In the original book, as far as I could remember, there were two princesses of Kayangan named Puteri Santubong and Puteri Sejinjang.
High above the clouds, where the morning sun gilded the heavens and the winds carried the fragrance of flowers that never wilted, stood the magnificent kingdom of Kayangan. Its palaces gleamed beneath the light, their golden roofs rising above gardens filled with blossoms of every colour. Crystal streams wound between marble courtyards, and the songs of celestial birds drifted through the air.
It was a realm of beauty and abundance, inhabited by beings whose lives seemed untouched by the hardships of the mortal world. Among them lived two princesses whose names were known throughout the kingdom.
Puteri Santubong was admired for her grace and beauty. There was a quiet elegance in the way she carried herself, whether she walked through the palace gardens or sat before her loom. Her slender fingers moved deftly among the threads, drawing them together with a patience few could match. Under her hands, ordinary strands became exquisite woven cloth, their intricate patterns so fine that people marvelled at the sight of them.
She could sit for hours at her loom, absorbed in her work, the rhythmic clatter of the wooden frame accompanying the movement of her hands. She took pride in what she made. To her, weaving was more than a skill; it was an art that demanded discipline, precision and an eye for beauty.
Puteri Sejinjang possessed a different kind of talent.
Where her sister favoured the loom, Sejinjang was accomplished at pounding rice. Her movements were strong and assured, her hands accustomed to the steady rhythm of the rice pounder. She worked with a confidence that made even a demanding task appear effortless. She understood the patience required to separate the grain from its husk, and she took equal pride in the results of her labour.
The sisters were different in their temperaments and their pursuits, yet both were gifted, both beautiful, and both accustomed to the admiration that followed them wherever they went.
In Kayangan, their abilities were celebrated. Their names were spoken with affection, and their accomplishments brought honour to their family. Neither princess lacked for anything. They had grown up surrounded by splendour, with every comfort a celestial kingdom could offer.
Yet even in a place as wondrous as Kayangan, there were duties that beauty and privilege could not excuse.
One day, a matter arose that required the attention of the celestial court. Far below the heavens, on the island of Borneo, two neighbouring villages had fallen into discord. Pasir Kuning and Pasir Putih had once lived in peace, but their relationship had deteriorated until resentment threatened to overwhelm their daily lives. The dispute had brought unhappiness to their people, and the kingdom could no longer ignore their plight.
The celestial ruler considered the matter carefully. Rather than allow the conflict to deepen, he resolved to send two capable representatives to Earth, where they could help restore harmony and teach the villagers to live together in peace.
His choice fell upon Puteri Santubong and Puteri Sejinjang.
The summons arrived without warning. The two princesses were brought before the celestial ruler, who explained the task awaiting them in the mortal realm. They were to descend to Earth, settle the dispute between Pasir Kuning and Pasir Putih, and help the villagers build lives marked by prosperity rather than hostility.
For the first time, the sisters were to leave the familiar splendour of Kayangan and undertake a duty beyond its shining walls.
Neither could yet know how their lives would change.
***
The trouble between Pasir Kuning and Pasir Putih had not begun with a battle. It had begun with something small enough to be dismissed, had either village been willing to yield.
The two settlements lay within sight of each other along the coast of Borneo, separated by a stretch of fertile land and a narrow river that emptied into the sea. The villagers shared the same waters, traded at the same markets, and depended on the same rains to nourish their crops. For generations, they had lived as neighbours, their differences no greater than those found between families who had known each other for years.
But prosperity had made them proud, and pride had made them suspicious.
In Pasir Kuning, the villagers took particular pride in their rice fields. The paddies stretched across the lowlands, their green shoots turning gold when the harvest season arrived. Their fishermen returned with baskets of fish, while their farmers filled their granaries with rice. The village headman, Tok Batin Kuning, often spoke of their good fortune as proof that his people were industrious and deserving of their success.
Across the river, Pasir Putih was equally prosperous. Its people were known for their skill in weaving and their diligence in tending the land. Their houses stood in neat rows beneath the shade of coconut palms, and the sound of looms could often be heard from the open windows. Their headman, Tok Batin Putih, was a proud man who believed his village had earned its reputation through hard work.
The first quarrel concerned the river.
After several days of heavy rain, the water had risen above its usual banks. When the flood subsided, the current shifted, carrying away a section of the old boundary markers between the two villages. Some of the land that had once been cultivated by the people of Pasir Kuning now appeared to lie on the opposite side of the river's new course.
The farmers of Pasir Putih began clearing the overgrown ground, believing it belonged to their village. When the people of Pasir Kuning saw what was happening, they accused their neighbours of encroaching on their land.
One morning, a group of farmers from Pasir Kuning arrived at the disputed field. Their leader, a broad-shouldered man named Awang Jantan, planted his feet before the men who were clearing the weeds.
"Put down your tools," he ordered, raising his hand. "This land belongs to Pasir Kuning. My father planted rice here, and his father before him. You have no right to touch it."
A farmer from Pasir Putih straightened, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "The river has changed its course. The land lies on our side now."
"The river may change its course, but it does not change the truth."
"And neither does shouting make you right."
Several men stepped forward, their voices rising. Awang Jantan's jaw tightened as he looked at the newly cleared earth. He had watched his father work that land through seasons of drought and flood. To him, surrendering it would mean more than losing a field. It would mean allowing another village to claim the fruits of his family's labour.
"Leave this place," he said, his voice low and threatening. "If you return tomorrow, you will answer to us."
The men of Pasir Putih gathered their tools, but they did not leave quietly. Before they crossed the river, one of them turned back.
"Tell your headman that we will not be driven from our own land."
By sunset, the quarrel had reached both villages.
Tok Batin Kuning received the report in the longhouse, where several elders sat around a low table. He listened without interruption, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair. When Awang Jantan finished speaking, the headman leaned forward.
"They have mistaken our patience for weakness," he declared.
An elderly farmer shifted uneasily. "Perhaps we should speak with Tok Batin Putih before this grows worse. The river has flooded before. The boundary markers may have been lost."
Tok Batin Kuning turned towards him, his brows drawing together.
"Are you suggesting that we surrender land our ancestors cultivated?"
"No, but—"
"Then what is there to discuss?"
The old man lowered his gaze. Around the table, the other elders exchanged uncertain glances, but none challenged their headman.
Tok Batin Kuning rose from his chair.
"Send word to Pasir Putih. They are to remove their men from the field by tomorrow. If they refuse, we shall protect what is ours."
The message reached Pasir Putih before nightfall.
Tok Batin Putih was sitting on the veranda of his house when the messenger arrived. He listened to the demand with an expression of growing disbelief, then let out a short, humourless laugh.
"Protect what is theirs?" he repeated. "And what of our rights? Are we to stand aside whenever Pasir Kuning decides to claim something?"
His wife, who had been sorting freshly harvested rice nearby, set down her basket.
"Perhaps the two of you should meet," she suggested. "You have known Tok Batin Kuning for years. Surely you can settle this without threatening one another."
"He has already made his decision," Tok Batin Putih replied sharply. "He sends orders instead of seeking a discussion. If I yield now, what will stop him from claiming more land next season?"
She studied her husband's face, searching for some sign that he might reconsider.
"And if he refuses to yield?"
Tok Batin Putih looked towards the dark outline of the river beyond the houses.
"Then we shall not yield either."
The following day, the villagers met at the disputed field. Both headmen arrived with groups of men behind them, each carrying farming tools. Nobody had come intending to draw blood, but neither side wished to appear weak before the other.
Tok Batin Kuning approached first.
"Your men have ignored my warning," he said, his gaze fixed on his rival.
Tok Batin Putih folded his arms across his chest. "Your warning was not a lawful claim. The river has shifted, and the land now lies within our boundary."
"Your boundary?" Tok Batin Kuning stepped closer. "You speak as though the river belongs to you."
"And you speak as though the whole coast belongs to Pasir Kuning!"
The men behind them began muttering. A few pushed forward, while others tried to hold their companions back.
Tok Batin Kuning's face reddened. "I will not allow you to insult my village."
"Then stop insulting mine!"
For a moment, neither man spoke. The wind moved through the tall grass, and somewhere nearby, a bird called from the trees. The silence might have offered them an opportunity to withdraw their words, had either been willing to do so.
Instead, Tok Batin Kuning pointed towards the field.
"Remove your people from this land."
Tok Batin Putih shook his head. "No."
The answer was quiet, but it carried across the gathered crowd.
Awang Jantan took a step forward. A man from Pasir Putih immediately blocked his path, shoving him back. The first blow landed before either headman could intervene.
Chaos followed.
Men grappled in the mud. Farming tools were raised, not yet as weapons of war but as threats meant to frighten the other side into retreat. Someone stumbled into the riverbank, and another man shouted for everyone to stop. The headmen themselves were pulled apart by their followers, each furious that the other had allowed the confrontation to descend into violence.
By the time the villagers returned home, several men had been injured. No one had gained the land, and the river continued to flow between the two settlements as it always had.
But the quarrel had changed.
The people of Pasir Kuning began refusing to trade with their neighbours. Pasir Putih responded by closing its market to merchants from across the river. Families that had once visited each other during harvest celebrations stopped crossing the boundary. Even children learned to recognise which village a stranger came from before deciding whether to welcome him.
Weeks passed. The disputed field lay abandoned, its weeds growing unchecked. Neither village would surrender it, yet neither dared cultivate it while the other watched.
The feud spread beyond the riverbank. Disagreements over fishing grounds and shared paths became accusations of deliberate sabotage. A missing basket of rice was blamed on thieves from the neighbouring village. A damaged boat became evidence of revenge. Each incident, however small, was added to a growing list of grievances.
Neither headman could remember precisely how the dispute had begun without also remembering the insults that followed. By then, the land itself had become almost secondary. What mattered was that the other village must not be allowed to win.
Far above Borneo, news of the feud eventually reached Kayangan.
The celestial court had received reports of the growing discord for some time. At first, the quarrel had seemed too trivial to warrant intervention. Mortal communities argued over boundaries and resources every day. Yet as the months passed, the reports became increasingly troubling. Trade had ceased between Pasir Kuning and Pasir Putih, their people were living in fear of further clashes, and the dispute showed no sign of ending.
The celestial ruler listened to the latest account in silence.
"Have they made no attempt at reconciliation?" he asked.
The court official standing before him bowed his head. "They have not, Your Majesty. Each headman insists that the other must apologise first. Neither will accept the other's claim, and their people have followed their example."
The ruler's expression hardened.
"Then they have forgotten that a community cannot prosper when its people spend their strength fighting one another."
He rose and walked towards the great windows overlooking the clouds. Far below, the mortal world lay hidden beneath a veil of mist. He had watched kingdoms rise and fall, seen harvests flourish and villages disappear. He knew that disputes over land could become disputes over honour, and that wounded pride was often harder to heal than an injured body.
"Summon Puteri Santubong and Puteri Sejinjang," he instructed at last.
The official bowed deeply. "At once, Your Majesty."
When the summons reached the princesses, they came to the celestial court together. Santubong wore an elegant garment of woven silk, its delicate patterns catching the light as she moved. Sejinjang walked beside her, her bearing confident and her expression curious about the unexpected summons.
They bowed before the ruler.
"You have called for us, Father," Santubong said.
The ruler regarded his daughters with measured seriousness.
"There is a matter on Earth that requires your attention. Two villages in Borneo, Pasir Kuning and Pasir Putih, have allowed a dispute to grow until it threatens the peace of their people. They were once neighbours who shared their prosperity. Now they refuse even to speak to one another."
Sejinjang's brows knitted together. "What caused such a quarrel?"
"A dispute over land, made worse by pride. Their headmen have become so concerned with proving themselves right that they have forgotten the people they are meant to lead."
Santubong lowered her eyes in thought. "And you wish us to help them reconcile?"
"Yes." The ruler turned to face both princesses. "You will descend to Earth and live among them. Learn what has divided the villages, help them find a way to settle their differences, and remind them that peace is worth more than the satisfaction of defeating a neighbour."
Sejinjang exchanged a glance with her sister. The task was unlike anything they had undertaken before. They had known only the order and splendour of Kayangan, where disputes were settled under the authority of the celestial court.
"How shall we begin?" Sejinjang asked.
"By understanding the people you have been sent to help," their father answered. "Do not judge them before you have heard their grievances. And do not mistake the loudest voice for the voice of reason."
Santubong bowed her head. "We shall do as you ask, Father."
Beside her, Sejinjang gave a firm nod. "We will do our best to restore peace between them."
The ruler's expression softened, though the concern in his eyes remained.
"Remember this: it is easy to demand that others make peace. It is harder to persuade them to lay aside their pride. You must be patient, and you must be fair to both sides."
The princesses bowed once more.
Neither knew what awaited them below the clouds. They had been raised in a realm where their talents were celebrated and their needs readily met. On Earth, they would encounter people whose lives were shaped by toil, scarcity, and loyalties that could harden into resentment.
Their task was not to decide which village deserved to win.
It was to help both villages understand that neither could truly prosper while the other suffered.
And so, under the command of the celestial ruler, Puteri Santubong and Puteri Sejinjang prepared to leave Kayangan for the mortal world.