Daanish Jamal
Tumbling through the Afterlife
Tumbling through the Afterlife
Whenever I’m overwhelmed, I flick a switch in my head, and the world transforms before me. Instead of seeing an attractive receptionist with the reflection of a computer screen in her brown eyes, what I see are colorful distinct molecules. Trillions of brilliant, vibrating beads. They are dynamic, electric, with all sorts of little rivers and exchanges. I look at my hands and see these beads evolving, constantly replenishing according to a biological rhythm I can’t quite explain. When I see this, I remember that I am indistinguishable from my surroundings. I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
"He’s ready for you.” The receptionist stands up and directs me towards an empty conference room. She flashes a distracted smile, as if she’s preoccupied with the contents of the page open on her computer. The offices of this Silicon Valley venture capital firm have recently been remodeled. It looks elegant, yet the sleek curves and wood panels still manage to hint at the company’s history.
I try not to get nervous. The logos of their most successful companies line the walls. They look like hieroglyphs, telling the story of technology’s last fifty years.
This is my final interview at a prestigious firm I never expected I would have the chance to work at. I take some deep breaths and stare out the window at Highway 280. I know some twenty-five miles south, there are three grandparents sitting in our house in Cupertino, waiting to hear from me. My grandfather, Ba, is probably wearing some retro Reebok sneakers, pacing up and down the block with his arms folded behind his back. His wife, Nani, is probably dressed in a kameez shalwar, already drinking her third cup of chai, watching her husband through the kitchen window, and reciting a prayer under her breath. My other grandmother, Amma, is much older than the other two. She’s probably making fun of them both, laughing to herself because she knows we have no control over what happens in this life.
The door opens, and Alan Ericsson walks in. He looks shorter in real life than he does in his interviews, but he’s wearing the same iconic round glasses. He extends his hand.
“Hi, I’m Alan. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Hakim.” Already I like him more than the partners I’ve met at the other firms. It only takes a second to know.
I think back to my last interview. In a San Francisco high rise, one partner asked me a brainteaser, “there are five pirates looking to split one-hundred gold coins…” At first I thought he was kidding, but I managed to answer the question. Even still, I didn’t get the job.
We go through the pleasantries. Alan asks me who I am, where I grew up, where I went to school, why I studied biology. Cupertino, Columbia, because I wanted to be like my high school teacher who I admire.
I ask him why he works in venture capital. He looks away and thinks about it. I like that he cares to be thoughtful.
“Same reason you studied biology. Someone I admire told me it’s a good idea. I guess we all just want to be respected by the people we respect.”
He asks me what investment areas I’m most interested in. I tell him about the intersection of computer science and biology. I tell him about how “we have the technology to precisely edit genes so our children don’t inherit our diseases…”
This is the easy part for me. This is what I’ve rehearsed, and it calms me down to hear so many words come out of my mouth. “…we can use computational drug discovery to stop aging if we…”
Alan nods along. He is only vaguely intrigued by the content of my speech, which makes me talk faster. I continue through to the grand finale, “and so we can use adaptive therapies to cure illnesses before we even show symptoms.”
He covers his mouth with his fist and pinches his thick eyebrows together. Then he nods his head again. “That all makes sense, Hakim. We’re spending more time looking for opportunities in these areas...” Every time he says my name, I feel my shoulders relax a shade more. He shifts in his seat and picks another direction. He seems to be searching for something.
“When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?”
This question surprises me, but I think it’s a good one. I would usually say something clever, like architect or detective, but I already know Alan wouldn’t care for that.
“It didn’t matter that much to me what I would do. I just wanted to be like my grandfather. Not his career just in the way that he’s kind and patient and respected. More than that, he’s secure in himself, and I think completely at peace. I guess it’s less about being like him, and more about feeling like him.”
Hours later, I retell this moment to my three grandparents in the backyard of our home.
“And then I told him, I want to be like Ba.” My grandfather’s lips parted to reveal a wolfish grin underneath his bushy mustache. His teeth are yellow, from all the paan he has chewed over the years. Still, they are happy teeth.
Nani is rocking back and forth in her seat. She’s looking to her husband’s face for reassurance that I said the right things in the interview. She sees his smile, but still isn’t sure, so she asks me, “But are you sure that was a good answer? Maybe you should have said you’ve always wanted to be in business.”
Her fear annoys me, and I’ve spent my whole young life trying to expel whatever piece of it I inherited. This one time though, I have the perfect answer.
“I know it was the right thing to say because when I finished the interview he said, ‘Hakim, we’d love to have you come work with us…’”
My grandfather leaps up in his chair, “Arrey!”
Nani gives me a hug while praying over my shoulder. Amma, stands nearby and congratulates herself, “Of course they gave you a job, you are my grandson.”
...
Ba wakes up at dawn, when the first light spills through his window and rests on his eyelids. He opens his eyes, sits up in bed, and scans the Bay Area mountains through his window. He’s had this same morning ritual since he was a boy in Pakistan when he would wake up before his brothers and sisters and gaze at the snowy northern mountains. In the room next door, I am awake too. It turns out there is a genetic basis to our circadian rhythms.
Ba washes his face and puts on an orange wooly sweater that Nani knit for him. He and I each have about fifteen of them in different colors and stitching. He then laces up his old Reeboks, slips out of the house, and begins his walk around the neighborhood.
To me, these morning walks are part of the natural cycle of the Earth itself. The day doesn’t start until Ba starts walking, like the Greek god who drives the sun chariot across the sky each day.
Meanwhile, Nani wakes up a half hour later and offers her morning prayers. She goes to the kitchen, boils water for our morning chai, and begins to plan for dinner. She keeps her eye on the window for Ba’s return.
Ami is still asleep, drooling a little but laughing, even in her sleep.
I sit at the kitchen table, rifling through presentations of startups looking for their first institutional round of financing. I do my best work here, at this table, cocooned in the decades old routines of my family.
In my first few weeks at Walker Ericsson, I have already reviewed over a hundred companies, and I feel overwhelmed by the sheer volume of analysis I have to complete. Every product is unique, and I don’t know how to thoroughly evaluate a new small molecule drug, a clinical data sharing platform, a gene editing company, and a supercharged MRI all in the same day. Worst of all, if I don’t think we should invest, I have to reach out to the CEOs of the companies and tell them why. I worry about how they must look at me, an inexperienced twenty-six year old telling them their business is not worth our time.
Ba says, “You don’t know what they think. Be honest and direct. All you have is your reputation.” He reminds me that this is how he developed a successful real estate business, by being utterly forthright.
I take a deep breath and look at the glass of water in front of me. I see vibrant hydrogen bonds holding together each molecule, and electrons dancing between atoms. I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Over dinner, I can’t help but tell my grandparents about the most ambitious companies. One evening, between bites of fresh naan and okra, I try to shock them. “You know I met a company today that wants to upload brains onto a computer.”
Nani, “Heh?”
Amma, “Kya bol raha hai?” What is he saying?
“The company wants to put your brain into a computer.”
“Why my brain?”
“No not you, anyone’s brain. Onto a computer, so you can live forever.”
Ba, “What’s the point of having children then?”
Nani, “How do they do that?”
“Well, they have to pump chemicals into your brain and kill you.”
“Oh, okay. Chalo…”
Ba washes his face and puts on an orange wooly sweater that Nani knit for him. He and I each have about fifteen of them in different colors and stitching. He then laces up his old Reeboks, slips out of the house, and begins his walk around the neighborhood.
To me, these morning walks are part of the natural cycle of the Earth itself. The day doesn’t start until Ba starts walking, like the Greek god who drives the sun chariot across the sky each day.
Meanwhile, Nani wakes up a half hour later and offers her morning prayers. She goes to the kitchen, boils water for our morning chai, and begins to plan for dinner. She keeps her eye on the window for Ba’s return.
Ami is still asleep, drooling a little but laughing, even in her sleep.
I sit at the kitchen table, rifling through presentations of startups looking for their first institutional round of financing. I do my best work here, at this table, cocooned in the decades old routines of my family.
In my first few weeks at Walker Ericsson, I have already reviewed over a hundred companies, and I feel overwhelmed by the sheer volume of analysis I have to complete. Every product is unique, and I don’t know how to thoroughly evaluate a new small molecule drug, a clinical data sharing platform, a gene editing company, and a supercharged MRI all in the same day. Worst of all, if I don’t think we should invest, I have to reach out to the CEOs of the companies and tell them why. I worry about how they must look at me, an inexperienced twenty-six year old telling them their business is not worth our time.
Ba says, “You don’t know what they think. Be honest and direct. All you have is your reputation.” He reminds me that this is how he developed a successful real estate business, by being utterly forthright.
I take a deep breath and look at the glass of water in front of me. I see vibrant hydrogen bonds holding together each molecule, and electrons dancing between atoms. I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Over dinner, I can’t help but tell my grandparents about the most ambitious companies. One evening, between bites of fresh naan and okra, I try to shock them. “You know I met a company today that wants to upload brains onto a computer.”
Nani, “Heh?”
Amma, “Kya bol raha hai?” What is he saying?
“The company wants to put your brain into a computer.”
“Why my brain?”
“No not you, anyone’s brain. Onto a computer, so you can live forever.”
Ba, “What’s the point of having children then?”
Nani, “How do they do that?”
“Well, they have to pump chemicals into your brain and kill you.”
“Oh, okay. Chalo…”
...
I sponsor many companies like this, much less absurd but all looking to address diseases, particularly neurological ones. After one such meeting, Alan shakes his head and says, “Silicon Valley wants to live forever.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Well, if you’re dying of brain disease, that means you’re not dying from HIV, malaria, or tuberculosis. Neurological diseases and cancer are a rich country’s problem. Anyway, there’s too much risk in Alzheimer’s companies. Find me something else.”
That’s bluntness I’m sure Ba would appreciate.
I want to tell him that I’m curious about the brain because I everyday I see how age can warp its functions. Amma is forgetting things. Not just the occasional place or name. She forgets whole days. Our routines have to adapt. Mostly Nani’s.
I had Amma tested, and it turns out she is a carrier of the APOE4 allele, which is a risk marker for Alzheimer’s. I have it too.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Well, if you’re dying of brain disease, that means you’re not dying from HIV, malaria, or tuberculosis. Neurological diseases and cancer are a rich country’s problem. Anyway, there’s too much risk in Alzheimer’s companies. Find me something else.”
That’s bluntness I’m sure Ba would appreciate.
I want to tell him that I’m curious about the brain because I everyday I see how age can warp its functions. Amma is forgetting things. Not just the occasional place or name. She forgets whole days. Our routines have to adapt. Mostly Nani’s.
I had Amma tested, and it turns out she is a carrier of the APOE4 allele, which is a risk marker for Alzheimer’s. I have it too.
...
There is always drama to our weekly investment team meetings. Before one of the meetings, I sit alone at the long conference table with James Walker, the other senior partner. He’s an imposing, heavyset Texan with long slicked back grey hair. We are both quiet, waiting for the others to file in. I play with a groove in the table and think about how I spend too much of my day indoors.
“Hakim, have you ever heard of Jim Mattis?”
I have. I feel uneasy veering into politics. Everyone at our firm is careful to remain outwardly apolitical. He continues,
“He has this quote that I think is just perfect, ’be polite, be professional, but have a plan to kill everybody you meet.’”
He smirks and before I have a chance to respond, the other team members file in laughing about some joke made in the hallway.
The ten of us work through a list of twenty companies to decide which ones to pass on, which ones to invest in, and which ones to investigate further. Each one has a sponsor, and all of them have nine skeptics. There’s a careful dance to these meetings. You want to advocate without looking like you’ve lost objectivity. You want to argue against the sponsor, without making an enemy. Some people just take the side of whatever they think Walker or Ericsson want to hear. And of course there is frequent use of the venture capital tropes which can kill any deal.
“This feels like more of an interesting technology than a company.”
“This guy seems like a great founder, but I don’t think he’s an entrepreneur.”
“It seems like a good company, but is this a space where we can really add value?”
“But how big can this really get? Feels like a couple hundred millions dollars, not a billion.”
By the end of the four hour session, only a few companies survive. The room is humid and overheated. Sometimes I think I can see steam rising from people’s heads, as the whirring gears inside slow to a rest.
“Hakim, have you ever heard of Jim Mattis?”
I have. I feel uneasy veering into politics. Everyone at our firm is careful to remain outwardly apolitical. He continues,
“He has this quote that I think is just perfect, ’be polite, be professional, but have a plan to kill everybody you meet.’”
He smirks and before I have a chance to respond, the other team members file in laughing about some joke made in the hallway.
The ten of us work through a list of twenty companies to decide which ones to pass on, which ones to invest in, and which ones to investigate further. Each one has a sponsor, and all of them have nine skeptics. There’s a careful dance to these meetings. You want to advocate without looking like you’ve lost objectivity. You want to argue against the sponsor, without making an enemy. Some people just take the side of whatever they think Walker or Ericsson want to hear. And of course there is frequent use of the venture capital tropes which can kill any deal.
“This feels like more of an interesting technology than a company.”
“This guy seems like a great founder, but I don’t think he’s an entrepreneur.”
“It seems like a good company, but is this a space where we can really add value?”
“But how big can this really get? Feels like a couple hundred millions dollars, not a billion.”
By the end of the four hour session, only a few companies survive. The room is humid and overheated. Sometimes I think I can see steam rising from people’s heads, as the whirring gears inside slow to a rest.
...
A year passes like this, in a stream of breakfasts and meetings and evening chai’s with my family, and then one morning, Ba doesn’t come home from his walk.
Nani knows before anyone else. She claims it is the same supernatural fluttering she felt when my parents passed. The ‘good-bye’ whispers of an untethered soul, or whatever. I indulge her because part of me wants to believe it too.
The morning he dies, I am reading at the kitchen table. He always arrives within the same three or four minute window, like clockwork. Four minutes past his expected arrival, Nani is already worried. Fifteen minutes later, I go out looking for him, and find him face down on the sidewalk near the beginning of his circuit.
“He had a heart attack just like his father did, and his younger brother. And all this time I was worried about brain disease.”
Alan and I are on a bench in the middle of the nature path that loops around our Sand Hill road office.
“I’m sorry to hear that Hakim.” he says quietly to his feet. “How high is your cholesterol?”
I glance self-consciously at my belly. It annoys me that the story of losing the most important person in my life is intellectually interesting to him, a case study in inherited heart disease.
But it turns out I have a mutation in my PCSK9 gene that leads to high cholesterol. Ba must have had it too, and it was easily curable. Much simpler than brain disease, only a few faulty letters amongst billions in our genetic code.
Between fits of crying in my room, I emerge to find Nani covered in a shawl, praying in the living room. She is on her knees, rocking back and forth, counting her beads in a hypnotic trance. The first few days after, Amma prays with her. I avoid speaking to her. Her faulty memory makes me feel like I am losing two people at once. Amma takes over tasks around house, like cooking dinner or washing Nani’s clothes. The little things help restore equilibrium in our family. Slowly, too slowly, we begin to adopt new symbiotic routines.
One night, we are quietly eating dinner, and Amma can tell Nani is upset, but can’t remember why.
“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“Yes, Amma.”
“What happened?”
Nani and I share a look. Nani says, “I miss my husband.”
Amma tries to understand. Then she has a solution. She grabs my neck, “Why? He’s sitting right here.”
She laughs an honest, wheezing laugh. I hope she is being funny but know she is going mad.
The next morning I wake up at dawn. I sit up in bed and look for the first light crashing over the mountains. I splash water on my face, slip on a sweater, and lace up my shoes. I pass Nani in the living room, rocking back and forth in prayer. She squints at me, confused, when I pass. I see green, red, and blue vibrating proteins. I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I step out into the morning darkness, ready to steer the Sun across the sky.
Daanish Jamal works as a venture capital investor in San Francisco. Jamal is a recent graduate of Georgetown University (BSBA Finance) and was an Annabelle Bonner prize winner for fiction writing.
Nani knows before anyone else. She claims it is the same supernatural fluttering she felt when my parents passed. The ‘good-bye’ whispers of an untethered soul, or whatever. I indulge her because part of me wants to believe it too.
The morning he dies, I am reading at the kitchen table. He always arrives within the same three or four minute window, like clockwork. Four minutes past his expected arrival, Nani is already worried. Fifteen minutes later, I go out looking for him, and find him face down on the sidewalk near the beginning of his circuit.
“He had a heart attack just like his father did, and his younger brother. And all this time I was worried about brain disease.”
Alan and I are on a bench in the middle of the nature path that loops around our Sand Hill road office.
“I’m sorry to hear that Hakim.” he says quietly to his feet. “How high is your cholesterol?”
I glance self-consciously at my belly. It annoys me that the story of losing the most important person in my life is intellectually interesting to him, a case study in inherited heart disease.
But it turns out I have a mutation in my PCSK9 gene that leads to high cholesterol. Ba must have had it too, and it was easily curable. Much simpler than brain disease, only a few faulty letters amongst billions in our genetic code.
Between fits of crying in my room, I emerge to find Nani covered in a shawl, praying in the living room. She is on her knees, rocking back and forth, counting her beads in a hypnotic trance. The first few days after, Amma prays with her. I avoid speaking to her. Her faulty memory makes me feel like I am losing two people at once. Amma takes over tasks around house, like cooking dinner or washing Nani’s clothes. The little things help restore equilibrium in our family. Slowly, too slowly, we begin to adopt new symbiotic routines.
One night, we are quietly eating dinner, and Amma can tell Nani is upset, but can’t remember why.
“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“Yes, Amma.”
“What happened?”
Nani and I share a look. Nani says, “I miss my husband.”
Amma tries to understand. Then she has a solution. She grabs my neck, “Why? He’s sitting right here.”
She laughs an honest, wheezing laugh. I hope she is being funny but know she is going mad.
The next morning I wake up at dawn. I sit up in bed and look for the first light crashing over the mountains. I splash water on my face, slip on a sweater, and lace up my shoes. I pass Nani in the living room, rocking back and forth in prayer. She squints at me, confused, when I pass. I see green, red, and blue vibrating proteins. I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I step out into the morning darkness, ready to steer the Sun across the sky.
Daanish Jamal works as a venture capital investor in San Francisco. Jamal is a recent graduate of Georgetown University (BSBA Finance) and was an Annabelle Bonner prize winner for fiction writing.