In the landscape of contemporary Indian fiction, Krupa Ge's novel 'Burns Boy' emerges as a poignant exploration of familial bonds fractured by a tragic accident. Set against the backdrop of 1990s Chennai, the story, published in early 2026, delves deep into the invisible scars that often bind families more tightly than love itself.
A Family Shattered by Fire and Silence
The narrative opens in a hospital ward dedicated to burn victims, a space marked by stories of dowry violence and acid attacks. Here lies the teenage protagonist, Guru, an anomaly among the other patients. His presence in this ward sets the stage for a complex unraveling of a family's past. The story is not a straightforward account of the fire incident but a layered examination of its aftermath.
Ge employs a unique structure, weaving the plot through three distinct voices: Guru, his mother, and his sister Aparna. Each character offers their own fragmented, often conflicting, memory of the events leading to the hospitalisation. Guru, labelled the 'burns boy', simmers with anger, accusing his mother of emotional neglect. Aparna carries a quieter, guilt-ridden pain, feeling invisible in the family dynamic. Their mother, a government employee with literary aspirations, grapples with exhaustion, self-doubt, and the overwhelming burden of blame.
The Metaphor of the Burns Ward and Gendered Healing
The burns ward is not merely a setting; it transforms into a powerful metaphor for gendered suffering and societal expectations. Ge uses this environment to scrutinise what healing means in a world that often demands silent endurance from women and swift recovery from men. The author's meticulous research into burn treatment lends a raw, tactile authenticity to the prose, allowing readers to viscerally feel the clinical environment.
The fire acts as a prism, refracting issues of class, gender, and generational conflict. Guru perceives his mother's independence as a form of betrayal, while Aparna later comes to see it as a fragile act of bravery. The mother herself is trapped in a cycle of doubt, perpetually questioning the very concept of a 'good mother'. Time, as Ge illustrates, burns differently for each character. Aparna's childhood resentment towards her absent mother evolves into empathy only when she becomes a parent herself, showcasing how trauma morphs but never fully disappears.
A Narrative Without Easy Answers
Defying conventions of contemporary fiction, 'Burns Boy' offers no clear moral lessons or cathartic resolution. The novel's rhythm mirrors its themes of fragmentation and persistent watchfulness. Traditional chapters are replaced with short, precise sections that slip between internal monologues and sharp observations. This technique ensures no single character's perspective dominates; everyone is guilty, everyone hides something, making it impossible for the reader to choose a side.
Ge paints Chennai not with grand, nostalgic strokes but through sensory textures—the aroma from local bakeries, the stifling bureaucracy of government offices, the languid pace of a pre-internet childhood. The title, Burns Boy, might centre on Guru, but the story equally belongs to his amma and Aparna. Their flaws—Guru's cruelty, his mother's defensiveness, Aparna's detachment—render them achingly human and real.
By placing a boy and the women around him at the heart of the tale, Ge masterfully examines how patriarchy shapes even victimhood and dictates the rationing of empathy across genders. Guru's physical burns are visible; the scars etched on his mother's psyche are not. The novel's profound emotional impact stems from its refusal to provide magical solutions, insisting instead that pain has multiple witnesses and that healing is a lifelong negotiation, not a single act.
In essence, 'Burns Boy' reads like a fragile family archive, where each page holds an incomplete truth. It is a story about survival, but more importantly, about the relentless human instinct to narrate and re-narrate pain in a desperate attempt to make sense of it.
