I grew up in the foothills of the Himalayas. When I look back on those years, there is much to reflect on: vast open fields, chasing after goats and sheep, hunting for mushrooms, playing in snow and hail, visiting every home in the village and sharing whatever food was being served. There were local deities and ghosts too—spooky creatures that danced, played, and waged invisible wars. The world was fascinating.
It’s easy to get nostalgic about such a childhood. But it also makes me wonder—what kind of nostalgia does someone carry who grew up in a typical Indian city, where much of life was spent indoors? These aren’t questions that science can answer. These are questions only art can begin to explore. That’s what I thought when I picked up Hot Water by Bhavika Govil.
When Art answers life’s questions
It wasn’t just nostalgia that drew me in. This book explored, and gently addressed, questions that may not have clear answers. What is it like to be a single mother in India? What does a child go through while being raised by one? Can a romantic relationship begin with secrets—and what happens when those secrets surface?
Unlike philosophy or science, literature doesn’t claim objectivity. It offers perspective. And sometimes, that’s more valuable.
Let’s talk about the story
The novel revolves around three characters: Mira, Ashu, and their Ma (mother). Each chapter is told from the perspective of one of them. What I really loved was how the author handles each voice—Mira and Ma’s chapters are in first person, while Ashu’s are in third. I couldn’t help but wonder: is this a deliberate choice tied to gender? Maybe. If I ever get the chance, I’d love to ask Bhavika about it.
The story unfolds slowly. For the first hundred pages or so, the plot simmers, giving you time to settle into the world. What stood out most were the chapters narrated by Mira—a young girl whose voice is depicted with brilliant precision. The simplicity, the fragmented sentences, the emotional clarity—it’s nearly perfect. I say “nearly” only because there were one or two lines where the language felt slightly beyond a child’s reach. But that’s a small quibble.
Take this line, when the children shout: “You get shocks without socks.” Or this one, when Mira reflects quietly: “Then they pulled me into their hug too, so we were all one big hug-triangle, equal from all sides.” Do you see the profundity in innocence? Few writers manage to evoke such childhood innocence without diluting its complexity. Bhavika certainly does.
(Apologies if I’m going on and on about the writing more than the story—it’s something I cannot control. Good writing does that to me.)
Coming back to the story
Around the halfway point, the story deepens. Secrets that had quietly been lurking begin to rise to the surface—especially around Ma’s past, and what that means for Ashu. We begin to understand Ma not just as a mother, but as a woman who has lived through tremendous loss—of a parent, a partner, and parts of herself. And still, somehow, she carries on. On most days, her resilience only whispers; only occasionally, it screams.
Ashu’s journey is equally compelling. His story, told in third person, reminded me of Richard Linklater’s Boyhood—that slow unfolding of a life, marked by first cigarettes, first kisses, and (in this case) the quiet realisation of queerness. There’s tenderness in the way Bhavika portrays his emotional landscape, constantly moving between innocence and curiosity.
The title Hot Water is poetically extended through water metaphors scattered across the book—plunge, surface, float, swim, sink, choke, flail, breathe. Some are literal, especially in scenes involving Ashu and a swimming pool; others are emotional, charting the characters’ inner tides. The themes are embedded in the very texture of language, something I kept noticing throughout the book.
Final words on Hot Water
At its heart, Hot Water is a book about love in all its complicated forms—maternal love, sibling love, self-love. And it does what the best literature always does: it heals, quietly and without making any fuss.
You might cry while reading it. You might smile with a lump in your throat. A child might relate to it. A mother might find herself in it as well. But perhaps it’s someone in between—someone standing at the border between childhood and adulthood, looking both ways—who will feel its full weight. Bhavika writes with that exact gaze: tender, thoughtful, and wise beyond her years.
If I could, I would simply say to the author: please keep writing. True art doesn’t need awards or sales to matter. Its value lies in the quiet companionship it offers—a book like this might sit on someone’s shelf for years, waiting. And one day, when they need comfort, they’ll pick it up, read a few pages, and feel less alone. That’s the dent it makes in the universe. And that, to me, is everything.
Kalampedia 