I couldn't spot much of the dawn from where I was sitting. The sky was blue, splotched with a gelatenous cloud that stretched like cotton wool above the edge of the far wall. My breakfast table sat 25 feet from the hotel pool where three early morning swimmers, mostly German from what I could tell, flapped back and forth. A gentle draught from the wooden ceiling fan alleviated a bit of the scorching, humid day. I folded the Times of India, put the paper next to my plate, and motioned to the cafe butler.

From this vantage point in the courtyard of the Taj Mahal Palace hotel, you wouldn't know that Mumbai (formerly Bombay) is a frenetic, car-clogged megapolis. The city, named after a Hindu goddess, is the commercial and entertainment center of India. It is home to over 20 million people -- millionaires, families that subsist on less than $1 a day, and everything in between. The rich and destitute are neighbors here. Tarpaulin shacks are propped up against gleaming apartment towers and Asia's largest slum encroaches on the runways of the Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport.

It is one of the most densely populated cities of the world.

This fact was no more evident than during my drive from the airport. The car herked and jerked through traffic in a complicated ballet that made the Brooklyn-Midtown tunnel at rush hour seem like a Nascar speedway. There were men on bicycles, couples balancing on motorbikes, men in dark glasses being chauffeured in Maybachs, families of six stuffed into yellow and black Fiat taxis, and trucks spewing smoke like coal chimneys. My colleague told me yesterday it has been widely reported that a day breathing the air in Mumbai is equivalent to smoking two packs of cigarettes.

Like the eye of a storm, the Taj Mahal Palace and Tower sits just behind the Gateway of India, the city's most famous monument. The prestigous hotel was built in 1903, allegedly because Jamsetji Tata (the father of modern Indian industry) became offended when he was refused entry to a "whites only" hotel. The Taj Mahal Palace looked luxurious at first glance. Its architecture merges Moorish, Oriental and Florentine styles into stunning hallways and atriums of alabaster ceilings, onyx columns and graceful archways. In my room, there was a hand-woven silk carpet, marble bathroom fixtures and beautiful antique furniture.

However, the hotel quickly began to unravel in the details. The overwhelming paint smell in my room made me feel like a salmon in a smokehouse. The television system took several minutes to boot. Yes: minutes. There was no alarm clock. Multiple requests for an iron and ironing board went unrequited. Apparently, I had been upgraded to a deluxe room. But I'm not complaining (okay, maybe a little). Compared to many in the city, I was indulging in the high life.

There was not a menu at breakfast, which I actually found quite liberating. I assumed that meant I could order anything. After sharing morning pleasantries with the butler, I got down to business. "I'll have Akuri eggs, please, with a glass of orange juice, some English Breakfast tea and wheat toast." It was a bit of a test. Akuri eggs are a traditional spicy scrambled egg dish of Parsi origin. When done correctly, the eggs are tossed with coriander, cumin, ginger, chilis, tomatoes and pepper.

Fifteen minutes later the toast wedges arrived, balanced carefully in a metal rack. They were soon followed by perfectly cooked Akuri eggs, fresh-pressed oranges and a pot of tea as good as any in London. I thanked the butler and picked up my fork. I was sweating already.