Page 6 of No Boss
“That’s all for now.”
He ended the call. Scrolled to the next number.
Mahesh Kumar Anand, his father’s younger brother, answered on the fourth ring, groggy with sleep. The news was followed by a sharp inhale, then his aunt’s voice in the background asking what happened.
He made six more calls. Each one with the same careful words. Each one met with the same sounds of grief breaking open on the other end of the line.
When it was done, he went back inside.
The nurse was already preparing the body. His mother sat in the chair, staring at nothing. Naina had finally let go of their father’s hand and was curled against Sarita’s side, face buried in her mother’s shoulder.
Abhinav looked at the small shrine in the corner.
The diya had burned out sometime in the last hour. The idols stood in the dark the way they always had. Patient, unchanging, unbothered.
He turned away.
There was paperwork to be handled. Arrangements to make. A funeral to plan.
That’s what he knew. That’s all he had left.
Chapter 1
Two Weeks Later
Abhinav stood in the doorway with a cup of tea going cold in his hand. He took in the living room slowly. It had been transformed while he slept.
Earthen diyas glowed on every surface. The side tables, the windowsills, the length of the mantelpiece, their small flames making the whole room breathe and flicker like something alive. A red and gold woven rug covered the floor. Thick marigold garlands hung across the doorway, their sharp scent pushing through the sandalwood smoke that drifted from somewhere he couldn’t see.
His father’s photograph sat on a low table draped in white cloth, garlanded with fresh roses.
Above it, on a raised platform, stood Kul Devi. A diya burned at her feet, its flame small and unwavering.
Abhinav looked at it for a moment.
Few weeks ago, he might have felt something looking at that flame. Now he looked at it and felt only the absence of feeling, the way you notice a chair has been moved from its usual place. Not upsetting. Just different.
In the corner of the room, on a silver tray covered with embroidered cloth, sat the pagdi.
He looked away.
Two weeks since the pyre. Since he had stood at the cremation ground and watched the fire consume his father. Since the chautha at the Taj, where hundreds of guests had come and offered their condolences. He had received every one of them with his hands folded, a small bow, the same four words:Thank you for coming.
He had said it so many times that by the end the words had become just sounds, shapes his mouth made out of habit.
His uncle’s family arrived from Udaipur the next day.
Mahesh walked out of the airport and pulled him into a tight embrace, holding on as if letting go would cost him what little remained. He had lost his only brother. It showed in his eyes, in the heaviness he carried, in the grip that refused to loosen.
Abhinav had held him back. Made the right sounds. Made sure his uncle and his family were settled and comfortable in the guest room.
He felt it all from a distance, the way you watch rain from inside a building.
Present. Aware. Untouched.
Like he was standing slightly outside himself, watching how well Abhinav Kumar Anand was handling his father’s death. How composed he remained. How he never once broke down in front of anyone.
That Abhinav was doing remarkably well.
