Vijendra Kumar, my first boss, interviewed me for a reporter’s job in 1981 when I was just 18 years old. The one question that stood out from our interview was when he asked if I could type.
I proudly told him I was a touch typist. His eyebrows raised in surprise. This was the 1980s; touch-typing was typically seen as a skill for secretaries who used noisy manual typewriters, as there were no computers. Though I was learning from a book and using all ten digits, I was only typing at 10 words per minute. Interestingly, most people in the newsroom were two-finger typists, while Vijendra used four fingers on his small portable typewriter.
I managed to thrive in that environment. I enjoyed two exciting and happy years in journalism, skipping university to build a mini-career as a reporter and columnist. Later, I worked at The Fiji Times during my university breaks. Working for Vijendra, who we affectionately called “VK” after his writing initials, was an education unto itself.
Vijendra was not the dramatic editor you see in movies. He was cultured, elegant, well-dressed, and well-shod. He led a diverse group of reporters and sub-editors with the manner of a tolerant father. From his corner office, he created pages, grilled senior journalists, and worked the phone for hours at times. His booming laugh would occasionally echo through the office.
He granted us reporters significant freedom but always kept a close eye. I learned this the hard way. One of my usually reliable sources from the National Federation Party would supply me with information as long as his photo made it into the paper—or so I thought.
After being told of a close party vote, I went to Vijendra to push my article. Just as I entered, he was hanging up the phone. “Your story’s nonsense,” he stated, explaining what his three sources had told him. My face fell, but I learned the importance of verification.
There were rumors that Vijendra had read the Shorter Oxford Dictionary cover to cover. While that might not have been true, his prose certainly was superior. In 1984, when Finance Minister Charles Walker abruptly resigned during the budget debate, angry over Prime Minister Ratu Mara’s decision regarding a civil service pay rise, a The Fiji Times editorial titled “Quo vadis, Mr Walker?” appeared the next morning. The newsroom buzzed. “What does quo vadis mean?” we wondered. Vijendra told us, exasperated, “Look it up. It’s Latin for ‘where are you going?’”
The sports sub-editors took note. The following day, a picture of Mr. Walker teeing off in a golf tournament appeared with the headline: “Quo vadis, ball?”
Vijendra’s sense of humor shined through on other occasions. Once, he quietly entered the newsroom as a reporter finished interviewing a blonde Australian model in a sari. As silence fell after the model left, Vijendra broke it with, “I’d like to unfurl that sari. Roll by roll.” The room erupted in laughter, showing the boss had a mischievous side.
An idealist and a patriot, Vijendra believed in Fiji and its growing society. The 1987 military coup and the challenges that followed shattered his idealism. Despite ongoing threats to his safety and criticism for not fighting harder for free speech, he kept The Fiji Times going. However, by 1991, he had had enough and moved to Brisbane with his family, marking a significant loss for our country.
Last week, I was reflecting on how I wanted to keep in better touch with Vijendra. The very next day, I learned he had passed away. It was a personal loss for me.
Richard Naidu worked as a The Fiji Times reporter and columnist between 1981 and 1987.