Chapter 2b: The Return

By the end of the week I was on a Malaysian Air System Boeing 777 bound for Kuala Lumpur. Getting through immigration at Madras Airport was a breeze. I just passed the immigration officer a thin note book the size of a passport and the bemused official stamped it and passed me through. I had bought a first class ticket as previously I had always travelled in economy class and I knew how uncomfortable that could be. There were half a dozen people in first class. I ignored them and they did their best to ignore me but I could almost hear their thoughts as they threw disapproving glances at me.

"What's that fellow doing here? Look at his clothes. He's a disgrace."

The person in the seat next to mine was a fat man reeking of expensive perfume. He sported a wispy moustache and a straggling goatee. He looked at me with his piggish eyes. He had a round face and an oily complexion. I could see that he was irked by my jeans, khaki shirt and the Nike Trainers on my feet. These were the clothes I had bought in Madras and I hadn't bothered to buy new clothes. I suppose five years in the altogether in the company of Odali had made me less than fashion conscious. I carried only hand luggage, a small back pack in which I had a change of clothes, and my stash of jewels, of course.

"I am Datuk Mokhtar," he announced sonorously and waited expectantly.

"Hi," I answered with a winning smile on my face. He waited for me to tell him my name. I wasn't about to.

"Er... on holiday?" he asked.

"You could say so," I replied.

"If I may say so, I'm surprised you're not travelling in coach."

"Oh, that was easy," I grinned. "I bought a ticket."

He bridled at my answer and for some unfathomable reason he took offence at my pertness.

"Now look here, fellow," he snarled. "Are you trying to be funny with me? Do you know who I am?"

"I'm afraid not and I don't really care," I replied.

He began to lift his hand from the hand rest and I laid a finger on the top of his hand and held it to the armrest gently.

I watched him with a grim smile as he tried to remove my finger. I bet he felt as if I had put a steam-roller on his hand. He began to sweat and his eyes filmed with the pain he must have felt. He must have wondered how I managed to hold him down with a finger.

"Please," he muttered, "can I have my hand back?"

"But of course," I said and removed my finger. He left me alone for the rest of the flight.

My fellow travellers couldn't explain the fawning attention I received from the air hostesses, three lovely Malay girls who giggled at my faltering Malay. They did give me a problem, too, since they made me drool and I had to control my baser instincts. But I managed a quick sip from one particularly luscious girl in the lavatory — or are aircraft lavatories called air heads? Of course I saw to it that no one 'saw' us do it. And after the bite came the fun part. I didn't know it then but I had become a member of the Mile High Club.

Getting through Malaysian immigration and customs was also a breeze. I presented my 'passport' and had it duly stamped. Then there was customs. I passed them my backpack and the customs man went through it.

"What have we here?" he asked as he hefted the small sack of jewels in his hand.

"Oh, just some souvenirs I picked up in India."

He opened the sack and peered inside. I made him think they were pebbles.

"First time I met someone who collected stones for souvenirs."

I shrugged and gave him a sheepish grin, saying, "Geology is my hobby."

I changed my rupees at the airport and received about five hundred ringgit from the money changer. I flagged a taxi and the cabbie turned out to be a Tamil.