by Joshua Lim.
Runner-up, Penang Monthly Short Story Prize 2025.
Only once in my life have I gone fishing for durians in the waters of the Penang Strait—during the hot season of the year 1955, when the British still ruled Malaya, and durians were in full bloom in plantations all across Penang.
The first sign of the durian season was when the crafty old seller, Ah Seng, arrived at my neighbourhood in the inner slums of George Town and laid out a bed of gunny sacks by the sandy roadside along Jalan Kelapa. As he worked, a curious audience gathered around, mostly bored children like me. I was no more than eight years old then, but every kid realised what was coming next. We ran off down the streets, shouting in Hokkien, “Liulien! Liulien!”
Before long, more men came tramping down the road, two by two, each pair bearing a heavy basket suspended on a stout pole between them. They reached Ah Seng and deposited their burdens by his makeshift stall. We hung around nearby and watched in fascination. Ah Seng wiped his sweat with the dirty white towel around his neck, surveyed the ten-odd baskets filled to the brim with durians, and clapped his hands together as he did every year.
“Who wants to buy durians?” he cried.
