09/08/2025

SATURDAY | AUG 9, 2025

18

Y OU can smell it before you see it. That thick, heady aroma curl ing through the air signals one thing: durian season is back. For many Malaysians, it is more than just a fruit; it is a feeling. A yearly ritual marked not on calendars but in the nose and memory. There is something unmistakably Malaysian about the sight of a roadside stall glowing under fluorescent light, its tables piled high with thorny green orbs, the air alive with the sound of bargaining, laughter and debate over which variety reigns supreme. Durian isn’t just food; it is nostalgia, identity and the shared joy of prying open a fruit that has been passed down through generations – sticky fingers, creamy flesh and bittersweet perfection. And yet this season, the joy feels a little different. Not gone but edged with something quieter: hesitation. Even the humble kampung durian is now pushing RM15/kg. Musang King? That is a conversation for another tax bracket. Where once we would buy without thinking, maybe even sit down for an impromptu feast by the roadside, now we pause, do the mental math and wonder if the treat is worth the pinch. For many in the M40, it is a familiar tug-of-war. We earn just enough to miss out on aid but not quite enough to ride above the inflationary tide. Petrol, tolls, groceries and school expenses – everything feels like it is creeping higher. And in between the big bills and budget spreadsheets, even the small indulgences start to feel like luxuries. The durian has become a symbol of this quiet squeeze – once an unpretentious, seasonal joy, it now requires planning, compromise and sometimes even sacrifice. A fruit that once brought spontaneous pleasure now involves group buys, budget discussions and the odd sheepish glance at your bank app. Still, we gather. Because despite the price tag, the durian’s power lies in how it brings us together. The stall is one of the few spaces where all of Malaysia converges – shoulder to shoulder, nose to nose, bargaining over a D24 or defending the supremacy of a Tekka. A Malay pak cik and a Chinese aunty may argue over which batch smells stronger. An Indian anne may chime in I asked if we could have a phone conversation instead of texting back and forth, and she point-blank said, “No, I only communicate through text, I don’t take calls”. Recently, I liaised with a potential part time worker via WhatsApp, and when I asked to have a phone chat, she said she was busy, that she did not have time to talk and preferred to only text. Needless to say, I would not employ her even if she paid me to. I was unpleasantly surprised and disappointed on both occasions. I don’t think one has to be “old school” to want to have human communication. It is the basis of life. We need to see each other or at least hear each other’s voice. This is why I like to call the people I am in touch with via text once every few days or once a week. No matter how busy I am, I make the time to speak to them over the phone, even if it is for five minutes. I can tell a lot about someone’s personality and character just by hearing them speak. I can gauge their state of mind and emotions by how they sound.

A thorny joy: Holding on to the taste of home

about how the kampung variety beats them all. No one cares who you voted for or what God you pray to, what matters is how bitter you like your flesh and whether you can open the fruit without a knife. That, to me, is Malaysia at its purest. And as odd as it sounds, my own durian ritual is a solitary one. My 10 year-old son has a gag reflex that activates the moment he catches a whiff. My seven-year-old autistic daughter experiences the smell as an assault on her senses, turning away with quiet resolve. So, I eat it alone, crouched in the kitchen like a criminal hiding my loot. But in that moment, I feel more grounded than at any Deepavali open house or long table filled with familiar faces and old stories. Of course, there is a reason the prices have soared. Our beloved Musang King has become an international celebrity, especially in China, where it fetches eye watering prices. Export demand has turned local farms into global suppliers and we, the fruit’s first lovers, are now left to compete for a smaller slice of the pie. Add to that, the increasingly erratic weather – too much rain, sudden heatwaves – and you get smaller harvests, tougher farming conditions and ultimately, a steeper price per seed. In response, the government has introduced small but meaningful initiatives like the Rahmah Madani Sales where local fruits, including durian, are sold at subsidised prices through mobile stalls and community markets. I recently stumbled upon one outside a local pasar . There was nothing polished about it – just a makeshift stall with handwritten prices and crates of fruit – but it felt honest. The durians were good, the prices kind and the people came from every walk of life. A Malay dad and his son stood next to a Chinese aunty with two durians tucked

N

O

P

U

O

T

I

T

N

O

T

P

B

R I

Y

H

T

A

H

S

S

I

H

V

I

N

A

I

K

“The durian has become a symbol of this quiet squeeze – once an unpretentious, seasonal joy, it now requires planning, compromise and sometimes even sacrifice.

Durian isn’t just food; it is nostalgia, identity and the shared joy of prying open a fruit that has been passed down through generations. – BERNAMAPIC

So, maybe we buy less, maybe we downgrade from Musang King to D13 or maybe we eat it at home in quiet rebellion, but we still eat it. We still make space for it because some pleasures are worth preserving. Not for extravagance but for identity. And as long as I can still afford even a single seed, I will eat it with my hands, without guilt and with the quiet conviction that in this creamy, stubborn joy, I am holding on to something much bigger than fruit; I am holding on to who we are. Hashini Kavishtri Kannan is the assistant news editor of theSun. Comments: letters@thesundaily.com earliest age possible, starting from homes, schools, tuition, religious and other classes. Do not take a person’s “poor” behaviour for granted but look for teachable moments to say, “When you do or say that, I feel disrespected. I would appreciate it if you could do it this way (tell them how you want to be treated)”. I realise that many people who have poor social and professional skills were never taught the right way. Perhaps, when they made a mistake, they were scolded and were never corrected kindly. So, whether it is your child, student or worker, help them say and do the right thing. The solution is not abandoning text entirely but recognising when voice adds irreplaceable value. Building relationships, conducting important business, resolving conflicts or maintaining connections will all benefit from the richness of our voice. That five-minute phone call is not just about efficiency; it is an investment. It says, “You’re worth my undivided attention”. In a digital world, choosing to hear another person’s voice is revolutionary; it prioritises genuine connection over mere convenience. Nahlana T. Kreshnan is a somatic psychotherapist and life and executive coach. Comments: letters@thesundaily.com

under her arm. Behind me, a young Indian couple whispered in Tamil, debating if they could afford a second fruit. In that queue, for a few minutes, everything felt right. The Rahmah sales may not solve the problem entirely but they do send a clear message: this joy should still be within reach. It should not just be an export commodity or a high-end delicacy; it should remain what it has always been – ours. Because in the end, the durian is not just about taste; it is about memory. It is about belonging. It is about the way we Malaysians, regardless of race, income or postcode, are bound by the same seasonal craving.

Lost art of voice: Trading connection for convenience SOME years ago, I was interested in joining a “creative” class and reached out to the advertiser through WhatsApp.

What we are losing When we rely solely on text, we strip away layers of meaning that have evolved over millennia. The hesitation before an answer, the warmth in someone’s laugh and the subtle shift in tone. These nuances carry information no emojis can replace. A simple “yes” over text could mean enthusiastic agreement, reluctant compliance or polite dismissal. Spoken aloud, that same word becomes unmistakably clear. Voice reveals authenticity in ways text cannot. The spontaneous laughter, thoughtful pauses and even stumbled words can create a genuine connection. When everything is filtered through careful editing, we lose the imperfect humanity that makes relationships meaningful. The other behaviour I find odd is when I call someone and they don’t pick up. Surely they would have seen a missed call, which means returning that call. Instead, I get a text saying “you called?”. Is it not common courtesy to return a missed call? Professional red flags In a business context, refusing voice communication sends concerning signals

about flexibility and professionalism. When hiring or partnering, voice reveals crucial information about reliability, communication skills and cultural fit that text cannot convey. The person who won’t take a business call may lack the adaptability essential for collaborative work. While legitimate reasons exist for preferring text, like hearing difficulties or others, a blanket refusal raises questions about professional judgement and commitment to clear communication. This trend particularly affects deeper relationships. We may exchange hundreds of messages with someone yet feel like strangers, whereas a single meaningful phone conversation can create genuine understanding. Many younger people now report anxiety about making calls, preferring apps to order food rather than speaking to restaurants. What was once natural human interaction has become a source of stress. Relationships built primarily on text remain surface-level longer than those nurtured through voice. Are we creating a generation that struggles with the very communication skills that build lasting connections? Reclaiming connection We should educate and train youngsters at the