Hypnotised on the highway

THE other day, we decided to drive from Yamunanagar to Jaipur. A princely pursuit, we thought — palaces, pink walls, perhaps peacocks too. But little did we know that our royal audience was not with Jaipur, but with His Highness — The King of Hoardings.

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As we entered Rajasthan from Haryana, the landscape began to bloom with bold, booming billboards: “King ka khana khana… chook na jaana!” That was the first one. We laughed. Then, two kilometres later: “King awaits — only 3 km away!” And the next one shouted: “You are approaching the King!”

We weren’t sure if we were headed to Jaipur anymore or getting recruited into a royal feast cult. One minute we were chasing Pink City dreams, the next we were pilgrims on a gastronomical quest. The countdown continued. One km. Five hundred metres. “You are NEAR the King. Kneel... err... eat!”

By now, we were brainwashed, bewitched and borderline hungry. Stopping at the restaurant felt less like a decision and more like a decree. We parked like loyal subjects, stumbled out of our car and entered the Kingdom of Kaleidoscopic Temptation.

Before we even sniffed a samosa, the real trap lay outside — the shops. Billboards screamed: “SALE on SALE!” “Buy 1 Get 3 Free!” We wandered like wide-eyed wanderers in a bazaar of block prints and bedspreads. Dupattas flew like battle flags. Cushion covers whispered to us seductively. Our arms were full, wallets half-empty, hearts brimming.

Finally, the dining hall. Regal chairs. Faux chandeliers. And thalis grander than our plans. There were papads that cracked like thunder and curries with enough spices to start a civil war in our intestines. We feasted, frolicked, forgot Jaipur even existed. “Why go to the capital,” I mused, “when the Kingdom came to us?”

Just as we staggered back into the car, full and fabulously fooled, came another offer: “Jain Shikanjvi — Nahin piya to kya piya?” This wasn’t a polite suggestion. This was highway peer pressure in neon. Suddenly, we felt parched. Betrayed by our own throats. How could we skip this sacred elixir? We pulled over. Again. Before we knew it, we were licking masala off our fingers.

It was official. We were held hostage by hoardings. Billboards were our travel agents, guides and therapists. We obeyed like humble humans before higher powers.

By the time we reached home, we’d forgotten forts, skipped museums and missed every planned detour. But we gained bedsheets and bizarre memories. In hindsight, we didn’t travel to Jaipur. We travelled through a highway-run heritage theme park curated by billboard barons.

And the truth is every Indian highway hums this hypnotic hymn — where every billboard is a bard, and every turn a temptation. This wasn’t our first fall, and won’t be the last. Human nature, with all its hunger and hope, has been perfectly decoded by the kings and queens of the grand carnival of commercialisation.

And who needs an itinerary when the hoardings do the thinking?