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