by Ira Trivedi
Sachin Vasudeva
Goldstein Smith was the grand finale of presentation week. The big G. The very last presentation, my last chance, my only hope. The investment-banking army had been preparing for this, their final and most important battle, all week long, and watching them had crushed my morale. Did I even stand a chance? Was there any point in attending, I wondered as I tried to keep the dreary, bleak future that lay ahead of me at bay. The smell of latex and bleach lingered in the air, threatening to invade my senses, and I knew that if this didn’t work out, I would have to go back to Lola. The soft, succulent Brie and the red wine came to mind; this presentation could be my last chance to taste the good life, and I could always drown my miseries in alcohol. That seemed to work well for me these days. I took a deep breath and decided to go, and am I glad that I did, because that one presentation would change my life forever.
I was just about to take my first bite of a cheese-cracker-olive combination that I had carefully prepared when I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around.
‘Hi,’ the cute guy standing in front of me said. ‘I’m Sachin, I’m a trader in distressed debts at Goldstein. You look awfully familiar … I don’t know why, so I thought I would come over here and try to figure it out.’
The two cups of red wine I’d had in the last hour made me unnaturally bold. I firmly shook his hand and gave him a well-practised, mildly flirtatious smile. Very early on, after much observation of the MIT and Harvard frat-party scene, I had come to the conclusion that the ability to flirt with strange men was directly correlated to success in investment banking. The girls who could flirt effortlessly usually aced their interviews and went on to get the best job offers. I had also learnt that it was much easier to talk to strangers if I had had a drink or two. ‘Hi Sachin! Nice to meet you. I’m surprised you haven’t been accosted yet,’ I said, looking at the crowds of banker-hungry girls.
Sachin laughed. ‘It was quite difficult, believe me. There are a lot of, uh … enthusiastic women here!’
I felt the other I-banking hopefuls on the prowl glare at me, an insignificant lacklustre backbencher talking to a member of the Goldstein team … Alone! I could hear them approaching, the urgent clicking of their razor sharp stilettos tip-tapping impudently, their pearl necklaces glistening dangerously. I could hear them getting closer and closer, ready to close in on the prey. I couldn’t let them snatch him from under my nose, this was my chance, and perhaps the last one, and I couldn’t let it go, at least not without a fight. The alcohol helped fuel me; I took a deep breath and attacked. ‘Hey Sachin, do you want to take this outside to the hallway? We can talk more privately there.’
There was a momentary look of surprise in Sachin’s eyes but he was quick to camouflage it with a smile. ‘That sounds like a fabulous idea.’
The advancing horde stood frozen in their tracks as they watched their prey slip away from under their eyes. Outside in the hallway, away from the pinstripe jungle, I was able to relax a little bit and took my first good look at Sachin. Although he was stocky, and not particularly good-looking, there was something attractive about him. He was very well turned out. His hair was firmly held in place by a generous amount of gel, he wore a pink shirt with a pinstripe suit and a blue tie. His shoes were polished so well that I could see my reflection in them. Uncannily enough, there was something vaguely familiar about him, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
‘Riya,’ he said glancing at the name tag on which I had untidily scribbled my name. ‘I’m still trying to figure out how I know you. Help me out here, where are you from?’
‘Bombay. And you?’ I lied, not wanting to reveal the reality of my small-town upbringing.
‘I’m from Delhi … no match there … hmm.’
‘Well. Where did you go to school?’ I asked, wanting to change the uncomfortable topic of my small-town origins.
‘Trinity College in Connecticut.’
Trinity was an ultra-preppy school that had a fantastic squash team. Suddenly, it clicked; I remembered where I knew him from. He was a squash player, a rather good one at that. I had seen him play in the finals of the junior-nationals in India (I had been kicked out in the second round, but participation looked good on the résumé). Sachin Vasudeva, that was his name, and he had quite a reputation, a reputation of liking girls, lots and lots of them. Our coach had warned all the girls to stay away from Sachin, who had been rumoured to have defiled many a young squash player on the court against the glass walls. During his squash heydays he had been a skinny little thing, but since then he had gained weight and being short, the extra weight gave him a stocky appearance. You could tell from his swagger that he thought he was a rock star, he had got a lot of play in our microcosm squash world, where any national champion could pretty much have the pick of the bunch. Unfortunately, America hadn’t been as kind to him. The pickings were slim and he was no longer the squash champion. I decided not to mention anything about remembering him. I did not want him to think that I was one of the easy squash girls.
‘Well Sachin, why don’t we forget about the past, and focus on the present,’ I said, batting my mascara-laden eyelashes like I’d seen some other girls do.
And just like that my career in investment banking began. Sachin and I skipped the rest of the corporate presentations and went out to a fancy dinner, on the firm’s expense of course. At the end of dinner he prudently used his American Express corporate credit card and saved the receipt. Several rounds of drinks later we ended up at his hotel room where he offered to give me a midnight crash course in I-banking interview prep 101. I was impressed with his investment-banker style. He ordered champagne and strawberries to fuel us for our little session, though I noticed that he had ordered the cheapest bottle on the menu. In the midst of our prep session, between gulps of champagne, bites of strawberries, and sweet innocent kissing induced by the alcohol, I nervously revealed to him my number. He was shocked. In a split second the kissing stopped, he jumped out of bed, stepping on the strawberries, knocking over the bottle of champagne. He burst out laughing.
‘You have got to be kidding, Riya.’ He was laughing so hard that he almost choked. ‘You want to be a banker with that number, it’s the funniest thing I’ve heard.’
I couldn’t handle his mockery and burst into tears. All the drinks had made me quite emotional.
Sachin stopped laughing and sat down on the couch beside me. ‘Baby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ he said, gently stroking my hair, a look of concern on his face.
In between sobs I said, ‘I know … I know I have made a mistake, I should not have let the number get out of control. I tried, I really did, but it just happened.’ Even though I felt silly about bawling like a child, I couldn’t stop the tears. Like a leaky faucet they just came down and down and down, all the pent-up emotion of the past few weeks releasing itself. Self-pity engulfed me, all my hard work, all my life, why … why did this have to happen to me.
‘Aww sweetie, don’t be so sad, I am here for you. Don’t worry, I am going to pull a few strings, massage my connections. I’m going to make it all good for you, don’t you worry.’ The smile on his face was replaced with a look of pride. ‘I’m going to make sure you’re on the list, Riya, I swear on this one.’
I was a bit surprised at his enthusiasm. Why would he go to such lengths to help a relative stranger? What did he want in return? Questions plagued my mind but I quickly dismissed them. A little ray of sunshine poked through the big grey clouds. My face lit up with a smile and, the big red 3.2 that had been emblazoned on my mind slowly started fading to a nice pastel pink.
The Seduction
Getting an offer was like getting laid. This unique art of seduction that was called the interview process. The investment bank is a beautiful woman. You go to all the corporate presentations scoping out the ladies. You flirt with all your might, trying to get as many business cards as possible. It’s then that you notice her, giving you the look from across the room. Co
uld it be love at first sight? You call her, leaving her a voicemail that you have practised hundreds of times, enthusiastic, but not desperate. You wait sleepless nights for her reply. Finally an appropriate two days later she calls back. You have an interview! The interview is your very first date. You don your finest, dressing for the day you had been dreaming of for days. You are nervous, really nervous. You look into the mirror and ask yourself, ‘Could she be the one?’ You take a deep breath, put on your brightest smile and walk into the interview room. This is it. You pull out your well-manicured hand, the first handshake is important, you know that. It has to be perfect. You have practised and you sport the perfect banker handshake, not too limp, yet not too firm. You do not want to appear weak nor too aggressive. You take a seat and begin. You are clever and witty, gentle and sincere, humble yet confident, all at the same time. Most importantly you exude passion, you would give up your life for banking. You sense that she likes you … maybe even loves you. She calls you, you have a second date. This date is of crucial importance, it would decide everything. Your entire life depends on it. This date is more intimate, and you are more comfortable and relaxed. This is meant to be, you know that deep down. You flirt, you play footsie under the table, and you stroke her hand during dinner. It is going exactly as you have planned. Score! You are invited over. You are confident that tonight is the night. You are smooth, smooth as silk and you sail through the rest of the evening, because you know that the night is yours. You are patient—you would wait for her, wait for her your entire life. It takes time, it always takes time. Throughout the evening you picture it in your mind, the pleasure—oh, the pleasure. As the beautiful night comes to an end she leads you by her gentle hand. There are two doors—the front door and the bedroom door. Which one would it be? She is coy and seductive, you have no idea what she ever does. She could throw you out of her house with an evil smile, or she could lead you to her room for the most insane sex that you will ever have. You are like a dog in heat, following her every footstep. She leads you to the bedroom door, and you are in such a blissful state of shock that you don’t even know what to think. Gracefully, with a coy smile on her face, she locks the door shut and leads you to her bed. You sit back in awe as she undresses piece by piece, revealing her sexy black lace panties, and you know that the job is yours.
Interview Insanity
Thanks to Sachin, Goldstein Smith was the only interview I landed, despite my number. All the other banks dinged me in the very beginning of the process. I had grown immune to the ‘Even though you are highly qualified, we regret to inform you …’ emails that were flooding my inbox. For some strange reason, I didn’t really care because I had an interview with the only firm that mattered. I played it really cool, telling my so-called investment-banking ‘friends’ that I was only interested in one bank, the big G and that I was focussing all my energy on it. They oohed and ahed. What confidence! they thought. She really had it in her to reject all the other banks this early in the process. What a splendid strategy! Focus all your energy on one bank! Of course, they didn’t have the guts to do this themselves. I felt like a goddess, the heroine of the I-banking army; I was the talk of Wellesley College. When I marched past the biology lab and saw the freshmen dissecting their lives away, I wanted to run in and tell them about the elixir of life that I had discovered. If only these poor souls trapped in their lab coats and latex gloves knew how much happier life was on the other side. I basked in the glory of my success even though I didn’t have a job yet. I prepped like there was no tomorrow, devouring all the investment-banking books that were available in the career services library. I went through the Vault Guide so many times that the binding fell apart and I had every single word down verbatim. I pulled all-nighters like I had never done before. I practically moved into the library, spending nights there so I wouldn’t waste even a single precious second. This was it. This was my big chance to turn my pathetic life around. I absolutely had to make it count.
Sachin was the guardian angel the investment-banking gods had sent to watch over me. His vast experience as both interviwee and interviewer made him an authority on the ins and outs of the game, and he eagerly shared his wealth of knowledge with me. The first step in every banker’s life was the subscription to the Wall Street Journal. I scoured it everyday, memorizing the interest rate, the Fed-funds rate, the exchange rates, the price of crude, gold, the Dow Jones Index, NASDAQ, and all other stock indices around the world that I could figure out. I didn’t understand most of it, but Sachin said it was important to memorize everything, so I did. Often, I woke up in the morning with the Dollar–Pound, Dollar–Euro, Dollar–Yen, Dollar–Australian Dollar and Dollar–Rupee exchange rate on my lips. Where did I think the price of oil would be in a month? What was the state of the housing market? What happens to bond prices when interest rates go up? My favourite stocks? Favourite Excel function? Favourite PowerPoint function?—I needed to memorize the perfect answers to all these questions.
During prep-time I stayed away from IBD-GenX. Both Liz and Pam were overcome with a very contagious form of banking anxiety, and it was nerve-racking to hang out with them. Both of them had been invited to interview with every bank that had come recruiting to Wellesley and would spend hours making lists and gauging their competition. Sachin’s soothing words made me feel capable and confident and I didn’t want to dissolve any of my newly found self-confidence by hanging out with them. I was going to ace this interview. I was going to go down in investment banking history as the single-woman army who had invaded Wall Street. Night and day I dreamt of the jet-setting life I would live, the multi-million dollar dreams that I would make, the limousines that I would be chauffeured around Manhattan in, the Chanel suits that I would wear, the shopping sprees at Saks, the weekend in the Hamptons, tables at clubs, bottles of champagne, and more dreamily than ever before, the cute banker boyfriend that I was sure to meet that summer. God, I couldn’t wait to be an investment banker.
Suited and Booted
Her stellar GPA had ensured Liz got first-round interviews at every bank. Unfortunately her chances of getting beyond that were rather slim. Despite my attempts at grooming, Liz had acquired zero social skills and her personality was, well … not the kind that investment bankers would appreciate so easily. I had taken her under my wing and tried to help her as no one had done for me. I had attended the ‘informational sessions’ given by investment banks, sitting at the back and hoping that no one would notice me. But somehow they always did and they always laughed. If only someone, anyone, had been kind. But nothing of that sort happened. I was looked upon as a virus, and it was easier to stamp the virus out in its nascent stage then to take the chance for it to grow into something strong and powerful. It was only when I had become a force to contend with did they pay any sort of attention to me, it was only when I donned the banker look and when they saw the Harvard boys flirting with me did they realize that I had come of age. I wouldn’t want anyone to go through what I had, and so I had taken Liz under my wing as I wished someone had done for me. Perhaps a transformed Liz would do the same for another pre-med pariah, and well … who knew, maybe I would start a revolution of sorts.
Liz, as clever as she was at economics, was a complete idiot when it came to everything else in life. She was an extremely difficult student and her hair was even more difficult. It refused to straighten even though I spent three hours on it. Since my $100 Baby Bliss hair straightener wouldn’t make a dent to her hair, I made her lay down on the ironing board in the laundry room and tried the heavyduty, industrial size iron, but the frizz would not budge. I sent her for a haircut and manicure. I told her that she had to bathe before her interviews, a lot of perfume was not the solution to body odour. I patiently explained to her that red lipstick and blue eye shadow were not appropriate for an interview. I tried to teach her to be demure and ladylike, to speak without spitting, to be careful about food stuck in her wiry braces, to walk in high-heels without tripping, but somehow nothi
ng seemed to register with her except for economics and mathematics. Goldstein Smith was her last interview, and Liz was truly desperate. She pulled an all-nighter before her interview, joining the investment-banking camp that had now taken over the library. She fuelled herself with Red Bulls and the endless supply of free doughnuts and coffee that had been provided courtesy career services. She showed up to the interview waiting room wearing a pistachio green suit with a crumpled white shirt that had a floppy, yellowed collar. She seemed awfully jittery, her hair was unrulier than it had ever been before, and she wore a pair of loafers without any pantyhose. To make it worse, she had forgotten to shave her legs. So much for the hours of grooming that I had put in.
Liz walked up to where Pam and I sat next to each other in our perfect banker outfits, and we couldn’t help but to stare at her in horror. I noticed that she looked awfully pale. She came and sat between us, and a wave of BO invaded. I moved as far away as possible, afraid the smell would stick to my suit and weaken the light, natural Marc Jacobs perfume I had carefully chosen for the interview.
