Adultery The Aarogya Wellness and Intimacy Clinic

[prasannas2001]

 

 
"I'm broken," Seema whispered into the pillow.
 
"You're not."
 
"I am. I'm broken."
 
He didn't argue with her.
 
He just lay down beside her and held her, and eventually, she cried herself to sleep.
 
The third week, she didn't try.
 
She couldn't.
 
The fear had grown teeth, and now it waited for her every time she thought about sex.
 
She started avoiding his touch, not obviously, not cruelly, but subtly.
 
She kept a little more distance on the sofa.
 
She went to bed earlier.
 
She woke up later.
 
She found reasons to be busy, to be tired, to be anywhere but in his arms.
 
She saw the hurt in his eyes.
 
She saw the way he started to hesitate before he touched her, the way he asked permission for things he used to do naturally, a hand on her back, a kiss on her cheek, a moment of closeness at the end of the day.
 
She saw him shrinking himself, making himself smaller, trying not to be a threat.
 
And it broke her heart, because he was not the threat.
 
She was.
 
One night, she woke from a dream she couldn't remember and found him lying awake beside her, staring at the ceiling.
 
The room was dark, but she could see the outline of his profile, the tense line of his jaw.
 
"Naveen?"
 
He didn't look at her.
 
"Yeah."
 
"Are you okay?"
 
A long pause.
 
Then: "I don't know."
 
She reached for him, her hand finding his in the dark.
 
He let her hold it.
 
He didn't squeeze back.
 
"I don't know what to do," he said.
 
His voice was quiet, raw.
 
"I don't know how to help you.
 
I don't know what I'm doing wrong."
 
"You're not doing anything wrong."
 
"Then what is it?" He turned his head, finally looking at her.
 
"What is it, Seema? Why can't you, why can't we, "
 
She had no answer.
 
She had no words.
 
She just lay there, holding his hand, and felt the distance between them widen like a crack in the earth.
 
 
 
 
 

[prasannas2001]

 

 
The fourth week, his mother called.
 
Seema was in the kitchen when it happened.
 
She heard Naveen's phone ring, heard him pick up, heard the rise and fall of his voice, polite, patient, the voice he used when he was trying to manage his mother's expectations.
 
She couldn't hear the words, but she didn't need to.
 
She knew what the call was about.
 
Grandchildren.
 
She might be saying something like “You should give a kid by next year.”
 
She stood at the counter, chopping vegetables, and felt her hands begin to shake.
 
The knife slipped.
 
She set it down.
 
She gripped the edge of the counter and breathed, in and out, in and out, until the shaking stopped.
 
When Naveen came into the kitchen, his face was carefully blank.
 
"Everything okay?" she asked, though she knew the answer.
 
"Fine." He opened the fridge, took out a bottle of water.
 
"Just my mother being my mother."
 
"What did she want?"
 
He hesitated.
 
"Nothing important."
 
"Naveen."
 
He turned to face her.
 
For a moment, he looked like he was going to lie.
 
Then he sighed, and his shoulders sagged, and he said, "She wants to know when we're going to give her a grandchild."
 
Seema felt the words land in her chest like stones.
 
She nodded, slowly, and turned back to the vegetables.
 
"We'll tell her when we're ready," Naveen said.
 
"There's no rush."
 
But they both knew that wasn't true.
 
In their world, in their culture, there was always a rush.
 
A newly married couple was expected to produce a child within a year or two, ideally within the first year after the marriage, parents wants to hear the good news.
 
Every family gathering, every phone call, every conversation with relatives was a countdown clock ticking toward an inevitable deadline.
 
And Seema was failing even to get to the starting line.

 

[prasannas2001]

 

Scene 3 - The Doctor
 
 
The fifth week, she made an appointment.
 
She discussed with Naveen to consult a gynecologist.
 
Immediately she looked up a gynecologist in the city, Dr. Priya Menon, who had a reputation for being discreet and thorough.
 
Both Seema and Naveen went to see the gynecologist on a Tuesday afternoon.
 
The waiting room smelled of antiseptic and jasmine.
 
Naveen sat in a plastic chair bolted to the wall, a magazine he hadn't opened lying on his lap.
 
There were three other people in the room, an elderly woman with a walking stick, a young mother with a sleeping infant, a man in a faded shirt checking his phone.
 
None of them looked at each other.
 
This was a place where people came to be invisible, and the invisibility was a courtesy.
 
He had been here for twenty minutes.
 
Seema had gone in first.
 
Dr. Menon had wanted to examine her alone, just routine, the receptionist had said, and Naveen had been shown to this chair with a polite smile.
 
He stared at a poster on the opposite wall.
 
A happy family, mother, father, two children, all of them smiling.
 
Below it, in red letters: A Healthy Family Is a Happy Family.
 
He read it three times.
 
His mind wandered where he didn't want it to go.
 
He thought about the wedding night, the way she had frozen, the way she had cried.
 
He thought about the weeks since, the careful distance, the way she had started going to bed early and waking up late.
 
He thought about his own failures.
 
The moments he had reached for her and felt her stiffen.
 
The nights he had lain awake beside her, wanting to say something and never finding the words.
 
Maybe it's me, he thought.
 
Maybe I'm the problem.
 
He had never been with a woman before Seema.
 
He had told her that early in their courtship, and she had smiled and said it didn't matter, that she hadn't either.
 
He had been glad of it then.
 
Now he wondered if it made him stupid.
 

[prasannas2001]

 

 
If there was something every other husband knew instinctively, and he was fumbling in the dark while his wife waited for him to figure it out.
 
The door opened.
 
Seema came out first.
 
She walked slowly, eyes down, hands clasped in front of her.
 
She wore a deep blue salwar kameez, plain, modest, and she looked very small in it.
 
There was a flush on her cheeks that might have been embarrassment or might have been shame.
 
She didn't look at him.
 
Behind her, Dr. Priya Menon stood in the doorway.
 
She was in her forties, sharp-featured, reading glasses pushed up into her hair.
 
She held a file in one hand.
 
"Mr. Naveen," she said.
 
"Would you come in, please?"
 
 
The consultation room was small and brightly lit. Dr. Menon sat across from them, the file open on the desk.
 
"I've completed the examination," she said.
 
"And I've spoken with your wife at length."
 
"I want to be direct with both of you."
 
Naveen's stomach tightened.
 
"Medically speaking, there is nothing physically wrong with Seema."
 
"Her reproductive system is healthy."
 
"Her hormone levels are normal."
 
"There is no infection, no structural abnormality, no underlying condition that would explain what she's experiencing."
 
Naveen let out a breath.
 
Relief, brief, bright, immediately swallowed by confusion.
 
"Then what, "
 
"What your wife is experiencing is psychological," Dr. Menon said.
 
"The clinical term, and I want to be honest, it's an outdated term, but it's the one still in use, is frigidity."
 
The word landed in the room like a stone.
 
Naveen felt it hit him somewhere in the chest.
 
He looked at Seema.
 
She had gone very still, staring at a fixed point on the desk, her face closed like a door.
 
"It's not a moral judgment," Dr. Menon continued.
 
"It's a description of a symptom."
 
"In Seema's case, it appears to be a conditioned response, an involuntary physical reaction to the expectation of intimacy."
 
"The body learns to protect itself, even when the threat isn't real."
 
Even when the threat isn't real.

[prasannas2001]

 

 
It didn't fit her, and yet it was her, and he didn't know what to do with that.
 
He wondered if she blamed him.
 
He wondered if he should blame himself.
 
He reached over and put his hand on her knee.
 
She didn't pull away.
 
She didn't lean into him either.
 
She just let her hand rest on top of his, small and cold, and they drove the rest of the way home like that, connected, but not quite touching.
 
 
 
That night, after she had gone to bed, Naveen sat on the sofa with his laptop open.
 
The Aarogya Wellness & Intimacy Clinic had a website.
 
It was sleek and calm, soft colors, gentle typography, no stock photos of smiling couples.
 
A mission statement that talked about restoring intimacy, rebuilding trust, helping women reclaim their bodies.
 
A page about the founder, Dr. Anjali Rao, MBBS, MD, fifteen years of experience in female sexual health.
 
A page about the facility: private consultation rooms, state-of-the-art equipment, a team of specialists.
 
There was no page about fees.
 
There was no address.
 
There was just a form.
 
Request a Consultation.
 
Naveen sat there for a long time, the cursor blinking in the empty field.
 
He thought about Seema, asleep in the next room.
 
He thought about the word frigidity, and how much he hated it.
 
He thought about the way she had looked at him in the car, when he asked if she wanted to try.
 
Yes. Please.
 
He filled in the form.
 
Name.
 
Phone number.
 
A brief description of the issue.
 
My wife and I have been married for two months.
 
We have been unable to consummate our marriage.
 
She has been diagnosed with frigidity.
 
We are looking for help.
 
He stared at the words for a moment.
 
Then he typed one more line.
 
We are willing to do whatever it takes.
 
He pressed submit.
 
The screen changed.
 
A thank-you message.
 
A note that someone would be in touch within forty-eight hours.
 
Naveen closed the laptop and sat in the dark, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic.
 
He told himself he had done the right thing.
 
He told himself this was the answer, the clinic, the specialists, the experts who knew how to fix what he couldn't.
 
He told himself everything was going to be all right.
 
And somewhere on the other side of the city, in a sleek office in Jubilee Hills, a notification blinked on a screen.
 
A new inquiry.
 
A name.
 
A phone number.
 
And a note, typed by a husband who was willing to do whatever it took.
 
 

 

[rajesh93]

Super Updates, interesting to see how the clinic will turn up.

[prasannas2001]

 

 
Naveen heard the words and felt something turn over in his gut.
 
"Is there a treatment?" he asked.
 
Dr. Menon opened a drawer.
 
She took out a card, thick, cream-colored, expensive-looking, and slid it across the desk.
 
The Aarogya Wellness & Intimacy Clinic
 
Below the name, a phone number.
 
Nothing else.
 
"There's a clinic," Dr. Menon said.
 
"They specialize in exactly this."
 
"Female sexual dysfunction, intimacy disorders, couples counseling."
 
"They're discreet, which is why you've probably never heard of them, and they work on referral only."
 
"I've sent several patients there over the years."
 
Naveen turned the card over.
 
The back was blank.
 
"They're expensive," Dr. Menon said.
 
"I won't pretend otherwise. But they get results."
 
"And they take a very limited number of patients each year, so the waiting list can be long."
 
"If you're interested, I can make a call."
 
Naveen looked at Seema.
 
She hadn't moved.
 
He wanted to know what she was thinking.
 
He wanted to know if she was hearing what he was hearing, hope, a way forward, a door opening, or something else entirely.
 
"Seema?" he said, softly.
 
She looked up.
 
Her eyes met his, and for a moment, something passed between them, something fragile, something that might have been gratitude or might have been dread.
 
Then she looked at Dr. Menon and nodded.
 
"Yes," she said.
 
Her voice was very quiet.
 
"Please."
 
 
They didn't speak in the car.
 
Hyderabad moved past the windows, the traffic, the billboards, the migrant workers on the median selling balloons and plastic toys.
 
Naveen drove with both hands on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road.
 
Seema sat beside him, her face turned toward the window.
 
The card was in his shirt pocket.
 
He could feel it there, a small weight against his chest.
 
Frigidity.
 
He kept turning the word over.
 
It didn't fit her.
 
It didn't fit the woman who had laughed at his jokes, who had cried at their wedding, who had stood in the hotel room on their wedding night and let him undress her without pulling away.

[vishuvanathan]

Very good

[prasannas2001]

Super Updates, interesting to see how the clinic will turn up.

Thank you so much

[Prakash1986]

Excellent Concept.

[siva_reddy32]

Hey Prasanna,


Glad to see a new story from you! Nice going! Is it a crime thriller or a psychological thriller? Whatever the genre, it looks promising, and the erotic element makes it even more intriguing!

You’re upgrading yourself step by step — Reader → Reviewer → Writer → and now, perhaps, a master storyteller! That’s a great sign, and it’s wonderful to see you exploring new horizons.

Keep rocking and keep entertaining us!

I’m also happy to see writers taking the lead and starting their second story even before completing the first one. It shows enthusiasm and creativity. However, my only wish is that you don’t leave your stories unfinished halfway through. Whatever it takes, try your best to complete them. Let’s not disappoint our readers by stopping midway and disappearing without an ending!

I hope you’re not going to be one of those writers! ?

The reason I’m saying this is that we have hundreds of excellent stories that started with great potential and promising plots, only for their writers to disappear after a while. Of course, I’m not blaming them; everyone has their own circumstances and personal challenges, and continuing a story is entirely their choice. But my personal suggestion is simple: if we start a story, let’s make every effort to finish it. If we’re not sure we can commit to completing it, perhaps it’s better not to start in the first place.

Keep rocking, Prasanna! Wishing you the very best of luck with your new story. Looking forward to reading more from you! ?

[prasannas2001]

Very good

Thank you so much

[Prakash1986]

Very nice story plot. It has a lot of potential. Beautiful narration.

[Prakash1986]

Please continue. Waiting for the next updates.