Rohan Sharma—or rather, Rohan Hamilton Sharma, his surname quietly changed at the insistence of his mother, Shivani.
At this moment, he was curled up on the cold bedsheets, fine beads of sweat glistening on his temples in the dim morning light.
It had been four days now.
That faint, persistent, dull ache had taken root and spread in the most private part of his body, like an invisible hand slowly tightening a screw. Every slight breath or movement deepened the discomfort.
Outside the window, London's morning light filtered through the blinds, slicing a few bright strips onto the dark wooden floor, dust particles dancing in the beams.
Six o'clock sharp.
Right on time came the subtle sounds of his mother emerging from her bedroom—the steady, soft patter of bare feet on the smooth teak floor, the almost imperceptible gentle friction of soles against wood, followed by the soft click of the bathroom door closing.
Everything was as precise as a Swiss watch, not a second off.
Rohan closed his eyes, trying to suppress the dull, gathering pain in his lower abdomen with deep breaths.
He knew his mother's unshakable morning purification ritual: using a special copper pot to pour warm water over herself from head to toe, symbolizing the cleansing of body and mind.
Ten minutes later, she would change into a freshly ironed, clean sari, then go to the shrine to offer fresh flowers, light sandalwood incense, and recite passages from the Bhagavad Gita.
This process usually lasted forty-five minutes before she would come to wake him.
But today was different.
"Rohan?"
The bedroom door was pushed open silently, then gently caught by the doorstop.
The tall Shivani stood in the doorway—at 174 centimeters, she truly seemed towering to the fifteen-year-old Rohan, who was developmentally delayed and slight of build.
Her presence alone blocked most of the light from the hallway.
Rohan peeked through his lashes: she was wearing a light apricot-colored silk sari, the fabric fine and smooth, its edges embroidered with intricate traditional patterns in gold thread.
The sari wrapped snugly around her supple, full waist, the cloth forming natural, draping folds with her posture.
One end of the sari, the pallu, flowed smoothly down from her left shoulder, draped elegantly and securely over her high, prominent chest, outlining a generous, voluptuous silhouette far exceeding that of the average mature woman.
Her long hair—black as oiled ebony—was braided into a thick, sleek plait that hung down her back, its tip almost reaching the curve where her waist met her hips.
"You're up early today."
Shivani's voice was calm and even, but Rohan detected a trace of barely perceptible inquiry.
Her deep brown eyes, with their slightly upturned outer corners, were now scrutinizing him sharply, her gaze seeming to pierce through his thin disguise and directly touch the unease and pain he was trying to hide.
They were eyes unique to Indian women—deep, mysterious, full of exotic allure.
"I..."
Rohan had to sit up, the thin blanket slipping down.
He instinctively pressed his legs together, a subtle, self-protective movement that did not escape his mother's notice.
"You're unwell."
It wasn't a question from Shivani, but a statement, delivered with certainty.
She entered the room, the hem of her sari swaying gently with her steady steps.
As she walked, her ankles were intermittently visible, the skin of her heels taking on a softer, ivory hue under slight pressure.
Brahmin, the most revered caste established with the Aryan invasion of India around 1500 BCE. The Aryan traits in her bloodline were particularly pronounced in her.
Her nose was high and straight, her brow bone deep, her features possessing the clear, sculpted contours of classical statuary. Her skin was a rare cool-toned ivory, standing out even among the generally light-brown high-caste population.
Were it not for those distinctive, almond-shaped eyes with a South Asian charm, one would hardly associate her with Indian women—which was precisely why many said she bore a striking resemblance to Monica Bellucci, the Italian actress equally famed for blending exotic allure with European bone structure.
Her mother was likely a case of genetic atavism, where the ancient Aryan lineage overpowered three millennia of intermixing—an extremely low probability, yet scientifically possible—and Shivani's existence was the living proof of that possibility.
In any case, she was undoubtedly a beauty among Brahmins, exceptional in both appearance and demeanor.
As for Rohan, he had inherited his father's fair British complexion and some of his mother's features. His mixed heritage left him with almost no discernible Indian traits.
"No, just didn't sleep well."
Rohan avoided her penetrating gaze, staring at the floor as if something there demanded his full attention.
Shivani sat down on the edge of his bed.
The mattress sank slightly under the weight of her full figure, and Rohan immediately caught the familiar scent of his mother—a clean blend of sandalwood and morning jasmine, a fragrance she inevitably carried after her daily prayers, cool and lingering.
Forty years of life and an extremely disciplined lifestyle had left minimal traces of age on her; there was not an ounce of excess fat on her body.
When she crossed her legs, the soft skin of her inner thighs pressed together slightly, the silk sari forming a plump, enticing curve.
"Look at me, Rohan."
Shivani's voice carried a hint of undeniable authority, not from volume but from absolute confidence and control.
Rohan had no choice but to lift his head and meet his mother's gaze.
At such close range, he could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes—visible only in the bare morning light—the gentlest kisses left by time.
"Three days."
Shivani stated slowly in a tone that was calm yet carried immense weight.
"You've been restless during meals, walking oddly, and during last night's prayers, you kept shifting slightly on the mat, adjusting your posture. Now, tell me the truth."
Rohan felt his cheeks flush rapidly, his ears growing hot.
How could he describe this unspeakable pain to his mother?
How could he explain the persistent, dull ache inside his testicles that made it impossible to sit or lie comfortably?
In such an extremely conservative religious household, where even mentioning "body" or "desire" was seen as impure and to be avoided, how could he utter the words, "My balls hurt"?
"I… it hurts there."
He finally forced out the words, his voice faint and wavering, almost swallowed by the room's silence.
"Where?"
Shivani pressed, though a flicker of understanding had already passed deep in her eyes.
Rohan gestured quickly and vaguely toward his groin area with his finger, then swiftly averted his gaze.
Shivani fell silent.
The room was now filled only with the faint hum of car engines from the distant streets and the steady tick-tock of the antique clock on the wall.
Rohan noticed his mother's fingers, folded over her knees, unconsciously twisting the edge of her sari—a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture she rarely made, one that betrayed her inner anxiety.
He knew this habit of hers because she had done it frequently during the six months after his father's death.
Her hands were beautiful—slender, long-fingered, with distinct knuckles. The skin on the back of her hands was pale, and faint blue veins traced beneath the nearly translucent skin like tiny streams.
"Get dressed."
She finally spoke, her voice returning to its usual, flawless calm.
"We're going to see the doctor."
"I can go by myself—" Rohan protested weakly.
"No."
Shivani stood up, her movements fluid and decisive. Her tall figure loomed over the thin boy on the bed:
"I'll go with you. I've already informed the company—this morning's meeting has been postponed. And I've made an appointment with our new private doctor—Dr. Carter."
Rohan knew arguing was pointless.
In the five years since his father's death, his mother's decisions had become the law, the unquestionable rule in this small kingdom.
In the waiting room of the private medical wing at St. Mary's Hospital in London, the air was thick with the scent of disinfectant and anxiety.
The plastic chairs were cold and hard. Rohan sat on one, his legs shifting uncomfortably, trying to find a position that might ease the hidden pain.
Shivani sat beside him, her spine straight as a ruler, as if pulled taut by an invisible thread from her head to her tailbone.
Her hands rested gracefully on her sari-covered knees. Amid a room full of people in modern clothing, looking hurried or weary, she stood out like a suddenly inserted, exotic still-life painting—serene and captivating.
A few young nurses behind the reception desk cast curious, restrained glances her way, whispering among themselves.
Rohan could catch fragments of their conversation:
"...Is that an Indian woman? Her skin is so fair..."
"She looks so beautiful and dignified in that sari... Let me think, oh—she reminds me of that Italian actress, Monica Bellucci!"
These comments didn't surprise Rohan.
Since his father's death, from the age of ten, Rohan had been forbidden from using a phone, but he wasn't completely cut off from the world.
He knew of the actress once hailed as "the world's most beautiful."
He also vaguely remembered his father taking him to watch Malèna when he was little, letting him witness her allure firsthand.
Back then, his father had pointed at the stunning Malèna on the screen with a proud expression and told him:
"Look, Rohan, how much she resembles your mother... She's one of the most beautiful women in the world."
A sharp pain in his lower abdomen pulled Rohan back to the present.
Perhaps because he had grown up seeing his mother's face, Rohan felt no pride or shared glory. Instead, a cold, detached annoyance rose within him: these people had no idea how difficult and suffocating she could be beneath that beautiful exterior.
He wondered if the nurses noticed how his mother's hand, resting on her knee, was slowly, almost imperceptibly, twisting the slightly faded red thread—the mangalsutra—around her wrist.
It was a sacred thread she replaced every Diwali, symbolizing her identity and tradition as a married Brahmin woman.
Even though his father had been gone for five years.
"Ms. Sharma?"
A middle-aged nurse called out at the door of the examination room.
Shivani's tall figure rose instantly, her movements crisp and decisive.
Lohan kept his head down, almost following step by step behind the soft, apricot-colored cloud of her figure as they entered the examination room.
The doctor was a white woman in her forties—Emily Carter.
She wore delicate, thin gold-framed glasses, her expression gentle yet professional. Her blonde hair was neatly pulled back into an immaculate bun, her blue eyes sharp, her features deep-set, exuding an air of mature competence.
Beneath the spotless white coat was a well-tailored light gray cashmere sweater and dark trousers, accentuating her graceful and striking figure.
On her feet were a pair of beige low-cut heels, revealing a glimpse of her alluring toes.
This was clearly a career woman who valued her appearance while radiating professional confidence.
"Ms. Sharma," Dr. Carter nodded in greeting.
Shivani merely gave a slight nod in return. Her cool disposition left no room for small talk, and she signaled with her eyes for the doctor to begin.
Understanding the cue, Dr. Carter turned to Lohan, asking gently about his symptoms, their duration, the nature of the pain, and other details, before gesturing toward the examination table.
"Please come over here, Lohan."
The doctor pulled out a blue sterile cloth and handed it to Lohan, then turned to Shivani, her tone polite yet firm:
"Ms. Sharma, the upcoming examination requires some privacy. You may wait in the lounge outside."
Shivani did not move, not even shifting her posture.
"I am his mother and his only legal guardian. I will stay here."
Her voice was calm, like an immovable stone.
"Typically, for adolescent patients undergoing this type of examination, we recommend…"
Dr. Carter attempted to explain the usual procedure.
"Procedures are based on general circumstances."
Shivani interrupted her, her voice still steady, yet carrying an undeniable air of authority—the kind of assertiveness unique to a self-made woman who had built considerable wealth in a foreign land.
"I am Lohan's only guardian, and I am the one paying for his medical care."
She had switched to a private doctor, clearly expecting more personalized service—or perhaps she was simply difficult to deal with, as uncompromising in her demands as she was in her company.
Dr. Carter glanced at her newly acquired long-term client, then at the thin, awkward boy standing with his head bowed in silence, and ultimately yielded professionally.
"I respect your decision." She turned back to the boy. "Lohan, if you feel any discomfort at any point, please let me know."
The examination was brief, but for Lohan, every second felt stretched into an eternity, filled with embarrassment.
"Please lie down on the examination table and lower your trousers and underwear to below your knees."
Dr. Carter instructed.
Shivani's gaze rested calmly on her son as she added, her tone no different from when she assigned him his daily homework:
"Do as Dr. Carter says."
Lohan felt an invisible pressure bearing down on him from his mother's direction, pushing him forward.
He dared not voice his resentment, stiffly lying down on the cold examination table and covering his waist with the blue paper sheet.
His mother did not politely avert her gaze or turn away as most people would. Instead, she simply took two steps back, standing in the shadows by the corner of the wall, her facial lines sharp and indifferent.
Lohan could feel her presence with absolute clarity—like a silent yet pervasive shadow in the room, an invisible form of surveillance.
Her gaze did not waver. Perhaps in her view, a fifteen-year-old son should not possess, nor need, so-called "bodily privacy" in front of his mother.
She likely considered this responsible, a necessary part of guardianship. But the slight frown and professionally silent demeanor of Dr. Carter beside her quietly confirmed: this was closer to a pathological need for control.
Dr. Carter approached the examination table.
In her five-centimeter heels, her height was just on par with Shivani in flats. The two mature women created a brief sense of confrontation in terms of stature.
"Relax, Rohan, it's just a routine check-up," the doctor's voice attempted to soothe.
Rohan swallowed with extreme embarrassment. Under the gaze of two forty-year-old, formidable women, his hands trembling, he lowered his pants, exposing his still immature, pale, and clearly phimotic penis from beneath the examination paper.
The cold air touching his skin sent a shiver through him.
Dr. Carter put on disposable gloves, leaned over, and gently grasped the small organ with a professional and steady hand.
This was the first time Rohan had been observed so directly in his private area by a woman.
The female doctor bent down for a close, careful inspection.
He could even feel the warmth of her breath against his skin, could smell the faint scent of antiseptic gel and a hint of perfume on her.
Yet, in Rohan's heart, there was not a trace of the possible adolescent fascination or excitement—only the shame of being utterly exposed, with nowhere to hide, like an animal on display at a zoo...
Utterly devoid of dignity, he even felt a cold sense of humiliation.
His small, tightly closed foreskin was gently but decisively lifted by the doctor, revealing the swollen, enlarged testicular area beneath.
Gloved fingers lightly touched, pressed, and probed. The unfamiliar sensation and discomfort made his muscles tense.
Fortunately, the examination ended quickly.
"Alright, you can get dressed now."
Dr. Carter straightened up, efficiently removed her gloves and tossed them into the medical waste bin, then walked to the sink.
Rohan, as if granted a reprieve, fumbled to pull up his pants and climbed down from the examination table, his ankles feeling weak.
"Rohan," Dr. Carter said, drying her hands and turning around, her tone gentle, "Next, I need to speak with your mother alone. Could you wait in the reception area for a while?"
Rohan nodded almost as if fleeing, quickly opened the door, and disappeared into the hallway.
The door closed softly, and the examination room was immediately enveloped in an even more stifling silence.
The smell of disinfectant mingled with the cool sandalwood and jasmine scent from Shivani, creating an atmosphere tinged with confrontation.
Dr. Carter gestured for Shivani to sit in the chair opposite.
She adjusted her glasses, her eyes maintaining professional calm, but with a hint of carefully handled confusion.
"Ms. Sharma..."
She opened the medical record, her tone serious.
"Your son's condition may be more complex than a simple sports strain or minor infection."
"There are many reasons for persistent pain—including but not limited to epididymitis, varicocele, post-traumatic sequelae, and we even need to rule out some rarer conditions."
Shivani nodded, as if listening to a subordinate's report.
"From the preliminary examination, Rohan's testicles are significantly larger than those of his peers. I believe you saw that... they are far too large."
"I strongly recommend further examinations, starting with a scrotal ultrasound, along with relevant blood tests and..."
Dr. Carter paused, then clearly stated—
"Semen analysis."
Shivani nodded, her expression unchanged, as if she were listening to a business report.
After a moment of thought, she spoke with unruffled calm: "Fine. Please arrange all necessary examinations."
"There's one more thing." Dr. Carter leaned forward slightly, clasping her hands on the desk—a gesture meant to build trust and communication.
"Based on the examination findings, I need to discuss Rohaan's developmental condition with you."
"He is fifteen years old, at a critical stage of puberty. But I've noticed not only abnormal testicular size but also a significant issue of phimosis, and his penile development is markedly delayed compared to boys his age..."
"It's contradictory—overdeveloped testes but underdeveloped penis. This contrast makes the situation even more complex."
Dr. Carter paused, adjusting her gold-rimmed glasses.
"Has he ever talked to you about physical development or... sexual matters?"
Shivani's fingers, folded on her knees, tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Our family follows ancient Hindu traditions and disciplines. Abstaining from lust and maintaining physical and mental purity are fundamental. He... is not yet at an age where he needs to delve deeply into such worldly matters."
Her tone was steady, but each word seemed coldly polished.
"I understand and respect your beliefs and culture, Ms. Sharma."
Dr. Carter maintained her professional patience.
"But physiological development is a natural biological process that cannot be avoided. Appropriate self-awareness, necessary hygiene knowledge, and even... moderate physiological release are sometimes essential for the physical and mental health of adolescent males."
"Excessive repression or lack of understanding of one's own anatomy can lead to stress responses like pain or even trigger infections."
Shivani slowly stood up. The movement carried a quiet force.
"We follow wisdom and discipline tested over millennia, Doctor."
"Modern medicine has its value, but spiritual cultivation and bodily restraint are equally important, even more fundamental."
Shivani's tone was polite, yet it radiated a chilling detachment.
Dr. Carter keenly sensed this invisible wall. Wisely, she temporarily sidestepped the clash of perspectives and returned to the urgent medical procedures.
"Of course. Then, back to the necessary examination procedures."
She opened the medical handbook, pointing to one item, her tone becoming entirely businesslike:
"For the semen analysis to rule out infections or other issues, we need to collect a semen sample."
"Considering Rohaan's age, the evident phimosis, and his extreme nervousness and resistance, having a stranger perform a prostate massage in the clinic—inserting a finger into the anus to massage the prostate and help him ejaculate—could cause psychological trauma."
She looked up, her gaze calm and professional as she met Shivani's eyes:
"Therefore, from both medical and psychological perspectives, my most formal recommendation is that you, as his sole guardian, guide him in a completely private environment to learn how to properly retract the foreskin, clean beneath it for hygiene, and complete his first self-ejaculation to obtain the sample."
"This is currently the method that appears to have the least impact on his physical and mental well-being and is also the most likely to successfully collect the sample. I need you to clearly inform me whether you are willing to take on this guiding responsibility?"
Shivani's breath almost imperceptibly paused for a moment, the rise and fall of her chest freezing for an instant.
But soon, that rhythmic breathing resumed, even steadier and deeper than before.
"In Hindu tradition, the mother is indeed the child's first teacher, bearing the responsibility of guidance."
Her voice emerged like water drawn from a deep well—cool, steady, and devoid of emotion.
"The method of rectal massage is not only difficult for me to accept, but I believe Rohan's body and mind cannot endure it either. I am willing to fulfill the necessary duties."
Her gaze fell upon the sterile specimen bottle and the small packet of lubricant the doctor retrieved from the drawer, her eyes unfathomably deep.
"But please tell me exactly what I need to do."
Dr. Carter picked up the specimen bottle and lubricant, explaining clearly:
"Typically, we provide an absolutely private room for the patient to complete the process themselves."
"But Rohan's situation is special—he has never dealt with phimosis and may not even know how to properly retract the foreskin. Forcing it could lead to tearing, pain, or even paraphimosis, which is very dangerous..."
"You will need to first guide him on how to gently clean and attempt to retract the foreskin. Then, without causing pain, have him stimulate himself to ejaculate and collect the sample into this bottle."
She gently pushed the items toward Shivani.
Shivani's gaze fixed on the small, transparent wide-mouthed bottle.
She recalled the doctor's earlier words about "development" and "repression," and also remembered Rohan curled up on the bed, sweat beading on his forehead in pain.
A fifteen-year-old boy, his body undergoing a storm he could not comprehend, with no one to confide in—and pain was the sharpest alarm of this tempest.
"I will guide him."
Shivani finally said, each word as if chiseled from beneath ice, firm and resolute. "But we need absolute, undisturbed privacy."
"Of course." Dr. Carter stood up immediately.
"There is a suite next door with good soundproofing, a sink, and a private bathroom. I will wait outside and lock the door. If you encounter any difficulties or require medical assistance, please press the red call button."
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