It has been a while since I updated this blog. The immediate inspiration was a request from a couple of members of an online community of my school friends (some 150 of them!) to give them a mood story of the Chandrayaan launch which I was to cover for my newspaper. While I was indeed looking forward to covering the launch, some of the excited reactions from friends shook me to the realisation that I, like other journalists, am often impervious to the excitement some events we cover generate. Journos are often accused -- and for good reason -- of being impervious and even insensitive . I wrote regular news stories of the launch for my paper, and, as I promised Alex and Jothish, two of my Class X friends of St Joseph's Thiruvananthapuram, sent out this long mail to the online group. The reactions spurred me to uplink it here.
I've be
en to Sriharikota for half-a-dozen launches, but October 22, 2008 was special. The entrance to the spaceport, for the first time, was decked up with banners and festoons by well-wishers. It has been raining on and off for the past five days. Thunder clouds would be the biggest threat to the vehicle as it takes off, Madhavan Nair had told me when I spoke to him a week before the launch.
When I left Chennai at 1.30 am on the launch day, rain was coming down in sheets. I called up my contacts in Isro to ask if the launch was on. I was asked to call back after 10 minutes (Later, two hours after the launch, Madhavan Nair was to tell a press conference that it was at 1.30 am that the launch authorisation board gave its nod to go ahead). I reached the Satish Dhawan Space Centre at 3.40 am and it was still raining. Scientists told me that it was not the rains that they were worried about-- the charged clouds were the villains.
A comprehensive weather report, prepared from a combination of reports using Indian science agencies' space, land and ocean facilities, has ruled out lightning and thunder for at least six hours. This had the count down going, despite the rain. When I stepped into Brahmprakash Hall, a few hundred meters from mission control and 6 km from the second launch pad where the majestic 44.4-metre PSLV stood with the Chandrayaan-1 spacecraft in its cephalus, it was T-2:15 (2 hours and 15 minutes for take off). I was one of the first journalists to arrive, but in another 30 minutes, the place was teeming with journos from all parts of the country. I could spot a few foreign journalists too.
TV journos were to give live phone-ins and pieces-to-the-cameras every few minutes, and they were facing the problem of lack of phone signals inside the spaceport. BSNL signals were feeble, but there, and I thanked my stars for once that I have a BSNL connection. It was when journalists working with channels scrambled to borrow my phone that I realised that I too am supposed to give a live commentary for Radio Mirchi, one of Times' sister concerns. We had all been working the previous day and had travelled through the night to be here. Nobody had slept-- or had a good dinner. But nobody was complaining. Having walked from our cars to the hall in the downpour, many of us were drenched and the air conditioning inside the hall was freezing us. Around 5.30 am, biscuits and hot tea were served. Brittania never tasted so good! Someone came with news that meant little scientific consolation: The moon has peeped out of the clouds
The huge LCD screens flashed live close-ups of the PSLV-C11—rain splashing on the strap-on motors. Around 6 am, with 22 minutes to go for the take-off, we all went to the open terrace from where we had watched the PSLV thunder into the skies several times. It was dawn and rain had stopped, but the sky remained cloudy. With every passing minute, heart beats got faster. Through the public address system came the baritone of a scientist: T minus two minutes. When the last minute arrived, people held each others hands. T minus 30 seconds. Eyes fixed in the direction of the launch pad, a row of trees blocking our view (You get to see the vehicle a second after it takes off, atop the canopy of trees). 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5.."ignition authorised"... Some clapped with the countdown... 3,2,1... A crimson flash lit up the clouds hanging heavily over the launch pad. The scientist counted "T plus 1". A huge ball of fire, emanating from the PSLV's 12-tonne solid propellant-carrying strap-ons, appeared over the trees, and in a couple of seconds, the vehicle had disappeared behind the clouds. We were unlucky.
My colleagues -- a photographer and a reporter -- who were outside the spaceport, in a village by the Pulikat lake where luckier. They had a good view of the PSLV ascending, the flame reflected on the lake, which had some early morning pelicans and painted storks (no newspaper carried this picture). All of us rushed back indoors, where the trajectory of PSLV was shown on a giant screen to which some 600 scientists remained glued to. With every stage separation, the scientists applauded. So did the journalists (This is one of those rare occasions when I have found journalists joining the celebration). The screen showed the PSLV sticking meticulously to the desired path. A little more than 18 minutes later, PSLV injected Chandrayaan-1 into an earth orbit. It was then that Isro chairman Madhavan Nair stood up and hugged VSSC director Radhakrishnan. Everybody started hugging everybody. It was celebration time. "Our baby is on its way to the moon," project director M Annadurai beamed. "But mind you, there is a long and tough journey ahead," said Madhavan Nair. The real achievement will be around November 8 when the spacecraft gets into the lunar orbit, but this may not be as televised as the PSLV launch.
The spacecraft, which would be on its second revolution around the earth by then, would have to be 'latched on' to the lunar orbit as the moon approaches on its revolution around the earth. This would be done by firing the thrusters of the spacecraft. I am told this is an extremely difficult exercise and the scientists have a window period of about 200 seconds to do this. After that, sending the moon impact probe scuttling down to the lunar surface would be more dramatic, but less cumbersome. The probe, with the Tricolour painted on it, will crash on the moon's surface and the equipment attached to it will collect the dust the impact kicks up for study. An array of other equipment still embedded in Chandrayaan-1, then on a 100-km lunar orbit, will take up a spectrum of studies that may help us find energy for the future and, well, raise more of our curiosity.
Let's all wish our scientists the very best. And look forward to Chandrayaan-2 in 2010 and a manned mission to space by 2015.
Meanwhile: The one man at the spaceport who did nothing, but is most happy about it, is V Krishnamurthy, general manager of mission analysis and range safety. During launches, he sits in a separate room, insulated from commands from anyone including the Isro chairman. In front of him is a red button. His job: Press the button if the vehicle veers off its designated path and poses a threat to local population or ground structures. His is an independent decision, which cannot be questioned by anyone. Krishnamurthy, who has been with SHAR for about 30 years, had to press the red button when the GSLV-F02 strayed from its path some 45 seconds after take-off on July 10, 2006. That destroyed the vehicle above the Bay of Bengal and sent the debris plunging into the sea.
This time, Krishnamurthy was happy that he did not have to extend his hand, as he monitored the take-off from his solitary den in the island by the sea.
