Auntie!

With Aunt Lakshmi off to London, the apartment felt emptier than it had in months. There was no sound of her buzzing around, no sharp comments to break the silence, no one to remind me – ironically – that I was still playing her. But the weight of her absence wasn’t freedom. It was a reminder. I had one task left before I could even think about stepping back into my real life.

The surgery. The final reset button.

I thought, I should speak with the doctor about it.

I sat in the waiting room, my chest still corseted, feeling the slow tightening of the fabric with every breath.

The nurse called out, “Lakshmi,” and I stood up on reflex. The appointment must have been fixed on my aunt’s name. The irony hadn’t escaped me. My chest was still flattened under layers of elastic, but it wasn’t flat enough. Not for what was coming next.

I stepped into the doctor’s office, my heart pounding as if I were backstage, waiting for my cue. The doctor looked up from his notes and smiled in that neutral, medical way.

“Ah, my friend,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “It’s good to see you. I trust life’s treating you well?”

For a moment, I hesitated. Was he referring me as my aunt? No, no. He knew her well. Aunt must have told him about me. Thinking, he was referring to me – Mohan, I nodded, playing along. “Yes, it’s... been good.”

He scribbled something on his clipboard. “Excellent. I assume you’re here to discuss the treatment?”

I nodded again, even though I had no idea what he meant by “treatment.”

The doctor didn’t look up. “Good, good. The surgery’s still an option, but if you’re not ready yet, we can focus on the prescription.” He paused, tapping his pen thoughtfully against the clipboard. “Given your history of estrogen fluctuations and the side effects from the infection...”

I blinked, feeling a knot form in my stomach. Estrogen? Infection?

But I didn’t say anything. This was part of the act. And I was getting too good at it. So I nodded again, trying not to let my confusion show.

The doctor stood up, walked over to his desk, and pulled out a prescription pad. “I’ll renew your prescription, then. This should help regulate things. You’ve made remarkable progress already.”

I stared at him, my mind racing, but my mouth was locked into autopilot. “Thank you, Doctor.”

He handed me the prescription – scribbled with what looked like ancient runes rather than human handwriting – and I stuffed it into my bag before I could even process what was happening.

He smiled again, that same bland smile that doctors have when they think they’ve solved your problem, even though they haven’t asked you a single meaningful question. “Just follow the dosage. It should help with the estrogen imbalance, and as we discussed last time, it should take care of any recurring symptoms from the infection.”

I nodded, my pulse quickening. I had no clue what infection he was talking about, and I sure as hell wasn’t dealing with estrogen issues. I was just Mohan, a 17-year-old kid with gynecomastia, a corset, and the world’s most confusing double life.

Yes, no doubt! I’m sure, he was referring to me – Mohan.

Back at the apartment, I pulled the prescription out of my bag and squinted at the scribbles, trying to decode what I’d just been handed. Some kind of hormone-regulating medication, plus something for a vaginal infection.

Obviously, I missed the “vaginal” part, otherwise I wouldn’t have bought the pills.

I stared at the bottle, turning it over in my hands. Part of me knew I should just call Aunt Lakshmi, tell her about the pills. But, adept with my brilliant teenage logic, I popped the cap off the bottle, shook out the first pill, and stared at it. Small one. Harmless enough. And hey, if it helped, who was I to question the doctor?

I swallowed it… regularly!

A few days in, I started to feel... different. It wasn’t immediate, but it was there. Subtle shifts, small changes. My body felt softer, in ways I hadn’t expected. Maybe, the pills were working. So, I didn’t mind about for quite some time.

My reflection in the mirror was starting to look... convincing. Maybe, the corset has still some work left to do. The shape was there. Real. Feminine. And, ironically, more like Lakshmi’s old figure than I’d ever intended to be. It was like the longer I stayed in the corset, the more my body seemed to conform to it. Even without one, I couldn’t deny my body looking feminine. So, I could stop using it for some time.

Weeks passed. My chest had become more defined, my hips slightly fuller, and there was an eerie balance to my figure now. But, I got too busy to notice anything, as under Aunt Lakshmi’s absence, I had to take care of everything without skipping a beat.

Then, it wasn’t a conscious decision. Things like this rarely are.

At home, you start by borrowing a little space here and there, and before you know it, you’ve claimed an entire life that isn’t even yours.

With Aunt Lakshmi's absence, I’d naturally gravitated toward her room. It was spacious, with a balcony that let in the cool evening breeze. Her room felt… right. At first, I told myself it was temporary. The guest room was too cramped, the bed too stiff, and besides, my aunt wasn’t around. The room was just sitting there, unused, collecting dust. So, I moved in.

It started with the need for the vanity table. Then came the clothes – my sarees, the ones I’d bought myself, the ones I felt more comfortable in, draped over her wardrobe doors. Soon, my jewelry, bangles, and kajal pencils found their way into her drawers. My reflection in her mirror, in the room that smelled like her lingering perfume, didn’t feel out of place. It didn’t feel like I was borrowing anymore.

And yet, I kept taking the pills. Kept pretending. Kept playing Professor Lakshmi, day after day, waiting for the moment when I’d finally get the surgery and snap back into being Mohan.

***

Two months into the second semester.

Aunt Lakshmi and I hadn’t spoken much since she left for London. It wasn’t because we didn’t want to. When I got a message from her asking for a video call, I didn’t hesitate. It had been weeks, and I figured it was time for a check-in. Maybe she’d have some news about when we could switch back, when I could finally stop pretending.

I turned on the video feed, as I brushed off my shoulder length hair.

The screen flickered to life, and there she was – my aunt, sitting in a dimly lit room that looked nothing like the academic halls of St. Xavier’s. She’d been doing well in London, if her smile was anything to go by, but something was... different. Off.

I stared for a second, trying to figure it out, and then it hit me: whiskers. Actual whiskers, thin but unmistakable, sprouting along her upper lip and jawline. And not just that. She’d put on muscle too, her frame a little bulkier than I remembered. For a moment, I thought it was the lighting, the bad angle of the camera, but no – it was real.

Aunt Lakshmi had started to look more like me than I ever expected.

“Hey there,” she said, her voice casual, though I noticed it had deepened slightly. She ran a hand through her now-short, spiky hair, leaning back with an easy grin. “How’s it going?”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool, but the sight of her had me rattled. “Oh, you know... same old. Teaching. Pretending. Living the double life.”

She laughed, but it was a low, throaty chuckle that didn’t sound like the Lakshmi I knew. More like... me.

I blinked. “Uh... is everything okay?”

She nodded, waving a hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. Just... you know. Busy.” She shifted in her seat, the movement making her shoulders seem broader. “London’s been... interesting. A lot of theatre work, a lot of pressure. But I’m managing.”

“Managing?” I asked, leaning closer to the screen. “You look different… looks like you’ve been hitting the gym or something.”

“Yeah, I just missed taking some hormone pills. But, gyms’s good too. It suits the act, doesn’t it? She grinned, flexing an arm as if to show off. “Once I start taking the pills, everything will be alright.”

I stared, unsure if she was serious or just messing with me. And, which pills was she referring to? But the whiskers, the muscles – it was all real. Aunt Lakshmi had transformed, just like me, only in the opposite direction.

And then, as if to cement how deep into the role she’d gotten, a girl’s voice chimed in from somewhere off-camera. “Mohan, are you done with that call? We’ve got to head out soon.”

Aunt Lakshmi turned, smirking in that way I used to smirk when I was trying to impress someone. “Yeah, yeah, just give me a minute,” she called back. When she turned to face me again, her grin was downright mischievous. “Sorry about that. Roommate.”

I blinked. “Roommate?”

“Yeah, well... there was this miscalculation in room allotment. But, a generous theatre assistant offered her space, so that I can keep up.”

“You’re flirting with her?” I blurted out, and the words sounded more shocked than I intended.

Lakshmi raised an eyebrow. “What? It’s all part of the game, Mohan. If you’re gonna play the role, you’ve got to play it right. People have expectations.” She winked, and there was something unsettling in the way she said it

“And... you’re okay with all this?” I asked, unsure if I wanted to know the answer.

Aunt Lakshmi paused for a moment, her grin softening into something more thoughtful. “Once you really commit to the part, it’s not that bad. Sometimes, it even feels... right.” She glanced away for a second, then looked back at me, her expression serious. “But you’re doing well, too, right? Holding it together?”

“Yeah, I’m managing.”

Her eyes narrowed, studying me through the screen. “Good. We’re almost through this, you know. Just a little longer, and then we’ll switch back.”

She must have sensed my hesitation because she smiled again, softer this time. “Don’t worry, Mohan. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“You’re doing a good job, kid. Better than you think.”

And then the screen went dark, the call ended, and I was left alone in the quiet apartment, staring at my reflection in the blank monitor.

***

I’m not sure when it started. Maybe it was after the third time I caught myself lingering in front of the mirror, studying my reflection longer than necessary. Or maybe it was when I walked past Professor Venkat’s office and my heart did that stupid little somersault, like it was auditioning for some adolescent romance I hadn’t signed up for.

This wasn’t me. I’m Mohan, dammit.

But then, I wasn’t really Mohan, was I? Not anymore.

At least, not in the way I remembered.

Every morning, I’d wake up, stretch, and glance at the mirror almost like a reflex. I wasn’t looking for Mohan, the 17-year-old boy with unshapely gynecomastia. I was looking for her. Lakshmi. Except this Lakshmi – the one I had become – looked like a version of her from a parallel universe. I could see the remnants of my old face, but softened, somehow more delicate. The corsets had worked their strange magic. The layers of my skin felt new, like I had been exfoliating away any trace of Mohan with every pill I took. The hair that had grown back was long now, thick, and shiny, falling just below my shoulders. My chest was full, the curves sharp, waist smaller than I ever thought it could be. My reflection didn't just belong to Professor Lakshmi anymore – it was mine.

I ran my hands down my body sometimes, smoothing the fabric of the sarees. I had started buying my own sarees, and not just the hand-me-downs Lakshmi had left lying around. I told myself it was because I needed variety. Something different for my lectures. But there was a part of me that knew better. I liked how they felt. The silk, the cotton, how they hugged my body. I liked how I looked. It was a weird, disorienting feeling to admire the beauty in the mirror and realize it was me I was staring at. I wasn’t used to this. I wasn’t used to her. Yet here I was, fixing a bindi to my forehead, like it had always belonged there.

Some mornings, I’d apply a little kajal just to see if anyone noticed.

No one ever did.

Except for Professor Venkat.

Now, let’s talk about Venkat. That man had become a different kind of problem. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with this air of calm that just seemed to fill up a room. His presence was like gravity, pulling me in every time I crossed paths with him in the hallways. We’d have brief conversations, nothing more than passing pleasantries. But there was something about his voice, deep and rich, that made me… nervous. Unsettled. I could feel the weight of his gaze when he looked at me, like he was seeing more than the professor in the neatly draped saree. Like he saw the hesitation beneath my words, the fluttering anxiety that rose whenever he came too close.

The ridiculous part? I felt, I kind of liked it. I don't know.

My heart would skip a beat, and I’d feel this inexplicable warmth creeping into my chest, spreading all the way to my fingers. I’d imagine what it would be like to talk to him for hours. To sit with him over tea, listen to his stories, laugh at his jokes. The thoughts were creeping in more often than they should. It wasn’t normal for me to feel this way around a man.

But was I normal anymore?

One afternoon, I found myself standing in front of the mirror again, adjusting my pallu for the hundredth time, ensuring it lay just right over my shoulder. I tilted my head, studying my profile, pushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I wasn’t trying to look like Aunt Lakshmi anymore. I wasn’t even trying to pretend. I was just… admiring myself.

And it felt good.

The saree was a deep green, with golden borders – one I had picked out from a boutique in the market. I turned from side to side, catching the light, noticing how the fabric clung to the curve of my hips. How had I even gotten to this point? Was it the pills? Had Aunt Lakshmi felt like this, too, when she started her recovery? But no – she hadn’t looked this… feminine even before her surgery, as I saw in some of her video clips.

No, this was all me.

But why?

I didn’t have time to question it.

Because that afternoon, during our weekly faculty meeting, Professor Venkat asked if I wanted to grab coffee after class.

Coffee.

I hesitated, trying to read his expression, searching for any sign that it was just a casual invitation. But there was a softness in his eyes, something inviting, something that made my stomach do that stupid thing again.

“Of course,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop myself.

I’d never felt like this before. Not around any guy, and certainly not around Venkat. But lately, things had changed. The way I felt about myself, the way I felt in the presence of others – men, specifically – was different.

Maybe I could blame the pills. Or maybe it was the fact that I’d been Aunt Lakshmi for so long now that I couldn’t tell where she ended and I began.

As I made my way to the café, I caught my reflection in the glass windows of the classroom buildings. The soft outline of a woman in a saree, walking with measured grace. The curves, the long hair swaying with each step, the careful way I carried myself.

Professor Venkat was waiting for me at the café, his eyes lighting up when I walked in. He smiled, that soft, disarming smile, and for a brief moment, I wondered what it would be like to be the woman he was smiling at.

As I sat, he orederd for coffee. He cleared his throat.

"So, Lakshmi... I mean, Professor Lakshmi," he started, his voice dropping in that awkward way men do when they think they’re about to say something profound. "I've been meaning to... discuss something personal with you."

Now, at this point, I'm already sweating through the corset. My body’s aching in places it didn’t used to, and the last thing I need is a personal conversation. "Oh?" I tried to keep my voice even, pretending I knew where this was going. "What’s that?"

He shifted in his chair, straightening his collar. "I... I’ve always admired you, Professor Lakshmi. You’re intelligent, strong... independent. And now, with your brother’s son doing so well at London, I’ve been thinking... maybe it’s time for us to consider... a partnership."

Partnership.

It hit me like a slap in the face. I blinked, trying to process what he was saying.

Was this guy proposing to me? This is something out of syllabus.

I laughed. That’s all I could do. The absurdity of it – the whole thing – just hit me all at once. Venkat flinched like I’d punched him.

"Uh, Professor Venkat..." I stammered, trying to think of a way to diffuse this, to stay in character without collapsing into a pile of awkwardness. "I... I think you might be mistaken. I’m – "

But he cut me off, holding up a hand like he was about to say something romantic and life-changing. "I know, I know. This must come as a surprise. But I’ve been thinking about it for some time, and I believe we would make a great match. You’re... well, you’ve done so much, and with my position in the department – "

I had to stop him. This was a runaway train headed straight into disaster, and I was tied to the tracks.

"I... I appreciate the thought," I managed, feeling my throat tighten as I spoke. "But... I’m not interested in... pursuing anything of that sort."

He looked like he’d been slapped. His face fell, and for a moment, I thought he might cry. Instead, he nodded slowly, muttering something about 'misunderstandings' before he practically walked out of the café, leaving me in stunned silence.

You’d think that would be the end of it. Just one awkward misunderstanding, and I’d be back to worrying about whether or not my chest was going to rip through the blouse during my next lecture. But no.

Because then the second proposal happened.

This time, it was through a letter. He’d written the whole thing in English, probably thinking it would be more 'professional' and that he can express his thoughts better. The letter started out all formal, praising my 'dedication to the field of literature' and 'unwavering grace,' and then... boom. He hit me with a polite but direct marriage proposal. As if he was offering me a spot in a faculty research paper instead of his hand in marriage.

I crumpled the letter and threw it into the wastebasket without a second thought.

But it didn’t stop there.

Over the next few weeks, I started witnessing the gossips about “Lakshmi” and Professor Venkat.

And, Venkat was not good with his efforts to keep things very subtle. Hell, once Venkat even tried to corner me at the faculty lunchroom, asking apologies.

I nearly choked on my coffee.

The worst part? I couldn’t exactly shut him down the way I wanted to. Not without breaking character. Because in his mind, I was Lakshmi – respected, mature, and of course, a prime marriable candidate for a middle-aged man with limited social skills to throw his hat in the ring.

Every time I dodged a gossip or even Venkat’s attempts, I could hear “Lakshmi’s” voice in my head: You’re doing a good job, kid. Better than you think. Sadly, the voice somehow resembled mine more than my actual aunt’s.

The final straw came during another faculty meeting, when Venkat sidled up next to me and whispered something. I listened nothing, thinking about the absurdity of the situation. I was eighteen then. A supposed student stuck in the body of a woman.

I smiled politely and walked from the meeting.

Then, two days later, it was heard Professor Venkat resigned from his job.