By Dr. R. Balasubramaniam
Driving in Karnataka today is not just transportation. It is adventure tourism. Whether you are navigating the chaotic moonscapes of Bengaluru or the once-genteel boulevards of Mysuru, you are no longer driving on roads — you are foraging for them. The real challenge is not avoiding potholes, but discovering the rare, mythical slivers of actual road hiding between them. It is less a commute and more an archaeological dig for asphalt.
Growing up, we trained ourselves to steer away from potholes. It was a basic reflex, like braking at a red light or instinctively dodging a rogue cow. But Karnataka has rewritten the rules. The new game is “Find the Road,” a thrilling, high-stakes exercise in reflexes, optimism and the desperate hope that your car’s suspension system won’t stage a dramatic rebellion mid-journey. Each trip is a treasure hunt where the prize is not gold, but a fleeting moment of smooth asphalt, followed inevitably by another spine-jarring reality check.
From royal avenues to urban obstacle courses
Mysuru, once celebrated for its wide, tree-lined streets and stately charm, now resembles an experimental art installation curated by the City Corporation’s apathy. Every crater is a brush-stroke, every accidental splash a commentary on drainage and every spine-jarring jolt an avant-garde performance piece titled “Ode to your chiropractor.”
And the potholes here are no ordinary imperfections. They are geological wonders — cavities deep enough to unearth fossils (or at least your long-lost spare change), swallow entire vehicles (especially two-wheelers with ambitious riders) or perhaps even cough up the last politician’s forgotten promise. They come in all shapes and sizes. They are sneaky puddle-disguised traps, yawning abysses that seem to lead directly to the underworld and lunar craters large enough to be named after astronauts who clearly never drove on the Bogadi Road.
Take the infamous case of my friend, Rajesh. He was driving his rather pristine sedan near Chamundi Hill, enjoying a rare moment of what he thought was smooth road. One innocent splash later, his co-passenger’s meticulously prepared idli and sambar performed an unplanned aerial ballet, transforming breakfast into an abstract M.F. Husain masterpiece across his windshield. Rajesh, ever the optimist (or perhaps just in shock), merely muttered, “Well, at least it is biodegradable art.” The co-passenger, however, was less philosophical about the loss of his breakfast and spent the rest of the journey quietly wiping sambar from his spectacles.
Then there is the honeymoon couple from Bengaluru. They had rented a shiny new car, dreaming of picturesque drives through the heritage city. They returned it a week later, looking like it had fought in the Dakar Rally — suspension shot, dignity severely dented and their wedding album now tragically enriched with “action shots” of them bracing for impact, faces contorted in expressions typically reserved for extreme sports enthusiasts. They claimed their love was now “road-tested” and “unbreakable,” much like their car’s shattered shock absorbers.
Barricades: The final flourish of confusion
If the potholes were not entertainment enough, the local Police, in their infinite wisdom, have thoughtfully added random, unmarked barricades. These metallic sentinels sprout overnight like particularly aggressive mushrooms after a rain shower, arranged in geometric patterns decipherable only by quantum physicists, highly intuitive pigeons or perhaps the person who designed the labyrinth in Pan’s Labyrinth. Negotiating them turns a commute into an elaborate, low-budget reality show where every driver is both contestant and unwilling stunt performer.
One memorable evening, while driving on the Mysuru Ring Road, I witnessed an autorickshaw attempt a daring, almost poetic swerve around such a barricade. For a glorious, gravity-defying moment, it balanced precariously on two wheels, passengers inside praying, gasping and collectively holding their breath. It finally settled back down with a jarring thump and the passengers, looking like they had just survived a low-altitude paragliding mishap, disembarked with the wide-eyed reverence usually reserved for near-death experiences.
These barricades, ostensibly placed for “slowing down traffic,” often achieve the exact opposite effect. Drivers, already weary from navigating the lunar landscape of our roads, become even more frustrated. The constant braking, the sudden swerving, the impromptu U-turns performed with the grace of a drunken elephant and the desperate attempts to find a phantom “lane” that is not blocked, lead to a delightful symphony of honking, the occasional expletive in multiple regional languages and the collective shedding of automotive tears. It is a traffic jam, but with added, inexplicable metal obstacles! It is like a game of musical chairs, but for vehicles, and nobody really knows when the music is supposed to stop, or where the chairs are, or why half of them are missing a leg. And sometimes, you just discover a barricade has been re-purposed as a clothesline by a particularly entrepreneurial street vendor. Multi-purpose infrastructure, truly.
The “Guarantees” that matter
The State Government has not been idle, we must admit. It has gifted citizens free electricity, free bus rides (though navigating to the bus stop might require an expeditionary vehicle) and many more welfare schemes. Worthy though they may claim these to be, what people truly crave for, deep in their chassis-rattling hearts, is a Road Guarantee.
Instead, we have been handed the Pothole Guarantee. It is the iron-clad assurance that every two feet, you will meet a crater large enough to park not just your scooter, but your aspirations, your dreams of an early arrival and perhaps even a small family of badgers. It is a guarantee so robust, so unfailing, that you could set your watch by the predictable jolt every few seconds.
This is not merely about bad roads. It is about governance itself. Roads are the blood supply of a city, the arteries and veins that carry its life. Their condition mirrors the health of the system. A pothole is not just an inconvenience — it is a symptom of neglect, a sign of promises made and promptly abandoned. If our streets cannot be kept drivable, what does that say of the larger machinery of the State? It suggests that perhaps the larger machinery is also running on three wheels and a prayer.
Conclusion: Keep calm and swerve on
Until someone in power wakes up, we remain unwilling participants in Karnataka’s longest-running reality show, “Survivor: Asphalt Edition.” Drivers develop a suite of invaluable superpowers — night vision for hidden craters, a sixth sense for sudden, unannounced barricades and the emotional resilience to laugh at the chaos rather than dissolve into a puddle of tears (which would ironically, just add to the road hazards).
So next time you set out in Mysuru, do not think of it as a commute. Think of it as an expedition. Pack a spare tyre (or three), offer your suspension system a silent prayer and remember that you are not just driving — you are adventuring. After all, the only guarantee we have today is the Pothole Guarantee. And frankly, it is one guarantee that has never, ever let us down.
[Dr. R. Balasubramaniam is the Founder of Swami Vivekananda Youth Movement. ‘The Lighter Side’ is a series of satirical articles meant to bring a smile by highlighting the funny side of everyday life.]
This post was published on September 3, 2025 6:05 pm