The 'Not-So-American' Changeover

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The 'Not-So-American' Changeover

By

AeVeyJ

Disclaimer: Any wordplay or resemblance to persons, living or otherwise, is purely fictional and intended for humor (the missing “u” is intentional 😜).

I woke up to the sound of a pressure cooker whistle.

Except… it wasn’t my house.

It was Kamala aunty’s house, my house help’s.

How on earth did I get here?

And that definitely wasn’t my ceiling fan.

The ceiling fan was doing its usual struggling-wobble like it had regrets about existing. A steel cupboard stood in the corner like it had survived three generations and was now emotionally tired. Somewhere in the background, a pressure cooker was aggressively announcing that peace was never part of the plan. And the smell… filter coffee mixing with yesterday’s curry like they were competing for dominance.

I stumbled to the mirror.

And there he was.

Ronald. Freaking. Grump.

“WHAT THE...” I paused.
“…Okay the voice checks out.”

Before I could process this international identity crisis, the door burst open.

Our house help, Kamala aunty, walked in, hands on hips.

“Saaarrrr! Finally you woke up ah? Very good. Now tell me… where is my gas cylinder?”

I blinked.

“My… what?”

“LPG GAS, SAAR!” she snapped. “Three days no cooking. My husband eating only biscuit. You doing war-war… what about my sambar?”

“I… I don’t handle gas distribution…”

She leaned closer, narrowed her eyes.
“You handle everything no? Big big leader. Twitter king. Now handle my kitchen also.”

Before I could respond, my phone started vibrating like it had anxiety.

1000+ missed calls.
Caller ID: Random NRI Uncle (USA)

I answered.
“HELLO???” he yelled. “What is this nonsense?? Visa problem! If I come India, they’re saying I might not go back! My daughter’s wedding is next week! Should I attend on Zoom or what??”

“I… I think immigration policies are...”

“Don’t policy me, okay? Just fix it. Or you come and marry her yourself!”
Click.

I stared at the phone.
“Okay… this is escalating fast.”

I walked out of the room, hoping for silence.

Instead, the entire colony was waiting.

Milkman. Newspaper guy. Random tuition teacher. One retired professor. Even the watchman had brought a chair.

They all turned.
In sync.
Like a horror movie.

Milkman spoke first.
“Sir… milk prices increased. Petrol increased. My bike crying, sir.”

Newspaper guy chimed in, waving a paper dramatically.

“See this headline! WAR! ECONOMY! TENSION! My customers reading and shouting at me like I wrote the news!”

The retired professor adjusted his glasses.
“Mr. President,” he began calmly, “would you care to explain your geopolitical strategy… and how it has resulted in my grandson being unable to return from Boston?”

I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.

Because from the back, Kamala aunty shouted:
“ASK HIM ABOUT THE GAS FIRST!”

The crowd roared.
“YES! GAS FIRST!”
“THEN VISA!”
“THEN PETROL!”
“THEN WORLD PEACE!”

I raised both hands.
“Okay okay, listen! This is a misunderstanding. I’m not actually...”

“Don’t lie!” the watchman cut in. “Same hair. Same face. Same overconfidence. Definitely you only.”

Fair point.

Suddenly, someone handed me a steel tumbler of filter coffee.
“Drink and think,” they said.

I took a sip.
Even in crisis… excellent coffee.

“Alright,” I said, slipping into full dramatic mode. “We will fix everything. Gas will come. Visas will clear. Peace will return.”

They leaned in.
Hopeful.

I whispered…
“…but first, does anyone know how to undo being me?”

Silence.

Then Kamala aunty again:
“Undo later. Cylinder first.”

The crowd nodded.
Priorities.

I sighed, looked at the sky, and muttered,
“Of all people… why this upgrade/downgrade combo?”

Just then, my phone buzzed again.
Notification: “Global leaders requesting urgent meeting.”

Behind me:
“Sirrr… meeting later. Idli batter finished.”

I closed my eyes.
“This is it,” I whispered.
“This is how diplomacy ends.”

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