spellbound to see our hopes flying in the form of the SLV-3.
Suddenly, the spell was broken. The second stage went out
of control. The flight was terminated after 317 seconds and
the vehicle’s remains, including my favourite fourth stage
with the payload splashed into the sea, 560 km off
Sriharikota.
The incident caused us profound disappointment. I felt a
strange mix of anger and frustration. Suddenly, I felt my legs
become so stiff that they ached. The problem was not with
my body; something was happening in my mind.
The premature death of my hovercraft Nandi, the
abandoning of the RATO, the abortion of the SLV-Diamont
fourth stage—all came alive in a flash, like a long-buried
Phoenix rising from its ashes. Over the years, I had
somehow learned to absorb these aborted endeavours,
had come to terms with them and pursued fresh dreams.
That day, I re-lived each of those setbacks in my deep
despondency.
“What do you suppose could be the cause of it?”
somebody asked me in the Block House. I tried to find an
answer, but I was too tired to try and think it out, and gave
up the effort as futile. The launch was conducted in the early
morning, preceded by a full night’s count-down. Moreover, I
had hardly had any sleep in the past week. Completely
drained—mentally as well as physically—I went straight to
my room and slumped onto the bed.
A gentle touch on my shoulder woke me up. It was late
in the afternoon, almost approaching evening. I saw Dr
Brahm Prakash sitting by my bedside. “What about going
for lunch?” he asked. I was deeply touched by his affection
and concern. I found out later that Dr Brahm Prakash had
come to my room twice before that but had gone away on
finding me asleep. He had waited all that time for me to get
up and have lunch with him. I was sad, but not alone. The
company of Dr Brahm Prakash filled me with a new
confidence. He made light conversation during the meal,
carefully avoiding the SLV-3, but gently providing me
solace.
* * *