Page 1 of No Boss
Prologue
The small brass diya flickered.
The flame cast moving shadows across the idols on the marble shelf. Ganesh ji, Lakshmi ji, and in the centre, slightly larger than the rest, Kul Devi.
The family goddess from Anand Mahal.
The protector.
Abhinav Kumar Anand stood in the doorway of his father’s bedroom, watching that small flame dance. And all he could inhale was antiseptic and medication. That smell of illness that no amount of sandalwood incense could cover.
They had been offered a hospital. Full-time supervision. Immediate intervention.
His father had firmly refused.
He wanted his own walls. His own light. His family moving in and out of the room without asking permission. His son within reach, not visiting.
So they had brought the hospital to him instead.
The king-sized bed had been replaced months ago with an adjustable medical bed. An oxygen concentrator hummed in the corner. An IV stand stood beside it. Monitors beeped softly. Medications lined up on the dresser in neat rows. Painkillers, anti-nausea, steroids, things with names Abhinav had memorized and wished he hadn’t.
This room used to smell like happiness. Like hope.
Now it smelled like dying.
He looked away from the diya and focused on the medical report in his hands instead.
He’d read it so many times the pages had gone soft at the creases. Every word memorized. Every number burned into his brain.
Pancreatic adenocarcinoma, stage IV. Metastasis to the liver confirmed. Prognosis: 4-6 weeks with palliative care.
Six weeks.
That had been eight weeks ago.
His father had outlived the prognosis through sheer stubborn will, the same way he’d done everything in life. But the cost of those extra weeks showed in every laboured breath, every wince of pain he tried to hide, every moment of confusion when the morphine dose went up.
Abhinav had called specialists in London, Boston, Zurich, and Singapore. Had chartered planes to get second opinions, third opinions. Had stayed up seventy-two hours straight reading research papers in medical journals, teaching himself oncology terminology, looking for the trial, the treatment, the miracle everyone else might have missed.
He’d offered to fund experimental treatments. To fly his father anywhere in the world. To build a research lab, if that’s what it took.
His father had refused it all. Had looked at him with those eyes that still held all their sharpness despite the illness, and said simply, “I’ve made my peace. Let me make it on my terms. Not as a science experiment.”
So, Abhinav had done what he always did when a problem had no solution.
He’d controlled what he could control.
The best palliative care team in the Emirates. Round-the-clock nurses. A hospital bed that cost more than most cars. Medications imported from Switzerland because they were marginally better than the local equivalents. Climate control set to exactly twenty-one degrees because that’s what the pain management specialist recommended.
“Abhinav.” His father’s voice was thin but clear.
Abhinav folded the report and crossed to the bed.
Rajendra was awake, propped against pillows, looking surprisingly alert for nine in the morning. The doctor had warned them that sometimes, near the end, there were good days. Pockets of clarity between the fog.
Abhinav pulled the chair closer. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’m dying.” A ghost of his father’s old humour. “But slowly. That’s something.”
