NCERT Textbook: Essay 7 - Bridges Class 11 Notes | EduRev

English Class 11

Class 11 : NCERT Textbook: Essay 7 - Bridges Class 11 Notes | EduRev

 Page 1


188 Woven Words
Bridges
Kumudini Lakhia
F F F F F Look for these words and expressions in the text and guess their
meaning from the context
infraction demeanour
dubious assertion synergy
If my younger self could see me now she would be
incredulous. That I would work in the field of dance or
decipher and translate dance for my own comprehension,
call it choreography if you wish, would have been
unbelievable. In this respect, I am particularly envious of
dancers who claim that they were ‘born to dance’, implying
that it was clearly laid out for them from the beginning. I
must say, I find this assertion dubious; it is rarely that
easy. To dance means to struggle—I believe it is the same
in any discipline because discipline itself is a struggle. I
believe I was not simply born to dance; I was born to live.
And now, as the patchwork of my life comes into clearer
focus, I can see clear bridges between my life experiences
and my work in dance.
In all truth, as a child, I never did want to dance; it
was forced upon me by a doting mother and a silent father.
My father probably kept his peace to avoid argument. From
the beginning my lessons took place under trying
conditions, though I believe that the conditions were more
trying for my mother than for me. She travelled in local,
over-crowded trains to dance class with an unwilling child,
tired from a whole day at school. She waited a whole hour
in the not-so-clean ante-room of my guru’s house and then
endured the same journey back. This was in Bombay, and
my first dance lessons were with Guru Sunder Prasad who
7
2019-2020
Page 2


188 Woven Words
Bridges
Kumudini Lakhia
F F F F F Look for these words and expressions in the text and guess their
meaning from the context
infraction demeanour
dubious assertion synergy
If my younger self could see me now she would be
incredulous. That I would work in the field of dance or
decipher and translate dance for my own comprehension,
call it choreography if you wish, would have been
unbelievable. In this respect, I am particularly envious of
dancers who claim that they were ‘born to dance’, implying
that it was clearly laid out for them from the beginning. I
must say, I find this assertion dubious; it is rarely that
easy. To dance means to struggle—I believe it is the same
in any discipline because discipline itself is a struggle. I
believe I was not simply born to dance; I was born to live.
And now, as the patchwork of my life comes into clearer
focus, I can see clear bridges between my life experiences
and my work in dance.
In all truth, as a child, I never did want to dance; it
was forced upon me by a doting mother and a silent father.
My father probably kept his peace to avoid argument. From
the beginning my lessons took place under trying
conditions, though I believe that the conditions were more
trying for my mother than for me. She travelled in local,
over-crowded trains to dance class with an unwilling child,
tired from a whole day at school. She waited a whole hour
in the not-so-clean ante-room of my guru’s house and then
endured the same journey back. This was in Bombay, and
my first dance lessons were with Guru Sunder Prasad who
7
2019-2020
Bridges 189
lived in Chowpatty while we lived in Khar. We took the
train, then a bus and then walked, and the whole trip took
roughly 45 minutes each way.
Interestingly, it was the film industry that spurred my
mother to enrol me in dance classes. When I was seven, we
went to see a movie starring Mumtaz Ali, father of the
comedian, Mehmood. Ali did a dance number in the film
with which I became fascinated. When we arrived home, I
began prancing around the house imitating the film actor
and my mother, who was quietly watching, was the one
who said, ‘Kumudini, you are born to dance.’ Ironically, I
have no recollection of this story; it was my mother who
saw this innate ability in me. Her belief was so strong that
she went through the gruelling exercise of taking me to
dance class four days a week without complaint.
However, my childhood education was composed of
much more than just dance and academics. I did not live
in a vacuum. I was surrounded by life and learnt many of
my lessons there, lessons that I still carry with me. I grew
up during a volatile era, a time of war, India’s independence
movement compounded by World War II in which India played
a role in military operations. My father, being an engineer,
was called upon to build the cantonment areas first in
Delhi, then in Naini and Allahabad. In Delhi we were allotted
a sprawling house on Hardinge Avenue (now Tilak Marg)
with Liaquat Ali (later, Prime Minister of Pakistan), as our
neighbour. Once his gardener caught me and my brother,
Suresh, picking guavas from his tree. He grabbed us by
the ear and presented us before the master for punishment.
Liaquat Ali not only let us keep the guavas but extended
an open invitation to pick the fruits whenever we wished!
However, this generous offer was accompanied by the mali’s
face which was so horrifying and revengeful that we never
went near that garden again. It was one of my first lessons
in the games that politicians play.
Father would now have to move to wherever army
construction was required. Therefore, when I was nine years
old, the decision was made to send me to boarding school.
After a lot of arguments, advice, consideration and research
on the part of my parents, I was packed off to Queen Mary’s
2019-2020
Page 3


188 Woven Words
Bridges
Kumudini Lakhia
F F F F F Look for these words and expressions in the text and guess their
meaning from the context
infraction demeanour
dubious assertion synergy
If my younger self could see me now she would be
incredulous. That I would work in the field of dance or
decipher and translate dance for my own comprehension,
call it choreography if you wish, would have been
unbelievable. In this respect, I am particularly envious of
dancers who claim that they were ‘born to dance’, implying
that it was clearly laid out for them from the beginning. I
must say, I find this assertion dubious; it is rarely that
easy. To dance means to struggle—I believe it is the same
in any discipline because discipline itself is a struggle. I
believe I was not simply born to dance; I was born to live.
And now, as the patchwork of my life comes into clearer
focus, I can see clear bridges between my life experiences
and my work in dance.
In all truth, as a child, I never did want to dance; it
was forced upon me by a doting mother and a silent father.
My father probably kept his peace to avoid argument. From
the beginning my lessons took place under trying
conditions, though I believe that the conditions were more
trying for my mother than for me. She travelled in local,
over-crowded trains to dance class with an unwilling child,
tired from a whole day at school. She waited a whole hour
in the not-so-clean ante-room of my guru’s house and then
endured the same journey back. This was in Bombay, and
my first dance lessons were with Guru Sunder Prasad who
7
2019-2020
Bridges 189
lived in Chowpatty while we lived in Khar. We took the
train, then a bus and then walked, and the whole trip took
roughly 45 minutes each way.
Interestingly, it was the film industry that spurred my
mother to enrol me in dance classes. When I was seven, we
went to see a movie starring Mumtaz Ali, father of the
comedian, Mehmood. Ali did a dance number in the film
with which I became fascinated. When we arrived home, I
began prancing around the house imitating the film actor
and my mother, who was quietly watching, was the one
who said, ‘Kumudini, you are born to dance.’ Ironically, I
have no recollection of this story; it was my mother who
saw this innate ability in me. Her belief was so strong that
she went through the gruelling exercise of taking me to
dance class four days a week without complaint.
However, my childhood education was composed of
much more than just dance and academics. I did not live
in a vacuum. I was surrounded by life and learnt many of
my lessons there, lessons that I still carry with me. I grew
up during a volatile era, a time of war, India’s independence
movement compounded by World War II in which India played
a role in military operations. My father, being an engineer,
was called upon to build the cantonment areas first in
Delhi, then in Naini and Allahabad. In Delhi we were allotted
a sprawling house on Hardinge Avenue (now Tilak Marg)
with Liaquat Ali (later, Prime Minister of Pakistan), as our
neighbour. Once his gardener caught me and my brother,
Suresh, picking guavas from his tree. He grabbed us by
the ear and presented us before the master for punishment.
Liaquat Ali not only let us keep the guavas but extended
an open invitation to pick the fruits whenever we wished!
However, this generous offer was accompanied by the mali’s
face which was so horrifying and revengeful that we never
went near that garden again. It was one of my first lessons
in the games that politicians play.
Father would now have to move to wherever army
construction was required. Therefore, when I was nine years
old, the decision was made to send me to boarding school.
After a lot of arguments, advice, consideration and research
on the part of my parents, I was packed off to Queen Mary’s
2019-2020
190 Woven Words
College (school) in Lahore (at that time in India). I had not
known a day away from home, but the idea of living with a
lot of girls of my age and studying in a fancy school was
both exciting and worrisome, as curiosity was mixed with
sadness. No more shuffling to and from class, no more
over-bearing Guruji.
No such luck. Mother sent a dance teacher, Radhelal
Misra, Sunder Prasad’s nephew, along with me! She hired
a small apartment for him in Lahore and arranged a
schedule for my lessons. Despite her belief that I was ‘born’
to dance, I didn’t enjoy dance classes. Quite frankly, they
were no fun. I felt as if nothing progressed, that I was just
doing what my guru ordered. I was always a curious child
and I wanted to know and understand what I was doing.
Why was I gyrating in this way? But my teacher could not,
or would not, explain it to me. I was envious of other girls
who were playing tennis and basketball while I was doing
this thing called Kathak. My mother convinced the
principal, a Britisher, that to dance was a form of prayer
and that she could not curb religious freedom! Having spent
several years in a school where most of our teachers were
British, I have come to like their form of discipline. Discipline
in one’s daily routine does bring discipline in thinking. You
begin to place your thoughts in neat little piles the way
you do your uniforms and shoes.
It was three weeks before the final school
examinations—matriculation at that time—when my life
changed dramatically. I was called to the Principal’s office.
What had I done? The only reason one was called to Miss
Cox’s office was because of some infraction. While she was
a kind and diplomatic person, she was also strict and firm
and later, when I myself became a teacher, I was influenced
by her demeanour. As I approached the office, I wondered—
did I forget to put away the tennis racquets after morning
play? Did I forget to lock the door of the dormitory?
‘May I come in, madam?’ I asked quietly.
‘Yes do come in child,’ she answered with a voice full
of such kindness that it made me suspicious, ‘You have to
go home.’
‘But why? I have to study for my exams!’
2019-2020
Page 4


188 Woven Words
Bridges
Kumudini Lakhia
F F F F F Look for these words and expressions in the text and guess their
meaning from the context
infraction demeanour
dubious assertion synergy
If my younger self could see me now she would be
incredulous. That I would work in the field of dance or
decipher and translate dance for my own comprehension,
call it choreography if you wish, would have been
unbelievable. In this respect, I am particularly envious of
dancers who claim that they were ‘born to dance’, implying
that it was clearly laid out for them from the beginning. I
must say, I find this assertion dubious; it is rarely that
easy. To dance means to struggle—I believe it is the same
in any discipline because discipline itself is a struggle. I
believe I was not simply born to dance; I was born to live.
And now, as the patchwork of my life comes into clearer
focus, I can see clear bridges between my life experiences
and my work in dance.
In all truth, as a child, I never did want to dance; it
was forced upon me by a doting mother and a silent father.
My father probably kept his peace to avoid argument. From
the beginning my lessons took place under trying
conditions, though I believe that the conditions were more
trying for my mother than for me. She travelled in local,
over-crowded trains to dance class with an unwilling child,
tired from a whole day at school. She waited a whole hour
in the not-so-clean ante-room of my guru’s house and then
endured the same journey back. This was in Bombay, and
my first dance lessons were with Guru Sunder Prasad who
7
2019-2020
Bridges 189
lived in Chowpatty while we lived in Khar. We took the
train, then a bus and then walked, and the whole trip took
roughly 45 minutes each way.
Interestingly, it was the film industry that spurred my
mother to enrol me in dance classes. When I was seven, we
went to see a movie starring Mumtaz Ali, father of the
comedian, Mehmood. Ali did a dance number in the film
with which I became fascinated. When we arrived home, I
began prancing around the house imitating the film actor
and my mother, who was quietly watching, was the one
who said, ‘Kumudini, you are born to dance.’ Ironically, I
have no recollection of this story; it was my mother who
saw this innate ability in me. Her belief was so strong that
she went through the gruelling exercise of taking me to
dance class four days a week without complaint.
However, my childhood education was composed of
much more than just dance and academics. I did not live
in a vacuum. I was surrounded by life and learnt many of
my lessons there, lessons that I still carry with me. I grew
up during a volatile era, a time of war, India’s independence
movement compounded by World War II in which India played
a role in military operations. My father, being an engineer,
was called upon to build the cantonment areas first in
Delhi, then in Naini and Allahabad. In Delhi we were allotted
a sprawling house on Hardinge Avenue (now Tilak Marg)
with Liaquat Ali (later, Prime Minister of Pakistan), as our
neighbour. Once his gardener caught me and my brother,
Suresh, picking guavas from his tree. He grabbed us by
the ear and presented us before the master for punishment.
Liaquat Ali not only let us keep the guavas but extended
an open invitation to pick the fruits whenever we wished!
However, this generous offer was accompanied by the mali’s
face which was so horrifying and revengeful that we never
went near that garden again. It was one of my first lessons
in the games that politicians play.
Father would now have to move to wherever army
construction was required. Therefore, when I was nine years
old, the decision was made to send me to boarding school.
After a lot of arguments, advice, consideration and research
on the part of my parents, I was packed off to Queen Mary’s
2019-2020
190 Woven Words
College (school) in Lahore (at that time in India). I had not
known a day away from home, but the idea of living with a
lot of girls of my age and studying in a fancy school was
both exciting and worrisome, as curiosity was mixed with
sadness. No more shuffling to and from class, no more
over-bearing Guruji.
No such luck. Mother sent a dance teacher, Radhelal
Misra, Sunder Prasad’s nephew, along with me! She hired
a small apartment for him in Lahore and arranged a
schedule for my lessons. Despite her belief that I was ‘born’
to dance, I didn’t enjoy dance classes. Quite frankly, they
were no fun. I felt as if nothing progressed, that I was just
doing what my guru ordered. I was always a curious child
and I wanted to know and understand what I was doing.
Why was I gyrating in this way? But my teacher could not,
or would not, explain it to me. I was envious of other girls
who were playing tennis and basketball while I was doing
this thing called Kathak. My mother convinced the
principal, a Britisher, that to dance was a form of prayer
and that she could not curb religious freedom! Having spent
several years in a school where most of our teachers were
British, I have come to like their form of discipline. Discipline
in one’s daily routine does bring discipline in thinking. You
begin to place your thoughts in neat little piles the way
you do your uniforms and shoes.
It was three weeks before the final school
examinations—matriculation at that time—when my life
changed dramatically. I was called to the Principal’s office.
What had I done? The only reason one was called to Miss
Cox’s office was because of some infraction. While she was
a kind and diplomatic person, she was also strict and firm
and later, when I myself became a teacher, I was influenced
by her demeanour. As I approached the office, I wondered—
did I forget to put away the tennis racquets after morning
play? Did I forget to lock the door of the dormitory?
‘May I come in, madam?’ I asked quietly.
‘Yes do come in child,’ she answered with a voice full
of such kindness that it made me suspicious, ‘You have to
go home.’
‘But why? I have to study for my exams!’
2019-2020
Bridges 191
‘Your father called to say that your mother is sick and
he would like you to visit her.’
During the walk back from Miss Cox’s office to my
classroom I was overwhelmed with feelings of confusion, a
state of mind I have never completely got over. Even today,
when I want to create a new piece, the first theme that
comes to my mind vibrates with confusion.
Mother was already dead when I arrived, 36 hours and
three train-rides later. When I saw her, motionless and
colourless, I finally understood why I had been summoned
home. I was 14 years old. The air was still and nobody
looked at me. I did not know where to turn or what to do
with my hands, which hung loose from my body. Then
suddenly they clutched my stomach. Hunger pangs? I hadn’t
eaten for three days and there was an emptiness I wanted
to fill. I was afraid of appearing greedy, so I underplayed
my emotions, though all kinds of yearning gnawed my
insides.
Even today I mistake the different kinds of hunger inside
me, and this is something that shows up in my work. The
dangling arms find expression in my choreography. In
Duvidha or Conflict, I examined the plight of a middle-class
woman who is chained to the traditions of Indian life. She
is restricted to domestic circles, is forbidden from wearing
sleeveless blouses, must wear her hair in a bun and must
cater to her husband. Yet, from a small window she sees
the newspaperman waving images of a woman with a bold
streak of white in her short hair, who wears sleeveless
blouses, is surrounded by men who listen to her intently,
is widowed but wears colourful saris. Moreover, she
commands a country with millions of people. Yet, while the
woman looking out of the window is intrigued by this image,
she experiences conflicting emotions. The character in
Duvidha is torn between two lives—she feels an emptiness
within her but is not sure what she is hungry for, what
kind of life she wants. This is something I have felt often,
yet now that I have so much behind me, I am more certain
of where to place my hands.
My exams yielded surprisingly good results. So, now
what? Where do I go from here? This question has cropped
2019-2020
Page 5


188 Woven Words
Bridges
Kumudini Lakhia
F F F F F Look for these words and expressions in the text and guess their
meaning from the context
infraction demeanour
dubious assertion synergy
If my younger self could see me now she would be
incredulous. That I would work in the field of dance or
decipher and translate dance for my own comprehension,
call it choreography if you wish, would have been
unbelievable. In this respect, I am particularly envious of
dancers who claim that they were ‘born to dance’, implying
that it was clearly laid out for them from the beginning. I
must say, I find this assertion dubious; it is rarely that
easy. To dance means to struggle—I believe it is the same
in any discipline because discipline itself is a struggle. I
believe I was not simply born to dance; I was born to live.
And now, as the patchwork of my life comes into clearer
focus, I can see clear bridges between my life experiences
and my work in dance.
In all truth, as a child, I never did want to dance; it
was forced upon me by a doting mother and a silent father.
My father probably kept his peace to avoid argument. From
the beginning my lessons took place under trying
conditions, though I believe that the conditions were more
trying for my mother than for me. She travelled in local,
over-crowded trains to dance class with an unwilling child,
tired from a whole day at school. She waited a whole hour
in the not-so-clean ante-room of my guru’s house and then
endured the same journey back. This was in Bombay, and
my first dance lessons were with Guru Sunder Prasad who
7
2019-2020
Bridges 189
lived in Chowpatty while we lived in Khar. We took the
train, then a bus and then walked, and the whole trip took
roughly 45 minutes each way.
Interestingly, it was the film industry that spurred my
mother to enrol me in dance classes. When I was seven, we
went to see a movie starring Mumtaz Ali, father of the
comedian, Mehmood. Ali did a dance number in the film
with which I became fascinated. When we arrived home, I
began prancing around the house imitating the film actor
and my mother, who was quietly watching, was the one
who said, ‘Kumudini, you are born to dance.’ Ironically, I
have no recollection of this story; it was my mother who
saw this innate ability in me. Her belief was so strong that
she went through the gruelling exercise of taking me to
dance class four days a week without complaint.
However, my childhood education was composed of
much more than just dance and academics. I did not live
in a vacuum. I was surrounded by life and learnt many of
my lessons there, lessons that I still carry with me. I grew
up during a volatile era, a time of war, India’s independence
movement compounded by World War II in which India played
a role in military operations. My father, being an engineer,
was called upon to build the cantonment areas first in
Delhi, then in Naini and Allahabad. In Delhi we were allotted
a sprawling house on Hardinge Avenue (now Tilak Marg)
with Liaquat Ali (later, Prime Minister of Pakistan), as our
neighbour. Once his gardener caught me and my brother,
Suresh, picking guavas from his tree. He grabbed us by
the ear and presented us before the master for punishment.
Liaquat Ali not only let us keep the guavas but extended
an open invitation to pick the fruits whenever we wished!
However, this generous offer was accompanied by the mali’s
face which was so horrifying and revengeful that we never
went near that garden again. It was one of my first lessons
in the games that politicians play.
Father would now have to move to wherever army
construction was required. Therefore, when I was nine years
old, the decision was made to send me to boarding school.
After a lot of arguments, advice, consideration and research
on the part of my parents, I was packed off to Queen Mary’s
2019-2020
190 Woven Words
College (school) in Lahore (at that time in India). I had not
known a day away from home, but the idea of living with a
lot of girls of my age and studying in a fancy school was
both exciting and worrisome, as curiosity was mixed with
sadness. No more shuffling to and from class, no more
over-bearing Guruji.
No such luck. Mother sent a dance teacher, Radhelal
Misra, Sunder Prasad’s nephew, along with me! She hired
a small apartment for him in Lahore and arranged a
schedule for my lessons. Despite her belief that I was ‘born’
to dance, I didn’t enjoy dance classes. Quite frankly, they
were no fun. I felt as if nothing progressed, that I was just
doing what my guru ordered. I was always a curious child
and I wanted to know and understand what I was doing.
Why was I gyrating in this way? But my teacher could not,
or would not, explain it to me. I was envious of other girls
who were playing tennis and basketball while I was doing
this thing called Kathak. My mother convinced the
principal, a Britisher, that to dance was a form of prayer
and that she could not curb religious freedom! Having spent
several years in a school where most of our teachers were
British, I have come to like their form of discipline. Discipline
in one’s daily routine does bring discipline in thinking. You
begin to place your thoughts in neat little piles the way
you do your uniforms and shoes.
It was three weeks before the final school
examinations—matriculation at that time—when my life
changed dramatically. I was called to the Principal’s office.
What had I done? The only reason one was called to Miss
Cox’s office was because of some infraction. While she was
a kind and diplomatic person, she was also strict and firm
and later, when I myself became a teacher, I was influenced
by her demeanour. As I approached the office, I wondered—
did I forget to put away the tennis racquets after morning
play? Did I forget to lock the door of the dormitory?
‘May I come in, madam?’ I asked quietly.
‘Yes do come in child,’ she answered with a voice full
of such kindness that it made me suspicious, ‘You have to
go home.’
‘But why? I have to study for my exams!’
2019-2020
Bridges 191
‘Your father called to say that your mother is sick and
he would like you to visit her.’
During the walk back from Miss Cox’s office to my
classroom I was overwhelmed with feelings of confusion, a
state of mind I have never completely got over. Even today,
when I want to create a new piece, the first theme that
comes to my mind vibrates with confusion.
Mother was already dead when I arrived, 36 hours and
three train-rides later. When I saw her, motionless and
colourless, I finally understood why I had been summoned
home. I was 14 years old. The air was still and nobody
looked at me. I did not know where to turn or what to do
with my hands, which hung loose from my body. Then
suddenly they clutched my stomach. Hunger pangs? I hadn’t
eaten for three days and there was an emptiness I wanted
to fill. I was afraid of appearing greedy, so I underplayed
my emotions, though all kinds of yearning gnawed my
insides.
Even today I mistake the different kinds of hunger inside
me, and this is something that shows up in my work. The
dangling arms find expression in my choreography. In
Duvidha or Conflict, I examined the plight of a middle-class
woman who is chained to the traditions of Indian life. She
is restricted to domestic circles, is forbidden from wearing
sleeveless blouses, must wear her hair in a bun and must
cater to her husband. Yet, from a small window she sees
the newspaperman waving images of a woman with a bold
streak of white in her short hair, who wears sleeveless
blouses, is surrounded by men who listen to her intently,
is widowed but wears colourful saris. Moreover, she
commands a country with millions of people. Yet, while the
woman looking out of the window is intrigued by this image,
she experiences conflicting emotions. The character in
Duvidha is torn between two lives—she feels an emptiness
within her but is not sure what she is hungry for, what
kind of life she wants. This is something I have felt often,
yet now that I have so much behind me, I am more certain
of where to place my hands.
My exams yielded surprisingly good results. So, now
what? Where do I go from here? This question has cropped
2019-2020
192 Woven Words
up throughout my life, and many years later took shape in
my composition, Atah Kim. It’s funny how we store our
experiences in our brains as if we are pre-recorded cassettes.
The right cassette seems to fall into place when you least
expect it to. Upon finishing school, I was at a crossroads
and the path ahead was not clear to me. I had lots of ideas
about what I wanted to do with my life, and dance was not
always a priority. I was always driven, and that partly
stems from the fact that I had a relatively subdued
childhood. I was enveloped by a great mist of protection
and I wanted to emerge from that mist and discover myself.
In particular, I wanted to feel powerful; to control a large
group of people. In Atah Kim I address this desire for power
and, yet, once you possess it, what do you do with it? Once
you reach your goal, where do you go from there? It’s a
question without an answer but I believe the question must
be asked.
At the age of 15, I had many options. It would have
been easy enough to join college for a bachelor’s or master’s
degree in psychology or English literature. But everyone
does that. ‘You have to do something that is off-beat, different
from the done thing,’ my father said to me. So it was that I
decided to attend an agriculture college in Naini, Allahabad.
There were twenty-nine boys and I, in a class of thirty.
Having spent my school years in a girls’ school, I knew
little about the behaviour of boys. My brother was seven
years younger so his friends were no help. However, at the
agriculture college, I got a taste of relations between boys
and girls. We had to travel for miles in the fields on bicycles.
The boys deflated the tires of my bicycle so that they could
walk back with me, resulting in miles and miles of worthless
conversation about the latest film songs and actors, none
of which interested me.
Also, I was fascinated by the professors, mostly
American, who wore shorts because we worked in fields
with clay, crops, manure and insecticides. One day, I also
turned up in shorts and had 58 eyes peering at my legs!
My grandmother had always said that girls must never
push their chests out or uncover their legs. I now realised
what she meant but couldn’t accept it as valid. ‘What about
2019-2020
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