By Ashvini Ranjan

As one drives towards Mysuru from Bengaluru, the toll booth becomes visible from at least a kilometre away. Without fail, I immediately instruct our driver, Narayanappa, to slow down.

Let me explain why.

There are about ten entry booths spread across the Highway, spanning a grand width of easily 250 feet from the left extreme to the right. A driver, without exception, operates on pure mathematical calculation. They instantly opt for the lane with the fewest vehicles.

But it doesn’t stop there.

In a fraction of a second, the driver’s brain becomes a supercomputer calculating variables — counting the proportion of slow moving trucks and buses versus the more agile cars, estimating acceleration rates and projecting potential lane delays.

In the heat of this high-stakes algorithm, a driver will abruptly swerve from the far-left lane to the far-right lane or vice versa at the very last second.

Naturally, this sudden tactical manoeuvre takes every surrounding motorist completely by surprise, provided he himself is not participating in the dance drama. Dramatically elevating the odds of a Highway mishap.

Narayanappa is no exception to this competitive instinct. Mind you, I have never offered him a financial bonus for getting us home five minutes earlier, but the thrill of the toll-lane race is intoxicating.

If you thought the drama ended with the driver, think again.

There are usually at least one or two other back-seat navigators in the car who insist on joining the strategic command team. So, the next time you see a car weaving frantically across five lanes of traffic near the toll plaza, your guess as to what is happening inside the cabin is as good as mine.

For perspective, on a normal working day, anywhere between 40,000 and 50,000 vehicles stream into Mysuru. On weekends and public holidays, that number explodes, leaving our poor city gasping for air under the onslaught!

The biological pressure

There is, however, another crucial reason for these chaotic, conflicting last-minute decisions I bet you haven’t considered.

The physical distance between Bengaluru and Mysuru is roughly 140 kilometres. Yet, getting from central Bengaluru to the start of the Highway is never measured in kilometres, but in sheer endurance.

If you are the one blessed by the ‘Traffic Gods,’ it takes an hour. Once on the Highway itself, driving at law-abiding speeds gets you to Mysuru in another hour-and-a-half. All told, a door-to-door journey averages a solid three hours.

Here lies the catch: There is not a single officially provided, presentable public rest-room along the Highway.

Depending on your level of internal urgency, you are forced to pull into a ‘Maddur Tiffanys’ or a ‘Paakashala’, stride in with the confident posture of a paying customer buying idlis, quietly use the facilities and exit without buying a single morsel.

The alternative? Suffer in stoic silence and hold out until the destination.

As it turns out, there is solid scientific evidence proving that full bladder pressure severely alters human decision-making.

A quick consult with ‘Google God’ reveals a direct physiological and psychological connection between a full bladder and altered human behaviour.

When the bladder is full, the brain continuously processes discomfort and urgency signals. This consumes massive amounts of mental bandwidth, drastically lowering a person’s patience threshold.

Passengers may snap, become unusually hostile or cut conversations short simply because their brain is overwhelmed by the body’s desperate plea for relief.

When two or three passengers in this hyper-tense state are trapped together in a moving vehicle, they instantly transform into a committee of ‘Argumentative Indians.’

And when every member of this agitated committee starts loudly offering conflicting instructions on which toll gate looks three seconds faster, poor Narayanappa becomes the ultimate  victim of group panic.

I still fondly recall travelling by car between Bengaluru and Mysuru during the 1950s and 60s. In those golden days, you might spot only two or three other vehicles on the entire stretch of road.

We enjoyed the absolute freedom to pull over anywhere along the Highway whenever nature called or even whispered. The lush trees and roadside bushes provided ample, egalitarian shelter for both gentlemen and ladies.

Nature, after all, did not discriminate.

Once the job was done, everyone returned to the car with serene smiles and the conversations that followed were warm, gentle and agreeable. There were no frantic toll plazas, no multi-lane swerving and best of all, our driver Narayanappa wasn’t even born yet!