Each and every part of Abraham Verghese's The Covenant of Water comes together to form the whole story. Its powerful sense of place and impactful themes make the novel one of the best books I have ever read. The story takes place in a village in present-day Kerala, India from 1900 to 1977. A twelve-year-old bride moves upstream to her new home in Parambil, set to marry a man in his forties. She quickly learns the ways of the village and becomes the matriarch, known as Big Ammachi (Big Mother, in Malyalam). Spanning three generations, the novel centers around The Condition–an affliction in her husband’s family rendering men unable to swim, which has caused a drowning death in every generation. Her son Philipose inherits it, and her granddaughter makes it her life’s mission to understand it. Throughout the novel, Big Ammachi frequently prays to God to either cure The Condition or bring someone who can. 

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Given her religious nature and the novel's setting among characters with little formal education, I initially pictured The Condition as something made up–a mental block that she mistakes for a God-given curse. But as her sons JoJo and Philipose demonstrate the same aversion to water as their father, through losses of sensation once submerged, I began believing Big Ammachi’s theory that God had cursed them for an unknown reason until someone could bring them salvation. The gradual transition of The Condition from fictional to real is the emotional core of the story–I kept turning the page in hopes that the family would learn the source of their suffering. And later, in a full-circle ending that brings incredible satisfaction to readers, God delivers.

 

The book gets off to a slow start, taking time to establish its idyllic setting. Verghese treats us to vivid descriptions of the village, including the paddy field with “water that shimmers like beaten silver” and abundant coconut trees whose “frilled silhouettes…sway and shimmer on the interiors of closed eyelids [at night].” While it’s generally best to dive into the plot, the specificity of the setting creates a strong sense of place for the characters, influencing their decisions and deepening the novel’s thematic resonance. Without firmly establishing the characters’ roots, the multi-generational aspect of the story becomes a mere plot device rather than a thematic element. Philipose’s reluctance to venture outside his sheltered Parambil world would seem naïve, and the granddaughter’s return home would feel like a lucky coincidence rather than a fully realized narrative arc. Before reading the novel, I had no desire to visit the Kerala backwaters. But Verghese’s eloquent portrait of Parambil’s landscape compelled me to search for flights to Kerala and vigorously Google directions to Parambil. Spoiler alert: it’s not real.

 

A large portion of the story centers around Philipose. He is stubborn at first, holding out hope that he can learn to swim, but by age nine realizes the same truth his father realized many years ago–he has inherited The Condition. He gains access to books in his teenage years and recognizes their educational value. Even without a formal education or degree, books serve as a repository of knowledge that he would not otherwise receive in the classroom. Philipose uses them to build his understanding of the world. The irony is that this same worldly knowledge keeps him rooted at home.

 

At multiple points throughout his life–such as his university studies in Madras and his journey to Fort Cochin to meet his bride-to-be’s family–Philipose expresses visceral discomfort at unfamiliar surroundings outside of Parambil. He has no desire to experience the world outside the one he knows, which, as he later highlights, extends only as far north as Cochin. His curiosity for world events sharply contrasts his innate desire to remain planted to his home–a tension I found ironic yet deeply resonant. Verghese captures the feeling of desiring intimate knowledge at your fingertips without venturing into the unknown. 

 

The pull toward home doesn’t stop with Philipose–it carries down a generation. The birth of Philipose’s daughter is deeply symbolic: she receives Big Ammachi’s  birth name and goes on to study medicine. After years away from home, which she had come to miss, she is assigned to residency at a newly-built hospital in Parambil. The family’s lives are inextricably linked by the one place they share, and Verghese brings the tale full-circle upon her return. 

 

Yet the novel pulls us away from Parambil entirely to follow characters who seem unrelated to its central story. Digby Kilgour’s introduction into the story feels tangential at first. Part Two begins with his arrival in Madras, interrupting the Parambil lore and transporting us to a different world. At first I felt disappointed that the narrative had shifted; I’d fallen in love with Parambil. I searched for connections with the existing plot but found none, which frustrated me. What’s the point of this Digby nonsense? I wondered, wishing to return to Parambil. But Verghese drew me back in with picturesque descriptions of Madras’s sandy beaches and ocean waters, along with strong character depth that motivates Digby’s affair with his boss’s wife. While seemingly irrelevant, the affair causes Digby’s hand injuries, which bring him to surgeon Rune Orqvist in Fort Cochin for recovery.

 

The Madras ocean and Kerala rivers intertwine after all.

 

Digby visits Orqvist at Fort Cochin. Philipose makes an upstream journey to Fort Cochin to ensure a baby receives medical attention. Orqvist introduces Digby to Elsie–a young friend’s daughter who teaches Digby to draw, thereby helping him regain function in his hands. Philipose meets Elsie on the way home, and she later becomes his wife. Digby makes friends in Fort Cochin who lead him to work on an estate, where he saves Lizzi’s baby from death. Lizzi’s baby grows up and becomes the patient Philipose’s daughter examines to uncover The Condition. The narratives weave together excellently to form a cohesive plot, and to underscore the central theme of the novel. Verghese captures this by explaining the covenant:

 

“The water she first stepped into minutes ago is long gone and yet it is here, past and present and future inexorably coupled, like time made incarnate. This is the covenant of water: that they’re all linked inescapably by their acts of commission and omission, and no one stands alone.”

 

The novel’s genius lies not only in its metaphors about water–its structure embodies its main theme. Verghese jumps between narratives to enrich an already complex tale of how their lives are bound together. Each decision, action, or inaction directly leads to an event that contributes to curing The Condition. Omitting even one detail would unravel the fabric that makes the story great. Verghese also contends that time binds us together as human beings. The multiple generations convey this; Big Ammachi’s tale ends seventy-seven years later with her granddaughter–who bears her name–fulfilling the prayer that she repeated throughout.

 

At around seven hundred seventy pages, The Covenant of Water is no short weekend read. Whether you can get through large chunks or need to take it slowly, this book is a must-read that will leave you sorry it ended. Pushing through the slow start will pay off–not a single person I’ve talked to has said that the novel wasn’t worth it. Hopefully, it will move you as deeply as it has millions of others.