Ragini Singhania and Kavita Sharma walked side by side down the corridor, heading toward Rohit’s private ward. They were coming from Akhil’s room, both still emotionally stirred from the visit.
Just as they were about to enter, a familiar voice called out from behind.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Singhania!"
Both women turned to see the doctor in charge of Rohit’s case. A faint bruise was visible on his nose, covered hastily with a medical bandage.
Kavita gasped. "Oh my god! What happened to your nose?"
The doctor looked slightly embarrassed. "Ah... I tripped," he muttered, clearly brushing it off. "Thank you for asking." He quickly turned his attention to Ragini. "Actually, Mrs. Singhania, I need a moment of your time—privately. It’s about Rohit’s condition. It’s... sensitive."
The air between them shifted immediately.
Kavita leaned toward Ragini and whispered, "My instincts say he’s too clumsy for a doctor. If he says something traumatizing, don’t take it to heart. There are other specialists...."
Ragini gently placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder and offered a faint smile. She appreciated Kavita’s concern, but she also knew when to listen seriously. No matter his mannerisms, the man was a certified doctor from a reputable hospital. If he was asking for privacy, it meant something.
She followed him to a small consultation room nearby. The doctor gestured respectfully for her to sit before taking his place across from her.
Ragini noticed his unease. He was clearly struggling to find the right words.
"Doctor," she said calmly, "please don’t hesitate. I can handle whatever it is. Just tell me."
The doctor sighed, then handed her a tablet. On it was a Google search page. At the top of the screen was the word:
She skimmed the highlighted description: "Inability to reach orgasm despite adequate stimulation. May occur due to psychological, neurological, or trauma-induced reasons..."
Ragini blinked. "What... is this?"
The doctor cleared his throat. "Rohit... mentioned something unusual earlier. He came to me, very hesitantly, and said he couldn’t feel any... physical sensation—during self-stimulation."
Ragini’s eyes widened.
"He said he tried, but felt nothing. I asked a nurse to assist him—purely for medical assessment..."Seeing her worried expression, he hastened to add, "I assure you everything is not out of hand yet. It’s just that even with assistance, he wasn’t able to climax."He stopped midway, saying he felt too awkward.
The room felt colder now.
Seeing her remain calm, the doctor continued carefully. "There are two possibilities. One is anorgasmia—a neurological complication likely caused by the head trauma. The second is something called hyposexuality, or HSDD—where desire and arousal itself are diminished or absent."
Ragini swallowed hard. "And... you couldn’t discuss this with him directly?"
He shook his head. "Honestly? No. Rohit is closed off. Stoic. And this topic is incredibly private. He won’t open up—not to a stranger, and certainly not to a nurse. That’s why I called you."
She blinked, unsure what to even feel. Embarrassment? Anger? Shame?
The doctor softened his tone. "Mrs. Singhania, please understand. We’re not asking for anything inappropriate. We need someone he trusts—someone he’s emotionally comfortable with—to help him feel relaxed and safe. To allow stimulation to occur naturally, without pressure or shame. That’s the only way we’ll know whether this is purely physiological or psychological."
Ragini’s expression turned unreadable.
"Let me be blunt," he added, trying to keep his tone clinical. "The patient must receive prolonged, consistent stimulation. The goal is not necessarily orgasm—but a response. If none occurs over time, we’ll know the nerves are damaged. But if response builds gradually, it may point to psychological suppression. Either way, we need data."
"And how long would this... treatment...I mean, please go on?" she asked, her voice hesitant.
"At least a week," the doctor replied. "Daily sessions—monitored privately, not at the hospital. After seven days, I’ll reassess him. If needed, we’ll explore more targeted therapy. The longer we delay, the harder it gets to treat. Especially if shame and avoidance take root."
Ragini leaned back, stunned.
She thought of Rohit—how long he had stayed in the washroom earlier, how rigid his expression had been when she hugged him. It all made sense now.
"Who exactly do you suggest for this... private supervision?" she asked coldly.
The doctor paused. "That’s entirely up to you. It could be a therapist, a partner... or someone close he’s comfortable with. But it must be someone willing to help him without judgment. And, to be clear, the hospital cannot provide such a person. This is outside our standard care."
She nodded slowly. Her mind spun with complications. Rohit was adopted, yes—but still heir to the Singhania name. If word got out, the scandal would be catastrophic. Her own maternal family interests are heavily depended on Singhania’s name.
"And what about school?" she asked absently. "His finals are coming..."
The doctor blinked, caught off guard. "Academically, he’s fine. Physically, he’s stable. But if you want real progress, I suggest home study. He can attend school if needed—but the focus should be on emotional recovery."
Ragini stood, thanked him quietly, and gave a parting warning.
"Not a word of this leaves this room. Not even to your nurses. Understood?"
The doctor nodded. "Of course. Strict confidentiality."
As she left, he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his bandaged nose with a sigh.
"Damn rich people and their dramas... Fuck you all I care."
He grinned, imagining the consequences that would follow. His words had been carefully crafted—calculated in a way that would compel Rohit’s mother to become personally involved in her son’s treatment rather than delegating it to someone else.
Though his speech had followed Rohit’s instructions , the underlying intent was guided by his own cunning.
Leaning back, he lit a cigarette and exhaled slowly. "Stupid brat. Forget your dream of freedom—you’re getting packed off to an asylum," he muttered, smirking at the thought."You dared to mess with me. Just wait and watch."
A twisted thrill crept up inside him. The thought that Mrs. Singhania might actually get involved with her son, based on the diagnosis he had planted, excited him.
If things played out that way, he’d gain more than just leverage over the mother-son duo—he might even get a shot at the haughty lady herself, who looked no less than a celebrity.
Just then, his phone rang. He frowned.
It was his own wife.