Auntie!

The day started like any other. I had arrived at the university, clutching my trusty briefcase that, for reasons I couldn’t comprehend, was filled with my real aunt’s teaching materials. I flipped through pages of lecture notes on the history of feminist literature, suddenly realizing I didn’t know half of what was in there. My hand itched to grab my phone and Google everything, but I had promised myself I would do this like a proper professor – one who didn’t need the crutch of the Internet.

Actually, I didn’t sleep properly the day before.

“Okay, Professor Lakshmi,” I whispered to myself as I stepped into the lecture hall. “You’ve got this.” I flashed a smile at the students who had already settled in their seats, some of them looking genuinely excited while others appeared half-asleep.

The moment I stepped behind the podium, I could feel the weight of their eyes on me, like I was a bizarre creature from the depths of the faculty lounge. I cleared my throat, intending to project confidence.

“Good morning, class! Today, we’ll be exploring the revolutionary works of Virginia Woolf!” I started, but the words came out more like a desperate plea than an announcement. One student in the front row, who looked like he hadn’t showered in a week – snickered, and I immediately regretted the choice of topic.

I was about to dive into discussions on A Room of One’s Own, a text I’d only skimmed through. But how was I supposed to explain that? Instead, I decided to spice things up.

“Let’s take a moment to appreciate Woolf’s rebellious spirit,” I said, attempting to exude wisdom. “She believed that a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction. I say, let’s throw in a decent Wi-Fi connection and a comfortable chair. Am I right?”

A few students chuckled, and I felt a small sense of victory. Perhaps I could make this work after all.

The class proceeded with minimal incidents – mostly just me flailing through interpretations. I was finally getting into a rhythm, regaling them with tales of feminist literature while trying to ignore the hormonal undercurrents in the room. At one point, I noticed a couple of guys in the back row exchanging whispers. My instincts kicked in.

“Alright, you two!” I called out, pointing at them with exaggerated authority. “If you think you can gossip in my class, let me remind you of something: the only gossip allowed here is the one that involves my love life. And trust me, it’s an ongoing soap opera.”

The entire room erupted into laughter, and even I couldn’t help but smile at my own audacity. They were laughing with me – not at me.

And then it happened.

A student raised his hand, his face flush with embarrassment. “Uh, Professor Lakshmi, do you… do you have a boyfriend?”

The question hit me like a rogue wave at the beach – unexpected and thoroughly drenched. I opened my mouth to respond but all that came out was a squeak. I cleared my throat again. “Of course! In fact, I’m dating three boys at once – one for each day of the week! It’s exhausting, really. I spend half my time wondering who’s taking me out on Thursdays.”

The laughter swelled, drowning out the awkwardness, and just like that, I was riding high on the waves of humor and my lack of sleep, unsure of what I was doing.

The lecture wound down, and I was met with a round of applause that felt more like they were celebrating a stand-up routine than a literature class.

“Class dismissed!” I announced, waving them away like a jaded rockstar. But as they filtered out, I noticed something peculiar: there was a line of girls forming at the front of the room.

Curious, I leaned against the podium, crossing my arms. This was new.

“Professor Lakshmi, this is for you,” a girl said, handing me a copy of To the Lighthouse. “I loved your interpretation today!”

“Um, thanks?” I stammered, unsure if I was being pranked. “What do I owe you for this?”

“Just keep being awesome!” she smiled, and my heart melted a little.

I even received a pack of chocolate covered almonds from one of the girls, which felt like an Oscar-winning moment. By the time the last student had left, I felt a rush of elation mixed with a tiny sliver of panic.

The panic came later that evening when I caught a glimpse of my reflection. The hair was long and somewhat fabulous, but then I caught sight of her – Lakshmi’s face. It was startling. I had successfully transformed into this powerful, confident woman in front of my students, but who was I really?

But I didn’t have too much time to dwell on it because that night, Aunt Lakshmi video-called me from London. She looked like a million bucks, sporting a new haircut that actually suited her.

“How’s it going, superstar?” she grinned, the sarcasm dripping from her words like melted ice cream. “Still pretending to be me?”

“Every single day!” I replied, my voice almost triumphant.

Her laughter filled the room, and for a moment, everything felt okay. “I told you – play the part and own it!”

“Right,” I said, knowing full well I’d be stuck in this bizarre dual existence for a while longer.

And, we chatted late into the night.

***

The day Aunt Lakshmi returned from London, it was like watching someone emerge from a very weird, very confusing time capsule. Only, the person stepping out wasn’t Aunt Lakshmi anymore. It was… someone else.

She – or rather, he – walked into the home, lugging a suitcase in one hand, muscles straining against a tight t-shirt that definitely didn’t fit when she left. The stubble on her face glistened under the weak ceiling light, and her jawline looked sharper than I remembered. This was not the Aunt Lakshmi I sent off.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered under my breath, standing in the doorway, slack-jawed.

“Surprise!” Aunt Lakshmi, or the person who looked like her jacked younger brother, grinned at me.

I could barely muster a response. My brain was short-circuiting. The whiskers, the biceps, the Adam’s apple? I glanced down at my own reflection in the hall mirror – long hair, the chest, and an unfortunate hourglass shape that had only become more defined.

It was as if we had actually switched places, inside and out.

“I stopped taking those pills,” Aunt Lakshmi said, sensing my bewilderment, while scratching the stubble on her chin casually, as if this was normal.

“What… what pills?” I stammered, though deep down, I doubted. I must have taken up her prescription, thinking it was part of the whole gynecomastia treatment. A prescription I had been taking religiously every day.

“Those estrogen-supplements,” she shrugged, throwing her suitcase onto the couch with a grunt. “In London, I was so caught up with all the classes, the theatre… I just, you know, couldn’t arrange for a prescription over there. Next thing I know, this starts happening,” she motioned to her muscled physique with a sheepish grin. “I figured I’d just roll with it.”

I stared at her, “And… you’re okay with this?” I asked, barely hiding my disbelief.

“It’s not ideal,” she said, scratching her now fully visible biceps. “But it turns out, I’m kind of good at this whole ‘masculinity’ thing. The London students actually thought I was some new foreign exchange jock when I started. Played a bit of rugby too.”

Meanwhile, I had become more and more long-haired, and curvier than I had ever imagined.

“But, um…” I hesitated, feeling a knot form in my stomach. “I’ve been taking the pills, Auntie. You know, your prescription.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Wait, you’ve been taking my – oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” I said, with a sudden weight in my voice. “I thought they were part of my gynecomastia treatment. The doctor thought I was you, and I’ve been taking them religiously for months.”

“You’ve been – oh my god, Mohan. This is too much!”

“Well, yeah, but now I look like you more than ever, and you… you look like – ” I waved my hands around helplessly. “Like some kind of ripped gym instructor! How are we supposed to switch back now? The students won’t know what hit them. My parents won’t know what hit them.”

Lakshmi sighed, finally dropping her playful tone. “Look, I get it. This whole thing’s a mess. But it’s not the end of the world. I could slowly start taking the pills again and things will… adjust. Same goes for you. You can just stop taking them gradually, Mohan. If you stop them suddenly, it’ll mess you up even more.”

I stared at her, my brain spinning. “So, what? I just keep popping these pills – for the next few months?”

Lakshmi nodded, her expression softening. “I know. I didn’t forget. I’ve already talked to the doctor, and we can schedule it whenever you’re ready. But for now, we’re going to have to navigate this transition slowly. There’s no quick fix, Mohan. We’re in this for the long haul.”

The next few days were a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Aunt Lakshmi settled back into our apartment, moving with a new, almost boisterous energy that filled every room. Meanwhile, as I found myself more and more absorbed into the routine of being her, now cooking and doing chores for two people at home, I forgot about slowing down on the pills.

There were lesson plans to prepare, exams to grade, groceries to buy, and then there was Aunt Lakshmi’s presence.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of teaching and dodging compliments about my “glowing skin” (thanks, estrogen), I walked into the apartment to find my aunt lounging on the couch, shirtless, scrolling through her phone. She looked up, grinning. “Guess what?”

“What now?” I muttered, collapsing into the chair across from her.

“I’ve been talking to this girl in London.”

I blinked. “Oh, great. You’ve decided to become a full-fledged dude now, huh?”

Her shrug gave multiple meanings. But, I took only the positives of it.

“Looks like you’ve settled in,” she had said, dropping her suitcase in the hall, her voice casual, but with that unmistakable smirk.

I expected her to take the room back, to reclaim her space, her things. After all, it was hers by every right. But no, Lakshmi – reborn with muscles, a buzzcut, and this easy swagger – didn’t even seem interested in it anymore. It was like she’d returned from London with a different idea of who she was supposed to be.

“I’ll take the guest room,” she’d said, tossing her bag over her shoulder like it was nothing, like that tiny room with the stiff bed was more than enough for her now. “It’s cozy. Suits me just fine.”

I didn’t argue. In fact, I think part of me was relieved. The bed in Lakshmi’s room had molded to my shape. The vanity, once hers, was now mine, cluttered with the tiny pots of creams, lipsticks, and hairpins that I found myself using more often than I wanted to admit. Her room had absorbed me. Or maybe, I’d absorbed her.

The little things began to blur together. Her old shawl hung on the back of the chair, but it was me who draped it over my shoulders on cooler nights. Her books – classic literature, poetry – sat neatly on the shelf, but it was me who reached for them, me who read them with the same reverence. The perfume on the vanity? That was mine now. I wasn’t just borrowing Aunt Lakshmi’s space anymore; It's like I own them now. The bedspread was the one I had picked out, soft blues and whites. The bangles clinking on the vanity were the ones I’d bought with my stipend. Even the air smelled like me.

Aunt Lakshmi never said a word about it. She never mentioned the slow migration of items, the way her room was now infused with my presence. It was like she didn’t mind. Or maybe she didn’t care. She had moved on to something else, something I couldn’t quite understand yet.

Meanwhile, I clung to what she had left behind.

The switch had been so gradual, I hadn’t even noticed it happening. One evening, I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the pleats of my saree, and caught a glimpse of the room behind me – her bed, her shelves, her writing table. Except it wasn’t hers anymore. It was all mine now.

Aunt Lakshmi, sprawled out on the couch in the living room, didn’t seem to care. She had adopted this carefree attitude since London, always joking, always brushing things off with a laugh. She’d glance at me sometimes with a knowing smirk, calling me “Auntie” under her breath, as if to say that this slow transformation wasn’t lost on her.

This whole new version of herself now, one that didn’t fit the old Lakshmi I had known.

***

Aunt Lakshmi had somehow landed the male lead in every play since her London trip. She’d nailed it, taking on these roles like she was born to do it, and everyone ate it up.

“Mohan,” she’d say, flexing casually in front of the mirror in our tiny apartment, “it’s all about confidence. Just gotta own the role.”

Easy for her to say. She was owning my role.

At college, her popularity skyrocketed. Suddenly, Aunt Lakshmi was the guy everyone wanted to be around. Girls swooned over her “new look,” and guys asked her for gym tips. This was my aunt we were talking about, the same woman who used to lecture me about post-colonial literature.

“Bro, you’re killing it in the drama department,” one of my classmates said to her the other day, mistaking her for me (naturally).

And I? I had become a shadow, the invisible “professor” living in the wrong body, trying not to trip over my saree.

Then, out of her stipends she saved during the London trip, Aunt Lakshmi bought a motorcycle. Of course, she would. She had to complete the whole ‘macho makeover’ look she’d developed. Gone was the careful, professional Lakshmi. This was the new Lakshmi – buzzcut, muscles, swagger, and now a Royal Enfield Classic.

The first time she pulled up to our house on it, revving the engine like some sort of action hero, I half expected her to walk in wearing sunglasses and leather. Instead, she tossed me her helmet.

“Hop on. I’ll drop you at college.”

It sounded like an innocent enough offer, but I hesitated. We had been playing this charade for months now, and riding behind Aunt Lakshmi, holding her shoulders for support, just didn’t sit right with me. The thought of her looking back at me in the mirror, catching me holding on too tightly, was enough to make me squirm.

I shook my head. “I’ll take the bus.”

She raised an eyebrow, smirking in that way she always did when she knew exactly why I was saying no. “What’s the matter? Afraid to be seen with me?”

“It’s not that,” I lied.

“Right. Of course, it’s not.”

So, there I was, still taking the ‘Ladies Special’ bus to work. A sea of women, talking about their husbands, kids, and market prices, while I sat there in my saree, pretending to be one of them. I could feel their gazes sometimes, curious but polite. No one questioned the tall, quiet professor sitting among them, clutching her handbag as if she belonged. And the truth was, I had started to blend in. The saree felt like second skin now, the routine of the bus ride, the chatter, the occasional sideways glances – they were all part of my life.

Riding behind Lakshmi on that bike, though? That was something else entirely. She had transformed, and seeing her in that new form – strong, confident, and undeniably masculine – made me question things I wasn’t ready to confront. She had taken on the rough edges of Mohan, right down to the damn motorcycle.

Every now and then, she’d pull up next to me on her Enfield when the bus and the bike crossed paths. She’d give me a playful salute, her hair barely a shadow of stubble on her head, and zoom off, leaving me there with the housewives and office ladies. Part of me admired her freedom, but another part of me was relieved to stay behind, still cocooned in the relative safety of the ‘Ladies Special.’

***

The real kicker came during one of our visits to the native place.

It was the first time my parents had seen “Mohan” since Aunt Lakshmi’s triumphant return from London. The moment she stepped into the house, dressed in one of my old t-shirts and jeans, my mother’s jaw hit the floor.

“Mohan! What… what happened to you?” mom blinked, taking in the bulging arms, the thick neck, and the now-permanent five o’clock shadow.

“Oh, you know, mom,” Aunt Lakshmi replied, adjusting her voice just enough to keep up the illusion. “College life, gym, you know the drill.”

Mom stared, speechless. Meanwhile, I – dressed in one of Aunt Lakshmi’s old saris and trying to keep my hair out of my face – was elbow-deep in cooking dal in the kitchen, pretending to be the dutiful niece.

That’s how the rest of the visit went. Aunt Lakshmi swaggered around the house, showing off her new muscles to dad, who could barely contain his pride, while I shuffled around behind mom, helping her with the chores like some kind of apprentice in a domestic drudgery workshop.

“You’ve become quite the man,” dad said proudly to Aunt Lakshmi, patting her on the back with enough force to knock the air out of anyone else. “This London trip has done wonders for you. You’re so… strong now.”

Lakshmi just nodded, grinning like she’d won the Nobel Prize for Gym Rat of the Year.

And there I was, stirring sambhar in the kitchen, overhearing everything and trying not to let my frustration bubble over with the boiling lentils.

When the time came to eat, I sat beside mom, playing the role of the quiet, helpful “aunt” while Aunt Lakshmi sat with the men, casually discussing gym routines and London’s theater scene with my father and uncle. Every time I looked over, I couldn’t help but feel a twisted sense of jealousy.

That was supposed to be me. Well, not exactly – but the normalcy, the way she was effortlessly slipping into a role that seemed more me than her. It was like the universe had decided to flip the script on us in the most absurd way possible.

“Lakshmi, pass the chutney,” mom said, tapping my shoulder, still believing I was her sister-in-law. I handed her the dish, forcing a smile.

Later that evening, when the chores were done and mom had retired to her room for a nap, I found myself sitting on the verandah with Aunt Lakshmi. She leaned back in the chair, stretching her arms above her head, looking more like some college heartthrob than the literature professor she once was.

“You’re really getting used to this, aren’t you?” I asked, half-joking, half-exasperated.

She turned to me, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“All this. The macho act. The attention. The… gym rat persona. You’re loving it.”

She shrugged, a smile tugging at her lips. “I mean, it’s not the worst thing. It’s kind of liberating, you know? People look at me differently now. They don’t see me as the recovering patient, or the strict professor. I’m… someone new. And honestly, it feels good.”

I sighed, leaning forward. “And what about me? You’re out there, living my life, getting the roles, the attention. And I’m here, stuck pretending to be you, cooking and doing laundry.”

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “I know it’s not fair, Mohan. But you have to admit… you’re handling it better than you think. You’ve adapted, even if it wasn’t what you wanted.”

I crossed my arms, sulking a little.

She paused, glancing at me with a serious expression. “I get it, Mohan. I do. But we’re in too deep now. I can’t just go back to being the old Lakshmi overnight. And neither can you.”

I looked away, the reality sinking in. She was right. As much as I hated to admit it, we were both in too deep. And reversing the roles would be harder than we ever imagined.

“I just don’t know how long I can keep this up,” I muttered.

She placed a hand on my shoulder, her voice softening. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time. For now, just… enjoy the ride.”