.
Yuddha nearly jumped when his thoughts were rudely interrupted by the piercing sound of his cellular phone. It was the girl. The superintendent mumbled a weak excuse, telling his date he was tied up by an urgent, unexpected errand and would be with her shortly.
The young colonel was reaching for his briefcase when he was interrupted again by a voice. It was his very own voice. The words were familiar. It was a pledge uttered by all cadets in the Temple of the Emerald Buddha, following their admittance to the Academy. The voice came in loud and clear:
“I pledge to perform my duty with utmost integrity and honesty, to devote myself in serving the people, and to be a police officer with full moral and ethical principles;
“I pledge to enforce the law altruistically and justly, and not to be influenced by personal feeling, aversion, bias or gratuity in making my decision;
“If I violate this pledge, may my life be plagued by misery, despair, misfortune and disaster: may my life end with extreme pain and in torment;
“If I remain true to this pledge, may I be blessed with mental and physical strength, ability to overcome obstacles and evil; may I be blessed with happiness, advancement and continued success in my official and private life.”
The words of the pledge still echoing in his ears, Yuddha turned toward the altar in his office. On it were Buddha’s images of various sizes, most of which had been purchased by him or given by well-wishers. Just below the altar stood his graduation sword in its gleaming scabbard. Absent-mindedly, the young colonel approached the altar and the sword. He grabbed the sword and gently pulled it out of the scabbard. Yuddha saw that the engraved blade was still shining despite the years that had passed. His thoughts returned to the graduation day: the moment before his name had been announced by the Commissioner of the Academy, the steps he had cautiously taken toward His Majesty the King and the sword he had accepted directly from the King’s hands.
The phone rang again. This time Yuddha did not hear it. The only thing he heard was the pledge he had solemnly made in the Temple of the Emerald Buddha.
At 20:00 hours, the duty officer knocked on the door of the superintendent’s office. He had not seen the superintendent leave and presumed the superior officer was still in the office. He knocked again. When there was no response, the officer decided to pull the door open and stepped inside.
The lifeless body of the superintendent was found lying face up on the carpeted floor. His eyes were wide open. The pool of blood under and around the body looked fresh. At the left side of Yuddha’s chest, about two thirds of the sword blade was visible. The rest was embedded in his chest. The grip was swaying a little, as though it had just been left there by somebody.
“Looks like suicide,” remarked the lieutenant colonel who headed the crime scene investigation team, after preliminary examination. “No sign of foul play.”
Later in the night, the medical examiner reported to the Metropolitan Police Commissioner a puzzling, disturbing finding: the sword bore no fingerprint, not even a smudge. It looked brand new, untouched and unused, ever.
Police General Vasit Dejkunjorn has had a long and distinguished career as a police officer, newspaper columnist and writer. Widely regarded as a public servant with high integrity and professionalism, as a career police officer he served as police inspector-general, deputy director-general of the Royal Thai Police, chief of Royal Court Police, and after his retirement, senator and deputy minister of interior. He started his career in literature early. Since his time as a student at Chulalongkorn University in the late 1940s, he has written thousands of articles, numerous short stories and over 20 novels. His Thai-language novels have been best-sellers among Thai readers and made into films and TV series such as Hak Lin Chang (หักลิ้นช้าง), Sarawat Yai (สารวัตรใหญ่), and many more. He was named National Artist in Literature in 1998.
Now in his retirement, Pol. Gen. Vasit continues his writing as well as his public service work in various capacities, including as special court police officer and vice president of Transparency Thailand. He also lectures on management and ethics and teaches Buddhist meditation.
The Lunch That Got Away
Eric Stone
“Sorry, no fish today, Khun Ray.” Plaa looks more upset by that than she ought to be.
Maybe she has sold out. I hope so, for her sake. But it is still early, and this would be the first time ever.
“Plaa, is something wrong?”
“No, no problem, Khun Ray, only no fish today.”
She’s a bad liar.
“Come on, what is it?” She bites her lip and looks away. I can barely hear her.