Tara first saw the sky as more than just blue when she was five—lying flat on her grandmother’s terrace, a broken torch in her hand and the scent of jasmine drifting from the street below. She pointed the torch at the stars and whispered, “Launch sequence initiated.” The bulb flickered and went dark. Still, in her mind, the sky blinked back. She smiled. Successful ignition.
Now thirteen, Tara carried galaxies in her thoughts and rocket diagrams behind her notebook covers. Her mind was a launchpad—constantly calculating, reimagining. Her schoolmates teased her gently: “NASA called, they want their girl back,” but her science teacher simply nodded with quiet pride.
Inside her math textbook were two photographs—cut out, laminated with tape and love: Kalpana Chawla, who reached space, and Dr. A.P.J. Abdul Kalam, who helped India believe it belonged there.
Chapter 1: A Whisper of Yes
The announcement came like a tremor in a quiet forest.
National Science Storytelling Contest – Theme: “Stories That Soar”
Age Group: 12–15
Max Word Count: 2000
Deadline: 7 days
The corridor buzzed with excitement. Students whispered guesses, plotted scripts. Tara stared at the notice board. Her fingers gripped the strap of her bag. Part of her thrilled at the chance—but her throat tightened.
"You should give it a shot, Tara," her teacher, Ms. Joseph, said gently, handing her a printed form.
“I... I might stammer,” Tara murmured.
Ms. Joseph smiled. “Even rockets tremble before takeoff.”
Tara nodded. Just barely. A whisper, really. Yes.
Chapter 2: The Keeper of Wires
For three evenings, she stared at a blank notebook. Ideas swirled, but words tangled. She didn’t want to recite facts about Kalpana and Kalam. She wanted something more… intimate. But how?
On the fourth day, rain lashed the windows. The roof leaked again, sending students and chalkboards into chaotic clusters.
Seeking quiet, Tara slipped into the old science lab. It smelled of rust, old chemicals, and forgotten curiosity. Beakers lined the shelves like retired soldiers. In the far corner, a man hunched over a table, wires spilling like noodles across the surface.
“Sir?” she asked hesitantly.
“No classes today,” he said gruffly, not looking up.
“I’m not here for class. I just… needed silence.”
He glanced up. Thick glasses. Oil-slick hair combed into discipline. He looked like a man used to fixing things few others noticed.
“Moorthy,” he said, gesturing to a stool. “Caretaker, custodian, reluctant engineer.”
“I’m writing a story,” she offered. “About… Kalpana Chawla. And Dr. Kalam.”
Moorthy blinked. “You like them?”
Tara nodded, suddenly shy. “They're… why I want to build rockets.”
He turned slowly, a smile tugging at one corner of his face. “I once knew Kalam,” he said. “Not well—but well enough to never forget.”
Chapter 3: The Circuit of Memory
Every day after school, Tara returned.
Mr. Moorthy didn’t just repair radios—he rewired nostalgia. As she scribbled notes, he told stories no textbook did.
Of a boy named Abdul in Rameswaram who sold newspapers by day and studied under flickering streetlights. “He once shorted an entire lab circuit and apologized to the fuse box,” Moorthy chuckled.
He shared that Kalam fainted during his first school speech. That he wore borrowed shoes too big for his feet, believing he’d grow into them—literally and metaphorically. That he once failed an engineering entrance test, then cleared it the following year with silent determination.
“And Kalpana?” Tara asked, eyes wide.
“Her I never met,” Moorthy said, “but I imagine she and Kalam would've spoken the same language—stars with a local dialect.”
Together, they shaped her narrative. Not a biography, but a dialogue. Kalpana in orbit, sending letters to Kalam on Earth, talking about dreams, doubts, and how failures aren’t opposite to flight—they're the fuel.
Chapter 4: Lift-Off
Contest day.
The auditorium buzzed with students and nervous laughter. Some clutched posters, others read from cue cards.
Tara clutched her notebook like it held oxygen. She scanned the crowd, searching for Moorthy—but the back rows were empty.
“Next, we have contestant forty-seven. Tara S., from Bright Horizon School.”
She walked to the stage. Her legs felt liquid. Her mouth was sand.
At the microphone, she paused. A few students whispered. Tara opened her notebook… then closed it.
She looked up.
“I used to think rockets belonged to scientists,” she began. “But then I met two voices—one from the stars, the other from the soil.”
She spoke not of CVs and degrees, but of trembling hands, broken bulbs, borrowed books, and unshakeable belief.
“Kalpana Chawla flew because she dared to wonder when everyone else warned her to stay grounded.”
She paused, remembering.
“And Dr. Kalam taught India how to fly by never forgetting how to kneel—to pray, to serve, to teach.”
For the final words, she folded her notebook and let go.
“Maybe stories that soar… begin from people who say yes, even when they’re not sure. Maybe the sky starts below our feet.”
Chapter 5: Message in a Memory
She didn’t win first prize.
But her name was called for something just as precious:
Special Recognition – Voice of Hope
As claps echoed, she bowed—but her eyes scanned the crowd. Still no sign of Moorthy.
That afternoon, back in the science lab, she found a note folded neatly on the lab table beside her notebook.
Dear Tara,
You told their story better than history books. And you began writing your own.
I once helped a boy who loved circuits. He taught me that even small sparks can light galaxies.
I never became a scientist. But I became a student of dreams.
Stay curious. Stay kind. Stay skyward.
– Moorthy
Tara sat for a long while, the paper trembling in her hands.
She tucked it carefully into her scrapbook, beside Kalpana’s smile and Kalam’s quiet eyes.
Outside, the sky hadn’t changed.
But now, it felt closer.
As she walked home, head tilted to the clouds, it wasn’t the stars she counted, but the chances waiting to be said yes to.
✨ The End
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