Mumbai, the pulsating heart of India's burgeoning economy and proud symbol of the "New India"; a place of modernity, thriving business, and rapid change. Of everywhere in India I've been thus far, Mumbai is easily the most Western in its attitudes and therefore the most accessible. Youths speak to one another in Hindglish, saris are swapped for denim and tank tops, and for the first time in a long time, beef has made an appearance on the menu. There are art galleries to explore, boutique coffee shops to patronize and bars with free flowing beer where one can take succor and rest weary heels after a day exploring. And the people are different too. In contrast to Delhiites (of whom my first and lasting impression is less than flattering), the people of Mumbai are helpful and congenial but also very urban -comfortable with the modern age in which they find themselves. I saw a group of Hindus -identified by the telltale kalava around their wrists- drinking beer and tucking into a tenderloin steak; an incongruous sight, especially after being told time and again how sacred cows are.

All of this lends the city and its people an air of progressivism, a place readying itself for exposure on an international scale. And although it may seem that in its hurry to modernize, Mumbai has paved over the India of Old, glimpses still peek through the veneer of sky scrapers and glitzy shopping malls; banyan tethered cows attended by old ladies selling feed to passersby, small shrines dedicated to Ganesha and Hanuman tucked away in small alcoves, joss sticks burning delicately; and bathers engaging in their early morning ablutions by the riverside. But the march of progress continues and even the Dhoby Ghats -a fascinating place that I'll touch on later- may eventually disappear.

We arrive at 17:30, just as the sun is turning the sky a soft pink as it tries to cut through the haze. The taxi we've pre-arranged is a tired thing, a beater of a car well past its expiry date that seems to groan as we throw our luggage onto the roof and fasten it with fraying rope. The inside has the color of a dried coffee stain and its exposed wires, ripped upholstery, and lack of any safety device -seatbelt or otherwise- portends the spice of adventure as we pull out of airport arrivals. It doesn't take long. Half an hour into the ride the clutch -which has been grinding in protest the entire time- finally gives out in the middle of the slums by a grimy underpass; and for the second time the driver has to get out and push/steer the taxi to the roadside while the building traffic on this single lane road honks in protest. Mom is in serious distress, easily freaked out by anything poor and dirty, but I think the whole ordeal is hilarious. In my opinion, if you can't have a sense of humor in these situations, you shouldn't be traveling.

Our cabbie is surprisingly spry for his age. Above: Our beater taxi. That license plate isn't going anywhere

Our driver makes several attempts to turn the engine -furiously working the clutch in a way that makes me hope that he has a wife to be the object of his passions- but to no avail, this car is done for. And with that comes the first sign that the people of Mumbai are different. Our cabbie, who so far has proven himself a credit to his organization, waves down another black and yellow cab, relays our destination and pays the remainder of the passage after helping us unload/reload our luggage. Being in India for more than a month, I've become unaccustomed to such displays of rectitude, especially in the larger cities, but he handles the situation like a mensch and with that we're on our way.

Driving through the streets we see many things, from a man fast asleep in the back of a merchandise truck rudely awakened by a horn blast to the face, to the many tenements we pass that remind me of the post-war apartments we stayed in on a 1995 visit to Hong Kong's Mongkok district;overcrowded and grimy things -cells really- all connected by vast spiderwebs of clotheslines. The one thing we don't see however are the droves of wandering cows that I've come to associate with India. Dad cheekily theorizes that they've all been eaten by the Muslim population, but whatever the reason, it makes for a much more pleasant ambulatory experience not having to constantly pay attention to the ground on which one walks.

Apartment blocks in Mumbai

To be honest, I was dreading coming to Mumbai. Of all the talk from fellow tourists as well as Indians themselves about how utterly packed Mumbai is, and given our experience with the country's other big city, Delhi, to say I had my misgivings about coming here is an understatement. And we were to spend six days here. But I needn't have worried because Mumbai is a wonderful place; relatively clean, accessible and accommodating and crucially the people leave you alone to go about your business (and are quite busy themselves thankyouverymuch).

During our time here we visit most of the tourist sites. We celebrate my Dad's 61st birthday with a dispenser of Kingfisher Ultra at the venerable Leopold's in Colaba (Mumbai's main tourist district); celebrate my mom's 60th with high tea at the Taj, taking in the great view over the harbor while simultaneously feeling like ingrates/erstwhile-imperialists for sipping tea that costs more than the monthly salary of the locals below; take a tour of the Dahravi slum (of Slumdog Millionaire Fame), visit the Worli fishing village under scorching heat, and pay an early morning visit to the Sassoon docks where I had a shrimp thrown at me for taking a picture (worth it).

My favorite of the bunch however was being able to witness two institutions of Mumbain (Mumbaikar?) fame: the Dhobi Ghats and what I'm calling The Great Tiffin Migration. Both are impressive feats of organization, planning and human endeavor, leaving me to marvel at how so complex a system manages to run so smoothly.

First the Ghats. The world's largest outdoor washing machine, this co-operative holds a Guinness record for most people simultaneously doing laundry. Soiled laundry is sent here from all over sprawling Mumbai to be washed and dried in one of the 109 open-air troughs. Everyone has their clothes washed here: shirts of the urban IT professional, linen and livery of large hotels chains, and even new clothes to be pre-washed before being exported by the many textile companies in Mumbai. Standing on the bridge near the Mahalaxmi train station gives us fantastic views over the entire district, and arriving mid-morning, we can already see people pounding dirty clothes into submission. It takes some coaxing, but I manage to convince my mom to take a tour of the inside. This isn't difficult as my mom is an absolute clean-freak and the promise of free flowing detergent and freshly pressed shirts is all it takes to get her walking down the steps to the ghats.

View of the Dhobi Ghats from the bridge

Upon entering the enclave we come across Samir, who offers to take us around for R200 per person. Still in his PJs and wife-beater, he begins the tour and we learn that the sheltered bit of concrete not five feet away from the washing troughs are actually sleeping quarters. Every morning, each worker wakes up at 4am and, after freshening up and a quick breakfast, walks the five feet to the trough to start working through his assigned load, pounding clothes against a concrete slab for as long as it takes to finish; for people here are compensated not by time but by piece. It's grueling work, especially under the afternoon sun, and the labourers are almost exclusively male and usually from a far away village or out of state. I ask Samir if the ghats are organized by function, color or type (linens, shirts etc) but he tells us that the place is divided by ownership, each with its own set of clients and each self-contained, end-to-end providers with the delivery of bundles to/from the ghats handled by a specialist courier. A single individual, each accountable to the owner, is responsible for sorting the clothes and keeping them together. I'm not sure how exactly it works but should any clothes go missing, the commensurate cost is deducted from this individual's pay. Needless to say, hardly any clothes every goes missing.

And how much does Samir make as a washer? If a client is charged R4,000, Samir pockets R1,000 with the rest going to the owner to cover overhead, delivery and an acceptable profit. Samir says he's happy with the arrangement but that he doesn't plan on doing this for the rest of his life. And a good thing too because technology, inexorable in its push forward, has already reduced the number workers from 10,000 to 6,000 over the past decade and is expected to continue. In an attempt to adapt, the co-operative has started to branch out to other services such as repairing old saris and selling them at a profit but personally, I think the days of the Dhobis are numbered and I'm glad I got to see it before it disappears.

At its core, The Great Tiffin Migration ("TGTM") is about getting a hot home-cooked meal in containers called "tiffins" from point A to point B. Every weekday afternoon "Dabbawallahs", men in white livery and small caps, pick-up the tiffins and deliver them to the intended recipient whereupon the empty containers are then re-delivered back to their original owners.

Although it sounds like a simple delivery job, it is the scale on which it occurs which is so impressive. Every weekday, dabbawallahs tens of thousands strong, cover a distance of 60 square kilometers in and around Mumbai delivering 200,000 meals daily, each getting to its intended recipient with admirable punctuality and startling accuracy (somewhere in the vicinity of 98%). Add to that that the dabbawallahs consist largely of illiterates and it makes for a worthy case study, which indeed it was by Forbes.

The wallahs sorting out lunch

It's an incredible sight to see all these men in white pouring out of Churchgate station with long planks of tiffins balanced precariously on their heads. They walk with intent and purpose, pooling their loads before sorting and redistributing them using a system of colored alphanumerics that I haven't quite deciphered yet.

My friend AL once compared India to a creaking machine that, despite being on the verge of collapse, still manages to keep going, adapting itself to the new world. In a way I suppose it's not unlike the Dhobis and Dabbawallahs, both outmoded and outdated but still managing to make themselves relevant in an age that has already passed them by.

Next, we take a break from exploration and discovery and head to the sunny beaches of Goa for a little rest and relaxation. After Mumbai's hectic pace I'm looking forward to doing absolutely nothing for a while.