As we consider the role of humour in revealing life’s absurdities and challenging power, we’re sitting with “The Durian Demon,” a new fiction piece by Room 48.1 Wits End‘s commissioned writer, Lydia Kwa.
The Durian Demon
Lydia Kwa
It could use a decent haircut. Been eons since the last one. Near impossible to find a hairstylist in the Underworld, what with only a handful operating here but often too tied up with being tortured. Besides, they either had their fingers fractured in the bone-breaking apparatus, or their hands were swollen or cut up from climbing the mountain of nails.
The durian demon looked at its image in the pool of quicksilver, slightly distorted by the brilliant sheen but still—it could see how long and unruly its hair had become. One thing to embody the power of durian stench, but the messiness and stink of its hair were interfering with its public image. It didn’t feel inspired to show itself to humans—the bad hair interfered with presenting its best pungent presence. Enough of living in shame, it was time to do something about it.
Seventh lunar month was starting in two days’ time. The durian demon would make its customary visits to shrines and temples, and shit-disturb, especially if people neglected to pay obeisance to its Royal Prickliness. The demon rewarded those who refused to let a durian’s outside shell deter them, those who ventured into inner chambers to savour the mind-blowing delights of smooth, sensuous flesh. Yes, the demon resolved, in addition to its rounds in the earth realm, it would like to get a makeover. The challenge would be to find someone skillful and brave enough to work miracles on its messy hair.
At best, some humans burned incense at shrines to the durian demon; at worst, some humans simply avoided durians and the durian demon altogether. The fools, thought the demon, the ones who avoid me are truly missing out. The demon thrived on humans who suffered from Fear of Missing Out, also known as FOMO. Those were its most avid devotees, delving into the latest variations of yummy pungencies. What was life without the right kind of stink?
The demon popped out of a manhole a short distance from the causeway that connected the island to its northern neighbour. It hobbled and swayed along the sidewalks on its gangly legs and started coughing vigorously. Wah liao, all that smoke from cheap incense and hell money! Instead of summoning the chariot of etheric minions to transport it to the temples, the demon decided to ride public transportation for a change. Why not? It was time to get a better sense of how the people lived. Still in its invisible form, it boarded the double-decker bus heading south toward Chinatown.
Near the front of the bus, just before the stairs up to the upper deck, there was an insulting caricature of a durian, solid black with pathetic nubs instead of prickly spines. A red circle enclosed it, with a diagonal red slash across the durian impersonator. “Fine, $500,” the sign ominously declared above the image. And below it, “No durians allowed.” Rude.
The demon’s green spines pinged and ponged from the insult. Thoroughly disconcerted, it scanned the passengers on the bus. Everyone looked unflummoxed. They were either mesmerized by their handphones, listening to music on ear pods, or gazing blankly into space. What the hell was going on? What happened to their joie de vivre, which would surely manifest as passionate outrage at such a prohibition against durians? Something had to be done to rouse people from their zombie state.
The demon huffed and waggled its red-hot tongue, emitting potent fumes from its mouth. No one could see the demon; but a few passengers felt something, looked up, their faces showing either dismay or delight. Some covered their noses. The demon was going to show them. It closed its blood-shot eyes, placed the palms of its cream-coloured hands together in front of its body and muttered a spell. It visualized the No Durians sign on all the buses on the island, moved the word “No” to just before the word “Fine,” dropped the $500. The demon hummed softly yet determinedly as it pressed its pale green lips together. When it opened its eyes, the signage was completely transformed. The nasty red arrow was gone. “No Fine,” was at the top, with a large golden checkmark, and a happy face over the durian. With one added flourish at the bottom: “Durians Boleh!”
That was the way, uh-huh, uh-huh. Invisible as it was, the demon did a little dance, feeling the ‘70s vibe and that sunshine feeling of the song spread through its spines.
Pleased with itself, the demon got off at People’s Park Complex. It grinned and waved its red tongue in the air at the sight of hundreds of people clamouring to buy durians. A sight to be proud of. Lots of money was being handed to the sellers who then tied up the purchased durians carefully with raffia twine, with a loop at the top for easy carrying. A bondage harness, the demon thought, snickering. Of course, sex and durians went well together! Most people weren’t saying it, but it was an open secret that durian flesh was an aphrodisiac.
Sellers chopped durians open for those who couldn’t wait until they got home. People squatted on the sidewalks to eat. They handled the open shells gingerly with cloth gloves or folded pieces of tissue, then used their fingers to pick up each fleshy seed. Sucking and slurping, making a royal mess. Humans gorging themselves, without any hint of shame. As it should be.
The durian demon puffed up with pride. The lusty sounds were music to its ears. It so longed to proclaim its presence, take pictures with the fans, but its hair was disgusting! It looked down at the concrete pavement, riddled with shame.
When it looked up, the demon spotted an elderly woman with three durians in her trolley. She sat at one of the stone tables and looked at her watch. The demon drooled—what great hair! A whole head of silver, lightly permed, with a few subtle pink highlights. The demon whistled in admiration. Never seen anything like it. It slapped on a big black wig, tucked its unkempt hair out of the way, and made itself visible. The demon gingerly approached this woman. “Can I sit?” the demon asked, pointing to the other stool at the same table.
The woman smiled warmly, “Sure, can.” The demon sat down and nodded at her durians. “What kind you bought?”
“D101, my favourite.”
“Ah, the orange flesh that’s so sweet, huh?”
The woman smiled again. “You know, kind of like your skin colour!”
The demon laughed, feeling slightly awkward.
“Yes, I go out in the heat a lot.”
“You from here?”
“No, I’m from further south.” The demon wanted to change the subject. “Madam, your hair looks so good. May I ask, where do you go for hairstyling?”
The woman’s face lit up. “You like? My daughter thinks it’s too young a style for me, lah.”
“Oh no, not at all. Very nice.” The demon sent the woman a low-key durian vibe. It sighed with longing. In another life, it might want to hang out more with this attractive specimen of a human.
Alas, cross-species liaisons were fraught with challenges.
The woman moaned softly with pleasure upon sensing the durian vibe. “My hairstylist’s name is Monica and she works in a hair salon in Far East Plaza on Scotts Road. You want her contact details? I give you.”
The demon was delighted. It was already close to evening, so the demon decided to wait until the next day to go to the hair salon.
Later that evening, the demon roamed the area around Boat Quay, enjoying the stink wafting up from the Singapore River. It took comfort in the fact that the river’s stench far outstripped the odour of its hair. The demon scanned the crowds. Why no durians at the bars and restaurants? Quite a few people were gawking at the large TV screen in the sports bar. Passersby stopped to look. Wasn’t it just the news? The demon sneaked closer and wedged itself between two beefcakes in tank tops. Wah piang, talk about odour! Theirs combined was enough to rival the best durians! There was good odour and there was bad odour, though. The demon curled up its lips in disgust.
It was indeed the news. The female announcer with the American accent sat to the right of her male counterpart who spoke with a British accent. “Chaos ensued today as public transportation was inundated with people lugging durians on buses and the MRT,” began the female announcer. “Police were summoned but, as there were so many travellers with durians, the police couldn’t contain the mayhem.”
Then the male announcer: “Passengers pointed to the former No Durians signage which now became ‘Durians Boleh!’ echoing our neighbour to the north with their adage, Malaysia Boleh. It remains a mystery as to how this change in conventional signage occurred to such an extent and so rapidly, within the space of an hour. All signage will have to be replaced overnight. Workers must work around the clock to ensure that everything is back to normal by 6 am tomorrow morning.”
The female announcer: “We have a Daoist shaman waiting to go live, direct from Perak, to provide her opinion as to what could possibly be occurring.”
The embedded screen showed a butch-presenting person, with short hair and tattoos on either side of their neck, and a large nose ring. Flame-of-the-forest red lipstick. Gangster vibe, surmised the demon. It totally approved.
The male announcer: “Miss Manson Poh, can you give us your opinion on what could be happening?”
“The durian signage, right?” The shaman snorted, their nostrils flaring visibly, such that the nose ring went up and down. “Most definitely a durian demon. Very rare! Sometimes they come kachau us.”
“Are you saying that a demon, a durian demon, is behind all this chaos?” asked the woman announcer.
“Of course, lah. Who or what else can do such a thing? Just in the twinkling of an eye, change all the signs across the whole transportation system. Very powerful one.”
“What could possibly prompt a demon to do this now? I mean, the signs have existed for years,” the female announcer persisted.
The shaman shrugged. “Demons have demon logic. How we know?”
Male announcer: “Do you mean to say, we are at the mercy of some demon? Even if the signs are all restored to normal . . . ”
The shaman pursed their lips and tilted their head left then right. “Yeah, siao ting tong. We never know if the demon will do it again. Could be mayhem for a while. Unless . . . ” The sorcerer raised their right index finger up, as if arrested by an insight. “ . . . unless the demon finds what it needs. Because, usually, huh, demons do drastic things like this because they are trying to achieve some higher purpose. Or should I say, lower purpose.” They chuckled and pointed down to the ground.
The durian demon was getting fonder of this gangster shaman by the minute. Who needed therapists when there were such people around, to understand and sympathize with it? It was time for demons to get more attention. More understanding of their particular plight. The durian demon jumped up and down excitedly in between the two beefcakes.
“Do you smell something weird?” said one beefcake to the other. The second guy raised one arm and sniffed at his armpit.
“No, no, not that! Something else.”
They shifted their attention back to the news.
The male announcer interjected, “Very interesting viewpoint here provided by Miss Poh from Perak. Incidentally, Perak is a producer of some very fine durians.” He grinned.
“We will resume shortly,” the female announcer interjected.
The durian demon giggled. It overheard two women nearby chatting about this. “I think it’s good, what. After all, people need to travel with their durians. Other than the very wealthy with their Mercedes-Benzes and their Volvos, whatever. Then there are a bunch of us who can call a taxi or an Uber. But what about those people who have to take public transport? How they going to deal with bringing durians home, huh?”
The other woman vigorously shook her head, “Aiyah, we thought the government finally realized there was this problem and changed the signs to help us out. But now, it’s some demon showing us some understanding? What’s this world coming to?”
The durian demon giggled yet again. Then it paused, suddenly stricken with the realization that transportation throughout the island might not be fully restored tomorrow. Oh-oh. How would it affect Monica the hairstylist? Did she take the MRT or buses? No, that would not be okay if the demon failed to secure an appointment because Monica had trouble getting to work. It drifted away from the crowds, close to the river’s edge, and looked at the passing tongkangs with their lanterns. It whipped its tongue out once more, tasted the rancid air and sighed. Sometimes, flexibility was required to deal with unusual circumstances. It was fun wreaking havoc for half a day but now it had to consider the sorry state of its hair. It placed both creamy-white palms together once more, this time to reverse the spell.
Overnight, the signs reverted to the original across the whole island. The durian demon smiled to itself. At least it had created a bit of mischief and even got a mention on the evening news. No matter what regulations existed, it had its devotees. It summoned a chariot pulled by etheric minions. Getting off at Far East Plaza, it easily located the hair salon where Monica worked. Peering in, it wondered which of the two stylists was Monica. Now was the time to be brave. It uttered a spell and materialized. Both stylists were busy with clients, but the woman closest to the front came up and smiled warmly, “Yes, you have appointment?”
The durian demon shook its head, feeling somewhat awkward about its stinky and messy hair. The woman didn’t show any signs of revulsion. “No problem. We have openings this afternoon.”
“I was recommended to see Monica,” the demon said.
“That’s me. How about in an hour’s time? Can come back?”
The demon was delighted. “Can! I will go have lunch first then.” The demon found a busy Thai restaurant and became invisible.
Whooshed up to various tables, sucking up the energy of food, unbeknownst to the humans. Delicious, spicy. Definitely much better than the offerings on the altar it spied near the entrance. It watched a person relishing a durian dessert— slices of durian pulp swimming in a coconut sago sauce. That brought the demon joy. It did a little cha-cha dance, in the spaces between tables.
By the time the demon returned to the hair salon, Monica was ready. “Come sit here. Tell me what you want.”
The demon plopped into the swivel chair. “I have to check something with you first. You know the upset on public transportation yesterday?”
“Yes…”
“Full disclosure. It was my doing.”
“Ah, you’re the durian demon!”
“You saw the news with that shaman being interviewed!”
“Indeed. Manson Poh from Perak.”
“You okay with doing my hair?”
“Honoured to do it. How do I address you? Do you, uh, have a name?” “Just call me Royal Prickliness. Okay?”
“Sure. How did you hear about me?”
“I don’t know her name, but she’s maybe in her early 70s with this beautiful head of permed silver hair with a few pink highlights. I chatted with her at People’s Park Complex.”
Monica beamed. “Oh, Aunty Swee! Yes, of course.”
“You recognize people by their hair, huh?” The demon suddenly felt a wave of shame. “I have neglected my hair for a very long time. Felt it was high time to get help. I feel, uh, terrible about it.”
Monica gently tapped the demon’s shoulders. “Never too late! I help you.”
It was a very long shampooing session. Afterward, Monica clipped away. She didn’t rush. Her face revealed a sustained degree of concentration. The locks fell onto the floor and dissolved into nothing. It was as if a million dogs were farting in the salon. Monica went to switch the air purifier on.
The durian demon gasped to see its transformed image in the mirror. The hair was now beautifully layered and fell like a soft, undulating series of waves around its head. Monica sprayed some light oil on her palms and applied it to the demon’s hair. The oil added a nice sheen and texture.
“You like?”
The demon couldn’t believe how beautiful its hair looked. A total transformation. “I look so much better.” It pulled out hell money from its pocket.
“Hell really got money?” Monica asked. “But I can’t use it here. It’s okay, I do it for good karma.”
“How about I pay you in durians?” “Perfect!”
The demon snapped its fingers, and ten durians appeared in a basket perched on the couch in the waiting area.
“Freshly picked,” it said. “Five from Pahang, five from Perak. The best quality.”
Monica was delighted. “My family members are going to be so happy! I will phone my brother-in-law later and he can fetch me after work!”
The durian demon smiled and sent a warm vibe of gratitude to Monica who nodded in appreciation. This trip to the island has had its fresh, exciting moments. Next time when it encountered fans, it didn’t have to be shy about appearing to them. Pictures of it posing with its fans might go viral! Imagine that. It squealed with delight. That’s the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, it liked it.
Find more pieces that explore the role of humour in resistance in Room 48.1 Wits End.
Header image: photo of Lydia Kwa by Joshua Paul.
