Maybe it has something to do with different countries' versions of an all-purpose, basic color. The highway is chaos. Windshields of pickup trucks are outlined in the metallic fringe garlands Westerners would use on Christmas trees. Stop at a light and someone will press a skinny baby into your car window, appealing for money. If the window is open, someone will thrust a garland of spicy-smelling marigolds through it, with the same request.
Road signs are a study in black humor.
Halfway to Jaipur, I stopped for lunch at the Neemrana Fort-Palace, now a hotel, which apparently is not connected to the Maharani of Jaipur. Its origins date to 1464. Its architecture is a maze of winding staircases, turrets, towers and a balcony where the resident maharajah used to sit to watch the women bathing in the oval pool below. Lunch, served in a room where block-printed fabrics catch the breeze and billow through the open, scalloped archways, was a buffet. So were the majority of the meals I had in Indian hotels, and while there was a certain repetition after a while, at least the format meant no waiting for slow service.