● The durian season is upon us again, and I can’t resist telling a “duriany” story.
ONCE upon a time, in the late 1950s, a mighty durian tree towered over a corner of our remote village in Serian District. And what a specimen it was – tall, defiant, and perfuming the air with that unmistakable kind of tropical controversy. This wasn’t just any tree. It was a living soap opera, planted long before the two protagonists of our tale – Majun and Rumpun — were even a glimmer in their ancestors’ eyes.
Let’s be clear: durians aren’t merely fruit. They’re incidents. Divisive, armoured little brutes – worshipped by some as the “king of fruits” and condemned by others as the smelly handiwork of Satan. But to Majun and Rumpun, this particular tree wasn’t only about flavour or feast. It was territory. A line in the dirt. The stage for a slow-burning, neighbourly cold war.
Origins of the Great Durian Dispute
The tree in question was technically Majun’s. It grew near the boundary of his land, right next to Rumpun’s property. And while it behaved itself as a modest little sapling, over the years, it grew into a towering giant with roots and branches that respected no borders. It spread its leafy influence far and wide, with some of its most tantalising branches unashamedly encroaching above Rumpun’s land.
The Fence: Rumpun’s Line in the Sand
Things took a turn for the worse when Rumpun put up a fence close to the durian tree. Now, he had every right to do so — it was his land, after all — but the timing couldn’t have been more provocative. To Majun, the fence was less about property boundaries and more about sending a message: The durians in my compound are mine now, mate.
Be that as it may, the two men maintained a fragile peace for a whil. Majun would collect the fallen fruits on his side, and he’d knock on Rumpun’s door whenever a durian fell on the wrong side of the fence. Well, at least when Rumpun was home.
The problem, of course, was that Rumpun wasn’t always around. And neither was Majun. When he wasn’t tending to his farms, Majun was usually galavanting through the jungle, either fishing, hunting, or doing whatever it was that rugged men of the forest did those days.
And herein was the problem. You see, ripe durians wait for no man. They fall when they’re good and ready, with a dramatic thud that could rival a mic drop. If Majun wasn’t quick enough, the fruits lying on Rumpun’s side of the fence were as good as lost to him. And let’s be honest, nobody in their right mind would willingly forfeit a perfectly ripe durian. That’s like leaving a winning lottery ticket on the pavement for someone else to pick up.
So, when Rumpun was not around to grant him access, Majun had two options: let the precious durians rot where they fell or take matters into his own hands. Naturally, he chose the latter.
Picture the scene: a grown man clambering over a fence in the dead of night, all for the love of durian. It was hardly the act of a criminal mastermind, but to Rumpun, it was an unforgivable trespass. Tempers flared, accusations were hurled, and at one point, the two men nearly came to blows. The entire village held its breath, eagerly awaiting the climax of this absurd drama.
The Bigger Picture: A Lesson in Boundaries
Now, before we start picking sides in this fruity feud, let’s take a step back and consider the bigger picture. This isn’t just a story about two men squabbling over fallen fruit. It’s a metaphor — a juicy, spiky metaphor — for life’s greater conflicts.
Property vs Nature: Who really “owns” a tree? Sure, it was planted on Majun’s land, but nature doesn’t recognise man-made boundaries. The roots don’t stop at the property line, and neither do the branches. Perhaps it’s a reminder that we’re merely custodians of the land, not its ultimate rulers.
Communication is Key: Much of this drama could have been avoided with a bit of honest dialogue. Instead of sulking or sneaking around, Majun could have proposed a fair arrangement—perhaps a 50-50 split of the durians. Likewise, Rumpun could have shown a bit more empathy instead of enforcing his fence like a fruit-hating dictator.
Perspective Matters: To Majun, the fence was an act of hostility. To Rumpun, it was a practical solution to a growing problem. Neither man was entirely right or wrong; they were simply viewing the situation through their own lenses. Understanding the other person’s perspective might have diffused the tension before it escalated.
The Sweet (and Smelly) Resolution
Eventually, the village elders stepped in. They were wise, impartial, and most importantly, tired of hearing about the blasted durian tree. After much deliberation (and several cups of homemade coffee and tea), they proposed a compromise: Majun and Rumpun would share the fruits equally, regardless of which side of the fence they fell on. Furthermore, Majun would be allowed access to Rumpun’s side of the wall — but only during daylight hours and with prior notice.
The two men grudgingly agreed, and peace was restored to the village. The durian tree, oblivious to the chaos it had caused, continued to grow and bear fruit. And while Majun and Rumpun never became best friends, they learned to coexist — united, if only by their mutual love-hate relationship with the king of fruits.
My Assessment of the Durian
One early morning in December 1970, I came across a fallen fruit lying outside the fence. As I looked at it, I found myself wondering whether Majun and Rumpun’s quarrel over it was really worth the stress.
Curiosity won out. I pried the fruit open and tasted.
One mouthful later, I said, “Ah! No wonder it has caused so much trouble!”
And thinking back now — speaking as a connoisseur — I have to admit there’s nothing quite like the almost heavenly experience of a perfectly ripened durian. That particular one was, in every sense, perfect.
Its thick, spiked husk yielded flesh the colour of deep gold, creamy and glossy as custard. The aroma rose in a rich, heady chorus: sweetness threaded with savoury undertones, like caramelised onions drifting into vanilla and almonds. The first bite dissolved on my tongue, unfurling in layers — sugary, buttery, and just faintly bitter — each note held in balance. Every segment felt like a small treasure, and with each careful mouthful came a quiet, unmistakable indulgence, as if nature herself had made this fruit as a reward for the adventurous palate.
Moral of the Story
So, what can we learn from this tale of durian-fuelled drama?
Quite a bit, actually:
Boundaries are important, but so is flexibility. Life doesn’t always fit neatly within the lines we draw, and sometimes, we need to bend a little to find harmony.
Don’t let pride get in the way of common sense. Majun and Rumpun wasted so much energy squabbling when a simple conversation could have solved their problem.
Durians are worth fighting for — but maybe not that much. At the end of the day, no fruit (no matter how delicious or expensive) is worth losing a friend — or a neighbourly relationship — over.
And finally, if you ever find yourself in possession of a durian tree, do yourself a favour and plant it far, far away from the property line. Trust me, your future self will thank you.
Just My Two Sens
Life, much like a durian, is full of contradictions. It’s sweet yet stinky, messy yet rewarding. And while we may not always agree with those around us, a little kindness, understanding, and a willingness to share can go a long way — whether you’re dealing with neighbours or negotiating over nature’s smelliest treasure.
So, the next time you bite into a durian (or hold your nose and run in the opposite direction), spare a thought for Majun and Rumpun. Their story might be as prickly as the fruit itself, but it’s also a reminder that even the thorniest problems can be resolved with a bit of humour, humanity, and humility.
In the words of Benjamin Franklin (1706–1790), a Founding Father of the United States, “A good fence may make a good neighbour, but respect makes a better one.”
This should be worth pondering because Franklin was one of the most influential figures in early American history — a man so accomplished that he’s often described as a polymath (someone skilled in many fields).
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at www.hayhenlin@gmail.com
