The Deflonics Diaries
Shikha Sharma was a junior cryptologist at CRSI-Cryptology Research Society of India. Cryptology is the practice of analyzing encoded messages, in order to decode them. I presume Robert Langdon’s admirers might have a point or two to add, as far as cryptology is concerned. Ever since she was a child, she was keenly interested in solving puzzles and debunking the mystery in ciphers and anagrams, a hobby which developed into a career option. Moreover, her father, Mr. Ravikant Sharma was, one of India’s most ingenious minds, as well as the head of CRSI.
However, the events of the past six months had left her shattered and confiscated the tranquillity of her mind and soul. While the thunderstorms were raging in her mind and soul, her diary had beenher sole companion, momentarily relieving her of her demons. To her utter dismay, her diary was missing. She scouted for it, in the whole house. Rehaan, her five year old nephew, had this habit of meddling around with things. She found her diary in Rehaan’s closet.
“I’ll teach him a lesson he won’t forget,” she mumbled to herself. She locked her room, so that she could pen down the emotions brimming inside her. It was a Deflonics diary which was gifted to her by her father on her birthday. He’d bought a similar one for himself too. As she turned over the first page, she realized, it wasn’t her diary. She couldn’t restrain herself from turning over to the second page, peeking into someone else’s persona, thereby transcending the etiquette of privacy.
~ March, 2010 ~
Day in and day out I watched her, observed her. She was a peculiar character. She hung around in a completely different crowd from mine and dated a guy of a different ilk as well. As a matter of fact, I saw her with a different guy almost every few months. But one thing I’ve noticed, which was perhaps the most striking thing about her, was the way she dressed. She always dressed as if she was walking down the runway on Fashion Television, minus the anorexia, of course. Then, it all happened.
A week ago, we were working overtime on an important breakthrough. Even since the death of Sona’s mother, I’ve never found myself so vulnerable to feminine charm and sex appeal. A horrendous storm of a murky texture was raging beneath my conscience. I stopped her from going home on the pretext of some important work. Finally, I gave in to my devilish fantasies. I grabbed her from behind and pushed her onto the floor. She tried to resist, which further intensified the rush of adrenaline through my veins. The sensation of domination and control over her body and movements was riveting. She was being so melodramatic about the whole affair.
Girls like her make deliberate and constrained endeavours to seduce men and then create a hue and cry over it. Having fulfilled my urge, I threatened her with dire consequence, just in case she was harbouring thoughts to approach the authorities.
Shikha was astounded by the revelations. Was this some sort of a nasty dream? She wanted it to be a dream, as she flipped over to the second chapter.
It was well past midnight. Mr. Ravikant Sharma was pensively strolling in the garden. Suddenly, he turned around and sped towards his personal library. He picked up his personal diary to dispense with the influx of thoughts simmering in his mind. He realized that there was something very strange about his diary. This wasn’t his diary. He circumspectly flipped over to the second page.
~ May, 2014 ~
My head, my limbs, in fact each and every segment of my body was submerged in waves of excruciating pain. For a moment, I failed to realize the reason. I tried to recollect the memories of the past few hours. All I could visualize was blurred and vague recounting of cries and sobs, a complete state of pandemonium. Slowly and steadily, the name dawned upon my conscience. In an instant, the reminiscences of the events that unfolded within the past few hours burst through my mind. I was aware of the reasons for my pathetic state. Henceforth, I shall burn; burn in the flames of penitence and remorse, blaming myself, for the whole fiasco. How could you, Hrithik? How could you? Hell is right here, right now.
~ September, 2012 ~
I don’t like it, when girls wear so much makeup. It makes them look synthetic. Perhaps, they aren’t naturally attractive, so they need to overdo all the mascara and lip gloss to acquire the much needed attention of men. I met her at one of those official parties. One look at her attire, and it was crystal clear that she’d willingly shed every inch of her apparel, provided she was made the right offer. I constantly gazed at her slender well curved legs, earnestly fantasizing about unbuckling her shorts.
I offered her a lift, which she gladly accepted. What sort of a girl, accepts lifts from random strangers? To my utter dismay, the whore started defying my moves. My hormones were wrecking havoc in my body, making me eager for real action. She was screeching like a wild animal. I bet she must be enjoying the experience herself, I thought.
I must’ve satiated the thirst of that wild whore. Power and influence ensures that you get off scot- free.
Mr. Ravikant Sharma was petrified by Shikha’s confession.“No, this is not possible. This must be some conspiracy to defame my daughter,” he mumbled to himself. His hand instinctively turned the page to the second chapter.
~ April, 2014 ~
Hrithik Mehra is the son of steel magnate, Mr. Rishabh Mehra. Unfortunately, he is my fiancé too. The confluence of the two mighty families was perceived as a giant leap towards a much greater objective. Hrithik was irrepressibly drunk that night. He tried to force me into bed. I adamantly refused to budge to his evil intentions. I was robbed of my dignity, honor, innocence and virtue,abased until eternity in my own sights. There are wounds that never surface on my body, but factually, they are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.
~ May, 2014 ~
In case I made even the least attempt to divulge my secret, Hrithik would ensure that the clip goes viral, which would spell mayhem in our already chaotic lives. My best friend told me, “Pretend as if it never happened”. Pretend? The conflict between the will to deny those horrible events and the resolve to proclaim them aloud is the central theme of my psychological trauma. It’s been two months. I still have flashbacks. I still have nightmares. I never thought I couldbe so terrified of men at twenty two. I never thought I could be so scared of being alone. I never thought any trigger could set me off.
Shikha had engraved an immaculate and spotless image of her Dad in her mind. She’d always adored her dad. These disclosures were tainting the faith she had placed in her dad. In fact, tainting would be an understatement.
~ January, 2013 ~
I like being forceful. Nothing excites me more than stamping my authority over women. I teach them a lesson, albeit a tough lesson.For centuries, our ancestors have toiled hard to maintain the social fabric and heritage of our nation, and here we are, razing the legacies and moral values of our ancestor with our own hands. I observe girls holding placards, embedded with the words “My body,my rules. I’ll cover it as I deem fit.”
Well, if that’s the case, then I guess we’ve no option, but to spank you on our beds, at the altars of our sinister passions. Girls are always in a win-win situation. They enjoy the physical union as much as we do, if not more. To add to it, they are the beneficiaries of doting sympathy, in case they are “violated”. Rape is a misnomer. It’s just the wrong person, at the right time.
Mr. Ravikant Sharma broke down. He’d always doted on his daughter; she was his Cape of Good Hope, the sole reason for the smiles and mirth in his otherwise distorted life. He anxiously flipped over to the final chapter.
~ June, 2014 ~
Never since my birth, have I missed my mother so badly, as I have done over the past three months. She’d have been the perfect antidote to my ordeals and torments.
I’d rather hang myself from the ceiling, than divulge my secret to my dad. How can a daughter be so shameless and brazen? Every day I wish they’d killed me after they were done. At least, if I were dead, I wouldn’t have to relive it every day. I guess I’ll have to crawl into my wounds, to discover my fears. Once the bleeding starts, the cleaning can begin. I am all by myself, to tackle the monster creeping beneath my spirit. I’ll have to accept that it happened. Yes, it did happen. Yes, I was…
Shikha left her home, without caring to inform anyone. The march ahead was perilous, but she was determined to execute her decision. She scribbled a few meaningless words on a piece of paper. It was a message, a cryptic message. Mr. Sharma searched for her everywhere, but in vain. He inspected her room meticulously, intently hoping to find some clues, which might aid him in finding her. He found a piece of paper, in her drawer.
An uncoordinated barrage of words were scribbled on the paper.
“Rqfh xsrq d wlph, wkhuh zdv d jluo. Khu prwkh ur kdg glhg lq fklogkrrg…”
Mr. Sharma at once concluded that it was the Caesar Cipher, perhaps, the oldest encryption technique ever used. However, he needed a key, to decrypt this code. He turned over the page. The flip side of the paper was imprinted with a bizarre puzzle.
“The Semitic Religions will join hands with the prime deities, in exchange of all forms of water.”
“This has to be the key. There’s an obvious point veiled in this verse,” muttered Mr. Sharma.
Semitic religions- Judaism, Christianity and Islam.
Prime Deities- Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh in Hinduism; Father, Son and Holy Ghost in Christianity; Zeus, Poseidon and Olympus in Greek mythology.
Forms of Water- Liquid, Ice and Water Vapor.
Suddenly, it struck him. Three. Three religions, three deities, three forms of water.
Now, he could easily decrypt the Caesar cipher by shifting each alphabet by three places forward. Therefore A would become D, B would become E and so on.
He read….O n c e u p o n a t i m e…
Once upon a time, there was a girl. Her mother had died in her childhood. Her Dad was her inspiration, the sole recipient of her warm hugs and childish sniffles. Then, one day, she inadvertently discovered the dark facets of his dad’s persona, thereby piercing her heart. Would she die? No. She’d realized that Life just didn’t care about aspirations, or sadness. It’s often random, and it’s often stupid and it’s often completely unexpected, and the closures and the epiphanies and revelations we end up receiving from life, begrudgingly, rarely turn out to be the ones we thought.
She was gone, lost in oblivion, never to return back again. She’d learnt an adage in grade sixth: whatever you do, comes back to haunt you. Perhaps, she was bearing the brunt of the sins of her father. Only, if her father could realize that a society which objectifies women, treating them merely as a means to mitigate their sordid passions is doomed to eternal damnation and divine retribution.
Only, if her dad could realize that a society which constantly defines women by the silhouette of their assets and size of their thighs is a morally putrid society.
Only, if he could realize that bequeathing ethical and moral principles to the male child were an indispensable element of successful parenthood.
She’d encrypted this message in a cipher, so that, no one else could get a wind of the matters unfolding between the two. She left, never to return back, leaving her father ablaze in the flames of distress and regret.
Image Source: flickr.com