Why ‘Im the Dim’ thinks he is unlike anyone and above everyone
I wonder why it is taking so long for a tall, slightly less brown, handsome-even-in-his-mid-sixties lad like me to rule the nation who knows not what I know, sees not what I see. I mean, come on, when will they realise that I have no personal steak — sorry stake — in any of it
No matter how big a giant one thinks he has become. Everyone of us is one leaked video, one awkward audio clip, and one embarrassing photo away from infamy, disgrace and downright vilification. Embrace, dearest sirs and ma’ams, the world of ‘instantaneous denunciation’ where no one will allow you to get away with anything that is slightly bad, remotely racist, reeks of superiority complex, uttered out of spite, or has potential of going viral or downright stupid. IK is in love of uttering all of the above, at times in a single sentence. Iffat Hasan Rizvi, a Supreme Court reporter, witnessed one such utterance and shared it for the greater joy of us all. #ThankYouIffatAppa.
Then, as they say, the cat jumped out of the bag. The clarifications started flooding in from all sides. For all the Maryams, the Talals, the Daniyals, the Sanaullahs, it was a godsend. For sepoys of PTI, the challenge was momentous, still they fought for the righteous cause. While the scholars tried to shed light on phraseology and etymology ofphateechar and reelokaata, the layman bagged ample amusement. Some stupid things stick badly, others go viral for all the wrong reasons. It both stuck and went viral. #GoReelokaata.
I was, and to some extent still am, an alien to ‘Big Marble Palace’ (read Supreme Court of Pakistan). When the Bench was reconstituted and started hearing Panamagate Case anew, my Resident Editor assigned me to cover the hearings. Enter I in ‘Big Marble Palace’. I’ve seen reporters from different beats, and take my word for it, those who report on SC are on top of the food chain. They are as good as journos come in this land. Day in and day out, they listen to those who adjudicate matters of life and death. When you don’t choose your words wisely while sitting with reporters who marvel at recording words of their Lordships, well, sir, then don’t rue the consequences. #ListenCarefullyOye.
Whatever happened is certainly not the end of IK, he has braved greater, more vicious storms. Those who adore him, will keep on adoring him. Those who love to loathe him, will keep on nitpicking and complaining. The already drawn battle lines will get more stark in coming days as Khanistas will defend their idol-god from all the fire and brimstone hurled by enemies of their faith. #KhanJiWillSurvive.
Men enjoy witnessing the fall and disgrace of the upright, writes Dostoevsky in his tome, ‘The Brothers Karamazov’. Just to be clear, dearest sirs and ma’ams, neither we enjoy witnessing Imran Khan’s repeated falls nor is IK one upright lad who is more sinned against than sinning. #WitnessingGunaah
Since, the words that live and die in our head are sterile and thus issueless. Once we utter words, they tell the world how and what we think about all things, be them earthly or celestial.#2SentencesOfPhilosophy.
Every time proverbial ‘shit’ hits the proverbial fan, two groups emerge. Those who report the whole incident with special focus on gooey mess in graphic details and those who emphasise that nothing of substance hit the fan, let alone ‘shit’. If anything hit the fan, it was just an innocent Freudian slip or utterance taken out of context or private talk among like-minded pals, they say. #SayNoShit. #HearNoShit.
You and I, we have right to speak out our minds, but like all good things there is a catch. That is, once we are done speaking our mind, others are also free to make up their minds about us. I hope you remember a thing or two about what wise, old sages said about words throughout centuries. #WiseWordsNobodyRemembers.
Now a brief quiz, how many of you’ve read, ‘Im the Dim’ — a satirical diary of a notable man — in a weekly magazine? If you’ve read, grand. If you haven’t, no problem. I’ll write one for you.
I wonder why it is taking so long for a tall, slightly less brown, handsome-even-in-his-mid-sixties lad like me to rule the nation who knows not what I know, sees not what I see. I mean, come on, when will they realise that I have no personal steak — sorry stake — in any of it. You know, right. I own nothing. I drive around in other people’s Land Cruisers, fly around in other people’s jets, move around amidst other people’s bodies, laugh at other people’s jokes (even when they are not half as funny as the ones I make), dine out at other people’s restaurant, reside in a palace… Wait, what? Well, you got the point.
I remember, I once had a teacher who repeatedly reminded me to behave myself, especially whenever I tried to prove Mr Darwin right with my aping around. The more he insisted. The more I persisted. I didn’t pay any heed. And look at me, I am success epitomised. Now, all I want to ask that teacher is #Howzzat
Yours Forever-ly,
Im the ‘Fokker’ Dim.
