The 107th Floor

There aren't many constants in this world, but one thing you can count on is that every June a squadron of blue-shirted, bright-eyed college students descend upon New York for a summer finance internship. My life in trading began with one of these, an internship at Citigroup in the summer of 2001 (well, it was Salomon Smith Barney, who had just been bought out by Citi).

I got into a generalist program but was randomly placed in the "Fixed Income Index Group" and never really quite figured out what exactly they did. More problematic, for some reason one of the main requirements for this group was a computer programming background. Other than a intro CS class that may have tested my interpretation of "knowledge sharing", I did not have one.

It was my intro into the absurd possibilities of a large corporation, as my managers and me mutually agreed the placement was a mistake, but HR refused to consider a change. Luckily, the team was made up of genuinely good people and they let me meet different groups across the bank, taught me about markets in general, and assigned me some minor projects. The bad news: I knew I'd never receive, nor even wanted, an offer from them. The good news: I pretty much had no responsibility or deadlines. What does one do when you're main responsibility is to just show up? Naturally, at 5:30pm you run for the exit to take part in that institution that you only truly understand the value of once you begin your working life: happy hours.

It was convenient that one of my fellow NYC newbies, who would soon be my first NYC roommate in 2002, worked down the street and became an instant partner in crime. We were told by the "cool, older people" about two bars to check out in the area. The first was Moran's, a bar by the waterfront that featured a cast of decked out gold-diggers being wooed by 80s movie villain-like bankers and traders.

You can always tell who the summer intern is at the bar: they're the ones who are actually really, really excited to be there. The rest of the people, while flirting, drinking, and slapping fives (this was pre-"fist pounding" days), are still secretly exhausted from work underneath. For an intern, it's your first time in the mix. It's your first time wearing grown-up clothes, the first time you pretend you have an "important job", the first time exposed to a corporation, and most importantly, your first time experiencing the wonder that is New York City. Like certain other things, the first time isn't necessarily the best..things certainly get better in those subsequent years when you finally learn how the city works. But that combination of innocence, idealism, and complete obliviousness make the first time something different, something unforgettable.

The friend I'd mentioned worked for Lehman Brothers, in the World Trade Center. That second bar we were told to check out was Windows on the World, located on the 107th story of the North Tower.

A bar, a douchebag-in-training, a respite from a desk....it's not exactly the deepest of things, but it's just what I remember about the World Trade Center. When you were at the base, the buildings were so large that they ceased to be buildings. You couldn't clearly see to the tops...it just felt like you were at the bottom of a canyon at dusk. You entered the buildings, and got into the right elevator. I can't remember exactly, but I think you might've had to switch elevators once. Then you arrived. You walked out to the bar area and were surrounded by a panoramic view of New York fucking City in all it's glory. You were surrounded by people you thought were important. Even if the old guy in the suit next to you was a pissed off, passed over, middle manager, the aura of the place convinced you that "he could totally be a MD" (Managing Director, the holy grail of the banking world). That girl next to him, she must be a model. It's a phrase said too often, but there is no way to characterize that place other than larger than life. No place captured the intern's dream that is New York City better than Windows on the World.

I was back at school in Atlanta on 9/11/01. I was at my then-girlfriend's place and got woken up by her roommate who yelled "they're attacking New York". She wasn't exactly Seinfeldian and I thought this might be some ill-executed joke. I groggily walked out to the living room and just stood there staring at the TV. Only the first plane had hit. I texted one of my friends whose dad worked in the buildings. I actually had a flight scheduled to NYC the next morning for my final interviews with Bank of America and guessed I wouldn't be flying anywhere.

I had only spent about nine weeks in New York, but I really felt sick. I called up my friend from the Lehman internship and he told me that everyone from his office (which was on the 4th floor) was okay. I got an email from a teacher insisting we still show up to class, but didn't go. I met up with one of my friend's who was as obsessed with politics as me and discussed Al Qaeda, the Middle East, and national security (yes, we were both nerdy debaters in high school and love this stuff). Talking in the abstract about something makes it a lot easier to deal with.

I called my parents and my mom told me something I wonder if she ever imagined herself saying when she first immigrated to the US, "be careful, people might react because we look like them" (and I really do look like "them", probably more than I look traditionally Indian).

I didn't know people who died and almost had a twisted sense of survivor's guilt. I got on a plane a week later and flew to NYC. I was out late the night before and running a bit late (surprised?) and I was the last person on the plane. I hadn't shaved for a few days and the fearful looks I got walking on the plane were genuinely hilarious. My twisted sense of humor had me wanting to yell "boo". I'm glad I didn't.

After the interview, I went down to visit the group I interned for to see how they were doing. I smelled the burnt air from the taxi, and found out the Citi folks had seen the planes crash from their windows. I walked around Ground Zero a bit and then got on a plane back to Atlanta. I found out in late September that I achieved every intern's dream and got an offer with BofA.

I moved back to NYC and worked in midtown and found a whole new world of happy hours. Suddenly downtown seemed so far away. For that first anniversary of 9/11, the trading floor went deathly quiet for the moments of silence, 8:46 and 9:03. Most of my group had come over from Merrill, which was next door to the WTC and saw everything firsthand. Many knew people who died. The guy next to me shed some tears. It was pretty intense.

I think it was the fourth anniversary when I first heard someone still on the phone and yelling about a stop loss during the moment of silence. People looked at him in horror, trading glances and thinking "is he insane?" Each progressive year it became less and less of a moment until it faded into a background CNBC montage while people went about their daily work. I still haven't resolved if this was a just a trading floor disrespecting the dead because markets "still were moving", or if this was in fact a realization of the very goal we were supposed to strive for, to move on with our lives.

I know that I was spared the true horrors of having been in the World Trade Center on 9/11 or having lost someone close to me. I've also been politely told by friends from other countries that terrorism and tragedy happen all the time, all around the world. However, whether it's my eternal luck in being "randomly selected" for airport security checks, my first real adult anger towrads the Iraq War, or most of all, the attachment I developed towards New York City over the eight years I've lived here, I do think about 9/11.

I had the extremely weird experience of almost crying on a treadmill yesterday while looking up at the TV's to watch a ESPN documentary about one of the victims (their production quality just gets better every day)...

The girl next to me was.

Everyday I'm Shuffling

Trotting around the globe for close to two years certainly opens one's eyes to a whole lotta new experience. Whether it was Ladyboy shows, racist toothpaste, cured meats or singing in a room alone with a Chinese man, I found a world that was well beyond my realm of normalcy. Going to school with hundreds of classmates from over eighty countries also opened my eyes to concepts I'd never heard of nor imagined. The weird thing was, as every new international experience was undertaken, I completely lost connection with what had always been near and dear, American Pop Culture.

For those two years, I never knew what was the latest trend, whether it was in clothing, in music, in television, or even just the latest internet meme. I'd get inklings here and there via facebook (I still wasn't integrated into the twitterverse) but there were a number of times I'd be wondering things like, "Who and what is Justin Bieber?" or "What is Glee and when did acappella become cool?"

Now being back in the US, it finally dawned on me to actually experience and appreciate pop culture, there has to be sufficient context and grounding in a country. If there was some new craze sweeping the island of Singapore, I'd have no clue…I was busy obsessing over Chicken Rice and Singlish. If there was a new type of music taking over the French scene, I'd be more concerned with how much chocolat there was au my pain and marveling at the number of cheeses at the hypermarche. Getting Rickroll'ed only makes sense (and that's still questionable) and is hilarious if Never Gonna Give You Up strikes a nostalgic chord for you.

I think about all this because the other day I was out at a LES lounge with an active dance floor. A song came on that had all the crowd-pleasing elements of a Black Eyed Peas opus, that had an interlude that went "Everyday I'm Shufflin'". People around me were all kinda running in place and dancing somewhat absurdly. The song was LMFAO's "Party Rock Anthem".

The next morning I youtube'd "Shuffling". I'm not sure whether this song was the genesis of the shuffling craze, or the shuffling craze was what inspired the song, but apparently in high schools across the country kids are shuffle battling. The dance mesmerized me as it basically took the Running Man to a place the early 90s never dreamed of. I couldn't stop watching videos, and confession, the hyperactive child in me was attempting my first shuffle the moment the hangover wore off.

I'm back in the US and this is what I wonder about. Is this the next big dance craze? Is this already the current dance craze? Is it actually over and I just missed it (I did turn 31 the other day and can see this being a "those kids today" moment)?

The only thing I can say with certainty is that this summer, like it or not, I will be shuffling.

P.S. A great new site / community for people studying Mandarin posted this video the other day of a little Chinese girl shuffling in front of famous Chinese landmarks. I will fully accept that she is cooler than I'll ever be.

The Viola

I've always had dreams of being a rock star. In reality, I don't think I'd actually have the will to pay my dues as a starving artist and would probably die at an early age if I was in fact a rock star, but I've had maybe two moments that made me feel like I was almost there.

The first was at age 14. The band I was playing with was kicked off stage while we played a teenage version of Purple Haze and our lead singer freestyled some not-so-kosher lyrics. The assistant principal ("you just don't understand me Arthur DuLong") came on stage and actually grabbed the mic from him and told us to get off stage. Check.

The second was probably in the most opposite of settings from the youthful, pre-sellout, high school "band night". It was a MBA black tie event that involved playing a set full of songs that the wannabe hipster in me will refrain from mentioning, but deep down am okay with in the way that I feel that "I'm Yours" is okay. We played in front a group of a few hundred classmates and it ended with me rapping.....okay, I'll admit it, Flo Rida and finishing with....yes, I'll admit it again, Bad Romance. Check.

During my world-renowned career as a guitarist one thing always struck me: bassists are damn interesting, and somewhat odd people. I was always puzzled at the decision to play the bass. Lead singers are generally attention-hungry folk that love the spotlight. A lead guitarist likes a little bit of spotlight, probably can't sing very well, and is generally just nerdy enough to sit down and spend the hours it takes to become technically proficient (laying out these qualities just made me realize: is what drove me to playing guitar the same thing that drives me to blog?). Drummers are just fucking nuts and full of rage.

The bassist though...I always wondered what would possess someone to actually choose an instrument that will imprison you at the back of the stage, not stand out in general at any point in the song (Red Hot Chili Peppers and a few other bands aside), and require extreme discipline to play somewhat repetitive riffs over and over and over again.

With much love to my bassist friends, if I stop and think about famous bass players that come to mind, it's a somewhat odd bunch. John Entwistle from the Who, Jack Bruce of Cream, Cliff Burton of Metallica, Bill Wyman of the Stones, Duff from GNR, Nikolai Fraiture of the Strokes, etc. etc.....what do you think of when you think of these guys? The level of relative anonymity for major rock stars is unbelievable. Are they just quiet, nice guys? Do they just like an instrument that hangs a bit lower? Are they quietly insane and behind the scenes are emotionally and physically abusing their bandmates? What are they up to??

This has always been a fascination of mine that recently was extended into an entirely different realm. The other night when I met someone who plays the viola for a string quartet. It never occurred to me, that in this completely parallel universe, there are almost equivalent dynamics. "Violists are the stoners of the string quarter" she exclaimed before saying "I've always kinda had a thing for violists". At first this seemed somewhat random, but then I remembered back to my brief, disastrous stint as a violinist from ages 8-9. Even at that tender age, a chubby little Ranjan wondered, "Why the hell would anyone play the viola"? In what capacity would an eight year old make a decision to choose an instrument that was just one string down from the ever popular violin? Apparently, the same decision calculus used by a young Flea is utilized every day by hundreds of pre-teens being who are joining orchestras. It is something I don't know if I'll ever understand but weirdly very much respect.

"Oh....you're NOT into Olga Goija?"

Sign Language St. Pattie's with a Side of Beef

There are certain things that you think are completely normal while growing up, until you try to explain it to a friend from another country. St. Patrick's Day is one of those things.

When you're a kid you wear some green clothing and maybe eat a green-frosted cupcake. The holiday only takes on a bit more significance once you hit that tender age of 21 (or maybe 18, or maybe 15 depending on your hard coreness) and realize, "Wow, there's an entire holiday surrounding drinking". Suddenly, you might still wear a green sweater, but the focus becomes taking down Irish Car Bombs, pints of Guinness, and graduating from cupcakes to corned beef and cabbage.

It's 2011, I'm back in the US, and back in NYC, a land where St. Pattie's Day is serious business. Often called "amateur hour" by self-proclaimed serious drinkers due to the hordes of ill-trained drunks roaming the streets, from as early as 10am in Midtown you can see people stumbling around.

Wandering through the mess and looking for a place to eat with a friend, I remembered a new concept that can only exist in my fair city: the nearby Bowery Poetry Club recently began serving much buzzed about Roast Beef sandwiches....and trust me, they are just plain amazing.

There are two things I have to bring up about this. First, why? How? What the fuck? How does a place where I'd previously seen the most intense spoken word...where the hip and intellectual emoted on rape and racism...how does a poetry club decide it would get in the beef business?

Secondly, and I guess less of a wtf moment, when did "Boston style roast beef" become a concept? I do remember Kelly's Roast Beef in Boston, and thought they did make a great sandwich, but was this enough to coin an entire genre of food? I'm proud of my hometown for many things, but is this for real or is this some cynical marketing ploy (yes, the MBA in me has become somewhat suspect of all things business)?

We sat down and ordered. As we waited for the piles of thinly sliced beef, melted che

ese, horseradish, mustard, bbq sauce, and an awesomely branded bun, we decided to check out what was going on in the stage area of the venue. I walked up to a curtained area, where a man who probably says he is not a hipster, thus cementing his credentials as a hipster, told me "Sign language poetry slam, $4 cover".

He said this without a hint of irony or absurdity. Yes, there was a sign language poetry slam. I peeked in and was just too overwhelmed by the combination of things going on at this given moment and didn't have the wherewithal to take any footage for you so all I can give you is a generic Youtube clip.

I acknowledge this story is a bit rambling. It's a bit, to use my favorite word in the English, random. However, coming across a sign language poetry slam + while seeking out a Boston style roast beef sandwich + on St. Patrick's day = my kind of bliss.

Glassesblogging - Countdown to Lasik

"It's like suddenly seeing the world in HD" - my roommate.

Is the term "four eyes" still an insult? Has anyone avoided a punch in the face with the ol' "you wouldn't hit a guy with glasses" line recently? Is the librarian look still sexy or has it not been since the world realized Lisa Loeb was over 40?

Back at work only six weeks and as my vision became more and more blurred, the realization became clearer and clearer: I needed glasses. I went to the optometrist and this was instantly confirmed. Farsighted with astigmatism and a +1 power (I'm not even sure if that's the correct way to say it as I'm new to being a 'glasses guy').

My whole family has glasses, with my dad and sister both having had them since a very young age. I had always kind of enjoyed the fact that even though I was no Goose or Maverick, I could technically be a fighter pilot at least in terms of vision. The sight of people who wore contacts actually touching their eyeballs completely freaked me out.

Well, they arrived this afternoon and I'm wearing them as we speak. I'm still not terribly excited about this development as coupled with back problems of the past, it's yet another symptom of eight years of sitting at a desk.

The bright side however is, I can now sit in a Think Coffee shop and ponder really, really deep things. I can talk about how I'm not hipster but make people secretly think "that guy must be hipster" all the while actually convincing myself I'm hipster. Finally, I can already picture at work now someone coming up to me and yelling "what do you know about the the Consultative Assembly and legislative process in the House of Saud?" and when I respond "um, I work on the business side of the news" their natural response will be "But...but, you have glasses! You must know."

These are the only logical things that can happen in this brave new world I have entered.

Life Officially After Trading

It's been nearly five months since the last post. Another few weeks in South Africa, two months in France, and a final two months in Southeast Asia, concluded my world tour. After the whirlwind that was, in the ultimate deja vu (not sure if that is the correct usage of the term), I'm sitting on a Bolt Bus heading from Boston to NYC. The next few days I'll spend crashing on a friends couch and looking for an apartment. After that...it's back to work after almost exactly two years. It was January 22nd, 2009 that I last sat in an office and paid homage to the corporate overlords. On January 23rd, 2011 it'll be back to work....

This time it will be a little bit different. I named this blog Life After Trading even though I had no idea exactly where I'd turn up post-MBA. Well....I'll be starting a job with a startup group within the Financial Times called FT Tilt as their Commercial Director. Those who have known me for a while know my longtime obsession with the new media world. Whether it's writing this blog, somehow letting Arianna Huffington and Matt Drudge affect my daily mood, or trying to get myself on a food blog discussing the midtown lunch scene. I'm amazed to have found an opportunity that somehow lets me stay in the world of financial markets while moving into the new media side of things (and more specifically "news new media" if that's even a term).

It's been a ridiculous two years. Life as a severance kid took me places I'd never been before. I wandered all around daytime New York City, had a mohawk and a mustache for about a day each, tried learning Mandarin, I traveled the world, I had the first major medical disaster of my life, lived in four different continents, became okay with Jason Mraz (within reason people...within reason), gave up on Mandarin but learned a whole new form of English, went into the Heart of Darkness, and finally managed to come out with a MBA that in my B-school programmed mind, fully justifies the time off on my resume.

As I hit my 30s it's be a whole new challenge....and at least until I fail spectacularly in a blaze of glory, it truly will be a life after trading (cue the music from the end of Layla by Derek and the Dominoes).

Dangerous Quantities of Biltong

I don't consider vegetarianism a disease...just an ill-conceived life choice. I sometimes feel bad thinking this way, considering my Indian roots, but meat is just so damn good. If dinner is being served, no matter how good the starches and vegetables look, my eyes and stomach are waiting for the real deal.

South Africa has introduced me to a whole new level of meat happiness: Biltong. It's basically beef jerky on steroids. The beef jerky you find in the US is usually leathery and bland (disclaimer: I still like it for long road trips for some odd reason) and I had always wondered, "Can they make the beef jerky experience just a little bit closer to consuming cooked meat?"

Ladies and gentlemen, South Africa has answered this question. Biltong is a cured, dried, and often spiced preparation of various meats (usually beef, but also ostrich and kudu out here). In the process, not only do they use much thicker cuts of meat, but the inclusion of vinegar in the drying process creates a product that balances chewiness and softness in the absolute perfect combination. Some of the cuts even retain a little bit of somewhat dried fat on them, which might sound a bit disgusting, but adds this insanely good texture and taste. You basically feel like you're eating a great piece of steak, on the go.

It gets even more decadent. The other day I was introduced to 'rare beef biltong'. They somehow dry the outside of the meat while keeping the center a sandwich roast-beef dark red, that amazingly is just dried enough that it doesn't need to be refrigerated. Combining this with a glass of local Pinotage (a spicy wine from a grape unique to South Africa) makes you feel like you've discovered a Zagat's guide to the African bush.