There is a particular alchemy required to write a mystery novel that feels both timeless and fresh, one that pays homage to the greats while carving out its distinct voice. Lana Sabarwal’s debut, Maya, Dead and Dreaming, achieves this delicate balance with remarkable poise, weaving a tale that evokes the psychological depth of Daphne du Maurier, the intricate plotting of Agatha Christie, and the quiet menace of Patricia Highsmith. Yet Sabarwal, an economist by training, brings something new to the genre: a forensic eye for systemic deception, the way lies calcify over time, and how power operates in the most intimate of spaces. Her prose, at its best, is luminous, layered with subtext, and capable of conjuring an atmosphere so thick with tension that it becomes its character. At its weakest, it occasionally succumbs to overindulgence, scenes that luxuriate in period detail at the expense of momentum. But when Sabarwal’s writing soars, it reaches heights that remind us why classic suspense endures.
From the opening pages, Sabarwal establishes her command of tone. The novel is set in 1950s Shogie, Washington, a town she renders with such tactile precision that one can almost smell the damp earth of the creek where Maya Hickman drowned years earlier. This is not mere set dressing; Sabarwal understands, as du Maurier did, that place is never passive. The creek, the Hickman family’s sprawling home, the dimly lit offices where Munna (the book’s narrator) works, all of them hum with latent dread. When Munna receives an anonymous letter declaring Maya’s death was no accident, Sabarwal doesn’t rush to the moment. Instead, she lets the horror seep in slowly, through Munna’s physical reactions: the way her fingers tremble as she unfolds the paper, the sudden chill in the room, the unmistakable sense of being watched. These are well-worn tropes of gothic fiction, but Sabarwal reinvigorates them with psychological acuity. Munna’s fear isn’t just a plot device; it’s a lived experience, one that escalates through nightmares so vivid they blur the line between memory and premonition.
Sabarwal’s dialogue, too, is a nod to the golden age of mystery, where every polite exchange carries a blade. The Hickman family, around whom the story orbits, speak in carefully curated half-truths, their words polished like heirlooms meant to conceal cracks. Josh Hickman, Maya’s father, is particularly masterful in this regard—a man who wields silence as effectively as accusation. When questioned about the letter, his response is neither a denial nor an admission, but a threat disguised as concern: “What you are doing, it can be seen as harassment. Do you see that?” It’s a line Christie might have written, but Lana Sabarwal infuses it with a modern understanding of how power operates in whispers. Similarly, Karenina, the psychoanalyst who aids Munna’s investigation, employs a conversational style reminiscent of Poirot—soft-spoken yet surgically precise. Her interviews unfold like a game of chess, each question advancing the narrative while revealing new facets of the characters.
Where Sabarwal truly excels, however, is in her ability to mirror internal and external landscapes. Munna’s dreams of Maya—visions of a grotesque, aged witch with “gleaming evil eyes”—are not just cheap scares. They reflect the novel’s central theme: the past doesn’t fade; it distorts, grows grotesque with time and neglect. This interplay between memory and reality is where Sabarwal’s writing approaches du Maurier’s best work. Consider the scene where Munna, half-asleep, sees a shrouded body on a table and realises, with dawning horror, that it’s her own. It’s a moment that could veer into melodrama, but Sabarwal grounds it in Munna’s psyche, making it feel inevitable rather than sensational.
That said, the novel isn’t without its flaws. Sabarwal’s background in academia and economics occasionally betrays her in passages that over-explain or linger too long on minutiae. A description of Shogie’s main street, for instance, stretches for nearly a page, cataloguing storefronts and weather patterns with anthropological detachment. While these details are undoubtedly well-researched, they stall the narrative at key moments. Christie, whom Sabarwal cites as an idol, never let setting overshadow suspense; every detail in her novels served the plot. Sabarwal, by contrast, sometimes seems in love with her prose, indulging in flourishes that, while beautiful, don’t continually advance the story. The result is a pace that occasionally sags under the weight of its atmosphere. Win for some, loss for some! Those who revel in prosaic descriptions will undoubtedly love reading such pages, and those who prefer storytelling and quick revelation might find it faltering.
Yet when Sabarwal restrains herself, the effect is electric. The novel’s midpoint, where Karenina begins piecing together discrepancies in the Hickmans’ testimonies, is a masterclass in slow-burn revelation. Sabarwal doesn’t rely on shocking twists; instead, she lets the truth emerge through subtle inconsistencies—a misplaced photo, a contradiction in timelines, a slip of the tongue. It’s a technique Christie perfected, but Sabarwal makes it feel newly sinister by anchoring it in emotional truth. We come to understand that these aren’t just lies; they’re survival tactics, forged in the crucible of family loyalty and shame.
Perhaps the most striking aspect of Maya, Dead and Dreaming is how Sabarwal utilises the mystery genre to explore broader themes, such as gender, class, and the performative nature of grief, without ever becoming didactic. The 1950s setting, with its rigid social codes, becomes a pressure cooker for repressed desires and unspoken resentments. Munna, as an outsider (both as a woman of colour and an academic), serves as the perfect lens through which to examine these tensions. Her observations about Shogie’s hierarchies are razor-sharp, delivered with the same analytical clarity Sabarwal brings to her economic work.
In the end, what makes Maya, Dead and Dreaming stand out isn’t just its clever plotting or its evocative prose, though both are exceptional. Sabarwal can make us feel the weight of silence, the cost of secrets, and the terrifying power of the stories we tell ourselves. When the novel leans into these strengths, it doesn’t just emulate the classics; it earns its place among them. If there are moments where the writing stumbles into excess, they’re outweighed by passages of such brilliance that they linger long after the final page. For a debut novelist to reach these heights is extraordinary. For an economist to do so is nothing short of revelatory. Sabarwal hasn’t just written a mystery; she’s proven that the genre, when executed with this level of craft and insight, remains one of fiction’s most potent forms.
Madhav for ReadByCritics
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