UBS bites the dust in India

Just like all the other big banks.

"Another one bites the dust". UBS is the latest in line of big western banks to be exiting the Indian wealth management industry. UBS will also be winding down its foreign exchange business in India as part of its global strategy to conserve capital.

A UBS spokesperson told Private Banker International that, over a span of two years, the Swiss banking giant will shut its single branch in Mumbai and "concentrate on its core businesses" rather than on capital intensive businesses, even though it is keeping its corporate client service division (including M&A, equities and debt capital market services) intact in the country.

Quite recently, Morgan Stanley surrendered its wealth management unit in India by selling it to Standard Chartered. Previously, Goldman Sachs also exited India’s wealth management arena. 

What makes India such a difficult market to survive in for foreign players?

Like most countries across the globe – now more than ever – regulation is a key concern, one that is amplified when it comes to India. With high entry barriers and a wing-clipped approach to the product universe, the Reserve Bank of India only keeps tightening controls.

This year, in the annual monetary policy statement on May 3, the RBI proposed a new banking structure involving differentiated licencing regime for domestic and foreign banks instead of granting a universal banking licence.

Beyond regulation, however, a bigger factor may be the fact that nuances around how the wealth management business, particularly, works in India is actually quite local.

A market like India has a number of things going for it. According to the World Wealth Report 2013, released by Capgemini and RBC Wealth Management, India experienced 22.2 per cent growth in its HNIs population, second only to Hong Kong in the Asia Pacific region.

But the key to understanding and thriving in a market like India is to have a deep rooted view of the local sentiment and clients’ trust that local banks have.

Indian family offices have a bigger trump card having handled key rich families’ wealth over generations, but the trust factor that local private sector banks such as ICICI, HDFC, Axis Bank, Kotak Mahindra Bank, to name a few, have achieved is tough to compete with. And they are catching up with global best practices fast.

Another factor that gives local banks an edge, perhaps, is the fact that India is a completely onshore market, everything being rupee denominated, and the investment products on offer are still relatively basic, unlike Western mature markets.

When I spoke to Atul Singh, managing director and head of global wealth and investment management for Merrill Lynch in India, back in 2011 for a feature, he told me that foreign banks such as Merrill Lynch, Barclays, JP Morgan, Citibank, and Credit Suisse, being experienced players globally, have taken the lead in developing innovative products targeting the HNWI and UHNWI. But the challenge in India, as an industry, is "how to make money from assets" due to the product universe still being fairly vanilla.

It’s not just India that is difficult to deal with, though. Russia is even more notorious for western bank exits, with Barclays and HSBC quitting retail and commercial banking operations in the region over the last couple of years. Reason? Local banks’ dominance, with most of the market share taken by Russia’s largest lender by assets, Sberbank, followed by VTB.

French bank Societe Generale’s Russian subsidiary, Rosbank, has been in the limelight for the wrong reasons recently with its CEO, Vladimir Golubkov, being fired and acquitted on bribery charges. But SocGen, being one of the few foreign banks still holding its ground in the statedominated banking sector, has shown optimism with its chief executive, Frederic Oudea, saying the lender aims to deliver a "sustainable return on equity of over 15 per cent" in Russia by 2015. Let’s see.

As for India, it will be interesting to note how local banks up their ante with another Western lender exiting, mould themselves to further regulatory changes, and how the other remaining foreign banks make space for themselves and the global approach they offer. "Pressure on people - people on streets". Queen really has said it all.

Photograph: Getty Images

Meghna Mukerjee is a reporter at Retail Banker International

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad