I recently read Yashodhara by Volga, translated from Telugu into English by PSV Prasad.
I had earlier read The Liberation of Sita, and was already familiar with Volga’s distinctive approach — she revisits mythological women who are often peripheral in grand narratives, and quietly brings them to the centre. Not with anger. Not with rebellion alone. But with reflection. With philosophy. With a deeply interior voice.
Yashodhara follows the same spirit — though it is a longer and more layered narrative.
We all know the broad arc of the story of Gautama Buddha — the prince who renounced palace life in search of enlightenment. In that telling, Yashodhara is often a shadow — the wife left behind, the woman abandoned in the night.
Naturally, one approaches this novel expecting that shadow to be turned into a victim. A feminist retelling where the wound is foregrounded.
But that is not what Volga does.
Yashodhara, in this telling, is neither abandoned nor bitter. She is not a silent sufferer. Nor is she written as someone merely reacting to Siddhartha’s choices.
Instead, she emerges as something far more unsettling — and far more powerful.
Almost a co-traveller. Even a co-creator of his path.
The novel spends considerable time in the years before Siddhartha becomes the Buddha. We see him questioning war. Questioning caste. Questioning rituals performed without understanding. And beside him — not behind — stands Yashodhara.
She supports his voice against violence. She champions compassion over hierarchy. She questions blind ritualism. In many ways, she appears as intellectually and spiritually aligned with him — sometimes even clearer.
There is no dramatic defiance in the writing. The tone is calm. Philosophical. Almost meditative. And yet, beneath that calmness lies the very real struggle of a woman negotiating family, expectations, social constraints — all while nurturing her own spiritual hunger.
What struck me most was this: Yashodhara is not portrayed as someone unaware of the cost of Siddhartha’s renunciation. She understands the limitations she herself will face — not because of a lack of aspiration, but because she is a woman within a structure that does not allow the same freedom.
And yet, she does not merely “allow” him to go.
She participates in his release.
In Volga’s imagination, her support is not passive resignation. It is conscious sacrifice. A form of strength that does not announce itself, but alters history.
In this telling, the hero of the story is not the man who leaves. It is the woman who understands why he must.
The closing portions of the novel describe Yashodhara eventually becoming one of his foremost disciples — walking the Eightfold Path as a female monk. There is dignity in that arc. Completion. Not abandonment, but evolution.
The conversations between Yashodhara and Siddhartha are written sparingly, but with weight. There are also meaningful exchanges with his mother and with her father — conversations that illuminate not just spiritual ideas, but generational tensions and social realities.
The storytelling itself is simple. Unadorned. Almost austere. And perhaps that restraint suits the subject — a tale of renunciation, awakening, and inward growth.
It is not a long book. I finished it in a few sittings. But it lingers.
Because it subtly rearranges a familiar narrative.
It invites us to see enlightenment not as the achievement of one extraordinary man, but as something that unfolded within a web of relationships — sustained by a woman whose own journey was equally profound.
We often celebrate the seeker.
Rarely do we reflect on the one who makes seeking possible.
This novel does.
And in doing so, it restores Yashodhara — not as a footnote to the Buddha’s life — but as a luminous presence in her own right.
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