A little boy

My grandfather.
Images flashed across my mind. An old man, wrapping his white shawl about him, burying his nose in his favourite Bengali novel.
A little boy, a sly grin on his face, peeping behind a tree aiming at a bird with a shotgun he had made all by himself.
An old man, sitting on a chair in the verandah, his legs crossed, inhaling snuff, humming a long-forgotten tune.
A little boy, humming a tune his mother had taught him, ripping off the golden skin of a mango, and biting the juicy flesh.
A little boy - my grandfather?
Hard to believe.
But my grandfather a little boy? Maybe? Why not.
After all, they are one and the same - my grandfather and the little boy.

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