Skip to main content

Rhododendron for Zalzala...a reflection of nature and birth.

It was a perfect day today, after some unusual roller coaster weather with bitter cold days in the month of spring. My eldest son and I went for a little stroll along my street in the eastern outskirts of London. Chatty and curious as usual, my son's topic of discovery was about plants and flowers when he spotted bunches of showy lilac pink flowers. 

''Mum, look, pink flower. What is his name?'' my two-year old asked. 

I said, ''Rhododendron.''

''Rhododendron?!'' he repeated with much amused tone and exclaimed, ''Oh, its so pretty! It's my favourite now.'' 

Indeed, it is one of the prettiest flowers of the ornamental shrub and I remember noting down in my book some years ago as state flower of Azad-Jammu and Kashmir. Today, these large trusses of bell-shaped flowers reminded me of 'Zalzala', the baby girl whom I carried and rocked to sleep.

Rhododendron Ponticum: State Flower of Azad-Jammu and Kashmir
On 8 October 2005, she was born 8 months pre-mature. When I saw her, she was only two weeks old. I still remember her smile  in slumber in the midst of the rubble. Just as the colour of Rhododendron, her skin was pink,soft and serene. 

The 5 minutes I spent with her at Balakot camp was the most precious time of my two weeks assignment following a relief mission from Malaysia to Kashmir, the site of a prolonged and violent border dispute between India and Pakistan, which has already beleaguered enough; the massive earthquake only added to the province's woes.

Measuring 7.6 on the Richter scale, the quake killed 87, 350 as shown in the Pakistani government's record on November 2005, although it is estimated that the death toll could reach over 100,000. Approximately 38,000 were injured and over 3.5 million rendered homeless. 


My notebook pages has recorded a long list of death toll and destructions from farm animals to buildings and lifeline facilities.

Witnessing entire towns and villages were completely wiped out in the remote, mountainous terrain in Northern Pakistan, with other surrounding areas also suffering severe damage is a terrifying grief. 

However, amidst the rubble of sorrow and force of humanitarian efforts, Zalzala was a happy story. Her mother told me, she was named- after the quake in Arabic, Zalzala, as she was born in the wake of the quake. 
Later, I learnt that SÅ«rat Al-Zalzalah (Arabic"The Quake") is the 99th sura of the Qu'ran composed of 8 verses Through the inspiration of God, the Earth will bear witness to the actions of men it has witnessed. According to one scholar, the earth opening up and bearing forth her secrets in this sura is indicative of a birth metaphor. 

The earth al-'Ard in the feminine gender bears forth of how her lord revealed the final secret to her. Human beings will then realize that the moment of accountability has arrived. This meticulous accountability will reflect good and evil deeds that might have seemed insignificant at the time.

By 27 October 2015, more than 1,000 aftershocks had been recorded but more than that today Pakistanis' have seen and are seeing and experiencing massive aftershocks of political earthquakes, violence and terror.   

That day, in the fasting month of Ramadhan, as Himalayan winter was approaching, Zalzala reminded me of the relationship between nature and birth; the quake taught me about mankind and survival. 
 


She will be turning 8 years old this October and I hope somewhere there in the Northern Province of Pakistan she will be running and giggling; singing and picking bunches of Rhododendron.



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A Bit of Amma, A Bit of Appa

Every time a writer writes, she reveals a bit of herself... just a bit. The rest is purely imagination.   I still see her — clear as day, though it's been years. Amma at the wooden table, her back slightly hunched, hair pulled into a tired bun. The house would be quiet by then — dishes washed, clothes folded, lights dimmed. The smell of coconut oil and cumin lingered in the corners. Midnight. Maybe later. She’d sit with a chipped cup of coffee, the steam curling into the silence like a quiet ritual.  And she would write.  Not for fame. Not for money. Just... because something in her had to be put into words. It looked like breathing, almost — the way she would pause, stare into the distance, then bend her head and begin again. Her stories were filled with emotion — layered, subtle, steeped in the textures of everyday life. Women with untold stories–who never got to speak. Moments of quiet rebellion. Love that waited, sometimes too long. Dialogues borrowed from overheard...

A poem for my Malaysia

This poem is written in Malay Language, my homeland's national language. It is written in the spirit of the celebration of Malaysia's 62nd Independence Day. It is not meant to condemn or based on any specific ethnicity, or person. It is purely from the heart and mind of mine for the love of my birth country, a moment simply for my homeland. Sejenak untukmu Aku bukan bukan Melayu kerana aku cukup Melayu, cukup Cina, cukup India, dan cukup lain-lain kaum. Aku anak Malaysia. Aku bukan bukan Melayu kerana aku atuh pada rukun. Rukun aku rukun negara. Usah disindir kepercayaanku kerana aku bukan calang-calang orang. Aku anak Malaysia. Aku bukan bukan Melayu. Aku tahu Melayu, aku hormati Melayu, dan aku cintai Melayu kerana aku anak Malaysia. Aku bukan anak India. Bahasa ibuku Tamil,  kampungku pekan Melayu, sekolah rendahku sekolah Cina. Kerjaku merantau dunia. Kini sudah dekad lamanya aku dikota Lon...

My Spice Dabba

  My Spice Dabba In the serene village of New Village, Beruas , where the rain tapped zinc rooftops and chickens wandered like old gossip across dirt lanes, my kitchen whispered stories—stories that began with a round, dented brass box: the spice dabba . The gilded casket sat like an heirloom moon on the corner shelf, above a gas stove that hissed with the tired breath of age. The dabba had crossed oceans from India, tucked in the arms of my great-grandmother, who arrived in Malaya with a suitcase of silence and a soul full of spice. Among rubber and palm oil trees and dusky roads, she found a home—and in the heart of her home, she placed her flavours. The brass dabba was nothing grand—just seven little tin cups tucked into a timeworn circle, glowing softly with the patina of years. There was manjal (golden turmeric), kaanja milagai (fierce and red), natchiragam (cumin’s soft sigh), kadugu (tiny mustard seeds that orchastrate in hot oil), venthaiyam (bitter fenugreek), malli ...