Auntie!

It’s funny how normal the abnormal can feel after a while. You wake up one day, look at yourself in the mirror, and the absurdity you once tripped over has become routine. At some point, between all the dresses and history lectures, the strange bits of my life smoothed into something resembling… well, life.

“Auntie,” Aunt Lakshmi smirked, leaning against the doorframe one morning, her muscles now practically bursting out of one of my old t-shirts.

She’d taken to calling me that more often lately, after she caught me wearing one of her old sarees, full-on traditional mode, with jasmine flowers in my hair. The truth was, I’d started to like the way the saree felt. The way it moved when I walked. But that’s not something you just admit to your aunt who’s now pretending to be your nephew.

I glanced up from the desk where I was grading papers – yes, grading papers – while sipping a cup of black tea, the picture of a middle-aged academic. No saree, no makeup, just me. And yet, somehow, it still felt like I was Professor Lakshmi, even without the external trappings.

“Do you really have to keep calling me that?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Why not? You’re doing a better job of being me than I ever did. Might as well embrace it, Auntie,” she laughed and striking a ridiculous pose that only highlighted the ongoing strangeness of our switched lives.

“Don’t call me that,” I muttered.

Aunt Lakshmi, feigning innocence. “What? You’ve really taken to the whole role. Might as well lean into it, right? I mean, look at you.” She gestured at me, head to toe. “You look more like a Lakshmi than I ever did.”

I rolled my eyes and kicked off my sandals. “At least I’m not running around town on a bike, looking like some Bollywood thug.”

Aunt Lakshmi laughed, the kind of deep belly laugh that only someone who didn’t have to spend the day pretending to be a 30-year-old professor could manage. “I saw you today, at the market.”

I froze. “What? You saw me?”

“Yeah,” she said, smirking, “you were buying vegetables. Like a proper ‘Auntie’ should. I waved, but you were too busy bargaining over the price of tomatoes.”

I glared at her. “I wasn’t bargaining.”

“Oh, you were definitely bargaining.” Lakshmi stretched lazily. “It was adorable, really. You’re getting so good at it. Next, I bet you’ll be bartering for turmeric at half price.”

I groaned, heading to the kitchen. I pulled out the groceries and began chopping onions. Lakshmi followed me into the kitchen, leaning against the counter, watching me work.

I shot her a look, then continued chopping.

***

She was right, though. There weren’t any cracks left in our performances. Months had passed since her return from London, and we’d both settled into our roles so completely that even our brief moments of reflection – those times when we sat together and wondered how the hell this all happened – had become less frequent. We stopped worrying about when we’d switch back because we kept telling ourselves it’d happen eventually. After the course ends. After life calms down.

But, of course, life never calms down.

No one questioned my eccentricities anymore. I’d mastered the art of teaching with a blend of authority and sarcasm that even I found impressive. The classroom had become my stage, and the students, my unwitting audience.

“Professor,” a student raised his hand during a lecture on modernist poetry. “Could you explain how T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Waste Land’ reflects the fragmented nature of post-war identity?”

“Of course,” I said, leaning against the desk in that casual-yet-learned way Lakshmi used to do. “Eliot was writing in a world that was trying to stitch itself back together after the destruction of World War I. And like the world, his poetry doesn’t try to put on a happy face. It’s messy, fragmented, full of disillusionment… kind of like our lives.”

The students laughed. I was becoming a bit of a legend myself now. The no-nonsense professor with a sharp wit and a sharper tongue, who also happened to look deceptively gentle. Ironic, considering my real body was still trapped in this half-feminine, half-masculine limbo, but I played it to my advantage.

And then there was Aunt Lakshmi, the “student.” She’d taken to her role so well, it was almost frightening. Her swaggering charm won her male lead roles in the drama club’s plays, and she spent more time flexing in front of mirrors than actually studying. Even my parents had grown accustomed to the new Mohan.

“Dude, I don’t know how you manage to stay so chill in class,” one of her classmates whispered to her the other day, “I’d be terrified to go up against Professor Lakshmi in a debate. She’s brutal.”

“Yeah, but she,” she said, winking at me from across the classroom, “definitely doesn’t pull any punches.”

I stared at her, trying not to emote in the middle of the lecture.

That night, after dinner, we sat in the living room, the glow of the TV casting shadows across the walls. I was flipping through channels looking for a soap opera quoted mostly by other staff, my feet up on the coffee table, while she was scrolling through her phone.

“You know,” I said, my voice quiet, “we can’t keep this up forever.”

“Yes,” she said between scrolls, her voice casual, “maybe we don’t need to worry about it too much.”

I paused, glancing down at her. “What do you mean?”

She looked at me, her eyebrows raised. “Why not? Seems like it’s working just fine. We can worry about switching back later.”

I hesitated. “Because… because the longer we stay like this, the harder it’ll be to go back.”

She stopped, sitting up. “Yeah, but I’ve been thinking about a switch-back plan, so that, no one notices the drastic changes. Till that time, let’s keep up the act – for the better of each other’s lives. Why mess with that?”

She had a point. A terrible, frustratingly accurate point.

“Besides,” she added, smirking, “Auntie, you worry too much.”

***

The moment the plan was set, three months seemed like such a small time.

It was all so neat on paper. I would transfer to another college as Professor Lakshmi, under the guise of “continuing studies.” Aunt Lakshmi, post-graduation, would pretend to search for jobs in some other city, buying us time for surgeries, treatments, and a smooth transition back into our original lives.

Three months, we told ourselves. Easy.

But like every beautifully laid plan, we didn’t account for chaos.

Today was supposed to be Aunt Lakshmi’s birthday. Everyone congratulated me. By late evening, as an after thought, I got a vague message: “Happy Birthday, Lakshmi :-)”

It was from Professor Venkat!

Somehow, I carried the guilt that he quit the job because of me. But, ain’t girls have the right to reject proposals.

Then, I did the unthinkable. I replied: “Thanks ;-)” Was a smiley supposed to indicate something?

He called back. I hesitated to take it. It ringed and it went off. But, why did I called him back? Maybe, it’s because of courtesy.

Though, the call was picked. All I could hear was some stuttering from the other side.

“Hello…?” I started formally.

“Hi, Lakshmi! How are you…?” No, “Professor” titles before the name anymore.

“I’m fine. How about you, Venkat?” See, I’m a stupid too. Unsure, where this would lead to.
Then, after some awkward replies, he took the charge. “See, I’m doing a research paper on Postcolonial Narratives in the Digital Age. I may need a peer guidance. Are you available for a catch-up over a cup of coffee sometimes?” Was this a genuine request?

After a brief pause, I said, “Yeah…”

***

The meet with Professor Venkat went quite well. Although I couldn’t remember most of the stuff we talked about. With his infuriatingly calm voice and encyclopedic brain, he had coursed our conversation very well.

And, I did most of the nodding!

Was I nervous around him?

Didn’t remember much.

***

On a sunny Sunday afternoon, when I was grading my last round of papers – just a few weeks left as "Professor Lakshmi" before I’d hand the reins back to the rightful owner.

Aunt Lakshmi, or should I say Mohan, stood across from me with that amused look she always had when life was throwing us both into a dumpster fire. She was loving this. Me? Not so much.

“So,” she smirked, folding her arms across her chest, “I heard you agreed to marry Professor Venkat?”

I stared at her, wide-eyed, as if someone had just informed me that I’d been sleepwalking my way into an arranged marriage. Which, in a sense, I had.

“Wait – what?” I spluttered, my voice cracking in that distinctively non-feminine way I had somehow managed to avoid for three years. “Who said anything about marriage?”

“You did.” She tilted her head, her voice annoyingly calm. “Last month, when you were having that chai with mom and dad. You nodded at something your father said, and boom, congratulations, you’re engaged.”

“No, no, no,” I protested, pacing around the tiny living room we had shared for years. “I was just agreeing that Venkat’s research was impressive. Impressive, not – what – marriage material?”

She shrugged, her grin widening like a cat. “Well, mom and dad heard it differently. And now? Professor Venkat’s family thinks you’re ready to walk down the aisle.”

I sank onto the couch, clutching my head. It was one thing to manage my life as Lakshmi, a highly respected literature professor. I could teach classes, handle the occasional flirtation, and deflect marriage proposals like a pro. But Professor Venkat? That was a whole new level of unwavering madness. Wouldn’t this man stop at all?! Now, he has approached even my parents. And, I was unoblivious to it!

The man was practically a walking encyclopedia of obscure literary theory. Yeah, he was charming, in that academic sort of way. And with out a doubt, he had developed a slight fondness for me, “Professor Lakshmi.” Who would’ve thought that discussing Postcolonial Narratives in the Digital Age over a cup of coffee would end with “Lakshmi” supposedly agreeing to spend the rest of my life with him?

I said, holding up a hand. “I messed up. I messed up big time.”

She stood there, fists clenched, jaw tight. I could see her trying to keep it together, her face slowly turning red. And then, suddenly, she threw her head back and started laughing. Not just any laugh, but that deep, gut-busting kind that shakes the whole room.

“Why are you laughing!?” I cried.

“Think about it. You agreed… to marry a guy!” She said it like it was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard.

“I didn’t think they would take it up like this!” I blabbered. “And, he thought I was you! I remember… almost nothing from the conversation!”

“Mohan!” Aunt Lakshmi’s voice cut through my babbling like a whip.

Then, I tried to collect myself. “Think about it. It would be good for you, and I – well, I thought maybe this would help… maybe it’d make your life easier… maybe…”

I stared at her like she’d lost her mind. Maybe she had. Maybe I had. Maybe we both had.

She finally caught her breath. “You seriously thought agreeing to this would make my life better? Marrying some random guy dad picked out for me?”

“Well… yeah,” I muttered weakly. “I thought maybe it’d help… you know, bring some peace to everything. Like, maybe dad would – ”

“Mohan,” she said, now looking at me dead in the eye, “I don’t want to marry a man. I’ve never wanted to marry a man.”

“What? But – ”

“That’s the whole reason I left home in the first place!” she interrupted, throwing her hands up. “Because your parents were trying to marry me off. And I couldn’t tell them why I didn’t want to get married back then, but… but I like women.”

There was a long silence. My brain was trying to process the confession, struggling to catch up with the sudden revelation. Now, it made sense why Aunt Lakshmi was in constant touch with that theatre girl from London.

“You’re… gay?” I asked, feeling like an idiot even as I said it.

She nodded. “Yes. That’s why I left. I didn’t know how to tell them, so I ran away. And I’ve been avoiding it ever since. I thought maybe, after everything, I could just live my life without explaining. But now… now you’ve gotten ‘Lakshmi’ into this marriage mess!”

I slumped back in my chair, feeling a wave of guilt crash over me. “Oh god… I had no idea.”

She sighed, sinking down into the couch. “It’s fine.”

We sat in silence for a while, the weight of everything settling in around us.

“So,” I finally asked, “what do we do now?”

She leaned back, looking up at the ceiling, thinking. “Well, first, we’ve got to get out of this engagement. There’s no way I’m marrying that guy.”

“Okay,” I muttered.

“And second…” she trailed off, shaking her head with a small, tired smile. “We’ve got to figure out how to tell dad and mom the truth. About both of us.”

I felt my stomach drop. Telling my parents the truth? About the body-swapping, the fake professor act, and now her sexuality? It seemed like the kind of thing that could blow up all the peace we’d tried so hard to maintain.

But Aunt Lakshmi was right. This entire house of cards was starting to wobble. And sooner or later, it was all going to come crashing down.

But for now, one disaster at a time.

“First things first,” I said, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. “Let’s figure out how to break off this engagement before it gets any worse.”

“And then?” she asked, smirking.

“And then we deal with the fallout. As always.”

She nodded, a mischievous grin on her face. “Good plan, Auntie.”

I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that crept onto my face.

It seemed we still had some chaos left to face.