The day Evan Miller stopped smoking, he wept.

For several years he had promised himself he would, but he never gave an exact date: there was no reason to, not yet, he told himself. When he reached a certain age, which he also never articulated, he would stop. It would be a time around the next corner when he would throw the last packet away. It had been a bargain Evan had made with himself and hoped he would not have to fulfill, though in his deepest thoughts he knew it would happen, eventually. To continue smoking would have been stupid, and though Evan knew it was bad, and increasingly expensive, he had persisted because he had enjoyed it; perhaps it was what it represented: a carefree pleasure, which was not his normal habit. When the day came and he tacitly accepted that he must stop, his tears were quiet and manly. His tears were for some unknown object: perhaps it might be called the passing of time and his own measure of life. He had smoked since college, it was a part of him; it was part of who he was, as he thought of himself as a person. Evan was not a reflective man and such ideas were not native to him. Somehow, when he observed the gray in his hair in a shop window; or his wife, Laurens passing comments about the children growing up; that he kn ew that the remainder of his life, and especially the time he had to himself, would be more serious, slower and considered, with a new maturity, which he did not really want to accept. Giving up smoking was the first act in this new part of life. As he dried his eyes and readied to face his family, at that instant, an impression of his father came to him: both unsettling and calming. The union of this image to Evan was immediate, instinctive. Im so proud of you, said, Lauren as Evan stood over the kitche n trash and crushed the last packet of cigarettes, all the while watching her reaction before dropping it into the bucket. She had never believed his vows to stop. She had all but given up on him ever stopping, but when he had finished crushing the final packet, she embraced Evan, placing a quick kiss on his cheek. Their daughter, Martha, entered the kitchen. Lauren announced to the fourteen year old that her father had quit cigarettes. Whatever, said Martha, self -involved and distracted, as she rushed through the kitchen, leaving her parents in her wake. After the moment of renunciation, Evan went to the garden to rake leaves. It was a job he liked; being outdoors, the odor and sound of the leaves, the rake dragging them into heaps, the simple pleasure of doing a task, the peace to be his own man. He worked for twenty minutes in the chill air, and then slapped his chest pocket; it was his habit to reach for the cigarette packet in that pocket. The instant he felt his chest he stopped himself and laughed inside but the humor vanished just as quickly, and an odd anxiety crept up his body, as though he had given up his life in some way: his wife, his children, his job. It was there in the yard that Evan decided he needed to find a new interest, to find new thing in life, live a little more. Perhaps he could learn a new skill, take up a new hobby, or take a practical evening class, although all his efforts at home repair had failed, before he became old. The word old terrified him and now he had said it to himself and the echoes in his mind droned deeper. He stood alone in the yard beside a pile of leaves and shivered. The moment raking leaves stayed with Evan for weeks afterward and though he tried to conceive a plan to find a new interest, he was preoccupied with the life he had been leading up to the epiphany in the yard. He worked for a computer products company, which sold peripherals: printers and other devices for computers. He was a manager and passed his days in meetings and by managing other people and interpreting spreadsheets and making decisions. Evan liked his job. On a steely cold Monday morning, Evan rose at five-thirty a.m. to drive to the office, as he was the convener and chair of a sales conference. He had wanted to host it in another city: to give his team some excitement; going to the airport and checking into a hotel, but the budget was cut and he was compelled to hold the conference in one of the larger meeting rooms with folding back doors that could double the seating area. He drove to the office, through the broad empty streets at that early time of day; the gray even rectangular buildings either side of the roads on his route blurred into one. On his arrival, teams of people were moving tables and chairs, technicians were installing audio-visual equipment, and a catering company had been hired and was arranging urns of coffee and hot water. Evan wandered around to observe the organization and offered comments to the stream of busy people, which were not necessary, as everyone knew what to do. Habitually he patted his chest pocket and reproached himself: he was usually nervous on a day such as this one, and wanted it to go well. In the past, a cigarette had helped relieve the tension.

His mind drifted to his presentation and his opening comments to the room once it was filled with people. He began to pat his other suit pockets and then realized he had forgotten, or misplaced a small computer peripheral, a flash drive, which had his presentation and other documents for the conference on it. He had left it in the car. Irritated by his forgetfulness Evan walked back to the elevators and the long corridors to reach the car park exit. He hurriedly pushed the door open to the outside and made two steps before he hit a person, a young woman, on the shoulder, and she cried out. Oh, I am sorry, please forgive me, Evan sputtered, hardly giving the woman attention as his eyes fell to her han d where she held a burning cigarette; its acrid aroma, the pleasure, came rushing back to him. She followed his stare and with the other hand, as if to make peace, she said, Here, you want a smoke? while showing him the packet. Evan saw she was dressed as a waiter in the catering company uniform. He turned to answer her, and was instantly struck by her beauty, and it made him self-conscious, and he wished he was younger and taller and handsome. He said, while trying to look at the young woman, No, yes, but thank you all the same, that is, I just aa few weeks back, I , that is, on advice, decided to stop, really stop, you know, smoking. And his mouth and tongue were as dry as the morning he gave his first presentation to the entire executive board. She nodded at his words but there was no significant light in her eyes, which Evan saw to guide, or suggest to him, what he could say to appear interesting to her. As he spoke, she put the cigarette to her lips then decided not to and the hand dropped to her waist. He stopped talking, and she replied, Yeah, I know what you mean; my Auntie Jeans been trying to quit for year s, but I know I can give up anytime, and anyway, I got plenty of time to worry bout that later. She looked back at Evan in a way that emphasized what she had said, and with it, her age relative to the middle aged man staring blankly back at her. Her hand rose from her waist and she put the cigarette to her lips. As Evan watched her draw on the cigarette, he fell into a wistful pause and wished he had remembered his presentation.

Till yesterday or the day before Appayamma also eked out her living with scrubbing and cleaning utensils. In the Gunadalas street she is addressed as Appi. She now has no need to clean utensils and other things. It is past nine months since she has come over that need. Appi took another birth and turned into Appayamma There are advantages in cleaning utensils. Family people give rice and curries to her. When a festival or an occasion, marriage or such comes up they would not let her go just like that. The work may eb menial but has its advantages. Appi, till the other day went to cleaning work, in inadequate dirty stinking clothes. Now, after turning into Appayamma, her body is full of twines that bloom. Hair that was like jute because of no oil or such, now shines like a black bee, with curls and is hanging as a long plait behind. Appayamma did not find anything to do in the street. That is a street of waged workers. Men and women go out for work. Alone, unable to spend time with the old and children left behind, she ventured onto the road. She likes the cattle that stray on to the road. If the bullock carts come she would lose herself. She loves the carts too. Carts means, the bullocks and the he buffalos tied to them are dearer to her. By nine the wagers street was deserted. Appayamma came on to the road and stood up. There is a line of carts coming up. She was waiting for them with ecstasy. On looking at the Naidus on the carts, her liking for the bullocks and the he buffalos increased. Carts are from Bhogapuram. That her mothers village, Lingalavalasa is half a mile away from Bhogapuram. She asked the naidu sitting on the first cart Oh! Brother! Which village are the carts from? Bhogapuram answered Naidu. Only since I could make out, I asked after all. Is Surinaidu of Lingalavalasa alright? she questioned in turn. What about him. He is like a bullock. He is there on a cart behind he told. The line of carts was very long. The city businessman has bought the ground nut crop of three villages in one go. The carts from all the villages around Bhogapuram were there. Waiting for Surinaidu, Appayamma was examining each and very cart. She forgpt her purpose of coming onto the road and was pining for Surinaidu. Surinaidu appeared. He was sitting on the front portion of the cart. Does he know Appi like one thing? They are from the same village. In dresses and diggings if he would not know her whoelse would know? Hey! Suriga! she accosted him. Surinaodu could not recognize Appayamma. On listening to the voice he shuddered and looked at her. He jumped from the cart and stopped it. The whole line of carts came to a halt. Oh! Appi! Is that you? have picked up a lot of city style1 I mistook you for some Brahmin lady! he said with wonderment. Appi laughed. Her eyes got closed. Her body pinkered. Suri mistook Appi for a Brahmin lady. It is two years since he saw her. Appi stopped going to the mothesr palce sice two years. Would at least this year you come to the Mother Gods Festival? he asked. I shall said she. She thought it would be imperative to go to the village after Appi became Appayamma. Dont ever forget Suri. OK said Suri. Would I talk if I forgot? she said. All the carts behind were stopped.

Hey! Drive the cart! someone shouted. For Naidu, driving the cart was sure difficult. He was aghast seeing Appi. What does she know that Appi is now Appayamma. What does he know that her body would be filled with twines, flowers and colours? What does he know that she would leave her pliats hanging with flowers in it? What does he know that golden pendants would be hanging from her ears? Only that he would know, Appayamma stopped the bullock carts. Only to show the difference between Appi with the waterpot and the city Appayamma shining with twines and colours, she stopped the carts. The carts went their way. AQppis husband is Kamraju. He established a brick kiln. Bricks fetched good returns. In the street where laborers never had a dime, Kamaraju became a man with papers. Now, there are color notes in handfuls. Appi came out of the tedium of cleaning utensils. Golden pendants came to her ears. Appayamma came onto the road because she found the street sans any idea. She could see money scattered on the road. Why sit idle? If there is more money would it be bitter? Their street was the main road for many villages. All the carts go that way only. There would be dung all the time filling the road. There is money in the dung! If one makes dung cakes, there would be fistful of coins. Appayamma is buying a lot of sarees. Now there are colors in all the sarees. Twines and flowers in them. Her hands are full of dung. There are dung heaps all around the house. There are wet dung cakes on all the walls. Her house is filled with the stench of the dung. The whole body reeks of dung. Appayamma is good looking. She has the right age too. She is a blue shining lotus. She is the beetle in the dung. Dung beetle is a good looking creature. Lusty of fame Kamudu is not in the lust of fame someone made a joke one day! (Kami means a lusty one) For one in search of fame there are many fields. Actor, cine actor, singer, playback singer, circus clown, platform speaker, athlete (Tennis, football, cricket player) Kamudu never wanted to be famous in any of these fields. Since he is a worm of magazines right since childhood, looking at some names that appear frequently in them he used to feel jealous. In some of the months the same name used to appear in three or four monthlies. What fame! After ten or fifteen years, he wanted to reach that status and penanced for it. Meanwhile he also observed the fame that the literary movements and the progressive writers were plundering. Once he thought he has the qualifications to write started writing. His friends started calling him a writer of the beggars. There was a belief in him that the progress would only come out of the beggars. On the whole none of the famous magazines ever printed his writings. Magazines with progressive moorings printed some. His works attracted a few communists. They started telling him what to write and how to write etc. They mistook that his culture and the leftist culture were the same. But, he does need the praise form such people. He believes that those who like Gurajada, Kandukuri and Chilakamarthy are better litterateurs. Uncle cant I come up as a writer? he asked me. Listen. Who would care if you write for poor people? You would get as much name as you write as a reactionary. There may be only a few who like me. There may be thousands who curse me. But, if you want royal patronage and an elevated one that is the only way, I said.

Implementing on my suggestion, Kamudu became King of Prose. He is getting felicitated in hundreds of places. May it be so!