Auntie!

"Not the regular high-school drama!
Mohan’s not afraid of any trauma!!
17 years old, and I can play any role.
But, waiting for one that makes me whole..."

Don't mind this crude monologue.

It's just a restroom motivation I give myself before I climb on to the stage. Done only when I'm given the roles I don't intend to take.

A female role again. It happens usually, as I was cursed with gynecomastia.

The restroom mirror showed me: I looked like an Indian queen, no less beautiful than the girls of my class. Adorned with jewels and makeup. But, I didn't mind the guys who just entered, and wondered what is such a girl doing in boys restroom. They looked at me motionless. What to do? I had to attend the nature’s call.

Had if it been my school, I would have been a laughing stock. And, none of my friends knew that I take up female roles on stage. This is a school I came for a drama competition. So, I didn’t care much.

While I departed to stage, battering my eyes heavily, I practiced a meticulous female royal laugh, which was part of the act, not to confuse the two souls who were already bewildered with my beauty!

To be a successful male lead on screen was my goal, but for the time being, I bear female roles and wear sarees or skirts – due to my passion for acting.

“Mohan!” someone exclaimed as I was about to enter the stage. It was my drama teacher, who had originally spotted that I could be a good fit for female roles.

As I awkwardly adjusted the sequined blouse, she admired, “You look royal! Storm the stage with your unique gift!!” I could only nod, stuffing down the urge to roll my eyes. I’m sure, she just saw my talent.

As I stepped onto the stage, following the cue for my entry, the crowd erupted with applause. The boys, except for the two, were whistling and they must be thinking I’m some beautiful specimen from another school.

I felt knots in my stomach, but that didn’t stop me from the royal walk I did on stage. The too-and-fro grace I mastered ages ago.

On stage, I forget everything, including my friends and family. With my friends and family, I try to forget that I was doing female roles on stage. Because, in life, I want people to consider me a hero one day, not as heroine.

While my classmates were busy flexing their muscles and figuring out how to woo girls, I will be always in the forefront and already flirting with some girl, who may not look hotter than me, at least when I was on stage. So, this always erases my name from the boys’ bullying list and adds to their envy list.

To keep up with boys, I even participated in their gossip circle, and made some crude comments about girls in general here and there.

And my parents don’t know about my theatrics too, not even my about my gynecomastia which was strapped to my chest. There were times when concerns were raised, but not for longer.

“No, mom! I’m not doing anything extracurricular! Just studying, I swear!”

It’s not that I’m ashamed. Okay, maybe I am, a little. Picture me at home, where I’m their only proud son, trying to fit into the role of a responsible boy. I juggle schoolwork and keep up with the family expectations of being a “good boy”. To be a boy, of course, it means not doing any household chores that my mother would do.

My mother, bless her heart, thinks I’m “growing into my body.” Every time she brings up my body, I just smile and nod. “Yes, Mom, it’s just muscle!” I assure her, while imagining myself with biceps the size of coconuts.

“You should join the gym!” my dad suggests. I nod. Then, that happened one day, as I was struggling to lift my dad’s tool box, just to impress my dad.

SNAP!

“What’s this?” … “How long?” But, somehow, the ace-bandages worn out, and my parents found out just the truth I held back to my chest. Worried they were, they took me to see a quack.

***

“Mr. Mohan,” our family doc began, flipping through my medical file as if it held the secrets of the universe, “I can assure you that your gynecomastia is a common condition for young men your age. It’s likely to resolve on its own in time, especially as you enter adulthood.”

Mom’s eyes lit up, and she shot a glance at Dad, who was reactionless, and mom awaited for the reactions. “No surgery?” she asked, turning over to the doc, her voice almost a whisper.

“No, no surgery is needed,” he replied, his tone steady and reassuring. “As for Mohan, with time and perhaps a bit of weight loss, he should see significant improvement.”

A bomb onto my plans! No surgery meant that I had to face another year of awkwardness before I can finally hit the gym, build some muscle, and transform into the movie hero I’d always envisioned.

“See, Mohan?” Mom beamed, nudging my knee under the table. “You’re going to be fine! Just wait until you start college; you’ll be a new man!”

“Yeah,” I muttered, as we exited the room. My mind raced far beyond. College. The mere word sent a shiver down my spine. I should be excited about it – after all, I’m about to graduate high school. But all I could think about is St. Xavier’s College, and the theater club that’s rumored to be the best in the state. People said, the club had connections with movie people.

Dad interrupted my thoughts, “We’ve been looking into engineering programs. You need to think seriously about your future, Mohan. This theater thing…” He shook his head. “It’s a hobby, son. You need a real career.”

The room felt like it’s closing in on me. “A real career?” I replied, unable to contain the sarcasm. “And what exactly is a ‘real career’?”

“Engineering is a solid choice!” Dad persisted, his voice rising a notch. “You’ll have job security. And you can always try in drama on the side.”

“Try?!” My voice made echoes in the waiting corridor. “I don’t want to try! I want to be a part of the theater club at St. Xavier’s, Dad! I want to act! You don’t get it!”

Mom’s face paled, and I could see the worry lines deepen as she glanced between me and Dad. “Mohan, sweetie, you’re just emotional about graduation. Maybe you should reconsider –”

“No, Mom!” I interrupted, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. “I’ve thought about this for years! I want to be an actor! I want to perform! I can’t just turn my back on my dreams because it doesn’t fit your idea of success!”

“Then what do you propose we do?” Dad snapped, his patience fraying. “Let you run off to some theater program in another town, chasing a fantasy?”

“Yes! Exactly!” I shouted with shrills, surprising even myself with the intensity of my emotion, as I moved from the place.

Mom pleaded, her voice trembling, “Mohan, please… think about your future…”

The silence stretched between us, thick and charged. The doctor’s voice echoed in my head – “You’re going to be fine” – but I know that this story is just the beginning.

***

St. Xavier’s College loomed ahead, a campus of soaring ambitions. I could finally pursue my passion for acting, but with that happiness came the weight of my family’s disappointment still heavy on my shoulders.

My parents had barely spoken to me since I had made my decision. Their silence was more cutting than any harsh word. “Engineering is a practical choice!” echoed in my mind like a relentless drumbeat. But I’d made my choice, and that’s what mattered.

To ease the tension, I’d decided to move in with my aunt, Lakshmi, who also happens to be a Professor of Literature at St. Xavier’s.

See, my plans are always ahead!

My aunt was known for her rebellious spirit. While I was a toddler, I heard, she was my baby-sitter most of the time. She was amazed that I almost looked like her, as she compared me against her baby photographs, mom told. More like we were inseparable then. But, fate had separated us, when my aunt had to lead her own life, away from my family.

Aunt Lakshmi was my father’s much younger and favourite sister, as my dad took care of her after my grandparents had passed away. But, her life choices somehow estranged her even from her brother. Her life choices? I don’t know much about it. Most of the whispered conversations at family gatherings told me, she wanted to be an independent woman. Now, she was my only option, and if she was willing to take me in, I could escape the heavy atmosphere at home.

As I approached her modest apartment, I felt a flutter of hope mixed with apprehension. What would she be like now? I know, she kind of shares familial looks, same as me. How would she look after all these years? Now, would she accept me into her doors?

I knocked softly, and after a moment, the door creaked open to reveal Aunt Lakshmi, looking surprisingly vibrant despite the paleness of her skin, covered by thin blanket. I noticed she lacked any hair above head – for some reasons! What’s happening?

“Ah, is it you Mohan?! You’ve grown, young man!” she exclaimed, her smile wide and genuine. For a moment, I forgot about everything – my parents’ disappointment, the pressure of college, and all.

“Auntie...,” I began hesitantly, “What’s this?”

She turned to me, the smile faltering for a moment before she plastered it back on. “Oh, you know, just enjoying life. It’s all good.”

“Really? You don’t look well.”

At that, her expression shifted, and I could see the mask slip. “It’s nothing, really. Just… life. I’m fine, Mohan.”

“Auntie, please. You don’t have to pretend with me. I can see that… your hair…”

She froze, her expression turning stony. “What you see doesn’t matter. It’s not important. I’m just on medical leave. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

But I could see the hurt in her eyes, the way she was trying to hold it all together while clearly unraveling. “Auntie, I want to help you. You can’t hide from this, whatever it is. I mean, you’re my family, and for goodness’ sake!”

For a moment, I thought she might shut down completely, as we were out of touch all these years. But, we immediately felt connection. My mind heaved to relieve her out of her state. Then, like the walls of a dam finally giving way, she let out a shaky breath, “I had a double mastectomy a few months ago. I’m recovering from cancer treatment. The baldness… it’s part of the process. But you can’t tell anyone, especially not your parents. They’ve got enough to worry about.”

I was taken aback, a mix of shock and admiration surging through me. “Auntie, you’re so brave,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“Because I wanted to keep this to myself,” she replied, her voice trembling with the weight of her words. “I didn’t want to look like a weakling. And frankly, I didn’t want anyone’s pity.”

It was a struggle to comprehend what she was going through. Here I was, minutes ago, planning to catch-up with her after all these years, and narrate about my family’s expectations. Now, the roles felt reversed. “But you don’t have to be strong all the time,” I said softly. “It’s okay to ask for help.”

She looked at me, really looked, and for the first time, I saw the cracks in her armor. “Mohan…”

It took some time for her to get balanced. She served coffee for me. Still, she neglected my offer to help.

As I settled in, I distracted her from the woes by narrating my story, exaggerating at times, which cracked some smiles from her tired lips.

“Aren’t they pads?” She almost giggled, as she motioned her eyes towards my chest.

After I completed my story, she was elated to let me stay. I was more concerned about helping her in such a bad moment.

“Thanks for letting me stay, Auntie,” I replied, stepping into her spaces. The walls were lined with bookshelves crammed with volumes of literature. It felt chaotic, yet a perfect reflection of the woman I’d known only through family gossip.

Aunt Lakshmi waved a hand dismissively. “Pfft! Family should help each other. Besides, I could use some company.”

***

I settled in pretty much with my aunt. Slowly, she let me help her in the tasks. Had if my mom seen me cooking dosa, she wouldn’t believe me. Here, I didn’t mind about which tasks make one a boy or a girl. All I wanted is to help my aunt however I can. At least, for her letting me stay in her house.

With only two months to go – for the classes to start, I just realised it for the first time. We shared some uncanny looks.

I found myself, sitting across from Aunt Lakshmi, in her dimly lit living room, with the ceiling fan making lazy circles above our heads. She was wrapped in a shawl, her bald head gleaming under the light, and I was slouched on the couch.

She looked worried, as she was supposed to rejoin her classes at St. Xavier’s next week, her return from medical leave, but there was one problem. No one knew she’d lost her breasts. No one knew about the chemo. And, more importantly no one knew that Lakshmi, the fierce professor who tore apart literature, was now hiding from the world, because she didn’t want to be seen as broken. Damaged. Less.

“Hair will grow back,” she started to speak, rubbing her scalp like she could will the follicles to sprout overnight. “But this?” She motioned vaguely at her chest. “It’s gone, Mohan. I’m not me anymore.”

It took me a second to realize what she was saying. She wasn’t just talking about her body; she was talking about her identity. Lakshmi, the rebel, the woman who defied every expectation – now she couldn’t even bring herself to step out of her apartment. Cancer had stripped more from her than just flesh. It had taken her spirit, too.

She continued, “I don’t want to lose the job too. It somehow defines… my liberty.”

All of a sudden, I looked at her, really looked. Then I looked myself in the mirror beside her – my soft chest, my round edges, the awkwardness that puberty had decided to impart me like some joke. And, that’s when it hit me.

There’s something about staring at your aunt and realizing you now look more like her than she does. It’s unsettling, to say the least.

I could look… exactly like her? With a wig and some makeup? Maybe even a saree or a blouse that covered the right spots? If I leaned into my gynecomastia, maybe… maybe I could pass for her.

The idea formed slowly, like a bad punchline you can’t help but laugh at. It was insane. Ridiculous. Absolutely the most idiotic thing I’d ever thought of.

And, it was perfect!

“What if…” I started, feeling the weight of my own absurdity, “What if you didn’t have to go back? At least not right away.”

She furrowed her brow, not understanding yet. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying… I can go. As you.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

She blinked. Once. Twice. And then she started laughing. A low, bitter sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep inside her. “Mohan, you can’t be serious. You’re… you.”

I shrugged. “And you’re you. But look at us.” I stood up and faced her, gesturing at my chest. “You’re bald. I have… well, this. Between the two of us, we could almost be the same person. With some effort, no one would notice.”

The laughter stopped. Her eyes widened, and for a long moment, we just stared at each other. Slowly, the corners of her mouth twitched upward. “You’ve lost your mind,” she said, but there was something in her voice, something that told me she wasn’t entirely against the idea.

“Think about it,” I pressed. “You don’t want anyone to know about… what you’ve been through. You’re scared they’ll see you differently. Fine. Let them see me instead. I’m already used to pretending… at least on stages.”

“Mohan, this is ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head. “You can’t just impersonate me. What about the lectures? The students? The faculty?”

I shot back. “This is just another role.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting into. This isn’t some high school play.”

“I know that,” I said. “But you can’t lose your job. You’ve worked too hard for this, Auntie. And I can help. Just until you’re ready. Until you can face them again.”

The room fell into silence. I could hear the distant hum of traffic outside, the weight of the moment pressing down on us. And then, to my surprise, she sighed. A long, heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of her struggle. “You really think you could pull it off?” she asked quietly.

“I know I can.” At least, I had to be grateful – for allowing me to stay in her house.

And in that moment, something shifted between us. Aunt Lakshmi was handing over the reins to me. And for the first time in my life, I was about to do the act in real life!

Two days later, we started.

It was surreal, to say the least. I stood in front of the mirror, staring at the reflection that wasn’t quite mine anymore. Aunt Lakshmi handed me her short wig, which she used whenever she had to buy groceries or occasional outside visits. It fit snugly over my own hair. I pulled it on, adjusting it until it sat just right.

“Try not to look too much like a boy,” she quipped, her voice tight with both amusement and nerves.

The makeup was trickier. Aunt Lakshmi showed me how to contour my face to hide the softer features, how to add a sharpness that mirrored her own. The clothes? Well, let’s just say I’d spent enough time in sarees for drama competitions that it wasn’t exactly new. But, the corset made it more trickier, until I fit her clothes… on my own!

“You look…” She paused, inspecting her work. “Like me. This is insane.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, shifting uncomfortably in the blouse. But, it worked. More than I thought it would.

“But, there’s more to it… like walking, manners, and the way you talk…”

“Well, I have rehearsed and performed female walks and talks… like thousand times before!”

“But, those rehearsals were not meant for 24/7.”

“What?!”

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.”

One week later, the disaster began.

Aunt Lakshmi – now Mohan – stood in front of the mirror, trying to look convincingly boyish.

She’d taken a few of my T-shirts, and one of my oversized hoodies. The result was… surreal. With her buzzed hair and my old clothes, she looked like some alternative version of myself that had accidentally grown up too fast.

“Are you sure about this?” I asked for the hundredth time, watching her adjust her posture.

She turned, arching an eyebrow. “Are you seriously asking me that when you’ve been prancing around in a saree for two months?”

“Point taken,” I muttered.

Aunt Lakshmi was already in character. She slouched like I did, mimicking the way I shuffled around when I wasn’t paying attention. She even picked up some of my more annoying habits, like the way I scratch my head when I’m confused.

The worst part? She was good at it.

“You’ve been studying me,” I accused, crossing my arms below chest.

She grinned. “Well, I had to learn from the best.”

It was unsettling, to say the least. Watching her transform into me while I continued to pretend to be her. The lines between who we were and who we were pretending to be had blurred so much that sometimes, I couldn’t tell where Mohan ended and Lakshmi began.

The first day of her as “Mohan” was even weirder than when I became “Lakshmi.”

She marched into the campus, hands in pockets, looking like she owned the place. I followed a few paces behind, still in full Professor Lakshmi mode, feeling like a twisted version of a high school parent dropping off their kid. Except, you know, the kid was also me.

“Remember,” I whispered as we passed the main gate, “don’t talk too much. Teenagers don’t use big words.”

She shot me a look. “You’re underestimating how much I’ve been around students.”

I wasn’t. I just knew that Aunt Lakshmi had a tendency to sound like she was lecturing on Foucault when she was supposed to be ordering coffee.

We parted ways once we got inside. She headed toward my first-year literature class, and I went to Professor Lakshmi’s office, praying this wouldn’t turn into some bizarre comedy.

***

When the lunch break approached, it was clear: Aunt Lakshmi was absolutely nailing it.

It was not appropriate for a professor to share lunch time with their students, but the day was an exception. Maybe, people are too busy to notice us in the canteen together.

She admitted that she breezed through her classes as “Mohan,” using just enough slang to avoid suspicion. She even joined the drama club on my behalf, though it seems she spent more time critiquing the student performances than participating on the day one.

We had an unspoken agreement: don’t ask questions, don’t overthink it, and maybe, just maybe, we’d pull this off. At least until the end of the semester.

***

If you’d told me six months ago that I’d be standing in front of a college classroom, dressed in a saree, about to teach my own aunt, I would’ve laughed in your face. Actually, I’d have probably called you insane, and maybe thrown in some colorful metaphors for good measure. But here I was, on the last class for the day, staring down a room full of undergrads – including “Mohan,” the world’s most convincing 30-year-old teenage boy.

Aunt Lakshmi, seated at the back like a rebellious student, gave me a smirk so sly it made my stomach flip. She’d settled into the Mohan persona frighteningly well. She had the slouch perfected, the blank-yet-bored expression that most boys my age carry around like a badge of honor.

I turned to the blackboard, hoping the act of writing something – anything – would stop my brain from combusting under the weight of the absurdity. “Today,” I announced, my voice echoing in the room, “we’ll be covering the history of literature in the 19th century.”

Dead silence. They wonder why a professor would startle them on their very first day. Honestly, I didn’t know.

“Mohan” – I mean, Aunt Lakshmi – leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, eyes fixed on me with that signature look.

And here's the thing: I could handle 30 strangers staring at me, half of them probably wondering why “Professor Lakshmi” suddenly looked like she’d learned how to smile. What I couldn’t handle was my aunt, sitting there in my old hoodie, pretending to be me. She was enjoying this. Way too much.

I started scribbling on the board, something about Victorian literature, my hand shaking just slightly. “The 19th century was a period of massive literary production – authors like Charles Dickens, the Brontë sisters…”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Aunt Lakshmi yawn. Yawning. My aunt, a tenured professor who had probably memorized the complete works of Thomas Hardy, was yawning in my class. I wanted to throttle her. Instead, I kept going. “This period marked a shift towards realism in literature…”

Aunt Lakshmi leaned forward, her hand lazily going up. “Professor?” Her voice was low, mocking. It dripped with challenge.

“Yes? You’re Mohan, right?” I bit back a smile, trying to stay professional. Don’t engage. Don’t feed the troll.

“Could you clarify how Victorian realism differs from Romanticism?” She asked it in a way that sounded almost sincere, but I knew better. This was her poking the bear. I knew for a fact that Lakshmi could deliver a two-hour lecture on this exact topic, complete with quotes and probably some obscure French theorist thrown in for fun. This was her screwing with me.

And, her stunt drew attentions from all corners of the class.

I turned to face the class, trying to ignore her smug expression. “Of course,” I said, launching into an explanation that was halfway decent, if I do say so myself. I’d been doing this for two months now – I wasn’t about to let her throw me off my game.

***

The next few days were an ongoing battle of wits.

Every time I turned around, there was Aunt Lakshmi, smirking at me like she was one bad grade away from rebellion. She’d make snide comments under her breath, ask unnecessary questions in the middle of lectures, and once even dared to doodle on her notebook while I was explaining the difference between literary realism and naturalism.

That was the day I snapped.

It started out as a normal class, me droning on about 19th-century American literature, the students nodding off like usual. But then I glanced at Lakshmi, and there she was, doodling something completely unrecognizable in her notebook, her head cocked to one side as if she were sketching the next Mona Lisa.

I slammed my book down on the desk. Hard.

“Mohan,” I said, my voice cutting through the classroom. “Is there something you’d like to share with the rest of the class?”

Mohan – no, – Aunt Lakshmi looked up at me with the most exaggeratedly innocent expression I’d ever seen. “No, Professor,” she said sweetly, tucking her notebook under her arm as if she hadn’t just been daydreaming in front of me.

I paused for a second, eyes narrowing. Screw it, I thought. If she wants to play this game, I’m going to play it better.

“Very well,” I said, pacing slowly in front of the class. “Since you don’t seem to be paying attention, I think a bit of punishment is in order.”

The class collectively sucked in their breath. I don’t usually do the whole “punishment” thing. That’s not Professor Lakshmi’s style – or at least, it wasn’t my style while pretending to be her. But this was personal.

Aunt Lakshmi raised an eyebrow, and I could see the challenge glittering in her eyes.

“Write a 500-word essay,” I said, my voice dripping with authority, “on the influence of Gothic fiction in the works of Edgar Allan Poe. Due tomorrow.”

The class went silent. Lakshmi stared at me, half-shocked, half-amused, and then she nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, voice syrupy sweet.

The irony of giving my aunt, a seasoned professor, an easy punishment essay wasn’t lost on me. But hey, she’d started it.

The next day, Aunt Lakshmi handed me the essay.

I scanned it quickly, noting the unnecessarily neat handwriting, the way she’d written “Influence of Gothic Fiction” in bold at the top like she was submitting it to a journal. She hadn’t even phoned it in – no, she’d written a better essay than half the students in the class could dream of.

I shot her a look. She winked.

I think the punishment had been a wake-up call, a reminder that even though we were playing a game, I was still the teacher in this twisted reality. And you know what? That was kind of liberating.

There’s a strange power in having authority over someone you used to look up to. It’s unsettling, sure, but also… thrilling? Every time I called on her in class, every time I caught her slacking off, I could remind her that I was in charge. Not in a mean way – just in a “you’re not getting away with this” way.

As I settled into my role as Professor Lakshmi, the weirdness never fully went away. Every time I stood in front of that blackboard, teaching literature to a bunch of students who had no idea who I really was, there was Aunt Lakshmi – my mentor, my student – sitting at the back of the class, challenging me with her every move.

And the craziest part? I kind of loved it.

What started as a favor – a ridiculous, life-bending favor – had somehow morphed into something entirely different. Two months ago, the plan had been simple: help Aunt Lakshmi keep her job while she recovered from cancer. Wear the saree, teach the classes, and keep the secret. But somewhere along the way, things got blurry. Now, I was starting to wonder if I’d stepped into a new role, not just in her classroom, but at home too.

It started small. A couple of chores here and there. Sweeping the floor, making sure the fridge wasn’t empty. You know, normal stuff you do when someone’s recovering from chemo and surgery. But Aunt Lakshmi, being herself, took full advantage of the situation.

At first, it was the occasional request. “Mohan, can you get the groceries this week?” she’d ask, reclining on the couch, barely glancing up from whatever highbrow novel she was flipping through. I’d nod and go about it, figuring it was the least I could do. She was still regaining her strength, after all.

Then it was, “Mohan, the laundry’s piling up,” or “Mohan, I think you’ll need to call the plumber.” Simple stuff, but bit by bit, I found myself doing everything. Cooking, cleaning, paying the bills. I’d be teaching her classes in the morning, then doing her laundry in the evening. At some point, I’d stopped being the nephew helping out his recovering aunt and started acting like… what? Her caretaker? Her stand-in adult?

It didn’t help that Lakshmi was getting her spark back, and with it, her mischief. She’d been slowly recovering her energy, and though her body was still marked by her battle – her chest flat and scarred from the double mastectomy, her hair short and prickly from the chemo regrowth – her spirit was alive and kicking. More than kicking. She was thriving on the absurdity of our situation.

One night, I came back from my usual grocery run and found her in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the couch, shirtless. Not in some weird or inappropriate way, but casual, as if she were just another person in a body without anything to hide.

“Auntie!” I dropped the bags on the floor, my voice louder than I intended.

She looked up at me, completely unfazed. “What?”

“You’re – uh…” I gestured to her bare torso, feeling my face heat up. “You’re not… wearing anything.”

She shrugged, completely unconcerned. “So?”

I stood there, dumbstruck, as she stretched her arms behind her head. “Mohan, I’ve got nothing to show anymore. No one’s looking, so why should I care?”

I didn’t know what to say to that. And honestly, she had a point. It was just skin, scars, and muscle. But still, it was unnerving, seeing her so comfortable in her body, so free, while I was the one bound up in a costume, pretending to be someone I wasn’t.

“I’ll, uh, make dinner,” I muttered, escaping to the kitchen as fast as I could.

The weirdness didn’t stop there. As the weeks went by, Aunt Lakshmi’s casual nudity became a regular thing. She’d wander around the apartment in various states of undress, unconcerned. She wasn’t trying to make me uncomfortable – not exactly. I think it was more that she didn’t care. She’d survived cancer, lost parts of her body that most people cling to for their identity, and come out the other side stronger, but stripped bare – literally and figuratively.

Well, she was slipping further into my role.

One evening, after a particularly long day of teaching (and my aunt once again being the class clown), we sat down for dinner. I’d made dal and chapati, like always, and she – wearing one of my old T-shirts this time, thank God – stared at me across the table with an odd expression.

“You’ve really stepped up, Mohan,” she said suddenly, her voice soft, serious for once.

I looked up from my plate, startled. “What do you mean?”

She gestured around the room. “This. All of this. You’re basically running the house now. You’ve taken care of everything while I’ve been recovering. Thanks for everything!”

I shrugged, not sure where this was going. “I’m just helping out.”

“No, you’re not,” she said, leaning forward. “You’re more than helping. You’ve practically taken over.”

There was a pause, thick with something unsaid. I didn’t like where this was heading.

“And you know what else?” Lakshmi added, her tone playful again. “You’re starting to look the part too.”

My heart sank. “What are you talking about?” Does she know? Thankfully, she didn’t continue with it.

I opened my mouth to say something, but stopped. I stared at her, speechless.

Somewhere around the corner of my brain, I felt, I was becoming someone else slowly. I hoped, not entirely.

Was she referring to my chest? After months of wearing the corset day in and day out, it was shaping me. Literally. I’d catch glimpses of myself in the mirror sometimes, late at night, after a long day of playing professor and housekeeper, and I wouldn’t recognize the body staring back at me.

My waist was smaller, my posture straighter. I was becoming more and more convinced as a woman – at least, physically. The gynecomastia I’d spent years hiding? The corset made it even more pronounced, shaping my chest into something more feminine than I ever thought possible.

The irony was almost too much. I was hoping to one day bulk up and look like the hero I imagined myself to be. But now, with each passing day, I was slipping further into the role of my aunt. Not just at work, but at home too.

That evening, no more words were spoken. And, we finished with our dinner.

***

We had serious discussions, and arrived at a plan. It seemed simple.

By the end of the semester, get through the finals, tie up the ridiculous knot we’d tangled ourselves in, and switch back to our original lives. Easy.

I could finally be Mohan again – the real one this time – maybe hit the gym, get a haircut, and reclaim my body after months of wearing corsets and pretending to be someone I wasn’t.

And Aunt Lakshmi? Well, she could go back to being the no-nonsense professor, completely healed and back to her old life, no longer relying on me to be her body double.

She was already on her way back to herself, too. She’d buzzed her hair into a neat pixie cut, her energy was returning full force, and she was even back to talking about new research ideas she had for her classes. Everything was supposed to go back to normal. We both wanted it.

But, like everything else in this upside-down farce, normal was a moving target.

It was a Friday evening when Aunt Lakshmi dropped the bomb on me. We were sitting at the dining table, a pile of grading in front of me, my chest still compressed in a corset that had become more of a second skin than a disguise.

“Remember how we talked about switching back?” she said, twirling a pencil between her fingers. She had that tone – the one that usually preceded some earth-shattering revelation.

I barely looked up from the exam papers. “Yeah?”

“Well, there’s a small complication.”

I put my pen down and stared at her. “What complication?”

She sighed, leaning back in her chair. “You’re not going to like this, but… I got selected for the student exchange program today.”

I blinked. “What?”

“London University,” she said casually, like it wasn’t a massive deal. “They have this prestigious exchange program for literature students, and Mohan – well, you, I mean – got picked.”

My brain short-circuited for a good few seconds. “You mean you got picked as me?”

Lakshmi nodded, looking far too pleased with herself. “Yep. It was supposed to be a mock test and an interview on subjects. I just wanted to flex my old brain. dadrently, I impressed the selection panel. Funny how that works.”

I stood up, pushing the chair back. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You can’t go. I can’t keep being you – I thought we were done with this after the semester.”

“Well, that was the plan, yes.” Aunt Lakshmi gave me a sheepish look. “But the university already sent the paperwork… under your name.”

I stared at her, feeling the room spin. “So what? You’re going to London as me for an entire semester? That’s insane!”

She nodded slowly, the grin fading from her face. “I know it’s crazy.”

I rubbed my temples, the weight of everything pressing down on me. I’d been living as her for months, suffocating in the role, but this was a whole new level of absurd. “What about me? What about the surgery?”

Lakshmi’s face softened. “I talked to a doctor friend of mine. The surgery can still happen, but the recovery time is the issue. You won’t heal quickly enough to switch back to being you before the second semester starts. And you definitely won’t match the photo in your passport.”

I sank back into the chair, my head in my hands. “So I’m stuck like this.”

She hesitated before answering. “For now. But only for now.”

Then, Aunt Lakshmi tossed me her phone, nonchalant, like she was handing over a napkin. “Here, transfer whatever you need. We should sort out the accounts.”

I blinked at her. “You sure?”

She leaned back in the chair, sipping tea like it was no big deal. “We’re in this deep already. Might as well make sure the bank doesn’t raise eyebrows. You’ve got my salary anyway, right?”

That’s how it started. A simple act of practicality. Aunt Lakshmi gave me access to her savings, her salary, and even suggested that I use her bank account. Meanwhile, I’d transferred what little I had from my old student account, the meager stipends and savings from my ‘Mohan’ days. For all intents and purposes, I was now Professor Lakshmi, even on paper.

“Don’t forget to transfer some of the old savings back to me, though,” she added with a grin. “I’ve got my own plans.”

The next few days were a blur of frustration, disbelief, and logistical nightmares. I kept replaying the conversation in my head, wondering how on earth we had managed to let this get so out of control. The surgery was supposed to be my ticket back to normalcy. My chance to finally get rid of these mounds and reclaim my body. But now, with Aunt Lakshmi heading off to London as me – as Mohan – the whole thing was falling apart.

And yet, deep down, I understood. London University? It was a once-in-a-lifetime chance. If the roles were reversed, I probably would’ve jumped at it too. But understanding didn’t make it any easier to swallow. I was still trapped, corseted and confined, watching my hopes for a fresh start drift further away.

A week later, Aunt Lakshmi and I sat at the kitchen table again, this time with her passport and a stack of exchange program documents between us. The air was thick with tension, like we both knew we’d crossed a point of no return.

“I’ve already sent in the confirmation,” Aunt Lakshmi said, not looking up from the papers. “You’re officially going to London.”

“Great,” I muttered, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “I hope you enjoy my life.”

She looked up at me, eyes soft but determined. “Look, I know this isn’t what we planned. But think about it – once I’m back, we’ll switch everything. You’ll get the surgery, I’ll return to teaching, and you can go back to being the real Mohan.”

Easy, right?

Except nothing about this was easy.

And now, that fight was postponed. Again.

So here I was. Stuck. Aunt Lakshmi would be leaving soon, heading off to London as me, while I stayed behind in our twisted role-reversal limbo.

***

The day Aunt Lakshmi was supposed to fly to London as me was supposed to be a quiet affair. She’d pack, we’d hug, maybe share a final cup of coffee, and then she’d be on her way, taking my passport and my future with her, while I stayed behind, staying into her life for a little while longer.

But, of course, nothing about this story ever goes according to plan.

It seems, Aunt Lakshmi announced had contacted my parents, and let them know that she – “their son Mohan” – had been selected for the exchange program, so that my parents, who’d barely spoken to me since I chose literature, would get to appreciate me.

Eventually, it worked, and they decided to pay us a visit.

“Send-off visit,” they said over the phone.

And that’s when I knew we were in trouble.

They showed up on a humid afternoon, their faces beaming with pride. My mother, of course, brought sweets. She practically floated into the apartment, eyes shining, and clutched “me” – or rather, Aunt Lakshmi dressed as me – in one of her bone-crushing hugs.

“We’re so proud of you, Mohan!” she gushed, holding “Mohan” by the shoulders, pride dripping from every word. “We always knew you were destined for something great! And, you look great too!!”

Aunt Lakshmi, to her credit, played the part flawlessly. She stood there, a warm smile on her face, hands folded in that exact, respectful way that my parents loved.

“Thank you, mom,” she said in my voice, glancing over at me with a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “It’s all thanks to your blessings.”

And here I was, dressed like her – hair buzzed short, saree draped awkwardly over my corset-bound body, trying to blend into the background as much as possible.

My father walked in next, his usual stern expression softened. He hadn’t said much since I’d chosen to study literature instead of engineering, but now… now it seemed like all was forgiven. Or at least, forgotten.

“Good job, Mohan,” he said, giving a rare smile in Lakshmi’s direction. “The London program. Prestigious. I always knew you had potential.”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes, hidden behind the folds of my aunt’s saree. Yeah, sure, I thought. Now you see the potential. But all that came out of my mouth was, “Shall I make some tea?”

My mother waved me off – with concern. “No need, Lakshmi. Sit, sit.”

But it wasn’t all smiles and sweets. The air grew thick as my father, who had been hovering around the living room, finally locked eyes with me. No, not with me, but with “Lakshmi.” His sister.

It had been years since the two of them had really spoken. Ever since she’d rebelled against the family’s expectations, pursued her academic career instead of marriage, their relationship had been more of a cold war than anything else.

He took a deep breath, then approached her – me, I mean.

“Lakshmi,” he said, his voice soft, almost tentative. “How have you been?”

For a moment, the room went silent. Aunt Lakshmi, who had been doing such a good job of pretending to be me, faltered slightly. I could see it in the way her smile tightened. This was the part of the charade neither of us had prepared for: the brother-sister reunion.

“I’ve been… good, brother,” I said, though there was a strange thickness in my voice. “Better now.”

Dad’s eyes softened, and he nodded.

“I’m glad,” he said, then added, almost as an afterthought, “I heard… you are doing good with your job.”

I watched as Aunt Lakshmi’s face softened, her usual teasing confidence melting away. For a second, I saw the real her – the one who had fought through surgeries and chemo and who still wore her scars like armor. She looked up at my father, and for the first time in years, the connect was something real. Something unspoken.

“Thank you, brother,” I said quietly.

We didn’t hug. That wasn’t the style of my father and his sister. But the room seemed to hum with the weight of everything. Old wounds and new scars, both visible and invisible, coming together in this ridiculous, half-constructed reunion.

And there I was, standing in a saree, watching my father – who thought he was talking to his rebellious sister – give a moment of approval to the son he thought had finally made it.

By the time my parents left, the mood had shifted. My mother gave Aunt Lakshmi one last crushing hug, then turned to me with that gentle, pitying smile.

“Take care of yourself, Lakshmi,” she said softly, her hand on my shoulder.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

As they walked out the door, my father gave a stiff, but respectful nod to both of us. “Good luck in London, Mohan,” he said to Aunt Lakshmi. “Make us proud.”

When the door finally clicked shut behind them, the apartment fell into silence.

For a long moment, neither Aunt Lakshmi nor I said anything. Then she turned to me, grinning that familiar, mischievous grin. “Well, that was both good and awkward, wasn’t it?”

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.