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"Kamala, who is knocking at the door?" my aunt asked. I was then in Jhapa, Nepal during the last of May. She began to drink water from the pot and took a long breath. "How can I know who is at the door?" I said.

I was cooking rice. I found no time to see that the wood was not burning because it was too wet. "Perhaps they are maternal uncle and cousin, who want to stay here for the night," she said as she stepped down the stair carrying clothes, smiling at me.

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