Adira, the warrior princess

“You are a fighter,” my mother would tell me routinely. “A strong, mighty fighter.”

The arena of the water pump is my conventional battleground. Every single day is war. Today is no different.

I wake up as the crickets buzz rhythmically in our modest farmland. The sun hasn’t risen yet. Outside, it is dark and silent. I know, however, that the outside is a malicious combat zone. One has to be astonishingly vigilant. And increasingly careful. Without making so much as my blanket flutter, I get up. I brush quietly and decide to shower when I get back. The struggle would be quite destructive anyway. And destruction is never clean.

I grab two plastic pots from the verandah and tip-toe through the rugged rural roads. The sun isn’t even peeking out the distant mountains, so I am assured that I will get a good share today. It is momentarily a still, rather deceiving pre-war conviction. This image of our little town is a wonderful hoodwink, to delude an innocent person and then trap them. I am far too experienced in these fields to get misguided by the grand ambush presented by scenic beauty.

I reach the water pump. There is not a soul visible. It looks to me like a manufactured snare. I hide behind a dark, withering bush, and I wait. I know I must win. Wasn’t I born to win? My name is Adira. And Adira is a warrior.

I hear a rustle ahead of me. I squat down, almost camouflaging with the wet soil. The swampy landscape should prove to be an obstacle for some. I pray that this would delay my competitors. Not hearing another sound, I raise myself to the level of the fading leaves of the bush. I keep my eye out for any sudden movements, and I take measured steps forward. The water pump gleams like a prize to be sought.

As I reach the pump, I hear a rather loud, “Good grief!” from behind me. I frown. The decorum out here was one word – absolute malignant silence. Okay, three words. I whip around, one hand on the pump, and notice a huge boy, and a small girl walking my way. My eyes now reduced to slits, I stare at them. “Is this your strategy?” I ask. “To disarm the opponent by speaking?” My voice is barely a whisper, and I’m rather surprised when the boy answers, “You think I’m fighting for the water?”

Everyone is fighting for the water, you noodle, I thought. Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I notice the small girl’s dark frock flutter. She was merging with the inky sky, what with her tiny frame and thin limbs. My brain processed several things at once – her impressively agile movement, the exchange of a bright orange substance behind the backs of the two individuals (markedly resembling a plastic water pot), and the sly smile smothering her pale face. No more time passed idly. I grabbed my pots and turned the water on. The gushing sound of pouring water, and the feeling of glory at being the victorious winner played on in my heart.

The boy and his small miniature accomplice grunted and stomped the muddy ground. Within the few seconds of our shrewd activities, the pump set arena was beginning to fill up with people. I was the reticent fighter, after all, the winner of the wicked feud of dawn. I managed an impish smile at my two runner-ups as I held my brilliant victory close to my body. The water sloshed inside the pots. Pots full of water, my mother used to say, could be compared to brimming vessels of gold.

I smiled as I pocketed yet another victory of mine with pride. I was the product of my name – strong, noble, and powerful. My mother’s words played in my head. “Sometimes, you can’t win if you don’t fight. The world is our battleground, and if we have to live it triumphantly, we have to succeed. You, my dear, are a fighter, a warrior born into this world. You are Adira, and you are noble.”

(The following was task 3 of Title week! I’ve always wanted to have my title sound majestic. I guess everyone is a warrior in their own way!)