I listened and heard beautiful words. My teacher read us so much poetry. I was, at age 5, both mesmerised and intrigued. And then she read Wordsworth's 'The daffodils'. Not childs play. I beheld those daffodils and longed to write a poem. I tried to comprehend what a poem is. In my notebook, at home, my pencil began its journey, following the struggling mind. I wrote:
When I was walking in the woods
I saw a bunch of daffodils.
I picked a bunch of daffodils
And then went home for tea.
( Here, a sudden realisation that I would be in trouble if they died there on the page!)
When I got home my mother said, "Put these flowers in water before they die."
This was the very beginning of my desire for words.