Auntie!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, we chatted late into the night.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile, I clung to what she had left behind.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hop on. I’ll drop you at college.”

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

I shook my head. “I’ll take the bus.”

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

“It’s not that,” I lied.

“Right. Of course, it’s not.”

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I crossed my arms, sulking a little.

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

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

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

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

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.

We sat there in the kitchen, sipping hot tea, staring at the ceiling like two people who had somehow managed to tiptoe through a minefield for three years and come out on the other side. No limbs lost, no explosions, but now we were standing on a bomb we couldn’t disarm. So what do you do? You sip tea and pretend the bomb is just a cushion.

“So… no marriage,” Aunt Lakshmi said after a long silence, raising her eyebrows.

Yes, in the mean time, we failed to break the truth to my parents. And, facing Professor Venkat was a nervous task for me. Was it due to the hormones? Did I stop taking those pills?

“No marriage,” I confirmed, feeling my stomach unclench slightly. "But breaking the news to dad won't be easy."

She chuckled, swirling her tea. “Well, if it comes to that, I’ll just tell him the truth. That I’m not interested in marriage… to a man, at least.” She gave me a cheeky wink.

I nodded. The "truth” would require me to stop pretending to be her. And for her to stop pretending to be me. It was all supposed to end in a neat little swap. But now?

We weren’t so sure anymore.

“Do we really need to switch back?” she asked, almost absently, as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

I stared at her. She wasn’t kidding. And somehow, neither was I.

The truth was, over the past three years, something had shifted. The frantic urgency to return to our "normal" lives had faded. Slowly. Subtly. Like a distant storm that had passed while we were too busy building a shelter to notice the sun coming out.

“I mean… what would it change?” she continued, now leaning on the counter, voice softer. “Look at us. I’m doing fine as Mohan. You’re doing great as Lakshmi. It’s not like we’re pretending anymore. We’ve been living these lives for so long now…”

She trailed off, looking up at me. And I knew she was right.

She was Mohan now. With the short hair, the muscle from working out to maintain her “student” persona, and that confidence she’d developed in her role. It wasn’t just an act anymore – it had become her.

And me? Well, I looked like her now, even without trying. My body, softened by months of corsets and a few "accidental" estrogen pills. My hair, longer than it had ever been. And the voice – the one I’d trained so meticulously to match hers. The weird thing was, I didn’t feel like I was pretending anymore either. I had grown into Professor Lakshmi just as much as she had grown into me.

“Do you think we’d even fit back into our old selves?” I asked, feeling something click into place as I said it.

Aunt Lakshmi smiled, a kind of serene acceptance in her eyes. “I think our old selves are long gone.”

There was a time when this idea would’ve terrified me. When we first switched, I couldn’t wait to undo everything. Get back to my life, my body, my dreams. But now? Maybe we had gotten so good at this, we’d forgotten there was supposed to be a finish line.

“Then what do we do?” I asked, still holding on to the tiniest thread of doubt. “Just keep going?”

She shrugged, taking another sip of her tea. “Why not? It’s working. Why mess with something that isn’t broken?”

And there it was. The conclusion we’d been avoiding, spoken like it was the most natural thing in the world. The world hadn’t ended. We weren’t stuck. We had chosen this, in our own weird way.

I was Lakshmi now. And she was Mohan. The names, the roles, the lives – none of it felt borrowed anymore. It was ours. We had grown into it, adapted to it, shaped ourselves around the lives we had originally stumbled into by mistake.

She grinned at me, her usual playful mischief back in full force. “Plus, if we switch back, who’s going to handle all the students fawning over Professor Lakshmi? Not me, that’s for sure.”

I smirked. “You mean you don’t want to deal with all the girls throwing themselves at Macho Mohan?”

She laughed, and so did I. A real laugh. Because we both knew the truth – it didn’t matter anymore. Whether I stayed Lakshmi or she stayed Mohan, it was just life.

And life, as chaotic and tangled as it was, didn’t need fixing.

“You know,” I said after a moment, “maybe this is just how it’s meant to be.”

“Maybe,” she echoed, raising her chai in a mock toast. “To continuing the act.”

“To never switching back,” I added, raising my cup.

And with that, we clinked our cups, sealing the unspoken agreement. No grand revelation. No dramatic reversal. Just two people who had found a strange kind of peace in the mess they had created.

Because in the end, we weren’t pretending anymore.

We were just… living.

***

Three more years later, and here I was, standing at the edge of what looked like a family-sized destiny waiting to happen. I should’ve seen this coming, but like everything else in my life since that fateful day Aunt Lakshmi and I decided to swap lives, I had just gone with the flow, thinking I could swim my way out of any whirlpool. But this? This was a tidal wave.

When my father invited Professor Venkat’s family to discuss our engagement, I was still in air, unsure whether it’s right or not.

Do I want to be Lakshmi forever? Yes. It was almost six years I’d been living this life. And, I love the persona.

My age? At the time of engagement, I was twenty four. Definitely, not a kid anymore.

But, breaking the “truth” to Venkat?

“Well, to be fair, I thought it was hilarious,” Lakshmi said, breaking the silence, as I was preparing to face the groom’s family and greet them with coffee. She was trying and failing to suppress her laughter. “You should’ve seen dad’s face. He was glowing like he just won the lottery. And mom was already planning the menu for the wedding.”

I groaned. “Of course she was. I bet she’s picked out the sari I’m supposed to wear too.”

“Not just the sari,” Lakshmi chimed in. “She’s already talking about the honeymoon.”

“Honeymoon?” I yelped, sitting upright. “With Venkat? No way! I have to get out of this. There’s got to be some way to – ”

“Nope,” she said, cutting me off. “You dug this hole, Auntie, and now you’ve got to find a way out. Unless…” she leaned forward, a gleam in her eye, “you’re actually considering it?”

“Considering it?” I echoed, horrified at the mere suggestion. “I’d love to be Lakshmi forever. My lifetime role. But, I’m not willing to audition for the role of a bride!”

Lakshmi waved me off, unfazed. “Relax, Auntie. You’ve been getting all the praise and perks of being Lakshmi. The least you can do is sit through a few marriage talks. Besides, Venkat isn’t so bad. He’s smart, he’s got a great job, and he seems to have fallen eternally for… your beauty.”

I glared at her. “That’s because he thinks I’m you. He has no idea who I really am!”

“And whose fault is that?” she shot back, crossing her arms.

I fell silent, the weight of our absurd situation sinking in. Lakshmi had a point. For the past six years, I had successfully maintained the charade of being a woman. I had navigated academic politics, handled pushy parents, and even convinced colleagues that I had some grand plan for my career. I had become Lakshmi in every way that mattered.

But marriage? That was crossing a line I wasn’t ready to cross. And yet, here I was, about to be carted off into wedded bliss with Venkat, all because of a nod during a coffee meet up. And, I failed to convey the truth to him, though we met with each other frequently. He didn’t complete that research paper yet though.

“How do I get out of this?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Lakshmi leaned forward, her voice suddenly serious. “Then tell him. Or tell mom and dad. But either way, you have to do something. Otherwise, this is happening.”

I stared at her, realizing that the bomb we’d been standing on for six years was finally about to go off. There was no escaping it. Not this time.

And the worst part?

I wasn’t sure I even wanted to.

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out, Auntie. After all, you’ve managed everything else so far,”she said, standing up and ruffling my hair like I used to when I was just Mohan.

And, I set off to greet Venkat’s family with coffee.

***

Venkat and myself were left alone by the elders, and the decision was ours to take.

The private conversation was uneventful. Once it ended, Lakshmi was more curious than anyone else – to know the particulars.

When we were alone, she asked, “So what happened? Told him the truth? That you’re actually his colleague’s nephew and have been living as woman for years?”

I opened my mouth, and closed it. Then, opened it again. “I don’t remember too much of it…. I’m sorry.”

Tears flooded my face. There was no way that conversation went how I wanted.

Lakshmi comforted me. “Exactly what do you remember?”

I muffled, staring at the ceiling again, wishing it would provide answers. “Very little… like…”

“Like?”

“Like… how many kids do we want… About my cooking skills…”

Lakshmi gasped.

***

It’s funny how life goes, isn’t it? One minute you’re a high school kid in a corset, trying to help your aunt by pretending to be her in a job you know nothing about, and the next, you’re standing at the altar, adorned in a pink saree my mother selected for her “sister-in-law”, about to marry a man who has no idea you’re actually not who you say you are.

But, I wasn’t pretending anymore.

Professor Venkat, with his infuriatingly calm voice and encyclopedic brain, had won me over. It wasn’t just his brilliant mind that had me second-guessing everything. It was the fact that he listened. He was patient. Kind. And unlike most people, he never once made me feel like I was wearing a mask, even though, in theory, I was wearing the biggest one of all.

At first, I fought it. I resisted the idea of falling into this life I had so carefully constructed out of chaos. But the more I spent time with Venkat, the more I realized something unsettling yet freeing: I had changed. Somewhere along the way, I had become Professor Lakshmi – not just in name, but in spirit. I wasn’t pretending to be anyone anymore. I had evolved into the very person I’d been imitating.

The days flew by in a haze of wedding preparations, which I was somehow being dragged into. Mom and dad were ecstatic, talking about Venkat like he was the “brother-in-law” of their dreams. Lakshmi, meanwhile, was enjoying every second of my misery, finding endless amusement in my predicament.

And Venkat? He was the picture of oblivious happiness, completely unaware that the woman he was supposedly marrying was actually her nephew.

But, I was guilt ridden that I'm unsure of how would I face this man, telling I'm an impostor. Maybe, my decision to remain Lakshmi could be a disasterous one, that's sure to end up shattering Venkat's heart, I thought.

With a few weeks to go, the doctor unaware of my marital affairs or my gender decision, called me informing there's an open slot for the surgery - for the removal of my gynecomastia formed breasts.

***

The hospital was too quiet. That eerie kind of quiet where the hum of the fluorescent lights makes you hyper-aware of everything, including your own pulse. My pulse was slow, steady. Maybe because I’d already gone through the worst part. Maybe because I didn’t have the strength to feel anxious anymore.

The worst part wasn’t the surgery.

Aunt Lakshmi had left earlier after staying by my side for hours, cracking the same jokes she’d been cracking for months now, playing the role of the carefree aunt, when we both knew how much weight she was carrying. We’d said everything we needed to say before the surgery, but the aftermath, the long weeks of waiting, of transforming, of pretending and yet not pretending... none of it was funny anymore.

It was just real.

And in that reality, I was lying in a hospital bed with an IV dripping into my arm, vulnerable in ways that had nothing to do with the scars beneath my gown.

The door creaked open, and my heart kicked up.

Venkat stepped inside. He looked tired. Conflicted. His normally perfect posture seemed to slump a little. His eyes moved from me to the floor, then back to me, unsure, as if searching for some confirmation that I was the same person he’d known before the confession.

While I was consulting with the doctor, Lakshmi had told him the truth a week ago, right before things were supposed to get serious. Right before the invitations were meant to be printed. It wasn’t a conversation you could plan for. Lakshmi and I had rehearsed how we’d say it, but when the moment came, it all fell apart in the mess of tears, fragmented sentences, and long, crushing silences.

“I’m not who you think I am,” I’d said, voice trembling, unsure of whether I was telling him about my past or my present.

Venkat had sat there, quiet, absorbing the weight of it. No anger, no shock, just a slow, deep nod that suggested something inside him was breaking and rebuilding all at once. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t accuse anyone of betrayal.

“Lakshmi,” he said, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it.

I swallowed, the words sitting heavy in my throat.

Stepping closer, his eyes darting to the chair beside my bed but not sitting yet.

The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was thick with unspoken truths. The air felt different now. Every little sound – the beeping machines, the faint hum of the air conditioning – seemed to amplify the distance between who we were and who we’d been.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” I admitted, my voice small, like the confession was something fragile.

Venkat finally sat down in the chair next to me, his hands folding together in his lap. He looked at me then, really looked at me, and for the first time, I could see the weight of his own struggle. It wasn’t about anger or disappointment.

He sighed, looking down at his hands before meeting my gaze again. “You’re still you. Even if you weren’t always... this. I couldn't imagine that you took the surgery to become complete woman.” He gestured to me, to my body, my present self, the version of me that had emerged over the past few years. "The dare to go through this... it still makes you more Lakshmi than anyone else."

He continued, his voice stronger now. “I’m not here because I feel sorry for you, or because I’m confused, or because I don’t know what I want. I’m here because I care about you. I loved you before I knew. And knowing... it doesn’t change that.”

I stared at him, stunned. Of all the things I’d imagined him saying, this wasn’t one of them.

“You mean that?” I asked, my voice catching.

Venkat reached out, his hand brushing mine, sending a shockwave of warmth through me. “Yes, you are my Lakshmi. I mean it. It’s a lot to take in. I won’t pretend that I completely understand everything. But I know that I want to be with you. And if that means accepting all of this, then that’s what I’ll do.”

I blinked back the tears that were threatening to spill over, swallowing hard. “I didn’t expect this,” I said softly.

He smiled then, a sad, but genuine smile.

“So, is the marriage still happening?” Lakshmi entered the room, breaking the silence.

For a moment, we just sat there, letting the reality of the situation wash over us. Venkat squeezed my hand gently, and I could feel the tension leaving my body, the fear and uncertainty slowly melting away.

***

A few months after that, there I was, standing at my wedding, Venkat’s eyes locked onto mine, his smile a quiet reassurance that everything was as it should be. And for the first time in years, I wasn’t worried about even tiniest bits of being a woman, or untangling the knots of our tangled story.

Mom and dad, of course, were ecstatic. The sight of their “Lakshmi” marrying a brilliant professor like Venkat had finally erased the last of their old frustrations about “her”. They saw me – Lakshmi – standing there married. A face full of happiness.

A year later, Venkat and I adopted a beautiful little girl. We named her Maya, and life settled into something both ordinary and extraordinary at once. Diaper changes, late-night feedings, juggling lectures and home life – it all became a beautiful kind of chaos that I never knew I could love so much.

Meanwhile, the previous “Lakshmi” had blossomed into her own version of liberal “Mohan”. The short stint in London turned into a long-term stay when “my nephew” landed a movie deal. Now, living it up with the girlfriend, now a filmmaker, who is okay with “the truth.”

They would send me pictures from their shoots – “Mohan” dressed in leather jackets, sunglasses, sporting a new kind of swagger that made it clear that the fate has chosen the right person to play the role of my nephew, who wanted to make it big in cinema.

Whenever we video called, we’d laugh about the absurdity of it all. The fact that we had both accidentally fallen into the lives we were always meant to live. We’d joke about how we could never have planned it this way, and yet, somehow, it was perfect.

“Well, Auntie,” Mohan would tease, “looks like we’re destined to be like this forever.”

“Looks like it,” I’d reply with a grin. “You happy with that, Mohan?”

“Damn right I am.”

And that was that. No grand switching back, no complicated explanations. Just two people who had figured out where they belonged.

For the most of my life, I dreamt to be a larger-than-life actor, someone who would dominate the screen, admired and idolized by others.

But life - it doesn’t always follow the script. Sometimes, it throws you into a role you never wanted, only to realize it’s the role you were born to play.

At first, stepping into Lakshmi's shoes was in the name of familial duty. The more I lived as Lakshmi, I began to see a different kind of admiration from the people around me. This admiration wasn’t the hollow, distant kind I had once craved as an actor. It was personal, intimate. It was the kind of respect that came from genuinely inspiring others, not through brawn or charisma, but through knowledge, kindness, and understanding.

Every day, as I taught subjects, guided students, and navigated college life, I see the young minds that I was shaping and realized that teaching had a lasting impact – a deeper purpose.

It doesn't matter if I'm a "man’s man." It matters, if I could really make a difference. Long gone the adolescent boy who once made jokes at the expense of girls to fit in with the boys' circle.

Venkat, Maya, our quiet life together – it was my happy ever after. And in London, on some bustling movie set, Mohan was living his.

Because in the end, we weren’t pretending anymore.

I was once Lakshmi.

But, turning my head, whenever someone calls "Mohan" has become a second nature now.

I’m standing on a London movie set, wearing a leather jacket, watching the crew prep for the next scene. The grip is struggling with the lights, and I could probably jump in and help him, but I’m the script supervisor today. I’ve got a black coffee in one hand, and I feel the weight of a world I don’t even have to carry anymore.

Before, I was the professor who was supposed to wear sarees and play the perfect woman. Now, I’m Mohan, my filmmaker girlfriend’s slightly scruffy but ruggedly handsome assistant.

I didn’t plan for this – any of this. But then again, who does?

When my nephew came to stay with me, I was glad to see the person after a long time. But as the time went on, it’s like looking in a mirror, but a warped one? The person's gynecomastia had made them look like me before I’d lost my breasts. It was uncanny – freakish even. A part of me just wanted to scream.

But it wasn’t the end. It was the beginning.

When I went to London on that exchange trip – living as Mohan, pretending to be him – I felt something shift. I was liberated. No more sarees, no more binding myself to someone else’s expectations. I didn’t have to hide who I was anymore, even if I was technically hiding everything else.

There, no one looked at me like I was weak, or wrong, or out of place. Being a man gave me something I’d never had as Lakshmi – a second chance at life. It’s insane how much of the world opens up to you when you’re walking around in pants instead of a saree, with muscles instead of soft curves. People treat you with this bizarre baseline respect, like you’ve earned something just by being born male. You could say that’s unfair, and yeah, maybe it is. But damn, it felt good. Like, intoxicatingly good.

As Lakshmi, I had to hide who I loved. As a woman, you don’t just face restrictions, you face expectations. To marry a man. To be “normal.” To be what they want. But here, in this new skin, it was like the whole world was asking me, “So what do you want?”

I met Charlie on that trip – a brilliant theatre assistant, now a filmmaker, who wasn’t scared of me, wasn’t confused by me. She liked the sharp edges, the fact that I’d lived a life full of strange, winding roads. We had wine by the Thames one night, and I told her everything. From the gender swap to the Nephew-Mohan-as-Professor, to how I’d once been the woman Lakshmi who loved other women. She didn’t flinch. In fact, she laughed. Said it sounded like something out of a Fellini film.

She told me, “You’ve been living in someone else’s script your whole life. Now you get to write your own.”

And damn, she was right. I didn’t want to go back. Not to the woman Lakshmi, not to the professor’s desk, not to the skin that never felt like mine.

It wasn’t the lack of estrogen, the muscles, the short hair – all of that was just surface stuff. What changed, what really changed, was me. Walking around as Mohan, I realized I didn’t want to perform anymore – not for society, not for my family. I wanted to live. And being “Mohan" gave me that. I could just be. No more pretending.

When the new Lakshmi agreed to marry Professor Venkat, it felt like walking through a fog. There I was, pretending to be my own nephew. But, that was the last time I felt wierd about who I am now. Not anymore.

On set, living my own script. I look in the mirror these days and I don’t see confusion. I see a man who loves his life, his work, and the people he’s chosen to share it with.

I’ve heard people talk about gender like it’s this fixed thing, this iron cage you can’t break out of. But here’s the secret: gender is a script. A role. You can rewrite it anytime you want. The future, I think, will understand this more and more. Maybe, one day, people won’t even blink when they hear about someone swapping genders mid-life. They’ll just nod, like, “Yeah, that’s Mohan now. Cool.”