Like all Mysorians, Nagaraju was also a stiff-lipped Kannada speaker. There is an unmistakable character to Mysorians among the rest of Kannadigas - they look very serious, rarely smile or acknowledge strangers; men are usually slim and prefer very light-colored shirts and grey or black-colored pants. Furthermore, they always appear very aloof, and although there is an unpolished roughness to their behavior, unlike the north and south Kannadigas, they often are not very aggressive. Nagaraju perfectly fits this generalized description of a Mysorian.
I met him at the nursery I visit for my garden requirements. He works there as a helper. He walks with us to carry the plants and manure we select. The first time I visited, I even felt offended by his behavior for not answering properly according to my expectations as a customer. By the second time, I perceived that he is from Mysore, the land and the people I know in the back of my mind from the Gondathimmaiha stories of Srikrishna Alanahalli.
Over time, we became comfortable with each other, and he would insist on selecting plants and manure for me. Many times, quietly in sign language, he stopped me from taking many fertilizers and manures his supervisor would suggest. Over these years, none of the plants he picked from the lot have ever died in my garden, and he would make it a point to ask about them on my next visit. I often joke with him, suggesting that his name should have been Nagaraja, not Nagaraju.
Two weeks ago, when I went to the nursery in the morning hours during the permitted time in the lockdown, I did not see Nagaraju there. Due to COVID, as the nurseries are not able to function, most of the workers have been sent home, it seems. I asked the lady at the counter about Nagaraju. She told me that Nagaraju left the place due to COVID during the lockdown, and she hasn't heard from him since then. That's it. The story of Nagaraju ends there, or that is all in terms of the relevance of people like Nagaraju in city life.
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