When he was born there was a knot tied to his head. That made him look weird and bizarre. People stared and stared. Something wobbled on his head.
Don't judge people by looks, his parents told their laughing, taunting friends. Some people are born different, look different. He was a wobbly kid, but he could catch things, such as insects, with amazing alacrity. By the time he was five, he had a whopping, prodigious appetite. But he never grew fat, looked healthy and normal. The appetite grew. That was inside. The knot tied to his hair, outside.
He was a pretty fast learner. He could memorize pages, but when his anger tormented, he ripped pages of books. He hardly smiled. He smiled, in fact laughed when he ate.
Glutton they called him. Button, he retorted.
In examinations, if he felt bored, he would leave the paper half way.
By fourteen he was tall, and had a slight paunch. He called it his bag. He never cried in his life. He never felt the need to. Such a happy child his parents said. But inside he had a knife. He knew how to cut. When he slept he snored. Unhealthy they said. He stopped studying.
He was bored he said, he was bored of this ennui, he was bored of the same food. The same faces. The same people. The same house. The same furniture. The same! The same he shouted. Everything the same. No change. Even their smiles, laughter, crying are the same. I am born with this sameness. You people don't rebel against it. Same. Same. Same!
He stopped in his tracks. Even age is the same. I am now, what I was, when born. Birth is death he proclaimed. But death is not same.
By the time he was forty, there was transformation in body, face and soul. The soul dropped heavily and said: 'I am leaving'. He saw a cloudless sky. His parents were waving frantically asking him to stop. He did not, till his soul asked him to. His body lay in front, disfigured, misshapen. He laughed his guts out. 'I am two' he said.