‘Hot Water': Bhavika Govil's debut novel movingly constructs a child's fragile yet resilient world

Scroll.in

03-05-2025

I was introduced to Bhavika Govil's fiction in 2022 through the short story 'Eggs Keep Falling from the Fourth Floor' in A Case of Indian Marvels: Dazzling Stories from the Country's Finest New Writers (published by Aleph Book Company). Back then, I had called it a ' marvellous portrait of a deeply disturbed brain that forces the reader to confront the stigmas attached to mental health in our society.' It indeed was. I was thoroughly impressed by what I had read and Govil's sensitive treatment of her protagonist, who is of unsound mind and often misunderstood.
A year later, I met Govil at the Jaipur Literature Festival, where at a party, she told me about her debut novel. Her manuscript had been accepted by the publisher and she already had a title for the book: Hot Water. It would be out in two years, and Govil was already excited about it. I promised to read…and write about it.
I'm glad I kept my promise.
A world of three
There are moments in Hot Water when the air feels too stuffy to breathe. Your skin feels sticky, and the saltiness of sweat fills your mouth. It feels like a painful, oppressive summer – not good news to those of us who live in India. Govil tackles this kind of summer in her novel. The children, Mira and Ashu, jump in and out of a swimming pool for coolness and play, but there is little relief. The coach and Ma seem suspiciously playful with each other and the underwater games that the siblings have devised are at a great risk of backfiring any day. And one day it sure does, and pool adventures come to an end.
Small and compact, in this world of three, women outnumber men. Ashu suspects his mother is more affectionate towards his sister than she towards him. For eight-year-old Mira, her world revolves around her 14-year-old brother. He's going through 'Pew Burty' and is mean to her sometimes, but she knows he loves her – she has never once doubted it. Ma works at the admin department at an office. She doesn't have much of a social life and seems to be estranged from most of her family. Her closest friend and confidante is her colleague Mrs Shome, in whose care the children find themselves when Ma disappears for a few hours every now and then.
Ma doesn't usually behave like a typical mother. Mira thinks of her as a friend, Ashu observes how she's not much of a disciplinarian. The children sometimes tire of her eccentric ways. However, she keeps them clothed, fed, and alive – and that counts for something.
It is at the very beginning that the author suggests something is off between the mother and son. He's like a demon baby, too heavy to be lifted by a mother's able arms. She can't seem to generate enough strength for him; he almost feels like a thing that's draining her of health. The difficult labour with him, as opposed to the 'buttery smooth' exit of the daughter, will result in lifelong grudges and hostility that started much before the son entered the world.
Meanwhile, growing up without a father is a free ticket to being ostracised at school. The oddness of their family is fully comprehensible to their schoolmates. There's rumours of Ma being a 'whore', or at least some sort of nutjob. Ashu saves himself from being picked on by befriending Rahul, the popular boy in class. Mira is not so lucky – if anything, her friendless status makes things all the more difficult as she's left all alone to prove that her mother is normal like everyone else's.
The world of three experiences an intense change when Avni, their aunt's daughter, comes to stay with them during the summer vacation. Newly dazzled by the workings of a woman's body (and mind), she wreaks emotional havoc by inciting Ashu to give in to the callings of his hormone-addled brain and preparing Mira for what's to come. She has a secret boyfriend – Mira equally disbelieves and is intrigued by this claim. A game of truth and dare sets off a chain of events in Ashu's life that culminate in a painful coming-of-age. Mira, who has thus far been loved and protected by the women around her, will realise that the world outside is dangerous and not to be trusted.
The many voices
Govil chooses first-person narrative voices for Mira and Ma, and third-person for Ashu. Among the three, Mira is the newest to living – her childish curiosity and humour infuse their lives, and diffuse unpleasant situations. This is the strongest voice in the novel. It is so alive and energetic that it is almost as though Mira is babbling into your ears. The child isn't very wise, but she's perceptive and much of her preoccupation has to do with soothing Ashu and Ma's moods. There is a sweet earnestness in trying to take care of those around her. It's the greatest marker of innocence – to believe that one has the power to make things better.
Ashu's third-person voice signals the dissociation that the boy feels from his younger self as he metamorphoses into a man. He is not oblivious to his mother's contempt for him but it is the fallout with his best friend that turns out to be the harshest blow. Ashu's narrative lacks the boisterousness of Mira's, but it is so tender that the reader's heart aches for the young boy as he makes sense of his emotions and changing body all by himself.
And yet, the novel is weakest in its treatment of Ma. The first-person voice, though the most natural choice, doesn't do much. Her secrets hover like dark clouds over the family, and when they part, do not reveal anything substantial. A revelation need not always be shocking, but it needs to be convincing. A careful reader will see it coming from a distance. While some details are unexpected, they also feel a bit contrived. Some of her decisions provoke questions in the reader's mind, but they aren't answered satisfactorily.
Govil's strengths lie in world-building and empathising with children. She has a remarkable ability to map their emotions – you instantly feel protective of Ashu and Mira. She is sensitive to how quickly the tides of puberty and adolescence change a child, and how fiercely they try to hold on to the remnants of innocence. Mira's voice reminded me of nine-year-old Swiv in Miriam Toew's remarkable novel Fight Night. I was tempted to imagine their conversation were they to bump into each other!
The final chapter is especially moving and I had a lump in my throat when I read the final lines. I selfishly wanted the entire novel to be in Mira's voice. But I did not want to miss out on Ashu's, though I didn't care much for Ma. The child's universe is as resilient as it is fragile, as beautiful as it is rickety – and Hot Water gets that right.
My introduction to Govil was through the short story medium; she has an indisputable talent for it – is there a collection of short stories in the making? I do hope so.