| Priya Hajela | July 2026 | Short Story |
When he turned around, they were gone. He stood still for a moment, caught his breath, bending over almost down to the ground, his knees unbent. He filled his lungs with big gulps of air through his nose and let out gusts through his pursed lips. It didn’t take him long to recover from what he estimated was a 500-meter sprint down a deserted 72nd Street at Columbus, under an obstacle course of scaffolding that he had dodged like a pro, across the deserted Central Park West traffic lights and into the Park.
They came out of the bar at the corner of Columbus and 72nd, The Dakota Bar, named after the building just down the street. He knew it well. The owner was a Mr. Shah, a common enough name in the tri-state area. The four men, all Indian, had been waiting for him. They knew he would pass that way on his way home. Kamlesh Randhawa, also known as Kam, was a facilitator – he helped people get things done. His clients were all Indian, all referred. They called him to help with difficult tenants and loud neighbors, but they also called him to help track down runaway children and sometimes, young brides from India. He was a lawyer by training, NYU Law.
Kam came out of the thicket and continued down the bike track in the park, walking all the way to 59th Street. Judging by the way they quickly backed out of the darkened park, Kam deduced that the men were not from Manhattan. He walked back on Central Park West, keeping to the shadows all the way to 71st Street, where he cut back to Columbus and on to 72nd. He paused outside the Dakota Bar entrance, then walked on; looking in through the fogged windows as he walked by, back under the scaffolding. He saw the four men standing right outside the last building on the block, the Dakota. They stood by the building’s side gate right where John Lennon was shot. He ducked into the nondescript building right before the Dakota. The security guard at the desk waved him through. He took the elevator down into the basement. The place was dark, lights operated by sensors. A light right above his head switched on. His car, a dated Honda Civic, was parked two cars down. He got into the car and drove towards the exit; the whole garage ablaze with low energy LED lights as he drove forward. He climbed the ramp and reached over to the passenger seat, felt his way into the back of the seat and dug out a crumpled, often sat on navy blue Bernie – 2016 hat. He took both hands off the steering wheel for a second and jammed the hat on his head. As he vroomed out of the garage, as much as he could make an old Honda Civic vroom, he looked straight ahead as he made a right turn onto 72nd, away from the four stocky silhouettes still stationed close to the Dakota flame.
He drove fast but deliberate, like a doctor on a late-night call, turned right on Broadway and headed uptown toward Washington Heights. Each street he crossed, he thought about the women. Each one thought she was different, her situation was unique, her husband would do better. Many believed unflinchingly that it was because they had missed something; it was their fault. Only a very small number didn’t fall into this cycle of learned helplessness and truly broke out, willingly, eagerly, ready to push their husbands, fathers of their children, under the first MTA bus that crossed the George Washington Bridge into New Jersey – at high speed.
He drove slowly on Cabrini Boulevard lined with parked cars on both sides, the Hudson flashing in and out between buildings like a moonlit ribbon. He found a tight spot. He parallel parked like he knew those Indian boys at the Dakota wouldn’t be able to if they tried all night. He took off the Bernie hat and jammed it back into the seat crack, locked the car and walked back South, towards 187th Street. He looked around. It was 2:00 AM, and everyone was asleep. He walked downhill on 187th, towards the river and entered a building on the right. The outside door was unlocked, but the inside door required a key. He opened the door, stepped down into the lobby, took a quick look in the old mirror straight ahead, more out of habit than to check himself out and pressed the button for the lift. He stepped inside and pressed 6. He unlocked the black door covered with finger paintings and childish decoupage and stepped inside. The apartment was quiet and empty. The kitchen was clean, and the glass front cabinets were empty. The place belonged to his sister. It had looked very different when she had lived there with her husband and children. Now they were in a palatial house across the river. He walked softly to the bedroom facing the river. It was empty. The bed was made, smooth and tucked in, as if it was the last thing his sister had done before leaving. He went into the bathroom. It was dry, but there was a lingering smell of Head and Shoulders; the Costco-sized bottle was the only cosmetic on the windowsill. He heard his phone ping. It was a text from Rita with the name of a hotel, followed by ‘This is where you need to go tomorrow.’
Rita was his mother’s first cousin who worked with Sahara, an organization that helped South Asian women who found themselves lost in this new country, sometimes beaten, often ignored and always destitute. She had called him that morning.
‘Kamlesh, is that you? You never call me only. I’m your Maasi no? What will your mother say? I don’t take care of her son.’
‘Rita Maasi, you know how it…’
‘Acha fine. But listen. There is a problem. There is a party tomorrow night. I’ll tell you the hotel name later. That lawyer Maya, you know her, I’m sure. She went to NYU Law at the same time as you. Her brother-in-law, Vivek, got married in India. They are going to introduce his new bride to the community here. The trouble is that Vivek is already married, even has a child, with this white woman. Now this young woman… bechari… what has she done wrong? She thinks she’s married some rich Indian in America.’
‘Okay Rita Maasi. What do you want me to do?’
‘Just find a way to tell her that we are there for her. She’s not alone. When she finds out, and it won’t be long before she does, she might collapse, she’ll be all alone…tell her she’s not alone. Ok?’
‘What? At her…what is this…reception? How? And how do you know all this?’
‘You know I know everybody, beta. Now, tell me you will help.’
‘Okay Auntyji. Let me see what I can do. Bye then.’
‘Wait, wait, beta. There is another thing also, another tamasha waiting to happen – in the same family. This girl Maya, I mentioned, she’s planning to tell her husband Vikram that she wants to leave him. The man is a chutiya. I’m surprised she’s lasted this long. That family will not let her leave. You know how old fashioned these people are – they regress when they come to America.’
‘How do you know this now? And what’s that language?’
‘If that’s what they are, then that’s what I’ll call them, no? I just know some people here and there, and they tell me things. And I know this girl. She’s a good girl. I don’t know how she got stuck in this family. You know her too, don’t you?’
‘Rita Maasi, we were in law school together, but then we lost touch. But you send me the name of the hotel, and I’ll do what I can. No promises, though.’
‘Theek hai, beta. Take care of this girl from India. Young Maya, I hope she can take care of herself.’
Kam had hung up and gone to work. It was after a late evening meeting that he was walking back home to his apartment when he was chased. He wondered about the goons, wondered if they’d still be there in the morning. He stripped out of his clothes and climbed into the neatly made bed. He checked his watch, 3:00 am. He didn’t set an alarm, just went right to sleep.
An hour or so later, he jumped up – wide awake. There was someone at the door, he heard the key turning, first in the lower lock, then the upper, just like he had taught her. He jumped out of bed, pulled on his underwear and walked softly to the door just as the final tumbler turned and the door swung open. She gasped slightly when she saw him standing there, framed by the moonlight streaming in through the windows, but then walked right into his open arms.
‘You smell…sweaty…I like.’
‘Shush. I didn’t have time for a shower after being chased by your husband’s goons. I’m assuming that’s who they are.’
‘They were, but they weren’t chasing you because of me. They want you to help find my sister-in-law. She’s missing.’
‘She is? I thought there was a reception tonight. Rita Maasi called me yesterday; told me what had happened. Did you know all this? Did you know that your brother-in-law was married and had a child and still went to India and married someone else?’ asked Kam.
‘I didn’t know, and neither did the rest of the family, or so they say. He kept her and his child hidden. But now everyone knows and so does that poor girl. What was she going to do? Cook and clean for them? Brave of her to run, though. I wonder where she went…’
‘Maya…Maya… you helped her, didn’t you? You helped her run away? Tell me the truth. This is exactly the sort of thing you would do. You fool. You dumb fool. They are going to come after you now. Stay here. Don’t leave this apartment till I tell you to. Do you hear me?’
‘I can’t stay here. I have to go home. I haven’t done anything wrong. Court ended early so I swung by. I sort of knew I would find you here. There is chaos at home. Vikram is livid. He will physically strangle that poor girl for what she’s done. Everyone will be at the reception tomorrow…except the bride.’
The two embraced like the lovers they were, but didn’t do anything else. Both minds wandered into what could have been and what could still be. But neither said anything. Kam wanted to tell Maya what his Maasi had told him, but he already knew that. It was the ‘when’ that was holding them apart.
Maya and Kam dozed off holding on to each other. A little while later, Maya’s phone buzzed. She got up quietly, kissed Kam on the cheek, whispered in his ear that she would see him soon, and left.
Maya and Kam started meeting about a year after Maya’s wedding. At first, only as friends, a relationship they had never had before. They met in law school, had become interested in each other almost immediately and had broken up when Maya’s father had insisted on arranging her marriage. Their meetings got more and more involved as Maya realized what Vikram and his family were really like. They projected a progressive exterior but were more regressive than most Indians living in India. They had no problem with Maya’s work, it helped their image, their daughter in law a prosecutor, but they didn’t want her to have a life outside her family and work. When an opportunity to be a prosecutor in Night Court came up, Maya took it. It gave her time to meet Kam, to bring some level-headed normalcy into her life.
Kam woke up almost immediately after Maya left and got dressed. He left his car uptown and made his way back to 72nd Street by subway. He got off at the Broadway station and walked on 73rd Street, keeping a close eye out for any Indian males. He didn’t see anyone and made it into his building. He told the doorman that he wasn’t expecting anyone – he didn’t want to be disturbed. He got into his two-bedroom corner apartment and locked the door. He stretched out on his bed but couldn’t sleep. He was thinking of Maya. He adored her. He was not interested in any other woman. He wished, not for the first time, that he had stood up to her father. But he wasn’t rich then. He had nothing. He had worked over the years and through some lucrative real estate deals and investments, he had made more money than that Vikram could ever hope to. He felt satisfied yet unfulfilled. He wanted his friend, his lover, with him. His mind churned, but then it slowed down, and he fell asleep.
He was at the hotel now, unsure how he got there. He looked at himself in the glass door and had to look again. He was wearing a tuxedo, a cummerbund, a bowtie – he looked good. He walked to the banquet area and into the hall with the family’s name outside – on one of those boards that a junior staffer had patiently created letter by letter. He was looking for a girl who did not know he existed or the story that had brought him here. He had no reason to be discreet, but he had to be careful. He was standing near the doorway and surveying the golden banquet hall which was filled with refined bodies in saris and jackets and beautiful young women with straight hair and no facial expressions. Right then, a side door opened and in walked the bride, naked but for the flowers in her hair. She walked alone, down the center aisle and up to the stage. She didn’t sit on one of the red thrones but stood before her audience of about three hundred well settled, wealthy Indian Americans. She said nothing, just acknowledged the gawking as if she was fully dressed, resplendent in a rich banarasi sari, dripping in gold and diamonds. In her hand, she held a brass bell. She held it by the stem so that it only rang when she wanted it to. She shook it every few seconds – as if she didn’t already have everyone’s attention. She was fresh faced, simple, not beautiful, a bit plump but didn’t jiggle – Kam found himself evaluating her and shook his head. What is this? What’s going on? He shook his head again, this time with more force – he felt soft fabric on his face. He realized that his eyes were closed. He opened them, he heard his phone ringing, stopping for a few seconds, then ringing again.
He grabbed the phone. ‘Hello, hello.’
‘Kamlesh, where are you? I have been trying to call you for one hour now.’
‘Rita Maasi, I fell asleep…you don’t know what I was dreaming.’
‘Kamlesh, this is not the time for dreams. That young woman I told you to look out for, what did you do?’
‘I didn’t do anything, Maasi. You asked me to go to the Hotel tonight and tell her that Sahara was there for her – I was going to do that, but I heard…I heard she disappeared…’
Kam realized he had spoken out of turn, but it was too late.
‘Who told you that? When did she go? Kamlesh, what’s going on?’
‘Rita Maasi, after you called me yesterday, I was chased by four men. I thought they were trying to catch me because…because’
‘Say it Kamlesh, because whatever you are hiding, I am going to find out – sooner or later?’
‘Yes, Maasiji. I’m not hiding anything. I swear. The men were looking for me to find this bride. She had found out about her new husband and had run.’
‘And knowing all this, you did nothing – just slept.’
‘What could I do, Rita Maasi? I don’t even know what she looks like.’
‘The police have found a body. Meet me at the morgue on 1st Avenue in twenty minutes. They called me because it is a South Asian woman.’
‘But…but I have never met her…’
But Rita had already hung up.
Kam ran into the shower, all the time mumbling under his breath. He didn’t like going to the morgue, but his aunt made him go with her from time to time – probably to instill some kind of guilt in him. It worked. He spent a lot of time…and money on her organization and the women. He felt bad for them, he did – but who asked them to get so turned on by America and by these so-called Americans? They had embodied the American dream and made a lot of money but nothing more. He turned off the shower and got dressed carelessly. He walked down to the street and out of the building and hailed a cab.
His aunt was waiting for him outside the morgue, pacing up and down, her loose linen clothing flying about around her, her Birkenstocks soundless yet so loud as she stomped the length of the sidewalk. Kam got out of the cab and rushed over to her, held her by both arms and blinked rapidly. ‘Okay, okay. It’s okay. I’ll go in. You stay here.’
She thrust a color photo into his hand. ‘Here, her matrimonial photo. The one her parents had given to the marriage broker…’
Kam took it and went inside. He knew the doctor on duty. She took him into the chilled vault and opened a drawer. Kam waited, not sure if he should lift the sheet or if the doctor would. They looked at each other over the drawer. Finally, they both reached down at the same time, and Kam backed his hand away. The doctor gently uncovered the face. Kam was looking at the photo in his hand. When he looked down at the face below him, he shook his head, it was not the woman in the photo – but then he looked down again and let out a loud wail, a sound that his aunt Rita heard all the way outside. She came rushing in and looked into the drawer and slapped her hand on her head. She looked at her strapping nephew, crumpled, sobbing, broken. She hugged him close and heard his mouth forming one word over and over again –MAYA.
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Priya Hajela is a fiction writer who lives in Pune. Priya graduated with an MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard College in Vermont in 2017 after a twenty-two year corporate career. She is the author of Ladies’ Tailor, a novel published by Harper Collins India in 2022. An excerpt from Ladies’ Tailor was used in a collection of stories about Delhi titled Basti and Durbar, edited by Rakshanda Jalil. Two new books, a historical novel set in the mid eighteenth century and a non-fictional account of the lives of the ten Sikh Gurus. are scheduled to launch in 2026.
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