Abdul Kalam - My Life: An Illustrated Biography

Published in Red Turtle by

Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2015

7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj

New Delhi 110002

Text copyright A.P.J. Abdul Kalam 2015

Illustrations copyright Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2015

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

eISBN: 978-81-291-3839-2

First impression 2015

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publishers prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

I Will Fly

I am born with potential.

I am born with goodness and trust.

I am born with ideas and dreams.

I am born with greatness.

I am born with confidence.

I am born with wings.

I am not meant for crawling,

So I wont, I have wings,

I will fly, fly and fly.

Chapter One

Have you ever seen a beautiful sunset? I have, when I was a little boy, standing near the sea at Rameswaram, the town where I grew up. As the sun goes lower and lower, the sky turns a vivid red and golden. The sea reflects this beautiful play of colours, and as you keep watching, the sun dips further till it seems to disappear into the water.

This is one of my favourite memories of my boyhoodof standing by the seashore, watching the sun go down, and then racing home to my mother. Our house was in a street called Mosque Street, and it was built by my father. I was born in this house on 15 October 1931. In fact, I am told that I was the first child to be born in this house! I was the youngest of all my siblings. There were so many of us living in that house! Some of you may know what it is like to live with brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and grandparents. We, too, lived like thatalways surrounded by elders and children, old and young. We had so much fun, playing games, studying and going to school together.

This does not mean that we were very rich. My father had some land where he grew coconut and other plants. He also had a boat that was used to ferry pilgrims. We were comfortably off and I went to the local school with all the other children. My mother, Ashiamma, was a wonderful cook. I may be old now, but I still remember the taste of the sambar and chutney she made for us that we ate from banana leaves sitting on the kitchen floor.

My father would visit his coconut grove frequently. On the days he went there, he woke up very early and walked to the plantation which was some distance from the house. I loved to accompany him but could go only on some days, when I didnt have school or classes to attend. We would set out from our home before the sun was up and the light was only beginning to appear in the sky. It was usually cool and there would be a breeze coming in from the sea. I would hold his hand and walk quietly by his side for he would be saying his prayers under his breath. Then, something interesting would catch my attention, and I would forget to be quiet.

Appa, did you hear how loudly that crow just cawed?

Appa, why does the sky change in colour so many times from morning to night? Do you think it likes to change clothes like us?

Appa, why does it rain? I like rain because then my friends and I can splash in the puddles in school and Amma makes special bhajjis.

My father would listen to all this chatter patiently, with a smile on his face. We walked to the end of the road, went by the mosque, past the famous Rameswaram temple and then took a route to his coconut grove. There, I sat by his side and listened to him talk to the caretaker about soil and manure and rains. I loved standing under those tall trees and looking into the swaying fronds. The light would flicker in and out between the leaves, teasing my eyes. I would close one eye and the light would seem even brighter, as if the morning sun was winking back at me, telling me to have fun through the day.

It was thrilling when someone climbed up right to the top of the tree to cut the coconuts. This could only be done by skilled climbers. They climbed up the straight trunk as easily as if they were walking up a gently sloping hill. With a cleaver tucked in his belt to cut the coconut with, the man hugged the tree with hands and feet in a swift practiced pattern. Once at the top, he cut the coconuts and they fell below the tree with loud thuds. For a while, before I wanted to be a pilot, I was sure that being one of the tree-climbing men in the coconut grove would be a wonderful occupation when I was older. After all, no one can climb higher than that and you could look far into the distance from the top of the trees.

Carrying a few coconuts back with us, I would hurry on ahead as we neared our home, eager to tell my mother and elder sister all about the things I had seen. They, too, would listen to my stories as I got prepared for the day.

Other than my parents, we were many brothers and sisters in that house. My sister Zohra used to take special care of me. I think she was especially fond of me as I was not as naughty as some of the other children. I was quite dreamy and loved to spend time on my own, either by the seaside watching the birds fly around or looking for patterns in the clouds. My mind was always full of questions like why can birds fly and not us? How does the beating of the wings keep the birds up in the sky? Does the sun really fall into the sea at the end of the day? Where do the waves come from and where do they go? I asked these questions to my elders, and when I didnt get the replies I wanted from them, I looked for them in books.

At the time, there were very few books available for children to read. Adults, too, mostly only read the newspapers. However, there was one person in that small town who had many books and who made sure anyone who wanted to read could do so. His name was S.T.R. Manickam and he was a freedom fighter. After dinner, I was allowed to go to his home library and look through his many books. His house was on a main road, and I felt a thrill each time I entered it. What book would I get to read today? Manickam himself helped me choose books that I could read. They were fairytales and biographies and books that explained everyday occurrences in simple language. Sitting there, among the tall bookshelves, the light coming feebly from some lamps, I would look at the flickering shadows of the cupboards on the walls, see my own wavering shadow among them, and then lose myself in a world of words and knowledge and imagination. That little library was my first introduction to the wonderful world of books.