In a development that has caused the collective monocle of the British space industry to pop clean off and roll under the filing cabinet, an Indian rocket woman has had her sari sent to Mars. Yes, you heard that correctly. A garment, a piece of fabric, a sari, has made the interplanetary journey. The sari in question, belonging to none other than Ritu Karidhal the ‘Rocket Woman’ of India herself, has now returned from the Red Planet and is on display at a US museum. Cue the furious scribbling of similes in the UK press as they attempt to outdo each other with praise for this ‘leap for fashion-kind.’
Let us pause for a moment to consider the sheer, magnificent absurdity of this. While the UK space industry has been faffing about with Brexit-themed satellite launches and debating the best way to attach a Union Jack to a lunar rover, India has triumphantly slapped a sari onto Mars. And what does the British space industry do? It applauds. It applauds with the kind of enthusiastic, slightly drunk enthusiasm that one might expect at a buffet wedding when the best man’s speech is unexpectedly short. ‘Hear, hear!’ they cry. ‘Jolly good show! A sari on Mars! Why didn’t we think of that?’
Indeed, why didn’t we think of that, you space-faring buffoons? While we’ve been busy commissioning studies on the aerodynamics of tweed in low gravity, India went ahead and launched garment directly into the cosmos. One can only assume the sari was folded into a perfect, aerodynamic origami swan and launched via a catapult made of genuine, government-approved ambition.
But let us not be churlish. The sari’s display at the US museum is a genuine, human story. It is a story of a woman, a scientist, who looked at the heavens and thought, ‘I want my sari to see that.’ And it did. It saw the vast, red, desolate plains of Mars. It probably got a bit dusty. But it held its ground, draped across some Martian rock like a defiant uncle’s bathrobe at a garden party.
The UK space industry’s applause is, of course, a masterclass in British diplomacy. It says, ‘We are thrilled for you. We are thrilled that you have achieved this. We are absolutely not jealous at all. Please pass the chutney.’ But beneath the stiff upper lip, one can sense a quivering, a gnashing of teeth. The question now on the lips of every British space bureaucrat is: What can we send to Mars that will top a sari? A bowler hat? A cucumber sandwich? A copy of the Daily Mail?
Perhaps the most remarkable aspect of this story is that the sari is not just any sari. It is the sari worn by Ritu Karidhal during the Mars Orbiter Mission. It is, therefore, a sari steeped in the sweat of triumph, the coffee stains of late nights, and the faint aroma of burning rocket fuel. It is a sari that has seen things, man. Things that would make a Yorkshire pudding blush.
Meanwhile, back in Blighty, we are left to ponder the great cosmic joke. While our space industry applauds innovation, they are no doubt secretly Googling ‘how to send a tartan kilt to Jupiter.’ The sari’s journey is a triumph of vision, of audacity, of sheer, unadulterated chutzpah. It puts our own space ambitions into sharp, unflattering relief.
So raise a glass of lukewarm gin and tonic, dear reader, to the sari that went to Mars. May it remind us that when it comes to space exploration, it is not the size of your rocket that matters, but the quality of your fabric.
