It seemed unusual, unlikely to become a teacher when you had never attended school yourself, but there she was, standing in front of twenty five little children, all of different shapes and sizes, ages and ethnicities.

All of them, although so divergent, converge, at one move of a stick in her hand. Almost like magic .All their hands come together to produce one tune, one music, one rhythm. Twenty different souls coming together once in a while and marching to the same symphony, never defecting, like they’ve been taught synchronization like soldiers marching in a procession, and for once, you realize that you don’t always need education to be learned.

There is sorrow, yes, and there is happiness and love too, in those notes. But there’s no discrimination, no loneliness, there is only the music and the instruments themselves, and also the wind, the rustle, the rushing breathes, the sighs and the heartbeats, everything conforming to everything else.

There is no need for an educated teacher at the Blind Children’s Orphanage, Little Whinging, Privet Drive, on all Sunday mornings, neither is there any need for stationary, for all the chords that ring through the instruments pass through the hearts first.


3 thoughts on “Synchronisation

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