Before going to the poem our teacher built the environment of what an extreme winter could be like, for many of us had not seen snow or knew what snow would be like in real life. She painted a grey picture in a way even we longed to see what the poet felt like when he would come across something called daffodils.

Daffodils? What are daffodils? A flower! 'Oh, a flower!', exclaimed the inner me. Wonder what is so special about it? The unique fragrance, the astonishing petal shapes, the arrangement? From the black and white illustration in the textbook, barely out of the ground it does not even closely look as majestic as a gulmohur! What a fuss after all the buildup to the climax.

Exams came, I identified the figure of speech, wrote the poet’s narrative in my own words and moved on.

Fastforward to 2014, then 2015-2016 - and maybe the same in 2017-2018. I have spend a winter in the Netherlands, experienced the anticipation for snow, looked at open skies with amazement and still continue to make my chai and bhajia when it rains. But when I see a little bulb bulging out of the ground, my heart goes back to the memory of the yellow sunshine beauty I had originally seen in black and white.

I cannot wait, looking at them every day with great hope, for greens to grow up. For the last few weeks, I could bang into a poll while walking, loose balance while cycling simply as I was staring at some beauties in sunshine like I have never seen them before. Head banging to the tunes of sunshine. Reminding me of another Marathi literature class on Phulvedya Mai - the lady who was crazy about flowers.

Hyacinths, crocuses, poppies, tulips - all bring innate joy difficult to express. Taking me back to Wordsworth, the only best way to express what I feel when I see one or a thousand flowers bloom... And dance with the daffodils.