When I got an interview call from
from Thumba Equatorial Rocket Launching Station (TERLS) in Thiruvananthapuram
for the job of a technical assistant (design) in September, 1966, I knew
precious little about the organization.
A bunch of young people handpicked by Vikram Sarabhai were working out of an old church in the sleepy fishing village of Thumba in Thiruvananthapuram, with the common goal of making rockets.
To know more, I went to a lodge called Indira Bhavan where some of the scientists were put up. As I was entering, a man in a pale blue shirt and dark trousers was coming down the stairs. I introduced myself as an applicant. He replied: "I am APJ Abdul Kalam, rocket engineer."
Soon I found myself among the small group of men at the church with little resources and big dreams. Kalam, as my team leader, gave my first assignment — to make an explosive bolt.
Our association started there, and continued till Kalam's end. He was a karmayogi. Without a family or any possession worth mentioning, he dedicated himself to work. Life, for Kalam, meant setting goals and achieving them steadfast. Death, he never bothered about.
Once, while I was doing an experiment on the inert behavior of a variety of gunpowder in low pressure, Kalam insisted on seeing it up close. He stood so close to catch the action that his famous nose touched the jar in which the gunpowder was to be ignited.
According to theory, it would not ignite. But a helper had forgotten to switch on the vacuum pump that would reduce the pressure in the jar. This I realised when the countdown had reached the final five seconds. I threw myself over Kalam and the two of us landed on the floor. Glass pieces flew in all directions like bullets.
While I thanked God that neither of us was injured, Kalam stood up, dusted his trousers, and said: "Hey man, it did explode!" Later I pursued liquid propulsion systems, while Kalam stuck to his love — solid propulsion. When I was heading a team of Isro scientists at the Viking engine joint venture in France in 1975, Kalam visited us and had kind words for us, though he was a hardcore votary of solid propulsion systems.
On a personal level, too, Kalam was always helpful. This was the time when I was finding it difficult to get my six-year-old son into a decent English-medium school in France. I wanted to send him back to India. Kalam, visiting us in Vernon, offered to take my son back to India. He held the boy's hand through the journey till he was safely deposited at my sister's place.
Neither criticism nor praise moved Kalam. And Isro chairmen like Vikram Sarabhai and Satish Dhawan knew Kalam's vision and let him do what he wanted. At the core of India's first success with satellite launch vehicles was Kalam's single-minded pursuit.
The greatness of the man was his intellectual honesty. In one of our recent interactions, I told Kalam that he might not find everything in my upcoming book flattering. He said: "Then I will write the preface." That was not to be.
(Nambi Narayanan is a former Isro scientist who was in charge of the cryogenic engine project)
As told to Arun Ram
A bunch of young people handpicked by Vikram Sarabhai were working out of an old church in the sleepy fishing village of Thumba in Thiruvananthapuram, with the common goal of making rockets.
To know more, I went to a lodge called Indira Bhavan where some of the scientists were put up. As I was entering, a man in a pale blue shirt and dark trousers was coming down the stairs. I introduced myself as an applicant. He replied: "I am APJ Abdul Kalam, rocket engineer."
Soon I found myself among the small group of men at the church with little resources and big dreams. Kalam, as my team leader, gave my first assignment — to make an explosive bolt.
Our association started there, and continued till Kalam's end. He was a karmayogi. Without a family or any possession worth mentioning, he dedicated himself to work. Life, for Kalam, meant setting goals and achieving them steadfast. Death, he never bothered about.
Once, while I was doing an experiment on the inert behavior of a variety of gunpowder in low pressure, Kalam insisted on seeing it up close. He stood so close to catch the action that his famous nose touched the jar in which the gunpowder was to be ignited.
According to theory, it would not ignite. But a helper had forgotten to switch on the vacuum pump that would reduce the pressure in the jar. This I realised when the countdown had reached the final five seconds. I threw myself over Kalam and the two of us landed on the floor. Glass pieces flew in all directions like bullets.
While I thanked God that neither of us was injured, Kalam stood up, dusted his trousers, and said: "Hey man, it did explode!" Later I pursued liquid propulsion systems, while Kalam stuck to his love — solid propulsion. When I was heading a team of Isro scientists at the Viking engine joint venture in France in 1975, Kalam visited us and had kind words for us, though he was a hardcore votary of solid propulsion systems.
On a personal level, too, Kalam was always helpful. This was the time when I was finding it difficult to get my six-year-old son into a decent English-medium school in France. I wanted to send him back to India. Kalam, visiting us in Vernon, offered to take my son back to India. He held the boy's hand through the journey till he was safely deposited at my sister's place.
Neither criticism nor praise moved Kalam. And Isro chairmen like Vikram Sarabhai and Satish Dhawan knew Kalam's vision and let him do what he wanted. At the core of India's first success with satellite launch vehicles was Kalam's single-minded pursuit.
The greatness of the man was his intellectual honesty. In one of our recent interactions, I told Kalam that he might not find everything in my upcoming book flattering. He said: "Then I will write the preface." That was not to be.
(Nambi Narayanan is a former Isro scientist who was in charge of the cryogenic engine project)
As told to Arun Ram
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