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She was the joke-cracking, back-slapping kind of large women for which North India is famous. Her rib-breaking hugs were remembered long after she gave them. She was a woman who often made a man blush with embarrassment at her remarks. Needless to say, her husband is the sweetest, most understanding, long-suffering guy who ever walked this earth. She knows it well and appreciates it as much.
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Finally, I scout out the perfect campsite just above the meadow which offers a spectacular view of the mountains, plopping the tent down on a wooden platform that a woman who had come before me had apparently left behind, carefully crafted of wood crates and cement blocks. It holds together well, despite its age. It's obvious the woman was a skilled carpenter.
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She stands at the kitchen sink, dreaming or in a daze, her apron stained with many dinners past. Her slippers leave prints in the dusting of flour that has found its way to the floor and into the crevices between the wood panels, a mess that she will have to dig out later. But she doesn't care. Today there is a birthday to celebrate. Mixing dough and boiling chicken is her last menial task of the day. She is alone in her work, completely absorbed.
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