Why am I born ( A short story)

Why am I born?

If you have a moment and a mind to listen to, I have a story to tell. I don't remember who or what brought me into being, or where and when I was born. Yet, somewhere in the corners of my fading memory, I recall a man with greedy eyes, my first custodian. He kept me, along with many others like me, in a bare room by the roadside. We were stripped down to our bones, as he sought to exchange us for money. I can still hear their voices, praising me as the plumpest and most attractive among the lot.

One day, a young man, Mr. X, came into the room, with money in hand, to choose one of us. He inspected each of us carefully, pressing our humps and bumps. His eyes widened when they settled on me. He caressed me gently, and his gaze lingered. In no time, he paid my custodian whatever was asked, and I became his possession. He dressed me in smooth, elegant fabric, and stared at me with awe and pride—a gaze I had never known before. It wasn't greed that looked at me this time, but something warmer, something fonder.

Thus began my eventful life. Mr. X was delighted with me. He slept with me every night and even during the day on weekends. He would read books and newspapers, lost in thought while lying beside me. His mind held no secrets from me—his thoughts often spilled out, and his dreams became familiar to me. I witnessed his fantasies and wishes unfold in his sleep.

Not long after, I began hearing him whisper a girl's name in his dreams. In time, this led to their marriage. On their wedding day, I was adorned in a beautiful, frilled dress and fragrant flowers. The celebration filled me with excitement. That night, he returned to sleep with me, his wife by his side. I was there, a silent witness, as they shared their deepest desires, unbothered by my presence. It feels improper to recount their private moments, but I can only share my experience—how their joy often came at the cost of my comfort.

As time passed, I found myself bearing more and more. My once-plush surface, now tired, felt the strain of their passion. They grew increasingly indifferent to my needs, subjecting me to pain I hadn’t known before. My resilience began to wear thin, and with it, my tolerance.

Eventually, they moved me to another room, where I was left to host their guests. Some treated me decently, but others were far less kind. I never breathed a word of my ordeal to anyone, for Mr. X had given me a life, and I owed him my silence.

Years went by, and children arrived in the household. I enjoyed their presence when they were babies, but as they grew, they grew rough. They climbed on me, jumped, and practiced their antics without regard for my suffering. Soon, they too outgrew me and abandoned me.

Loneliness became my only companion, and I slowly fell out of use. My once-glorious self had withered and no one wanted  me anymore. Then, Mr. X fell ill. He was bedridden, and they brought him to my room. His cries of pain echoed in the house, and no one, not even his wife or children, had time or patience for him. They left him with me, just as they had once done in better days.

His agony was unbearable at times, and he would claw at me, biting into my fabric. Over the days, I became torn and bruised, but no one seemed to care. On the last Sunday of his life, everyone was out, leaving Mr. X and me alone. His pain reached its peak, and with one final scream, he thrust his hands into me, tearing me apart, before breathing his last breath.

The next day, I was tossed out with the garbage, discarded like an afterthought. Stray dogs found me before the garbage men did, ripping me apart further, playing with me as if I were nothing more than a chew toy. I lay there on the roadside, battered and broken, watching the world pass by. Some people who had once slept with me walked past, oblivious to my presence. Perhaps they didn't recognize me in my current state—or perhaps they chose not to.

And now, I ask myself, "Why was I born? Why am I here... as a mattress?"

Back ground for writing this biography of a cotton mattress is given below: 

During an evening walk with my wife at Pondicherry in 2007, I found a torn out cotton mattress near a garbage bin. It made me to imagine it's past.