Kempegowda Launch Station (12°58'38.17"N, 77°34'23.68"E)

 

Even though Kempe Gowda the First died about five hundred years before this rocket station was opened to the public, his legacy remains. In fact, as the first planner of the city of Bengaluru, he has many a statue erected in his memory. I heard that the statues should technically be rotating constantly as he is still turning in his grave; this is a popular joke amongst those who have called this city home for an extended period of time. A person told me, “The beauty of the joke is that you understand it by just living here, so we don’t bother explaining it.”

I don’t think I get it just yet.

India has been relatively reluctant to use rockets for short-distance travel, but some startup here (the word ‘unicorn’ is almost a slur these days) convinced the government to try it about six years ago, and now the paying public has a shiny new launchpad to use. I decide to use the per diem I have allocated to myself to take a little round trip to New Delhi and back; the map at the ticket counter says it’s eight minutes one-way.

The price is prohibitively expensive and far more than my per diem, but I buy a multiple-trip ticket (or 'day-pass', as they call it in this city) and walk over to the conditioning module. I am given a purple suit, earplugs, a quick once-over by a medical professional, and a disposable camera (apparently, I can take a photograph of myself ‘above the earth’ and show it to people, I’m told.) There is a palpable sense of excitement in four out of the fifteen people travelling on this particular rocket, but for most of us, this is a purely functional exercise; businesspeople going to meetings, tourists going to catch a connecting flight/rocket, and wealthy people with nothing else to do.

All science fiction becomes rather mundane once it becomes real, doesn’t it?

The launch is extremely loud, possibly because my earplugs don’t really fit my ears. I can see looks of absolute and utter wonder as we reach maximum height and the sheer blue-ness of our planet lies beneath us; I definitely have a silly look on my face too. New Delhi’s station is bustling with activity, but I walk straight out of the rocket to the transfer gate, back onto my return launch, and do it all over again. When I land, it’s time for lunch.

I want ‘full meals’. The pavement has slabs missing. It’s going to take a few minutes to get to the nearest restaurant. The world is decidedly more brown at ground level. The roads are winding; why are there winding roads in the middle of town, though? What’s this underpass? How do I cross this road?

All the shops' signs say 'Majestic' this, 'Majestic' that; a nod to the theater that gives this area its name. A quaint but proud sign of a city that gives far more credence to silliness, whimsy and nostalgia than practicality and boring old sense. The actual Majestic theater closed decades ago, obviously, but people still call this part of the city by its name. Why wouldn't they? It probably screened some great two-dimensional 'movies' in its time. Were the seats worn and the speakers sub-optimal? I would think so. But was the entertainment incredible and the popcorn affordable? Most definitely.

I think I get the joke now. It's not particularly funny.