Hi there. I am a bolster. I was made of cottons packed rather loosely inside a long cylinder-shaped green cloth, with stripes of white and red.

Sometimes, I complained about the choice of colour of said cloth. It’s green, for God sake! I like red. And the colour is dulling day by day. Where’s the bolster activist when you need one?

But then, I am a bolster. My skin is stripy green. I cannot complain.

I am not sure of my parentage, but I know that the cottons inside of me originated from a cotton tree planted in the backyard of Jamaludin household in the serene village of Kampung Kilang.

The green cloth must then originated from the worn-out clothes of the household’s extremely boisterous offspring.

I shall not complain.

The lady of the house made me and my siblings. My brothers and sisters had different skin back then. Big bro was brown, big sis was red with white stripes, little bro was baby blue and little sis was pink hue with small flowers.

The lady even made our close cousins, the pillows. Big fluffy ones. Monocoloured and poly ones. She was a generous old lady with smiles still held in position by false teeth, and she will gave us all away.

I still remember the day when she benignly handed me to her smiling young grandchildren. The girl was small back then. Dark chocolate eyes that glitters with mischiefs. Small feet that tapered when she ran around the house chasing her big brother. Smiles that stretched to the horizon. Clean hands after wiping dirts onto her clothes. Muddy stripy brown-coloured clothes.

Kids.

She is still small, no doubt. Just a foot taller than me now. But don’t tell her; she’ll fume and gracefully throw me across the room intended to land flat on your face but, no, she and her lousy aim will only end me hard on the wall.

Anyway, back to my autobiography.

I have no favourite food nor drinks. I dislike water. Water will only seep through my permeable skin and sog the cottons. Very discomforting, mind you.

My favourite movie? Well, that little girl hardly took me out on dates or to catch any movie, so, yeah, my knowledge on movies are rather deprived. But I do remember her telling me of ‘The Gladiator’ and ‘I am Sam’ when she weeped silently and hugged me for comfort from the saddening story.

Girls and their tendency to weep.

Favourite music? I don’t really have one. On nights of insomnia strikes, my little mistress would plug in her metallic blue MP3 player and we would listen to Nsync and Bon Jovi and The Callings and Siam Shade and L’Arc~en~Ciel and whatsit, me rather reluctantly.

I don’t really fancy them. They rocked their music too hard for my liking, but how do one bolster nag a girl about her choice of music?

My favourite clothes? Haha, I was anticipating this question! My dearest girl dressed me in this baby blue and yellow checkered bolster casing, and lovely one it is!

She is a rather meticulous person actually. Clean one. Dutifully undress me and wash the casing every month or so, just to make sure I retain my clean, fresh and crisp scent.

Oh, and she hardly drools at night. I’m very grateful to have one polite sleeper as an owner; no maps were left imprinted on me. Haha!

I wonder if my siblings are as lucky as I am. We bolsters have no hari raya gatherings like you humans.

What about my reason for existence? Each and every one of us must have a reason to exist on Earth, my girl always says. She always repeats hers rather Naruto-like. So I ought to have one, too.

I live to serve my mistress. Be it hugged or thrown, I’m all hers.

Fancy enough for an immobile object, eh?

During her happy nights, I’m there to be bear-hugged because I know she’s too arrogant to admit she feels like hugging something.

During her fumed-up nights, I’m there to be punched as she cursed the jerks who made her irk. Did I mention I’m a part-time punching bag?

During her insomnia-filled nights, I’m there, all ears as she bantered on and on about her day, her dreams, and her late grampa’s Ford Escort she is so gonna own one day.

During her rare down nights, I’m there to be the permeable me, absorbing moistures venting out of the corner of her eyes. It was discomforting. Not because of the cottons inside of me sogging, no, but because the usual stuck-up authoritative figure of my mistress is not supposed to be pathetic.

I’ll just loosen up myself and let the lungs-crushing hugs continue as I was held close to the heart.

Do not remind me I have no lungs.

As a bolster, I held true to our motto of always being there. But my now little girl is growing, I am positive of that.

She will go to college, she always says that. And then she will fly off overseas in her quest to become the surgeon she wanted to be. She will then work herself out just for the sake of others. Move out of the house and settle into a nice apartment of her own.

Maybe she would neglect me someday. Abandon me. Leave me untouched on the clumsily made bed.

Maybe. But I hope she will take me with her, as ridiculous as it sounds.

Even heroes had the right to dream, so why can’t a bolster?

I will just cherish the days I have with her, sharing her joys and punches and kicks and hugs and whatsit. I want her to be happy.

And I am happy as long as she continues to smile and hug me.

I better get going. Night owl little missy looks like she’s dozing off to sleep anytime sooner and I better be on the bed, lest she couldn’t find me and end up not sleeping at all.

Adios, readers, and have a blessed New Year. Happy always and get a bolster if you aren’t.

Oh, my bad. I forgot to introduce myself. I am Mr. Bolster but you can call me Encik Bantal Peluk if you like. As cuddly and fluffy and irresistible to ladies I am, please don’t hug me. My jealous mistress might throw a fit.

MORAL OF THE STORY:

To quote Kaamyl; "Jadilah seorang bantal peluk."

And, never take things for granted. Respect and love them for their services now before you end up losing them.

I sounded corny? Oh well, back to my bolster then I go…