SKYLAB SCARES KASHMIR
MEMORIES 1979
Fear was building up around the world a week ahead of the impending disaster. The United States’ National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) had announced that the Skylab, its first space station, as big as a three-bedroom house, launched in 1973, was crashing down to Earth. It re-entered the Earth’s atmosphere on 11 July 1979, and the world waited with bated breath for the final splashdown. What increased the alarm and fear was the NASA, initially, did not know where and when the debris of the space station would hit the Earth, although it had mapped out a potential debris field spanning about 7,400 kilometres across the Indian Ocean and Australia. On 10 July, the Press Trust of India, quoting US Embassy sources in New Delhi, reported that NASA had maintained silence over the current positioning of the Skylab. All week, there was growing speculation over where the splashdown would actually occur.
On 11 July, like elsewhere in the world, Kashmir felt the tremors of cosmic anxiety. Streets, usually bustling with life, lay deserted. On the State Government’s decree, government offices shuttered — their corridors echoing with the ghosts of officials who had fled to seek solace elsewhere — schools went silent, and citizens were huddled indoors after midday. People’s hearts raced in unison, echoing the countdown to destiny. Parks, once vibrant with laughter, now harboured only the rustling leaves and the anxious glances of those who sought refuge. The Government had kept police, fire-brigade and other emergency services on standby mode in the Valley.
I had freshly joined the daily Aftab as a desk reporter, and on that fateful Wednesday, amidst an atmosphere of fear, I stepped onto the 2.8-km long desolate highway from home at uptown Sonawar to my office at Lal Chowk — a solitary wanderer moving on a ghostly road — a howling wilderness, no vehicles, no pedestrians and no shops opened. A lonely cyclist peddling his way to home or a fast-pacing guy racing against time to reach his abode, was all that one could observe. The otherwise busy posh 1.7 km stretch of the Residency Road from the Radio Kashmir Srinagar to Lal Chowk, a thoroughfare that hummed with life — pulsating with the rhythm of footsteps, the cadence of conversations, and the whispers of moving motor cars — was a canvas of emptiness and quietude painted by fear. The landmark sites along the road —Suffering Moses, Hill Radios, Mahattas, Grindlays Bank, Lala Sheikh, Coffee House, Polo View, Pestonji, Ahdoos, Harkar, Sadar Treasury, Blue Fox, Shakti Sweets, Lab Koul, Mir Pan House, Regal Cinema, Radio Light, Solar Kashmir, CMS School, Gazala — the images of chatter and babble — were conspicuous by deep silence and downed shutters like heavy eyelids, drooped over the shopfronts
The usual cacophony of Lal Chowk — the heartbeat of Kashmir — had stilled. The air whispered secrets of impending calamity, and even the street dogs, bewildered by the sudden void, barked in protest. Beggars, a common sight in the historic square, were also missing. Life, the true currency of existence, they believed, was more important than a fistful of coins. On 9 July, two days ahead of the re-entry of the Skylab into the Earth’s atmosphere, a drama unfolded at Lal Chowk. People in the bustling square, like startled birds, suddenly scattered in all directions. Their eyes, wide with fear, fixed upon a descending object — a harbinger of doom, or so they believed. Fear, as goes the saying, like a capricious muse, can deceive. It was no cosmic wrath; merely a rocket on its mundane trajectory. And so, the square exhaled, its pulse returning to normal, like a symphony finding its rhythm after a dissonant note. Prior to the D-day, city’s saloons were abuzz with rumours and news — true and false — about the looming disaster.
In those days, satellite television was a distant dream, and the relentless churn of 24x7 news cycles had yet to consume our attention spans. Kashmir had no eveninger. An eveninger, ironically named, Morning Times, had hit the stands in 1977 with the tagline: Har shaam ko shaya honay waala Morning Times (The Morning Times published every evening), but converted into a morning newspaper within a year. The only available television channel, Doordarshan, broadcast a 10-minute news bulletin at 7.20 p.m. in Kashmiri language, followed by its Urdu version of equal duration. The Radio Kashmir Srinagar also broadcast its news around the same time besides relaying from Delhi Hindi, English and Urdu news bulletins in the morning, during the day and late in the evening. The BBC’s popular Urdu news and views package was broadcast at 9 p.m. PTV also did a late night (9.30 p.m.) news bulletin. In short, the news was scarce as rain in a desert. Panicked people remained glued to radio and transistor sets to get updates on the unfolding story. Telephones in newspaper offices buzzed incessantly, as flustered citizens sought answers. “Is it upon us?” they asked, their voices trembling like fragile wings in a tempest. The daily Aftab was the only newspaper in Jammu & Kashmir that had the facility of ticker service — by subscribing to Press Trust of India and United News of India which, through mutual arrangement, also disseminated news from Reuters, Associated Press and Agence France Presse — bringing in round the clock news from across the globe. But the readers of the newspaper would get to read the news only the next day. And so, people turned to prayer, hoping their whispered pleas would deflect disaster. At several places in the Valley, they offered noful namaz (supererogatory prayers) to ward the looming disaster off, and namaz-e-shukrana (thanksgiving prayers) after the space station, broken into pieces, fell thousands of miles away in the Indian Ocean and over parts of Australia, without causing any human loss.
It was the same story everywhere. Looking to the skies, panic-stricken people waited with crossed fingers and prayers dancing on their trembling lips hoping that the 77-tonne rogue bomb did not fall on them. Elders, feigning nonchalance, reassured the young that nothing untoward would happen, yet advising them to not venture out. Their eyes betrayed the truth. The unknown loomed, and faith wove a fragile shield against falling debris.
Amidst widespread fear and whispered prayers, there was a touch of cosmic jest to lighten hearts. Ghulam Mohammad, a pan shop owner at Lal Chowk, wished for the Skylab to fall upon him. Why? Rumour had it that space station bore lot of gold — promising comfortable future for his children after his earthly departure. In the serene embrace of Kokernag, a south Kashmir tourist spot, girl students from Middle School Jama Masjid were on an excursion when — suddenly — the sky bled smoke. Panic rippled through their young hearts; they mistook the airplane for the falling Skylab. Several girls fainted. Lady teachers and the bus conductor had a tough time in bringing the girls back to consciousness and convincing them that this was no apocalypse — just an ordinary aircraft. Villagers offered them water to feel better.
In the corridors of the J&K Khadi & Village Industries Board, fate wove an unexpected thread. Mr. Bazaz, a retired official, found himself reappointed as Personal Assistant to the Chairman, Harbans Singh Azad. He joined his new job on the day space station was racing down to hit the Earth. His colleagues gave him a new name — Skylab — and the sobriquet stuck to him for the rest of his life. Hundreds of miles away, in Punjab, a baby boy took his first breath on the fateful day. His parents, perhaps touched by cosmic irony, named him Skylab Singh,
The fear of Skylab caused addition of a new cursing phrase to the Kashmiri language — Peyi skylab (May Skylab strike you) — on the analogy of Peyi trath (May lightning strike you). Youngsters jokingly cursed each other by using this newly invented phrase.
In a Radio Kashmir drama on Machama’s cosmic Odessey, the hero donned his metaphorical spacesuit and set out on his mission to guide the Skylab away from human settlements. His wife, practical yet poetic, implored him: “Ensure my parental abode is safe, dear Machama.” The Skylab fall also featured in the Radio Kashmir’s daily family drama, Zoone Dab, with Pushkar Bhan, playing a domestic help, comically mispronouncing Skylab as Seki Lyob.
The police were put on high alert in all the 22 states of India, and the civil aviation department planned banning flights across the sub-continent during the crucial hours of re-entry of the space station into the Earth’s atmosphere. In Andhra Pradesh’s (now Telangana’s) Karimnagar district, rumour spread that the Skylab might choose this patch of Earth for its fiery embrace. Some people fled, leaving behind homes and memories; others bartered property and cattle, seeking safety, and a few secreted their wealth in backyard wells. There were still others who fled to the sacred Hindu cities of Tirupati and Kashi, believing these religious centres were safe. Farther afield, in Bastar district of central Indian state of Madhya Pradesh (now in the state of Chhattisgarh) also, tribal people sold their properties and fled from their ancestral lands in fear. And in Bhopal, officials — nominated to quell anxiety — found themselves ensnared by their own panic. One of them, a Tehsildar, senior revenue official, applied for casual leave and sought refuge at home, leaving reassurance to fate.
In the Western cities, fear was heightened by the memories of the crash of a Soviet satellite in northern Canada in 1978, scattering enriched uranium across a wide swath of grassland. People around the globe feared a similar outcome from the Skylab impact although the space station contained no radioactive components. In Manila, Simon Galves slept and suddenly in deep slumber cried, “Skyla Skylab”. His family, bewildered, thought it a jest — a midnight prank. The guy suffered a heart attack in sleep and died while the Skylab continued its descent.
While people across the world were gripped by fear, the Americans, knowing the Skylab was not coming down anywhere near the continental United States, used the occasion to organise “Skylab parties”. Pertinently, when the spacecraft began its return journey 48 hours before its ultimate collision, the NASA sent a command to alter its orbit away from North America “to avoid risking American lives”. In St. Louis, Missouri, “Skylab Watchers and Gourmet Diners Society” announced plans to view Skylab’s last orbit during a garden gathering at which “hard hats or similar protective headgear” were required. In North Carolina, a local hotel designated itself an “official Skylab crash zone” and held a poolside disco party. An enterprising individual sold cans of “Skylab repellent.”
The Skylab was launched on 14 May 1973 as the world’s first successful space station and the first manned space mission with three separate teams of astronauts for extended periods of time. The astronauts were able to carry out many significant scientific experiments including analysis of the sun’s activity and how it affected the Earth. The last crew abandoned the space station in February 1974. In late 1978, the station’s orbit began to decay rapidly, turning the space station into a 77-tonne loose cannon. Finally, on 11 July 1979, it re-entered into the earth’s atmosphere, broke into 500 pieces of molten metal, and splashed down over the Indian Ocean and parts of Australia on 12 July at 2.30 a.m. Australian Standard Time (AEST), corresponding to 10 p.m. previous night (intervening 11 -12 July) Indian Standard Time (IST). At that hour, majority of Kashmiris had gone to sleep, hoping to wake up in the morning to the good news that the disintegrated Skylab had kissed the Earth without causing any loss to life and property. People who observed the splashdown in Australia said that “the flares were certainly a sight to behold” and “the best fireworks display you would ever see.” Bill Anderson, an Australian pilot, soared at 20,000 feet. His eyes traced the fragmented Skylab — a celestial firework, a cosmic crescendo. He saw bright shards danced, painting the sky with transient brilliance. For 45 seconds, he and the crew held his breath, suspended between awe and mortality. It was as if a colossal aircraft, aflame with purpose, hurtled toward them before shattering into stardust.
The Aussie town of Esperance charged NASA $400 for littering. The NASA refused to pay. Later, the fine was written off but a California radio DJ, Scott Barley, paid it in 2009 after collecting donations from his listeners.