“Hardeep, today you have a guest for a promotional event on your program,” our Radio manager, Girish announced as he stood at my cabin door.
My program, A Ray of Light, was about to commence in two hours. I had invited a horticulture expert, who specialized in taking care of grass and protecting it from weeds. This expert was coming for the first time for such a radio program, and I really couldn’t be sure how comfortable he would be and how much he would readily talk. I had apprehensions he could be a bit shy on a public forum, in which case I would have to talk more as a radio host. My own knowledge was very limited on this subject and this had, in fact, impelled me to make it available as a part of my program.
It so happened that for some time, the front lawn of my house was invaded with weeds. I would pluck all these by the root, whenever I had time, then covering the spaces with more soil, I would sprinkle water over them. I believed this would make my lawn lush green but to my consternation, hundreds more sprung up at those same spaces. As I ruminated over how to get rid of them, this idea of calling an expert had sprung up in my mind. So, this guest, ‘the weed expert’ was scheduled to come today, and now, Girish had arranged for this promotional event on the spur. Perhaps Girish could read the disappointment on my face, and in an effort to reassure me said, “Oh! You have one of your ‘gardeners’ coming today, right! Actually, tell him to come another day, and yes! don’t fret over the preparation of this promotional event. They will mail me the prepared list of their questions, and we just have to use them. No need to trouble your tired brain!” He had made it seem like a favor to me.
“Girish ji, please don’t do this. I have found a Punjabi speaking horticulturist with great difficulty. He has to take an off from his regular job to reach here and it is unprofessional to cancel at the last hour like this!” I tried to reason.
Girish tried to placate me, “Okay, let him come. You can interview him after this program, and we can air it tomorrow,” he swiped his hand with finality.
“Calling an expert makes sense, only if we go live. The audience should discuss their problems, and he should answer live,” I said in a last-ditch effort.
“Oh, come on! And who the hell is he to decide which plant could be a potential weed!” Girish walked off, dismissive in his final verdict.
I had been researching dandelions on YouTube before Girish landed at my cabin door that day. The expert said their roots would get deeper and thicker each day, and as time went by, their seeds would disperse naturally and grow into more wild flowers. I was watching an attractive yellow dandelion on my screen when Girish walked in. The dandelions became weeds in my lawn of grass, just as the grass became a weed in a field of wheat. Everything was relative. Girish’s words were lodged somewhere inside me when Darshan’s innocent face flashed before my eyes. Girish had not even hesitated for a minute before he fired Darshan, who was the Chief News Head. That day we were sitting at this very place when Darshan had enthusiastically said, “Girish, I want to do a story on the International students from Punjab.” Girish had looked sharply at Darshan, but he went on, oblivious, “Some colleges, immigration agents and employers are exploiting these students. I have been meeting them and have gathered a lot of information from them, first hand.”
“Do you know who you are targeting?” Girish had asked
“First, we will target this gang that comprises three institutes, which are actually run by the same person. Of these, one is an unrecognized college. Bright Star College. Another is a sweet shop called Punjabi Matthi, and then we have this immigration agent, who is the man behind it all - Harnek…”
He was sharply interrupted by Girish; eyes screwed, he asked harshly, “Do you know who provides the funds for our salaries here?”
Darshan stared at him, stupefied. Girish continued, “They are all our benefactors, the ones who give us regular advertisements, the life-blood of our media house. If we target them, how the hell will we meet our expenses here?”
“But someone needs to raise the issues of our own people. Afterall, we owe something to our community also!” Darshan had raised his voice.
Girish stood up, “Running a radio station is a business, and I will run it like one. Period!”
The argument was sealed.
“If you remember, we had taken hundreds of signatures and references from our people to start a radio channel to fend for our community issues. People hadn’t just signed up to listen to some useless film songs!”
Darshan’s angry plea did not cut ice with Girish; he stormed out of the office without bothering to respond.
The very next day, Girish summoned me to his office and announced my promotion. “Hardeep,” he said, “You will be the Chief News Head of our Radio Station from now on. Darshan no longer works with us”. Then trying to clarify things, he said, “A lot of our news will continue to come from India. We will only share the local news that concerns accidental injuries or deaths on our radio. We need to be on good terms with all the state parties. If you get some adverse news concerning any of our fund-givers, you need to consult me, only then will you break it….”
I had got a big jump from being a mere advertorial employee to the Chief News Head, so I had to take my job seriously. I used to anchor the program, A Ray of Light earlier too, and would continue to do so.
In today’s episode, I wanted to have a candid chat with my guest horticulturist, Harjind. I had already told him that he would have a live chat with his audience in which he would answer their queries. I agreed with Girish that I should record my conversation with Harjind after the main program with the mentioned immigration agent, and then play it tomorrow. In this case, I now needed to ask him one more set of questions, which I had already started preparing. There was another stubborn weed by the name of Creep Charlie, which was very difficult to get rid of. As opposed to the dandelion, it was difficult to find its root, and it had an amazing capacity to spread like fire. I made a note to ask Harjind how to get rid of this when Girish walked in with a paper in hand. Handing it to me, his eyes dancing excitedly, he said, “So Harnek, the immigration agent, is going to be here. Make it a point to ask only these questions, and not in any case, will you mention the story that appeared in the Canada Herald.”
A few months ago, the Sunday supplement of the Canada Herald had published a report titled Immigration Agents exploit Applicant Employees, in which Harnek’s name had prominently figured. It alleged that he has amassed lakhs of dollars from his nefarious activities and was indicted in various cases of false claims to provide jobs to immigrants to get them Permanent residency (PR), and fake admissions to colleges. It is unlawful in Canada to provide jobs in lieu of money, but his company was openly indulging in this. I was reminded of the two girls as I read the report. Though I could not do anything much for them, their memory often made me restless. Perhaps this would be my repentance.
The girls will not figure at all in my radio news report, and at the same time these perpetrators would be named and shamed - thinking this, I started making detailed notes from the Herald report as I started translating it into Punjabi. The reporter had clearly observed that the victims of these agents never revealed their names and whereabouts in the fear that this would obstruct their cases, and these agents took undue advantage of these constraints. Since the time someone had mentioned the girls’ heartrending tale to me, their thoughts would flood me whenever I would hear of any wrongdoing by such touts. They were still in my thoughts when Girish called to say he would be reaching by nine o’clock.
When he arrived, he had a closed-door meeting with his advertising agents, after which, he came to my cabin. “Hardeep, remember! You will not mention the Canada Herald news in the morning bulletin!”
“Girish ji, this is big news. A lot of people have also shared on Facebook. Very soon, a lot of people might call us demanding to know why we are not airing it.”
“Hardeep, the thing is that Harnek has been giving us a constant supply of advertisements ever since our radio channel was opened. We have to take care of him. We will only mention the report in the afternoon bulletin, clearing his perspective. We are actually waiting for his call.”
Before I could respond, Girish resumed, “People have a very short memory these days. This particular news will run for a day or two, and if we don’t highlight it, it will die a natural death. If you notice, no local radio or TV channel or even newspaper will cover it. Why should we be foolish enough to lose a regular customer?”
I again thought of those innocent girls. It was as if Darshan wanted to speak through me, “Don’t we owe some duties and responsibilities to our communities and our larger social milieu?” But my lips refused to comply. There was a storm brewing inside me.
The day I had got the phone call about this whole incident, I had impulsively thought of meeting Darshan and secretly compiling a report with his help, and then breaking it on the main network. Propriety be damned! But by the next day, I was visualizing the implications of my actions. I thought of Darshan, who was fired for no reason. Here, everyone from the community wanted to connect with me, a prestigious radio anchor. All writers and celebrities secretly harbored the desire to appear on A Ray of Light, which was garnering wide viewership. I would lose all these privileges if I lost my job. I would also have lost the medical allowances for dental treatment and medical cover for my family. I thought of both my young daughters, who would soon need dental treatment and braces, each requiring a sum of 10,000 dollars. In a few years they would be leaving to pursue higher education in universities that would require tidy sums of money. I tried to reason this out with my conscience. I hadn’t even seen those girls who had been victimized. Perhaps someone had given false information on the phone. But my heart refused to believe that this was not true. The anonymous source had told me that both the girls lived in a basement tenement. Through this Immigration agent, they got in via Bright Star College, and worked at the Punjabi Matthi shop. Each of them was promised work permits for 40,000, with 30,000-advance payment, and 10,000 later from their salaries. One of them was from a poor family and could not afford to pay as much. So, she was forced into a physical relationship with the proprietor of Punjabi Matthii and got pregnant. The poor girl was terrified and tried to use home remedies to abort the fetus. She had no medical insurance, and to avoid being noticed, she decided to give birth in the basement. Her friend tried to assist her in the delivery but the baby died during childbirth, and they disposed the remains of the fetus in a black garbage bag. This friend was in a terrifying guilt that the police would seek her out one day and put her in prison for this crime. One of her close relatives had called me to reveal the whole story on the condition of anonymity.
When Canada Herald broke this story, it seemed like a godsent opportunity to expose this gang on my radio channel. But a few minutes before the noon bulletin, Girish had walked in with a paper, “Give this news somewhat in the middle of your news bulletin.” The paper mentioned this report about exploitation of applicant employees by a nexus of immigration agents that had clearly implicated Harnek Singh as the culprit. We contacted the latter to know his side of the story, and he refuted these allegations as totally baseless, and the report as a pack of lies. There was not even scant mention of Harnek’s Immigration agency in the note. A wave of resentment washed over me, but I had eventually read the news handed to me, word by word. Later, I felt puny and superficial.
I had felt equally small on the day I had discussed the story on “Physical exploitation of employees at workplaces of international Immigration agents” with Girish. I had not been able to get those girls out of my mind and then I actually encountered the one undergoing this whole torture. She stayed in my brother’s basement as a tenant, and was still bleeding profusely after she had somehow undergone an abortion. The terrified girl contacted my brother’s wife, who was a nurse. She helped me meet the girl, and requested me to use the radio as a powerful medium to break this story to the audience. The girl, under a condition of anonymity, told me that it was Harnek indeed, who would take her to nearby places in his Bentley car, and take advantage of her situation. She was a timid girl of small build, hardly 18-19yrs of age, but looked only 15-16. Her innocent face continued to haunt me, and I talked to Girish about doing a program on this issue. He was totally silent at the time; later, he said, “Look Hardeep, we need to understand the system. A lot of colleges in small towns of Canada have already opened their doors to these International students. But instead of going there, they flock to big cities like Toronto, Vancouver or Calgary. Do you know why?” He paused, then answered his question himself, “Since all the wealthy Punjabis have their businesses here, and they can support their community to get their PRs.”
“But a lot of these business operators also take advantage of these needy students and exploit them.”
“How can we be sure who exploits whom? It’s also possible these students take advantage of their employer agents for their own gains. Why should we get into their squabbles? We will only end up antagonizing our patrons who give us advertisements.” He sounded almost preachy as he said, “Radio channels are run with heads, not with hearts.”
I had somehow made peace with what had happened that day, but today, when Girish announced that Harnek was the guest on my program, my thoughts again veered towards that young girl in labor. I imagined her screaming in pain, suppressing her screams so that they wouldn’t reach the ears of her landlords - her eyes welled with tears, her lips half pursed, her hands tightly clenched into wrists in pain, as she tossed and turned her head. I thought of my wife’s pain while giving birth to my firstborn daughter. She had the doctor, the nurse, all medical facilities, and most of all, she had me, her rock-solid support. She had the joy of being a new mother in spite of her pain, while this young child - she had no knowledge of labor and childbirth. She would have been so full of dread – the guilt of doing something wrong, the fear of being caught, the fear that her parents would find out, fear of being thrown out of Canada, fear of an uncertain future … God knows she would have struggled with how many fears to give birth to an unwanted child. I trembled as all these thoughts engulfed me. Who the hell was responsible for pushing this child into this quagmire? The culprit who was responsible for all this was the one who would appear on my program.
I was disgusted. My boss had made sure I helped this scoundrel spread his tentacles far and wide. I was reading all the questions he had sent which should apparently not seem contrived, but a part of my imagination as anchor. The program was about to start in about 10 minutes when the horticulturist Harjind arrived. Citing a change in the program plan, I apologized to him saying,” Harjind ji, if you do not mind, could you wait for some time? We will record your interview after this program, and then air it tomorrow.”
“No worries. I have time,” Harjind assured me.
I walked him to the lounge that was separated from the studio by a glass wall. The guests in the lounge could be clearly seen from the studio. Though Harjind had assured me that he was free for the afternoon, I hated making him wait. I wanted this program to end fast so that I could record my conversation with him. Girish personally dropped Harnek to the studio, as he usually did with all the important guests. Decked in expensive clothes and branded glasses, Harnek extended his hand, his wrist encircled by a thick gold bracelet. Rising halfway from my chair, I shook his extended hand, which he pressed with his other one in a warm gesture. With great effort, I said in a small voice, “Welcome, ji. Ready? …. Shall we start?
“Of course!” he smiled with so much confidence. I felt disgusted. Controlling my revulsion, I read the first question from the list, “Harnek ji, please tell us in detail how long have you been in this business and how many people have reached Canada with your support?” Harnek plunged headlong into answering the question with great many details, but I was not remotely interested in his answer. I glanced at Harjind listening to the program from the lounge. Harnek was engrossed in making the most of this opportunity to advertise his business. I was sickened by his over-enthusiasm and wanted to shout to him that I knew all about his shady businesses. I played advertisements after his detailed answer. It was a part of our radio channel policy that even the guests at promotional programs seemed like experts who had come to disburse information to the audience. I made the most of the interval in which the advertising feature was playing to look Harnek in the eye and ask, “We have received a great many phone calls revealing that a lot of students are physically exploited at their workplaces.”
“You know, the students get a newfound freedom from their parents when they come here and want to make the most of it. This is a game of give and take and happens with their consent,” he replied with aplomb.
The girl’s innocent face flashed before my eyes again. I wanted to scream – “What about all the young girls you hobnob with in your car, taking them to different cities, promising them Permanent Residency!” The commercial break was over, and I switched on the mike and asked him the next question, “Is there a fair chance of those on visitor’s visa also getting a PR here?”
“I love your question,” he said with mock-gusto, “We issue work permits to these visitors, and…”
I wanted to interject, “So that rascals like you can earn illegal, fat commissions from these work permits.” I clearly remembered one such visitor who revealed on a phone call that this very Harnek had helped him secure a fake work permit of a firm, in lieu of 40,000 dollars, but never told him that he would need to clear the English Proficiency Test with a minimum score. This unlettered person from Punjab had sold his lands in Punjab to arrange this devil’s fee, only to be left high and dry. I tried to distract myself but my heart was filled with venom for this vermin who was denigrating the whole Punjabi community. While the next round of advertisements was on, I needled him again, “We also get a lot of phone calls about the money loot by these private colleges.”
He replied, “Everyone has to sell their own wares. No one can sell under duress. A lot of students who can’t score well enough to get admission in government colleges also pay to come to Canada. I think my team did not include this question in the list. You must ask on air if it is possible to secure PR even through private colleges.”
I felt my insides seethe in anger. What mindless person did he think I was! But, after the advertising feature, like a parrot, I repeated his question.
He just needed a prompt to start off, “Of course, they can become permanent employees. Some people will intimidate you saying these colleges are not recognized but here too, we will extend our full help for the work permit…”
I was aware that a lot of students who passed out of these private colleges never got proper work permits. For once, I wanted to ask Harnek some real pointed questions, so he would be fully exposed. But the next moment I found my inner self being blown to a million pieces, perhaps out of my own fears. I had come to the last question in the list, “Please tell our audience how they could help their near ones migrate to Canada?”
My gaze drifted to Harjind, who was restlessly pacing the lounge. It seemed he was fed up of waiting endlessly, what with Harnek’s long-winding, laborious answers and explanations. After finishing with Harnek, I played advertisements again and got up from my seat. Harnek enthusiastically shook my hand, and squealed, “We have a hotel chain here. We would love to have you over!” I could only blurt a weak thanks.
After he sped away, I gestured to Harjind to come in, though our recording was slated to be in the other studio. I thought I would chat up Harjind in the little leftover time of about 15 minutes of this program so he would be relaxed for our conversation even after waiting for so long. He entered the studio with a pointed question, “You usually take phone calls from the audience in your program. Why didn’t you take any today?”
“This was actually a promotional program,” I blurted.
His eyes were steadfast on my face, “Sometime ago, wasn’t there a report about him in the Canada Herald?” It seemed as if his eyes were piercing a hole inside of me. Avoiding his gaze, I said, “Just give me two minutes. We will begin our recording soon.”
“Actually, you can carry on with your recording, being so adept at it,” he threw a caustic smile at me and said, “Though I will give you a small tip. If we don’t pull up some weeds in time, they gobble up the whole grass stretches. God save your grass then!” He walked out of the studio without so much as looking at me. Looking at his receding form, he seemed almost like Darshan to me. I felt smaller and punier, as if stuck forever in my deep seat.