Bertie fights off the song of turbo-charged returns
At Fat Cats Club the following week, Bertie looked at his portfolio returns and discovered a new meaning of the word ‘equity’—everything was equally bad.
It had been borne in upon Bertie on countless occasions that a phone call from his winsome private banker Natasha was a prelude to poor investment decisions, and yet he always answered. Our man evidently lacked Odysseus’s resolve to tie himself to his ship’s mast in order not to fall prey to the sirens’ song. “Hello sir! How are you? Long time”. Natasha began in her lilting sales voice. Bertie realised how scores of sailors who got shipwrecked on the island of the sirens must have felt.
One knew that the song was pulling one towards one’s certain demise but it was so alluring that one still steered towards it. “Am good, Natasha. How have you been?” Bertie attempted his formal voice. “When can I come over, Bert? Let us review your portfolio na.” Natasha continued. “We have some great new products which you will love”. Bertie could see the rocks on the jagged coastline but he was no longer in charge of the words emanating from his mouth.
“Next week. Fat Cats Club.” “Sure sir. Can’t wait” Natasha hung up. Bertie imagined her doing the not-so-nice Leonardo DiCaprio gesture from Wolf of Wall Street after he had hung up on a naive client. At Fat Cats Club the following week, Bertie looked at his portfolio returns and discovered a new meaning of the word ‘equity’—everything was equally bad. He feebly vocalised this concern: “This is bad, Natasha”.
“But you know how the markets have been na. Who better than you to know it? Everybody in our office loves to hear your market views.” Natasha had pulled a clever one. She had not only wrapped the stench of bad returns in a bouquet of flattery but also managed to deflect the blame for poor returns to Bertie. “So, what now?” asked a troubled Bertie, gazing at Natasha with hopeful eyes. She had a twinkle in her eye as if she was going to pull out a black rabbit from her expensive handbag.
“We have just the thing,” she said. Bertie was ready to hang on to any scrap of wood that would keep him afloat in the sea of anxiety that he was drowning in. “It’s called Turbo Returns Strategy”. Instead of a rabbit Natasha pulled a laptop from her handbag and flipped open a presentation. The first few pages were about how the turbo returns strategy was conceptualised and run by engineers and scientists; not finance people.
Bertie was being pelted with jargon—Delta One, Option Greeks, low latency, high frequency and by Slide number 26 he had had enough. “Sounds impressive” he said. “It is, na?” said Natasha. “But what exactly do I have to do to turbo charge the returns.” “It’s simple,” said Natasha. Bertie later noticed that it was so simple that there was no slide about it. “Yes, your portfolio is not doing well but you have some solid sized assets with us”.
This time both of them smiled albeit for different reasons. “You just have to pledge it with us. I will get you the best rate and lowest haircut. And then you give us some money to put up as margin.” “How much would that be?” asked Bertie. “A few crores!” Natasha had a knack of saying these things in a nonchalant way. “And then leave it to the boys!” she grinned. The boys in question being the aforesaid engineers and scientists.
“They will use all their engineering, math and science skills to produce great returns for you even if the market goes down” “But what if the turbo strategy suffers losses and the margin money gets used up? What if my pledged portfolio gets liquidated? I will end up with a big hole.” Bertie asked. “It’s never happened Bert,” Natasha was prepared for this. She showed Turbo Returns strategy’s 15-month track record of dazzling returns, half of which had been achieved in the personal account of one of the scientists and engineers.
Bertie nodded. “So, we are good to go?” asked Natasha, tilting her head slightly. From somewhere deep within his gut, Bertie managed to produce a “Let me come back on this” while asking the hovering waiter for the bill. Natasha flashed another practiced smile. “Always careful, my Bert. I like that. I will call you tomorrow.” It’s been twenty-four hours since Bertie and Natasha parted and he knows that his phone can ring any time now.
He also knows that he does not have the will power to fend off another playlist of siren songs. Bertie is a Mumbai-based fund manager whose compliance department wishes him to cough twice before speaking and then decide not to say it after all.
