NAINA
Kamala Lakshmi Naiker

Nadi Town, as I remember, was always madly busy, especially on Saturdays. People of all races, in their best, colourful, traditional attire came to sell their wares at the market. They came to meet friends and relatives, roam the colonized, one-street town with old colonial buildings badly in need of paint. Many came to eat at our restaurant, (Ramaswamy’s Lodge in town) and after lunch watch matinees in Hindi or English.

There were two ancient looking cinemas, the National Talkies run by Shri Shankar Bhai and the West End by Mr Harry Veraiya. One screened Hindi movies, while the other showed English on Saturdays. The cinema halls were full on this day as this was the only entertainment for the hardworking farmers. At the tail-end of the town was the famous Siva Subramaniya Swami Temple and at the other end a railway crossing. This Temple remains a landmark for the Indians in Fiji. The town had a few Holden taxis and old buses shaped like a half loaf of bread.  People travelled on these buses or on horsebacks from far places to town in the early hours of the morning. Fiji Sugar Corporation’s passenger train, inherited from C.S.R. days was also a means of transport, a free service which many people used.

My parents had a restaurant in the heart of the town. During the weekdays, we were relieved of work in the restaurant but on Saturdays, my brothers, sisters, and I had our chores which we carried out without grumbling.  Amma, our mother, who studied only until class two, was a linguistically versatile person (she spoke seven languages). My maternal grandmother passed away when my mother was in class two.  She had to leave school to take care of the household. Amma was understanding and kind; she had the classic beauty of an Indian woman. Not wanting her children to struggle the way she had, she impressed on us the importance of formal education. On Saturday afternoons, if the restaurant was not busy, she encouraged us to do our school work in an adjacent room. Whenever we wanted to watch the latest Hindi matinee, my sisters would pester me to ask her - “Amma, hum log mangta saakis dekhe jawe.”(Mother, we want to go to see a movie.) She would smile, give me one shilling and six pence to buy one downstairs ticket and three of us (my two younger sisters and I) would be allowed in on that one ticket. When we returned, our father would be waiting for us. As always, I would be pushed by my sisters to the front of the line to answer all his questions. “Ammago, yenge poite ware?”(Darlings, where are you returning from?) “Naina (eyes), nango saakis ku pone.”(Father, we went to see a movie.) “Yaar, keto pone?”(Whose permission did you take?) “Naina, numbul ko Amma unpachi.”(Father, our mother sent us.) “Appo, yaar padikawago? ”(So, who is going to study?) “Nango padikewe, naina.”(We will study, father) “Nalado, poite appo padi.”  (Alright, go and study.)

With Naina, our father, we had to converse in Tamil every time and with Amma it was different - it was perfectly fine if we spoke to her in Hindi. Naina came from Thindivanam, in Tamilnadu, India, during the indenture system on 10 June 1910 on the ship Santiya II and reached Suva 6 July 1910. My wealthy paternal farming grandparents had an estate of guavas. Naina had run away from home in the clothes he was wearing, with only five rupees on him, to catch the ship from Madras. For an eighteen-year-old, the lure was too great and he found himself on board the ship. Those were the days of dislocation, distance, subjugation and differences in terms of culture, race, religion and work. He told us that he wished to return in the mid 1940s to settle in the Andaman Islands; however, he could not because his debtors did not return the money. So he wanted to send my two elder brothers to study in India but that did not materialize as my eldest brother did not want to leave home.

The end of the indenture system saw Naina become a door-to-door salesman of clothes imported from India. He along with other Tamilians and Gujaratis worked for a Mister V.M. Pillay. On one of his trips to Labasa, he met my indentured, prosperous maternal grandparents; landowners of many sugarcane farms. The union between my Fiji-born mother and father took place in Labasa. From there, they travelled to Viti Levu and settled in Nadi. With the help of a Gujarati, Mr Narotam, who was his colleague when working for V.M. Pillay, my parents opened a restaurant in Nadi and named it ‘Indian Lodge’, famously known as Ramaswamy’s Lodge, Ramaswamy being my father’s name. This was the base for many girmityas. His jahajis (shipmates) and the others would relive their endless brutal experience over a basin of yaqona. We greeted them with folded palms, saying namaskaram to the tatas (grandfathers) with long grey moustaches covering part of their upper lips, twirling upwards at the ends, walking with the aid of crooked canes and to the patees (grandmothers) in their traditional silk saris and heavy gold jewellery. This togetherness and grand dressing denoted the freedom that they now enjoyed after the oppression they faced at the hands of the colonizers. We regarded the elderly as our grandparents. We were happy when our middle-aged mamas (uncles) with impressive personalities wearing starched, brown trousers; white long sleeved shirts and beautiful athais (aunties), wearing mohars (gold coins) in thick black threads; with jasmine flowers decked in their castor-oiled black hair, visited us. Their conversation in Tamil language was interesting to hear.

Naina learnt to speak in Hindi in Fiji and his speech was rather funny. He would say urmaal for rumaal (handkerchief) and simmach for chimmach (spoon). The best of all was his string of swear words directed at the boys working in the restaurant if they made mistakes-“arami, rascol, suwar ke soda.” The boys would laugh throwing their heads into the air, never minding his scolding. We enjoyed this as much as they did.

Naina was very strict with our upbringing but was the most lovable person. Many of our relatives being scared of his sternness would avoid speaking with him and, if spoken to, would answer and disappear hurriedly. If he was angry or upset with anyone, I was sent to coax him and get him out of his not so good mood, to eat his food. We used to wait excitedly and anxiously for his return from Suva.  He would forget either to get off the bus in front of our restaurant or would have dozed off. We would wait anxiously on the doorstep of the restaurant on the day of his return and would call out, “Naina! Naina! erengal, erengal” (Father! Father! Get down, get down). The bus driver hearing our frantic and desperate calls would stop and Naina would get off, carrying large heavy green kethis (Fijian word for coconut-leaf basket) of bananas, mandarins and oranges. We would all be laughing – Naina also, greeting us in return and happy with our welcome. This happened every time he returned from Suva. At times, I wonder if he did that purposely but I know we waited for him and also for what he would bring.

Naina missed out on schooling, was asthmatic, and handled the restaurant accounts. He was small, slender and frisky. From what I remember, he was partly bald with a perimeter of grey hair extending from one ear to another.  It was my father who dressed up his daughters ready for school. Our three elder brothers, after completing their chores, would go to school. Naina would cover our long tresses with a lot of coconut oil, plait and tie it with twine if he did not find ribbons. Besides that, he smeared our faces and legs with coconut oil, making our skin glisten. He did not believe in powdering our faces and anyway, there was no face powder at home. The five of us, dressed in starched, blue uniforms would then go to Nadi Sangam Primary School. During school’s lunch break, we would go home. If there was prawn or crab curry, he patiently shelled them and fed us while he himself was a vegetarian; a decision he made for life. After feeding us, he would make us gargle and wipe our mouths with his wet hands to be sent back to school.

Another thing we did not have at home was a radio. Naina felt this technology would affect our studies and so he never bought that gadget. He taught us to keep our surroundings and ourselves clean. I assume he had a religious upbringing because he made us pray at home in the mornings and evenings. On Sunday mornings, he sent us to the Nadi Ashram situated near the end of the town on the banks of the Nadi River and in the afternoons we attended Sunday school organized by a church member, Mister Satya Nadan (who later changed his surname to Nathaniel), at the National Talkies theatre. We grew up respecting all religions and believing that there is only one God. This was further reinforced at Shri Vivekananda High School where we completed our high school education.

Both of my parents valued formal education and they gave us all the time to study reminding us of its importance. With the advice given by Shri Vivekananda High School teachers from India, they sent us to complete our university education in India. My parents would have been proud that their children have done so well academically and professionally. I always remember the words of my parents-“pad lo, pad lo, nahi to pastayega, hum log to nahi pada, tum log to pad lo.”(Study, study, if not you will regret; we did not study, at least you all study.) These encouraging words have remained with me.

The family that was once all together is now disintegrated, and the family members are spread to many parts of the world. Now, we meet once a year for reunions and recall the happy, glorious days of our childhood, although Naina and Amma are no more.

Kamala Naicker was born in Nadi. She was educated in Fiji, India and at The University of the South Pacific. At present, she is the Assistant Principal at Saint Thomas High School, Lautoka, and pursuing her studies in Master of Arts – English Studies Programme at The University of Fiji.