An old market hand, a fresher and a bar. The chat begins
The Old Dog and I were perched on bar stools in a dingy pub off Dalal Street.
“You look sad,” he said. “Burnt your fingers on some dud?”
“That I could live with, Old Dog. What happened is I sold all my stocks. At a loss. And then the bloody market shot through the roof. This is all your fault.”
(This story appears in the 19 June, 2009 issue of Forbes India. To visit our Archives, click here.)