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That day, Aparna ended up watching a movie two times in a row which she had no intention of watching more than twenty minutes. She was on her way out, leaving a movie in between, and he was on his way in, hiding from cops. It was her extreme good luck that she met Sujit, her later husband-a writer of Bengali pulp magazines and a great admirer of Basu Chatterjee’s cinema-inside a dingy movie theatre which smelled of cigarettes and leather and moist fabric.
It would have shattered her skull had it not been for the timely intervention of the poor sparrow, who hit the ground immediately in a tangle of feathers and beak. The ball sped like a bullet, missing the goalpost by six inches, towards the stands where Aparna stood cheering her father. Near the penalty line, Ashok took his trademark stance, right leg backward, hanging in the air, left foot firmly on the ground, the hockey stick coming down on the ball like Indra’s vajra. When he was six yards from the penalty line a sparrow perched atop a stadium floodlight took flight and glided towards the goalpost, thinking it was an eagle. When she was twelve years old, Aparna once sat in the front row seats of a stadium, watching her father, Ashok “the lightning” Biswas, drive the hockey ball around like it was glued to his stick. Stories of Aparna Biswas’s luck were splattered on walls of Kolkata, and the gullies of Bombay. “And you know how lucky I am.” It was true. “But our PM said in his last speech there was a lottery system,” she said. He stood near the window of the living room of his Chembur apartment, looking at the once blue sky, blotted out by an eternal grey smog which was here to stay. “Forget about building a home.” In his eyes too, there was a deep yearning to go to the Red Planet. “I might have to break all our deposits and still not be able to book a single one-way ticket, Maa,” said Nishant, her son.
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Puns on the red planet had filled the internet, and ever since Sunehri, her granddaughter, had taught her how to use a phone, she kept finding these odd little information trinkets. “Build me a home on that planet and all will be mangal.” She chortled at her own joke. “Beta, I think I might find god there,” she said to her son, tearing her gaze away from the Mars hologram. She would take a living planet over a dying one any day. But those summers only existed behind a dim haze of memory.
Of course they were a far cry from her own backyard where, in summers, she would sit on a cane chair and watch the bougainvillaea bloom the shade of a bride’s blush,“string of pearls” flowers wrapped around the wooden railing on her porch, eating a succulent dussehri aam as a pair of ducks swam in the small pond she liked to call her Pacific. Once she saw the red sands stretch across miles, craters as big as the stadium her father played hockey in, and golden spires shimmering brighter than Amritsar’s Golden Temple, Aparna Biswas didn’t want to live on earth.
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