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Have you ever seen an ancient tale morphing into here-and-now reality? Eerie as it seems, mythic Yashodhara, the abandoned wife of Gautama Buddha, the protagonist of my recent theatre production, acquired flesh and blood when I read Prahlad Modi, brother of the Prime Minister, declaiming, “Lord Buddha had also married…left his wife and child… nobody had then asked him why he left his family and didn’t give rights to his wife!” An older brother added, “Narendrabhai left home, shunning all worldly pleasures, to serve the country and society.”
After this — for me at least — the splendid Princess Yashodhara became spartan Jashodaben. Her husband left her 45 years ago, and became a world celebrity. Living in a remote Gujarat village, she images the perfect Indian dharampatni — loyal and uncomplaining in abandonment. Not a single word of blame has escaped her lips. She takes pride in her pati’s achievements, fame, glory, undertakes fasts for his welfare. While her husband makes history, she remains a footnote.
Uncannily, Hindi poet Maithilisharan Gupt depicts the life of princess Yashodhara, 2,500 years ago, along absolutely similar lines. The bereft wife does not question the Buddha’s right to follow his mission. Though hurt by her husband’s furtive exit and lack of trust, fully aware of having no place in his new life, Yashodhara still rejoices in his triumph. While directing a play based on Maithilisharan Gupt’s verse, I did have some misgivings: How will audiences relate to this saga of tears? I needn’t have worried. The idealised picture of the deserted wife remaining true to her wedded lord, cherishing his memory and renouncing the world, won instant audience empathy. I, too, found cathartic comfort in sighing over a tragic figure in times past.
But a poignant voice from the present made me recognise that action replay is possible even after the passage of centuries. “When I went to my in-laws’ place… he stopped coming there. I went back to my father’s house…” In her tiny room under a tin roof, Jashodaben must have known (just like palace-dwelling Yashodhara) not merely loss, but insecurities. However, she educated herself, found a job, as also social acceptance, and is reportedly appreciated as a caring teacher, particularly by the local Muslim community. Her penchant for prayer wins approving nods from village elders. A regional weekly extols her as a “true bharatiya nari!”
At age 62, is Jashodaben resigned to her singledom? Reports quoting her (“I don’t think he will call me”) also add she that waits for “his” call, and consults astrologers. We hear that she may no longer enjoy the luxury of anonymity. (Imagine 24×7 security cover in village Brahmanwada)!
Quite suddenly, disturbing questions begin to plague me. In my theatre work I had highlighted, as indeed Maithilisharan Gupt had done, Princess Yashodhara’s free will, inner strength and spiritual evolution. Now my perspective shifts. I wonder. Was Yashodhara’s refusal to seek her wandering husband prompted by self respect, or fear of rejection? Had she lost status the moment her husband left her? Had she become a nonentity in the palace, as power centres got relocated? After years of separation, did she renounce the world because she could not go on? Did she seek spiritual bliss because earthly joys were denied to her? In other words, did the woman have a choice at all?
Well, the purpose of myths is not to offer quick answers or easy comfort but to puncture illusions, to banish unilateral thinking. And to make us realise that though there is nothing new under the sun, life continues to weave an arabesque of ambiguities.
The author is a playwright, theatre director, musician and journalist, writing on performing arts, cinema and literature
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