This is the only city in the country, I tell our son as we get off the plane on his first visit to Mumbai. He looks surprised and asks: not 'best city' but 'only city'? Yes, I reply, with all the pompousness that comes with age.

You can find half a dozen cities which have huge numbers and a municipal corporation to boot which messes things up on a grand scale. But this is the only one in India which has the true urban spirit that has left behind the laidback imprecision of dehat and gives you professional value for money with a phlegmatic nonchalance that none else can.

My love affair with Mumbai has remained unconsummated as I have never been able to work there; something I always wanted. So, I use every chance to step back and savour its charm -- watch the frenetic commuters rush by -- which came my way again on an easy paced visit to attend a family wedding.

Our son was keen to see Dharavi, the slum builders will steal from its people, but his friend and guide has taken him around south Mumbai. He has come back to tell us how noticeably well preserved so many public buildings are and passed on a rich plum cake that his friend has presented us.

The Irani restaurants are such value for money, he declares, and I put on my pontificating air again and say: see what I mean by this being a great city -- equal concern for the public space and personal wallet.

I recount the high point of my day -- the hour I spent wandering around the bylanes in the Fort area on finding that the non-peak hour traffic had brought me way ahead of my appointment at Bombay House.

It is amazing how you can get perfectly good tea by the roadside at Rs 2.50 per little glass, competing in quality with any other Indian city, despite floor space and road space there being among the most precious in the world.

I go looking for a little notebook to scribble if need be. The old man running the shop out of what looks like the space below the stairs says he doesn't have my kind, doesn't try to sell me the variant he has and recommends the next shop. There I get my notebook for Rs 5 flat and find that the 2GB pen drives are available for the lowest discounted price that I can locate in Bangalore.

The understated elegance of Bombay House is the same as I have known over the years. Laptops now sit on desks with far less clutter. The interiors have obviously been redone many times in the intervening decades but the tone has remained the same, efficient and pleasing, without a hint of ostentation. A Corus has been ingested and a Rover and Jaguar may well be, but you will never know.

I again have a bit of time before I start drinking with Srini, so I walk into the well appointed department store. The middle-aged lady in formal business suit who answers my queries is a far cry from the dumb young things who usually serve at pricey stores. No, blazers do not come double-breasted any more, yes they can tailor one if the readymade ones don't fit me. Yes, the right shops in other cities can also tailor the brand but she can't vouch for their quality of tailoring. There is no lack of interest although she knows I am buying nothing.

Then, of course, I do the inevitable. Walk into a narrow shop that has greetings cards upfront and books in the background, and offers every title at a 20 per cent discount.

This is as good as Premier in Bangalore, I realise. The titles are current and well chosen and I do a mini splurge. It is not a closing down sale and I have just given my custom to a viable and carefully worked out the business model, made possible maybe by rent control.

The taxi ride to Bandra is bearable in the December weather but takes ages. The evening traffic is totally dense, the traffic lights innumerable and near the end there is such a jam that the driver makes a detour through back lanes which wouldn't have been possible had he not been a wise oldtimer.

The eatery is undistinguished from outside, unglitzy inside. The buzz, as in a trendy cafe, rises as the evening progresses.

The women, both young and not so young, are in appropriate casual wear considering it is a weekday, the fish to go with the beer is super and the bill, despite the volumes downed, does not go through the roof.

As we look for a taxi, two very young ladies and their companion emerge on the pavement for an evening that for them is just beginning. Mumbai goes to sleep very late, as all proper cities do.