by Ira Trivedi
Hi Gagan,
I hope you are doing well. My mother told me that you were working at BofA. I thought you could give me some valuable advice on a career in banking. Let’s speak soon.
Best, Riya
I received the reply in a matter of minutes. I wasn’t surprised, bankers were glued to their BlackBerrys every moment and it was expected that he reply promptly.
Dearest Riya,
Thank you for your email. I would very much like to meet you. How about dinner on Friday night?
Best wishes, Gagan Mohanty
I replied in a single line. Sounds Good.
Dearest Riya,
How about dinner at 9.30 p.m. on Friday night at Kathi Roll & Co. on Bleecker and McDougal. It is my favourite restaurant in New York City. I look forward to meeting you soon.
Best wishes, Gagan Mohanty
Confirmed.
Strike Out
I sat on a small uncomfortable stool, fiddling with the edge of an oil-stained napkin. It was a hot summer night and the air conditioning at Kathi roll & Co. wasn’t working as well as it should have been. I had dressed up a little bit—a pair of white jeans with a black crochet halter-top, and a pair of newly purchased Prada ballet slippers (to celebrate my pay cheque). I had wanted to look nice, but not seem as if I had tried too hard. I wished I had worn shorts and a T-shirt instead as my upper lip broke out in a sweat, and the perspiration built up in my armpits. The smell of deep-fried Indian food pervaded the air. The greasy Bollywood posters, and the grey, tired faces of the overworked smelly waiters reminded me of India. We could very well have been meeting at a dhaba. a smiling Gagan sat in front of me, slurping on a Maaza. He was wearing thick glasses and his neatly parted hair was plastered over his shining forehead. I hoped it was gel, but the faint coconutty smell emanating from him suggested otherwise. He was dressed in a polo T-shirt, a pair of dark pants with a big black leather belt having a shiny silver buckle and white sports socks paired with black dress shoes. Gagan had already received the low-down on my life from his mother, who had heard it from Prema aunty. The first thing he had said to me was, ‘Riya, you look exactly like in the photo!’ I was going to kill my mother. I wondered what photographs she had been passing around.
I looked around the grimy establishment that was Gagan’s ‘favourite restaurant’. It was nothing more than a fast-food joint that served four varieties of kathi rolls—egg, paneer, chicken and mutton. Thankfully, this would be a one course meal.
‘I graduated from IIT with honours in chemical engineering, and after that I got a job at Tata Consulting, but you know, it had always been my dream to come to America and do investment banking,’ he rambled on.
‘Oh, uh, that’s really cool that you are living your dream.’
‘Oh yes! My parents had applied for citizenship twenty-three years ago and one fine day their number came. They wrapped up everything in Allahabad and we moved to America. I had already done my MBA in India, you know, but I repeated it at Rochester and then just like that,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘I got a job at Bank of America.’ He sucked lustily on the straw for the very last drop of Maaza, and grinned.
‘Number twenty-three, your order is ready, number twenty-three,’ called the waiter in a loud, sing-song voice.
‘You see, twenty-three has always been my lucky number!’ Gagan said with gusto, before he ran to pick up our order, kicking over his stool in his excitement. I picked up the stool and placed it as far away from me as possible. Gagan returned with a basket in his hand and a very hungry look on his face, like an animal that is about to feed on his prey. ‘These are too good, my favourite place in all of New York. I am trying to get them to become members of seamlessWeb so I can order this in the office too.’
‘Um yeah, this, uh, smells quite … nice.’
‘Haan yaar, reminds you of home, no?’
It really did, though definitely not the endearing aspects of home, I thought as I looked around at the groups of rambunctious Indians waiting in what is considered a line by Indian standards. Gagan bit into the kathi roll, the tips of his fingers becoming greasy from the oil and juices that the roll was secreting. I looked at my paneer kathi roll, shiny as a new bauble wrapped in a piece of white paper that now had translucent grease spots all over it. My stomach let out a loud rumble of indignation. There was no way I could eat that.
Gagan continued to speak through mouthfuls of his roll. ‘I work in the chemicals group at Bofa, it is perfect for my IIT background. My group is too good and very profitable. Guess how much my bonus was this year?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Arre yaar, just guess, na.’
I flinched at his familiarity. ‘All right, thirty?’ I knew bankers made a lot of money, hell that’s why I wanted to be a banker.
‘Nahi yaar, it was $83,5034.89. Can you believe that? It is too good, na? Arre, Riya, you have not eaten at all? Why?’
‘I … I actually ordered something in the office before I came so I am not all that hungry … why don’t you have it?’ and I pushed the kathi roll towards him. He looked down at the roll, the exposed end curling up as the oils dried up in the hot air of the ‘restaurant’.
‘Ordered seamlessWeb before nine, you naughty girl!’ he said with a knowing smile which was replaced by a look that was part wistful, part guilty, ‘Are you sure you don’t want your roll?’
‘I’m so stuffed, I can’t eat at all.’
‘Well in that case …’ He gave me a big goofy smile and bit into the greasy roll.
A piece of chicken shot out and landed in my lap.
A Rendezvous with the VP
The ‘date’ had lasted all of thirty disastrous minutes. I left as soon as the dweeb had finished my kathi roll. Even though Gagan was a banker, I could never imagine myself with someone like him. He represented everything that I did not want—a mundane, average life. Marriage to Gagan would be a dream-come-true for my parents, but it would sentence me to a life stuck somewhere in New Jersey suburbia, driving kids to soccer practice and making trips to Manhattan to eat kathi rolls. There was no way I could do that to myself, not now when I had just started realizing my banker dreams. I was destined for bigger, better things.
I spotted a cosy bar at the corner of the street from where Arabic music and hookah smoke spilled on to the pavement. I was meeting Ivana in the Meat-Packing District at 11 p.m. and I had some time to kill. I contemplated going back home, but I feared that once I entered the sanctuary of my bed, I would be too lazy to make it out again. I walked into the bar lit with lanterns of various shapes, sizes and colours. It was too early for the bar to be pumping, but small groups of people sat around eating dinner, drinking or smoking hookahs. I liked the remix arabic music that was playing and the relaxed ambience, so I decided to stay. Instead of going to the crowded bar, I sat down on a cushion and ordered a hookah. Being alone was far better than being in that dweeb’s company. The image of him saying goodbye, with a piece of chicken stuck in his front teeth, floated into my mind. Ugh.
My green-apple hookah arrived and I got a bit of a high after I took a few drags. I ordered a Cosmopolitan and carelessly scoped out the crowd while I waited for it. suddenly, to my surprise, I noticed a familiar face at the bar. Where did I know him from? The lean, athletic body, the cute face with hints of a fading tan, the funny bowl-shaped haircut that was only fashionable for eight-year-old boys. Then it clicked—he was a VP in the CDO group. Jonathan … Jonathan Goodley. Even though he didn’t come to the analyst pen very often, I had noticed him on the rare occasion because there was something quite attractive about him that I just couldn’t put my finger on.
It hadn’t ever been my style to approach guys, but I figured this was different. He was ranks above me in the investment-banking hierarchy, it would be inappropriate for him to come and talk to an intern, especially at a bar. Hell with it, I might as well. I was beginning to get bored anyways. I mustered up my courage and walked to where he stood with a group of guys, s
ipping a Corona beer. I tapped him on the shoulder with more confidence than I felt. ‘Hey Jonathan?’
‘Yeah?’ he turned around with a look of surprise on his face.
‘Hi, I’m Riya. I’m in the CDO group at Goldstein. We haven’t had the opportunity to meet yet.’ There was an awkward silence for a moment as he continued to stare at me in bafflement. ‘I just thought I would come and introduce myself,’ I said, feeling embarrassed.
‘Oh yeah, of course you looked very familiar. I was wondering where I knew you from. You’re the intern, right?’
I was pleasantly surprised by his husky, almost sexy voice. ‘Actually summer analyst is the official title.’
‘I see,’ he said, smiling.
Up close, Jonathan was cuter than I had realized. In a Ralph Lauren, Abercrombie kind of way. He wore a pair of navy chinos and a checked blue-and-white shirt with the sleeves rolled up till his elbows. I usually didn’t like the clean-cut look, but he looked good in it.
‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked, looking at my glassless hands.
‘No, thanks, I’m over there,’ I said pointing to the cushion and the hookah next to it. ‘Do you … um … maybe … want to join me?’ I asked hesitantly.
‘Yeah sure. I’ve never smoked one of those things, I could try.’
He hadn’t introduced me to his friends, but walked over with me and sat down on the cushion. It was a bit awkward, both of us sitting so close together, cross-legged on the floor. Our knees were touching, and I could tell he was uncomfortable.
‘How long have you been at Goldstein for?’ I asked.
‘Actually only a couple of months or so, not much longer than you.’
‘Oh! Do you like it so far?’
‘Yeah, yeah, it’s good. I was over at J.P. Morgan before and a bunch of us left and joined the CDO group here.’
‘Oh, I didn’t know that. Who else was at J.P. with you?’
‘Brian Zeitlin, he’s the head of the group, I don’t know if you’ve met him yet, and a couple other senior folk.’
‘Of course I’ve heard of Brian, though I haven’t had the chance to meet him yet. I heard he’s a great guy.
‘Yeah, Brian Z is great.’ Jonathan was busy on his cellphone and there was an awkward silence. ‘Do you know Gautam? He may come by here in a bit.’
‘Who’s that?’ I asked curiously. Gautam was an Indian name, though Jonathan pronounced it like Gotham, like Gotham City in the Batman movies.
‘Oh yeah, I think he quit before you kids arrived. Gautam Pandey, he’s a great guy.’
‘Oh, all right.’
There was yet another uncomfortable pause.
‘So where did you go to school?’ he asked me, trying to fill the silence.
‘You mean, where am I at school.’
He chuckled, ‘Oh yeah, I forgot. You’re an intern … I mean summer analyst.’
‘I’m at Wellesley, close to Boston.’
‘Of course I know where Wellesley is. I knew some girls who went there. I even boarded the Booty Bus on occasion,’ he said conspiratorially, referring to the infamous Wellesley bus service to harvard and MIT. The Wellesley bus was infamous. On weekends it transported girls from Wellesley to frat houses at Harvard and MIT and vice versa. It ran till the wee hours of the morn and carried bunches of testosterone-starved women, more often than not scandalously dressed, into the arms of lovers, returning them safely to their dorms at Wellesley the following day though this time they sported boys’ sweatshirts and sweatpants.
‘Ah, so you were one of those boys who came to Wellesley, eh?’ I said, trying to flirt with him just a little bit.
‘Fine, I actually only came once, and boy, or maybe I should say girl, what a crazy time!’ He rolled his eyes and we both laughed. ‘Hey, I’m going to go outside and smoke a cig, wanna come?’ he asked.
‘Sure.’
We went outside and he pulled out a dishevelled pack of Camels and offered it to me. Even though I didn’t smoke, I took one and lit it. We were standing shoulder to shoulder and I realized that he was only about an inch taller than I was although he had seemed taller.
‘So, Intern, are you enjoying the CDO structuring group?’
‘I am. I’m learning a lot … but it’s hard.’
‘I can imagine that. CDOs are tough, they aren’t plain vanilla, I still don’t know what the hell I am doing a lot of the time.’ He laughed quietly. There was a seriousness in his demeanour and the way he talked, but he was not forbidding in the least. ‘Don’t worry about it, you don’t have to understand the ins and outs of CDOs, just get the feel of working at a bank. If you can do that then consider your summer well spent. At your age, I was a monkey, a complete idiot.’
‘Somehow, I doubt that. how did you end up in banking?’
‘By chance actually. After college, I didn’t know what to do, so I did what everyone else was doing—applying for banking jobs. The only job I got was at Bankers Trust and that’s where I met Brian, who is an absolute genius and a fantastic person. He basically created CDOs. I was fortunate enough to meet him in the beginning of my career, and since I was a monkey, a jock-monkey at that, I just followed the people I liked. I trusted Brian, and when he moved from Bankers to Deutcshe Bank, then to J.P. Morgan, and eventually to Goldstein, I went with him. A bit of advice as you enter the real world; it’s the people who make the job, not the bank or the group … and definitely not the money.’
By this time he had finished his cigarette. My throat was itching from the few puffs that I had taken and I desperately needed some water. We walked back inside.
‘Do you mind if we go to the bar, I’m not sure about this cushion thing,’ Jonathan said looking apprehensively at the cushions.
‘Sure, I guess these cushions are not Aeron chairs,’ I said looking at him with a smile.
The place had filled up now and the music had gotten loud. I took the only vacant stool at the bar while he stood in front of me leaning against it. He ordered a Cosmopolitan for me. I noticed that he had really nice arms.
‘So you said you were a jock? What did you play?’
‘I played tennis at college, and then spent two years after that playing the circuit, but I realized I just wasn’t good enough to make it.’
‘Where were you at school?’
‘Harvard.’
Ah. A Harvard guy. Nice. ‘I spent a little bit of time at Harvard actually,’ I said.
‘Oh yeah, like classes and stuff?’ he questioned.
‘More like the frat parties, but I never liked them very much.’
‘Yeah, those parties can be a bit stuffy, especially if you don’t go to school at Harvard. I was in the PC, and the whole club thing got a bit boring at times.’
I had heard about the Porcellian Club, probably Harvard’s most snotty Final Club. You had to be someone special to get in. More than one offended Wellesley girl had berated the club as sexist because they would not allow girls into the clubhouse. The only time an exception was made was on the day of your wedding to a club member.
‘I played a lot of squash in India, I was somewhat of a recruit to Wellesley,’ I said, leaving out the fact that the Wellesley squash programme had been so shitty that at the end of last season it had lost its varsity status. I was hoping my athletic abilities would impress him.
‘Oh that’s great! squash is a fabulous sport. You must be fit,’ he said looking me up and down.
‘Was. Before I started banking. But now with seamlessWeb …’ We were both a bit tipsy at this point, and we laughed a little louder than we should have.
‘Seamless is fatal, I gained twenty pounds during my first year of banking. After that I started wearing a pair of shorts underneath my pants and kept a pair of sneakers under my desk. Whatever downtime I would get, I went for runs around the block. Once I got in four runs during the day. I had to stop doing that though; people started avoiding working me because I smelled too much.’
Jonathan ordered me another
Cosmo, my third. The bar which earlier in the evening had been a mix of people was now mostly Arab, and there were a few desis around as well. There was a really fat arab guy swinging his hips, a belly-dancer who needed to lose some weight, a few girls who were going totally berserk on the dance floor, a few Indian guys who were trying to act cool with their spiky gelled hair and flashy Aviators. We pointed out these people to each other and laughed. He led me on to the dance floor were we danced a little bit, sometimes imitating the people we saw and sometimes swaying together, though always an appropriate few inches away from each other. I didn’t like dancing. I had realized a long time ago that I had two left feet. Mostly I just swayed to the beat and when the music got thumping or a song that I particularly liked came on I would raise my hand and clap. Jonathan was funny, he danced to the Arabic music as if he was dancing to hip-hop, mostly pounding his arms up and down in the air and rolling his shoulders. As more people came on to the dance floor I found myself pushed closer to Jonathan. At one point when someone was trying to cross the dance floor, he pulled me towards him and held me close, his arm around my back so that the person could pass behind me. He held me for only a brief second though it felt much longer. I wanted to put my arms around his waist, or loop my fingers in the loops of his pants like I sometimes did with boys I liked, but he was the VP of the group and it would be completely inappropriate. And even though my bladder was about to burst, the result of too many drinks, I didn’t want to leave Jonathan. I finally excused myself and carefully navigated my way to the restroom. I felt his eyes on my back (or at least I imagined him watching me) and I tried to walk to the bathroom in a sexy fashion, as sexily as my drunken state, high heels and the crowds would allow. In the bathroom I checked my phone for the first time that evening. shit. It was 1.30 a.m., and I had fourteen missed calls from Ivana. I was supposed to have met her two-and-a-half hours ago! she was going to kill me. Peeing had never felt better than it did then, as I felt my taut bladder decompress into softness. The wine had made me sleepy and mellow and now after emptying my bladder, I felt my eyelids droop, heavy with sleep and exhaustion. Even though I was enjoying myself immensely, I needed to go home. I went up to Jonathan and waved my phone in front of him.