Page 20 of One Indian Girl
Greed and investment banking went together. Goldman was honest enough to admit it. They just didn’t mind delaying their greed, for it made the pay-off even better. Gary recounted his journey from joining Goldman as an operations assistant thirty-five years ago.
‘Everyone works hard at Goldman, no exception. If you want an easy life, look elsewhere,’ Gary said. Well, it was too late for me to look elsewhere. I was already in New York. Trainees circulated horror stories about new associates spending nights in the office and sleeping on office couches.
Two weeks into our training Avinash came up to me.
‘I have a group of Indian friends in New York. We are meeting up for drinks tonight. You want to come?’
‘I have to finish the merger model spreadsheet,’ I said.
‘You are still a muggu,’ Avinash said, referring to me as someone who mugs up, or studies, all the time. My IIMA reputation would not leave me so easily.
I had lied to Avinash. I had a haircut appointment. After moving to New York, I had decided to leave my nerdy, unfashionable days far behind. An associate trainee in my class had gorgeous shoulder-length hair with waves, exactly how I wanted mine. She had made a booking for me at a salon on 32nd Street.
Of course, I couldn’t tell Avinash this. Muggu Radhika doing her hair? He would laugh in my face. The news would spread like wildfire in the IIMA alumni groups.
‘You are in New York, will you live a little?’ Avinash said.
‘Where are the drinks?’ I said.
‘At Whiskey Blue. It’s a bar at the W Hotel. Right opposite the Benjamin Hotel, where you are staying.’
Some problems in the world seem to exist solely for women. Like not having anything to wear. I realized I had nothing nice for tonight.
‘I am not sure, let me see,’ I said.
‘What let me see? Just come, Muggu,’ he said.
For the rare breed of girls like me that hates shopping and has serious retardation in the areas of the brain that help you pick a dress, Banana Republic is the answer.
‘Hi, miss. God, you have a gorgeous colour,’ one of the African-American female sales assistants said.Say that to my mother. She stays up at night wondering who will marry me with this skin colour.
‘I have to go for drinks, with some friends,’ I said, ‘and I suck at shopping. Can you help?’
When you have no clue, best to surrender. The only shopping I ever did in my life was for textbooks.
‘I’ll take care of you, girl,’ the shop assistant said.
She picked a navy-blue lace dress for me. It fit well, but ended mid-thigh.
‘Too short?’ I said.
‘Not at all. It’s summer. You look lovely,’ she said. Even though she was paid to say it, it felt good. ‘I would wax those legs, though,’ she added.
Ouch! That hurt.
‘Unless you like it natural,’ the salesperson corrected herself, switching back to classic American political correctness.
I entered Whiskey Blue at 9. The plush bar and lounge had decadent leather sofas and dim lighting. Avinash noticed me first.
‘Hey, you are late,’ he said, ‘and wow.’
‘What?’
‘Your dress. I almost didn’t recognize you.’
Was that an ‘oh my God, you look good’ wow? Or was it a ‘what the fuck are you wearing’ wow?Before I could ask he introduced me to the others.
‘That’s Ruchi, Ashish, Nidhi, Rohan and our dreamer-philosopher, Debu,’ Avinash said, ‘and this is Radhika, guys, my batchmate from IIMA, top mugger and now at Goldman Sachs, like me.’
