Chapter 12: Arrival at ISRO
13 September 1970
Vikram gazed out the window of the creaking state-run bus as it rolled steadily through the winding roads that cut across the northern plains. Air thick with coal soot and the scent of scorched earth settled over the empty fields beyond. Potholes made the wheels jump and rattle in protest, squealing with age and engine wear. Yet Vikram remained still.
This journey didn't begin from any military summons or echoing radio dispatch. It began in silence—drawn not by duty but by purpose.
He was heading south—not to fight a war—but to change the future of India.
His first destination was the progressive, science-centred city of Bengaluru, still known then by its colonial name, Bangalore. Nestled beneath tree-lined avenues and newly constructed institutions, the still-maturing research sector of India pulsed quietly. The city carried a delicate hum of promise—its foundations laid by visionaries and maintained by silent forces of discipline and intellect.
Within this lattice of ideas stood a small, determined organisation: the Indian Space Research Organisation—ISRO.
In 1970, ISRO was still figuring itself out. Its budgets were meager, office equipment secondhand. Oscilloscopes outnumbered computers. But the dream of reaching the stars had been planted—it just needed a map.
Vikram carried that map.
Tucked securely inside his shoulder bag was a thick, System-generated archival tome—a blueprint for ISRO's advancements from 1971 to 1991. Contained within protocols, diagrams, satellite telemetry, SLV launch trajectories, thermal shielding concepts, low-earth imaging technology, and micro-engineering equations. It represented twenty years of space sector evolution, sourced from a future India that had already fought, failed, and succeeded.
Delivering it now would eliminate decades of trial. The detours of guesswork and experimentation would dissolve. With this, ISRO could surpass or rival agencies decades ahead of schedule—and do it not with imported consultants or purchases from the West, but with indigenous mastery.
The journey was long. He first boarded a passenger train from Gorakhpur, carving through the heat-soaked flatlands of central India. The train was packed to the aisles—mothers with brass tiffins full of parathas, Hindu sadhus in saffron robes chanting into the wind, and conductors tiredly shouting station names over the steam whistle. Vikram rode quietly, concealed in plain khaki. He hardly touched his food.
From Delhi, he caught a small domestic airplane, arriving in Bangalore the next evening—shoulders aching, mind acutely alert.
―
The ISRO headquarters was humble. A rustling iron gate protected a colonial-era compound with chalk-dust roads and university-style buildings flanked by neem and gulmohar trees. The signboard hung slightly askew, bearing faded white paint. There was no air of prestige—only focus—and that, Vikram thought, was a greater sign of authenticity.
At the outer gate, he presented his military identification. The security guard, a thin, spectacled man in his fifties, blinked twice before carefully examining the badge. After brief hesitation, he picked up the rotary telephone installed in the kiosk and called through the internal line.
A few minutes passed. Then, another younger guard arrived and motioned for Vikram to follow him.
Inside, the building smelled of old concrete, acetone cleaner, and soldered metal. Engineers passed him with folders, wearing sandals and plaid shirts tucked into belted trousers. This was not the slick glass infrastructure of future multi-billion dollar mission centres—but within these walls, science was real.
He was led through a labyrinth of corridors to a quiet office tucked into a south-facing wing. Inside, hunched over scattered research documents scribbled in pencil, sat a man Vikram knew well from history:
**Professor Satish Dhawan.**
Still years away from becoming ISRO's chairman in 1972, Dhawan at the time served as a prominent and respected figure in Indian academia and aero research circles. The man looked up at Vikram and squinted—calculating whether to treat the officer before him as a bureaucratic errand or something more.
Vikram greeted him politely, said little, and handed him the sealed book from his satchel.
Satish hesitated. Then, I opened it. He flipped through a few introductory pages. His brow furrowed. Halfway through the book, his eyes widened with disbelief. Then alarm. Then wonder.
He checked footnotes, margins, corrections, and cross-references. He set aside his papers on propulsion theory. On one page, he found a fully annotated modeling mechanism for stage separation. On another, proof-corrected logic for orbital telemetry synchronisation—something ISRO hadn't even begun designing yet.
When he looked up again, Vikram had vanished.
Only a handwritten note remained at the edge of the table.
> "Use this carefully and for the nation. A contribution from a proud Indian and increase the security of all our important researchers and scientists, reduce their movements, and must not leak any information regarding this."
Satish stood motionless for several seconds. Then, like a man waking from a dream, he clutched the volume and walked swiftly down the corridor toward the secure wing. Only a handful of officials—six or seven whom Dhawan deeply trusted—would ever see what the book contained. It would become one of ISRO's most precious internal secrets.
A gift from nowhere. From someone who walked in unnoticed and left without applause
—
With his objective completed, Vikram booked a ticket on the next available flight. His new destination: **Bombay.**
A city crowded with smoky tea shops, communist union rallies, perfume-sellers, and the grandeur of pop culture. The real empire of the country no longer rested in palaces, but behind the façade of an industry filled with studios, magazines, cinema, and swelling ideological currents.
Bollywood.
Vikram had lived long enough to see what it had become in his previous life—industry-slanted propaganda masquerading as nationalism, where villains often wore saffron threads and dialogue celebrated foreign ideologies over Indian identity.
But now, in 1970, the underworld influence had not yet tightened like a vice. There was still time to plant roots.
He arrived, rested briefly in a modest hotel, took a long bath to rinse off layers of travel, and began preparing for his next operation.
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