<div><strong>Jehan Panthaki </strong></div><div> </div><div>Weeks of frenzied effort towards the end of my year at graduate school in the UK were yielding fruit. I had my first call back for an interview from an investment bank.</div><div> </div><div>On the day of the interview, I commandeered all the positive energy around me, and set off for the face-off. The bank’s headquarters were located in a skyscraper with tinted grey windows across which the sun’s rays glistened radiantly – it was more spaceship than structure. As I walked into the building, the enormity of its atrium struck me. </div><div> </div><div>The reception, manned by an efficient crew of staffers, was ensconced deep inside the foyer, and well protected by a serried row of turnstyles that were watchfully guarded by barrel-chested security personnel endowed with forearms that had evidently been carefully nurtured by doses of frequent and potent supplements. The entire foyer was a scene of controlled but efficient activity. Having registered, I was escorted up to a conference room, and informed that I would have two initial rounds of interviews followed by a final interaction with an MD. </div><div> </div><div>The first one involved a green-behind-the-ears MBA graduate, obviously inebriated on his first few months in banking, adorning the avatar of a jargon-spewing dragon, assiduously attempting to trip me on my strong albeit limited knowledge of Finance. He was resentful of the fact that I had been invited to engage with the bank in spite of the abject absence of an MBA (I had studied for a theoretical Masters in Management, through the business school, but had a Bachelor’s degree in Finance). </div><div> </div><div>The second encounter was a sedate and brief affair. The VP who was driving it had obviously returned from an international roadshow of sorts because he was entirely disoriented – the fatigue was patently visible on his rotund face, and his blood-shot eyes eerily bulged as though they would imminently pop out of their sockets. It was evident that, mentally, he was in a different time zone and occupied by more pressing matters. I was asked a few mundane questions about my interest in banking, and exposure to concepts in Finance, Economics and Statistics. The brief interview terminated with a dose of tough love. The VP forthrightly laid out all the horrors of banking. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, it ended. </div><div> </div><div>Now, I patiently, if not expectantly, waited for my final interview with the MD. I evaluated how the previous innings had gone and reasoned that, in effect, they would amount to a hill of beans. The MBA maverick was too junior to have a deciding vote, and if the VP managed to survive the day, my bet was that he would recuse himself from providing an influential view because of the cursory nature of the interaction. Therefore, my fate came down to the forthcoming meeting with the MD, and I reckoned it would a quick consultation. </div><div> </div><div>My reverie was interrupted as the door flung open and the MD walked in. He was roughly six feet tall, a bit older than I expected, and his orthodox suit, deep blue with no sartorial innovations, sat squarely on his broad shoulders. His piercing gaze cut through his horn-rimmed glasses. </div><div> </div><div>We were now in a conference room reserved for more weighty matters – the room was considerably larger than the previous conference room; the table was longer, made of darker wood, and heavier; the furniture and fixtures – modern and functional – were in complete harmony. </div><div> </div><div>Instead of positioning himself opposite me, the MD casually pulled up a chair beside me and took a seat. Instantaneously, he disarmed me, but I wasn’t sure if I should let my guard down. Veterans had warned me about such skullduggery, but my gut indicated otherwise. The MD began inquiring about my year at graduate school and impression of the UK. He appeared in no rush to start, or end, the interview, and focused keenly on my responses. More so, oddly, he wasn’t interested in testing my desire to join the bank. I thought that he easily demolished the stereotype of an investment banker. </div><div> </div><div>The MD and I found common ground to anchor our conversation, and it flowed easily. We desultorily discussed developments and trends in banking, programs at the business school, various college-level sporting events including but not limited to squash, rowing and martial arts, and travel across the continent. For some reason, I got the sense that he appreciated the unique nature of my application (no MBA). </div><div> </div><div>But, then it happened in a flash. We had been chatting gratuitously for about an hour when he calmly switched gears, paused, leaned in, and asked me why I wanted to be a banker. The question hit me like a brick in the face. I stared back at him as he did at me – neither of us willing to flinch. There was an awkward silence while I struggled to relapse into my pre-programmed mode, and find my feet. My recovery was tenuous, at best, but I managed to come up with a stale answer. The interview ended shortly afterwards. </div><div> </div><div>I realized that the MD had seized the initiative and delivered an ikken hissatsu – in Karate, an expression that translates as, “to kill with one blow”. </div><div> </div><div>I was made an offer by the bank but ended up turning it down.</div><div> </div>
