The supermarket was my last stop on what had been a very hasty, and for me focussed, shopping expedition a mere five hours before my flight took off for Delhi. The committed shopper in me stood outraged. There I was in the "biggest shopping mall" in the world, and I hadn't bought anything!

That was why as my friend pointed significantly to her watch, I pleaded, "A few chocolates", and grabbed bags of candy hamburgers and jelly worms. The duty-free might have connoisseur chocolates, but the son is the kind who goes to Geneva, and after an exciting week of eating snails, rosti and fondue, demands to be to taken to the nearest McDonald's. He would not consider handmade Swiss chocolates an acceptable substitute for marshmallows with chocolate jelly centres.

As I stepped out of the cash counter, my nostrils encountered a smell. "That's durian," said my friend. "It's quite an experience." That was when I slipped, for I am a self-confessed sucker for new taste-bud experiences. But I had only four hours in which to go home, pack and reach the airport. "I'll take a box," I said to the vendor.

It is tough being a durian in Singapore. The fruit is particular to the region, but considered delicacy or taboo, depending on how your nostrils react to it. For the durian's smell is its outstanding feature-it is pungent, a bit like a clogged drain or rotten eggs. And it clings. Look at a durian, and the world will know you've looked.

The durian looks as exotic as it smells. It resembles everyone's favourite Martian fantasy. It's cream, like a coconut, on the inside, and green, also like a coconut, on the outside, but then it has uncannily Martian like spikes sticking out of it all over. It was the sight of the spikes that made me opt for the cut and packaged version.

Rushing into the airport, a good hour late, I was stopped for the mandatory tape around check-in baggage. The girl sniffed. "Are you carrying any... well, fruit?" she asked. "No," I declared. After all, the durian was in my cabin bag. She let me go and I joined my group in the boarding line. My bag passed through the x-ray, but it did not pass the smell test. "Who's carrying fruit?" asked the official. "I am," I declared. "It's only a very small pack of durian." He looked aghast, ready to faint, and put my bag back through the x-ray. "I am afraid we will have to ask you to take it out."

"No problem," I said, "but it is only a small pack, and I am dying to try the stuff. If you could..." "Please sit where I can see you," he said, whipping out a large handkerchief and swathing his nose in it. Not smell you, went unsaid. Though it wasn't that bad. It had to be a male thing, for the girl next to him looked more sympathetic.

My group was already beginning to snicker, the snickers grew to guffaws as a veritable drama proceeded to unfold. A major conference was called behind the counter to discuss the durian problem. At least five airline staffers darted around, conferring with other staff. Three times, I was called to verify I was indeed carrying durian. To the last, a slip of a lad, I could not believe he was of employable age, I said blithely, "Please let me keep it. I'm taking it for my family," knowing full well that the said family would probably put the durian-and me-into the rubbish bin at first sniff.

"Aw cawfawm," he sad very seriously, his head bobbing up and down to every `w' note. "Yes," I thought. "Please confirm that I don't have to throw ten dollars into the garbage."

But I was wrong. The airline's problem was not whether to allow my durian and me into the plane, it was how to get my durian offloaded without, well, raising a stink! That's why they were refusing to let me open my bag and show them the durian.

Finally, they faced the inevitable, and a girl came and asked me to throw away my durian. "I'm sorry," she said, "I love durian too, but the smell, you see, our passengers. You should've sealed it in bubble wrap and put it into your check-in baggage. It's not really allowed, but no one would know."

Well, so much for honesty. The last thing I saw of Singapore was my little carton of durian, perched forlornly on the garbage can. The smell, however, I carried with me into a smoggy New Delhi night. And no one could stop me.