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Right across a busy traffic intersection lies Eros cinema -- an elegant tribute to Art Deco. It was in this movie theatre that I fell in love with Warren Beatty as he romanced Suzanne Pleschette in Splendour in the Grass. I no longer love Warren Beatty but I continue to patronise the Eros even when it is showing lousy films.

Beyond the movie hall lies a sprawling maidan (an open field) which faces the stately Bombay high court and our equivalent of the Eiffel Tower -- the Rajabai Tower. I love this area, not only because it makes one go all soppy and nostalgic, but also because it represents the volatile, electric, eccentric and contradictory spirit of Bombay. This is the commercial centre and the financial capital of India. More money exchanges hands within a radius of five kilometres around Eros Cinema than perhaps in the rest of India put together.

Out of the yawning maw of Churchgate station pour millions of commuters rushing to their high-rise offices located around what is known as the Fort area. It is as possible to spot India's mega tycoons cruising past in their chauffeur-driven Mercs as it is to see Kate Mass clones rushing to keep their appointments at the advertising agencies nearby.

Models, students, painters, executives and bums -- it is South Bombay they have to come to if they want to do deals or just hang out. The city's smartest restaurants, cafes and five star hotels are located here. So are the premier art galleries, boutiques and book shops. What turns me on through are the improvised street bazaars that clog the narrow pavements with wares that range from fake Reeboks to genuine Calvin Kleins (export rejects).

Just walking along the main artery that connects Bombay's famed Queen's Necklace (Marine Drive, the scenic route along the bay) to the pretty fountain appropriately named 'Flora', one gets to feel the pulse of this lunatic metropolis that attracts dreamers and drifters from all over India.

No two persons speak the same language, or even resemble one another. How can they? They have nothing in common other than an overwhelming desire to make it in Mumbai (as Bombay has been recently renamed). This is a mongrel city of hungry migrants. And that fact has given birth to a hybrid lingo that is unique to Bombay's inhabitants. It's a versatile, bastard language that freely borrows from all the other languages of India -- and like the city for which it speaks, it is raw, crude, direct and colourful. Not that anybody cares.

The key to surviving in Bombay is business - any kind of business. The language of money gets even the most reticent stranger rapidly understood. Money and showbiz come together conveniently in South Bombay -- this is where the action is. This is where the big bucks are. Even though the movie people live closer to the airport and the studios are in the North of the city, it is to South Bombay that they flock to party and flaunt, especially if the venue happens to be the legendary Taj Mahal Hotel with its glittering marble lobby, swish restaurants and the hottest night club in India -- the 1900s.

Across the street from this impressive stone edifice is the magnificent Gateway of India, built by the British to welcome King George V to Britain's jewel in the crown. Today, the Gateway is crowded with tourists jumping into motor launches that ferry them across the harbour to the island which houses the ancient (2500 BC) Elephanta Caves.

I recall a memorable fashion shoot I'd modelled for at the base of the gigantic stone Trimurti (three headed statue) carved out of centuries old rock. It was awesome - the holy Hindu trinity of Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva, (Creator, Protector, Destroyer) and a motley crew of local mannequins, along with French ones getting photographed by Henry Clarke the doyen of fashion photographers, the lot of us clad in early Yves Saint Laurent.

This image, for me, encapsulates perfectly what it is to belong to Bombay, where modernity merges seamlessly with India's timeless past. Where contradictions co-exist compatibly. Where designers threads waft past real rags. Where a glossy socialite consumes caviar with the same nonchalance as an urchin eating bhel puri - the tangy, crunchy snack exclusive to Bombay and available at every street, corner. That's it - bhel puri. That's exactly what Bombay is - a spicy melange of cultures, a crackling mix of people and ambition, a dangerous combination of guts and gore. And as seductive as the saree-clad starlet advertising the latest Bollywood blockbuster and gyrating across enormous billboards all over the city. Bombay has attitude, loads of it. And this is what makes it Bombay, as ferocious and irresistible as a Fellini film in fast forward.

Shobha De, the celebrated Bombay-based novelist and columnist, has published nine books and recently completed her tenth. Her satirical weekly columns appear in leading newspapers in India. She scripts for television and feature films. She is married and has six children. This article has been excerpted from En Route magazine with the author's permission.