The Moon's a Balloon

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

The most recent successful departure towards the closest celestial body from our own third rock from the sun was from SDSC, a site named after my namesake. 

After a few strong mugs of steaming coffee, some of the cobwebs cleared in my mental junkyard this morning. A little chat with Pichai Moshai tells me that this name has fallen out of favor over the years. For a while, though, it seemed that every other male child was being named after The Destroyer of the Holy Trinity. Some, with extra h haitch or two, some with 'double e' instead of 'i'... (Sathish, Shatish, Sateesh, Shatheesh). To all the parents of these fortunate folks and the folks saddled with such monikers, salut!

Many breathless news reports, hyperventilating WhatsCrapp forwards and saber-rattling clips including one from Ms Doom reminding desis of the past disses, slights and insults from biased western lamestream media have criss-crossed my unsocial media feed in recent days. One patriotic buddy keeps sending me a 2014 cartoon from NYcrimes and it's 2017 TOI rejoinder, reminding me with the Americanism "you ain't seen nuthin' yet", to which I can only reply with my rusty matribhasha - aagé aagé dekhiyé, hotaa hai kyaa. Kudos to all involved and credit where credit is due. 

It appears that some folks are still unable to find enough Burnol in their local pharmacy about what followed the last launch attempt and the ensuing trolling in unsocial media. To the trolls, let us quote the tagline seen at the rear of many a truck, which is etched in my childhood memories - buri nazar waalé, teraa muh kaala (those with an evil eye, may your faces be black). I am sure it's familiar to many in this crowd.

It is not just an empty curse. During those days the blackened face could actually happen for anyone following closely - the ominous dark exhaust belched from the tailpipe of those trucks roaring down the street, laden two feet over the top, bulging on the sides, rattling and shaking, horns a-blaring. 

The operators of all such lorries, for some reason, were called sardarji whether they were of Sikh faith or not. The one best known to us delivered cooking coal to a koilaa taal near us and was a burly individual known as Dabang Singh to me and my friend Babul. Dabang Singh would never need a disguise. His crinkling eyes and bulbuous nose were the only facial features one could see. The rest was covered by thick facial hair and a turban. He had a very large frame and an equally impressive (outstanding?) gut. We often wondered how he squeezed himself in his little cab. He had a soft voice and was always kind in his gestures towards us kids, something incongruous to his menacing physical presence.

This was many moons before cooking gas became ubiquitous in the middle class desi cucina. Getting the main clay chulha (stove) started was an early morning ritual accomplished by the household help, with much black smoke until the fuel glowed smokeless to the bright orange redness. All the neighborhood woke to and started their day inhaling various degrees of secondhand smoke from anthracite. Sometimes a secondary smaller chulha was started as well to cook non-veg items since my grandma was a pure vegetarian, adding on for the extra smokey morning ambience. I do understand now why the kitchen in those homes were a constructed a bit away from the rest of the house, next to an open backyard space. 

The koilaa taal was owned by the youngest of Babul's uncles. We never knew his real name except but he was Toofaan kaku to Babul and to me. He had not managed to get past high school board exam and gave up after several attempts. But had an infectious enthusiasm about many things in common with us kids - like fireworks. We all got along well. He and Dabang Singh shared a bidi or two, half-heartedly telling us to stay out of the way when the huge chunks of anthracite straight from the coal fields were being unloaded. Both those guys were always caked with layer of coal dust. 

Which brings me to July 1969. We were all vaguely aware of space race, not at the top of our priority. Summer vacations were over. Sr. Carmella kept us sufficiently busy and mostly out of trouble. But the adults were all abuzz with the discussions of Sputniks, Soyuz, Mercury, Gemini, Apollos, etc. There were colorful pictures in many glossy magazines with many words. Newspapers were still black and white - both their reporting and their ink. The pupstronaut Laika was famous and achieved a higher degree of admiration from our crowd than Comradess Tereshkova or Comrade Gagarin. Soviet influence on available information was indeed far and wide in India. Americans may have just been getting into that game. 

Babul and I had looked at the big Saturn V pictures and tried to imagine the actual size compared to the "rockets" from our Diwali fireworks. The orbits were weird elliptical circles and path to be followed by the spacecraft was unfathomable. One could see the moon in the night sky clearly on most nights, without any obstructions between that orb and ours. Why not go directly rather than waste time circling earth and moon? What lunacy was that? Except during those lunar eclipses which Toofan tried to explain with the involvement of rahu & ketu which made about as much sense as any of his other explanations. Sometimes these adults didn't seem too bright to us.

We wondered how big the fireworks masala would have to be able to go to the moon. Toofaan must have read at least some part of the newspaper articles. He proclaimed with the voice of authority, telling us that it would have to be bigger than all the pile in his koilaa taal. And that it would make a loud bang much much louder than the loudest fireworks he had obtained the previous Diwali called the atom bom, reminding us that our ignorance was a direct result of adult intervention from the previous Diwali. We had gotten to witness the might of the atom bom procured by him, a once in a lifetime event. It was swiftly banned forever by the adults in the neighborhood after the first and only performance. Babul's dadu and my dad had a stern talk with Toofaan. He sulked around for days afterwards telling us darkly about how unfair the world was. 

As to why one would want to ever want to go to moon - none of us were quite sure. Leaving hometown for summer vacations, going to grandparents' house in a nearby town? That activity was understood and experienced by all of us and was fun. Going to moon where no grandparents were around? No pitch for tennis ball cricket? The place looked grim, dark, foreboding, desolate and dusty in pictures. It wasn't the pretty chanda mama of folk tales. It didn't appear to be made of cheese. No waterfalls or other natural beauty spots for picnics. No temples. No local delicacies that were specially prepared or procured during our summertime journeys. What did the astronauts get to eat? Did they take enough puris with dry aalu sabji, pickles, etc. during their journey, topped off with lassi? Why did they wear strange, mummy-like costumes covering head to toe to go there? No air? No, thanks! They had to skip and bounce around rather than walk on the surface... maybe that could be fun... but we truly wondered if these astronauts/cosmonauts were being sent to the distant, überstrict military boarding schools that us unruly kids were always being threatened with - places that would "straighten 'em out." Babul also started a suggested list of his mortal enemies future astronauts to send to the moon. The Hindi teacher was on top of his list. 

On the morning of July 20th, the 8am news on All India Radio included an audio clip with all the hiss, crackling and static, that the moonwalk was just accomplished moments ago. At that moment in time, the first brave human on moon's surface took a small step for a human as well as a giant leap for mankind.

Life continued afterwards for us without much change. There was more excitement in later years when a traveling exhibit about NASA's lunar mission came to our school. The displays included a tiny moon rock which was quite underwhelming and lots of other shown'n'tell posters and artifacts. It was organized by the US Consulate and accompanied an impressive half-hour documentary of the space program. I was hooked and have followed the various space explorations around the globe since then. 

But I still do wonder about some of our original questions. And as to where Babul's Hindi teacher and others on his list ended up eventually.

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆 

*thanks to David Niven for the title above