Vijendra Kumar, my first boss, interviewed me for a reporter’s job in 1981 when I was 18. All I remember is him asking me at the end of the interview if I could type.
I told him I was a touch-typist, which raised his eyebrows. In the 1980s, touch-typing was typically what secretaries did on noisy manual typewriters, as there were no computers. While technically true, I was learning from a book and could barely type at 10 words per minute. Most people in the newsroom were two-finger typists; Vijendra himself used four fingers on his small portable typewriter.
I survived and even thrived. I skipped university for two frenetic and happy years to build a mini-career as a reporter and columnist, later working at The Fiji Times during university breaks. Working for Vijendra, whom we called “VK” based on his initials, was a life-changing education.
Vijendra was not the dramatic editor depicted in movies. He was cultured, elegant, well-dressed, and led with the air of a tolerant father. He managed a ragtag team of misfits, troublemakers, and time-servers who were his reporters and sub-editors. From his corner office, he made up pages, grilled senior journalists, and worked the phone for hours. Occasionally, we would hear his booming laugh.
Vijendra gave us free rein as reporters but never lost his touch, which I learned the hard way. Relying on a usually reliable source within the National Federation Party, I walked into Vijendra’s office eager to push my article. He had just ended a phone call when I entered and told me bluntly, “Your story’s bullshit.” He then laid out what his own three sources had reported.
Some claimed Vijendra had read the Shorter Oxford Dictionary cover to cover. While I never fully believed that, his prose was certainly superior.
In 1984, Finance Minister Charles Walker abruptly resigned during the budget debate, furious at Prime Minister Ratu Mara’s decision to agree to a civil service pay rise without informing him. The next morning, a The Fiji Times editorial titled “Quo vadis, Mr Walker?” appeared. The newsroom was abuzz. What did “quo vadis” mean? Vijendra, exasperated, told us it was Latin for “where are you going?” The subversive sports sub-editors embraced the lesson; the next day, a picture of Walker teeing off in a golf tournament appeared with the headline: “Quo vadis, ball?”
Vijendra had a sense of humor. He quietly entered our newsroom one day as a reporter finished an interview with a blonde Australian model in a sari. As the door closed, silence fell. Vijendra broke it with a droll observation: “I’d like to unfurl that sari. Roll by roll.” The room erupted in laughter. The boss was human after all.
Vijendra was an idealist and a patriot who believed in Fiji and the society it was building. However, his idealism was shattered by the 1987 military coup and the difficult years that followed. He kept The Fiji Times running despite constant threats to his personal safety and criticism that he wasn’t fighting hard enough for free speech. Finally, in 1991, he had enough and moved with his family to Brisbane, another irreplaceable loss for our country.
In a twist of fate, I was just telling someone last week how I wanted to keep in better touch with Vijendra. The next day, I heard he had died. My loss.
RICHARD NAIDU worked as a The Fiji Times reporter and columnist between 1981 and 1987.