One Indian Girl(28)

Jon Cruz would communicate the bonuses to everyone in the New York distressed debt team. I had a base salary of 120,000 dollars a year. I felt a 30,000 number would be good, translating to three months’ salary. Anything higher, say a thirty-five or forty, would make it a rainbow in my sky.

‘How you doing?’ Jon said, staring at his screen. He always tried to relax the person before he shared the number. He had the magic spreadsheet with all the bonus data open on his computer.

‘I am good. How are you feeling?’ I said.

‘A bit like Santa Claus today.’

I smiled. But only a little. In a partner’s office one always had to be poised.

‘Your first real bonus, right?’ he said.

I nodded.

‘How do you think you have done?’ he said.

‘I guess I will find out,’ I said.

He laughed. ‘Well, people like you around here. The worst rating in all your reviews came from you. You gave yourself a three; almost everyone else gave you a five.’

I was speechless. Joy hopped through me like a rabbit as I realized people had noticed my twelve months of slog.

‘So your bonus for the year is 150,000 dollars.’

‘What?’ I blurted out. I shouldn’t have but I did. What did he just say?

‘What do you mean what? Like it?’ Jon said.

‘Sorry, how much did you say again?’

‘150,000 dollars. So your total compensation is 120,000 base plus 150,000 bonus. You made 270,000 dollars for the year.’

I felt dizzy. I pressed my feet hard on the floor to keep my balance. Two hundred and seventy thousand dollars, I repeated the number in my head to absorb it. It converted to 1 crore and 50 lakh in rupees. Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm, I kept repeating to myself.

‘You also get a base increment. It is now 140,000 a year. Keep it up.’

‘Well, yeah. Thanks, Jon. I will do my best,’ I said, my vocal chords not too cooperative.

‘You sound funny.’

‘Sorry. It is a big number for me,’ I said.

Jon laughed. ‘You deserve it. By the way, it is one of the highest bonuses at the associate level this year.’

‘Thanks.’

‘But I must add that bonus numbers are confidential. Please do not share them with anyone in the firm.’

‘I understand,’ I said.

‘Good. Back to work now.’

I felt lightheaded as I returned to my seat. I looked at Craig in the adjacent cubicle. I wanted to high-five him. I couldn’t. I simply smiled. I opened a financial model spreadsheet on my computer. However, my mind couldn’t focus. I had to share my bonus news with someone. India would be asleep, I couldn’t call home. I called Debu.

He didn’t pick up.

Probably in a work meeting, I thought. I called Debu again after half an hour. He still didn’t pick up. I heard Jonathan and Craig make lunch plans with their significant others.

Where is Debu when I need him?

Finally, Debu called back after an hour.

‘What’s up?’

‘Want to meet for lunch?’

‘When? Now?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I am at work. Can’t step out. Too much politics happening on an account.’

‘I got my bonus number,’ I whispered to him.

‘Oh. Cool. Tell me.’

‘I want to share it face-to-face.’

‘You will tell me at home tonight?’

‘Let’s go out,’ I said.

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. I will pick a place near your office. Come straight from work. 6.30?’





12


I booked Nerai, a highly rated Greek restaurant a ten-minute walk from the BBDO office. I sent Debu a message after making the reservation.

‘Nerai, 55 East 54th St., 6.30.’

I left work at 5.30 p.m. I had to walk to the South Ferry station and take the ‘1’ train to reach the restaurant. I decided to take a taxi instead. Heck, I deserved a twenty-dollar cab ride today. The yellow New York taxi took the FDR drive, a highway along the east side of Manhattan. The cab whisked me to 49th Street without a traffic signal. From there the taxi drove westwards towards Nerai’s location.

I reached early and surveyed the restaurant at leisure; Greek paintings on white exposed-brick walls. I scanned the wine list and ordered a bottle of Greek red wine.

I received a message from Debu.

‘Sorry, stuck at work. Running ten minutes late.’

‘No issues,’ I replied.

‘Order something. Very hungry,’ he responded.

I ordered a watermelon and feta cheese salad along with a trio of dips. The food arrived. Debu didn’t. I kept waiting.

He entered the restaurant at 7 p.m.

‘I am so, so sorry,’ Debu said.

‘It’s fine,’ I said. I stood up and we hugged.

He removed his long black overcoat and hung it on the back of his seat.

‘Too much work?’ I said as we sat down.

‘Just politics. On who gets credit for a campaign. Ever since my promotion I spend more time managing politics than doing anything creative.’

‘You are senior, after all. That’s what managers do.’

‘Yeah, I guess. Oh, food is here. How is it? I am starving.’