One Indian Girl(15)

‘Angel funds, venture capital and private equity. These guys help companies that are just born or are growing up. In clinical terms you can call them the maternity ward.’

He turned his back to us to see the slide. All the girls in the class exchanged glances with each other. The girls from the Hong Kong office felt extra lucky to have such a hunk in their office.

Neel continued, ‘We, on the other hand, belong to the death ward. We come in when the company has failed, when the time has come to either try something drastic or. . .’

He dramatically paused at the ‘or’ for a few seconds before he spoke again. ‘Or the time has come to pull out the life support, or liquidate and close the company. How easy do you think that is?’

He moved around the classroom and stopped right next to me. He had great perfume on, the kind that makes you want to go closer and smell it some more.

‘You, young lady. You think it is easy to shut down factories and fire people?’

I was gobsmacked. I didn’t expect to be asked a question in the GS training class, which had people from around the world. What if I said something stupid? What if everyone laughed at my Delhi accent?

I got up, nervous.

‘Sit down, young lady,’ Neel said. ‘Answer from your seat. Where are you from?’

‘India, sir.’

‘Ah, I grew up there. Moved to the UK when I was ten. Anyway, so when would you recommend closing a business?’

‘When all other alternatives have failed. When keeping it alive means throwing good money after bad. When hope dies, I guess.’

‘When hope dies. Nice way to put it. But isn’t it heartbreaking when that happens?’ Neel said.

I remained silent. He moved to the front of the class.

‘Can you blame the undertaker for burying dead people? If people are dead, they need to be buried,’ Neel said.

His macabre analogies made his point clear. It also added notoriety, a level of excitement to distressed debt. What Neel said next helped further.

‘I became a partner in twelve years. Other parts of the firm, it takes twenty or more. Our associates make what VPs make in other groups. I am not allowed to reveal numbers, but if you stick around in distressed debt you will end up a very wealthy man or woman.’

Goldman Sachs never liked to discuss wealth in public. This, despite the fact that everyone at the firm was essentially there because of the money. Trainees whispered they had found out Neel’s equity in the firm on the Internet. He had thirty million dollars’ worth of Goldman Sachs shares. His hotness level spiked even more.

His session ended with thundering applause. He made a final announcement before he left.

‘We only have a few places in the group. Those interested, apply with the training coordinator. We will shortlist and get back to you,’ he said and looked in my direction. ‘Do try. It’ll be worth it.’

Did he just signal me to apply? Did he like my answer? My phone buzzed. Debu had sent a message.

‘Tao restaurant. 58th Street and Park Avenue. 8 p.m. Okay?’

Damn, I almost forgot. I had a date, or at least a ‘let’s meet for Chinese food’ tonight. Before that I had something even more important. I had a waxing appointment.



‘Ohohoh. . . Slower, that hurts,’ I said to the waxing lady.

‘You haven’t done this before?’ said my fifty-year-old waxing lady, Catherine, politely, while ripping the waxing strips off me most brutally.

I was lying down in my underwear. I had come to Completely Bare, a funky ‘high-tech meets comfy chic’ waxing studio on 68th Street and Madison.

‘I have. Twice in my life. In India. Years ago,’ I said.

‘Really? Did it hurt then?’

Hell yeah, it did. Aditi didi had made me do it for a wedding in the family. I almost broke family ties with her after that. If only Debu knew what I was going through to have a plate of noodles with him. Catherine dipped a spatula in a bowl of molten wax.

‘Cold wax hurts more, but the results last longer,’ she said. She applied the wax on my upper thigh, then put a white strip of cloth, six inches long and two inches wide, on that. Hair clung to it. I felt the Armageddon coming.

‘Can’t you give local anaesthesia or. . .oww. . .oww. . .oww. . .’

‘Relax, honey,’ Catherine said.

I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes. I imagined myself in the Middle East. They punish women with lashes if they do something awful like driving a car, offering men their opinions or something totally immoral like exposing their elbows in public.

‘Fifty lashes for Radhika.’ I imagined a fatwa on me as Catherine went to work. She finished my legs from the front and flipped me around. I felt like a fish being scaled before dinner.

‘You don’t want a Brazilian?’ Catherine asked me. ‘It is only fifteen dollars more.’

‘What’s that?’ I said. Catherine rolled her eyes.

‘It’s everything gone, honey. Down there too.’

It took me a second to figure out what she meant. Then I realized the embarrassment and pain involved.

‘Do girls do it?’ I said.

‘Everyone, honey. The boys don’t like them bushes anymore.’

Okay, I thought. It’s only fifteen dollars more. I am Indian after all, and Indians like bargains, even if they involve pain.