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He did, however, look forward to the stories she used to tell him. But, she was usually so tired by the time his baby sister fell asleep that she often could not tell him the stories of which he was so fond, the stories of kings and queens, of hermits and holy men, of talking birds and magic spells. But, on good days, when his baby sister was quiet, after he had eaten his evening meal and his father hadn't returned, she would tell him stories of Rupban and the Baby Prince, of Princess Kalabati and the Monkey Prince, of Lalkamal and Nilkamal, of Khana and Mihir. But more than the stories of kings and queens, of hermits and holy men, of talking birds and magic spells, what Kamal liked to hear most of all was the story of their home village on the banks of the river. He liked to hear how, on winter mornings, his grandmother would make special rice cakes with new rice and new date jaggery and how his mother and her brothers and sisters would warm themselves before the fire waiting for the rice cakes to cook.