Mumbai, India

By 1pm we're back on dry land and Vijay piles us all back into his car to give us a city tour. The streets are easy to whizz along as they have only just been reopened after the marathon, which combined with it being a Sunday, means we can take in all the sights of old Bombay alongside the wonders of modern Mumbai. We start with the likes of the Wellington Golf Course and Royal Horse Racing Enclosure before driving down boulevards past imposing gothic buildings; the university, the high court, the police station, Crawford Market and the mayor's residence.

Vijay and Pauli obviously have great civic pride and jointly tell us how the city government ensures Mumbai is a pleasant place to live. As part of its Clean Mumbai, Green Mumbai drive it has street sweepers to clear rubbish twice a day, and is actively engaged in planting trees in every available space. It's now a imprisonable offence to cut down a tree in Mumbai without the city's official permission.

At Flora Fountain, the hub of old Bombay, we continue past big banks and the Mumbai stock exchange, signifying the heart of India's rapid growth on the world stage, and then rounding a corner in front of us is the finish line of the marathon. Even now in the early afternoon heat brave stragglers are limping, exhausted past the finish line. Heartbreakingly, the officials are already clearing things away and there's probably a fair few more still to come. We have visions of the last one finding they've already all packed up and gone home.

We stop close by at Victoria Station, now named Chatrapati Shivaji Terminus, one of the most famous buildings of Victorian-era Bombay. 1,880 trains pass through daily carrying 3.5 million people who either start or finish their journeys here. It's mind-boggling. Imagine that kind of rush-hour happening every single day at Charing Cross or St Pancras, both of which Victoria Station has traces of. The tube is genteel in comparison. No wonder Indian Railways is the biggest single employer in the world.

Our city tour takes us along Marine Drive, past the glitzy Islamic hospital which looks more like the Bellagio Hotel than a medical centre and along Chowpatty Beach, before we drive up Malbar Hill, the ritziest part of town, where all the civic dignitaries, socialites and film stars live, including the governor of Maharastra state in a fabulous house - Raj Bhavan - with huge guarded gates.

The next day on the plane I flick through Time Out Mumbai which has articles pitched directly at this aspirant, wealthy professional set with a front cover claiming, "The perfect workout to suit your style" alongside stories on prime real estate, the best restaurants and exhibitions, the hottest DJs and which designer boutiques are the hippest in town. India Today claims that the middle class share of the population will grow from 5% in 2005 to 20% in 2015 and 40% in 2025. And scarily it encourages them all to become car owners to drive the Indian economy. It's a far cry from the desolate poverty of Rajasthan, the shambolic chaos of Delhi or the grim, grim slums on the other side of Mumbai itself.

On the brow of a hill is a modern Jain temple. Unlike the monuments at Ranukpur this is a living place of worship, fabulously painted and garlanded with multicoloured drapes. Icons of Lord Adinarth sit behind gold bars and around us Jain followers continue with their private worship, some with cloths to cover their mouths, lest they breathe in some insect and accidentally kill it. The Jains believe in peace above all else and literally won't harm a fly.

It's no surprise to find them here amongst the higher echelons of Mumbai society - Jains are predominantly business people, believing that a peaceful society is a pre-requisite for a healthy society, and this affiliation to business makes them a very wealthy religion. They are the one Indian religion that dispenses charity to people of all faiths; all the others be they Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Sikh or beyond, only concern themselves with charity amongst their own followers. Jains give a tenth of their earnings to the poor to be distributed equally. I like them.

We leave with saffron marks on our foreheads and take a quick panoramic photostop at Kamala Nehru Park, with a vista down across the city. From here Marine Drive's nickname, the Queen's Necklace, make sense. All the street lights sweep around it in a huge curved chain and at night they twinkle like a necklace. In blazing sunshine they don't have quite the same effect but the grand arch of the drive is clear to see.

Across the road are the Victorian Hanging Gardens, a landscaped space of pretty lawns and topiary, built on top of a huge water tank that stores water for the city, an engineering marvel so hidden from view that we can't quite believe we're stood on 60,000 gallons of water. But as we potter around trying to find a patch of shade we come across a hatch buried in grass with big great Victorian rivets and sure enough this is one large, man-made, storage tank disguised as a quaintly attractive landscape garden.

Above us circle vultures, large against the bright blue sky. Pauli explains that there is a secret entrance next door to the Tower of Silence, the place where Parsees dispose of their dead. The Parsees originate from Persia and believe that the bodies of their loved ones should be left out to feed to the birds. Mumbai has the largest community of Parsees in the world but it is in decline and as there are fewer people to feed the birds, fewer and fewer vultures circle the Tower of Silence meaning whatever dead are laid out can remain uneaten for quite some time, proving a bit too gruesome. So they've now erected huge mirrors to magnify the sun and disintegrate the bodies. Horribly fascinating!

Despite the stomach-churning visions of disembowelled corpses being left out to fry, we're both pretty weak from heat and hunger so we are taken to Cafe Noorani, an Indian diner for locals, which we are assured will cater for our, now, pretty selective tastes. Tempted as I am by Hanky Panky Chicken and Brain Masala Fry I have to settle for a small portion of plain rice and yoghurt while Coman orders an aloo gobi, mushroom bhuna, tandoori roti and chana masala. The waiting staff don't seem to understand anything we're saying so this involves pointing to the menu and keeping fingers crossed. While we wait one woman has a glass of water delivered in which are a selection of large green chilis. She picks them up and munches away as if they're breadsticks.

When our food eventually comes Coman's order isn't anything like he was expecting but looks tasty and distinctly flavoured while my yoghurt has obviously not seen the inside of a fridge since it left the cow and is curdled. Despite my repeated attempts to ask for the apple juice which the menu promises, none ever appears. So I have precisely five mouthfuls of plain rice for lunch. Probably about the amount that some people live on for the day. God, I'm starving. But at least I'm not needing the loo. Whatever the doctor gave me seems to be working.

Unsuitably fortified our tour continues to Mani Bhavan, a place of great historical significance. This was the house on Laburnum Road loaned to Mahatma Gandhi to live in by a rich merchant from 1917-1934 and donated to the city as a museum after his death. It's strangely hollow rather than profound and we wander round the exhibits expecting to feel awed by the great man and his achievements but not really feeling anything.

We do however feel humbled in the extreme when all of a sudden we pull over on a railway bridge and are led to the railings to look down on a scene we can scarcely believe. At first we think we've just been coerced into some kind of Slumdog Millionaire voyeuristic tour, but Pauli explains this is Dhobi Ghat, a place where clothes are washed in mind-boggling numbers. There are 660 stone stalls and shirtless men tread, pummel and wash clothes in vast vats of water while others grind detergent into the filthy mess. Out of sight women iron the clothes, hang them out on huge lines and then sort and ticket each item.

Apparently there are four such places in Mumbai and they've been in continuous use for over 400 years. Hotels, factories, schools and large companies all send their laundry here to be done in the searing heat. Pauli tells us when his daughters complain they don't have the latest gadget he brings them here and reminds them, "You are not like this. You are lucky. Remember that."

So lucky. From here we pass the fringes of the slums, apparently predominantly Muslim areas and also full of migrants, who've travelled from rural communities looking for work. Pauli tells us that every so often canny government ministers will come down and very publicly donate blankets or promise education, unsurprisingly at election time, and hey presto a million extra votes from the uneducated masses who are left to their pitiable existence the rest of the time. They certainly don't seem to trouble the governor in his big house with his gates to keep them out.

We end at the Prince of Wales museum, named after George V, who visited before he was king and now called the slightly more tongue-twistery 'Chatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya'. It boasts the second largest dome in India, after the Taj Mahal in Agra - a claim we seem to have heard a number of times before. But no matter. It's an impressive building with an impressive collection of impressive carvings and impressive paintings and impressive taxidermy and... well, by this point I'm past being impressed and almost past caring altogether as I'm fit to faint with hunger.

"One last stop," says Pauli as Vijay pulls the car over. "Kashmiri government emporium. Lovely crafts and..."

"No!!!!" we both cry. "We're not going in."

"But, but," splutter both Pauli and Vijay, commission disappearing before their eyes.

"We don't care. We're not buying anything, we don't want anything, we're exhausted, hungry, ill and please don't make us angry. Just take us to the hotel." Reluctantly they reverse the car. We drive in silence until Vijay asks;

"You married?".
No.

"Why not?"
We're busy.

"You live with mother, sister?".
No.

"A-ha, you stay one more day! I take you good place. Massage. Very happy."
Bye bye.

We get out of the car, press the customary rupees into customarily expectant hands and flop onto the hotel bed exhausted. Finally we're done. Sightseeing over. India's treasures displayed and finished. Nothing more to see. On this trip anyway. We can fly back to England knowing we've ticked every box we wanted. Ah, bliss.

But after packing there's just one last jaunt we decide to do, a hangover from last night and only a ten minute walk from the hotel. Yep, we go to Gaylord for dinner, or a half-hearted attempt at least. Famous for fabulous north Indian cuisine we disappoint the surly staff in soiled jackets by explaining my condition and that I can only eat simple plain fare. I order clear onion soup, rice and some yoghurt. Coman confuses them further by going into the dark recesses of the menu and, finding a small Italian selection buried at the back, he orders penne arrabiata having had his spicy lunch repeat on him all afternoon.

"You don't want Indian food?!?!" Yep, essentially we have come to your famous restaurant not to eat your food but because it has a funny name.

As the food is served the poor waiting staff think we have obviously escaped from a loony bin or had too much sun. With great ceremony one of them brings a platter of plain rice and with exquisite silver service spoons it onto an empty plate as though it were the finest dish in the whole of India. He then looks at me with total bemusement and leaves me to tuck in. I think he thinks we're playing some elaborate joke on him.

Coman's pasta is delivered and we sit and eat our bizarre dinner in Gaylord's chintzy peachy surroundings, which to be honest resemble nothing so much as a fading Torquay hotel. Through the speakers flows Indian muzak. Imagine if a saxophonist more familiar with the Benny Hill theme had taken up snake charming and you get the idea.

We leave without tea or dessert and hail a cab. It's nine o'clock and we have a 5am call to start the long schlep from Mumbai to Delhi, and then Delhi to home. We're almost, almost done...