Cynicism notwithstanding, the amazing thing is that it's all true, or so close to the truth as to make no difference. At the end of Ancient Promises, Misra anticipates the inevitable by telling us how much of the story is autobiographical-most of it, barring the entirely fictional portrait of her in-laws-but the real reward for the reader here doesn't lie in trying to separate fiction from reality. It's the insistent ring of truth that marks Ancient Promises out from other arranged marriage weepies, and that stamps this first novel with a central integrity that allows the reader to surf over the more fevered bits.
Most of the story is told, in first person, via clever flashbacks and slow dissolves from one time and place into another. To begin with, little of Janu's story is novel: she's an ordinary child from a good South Indian middle-class family growing up in pre-mtv Delhi. It's left to her best friend in school, Leela, to play the vamp in a manner that might seem merely innocuous to survivors of the knowledgeable nineties, and to introduce Janu to Arjun, the cricketing hero who will be both her first crush and her last love. Despite the exceeding ordinariness of this segment, a paean to the innocence of young love and stolen kisses at the Chor Minar, Janu is already emerging as an engaging protagonist-a woman blessed with irony, humour, a strong sense of herself, and a talent for sharp-edged observation.
These gifts are evident in Janu's depiction of her marriage-a strategic alliance with the much-sought-after Maraars. It's to Misra's credit that she eschews common cliches in drawing a portrait of a marriage that survives on artificial respiration. Janu's husband is neither homosexual nor a wife-beater, neither monstrous nor cruel-merely a man who wants an ornament for his mantelpiece and can't understand why his wife isn't content to fulfill this role. Her mother-in-law, too, is no textbook ogre-merely a woman who frowns on Janu's Delhi ways while attempting to guide her into the proper Maraar mould. The turning point is provided with the birth of Riya-the longed for passport into the hearts of the Maraar family is returned, stamped mentally defective. It's the realisation that Riya will never be accepted by her in-laws that liberates Janu from the burden of trying to fit in.
The biggest flaw, however, lies in the subtext to Ancient Promises-where Janu's life symbolises the struggle between the traditional assumption that the lives of women are beyond their control, and the individual's right to look for a better future. Misra's occasional descents into mysticism-the heavens opening up on Janu's wedding day, dramatic visits to the family temple, the all-pervasive fear of the vengeance of the gods-sit uncomfortably with Janu's liveliness, her determination and her courage.
But Misra makes up with an ending that is a clever mix of storybook happiness tempered by the knowledge that all happiness has a price tag. This is a complex, true-to-life story-one that incorporates the multiple journeys made by mothers and daughters who are, in the end, just human beings struggling to cope with fairytale endings versus the realities of creating and destroying relationships. Discount the melodrama, try to remember that "heartwarming" is not always a pejorative word, and Ancient Promises may be a good way to spend a winter weekend.
