Childhood Memory of Zaina Kadal Rumors;
WHO PLAYS FLUTE FOR ME?AND I dance on the tune..
Dr. Fiaz Maqbool Fazili
I grew up in the labyrinthine alleys of Zaina Kadal, a place where whispers traveled faster than the Jhelum’s current. The area was infamous for “Zaina Kadal chu thook”—a phrase that, like the murky waters beneath the bridge, concealed more than it revealed.
One day, as a curious child, I found myself at the heart of this phenomenon. A sudden commotion erupted—people sprinting toward the bridge’s edge, elbows jostling, eyes wide with anticipation. My small frame struggled to push through the forest of legs, squeezing between strangers like a minnow slipping through reeds. When I finally caught a glimpse, there was nothing but the indifferent flow of the Jhelum—no spectacle, no tragedy, just ripples dissolving into nothingness.
Frustrated, I tugged at a man’s shirt—”Uncle, what happened?”—only to be met with a glare sharp enough to cut glass. Undeterred, I tried again, and this time, the man’s hand twitched as if to swat away my persistence. On my third attempt, an elder chuckled and uttered the cryptic phrase: “Zaina Kadal chu thook.”
Baffled, I carried the words home like a riddle. My mother’s initial alarm melted into a knowing smile as I recounted the day’s absurdity. “It’s just spit in the water,” she explained—a metaphor for how easily people chase illusions, how quickly rumors dissolve into nothing. That day, she planted in me the first seed of skepticism: Not every frenzy holds truth; not every shout deserves your sprint.
Then and Now: The Bridge and the Feed;
Decades later, Zaina Kadal no longer swarms with crowds chasing whispers. But humanity’s weakness for spectacle hasn’t vanished—it’s simply migrated. Social media is today’s Zaina Kadal bridge: a place where viral tides drag us toward hollow trends, where outrage and awe are manufactured like seasonal floods. “Zaina Kadal chu thook” now plays out in pixels—clickbait headlines, staged dramas, and algorithmic mirages that vanish upon closer inspection.
The lesson remains. Whether on an ancient bridge or a glowing screen, wisdom lies in pausing before the rush, questioning before the retweet. My mother’s teaching echoes across time: What you’re chasing might just be spit in the water.
Key Metaphors
The Bridge = A stage for collective hysteria (then physical, now digital).
The Murky Jhelum = The obscured truth, easily distorted by ripples of rumor.
“Spit in the Water” = Fleeting distractions masquerading as significance.
The Mother’s Lesson = The anchor of critical thinking in a world of tides.
Timidly Would not like to weave in parallels to specific modern-day myths or viral deceptions?