Mr Arjun
... a story by Brij Lal
Brij Vilash Lal (Tabia, Labasa, Fiji, 21 August 1952 – Brisbane, Australia, 25 December 2021), historian, academic, educator, writer, and one of three members of the Constitutional Review Commission that led to the adoption of the 1997 Fiji Constitution. He warm-heartedly wrote this short story of migration for Stopover (Victoria University Press and University of Hawai’i Press, 2007). Brij was a colossal Indian-Fijian, an immense mind, treated poorly by the Bainimarama government, and died while in forced exile from Fiji, the country of his birth.
I seldom visit Tabia now, the village of my birth and childhood. The place is a labyrinth of memories better left untouched. But on the rare occasion I do, I always make an effort to see Arjun Kaka. Now in his late seventies, he is the only one in the village who has a direct connection to my father’s generation, the last link to a fading past. He knows my passion for local history and we talk endlessly about past events and people. Kaka is illiterate and a vegetarian and teetotaller. Everyone in the village knows him as a man of integrity, a man with a completely unblemished reputation. His wife died about a decade ago and he now lives on the farm with the family of his deceased son. The other three boys, bright and educated, migrated to Australia after the 1987 coups. He misses them desperately, for this is not the way he had wanted to spend his twilight years. He now wishes one of them had remained behind. There is no telephone in the house and letters from his children are rare. He wonders about his grandchildren, how old they are, what they look like, if they remember him, ruminating like old men usually do.
A few years ago, covering a general election, I went to Labasa and visited Kaka. ‘Why don’t you visit Krishna and the other two boys, Kaka?’ I said after he had mentioned how badly he missed his children. ‘At my age, Beta, it is difficult,’ he said sadly. ‘You know I cannot read and write. Besides, my health is not good.’ ‘Kaka, so many people like you travel all the time,’ I reminded him. ‘Look at Balram, Dulare, and Ram Rattan.’ Formerly of Tabia, they had moved to town when their leases were not renewed. Some had even gone to Viti Levu. Kaka nodded but did not say anything. Then an inspired thought occurred to me. I was returning to Australia a few weeks later and could take Kaka with me. When I made the offer, his face lit up, all the excuses forgotten. They were excuses, really, nothing more. He had a deep yearning to travel and see his children and grandchildren but not knowing how. ‘Beta, e to bahut julum baat hai,’ he said — this is very good news indeed, son. He embraced me. ‘You are like my own son. Bhaiya [my father] would be very proud of you.’ If truth be known, since dad’s death, I regarded Arjun Kaka as a father figure.
Once a rural backwater, Labasa was on the move. There was a time when going to Suva was considered ‘going overseas’, an experience recounted in glorious and often embroidered detail for years. Australia and New Zealand were out of the question. ‘The place is emptying day by day, especially since all the jhanjhat [trouble] started.’ He meant the coup. ‘There is no growth, no hope. Young people, finishing school, leave for Suva. No one returns. There is nothing to return to.’ ‘Dil uth gaye,’ Kaka said — the heart is no longer here. Kaka’s observation reinforced what I had been told in Suva. There was hardly a single Indo-Fijian family in Fiji which did not have at least one member abroad. ‘The best and the brightest are leaving,’ a friend had remarked in Suva. ‘Only the chakka panji [hoi polloi] remain.’ The wealthy and the well-connected had their families safely ‘parked’ in Australia and New Zealand, he had said. An interesting way of putting it, I thought, suggesting temporariness, a readiness to move again if the need arose. I had heard a new phrase to describe this new phenomenon: frequent flyer families. Those safely abroad talked of loyalty and commitment to Fiji, of returning one day, but it was just that, talk, nothing more. I felt deeply for people who were trapped in Fiji, victims of fate, living in suffering and sufferance.