Shreya, Tiger Reporter, theinditimes.com
For decades, the global narrative of space exploration was comfortably dominated by a handful of wealthy nations — the United States, Russia, Europe, Japan — an elite league where entry required not just scientific capability, but also astronomical financial power, and preferably an accent that sounded as though it was already halfway to the Moon.
In that exclusive club, India’s arrival was viewed with a polite but unmistakably condescending amusement — the kind of smile one gives when a child announces that he plans to build a rocket using cardboard and Fevicol. When black-and-white photographs emerged of Indian scientists carrying rocket parts on bicycles and bullock carts, western commentators nearly fell off their ergonomic swivel chairs laughing.
One could almost hear the whispers across oceans:
“India? Space programme? How adorable.”
“Should we send them duct tape?”
“Maybe they think Mars is the name of a sweet shop.”
NASA engineers probably sipped their five-hundred-dollar coffees and nodded knowingly, imagining India forever locked in classroom-level experiments. European agencies gently patted India on the head like a well-behaved child attempting calculus. In international conferences, India’s delegation was listened to with the same tone used when indulging a cousin who insists he will become a movie star while still practicing dialogues in front of the bathroom mirror.
But while the world giggled, ISRO worked.
And worked.
And kept working — quietly, obsessively, with discipline bordering on monastic devotion.
India had no billion-dollar budgets, no sprawling space complexes glittering like science museums, no armies of outsourced contractors. What ISRO did have was brutal efficiency, frugal engineering, unshakeable focus, and the ability to make science function on funding levels that would not cover a quarter of a Hollywood CGI explosion.
It was in this environment — practical, grounded, under-celebrated — that the hero of modern Indian rocketry was born:
PSLV — The Polar Satellite Launch Vehicle.
Not glamorous, not flashy, not loud. PSLV was the workhorse that never demanded applause — the rocket equivalent of that silent student who sits in the first row, finishes first in exams every year, and leaves without attending the farewell party. While western rockets exploded dramatically on live television, PSLV kept putting satellites into orbit with monotonous reliability. India mastered precision the way others mastered budget overruns.
And soon foreign agencies began to notice. First with curiosity, then disbelief, then mild panic. Because PSLV wasn’t just launching Indian satellites — it began launching their satellites too, at a fraction of the cost they spent merely printing budget documents.
The laughter began to fade.
Then came the mission that transformed silence into shock:
Mangalyaan — India’s Mars Orbiter Mission, launched on PSLV-C25, November 2013.
The developed world watched the countdown with the condescending encouragement reserved for someone attempting their first bicycle ride.
“They’ll try. It will fail. It’s cute that they think they can do it.”
But when the spacecraft slid smoothly into Mars orbit on the first attempt, for less than the cost of a Hollywood space film, the cosmic tables turned.
Suddenly NASA dropped its gourmet coffee.
ESA refreshed spreadsheets checking for calculation errors.
China pretended not to be surprised.
International commentators scrambled to rewrite months of snarky editorials.
India had become the first nation to reach Mars on its maiden attempt — a feat the giants had not managed. And it did so with a budget that wouldn’t fund the catering at many western mission control rooms.
The world that once smirked now clapped.
The world that once lectured now requested collaboration.
The world that once refused technology transfers now asked politely for launch slots.
Emails began with:
“We have always admired India’s space programme…”
And India smiled graciously, resisting the temptation to attach screenshots of earlier diplomatic statements dripping with arrogance.
Today, ISRO leads missions to the Moon, the Sun, and soon human spaceflight. PSLV launches satellites for countries that once wouldn’t lend India a screwdriver. Chandrayaan lands near the south pole of the Moon while billion-dollar western landers remain stuck in PowerPoint slides. Aditya-L1 orbits the Sun while the critics orbit regret. The world has stopped laughing — mostly because they’re too busy booking launch space.
The story of ISRO is not just scientific triumph; it is poetic justice.
It is the gentle, dignified revenge of a nation that refused to surrender to ridicule.
To the countries that once doubted, mocked, and dismissed India’s ambitions, ISRO does not say, “Look at us now,” nor does it roar in victory.
It simply asks, with impeccable courtesy:
“Would you like us to launch your satellite? PSLV has an opening next quarter.”
And that — not Mars, not the Moon, not even the Sun —
is the greatest achievement of all:
India changed not just space science, but global perception.
From passengers in the cosmic race, we are now drivers.
From mocked dreamers, we became world leaders.
From silence, we reached orbit.
And the world is still trying to figure out how the punchline became the punch-giver.
— A Proud Witness to the Skyward Rise of ISRO
