Image for representational purposes.
Credit: iStock Photo
Once upon a not-so-distant time, the journey from Bengaluru to Mysuru was less about the destination and more about the detours. It was a ritual, a culinary pilgrimage, and a cultural slide show rolled into one. But now, with the gleaming Bengaluru-Mysuru expressway slicing through the landscape like a corporate email on a Sunday, we all seem to be zooming toward Mysuru with such speed and efficiency that the countryside has become little more than a blur on our windscreens – and perhaps in our memories.
Gone are the days when we left Bengaluru not just to reach Mysuru, but to experience the in-between. The first pit stop, always at Kengeri, was less of a necessity and more of a tradition – a chance to stretch your legs and sip a bottle of neon-coloured aerated delight while your uncle debated fuel prices with a stranger.
Next up: Bidadi. The home of the humble thatte idli. Fluffy, flat, and often larger than your face, it was accompanied by chutney so good, it made you question your life choices. You didn’t pass Bidadi. You respected it.
Then, with idli-filled bellies and high hopes, you'd cruise toward Channapatna – the toy town where wooden wonders in cheerful colours lured both wide-eyed children and sentimental adults. Buying a spinning top or a wooden elephant wasn’t just shopping; it was supporting an art form and possibly bribing your own child for 10 more minutes of peace.
And just as your digestion settled, Maddur rolled in like a savoury siren call. The Maddur vada, crisp outside and soft within, was the perfect midway miracle. No one knows what secret spell binds onion, flour, and oil into that addictive disc, but one thing’s certain: no road trip was complete without it.
By the time you reached Mandya, the sugar capital, it was time for a sugarcane juice break. Served in sticky glasses with a dash of lime and a dash more nostalgia, it was the ultimate refresher for tired travellers and tired relationships alike.
Near journey’s end, Srirangapatna beckoned. Lord Ranganatha awaited – graciously patient with sweaty, hurried devotees who paused to offer a quick prayer before the final leg. And finally, Mysuru! The city of palaces, silk, and that glorious, golden block of indulgence – Mysorepak. Melt-in-the-mouth, and totally worth it.
Now, we whiz past all of this in a blur, doing 120 kmph in air-conditioned silence, stopping only for automated tolls and coffee from machines that don’t judge. There’s no Thatte Idli traffic jam. No rogue cow causing a halt. No aunt declaring, “Let’s just quickly check out this temple.” There’s only efficiency, and in that, we’ve lost the essence.
The new expressway has brought speed, yes. But it’s also brought an unsettling quiet to the countryside. The roads may be smooth, but the journey? A little too frictionless.
Maybe, just maybe, we need to slow down. Take that detour. Pull over for a vada. Let the countryside catch up with us.