by Ira Trivedi
‘It’s a mid-sized town in central India. Booming economy,’ I said trying to sound intelligent. ‘The secondtier cities in India are going to be the next big thing.’
‘Hmm. Sachin told me about you,’ he said flittingly, still studying my résumé.
’Oh!’ I found it a strange coincidence that my interviewer turned out to be one of Sachin’s contacts, but I was not about to complain.
’He told me what an accomplished, clever, motivated … helpful young woman you are,’ Salman said, looking up and flashing me a pearly smile.
’Gosh! That’s really kind of him. He’s exaggerating, of course …’ I said, blushing a little.
’Are you saying that you’re not a helpful girl then?’ Salman was looking at me curiously.
’No, no. I mean, I’m very helpful. I try to be,’ I said, biting down on my tongue. This was an interview, and instead of being eloquent and composed, I was coming across like a bumbling idiot. ’Are you from India as well?’ I said, trying to fill the silence. ‘Pakistan, actually,’ he replied. ‘Squash, eh? I play quite a bit myself. In fact Jehangir Khan, I am sure you’ve heard of him, is my uncle.’
‘Of course, I’ve heard of him! Who hasn’t!’ This was great, I had found the hook in our conversation. Sachin had told me that with interviewers one had to find something in common to talk about, a ‘hook’ which would drive the rest of the conversation forward.
‘So Riya, tell me a little bit about yourself. What drives you as a person?’
‘I think probably hard work. I really put my heart and soul into the task at hand, which is why I know banking is a great profession for me.’
‘I see … and what do you do for fun?’ he asked me with a leer.
‘I love sports, squash, running, tennis. I particularly enjoy working on teams, which is another reason why banking is the right career for me.’
‘What do you think about interest rates?’ he asked all of a sudden.
I felt the blood rush to my brain in panic as I tried to come up with an intelligent answer. Just when I had thought I had slipped past Slimy Salman, he had thrown a curve ball at me. ‘Um, well, when interest rates drop … um … prices drop … oh, no sorry, that’s not right.’ I stuttered, stumbled and saw myself tumble.
‘No worries, I’m sure you’ll learn when you get there, not a biggie.’ After an awkward silence, looking me straight in the eye now, ‘You never know, this may cost you though,’ and winked.
Goldstein Smith—The End. The familiar feeling of when I was miserably losing a squash game overwhelmed me. Chin-up Riya, chin-up, I told myself.
‘Do you have any questions for me?’
When someone says that, you have to ask a question, display intellectual curiosity, Sachin had told me.
‘I was wondering if you could tell me a little bit more your group, collaterized debt obligations. It really sounds very interesting.’
‘Of course, CDOs. The biggest thing in financial markets right now, tranches, synthetic, sub-prime, investment-grade,’ he went on enthusiastically, and I jotted down notes as he spoke, nodding my head furiously and trying to appear extremely interested even though I did not understand a word of what he was saying. His BlackBerry beeped, interrupting him. ‘Damn! Meeting in five minutes. Here is my card, please feel free to contact me for any additional questions … or …’ he looked at me suggestively before he walked out of the room.
That was it. It was over. The interview I’d been preparing for for the last three years was over. The end.
It was a lovely Tuesday afternoon, the skies clear, the sun bright, and I sat in my Bollywood Literature class (a strategically chosen GPA booster) where our plump, Bengali professor droned on about Bollywood legends, Amitabh Bachchan, Raj Kapoor, blah blah blah. I found myself day-dreaming about the life I could have at Goldstein. Dressed in my Seven jeans, my UGGs (bought second hand on eBay), a baby-blue J. Crew cashmere sweater and beige pashmina scarf around my neck which matched perfectly with my UGGs, I totally looked the part of the investment banker. But would I ever get the offer? It had been a week since my interview and I still hadn’t heard back from Goldstein Smith. My spirits were slowly submerging in the darkness. Pam and I were planning on catching the Wellesley College bus into town and then taking the T to Newbury Street to take our minds off the inexorable wait. I mainly window-shopped because everything was so much cheaper on eBay. To feel cool and trendy we would go to the Armani Café and have espressos, the cheapest item on the menu, even though I hated them.
I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I almost fainted when I saw the screen: Blocked ID. This could only mean one thing. I ran out of the room, ignoring the scowl on Professor Banerjee’s face. I cleared my throat, and answered the phone.
‘Hello?’ I said in my most confident, professional tone.
‘Riya?’
‘Yes?’
‘Hi Riya! This is Alison Davey from Goldstein Smith. We met on your recent trip to New York.’
‘Of course, Alison, how are you?’ I said trying to sound as calm as possible, though my anxious heart was beating so fast I thought it may just explode.
‘Busy, busy, busy, but enjoying every second of it!’ God, these HR girls, how did they always manage to sound this chirpy? ‘So Riya, I’m sure you’re really busy, achievers like you always are, but I wanted to take a quick second of your time to tell you that Goldstein Smith would love to have you join us for the summer! You have been chosen from the thousands of candidates interviewed around the country to be a part of our summer analyst programme!’
I almost fainted. I pinched myself. Could this be for real? Was I, a small-town girl from India, really being asked to join the investment-banking elite of this country … maybe even the world?
‘Aaagg, I … er … um …’ Happiness seemed to have robbed me of the power of coherent speech.
‘Yes, I know, Riya. It’s a bit of a pleasant shock, isn’t it! Congratulations on the offer. You will receive all the paperwork shortly in the mail, and then we would like to hear how you would like to move forward. Riya, are you there?’
‘Uhh ya ya. Tha-tha-thank you,’ I said. I was in a tizzy, my body felt light, my head was spinning. I hadn’t felt this sort of happiness in years … maybe never. I nervously waited for the dream to end and for Alison to tell me that this was all a cruel joke and that I had not received an offer after all. ’So … um … Alison, just to confirm, I have an offer to be a summer intern at Goldstein Smith in New York City?’ I asked cautiously.
‘Yes, Riya. Though we prefer using the term summer analyst, not summer intern.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘All right then, Riya! We look forward to getting your acceptance soon. Feel free to call me anytime for questions, concerns, or anything you’d like to chat about!’
‘Thanks Alison,’ I said, still not believing that this was actually happening to me. I had dreamt of this moment forever. I hung up the phone, gave my cell phone a big fat kiss and then instead of going back into the classroom, I went leaping and bounding into the snow outside, my face glowing, my body weightless. This is what I had been waiting for all my life and it was finally here! This was it, baby, this was it. My life had finally begun! I was now a Goldstein Girl.
On a Jet Plane
The twinkling lights of New York City, the Statue of Liberty resplendent in the setting sun, the Empire State Building, and was that 85, Broad Street, the Goldstein Smith building, over there? It had to be, what other building could be that beautiful. I sat with my nose pressed against the plane window. The long journey on the cramped economy-class seat on Air India had been exhausting. But this was the last time that I would fly economy. After this journey I would be up in first-class with all the other jet-setting investment bankers, maybe even private. The sight was an elixir for my tired soul. Freedom … finally !
I had spent the past two weeks in India frantically preparing my wardrobe for my summer internship. I had selected the material for my suits from the La
jpat Nagar cloth market in Delhi, and Mr Chadda at Chadda Tailors back home had carefully copied the designs for the suits that I had printed off the Saks website. I had tried doing the Excel workbooks that we had been given as ‘holiday homework’ but after a few hours of brain-numbing work in the body-numbing heat of the Indian summer I had given up. This Excel stuff was just so awfully boring and bland. There was no colour, no design, not even much thought, it was all just endless rows and columns of cells and numbers. It was all such dull work. Surely preparing my summer wardrobe was a much better use of my time. Besides, I was pretty certain I would not have to use Excel on the job. My boss would soon realize I was smarter than that, and assign me more engaging tasks such as negotiating deals, attending strategy meetings with senior associates and wining and dining clients among other things.
The evening before I left for New York, as I struggled to fit all the suits in my suitcase that threatened to burst at the seams, I found my mother lingering outside my room. More than once she came in, sat down on the bed and then went away, only to return a few minutes later. I was frustrated with my suitcase, which refused to zip, and my mother’s nervous energy was beginning to get on my nerves.
‘Ma, is there anything in particular I can do for you?’ I asked, trying not to sound very rude. My mother and I had been fighting almost every day since I had been home. My parents didn’t understand the new person that I had become and, even worse, they weren’t even trying. They were still baffled by my decision to become an I-banker and my mother was annoyed with my snazzy new haircut (I had cut off the long, drab hair that my mother had been so proud of) and my new sense of fashion. They complained that I wasn’t ‘obedient’ anymore (what was I, a dog or something?). They were hoping that this I-banking phase wouldn’t last very long and that I would go back to my old pre-med self. They knew nothing about the hardships I had endured to get here. Long hours at the library, babysitting bratty wailing children, being derided by the banker-girls, learning how to flirt with frat boys and to drink beer … and now freedom was right around the corner. I had just one more night to pass at home, and the least I could do was be civil.
‘Nothing, beta.’
‘All right … then …’
‘Actually, beta, there is one thing. One very important thing. A subject of great … importance … and sensitivity.’ She sat down on the bed, took off her slippers and propped her feet on the bed. This was not a good sign. She was getting comfortable—that meant that she was planning on staying here for a while. Her lecturing was really the last thing that I needed right now. She had a serious look on her face, her eyes were filled with concern. I was dreading what was coming next. These ‘serious’, ‘sensitive’ conversations never came to much good.
‘Beta, listen, you are twenty now. By the time I was your age, I was married and had a two-year-old child’ she said puckering her lips and cracking her ringed fingers.
Oh lord! I didn’t see this one coming … not the talk. This was not what I needed on the eve of a life-changing journey to New York. ‘Mom, times have changed now,’ I said in an irritated tone. ‘Nobody gets married at eighteen these days. You should be proud and happy that I have a successful career ahead of me! I don’t understand what is wrong with you and Dad. All my friends’ parents would have been thrilled if their daughter was working at Goldstein Smith, the most prestigious bank on Wall Street, but no … geez, nothing ever seems to be enough.’
My mother tried to appease me; she stopped cracking her fingers, came close to me to pat my head. I moved away, my hair always felt really greasy after she did that. ‘Of course we are proud of you beta, so proud. Beta, it is a girl’s duty to get married and I am just saying that there are a lot of good boys in New York, a lot of good engineers, doctors, lawyers …’ she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
‘Just keep your eyes open. That’s all, I am saying, nothing more.’ She saw my stone cold face and added, ‘Just do it for us, beta … The longer you wait the more difficult it gets. Like your Nani always said, it is easier to make chapatti with a fresh, supple, young ball of dough. As it gets older, it hardens and the chapattis never turn out perfectly round.’ So now I was a ball of dough. I couldn’t take this any longer, I got up from the bed and walked towards the door. I heard my mother’s voice call out, ‘Time really flies by, beta, and you have the best selection of boys only when you are young and beautiful, not when you’re an old lady. Raja beta … you will do it for us, no? For your old Ma and Papa, right?’
Goldstein Smith, Here I Come!
6 a.m. I woke up to the early morning sounds of Chinatown, the loud wheezing of the buses, howling police sirens, and screeching taxis. Not particularly pleasant. The smells were another experience all together. Goldstein Smith had set up all the interns in the NYU dorms. As luck would have it, I had ended up in the worst of the lot, a decrepit dorm building, desperately in need of repairs, smack in the heart of Chinatown, not exactly the trendiest neighbourhood in the city. I tried to be positive; at least two very-happening areas of New York, Soho and Tribeca, were a quick cab ride away. That’s where I planned to hang out. This was just a place to sleep. Who knew, maybe I would find a cute banker boyfriend soon, and I wouldn’t have to spend much time here at all. It would just be a place where I kept my stuff. I shared the very tiny, very grimy and, as I would soon discover, very roach-infested shoebox apartment with Martha McClay from Greenwich, Connecticut. She was the perfect WASP, and a super banker in the making. She was doing a double major at UPenn in economics and English literature, and was on the varsity field-hockey team which helped her secure an internship in the private equity department.
I looked across the tiny room that we shared, expecting to see Martha in bed, but it was empty, perfectly made, decorative pillows in place. She was already in the shower, probably after her five-mile morning run. I on the other hand struggled to get out of bed, I had never been a morning person, even in my long-gone pre-med days. By the time I crawled out of bed, I was running late. I decided to skip the shower and walked over to the closet I shared with Martha, ignoring the Excel sheet with daily apartment chores for both of us that she had pasted on the door. Her side of the closet was perfectly tidy and as expected in full WASP style, J. Crew and Banana Republic rich, with all the familiar shades of pastel. I pulled out the outfit that I had carefully chosen for my first day at work, a grey skirt-suit and a white shirt, monogrammed at the chest with my initials—the classic banker look. Even though it was hot and humid outside, I wore pantyhose that made my legs look fabulous. I threw my black banker heels in my tote bag and slipped my feet into well-worn comfortable Puma sneakers. Still groggy, I grabbed the WSJ that I had subscribed to, which lay outside our door, and walked out of the apartment.
It was a typical New York morning scene, the men in suits, power-walking as they power-tripped, staring into their BlackBerrys, a copy of the WSJ in tow to read on the subway. Wall Street women in their business suits and sneakers, Starbucks in one hand, designer tote bag on one shoulder and a gym bag on the other. I hopped on to the crowded downtown 6 train, and thankfully found a seat. I arrived at my stop—Wall Street!—in just ten minutes. I had not read very much but I guess reading the newspaper wasn’t the point in the first place. It was all about feeling like a real banker. I tumbled out of the train with the other bankers walking briskly to their offices, debating whether I could spare the time to pick up that Starbucks latte I was craving. I heard my phone ring; it had to be a call from India, no one else called me this early in the morning, except for …
‘Betaaa … can you hear me? It’s me …’
‘Yes, I can, Ma, please don’t shout, I can hear you just fine.’ My parents insisted on talking really loudly whenever they called me from India, they always screamed on the phone. The farther away I was, the louder they screamed. I had to constantly remind them that in this modern day and age, voice clarity was not a function of distance. ‘I’m just on my way to work and I’m getting late
.’
‘Achha beta, I just wanted to make sure you are eating properly. Don’t eat any of that American khana, French fries and pizza and all. Also, put sun block on; don’t get a tan, I hear it is very hot and sunny in New York.’
‘Yes, I know, Ma,’ I said, looking at my watch anxiously.
There was a momentary silence, and I was hoping it meant the call was over when she spoke again, her voice brimming with curiosity, ‘Beta, so tell me, have you met any nice boys at your job.’
‘Ma, I haven’t even started work, and I’m late for my first day! I’ll have to call you later. Bye, Mom, love you.’
‘But beta …’ I hung up and broke into a jog. I knew how seriously investment bankers took punctuality and I refused to arrive late for my first day at work. When I reached 85 Broad Street, at the sight of this beautiful monument of my dreams, my soul seemed to lift with happiness, and I became infused with a kind of energy and enthusiasm that I did not know existed. Right before I stepped inside the building, I surreptitiously swapped my red puma shoes with my black snappy patent leather banker shoes. I took a deep breath and, a smile on my face, I walked into Goldstein Smith with a confidence that I had never felt before. I felt like a true banker and this was home, sweet home.
I checked out the incoming intern class from my vantage point at the back of the conference room. There were sixty interns, the crème de la crème of the nation, the shining stars of the future, carefully handpicked from the best schools across the country. The firm’s goal for the summer was to mould, shape and then polish them to a shine before they joined as full-time analysts when they graduated from college. Everyone was dressed to impress. The girls in business suits and pearls, hair neatly tied back, the boys with their freshly pressed suits and polished shoes. Around 70 per cent of the intern class was male, a bit strange for me after having spent the past three years in the all-girls environment of Wellesley College. The tables were laid with a lavish breakfast spread. Trays full of bagels, muffins, croissants, and other carb-rich food. There were scrambled eggs, bacon, six varieties of coffee, fifteen varieties of tea, the spread went on as far as the eyes could see. I hungrily looked at the plates (real china, not plastic) piled high with golden fluffy things. I had been told by several people to watch my weight this summer, I had heard many a sad story about banking girls getting really fat. To hell with it, I thought, I was jet-lagged and it was going to be a long day ahead. One blueberry muffin wouldn’t really be so bad. I took a big bite from a soft muffin that I chose off the tray, and my mouth exploded with soul-soothing carbs.