Things that make India tick!

We love some, we hate some but we can't do without any of them because, quite simply put, we are like that only (and as predictable as they come, 'cause we've used that same line about 100,000 times by now).

Oh, the regularity with which life in India ticks could put a grandfather clock to shame. And said grandfather clock is most likely an antique find at one of the country's many flea markets, which, well, make us tick.

All you really are is a big, fat, brown (or wheatish? Or maybe fair and lovely?), smiling face that the many hands of desi life tickle and tease as they please. They'll tweak your moustache, tussle your hair and maybe curl the wisps sticking out of your ears (no Laluji, nothing personal) and take you on an unforgettable ride for as long as you're against the idea of migrating to phoren.

It's not like any of us really need an introduction to what's coming, but we thought we'd give you a jolt anyway -- consider all these things at once and you can judge for yourself where we're all headed (to phoren? Maybe!).

1. Saas-bahu soaps

All the women go to bed completely decked out in embroidered saris and wake up without a single hair out of place.

The evil ones inevitably wear coloured contact lenses and heavy makeup, while the good ones are so meek, so downtrodden, so sacrificing that you want to pull your own hair out at their goody-two-shoes antics.

They worship their no-good, drunkard husbands and bullying in-laws and pray before the family idol each day, bathing it in their pure tears as they beseech the Almighty (who may want to keep a bucket handy, considering the diabetic tripe He's forced to hear) to bring about a change in their lives.

No matter how out of sync they are with reality or how offensive they are to modern, independent women with a shred of self-respect, we will continue to watch and enjoy saas-bahu soaps forever.

You ain't come close to anything as revolutionary as that just yet!

Even our politicians, those stalwarts of society, strut into Parliament and meetings with foreign dignitaries in Kolhapuri chappals to go with their crisp white kurtas and dhotis.

Neither do we.

Chalta hai -- after all, most of the carts are carrying oil, without which our swanky cars would probably be even slower than the patient animals nodding down the road.

Should the government ban them within city limits? By all means, for the sake of the poor harassed cattle and also to avoid the crazy jams they can cause.

Some of them do try to give themselves an upscale air by calling themselves 'wine shops', but you're not getting any wine in there for sure!

Every Indian kid, girl, boy, toddler, teenager has to play galli cricket -- it's practically desi tradition. You choose the narrowest street in your neighbourhood where the grouchiest senior citizens reside and get cracking.

They get mad when the ball hits their cars or breaks their windowpanes, they refuse to return it and disrupt the game, then the little ones shout obscenities that would make their parents' ears burn -- aah, it's all so heartwarming! Are you tearing up yet?

All the curvy Munnis and Sheilas of the film fraternity are enough to have any hot-blooded male on edge in theatres.

And let's face it, while we keep talking about the degradation of 'Western' culture, we're all perfectly aware of erotica in Indian history, right from the Kama Sutra to the comely courtesans who were at the beck and call of royalty in centuries gone by.

We'll never catch up -- supply will never meet demand. By the time one is finally up and operative, the number of cars on the road has trebled and it's back to square one.

And every now and then a girder or supporting beam will come crashing down to remind us that the contract is still in a politico's nephew's pocket and kickbacks don't allow room for quality.

It's an adda, a hangout for men of all ages, where they convene at various times through the day. At any given point you'll see at least three males hanging about, enjoying a cigarette before heading to work, buying a few mints after lunch or tucking into a paan outside the office.

And our friendly paanwalas take on the role of fleeting confidante that bartenders have abroad. They have an idea of what's going on in most customers' lives, always know the latest gossip and will be able to tell you the address of every person in the neighbourhood.

Here, not only does Mrs Sinha from two doors down know your first name, she knows your great-grandfather's. She also knows where you're headed for dinner tonight and that your maid is having a clandestine affair with the driver of Mrs Mehta from the second floor in the 'B' wing.

Sigh. No, we can't mind our own business. Even if we happen to notice two random people arguing at a street corner, a crowd slowly gathers to find out what it's all about. And it's not like we'll stop at that.

While the argument is still underway, discussions and opinions will fly freely across as those gathered take sides. And do the two parties directly involved take offense to all this unwarranted interest? Hardly. It's a given!

Hygiene be damned -- we love our street food and some of us actually prefer it to fancy meals in posh restaurants.

Forget the fact that most of the plates we eat in are merely dipped in a bucket of repeatedly used water by way of washing, or that we find the odd hair in our food now and then. It's worth it!

Not only do we enjoy street food -- we go so far as to consider it therapeutic. How often have you heard statements like, 'Do you know, Aarti refuses to let Rehaan eat ice gola with the other kids because she says it's unhygienic. How stupid, na -- how will the child's immunity increase if she mollycoddles him like this?'

Before the term gets you thinking of Bob Marley, you wannabe Amriki, let us clarify that we mean street bargains at roadside stalls and flea markets.

Bargaining runs in our blood. And when someone compliments a purchase, even five years down the line, we remember to say, "You know, he was not coming down only from Rs 500. But finally I got it for Rs 300 what a bargain, isn't it?"

From the collared long-hair who's made his home outside a high-rise and knows how to cross the road by himself, to the skinny spotted stray that feeds off village scraps, every corner of the country is brimming over with them.

Some are downright annoying and others are like the dog you never had. And most are content to live off the kindness of passersby.

Light showers mean a downpour and heavy rains mean a light shower. Anticipated cyclones never hit and unforeseen ones strike without a whisper of warning.

But fear not -- we've worked out a system of predicting the weather.

We're willing to take that back (well -- half of it anyway), if you haven't been deprived of pepsies as a kid. No, not the aerated drink; the little ice candies that come in an assortment of flavours like orange, pineapple and kala khatta, which you have to suck out of plastic covers.

Spitting up everywhere, littering the streets with everything imaginable, blowing our noses without handkerchiefs, peeing on any sidewalk we please -- it paints an ugly picture, but we are like that -- you know how it goes by now.

And nowhere in the world are men as obsessed with their privates as here. You'll see them push their hands into their pants in full public view to scratch themselves and nobody will give them a second look. Because, (yech), it's normal.

"Yes, it's absolutely the right course of action." Shake shake shake.

"Of course you should!" Shake shake shake.

See, we desis are simply not programmed to nod along. Instead, we shake our heads.

Even our clairvoyant cows know enough to nod a 'yes' and shake a 'no' when they're asked questions, but we don't. It's sad but true, you know. Shake shake shake.

That's an average Indian wedding. Which makes it as big and fat as they come, if you consider how other couples across the world marry.

The foreign press carries blazing headlines about the extravagant weddings of their celebrities, which run into millions of dollars and take place in exotic locales.

Pshaw! During wedding season, at least ten Indian business tycoons/jewellers/builders each week have a wedding in the family that costs just as much as Posh and Becks' or Tom Cruise and Katy Holmes' did -- if not more.

So while some 'monks' drive around in luxury sedans, surround themselves with pretty women and even go so far as to lure them into less-than-divine relations, we keep their coffers overflowing with gold.

Street food, market bargains, the latest item numbers blaring on speakers, stray dogs loitering around, traffic jams and litter that's going to keep municipal authorities busy for a whole week or so after -- welcome to the Indian mela!

They happen several times a year, in the tiniest villages and the largest cities and the cacophony is enough to drive a sane person nuts, but most of us end up going anyway.