Auntie!

Adorning female role on stage could last for 90 minutes at max., but, here I was about to impersonate a woman almost 12 hours to keep her high-profile job, including the time spent in commute.

And for the first time in my life, I was really terrified, as I traveled in ‘Ladies Special’ bus.

Any mistake, I would be outed as an impostor, a fraud. Would I be jailed for this? More than that, I fear the public thrashing of women around me. This would be an insult to my future movie career.

This could be my lifetime mistake, but I felt, I need to somehow pull this for my aunt. To not to leave any mistake for others, I needed to be more convincing in my role.

In that moment, I wasn’t Mohan. I was Lakshmi – the toughest heroine I would ever enact.

When I finally stepped out onto St. Xavier’s campus, walking in my aunt’s shoes shoes, I didn’t feel like I dressed for the theatre. I felt like I was stepping into another world – her world. The professors nodded politely, some inquired about the health, the students whispered as they passed by, some casting glances at “Professor Lakshmi’s” new look, but no one questioned it.

Here’s the thing nobody tells you about impersonating your aunt: wearing a wig in the South Indian heat is like having a squirrel do hot yoga on your scalp. Already, I’d sweated so much under that thing, and that could water a small garden.

And wearing the saree, while maneuvering the feminine walk? Don’t get me started. One wrong move, one misstep on the stairs, and you’re unraveling like a spool of thread.

There was no time to go to the staff room. Already late for the first class. It will be my real test as “Professor Lakshmi”. I clutched her leather briefcase (which smells weirdly of camphor and disappointment), my palms slick with sweat. I remembered the things Aunt Lakshmi taught me. First impression is always the best.

Drawing a long breath, I walked into the class room with a no-nonsense stride that commanded respect.

Everyone greeted, “Good morning, ma’am!”

Ma’am!

Some girls inquired about why “Professor Lakshmi” was on a long medical leave. Then, I brought my aunt’s tight-lipped smile – the one that said, “I’m polite but don’t waste my time, or I’ll eat you alive with literary references.” That brought some confused looks.

I was half-expecting someone to immediately shout, “Impostor!” Instead, a student in the back row raised his hand and asked, “Ma’am, can we have today’s lecture notes?”

I managed to nod sagely. “Of course,” I said, my voice an octave higher than usual. It was like I’d swallowed a helium balloon.

The first lecture topic hinted it was going to be a disaster. Have you ever tried to explain existentialism to a room full of college kids while simultaneously trying not to sweat through a blouse that sticks to your gynecomastia? No? Lucky you.

"Existentialism," I began, flipping through Aunt Lakshmi's old lecture notes, "is the belief that... um... existence precedes essence."

Blank stares. My voice cracked. I could feel the wig slipping.

"Which means... you exist first and... figure out your purpose later?" It sounded like I was questioning my own life choices – which, to be fair, I was.

A girl in the front row raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that what you said last time, ma’am?”

“Exactly!” I blurted, hoping my panic looked like authority. “Repetition is key to understanding. Socrates said that.”

Spoiler alert: Socrates did not say that.

By the end of the lecture, I’d managed to avoid a full-on identity crisis, but barely. I exited the classroom as soon as it ended, and based on some instinct found myself near the ladies’ restroom. It will be my first time, and not lat time either. I kept my eyes glued to the ground and prayed no one would notice that I looked like a lost boy pretending to belong.

Ensuring that no one was around, I peeled off the wig. My scalp was a swamp. I almost died of philosophical confusion. It was just one class. How am I going to manage it every day?

***

“How was your first day?” she asked with intrigue.

As soon as I’ve gotten back home, I collapsed onto the couch like a cockroach facing upwards, leaving the wig and all the feminine act I held up till that moment. I raised my hand slowly like a white flag, “Can’t you extend your leave for a month more or two, till you recover?”

I could see her face sadden suddenly. Of course, I was an idiot. How could it work? Now that people have already seen “Professor Lakshmi” in her good health, it’s no time to back now.

“I was just kidding!” I assured her, and faked my smile. “It was tough new experience, but, I think, I can manage for a month or two.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah..?”

“Now, tell me how the day went!” Her vibrance returned.

We talked like eternity. She sat beside me, and I was still lying on the couch in an unwomanly manner. Before she headed for kitchen, she told me to change clothes and not ruin any items.

I rised slowly and gt my glimpse in the mirror. Even without a wig, I still looked like an elderly woman. Someone with short hair… could be part of some women’s welfare club. Starting from my arched eyebrows and down below, everything screamed ‘I’m a woman’. I hope, the eyebrows would grow out in two months.

***

By week two, things got… better? Sort of.

At college, I learned to use Aunt Lakshmi’s intimidating aura to my advantage. If a student tried to argue, I’d just quote something obscure like, “Ah, but as Derrida once suggested…” and trail off meaningfully. That usually shut them up. The beauty of being a professor is that you can say anything with enough conviction, and they’ll believe you know what you’re talking about. Half the time, I didn’t.

The gossip was trickier. You see, Professor Lakshmi – real Lakshmi – was known for her no-nonsense, borderline terrifying demeanor. And now, suddenly, “she” was wearing sunglasses indoors, using lipstick that didn’t quite match, and pausing awkwardly mid-lecture like I’d forgotten what literature even was.

Students whispered. They weren’t subtle. “Is Professor Lakshmi… okay?” I heard one of them mutter in the hallway.

“She seems… different,” another one replied.

Of course I’m different, you idiots! I’m a 17-year-old with breast tissue impersonating a 30-something-year-old professor! But I couldn’t say that out loud. Instead, I stared them down with Professor Lakshmi’s famous glare, and they immediately scurried away like I’d threatened to make them read Latin poetries out loud.

The real struggle, though, was staying “female” all the time. No one warns you about the tiny things. The way you’re expected to sit with your legs crossed. The way people comment if your posture is too “relaxed.” I had to remind myself to keep my voice light, even when I was explaining The Waste Land to a class full of glazed-over eyes.

At home, she gave me tips on what to do and what not to do. She wanted to ensure that I don’t break her character. She showed me some of her video clips taken at gatherings – to learn how she held up. Aunt Lakshmi before her surgery was breathtaking and had a commanding presence before the students. I would never come any closer. But, I vowed to do some justice to the act till it is required.

The sarees were a huge hurdle to come across. A single wardrobe malfunction for a woman would mean thousand things to men, said my aunt. So, I had to practice in her clothes even at home. Occasionally, I would wear my boy clothes. Still with my eyebrows and earrings, I would look not totally like a boy.

But slowly, as the days turned into weeks, I started getting the hang of it. I could deliver lectures without stumbling over the jargon. I could maintain the illusion of being a respected professor. And, believe it or not, I actually started to enjoy it. There was something liberating about stepping into Aunt Lakshmi’s shoes – literally – and becoming someone else for a while.

There were close calls, of course. Like the time a fellow professor asked me to attend a faculty meeting. I had no idea what the hell I was supposed to say, so I just nodded gravely whenever anyone said something that sounded academic.

"Professor Lakshmi," one of them began, "what are your thoughts on the new grading system?"

I stared back at him. “Ah… I believe it’s reflective of the postmodernist critique on standardized evaluation,” I said, pulling a random phrase from Lakshmi’s notes.

He blinked, then nodded slowly. “Interesting. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

Neither had I.

By week four, I was practically a master at being Professor Lakshmi. Sure, I couldn’t feel my scalp under the wig, and the saree was still a daily struggle against gravity, but I had the routine down. The students feared and respected me – or rather, feared and respected her.

I was pretending to be my aunt so she wouldn’t lose her job, but in a strange way, I was also learning about myself. Maybe I didn’t have to pretend all the time. Maybe I could take some of this confidence back into my own life. After all, if I could survive existentialism lectures and gossiping students, I could handle anything.

Even my parents. Probably.

Or at least, that’s what I told myself as I prepared for another day in Aunt Lakshmi’s shoes, hoping the wig would stay on and that I wouldn’t misquote Sartre. Again.

***

At first, I kept my distance with the women.

The faculty lounge was a space I didn’t fully belong to, or at least I didn’t think I did. I’d grab my tea, make small talk if forced, and hurry back to my office. Every now and then, I’d hear the distant chatter of the other lady staff members, laughing, gossiping, exchanging stories about their kids, husbands, and saree sales. Things I had no business pretending to understand. I mean, what was I supposed to say? “Oh, yes, that silk saree would look fabulous on me?” Not likely.

But it wasn’t that easy to stay invisible forever.

It seems, Aunt Lakshmi was friends with almost all the lady staff members. Everyone loved her. She was supposed to be the kind of person who, no matter how hard you tried to sneak past unnoticed, would wave you over with a cheery talk.

When a friendly female staff asked, “Lakshmi, darling, come sit with us!” I nearly dropped my tea.

I waved her off, mumbling something about “papers to grade” or “office hours,” but she wasn’t having any of it. “Come on,” she’d insisted, dragging a chair over for me, “just five minutes. You always run off!”

That day, I sat at the very edge of the circle, awkwardly sipping my tea as the others talked about things I had no connection to – cooking recipes, kids’ exam schedules, their mother-in-laws. I figured I’d get through the five minutes, nod politely, and retreat.

But they didn’t let me off that easily.

“You know, Lakshmi,” one began, “you should come with us on our saree-shopping trip next weekend. We need something better for the college function ahead.”

I blinked, choking on my tea. “Oh, I’m not sure…”

The staff, her name was Richa, waved off my hesitation. “Nonsense! You’ve got such a great eye for sarees. Look at the one you’re wearing today – it’s gorgeous! You’re coming. That’s settled.”

The others chimed in with approving nods and compliments. It felt weirdly… nice. I didn’t know if they were just being polite, but something about the way they looked at me, like I was one of them, made me feel like maybe – just maybe – I could pull this off.

So, I went. Of course, I went.

That weekend, I found myself walking through the bustling markets with Richa and three other staff members, flipping through vibrant saree collections, sipping tender coconut water, and exchanging pleasantries with the shopkeepers. I had fully intended to be a quiet observer, but it turned out, shopping for sarees wasn’t all that different from playing a part on stage. It was all about the act. The “oohing” and “aahing” over fabrics, the fake bartering, the casual complaints about husbands not understanding the importance of a good silk saree – none of it had to be real. I just had to play along.

“You look fantastic in this one,” Richa said, holding up a royal blue saree with intricate golden embroidery.

I laughed nervously. “I don’t know if it’s really suits me.”

“Of course, it is!” Richa said, draping the saree over my shoulder. “You just don’t see it yet. Trust me.”

After that day, the tea breaks became less of a chore and more of a welcome ritual. The women always saved a seat for me. Sometimes they’d wave me over before I even had a chance to make up an excuse to leave. And I stopped feeling the need to come up with one. The more time I spent with them, the more natural it felt.

Conversations that had once been distant became familiar. I learned the rhythm of their stories – the way Rekha always complained about her husband’s snoring, how Meera would light up when talking about her daughter’s dance classes, the way Richa could make even the most mundane subject seem hilarious. And before I knew it, I was chiming in, too – offering my own “Auntie Lakshmi” anecdotes, laughing at their jokes, giving advice about how to get stubborn stains out of silk sarees (a tip I picked up online, but still).

Then came the invitations.

“Lakshmi, darling, we’re having a potluck at Rekha’s place next week. You’re coming, right?”

“You should come to my daughter’s dance recital, Lakshmi. She’d love to have you there.”

And every time, Richa would be there, nudging me, smiling that bright, encouraging smile, making it impossible to say no.

At first, it was overwhelming, but gradually, I stopped feeling like an outsider. The nervousness I once felt around them faded.

***

Two months in, and the wig was finally gone.

My hair had grown out just enough – somewhere between “lazy stubble” and “wannabe poet” – to pass for Aunt Lakshmi’s style. Turns out, being a 17-year-old in a professor’s shoes wasn’t as impossible as it had seemed. The corsets helped too, pulling everything into place. I was like the finest illusion St. Xavier’s had ever seen. I was Lakshmi, and no one had a clue.

Aunt Lakshmi herself, meanwhile, was coming back to life. Her hair, buzzed close to her scalp, was the kind of bold, daring look that she could totally pull off. Her skin had lost the gray paleness of chemo, and she moved with her old confidence again. I could tell she was itching to return to her normal life.

I, as Mohan the student, is supposed to join classes in a day or two. I could immediately shed off my act, though the eyebrows didn’t grew back considerably, and get onto my regular life. And, Aunt Lakshmi can return to being a professor.

But, there was one problem. There would be a stark difference between the professor appearance I was portraying and the way in which my aunt could manage. And, people will not accept the huge difference. Even with the wig on, people would call my aunt as an impostor. She has thinned out considerably.

On the other hand, I had to join as a student.

And it was then, my aunt hit me with the most ridiculous idea.

“I’ll go as you,” she said one night, as casually as if she was offering to fetch groceries.

“What?” I stared at her, mid-bite of dosa, trying to comprehend the madness she’d just mentioned.

“You’ll join as a student soon, right? At St. Xavier’s?” she continued, as if this was a perfectly reasonable conversation. “Well, I’ve been thinking… why not making it a switch for a little while longer?”

“Auntie,” I began, trying to keep my voice calm, “you do realize how insane that sounds, right?”
She waved me off. “It’s not insane. It’s brilliant. Think about it. I’m feeling better, yes, but I’m not ready to go back to being a professor full-time. But you’ve settled into that role so well. And… well, you need to start college, don’t you?”

I blinked at her, my brain scrambling to catch up.

She said, leaning forward with a gleam in her eye, “I’ll go as you. Enroll as Mohan. And you’ll keep going as me, at least until the end of the semester.”

I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it. It was Aunt Lakshmi logic, the kind of logic that sounds like nonsense until you’ve spent too much time around her. But even for her, this was a stretch.

“You want to pretend to be a teenage boy?” I asked, half-laughing, waiting for the punchline.

“Yes.” She said it so seriously, I almost choked on my dosa. “You did it for me. Now it’s my turn. Till things could look easier for swap-back, I guess, this is the finest option we have. I’ll go as you, only if you agree.”

I shook my head. “This isn’t the same thing. You’ve been a professor for years. I was just covering for you. How are you going to –”

She cut me off. “I’ll manage. Besides, no one really knows you at St. Xavier’s yet, do they? It’s the perfect time to slip in. I’ll sit through a few classes, write some essays, maybe grow out a bit of scruff if I can pull it off.”

“Auntie, you’re 30,” I pointed out. “No offense, but you don’t look like a teenager anymore.”

She shrugged. “I’ll manage.”

I had to admit, she had a point. Aunt Lakshmi, with her buzz cut and newfound energy, could probably pass as a slightly eccentric, older-looking student.

But still. This was another level of crazy.

“Okay, wait,” I said, putting down my plate. “Let’s assume for a second that this isn’t completely bonkers. How exactly do you plan to act like… me? I’m supposed to be starting literature classes. I wanted to join the drama club. You don’t exactly scream ‘first-year student.’”

Aunt Lakshmi leaned back in her chair, a smirk spreading across her face. “Mohan, if I can teach Ulysses to a room full of terrified undergrads, I can certainly fake my way through a few freshman lit classes. As for the drama club, well… you know where I get my acting skills from, right?”

I groaned. “This is going to be a disaster.”