Hindi

Having grown up in Bombay, I am, as they say, almost a native speaker of Hindi (I can see those who know me personally going yeah right!, and that incident at Haji Ali... - lets not get into that shall we). The only glitch is the version I speak, much to the horror of the true native speakers, is "Bambaiya Hindi". Frankly, I don't think there is anything wrong with it. It is hindi for the most part, with a little (generous?) sprinkling of English, Marathi, Konkani, and sometimes even Gujarati words, with sentence construction that would put even Bush to shame. My Hindi teacher, however, had no appreciation for this sort, and gave me lot of grief and very small scores. So much so that I almost gave up speaking the language, until absolutely necessary.

Recently, however, I have found myself speaking in the language quite a bit. It pretty much offers me the freedom of saying whatever I like (things that I've to say are almost inevitably offensive to half the world), with only my intended listener comprehending. It is only after one has come to a foreign land that one understands how great a code the native language makes. There is however a problem with this. Our love affair with English manifests itself in the predilection for using English verbs and nouns. Thats the reason I have dedicated the past few years to perfecting the fine art of speaking Hindi as a code and in the process contributed a great deal of words to the Hindi vocabulary.

So for the newbies of the art, so you don't have to reinvent the wheel, here is a glossary of some tricky words. My hindi teacher will weep if he sees this.

Goldman Sachs: Sona Aadmi
Soc Gen (Societe Generale):  Samaaj Saamanya
Merrill Lynch: Saand (remember the logo)
barclays: cheel (the logo again)
lehman brothers: Bhai log

Bear stearns: Bhaalu

Royal Bank of Canada: Canada ki shaahi bank

chinese: saste byapaari
French - Pyaaz bechne waale/ mendhak
Spanish - Bail ke hatyaare
Japanese: whale ke shikaari
Italian - Sonia ke deshwaasi
Britain: Raani ka desh
Russian: Bandook bechne waale
Goa: Feni ka pradesh

Jasmine (she was one of my best sales): Chameli
buy side: khareedne wali baju
sell side: bechne waali baju
Head hunter: Dimag ke shikaari (my personal favorite)

There are few more which I dont recollect right. Shall put them up when I recollect.

Financial Journalism

In an age where you need to fill your quota of column inches, uneventful Fridays can be a nightmare. 

Kappa Due

Last week saw one of the worst accidents in mountaineering history, with almost 11 climbers giving in to nature's fury, on their way back from summit attempt of K2. Mountaineering is a dangerous game, and I am sure every one of them was full aware that there was a good chance they wouldn't return. I guess it is precisely this love affair with danger that took them there is in the first place (it is the sort of thing that makes me want to race speedboats). In mountaineering circles, K2 is the holy grail, it may not be the tallest, but is by far the toughest of the 14 that are above that 8000m mark. 

It is not surprising then that accidents like this will happen, seracs will fall and ropes will be cut. It incident however provides us a rare glimpse into human psyche and behavior under stress. One of the survivors Wilco Van Rooijen describes the harrowing incident. How the people who found themselves stranded at the summit, started thinking of solely their own survival. To put it in his words "They were thinking of using My Gas and My rope. Everybody was fighting for himself and I still do not understand why everybody was leaving each other". Well, that is what happens when things go bad. There are no friends or team mates. Its every man for himself.

Its something I have seen closer home even in less extreme situations. I have to now stand guarding borders against other traders in the same firm poaching on my business. A business they would have gladly sent to me in better times. And on a larger scale, we've seen how wall street turned on some of its own (Bear Stearns, wouldn't have gone down otherwise) when the going got tough. I digress.

New York times lamented other day about how we have lost the camaraderie in mountaineering.  They recounted an incident almost 60 years ago from the golden age of Himalayan expeditions, which in involved a couple of fellow Columbia Alumni. It was the expedition to K2 led by Dr. Charles Houston. On their way back one of the members Art Gilkey contracted thrombophlebitis, and had to be carried by the other members, however the other members didn't for once think of leaving him behind. Gilkey eventually did succumb to the Savage Mountain, possibly saving his teammates, but the event has gone down the history as "Homeric retreat" of Dr. Houston's party. 

Interestingly enough, few years later, when the Italian team led by Achille Compagnoni, finally did conquer the peak, that summit is a legacy of backstabbing and betrayal. I guess then contrary to what the Times will have times haven't really changed.  Or maybe its just something in kappa Due that brings out the best and the worst in men.

Nemesis needed

The other day Matt was complaining how tough it has become these days. So much so that some of us are even disowning our mistresses in Monaco and Milan. He longed for the boring days when business was so easy to come by and when the trees in the park would blossom with money. we only needed to go and pluck. So, to cheer him up we dug out this from craigslist:

Nemesis required. 6-month project with possibilty to extend

Date: 2008-05-07, 2:49PM PDT


I've been trying to think of ways to spice up my life. I'm 35 years old, happily married with two kids and I have a good job in insurance. But somethings missing. I feel like I'm old before my time. I need to inject some excitement into my daily routine through my arm before its too late. I need a challenge, something to get the adrenaline pumping again. An addiction would be nice, but, in short, I need a nemesis. I'm willing to pay $350 up front for you services as an arch enemy over the next six months. Nothing crazy. Steal my parking space, knock my coffee over, trip me when Im running to catch the BART and occasionaly whisper in my ear, "Ahha, we meet again". That kind of thing. Just keep me on my toes. Complacency will be the death of me. You need to have an evil streak and be blessed with innate guile and cunning. You should also be adept at inconsicuous pursuit. Evil laugh preferred. Send me a photo and a brief explanation why you would be a good nemesis.

British accent preferred.

it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Compensation: $350 up front
PostingID: 672031640

Le Gastronome

Took Fei out for lunch the other day. And, thanks to few dedicated souls like Clarkson and that chap at Jet blue, we had some amazing weather that day. So I thought, I'd treat her to the frog legs at Chanterelle. But because Chaterelle serves such great food at such great prices (yeah yeah I can hear you guys saying "kanjoos"), you need to have a time machine to go back a couple of centuries to book a table there. Mere mortals like me however, can only get a reservation for our grandchildren. Which meant, I'd to take her somewhere else, and she thought BLT Market was a good idea.

Now BLT market, I must tell you, is run by executive chef Laurent Torondel, who has honed his culinary skills in France, which, when it comes to food is next only to heaven. It is also housed in Ritz-Carlton, and sits facing the central park. On paper then it sounded amazing. 

In reality though it was amazingly awful. I really don't know where to begin. How about the name, its the latest in the BLT series - the BLT might make the uninitiated think of a NYC deli, but this is anything but. Then there is the market thing, which means they buy their ingredients from the farmer's market and have a seasonally changing menu. Which is all fine, but they also want it to be Ritz-Carlton eligible so they have to put a gourmet twist on it. Think its getting a bit too much for the resident chef Malbequi. And then there is the charade, like my fish which was served in a pan rather than china. Somehow, one gets a feeling that they are trying a bit too hard. 

I've always thought that best food, is made by coming up with a recipe and then perfecting it over the years. You don't change it every now and then. Its the same reason porsche makes the such great cars. The 911 may be 40 years old, but the changes over the years have been little more than cosmetic. Its like the black sea bass at Daniel, its tasted the exact same - subliminal to be precise - every time I've had it. 

Which brings me to another great gastronomical delight, which I am afraid, we shall never be able to taste again - the Biryani at A1 at Lamington road. That one was perfect, and has been that way since my grand dad frequented it till the days I used to a few years ago. Come to think of it, the perfect Biryani has become rather elusive these days. Some not so reliable sources tell me Dorabjee's in Pune camp has closed down (Can somebody tell me if she's lying?). But when it comes to biryani the place that beats even Paradise at Secunderabad is Olympia at Colaba. Guys, try it while it's still there.

The (in)visible hand of markets

We've maintained all along that market price is the right price, and if you disagree stop talking and take the contrarian view. Of course, don't try it on us, if you do, you are no more worthy of being in the markets. So, we complained to Mr. Cox, and he agreed to subpoena the street. 

Reminds me of "The Solution" of Bercht:

After the uprising of the 17th June

The Secretary of the Writers Union

Had leaflets distributed in the Stalinalle

Stating that the people

Had forfeited the confidence of the government

And could win it back only

By redoubled efforts. Would it not be easier 

In that case for the government

To dissolve the people

And elect Another?

Nouveau riche the second time

Oil's at 145, and Bernanke and Trichet's dovish speak means it's going to stay there for a while. Now, while that is driving the kangaroo harvesters to alcoholism (roo harvesters struggle with rising fuel costs), and the wives of squid fishermen back into prostitution (Japanese squid boats strike over rising fuel costs), I am told the Bedouin tribesmen, these days, are using Porsche Cayennes to haul their caravans across the Sinai. The Siberians, not to be out done, are parading their trophy wives all over London. 

So, we have a new wave of Nouveau riche hitting Cote d'Azur this summer. Which, isn't at all surprising, since you only ever get nouveau riche people there. What is interesting though is that for this year's crop, its the second time. The Arabs had been there in the 80s and the Russians took over from them after the wall came down. So, you would expect them to have developed some taste by now, expect them to have gotten used to their endless petrochemical dollars. And while some of them have (remember, the sheikh doubled down on Citi, a bet that has gone horribly wrong), most of them have not. 

Take, Monsieur Saeed Khouri for example. He has just bought himself number plate for 14mm dollars (the infidels can see the auction here). And his brother bought another for 9mm. Apparently the entire Khouri clan is bonkers for the number plates if the journal is to be believed. And if the journal is to be believed even more, the brothers couldn't be interviewed because they don't like to be the center of attraction. Who bids 14 million for license plate in a public auction, and then says he doesn't like to be the center of attraction. 

And its not just number plates, this has had an impact on the art scene as well. "Islamic Art" as it is called has made a billionaire of David Khalili, nine times over. His art collection which was worth 850mm last year, is worth 9bn today (take this with a grain of salt though, or maybe a generous helping). The Arabs are gobbling up any piece of their culture they can lay their hands on, and no price is too high. And what about the Russians? The Christie's has started listing prices in Roubles, and that says it all. To borrow a phrase from the Times, the Russian billionaire these days bestrides the world of art the same way as the American tycoon did a century ago, with limitless resources and limited taste. 

The Americans were the new rich a century ago and their relentless appetite for art was then derided as comparable to "a tipsy dowager with unlimited credit moving down the Fifth Avenue on a riotous shopping trip". And now we look at Peggy Guggenheim's collection's with awe and admiration. Looks like 50 years later we'll be visiting the Daria Zhukova gallery in Moscow. 

Mommy, I want to be a trader

"But what exactly is it that you make here?"

That was a question from a nine year old, that shut me up for good a few years ago. I was at that time interning at bond options trading desk at a competing investment bank. And as a part of a lowly intern's job, with no regard for the ivy league education, I was pressed into action as a tour guide for bunch of school children. I have always maintained that trading floor is no place for children, and that if you work there, I strongly urge you that you tell your child you play piano to the monkeys in the Bronx zoo, or sing the nessun dorma to the ducks at st James' park. I digress. Resentful though I was, I still took the kids around, after the thought that "the offer" and the "guaranteed bonus" could still be rescinded came to my mind.

I showed them the fellow members of the mercenary creed, hundreds of them. The animated fights between traders and the salesmen, the occasional trader banging his desk after losing a bit, or maybe a lot. The researchers cooking up the lies to feed the pension funds, and the salesmen feeding those. The kids looked amused, they asked me what the charts on most peoples screens were and how many computers there were on the floor and the sort. I was pretty pleased with myself, and thought of taking up tour guiding as an avocation. Till the point the little devil asked me the above question. I was about to say " We make money, smart guy", I resisted the urge.

I had, till that point, never thought about it. When you are at Columbia you are led to believe that the only thing worthwhile in this world is working on wall street. It is said that even a music major there works on wall street. The question, however kept me up all night that night. I tried to convince myself of my usefulness by thinking that I was somehow bringing together the supply and demand of money. It was a lame answer to a very profound question. I still don't have a good answer.

The question came back to haunt me again a few month's later when I visited my beloved Mumbai. My five or six year old cousin told me she wanted to be a doctor when she grew older. When pressed for a reason she said it was something her granny had told her. I wondered about the psyche of Indian parents or any parents for that matter (Michael once told me that he had to tell his granny he was a doctor for her to think he did anything worthwhile). Come to think of it, there's nothing wrong there. Doctors cure us, engineers build the things we use, teachers teach us. The results of their day's work are easy to see.  

I then asked some of the kids at a nearby school. Its a small school, not the DPS sort where you rich guys send your kids. This was the sort where your drivers kid would be. The answers I got ranged from teacher, doctor, policeman, Sachin Tendulkar to Shah Rukh Khan. Now that complicates things, what good in the world do Tendulkar and Monsieur Khan do? I don't mean they are as useless as yours truly, but certainly the fruits of their actions as not as simple. Tendulkar may bring an unlikely victory to Team India, but he doesn't "make" anything.

Well then, its about the visibility. These kids see Tendulkar on TV, they see their teacher every day, they have been t their neighborhood doctor. So if I ask the kids outside a Manhattan Synagogue, will one of them tell me he aspires to be a trader?

I ain't alone

So I am not the only one to hate talking computers. I have a kindred soul

(look around the 4:30 mark)

Tech!

Every now and then I get this irresistible urge to do something stupid. Like the other day I thought I'll change my phone company. Now this is as stupid as, say, wanting to change an axe murderer for a chain-saw murderer, they'll both kill you. There is no such thing as a phone company with better service, because they are all just as bad. Notwithstanding, I went to a shop and bought myself a new phone contract, which I thought would be the end of it. If only I was not so naive.

Apparently, I had to first activate my new contract. Now, I can never understand this - and that might be because half my brain is dead - why could they not sell you a contract that's already activated. What kind of person would walk all the way to a shop, pay good money to buy a contract, and then think you know what I'll never use this. I would indeed love to meet this person, there are so many things I can sell him.

So, I called them to activate my account. I was expecting to encounter a resentful attendant in Gurgaon, who would, before he activated my account, ask me if I wanted to switch to every other calling plan they had that I had not picked. What I got was even worse. It was a stupid computer, masquerading as a sweet woman with a distinctly midwestern accent, talking to me. Now people will tell me that computers these days are smart, and I won't believe that because they are not. So here's how the conversation went:

midwestern computer: Welcome to AT&T Cingular. To continue in English say "English". Para Espanol....

me: English

midwestern computer: Ok. English. Tell me what you would like to do (me: If only you were real, a lot of things really). For Billing enquiries say "Billing". For Technical Problems, say "Technical Problems". For anything else, say "Other"

me: Other

midwestern computer: Ok. Other. What exactly would you like to do? To activate your account, say "Activate account"...

me: Activate account

midwestern computer: Ok. Activate Account. I'll need a few details for that. Let's start with your name. Can you spell your first name for me please.

me: "S" "U" "D" "H" "A" "N" "S" "H" "U"

midwestern computer:  Ok. "S" "U" "B" "H" ...

me: no, thats not what I said...

midwestern computer: Sorry I couldn't get you. to continue say "Continue". To start over say "Start over"

me: start over

midwestern computer. Ok. start over. For Billing enquiries say "Billing"....

me: No woman, I just wanted you to get my name correct...

midwestern computer: Sorry. I don't get you. For billing enquiries....

me: No No No you stupid woman, I don't want to go through all that all over again...

She however would not give up, so I did go through all that again, till we got back to my name.

midwestern computer: Ok. "S" "U" "D" "H" "A" "M" "S" "H" "U". If that is correct say "Continue", if not say "Its wrong" 

me: "Its wrong"

midwestern computer: Ok. Lets try again. Can you spell your first name please?

And we repeated the drill, about fifteen thousand times, and still the stupid thing from chicago still couldn't get my name right. Finally I gave up. I just walked all the way back to the shop and asked for my money back. The guy at the counter of course asked me what the problem was and got my account activated in about 30 seconds. 

Relieved, I walked back thinking, why exactly did I change the phone company in the first place? 

Go Green

This Thursday I went out to for a dinner with a couple of friends from back at Columbia. I knew them as a nice couple so was looking forward to having a good time, probably reminiscing over the times at Columbia. And given that they were both philosophy and literature majors, I wouldn't have to talk about the current state of capital markets or economy and more so hear about their expert views on the subject.

Things, however, turned out to be not quite so rosy. Not so much because any of my above assumptions turned out to be not so sound. But because in the two years that had passed since I'd last seen them, they had turned Green, very very Green. It would have been alright if the greenness would have come from some sort of fervent Islamic fundamentalist following. That would have only meant that after the dinner, they would have gone back to their secret bunker in Queens and debated vehemently if they should take me hostage.  Ask for a half a million euros ransom (these days I am told even kidnappers are bearish on dollar, also the carry trade doesn't work very well, I must admit I am stuck in the wrong country). Or if they should blow up a few buildings in midtown Manhattan instead. The Greenness, however, was the sort one associates with the hardy bearded lot one sometimes runs into at screenings of independent films. And that was far more serious.

This meant they had succumbed in to the vegetarian plague that has been sweeping across the world these days. This epidemic is so widespread that these days they even have a special vegetarian menu at Daniel. Back in the good 'ol days if you asked for such a thing, the waitress would laugh so hard she'd burst. I wouldn't mind, but its a contagion thats spreading fast. And not surprisingly, because the members of this cult don't go about their business quietly, but work as little missionaries trying to convert as many people as they can. Which made for some rather amusing dinner conversation the other day.

So it started off, with the waitress handing us the menus. And immediately the two gleefully declared themselves to be vegetarian. I of course stood my ground and ordered the fois gras for the first course and followed it with the sea bass for the main course. The fois gras was a mistake, a big mistake. Not because it didn't taste good, I knew the place dished out some of the best fois gras west of Ile d'Oessant, but because it provoked the initiation of hostilities against me.  I was asked to explain my actions, the ducks were apparently up in the arms against the fois gras eaters and the lady had taken up their case. "force feeding" she said "is cruel. How would you feel Sud if a tube were stuck down your neck and stuff stuffed in there?". I would have to admit I wouldn't feel very good, but I am not a duck, unfortunately. And if my entire purpose in life were to end up as someone else's dinner, it would be like graduation really wouldn't it. Of course I forgot that the trial was only a sham, the jury was out, and I'd been found guilty on every count.

Then the duo turned to the most favorite of the green topics - global warming. Frankly, I couldn't understand, what beef this lot has with we having much nicer weather. Last year thanks to a few dedicated souls like Jeremy Clarkson and the chap at Ryanair, I almost felt like I was living in Cote De Azur.  But the green army, probably because of the self imposed vegetarianism, has become a sullen lot that fails to enjoy and let the rest of us enjoy. They seemed to be all worried about some penguins that were dying because the ice cap was melting. Which I find rather surprising, because I have learnt back in school (for whatever worth the Indian education system may be), that Penguins can swim.

Finally they told me they strongly believed that the world was in terrible shape and something had to be done. Finally something we agreed on. The only problem was I thought it had more to do with sub-prime debt than with sub-zero temperatures, or lack of them. I was of course clever enough not to mention that to them, and we ended evening on a positive note.

Of Ferraris and forty year old Frogs

Last Thursday (or synthetic Friday as its known on wall street thanks to the "Good Friday" after it), a friend of mine took me to the preopen cocktail at the the New York Auto show. And it was a rather wierd event in some sense. I mean it was a car show and had all the nice cars - the newest beamer, the Porshe GT4 and an entire range of Astons, with their red leather seats (what are we Italians?!). But what really surprised me was the social scene there.

To start with they had a sixty year old at the turn table (Now, it might not be politically correct to complain about that, but who cares about political correctness anyway?), and the music he played would have reminded my grandparents of their childhood days. And then there was the bar, and of course it didn't serve any beer. So, what was going on here?

To understand, one only needed to look around. The only people who could actually buy the half million dollar Ferraris were the grey haired fifth avenue advertisers - the sort that attend the wife swapping parties on Thursdays. That's of course if you don't count the odd sheikh who had made his wad selling oil to the Chinese. The rest of us could only look at what we couldn't own - and the car companies knew that. Unfortunately for me and many other young men there, so did the young ladies. 

Even so, I did manage to chat up a nice little russian girl. She even let me buy her a drink. I was beginning to get quite pleased with myself, when Duncan came along, and everything went wrong. The girl now completely ignored me seemingly to talk with a old fat bald man, with a beard. I was about to shout over the top of my voice - "he has a wife across the river; a mistress in Marselles; and two kids". But, I soon realized the young lady probably didn't care about all of that. Except, maybe for the little competition in France.

So dejected, I took another fill and looked around. And what I noticed this time was a third species. The botoxed beauties with their reupholstered breasts, trying to eye their next prey. I think the american vernacular for this sort is the cougar, and now I know why. Frankly there was no point being there anymore. So I made my way out, and went to bed, alone.