A Durian Tree for Juliet

‘For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.’ – William Shakespeare (1564–1616) on ‘Romeo and Juliet’. Shakespeare was an English playwright, poet, and actor widely regarded as one of the greatest writers in the English language and world literature.

Several decades have passed, but the sweet yet sorrowful love story that enchanted our rural community is still vivid in my memory.

This tale unfolded before I was born in the early 1950s, and its subsequent chapters played out during my lifetime. The initial part of the story is based on the accounts of my elders, especially my dear relative, Uncle Sulas.

In the village, there was a young boy named Sibihis, a name derived from “si” and “bihis” in the Bukar-Sadung Bidayuh dialect. “Si” means “the” in Malay, translating to “the” in English. “Bihis” means dark or black, equivalent to “hitam” in Malay. Therefore, Sibihis means “the dark one” or “the dark-skinned one”.

Over time, some friends adopted the Malay equivalent, Si Hitam, considering it cooler. But even this name was eventually shortened to Sitam. He was said to be good-looking with a kind, gentle soul.

Across a mountain stream just beyond the other end of the village lived a girl nicknamed Sibudak due to her fair complexion. “Budak” means fair, pale, or white. According to Uncle Sulas, she was not only fair but also beautiful, like a wispy cloud on the wind. Her long, curly, black hair was often adorned with a homemade red ribbon fashioned into a bow.

Uncle Sulas described their love as pure and genuine, yet fate took a cruel turn. Sibudak’s parents strongly disapproved of Sibihis, creating an insurmountable barrier to their love.

As time passed, various reasons for the rejection circulated, with each version adding embellishments that obscured the truth. The most frequently recounted version suggested a past romantic involvement between Sibihis’ mother and Sibudak’s father, which did not end well.

According to Uncle Sulas, this bitter past set the tone for the strained relationship between the two families, persisting until Sibihis and Sibudak came of age.

When the romantic relationship between the two lovebirds became known, it caused a commotion in both families. Sibihis’ father declared, “I would rather have a dead son than have him marry that girl!”

In response, Sibudak’s father threatened to kill himself if his daughter “brought the son of an (expletive) into the family”.

Because of this, Uncle Sulas suspected that the person behind this “son of somebody” (that remained a mystery) was the poison that ultimately ended the love between the two before they became Sibihis’ father and Sibudak’s mother.

But as everyone knows, love is a powerful force of nature. Despite the obstacles, Sitam and Sibudak’s love remained steadfast.

One fateful day during a paddy farming season, Sitam went to visit Sibudak at her family’s farmhouse deep in the jungle, a considerable distance from the village. His longing for her pushed him through the challenging journey along a winding jungle path.

As they sat together on the farmhouse verandah expressing their love, fate intervened again. Sibudak’s parents unexpectedly returned, cutting short their private moment. Sensing his unwelcome presence, Sitam rose to leave.

Tragically, as he moved towards the verandah’s end, Sitam stepped on a loose bamboo floor slat. In an instant, he lost his balance, plummeting headfirst to the ground, breaking his neck upon impact.

The news of Sitam’s untimely demise spread through the community, shattering hearts. Sibudak, burdened by the abrupt loss of her beloved, mourned inconsolably.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, yet Sibudak’s sorrow endured. Consumed by grief, she eventually succumbed to despair, taking her own life by hanging from a young durian tree behind her family’s farmhouse.

The tragic news of Sibudak’s demise struck the community like a thunderclap. Her family, burdened by guilt, regretted their role in Sitam’s death. Forced to bear the unbearable weight of losing their daughter to the same ill-fated love, they were haunted by sorrow.

Years passed, and the young durian tree that witnessed Sibudak’s end matured. When its fruits ripened, they revealed a remarkable sight. The durian’s flesh was milky white, reminiscent of Sibudak’s fair complexion. It seemed as if her spirit had infused the tree, leaving an indelible mark on its fruit.

In honour of the girl whose love led to heartbreak, they named the tree Sibudak — a poignant reminder of love’s defiance against societal boundaries and the sacrifices it demands.

Sibudak’s parents found little comfort in the tree, a reminder of their daughter’s tragic fate. They contemplated cutting it down to escape haunting memories, but were persuaded by family and friends who argued passionately about the tree’s exquisite fruits.

Fast forward to high school in the second half of the 1960s.

As a boarding student, weekends often found me in the school library, where I stumbled upon William Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet”. The timeless tale of two young lovers from feuding families in Verona, Italy, resonated with me.

Despite the ongoing conflict between their households, Romeo and Juliet secretly marry with the help of a priest. However, their happiness is short-lived when Romeo kills Juliet’s cousin Tybalt in a heated duel. Romeo is banished from Verona, and Juliet is forced into a marriage with another man.

Desperate to be with Romeo, Juliet seeks the priest’s assistance and takes a potion that will make her appear lifeless for 42 hours. The plan is for Romeo to retrieve her from her family tomb once she awakens. Unfortunately, Romeo does not receive the priest’s message concerning the plan. He only hears that Juliet has died.

Devastated, Romeo rushes to Juliet’s tomb and drinks poison to join her in death. As he takes his last breath, Juliet wakes to find Romeo lifeless beside her. Overwhelmed with grief, she stabs herself with Romeo’s dagger. Their tragic deaths unite the feuding families in mourning and serve as a reminder of the cost of hatred and prejudice.

Certain aspects of the story drew parallels to Sitam and Sibudak, with Sibudak becoming my mental image of Juliet. This association lingered in my thoughts for many years till today.

Out of curiosity and to verify certain claims about Sibudak’s durian, I managed to get hold of a few fruits and ate them. What did it taste like? Well, I still remember the first bite when the milky white flesh revealed itself, tender and custard-like, with a texture that melted in the mouth. The taste was an exquisite blend of flavours, a symphony of sweet and savoury dancing on the taste buds. The initial impression was one of rich sweetness, reminiscent of custard, caramel, and hints of vanilla. Beneath the surface were hints of almond, a touch of bitterness, and even a whisper of garlic-like undertones. It was a harmonious interplay of contrasting flavours.

Over the years, having tasted other varieties of durians, I still prefer Sibudak. This isn’t a dismissal of anyone’s favourite durians. It’s a testament to my palate’s preference. Others may disagree, but I stand by my assessment, well-versed in the tastes of various durian varieties including Musang King, Monthong, and Black Thorn.

It’s worth noting that fancy durians can cost a small fortune, while Sibudak didn’t cost me a sen.

However, if you’re thinking of looking for Sibudak’s durians, forget about it. Years ago, the community decided to convert the area and surrounding land into an oil palm plantation, with the Sarawak Land Consolidation and Rehabilitation Authority (SALCRA) overseeing the development. Sibudak, on the edge of the affected land, succumbed to the blade of a bulldozer in the name of economic progress.

Perhaps it was for the best, providing closure to a heart-wrenching saga of pain, love, life, and death.

For me, Sibudak remains a symbol of beauty, not only in her brief life but also in the deliciousness of the fruit that carries her name. It stands as a testament to the power of love, the overwhelming sadness of loss, and the bittersweet legacy she left behind.

The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.