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  Advance Praise For

  Bride of the Buddha

  “A remarkable and riveting love story—I literally could not put this book down—told in luminous and mindfully crafted prose. By reimagining the Buddha’s disciple Ananda as Yasodhara, the wife Siddhartha abandoned in order to seek the Way, McHugh offers a story equally poised between transcendence and simple humanity. The reading became for me a meditation and an invitation to examine the Buddha’s teaching in a new light. Highly recommended for anyone interested in living a more awakened life.” — Mobi Warren, translator of Thich Nhat Hanh’s Old Path White Clouds: Walking in the Footsteps of the Buddha

  “For the most part, the women who support and inspire great men remain anonymous. We have Barbara McHugh to thank for bringing Yasodhara out of the shadows. Making use of historical texts, oral traditions, and a vivid imagination, she has created a portrait of the bride of Buddha and the world in which he lived. Crisp, charming, and unforgettable.” — Sam Keen, author of Fire in the Belly and Your Mythic Journey

  “From the first page to the last, the tale of this feisty bride and seeker held my heart. Yasodhara/Ananda repeatedly risks the hell realms out of love for others and a passion for justice. In her scrupulous honesty with herself about her own faults, she is often blind to her own goodness, but her sometime husband, aka the Buddha, sees her more clearly and tenderly. As someone who has found Buddhism baffling, I was deeply informed and moved by Barbara McHugh’s brilliant imagining of Yasodhara’s life.” — Elizabeth Cunningham, author of The Passion of Mary Magdalen

  “How wonderful to have the feminine written back into the Buddhist tradition. Where the Pali Canon leaves women out on the periphery, denied their place in the meditation grounds (and therefore denied a path to enlightenment), Barbara McHugh’s imaginative placement of Yasodhara as Ananda, the historical Buddha’s right hand ‘wo/man,’ is timely and welcome. As the narrative aligns so closely to the Pali texts, it is truly delightful to imagine Yasodhara / Ananda helping the female sangha become established. I shall happily consider this course of herstory from now on.” — Ruth Phypers, author of “Dragon King’s Daughter and Women, Meditative Practice and the Path to Enlightenment in Mahayana Buddhism,” University of London, School of Oriental and African Studies

  “In prose that glides like poetry, McHugh weaves the bold story of a remarkable woman. Transported to a period when women were meant to be vessels only for breeding and serving, we follow her perilous spiritual journey to enlightenment. So much of women’s truth has been lost to history, but McHugh lifts the veil to reveal Yasodhara, the Buddha’s wife.” — Dorothy Edwards, author of Langston’s Moon

  “Bride of the Buddha is a masterfully woven story of love and a yearning for freedom, both societal and spiritual; a relationship that changes and grows with time; and a quest beyond the home on the path of the homeless that develops into a shared awakening. This evocatively written and moving story offers us a perspective that is not easily available to us of a girl who is searching within herself and in relationship to others as she grows from an inquisitive, sensitive, and playful child and sister to a rebellious daughter, a dutiful wife, a loving mother, a sincere seeker, a builder of the Sangha, a mindful attendant, and the relayer of teachings and practices that still ring true to us. Barbara McHugh’s skill in telling a moving and gripping narrative; transmuting characters into each other; and weaving in facts with fiction, teachings with tales kept me engaged and wanting to know what happened next. I very much enjoyed reading the book and will definitely recommend it to others.” — Shantum Seth, founder of BuddhaPath Pilgrimages

  “A daring reimagining of the life of Yasodhara, wife of the Buddha and mother of the infant Rahula, left by Siddhartha so he could pursue enlightenment. As a young girl, Yasodhara is determined to engage in a spiritual quest in the midst of a suffocating patriarchal culture. It is all the more shocking, therefore, when Yasodhara infiltrates the Buddha’s Sangha as the young monk Ananda and plays his pivotal role in the life of the Buddha. At the heart of Yasodhara’s spiritual seeking is an unshakable love that fiercely defends her husband and son, women, and young seekers, and eventually expands to include the entire Sangha and the preservation of what the Buddha taught. I finished this novel with a yearning for this story to be true.” — Wendy Egyoku Nakao, Abbot Emeritus of Zen Center of Los Angeles and coauthor of The Book of Householder Koans

  “In the tradition of alternate-reality novels, Barbara McHugh spins a creative tale of intrigue and family drama as she reimagines aspects of the story of the Buddha. It is engaging and inventive, and very enjoyable.” — Phillip Moffitt, author of Dancing with Life: Buddhist Insights for Finding Meaning and Joy in the Face of Suffering

  “A rare and captivating story, set in India some 2,600 years ago, that explores who the Buddha might have been as a husband, father, and supremely enlightened being as seen from the point of view of Yasodhara, the beautiful wife he abandoned. Barbara McHugh skillfully weaves documentation of the historical lives of the Buddha, his family members, and his disciples as known from the earliest Pali texts, together with vividly imagined fictional events and characters, and the result is a gripping page-turner that deftly explores and illuminates important questions in contemporary Buddhism: the ordination of women, renunciation, ethics, the role of faith, gender, and the difficult challenges one inevitably has to face on the path to liberation. A literary delight that will be widely enjoyed by seekers of all stripes.” — Meg Gawler, author of “Voices of Early Buddhist Nuns,” Graduate Theological Union, University of California, Berkeley

  “In deft prose, Barbara McHugh creates the voice of Buddha’s wife as a protofeminist in a profoundly patriarchal culture. Yasodhara journeys from being the Buddha’s profoundly sensual spouse to becoming his valued spiritual companion and attendant, Ananda, credibly disguised as a man. Bride of the Buddha is first a story, not a philosophical discourse, a reimagining, not a retelling of Yasodhara’s story, that even a nonBuddhist can appreciate.” — Carol L. Gloor, author of Giving Death the Raspberries

  “Bride of the Buddha transports us to the years after Prince Siddhartha leaves his wife, Yasodhara, to seek his Dharma and become the Buddha. In this extraordinary imagining of Yasodhara’s own journey to awakening, you’ll feel you are with her every step of the way.” — James N. Frey, novelist, writing teacher, and author of How to Write a Damn Good Novel: A Step-by-Step No-Nonsense Guide to Dramatic Storytelling

  “As the wife of Siddhartha, the man who would be Buddha, Yasodhara sees her husband’s heart and sacrifices her marriage to his quest for enlightenment, and then has to face hard truths to pursue her own spiritual authenticity. Bride of the Buddha is a riveting tale of the nature of suffering and the journey to wisdom. Magically written, McHugh creates a world of mystic hope and earthly promise that leaves us looking more deeply into our own hearts.” — Tess Collins, author of Shadow Mountain

  “In this unique and gripping novel of a historical figure relegated to the shadows by her famous husband, Yasodhara forges her own path, sacrificing her position and privilege to undertake a perilous quest for enlightenment. Bride of the Buddha educates, illuminates, and captivates as it brings us into a legendary world.” — Max Tomlinson, author of Sendero

  “In an ambitious and brilliantly conceived historical novel that is both spiritual inspiration and heart-stopping entertainment, Barbara McHugh, a lifelong student of Buddhism and an accomplished teacher of poetry, brings these gifts together in a novel with characters so well-realized that readers will be drawn into their quest and make it their own.” — John Martel, author of The Alternate

  Bride

 
of the

  Buddha

  A Novel

  Barbara MrcHugh

  Monkfish Book Publishing Company

  Rhinebeck, New York

  Bride of the Buddha: A Novel © 2021 by Barbara McHugh

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the consent of the publisher except in critical articles or reviews. Contact the publisher for information.

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-948626-23-1

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-948626-24-8

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: McHugh, Barbara, author.

  Title: Bride of the Buddha : a novel / Barbara McHugh.

  Description: Rhinebeck, New York : Monkfish Book Publishing Company, [2021]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020048462 (print) | LCCN 2020048463 (ebook) | ISBN

  9781948626231 (paperback) | ISBN 9781948626248 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Yaśodharā (Wife of Gautama Buddha)--Fiction. | Gautama

  Buddha--Fiction. | GSAFD: Biographical fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3613.C53316 B75 2021 (print) | LCC PS3613.C53316

  (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020048462

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020048463

  Front cover design by Lisa Carta

  Front cover painting: “Hotoke” by LuAnn Ostergaard

  Book design by Colin Rolfe

  Monkfish Book Publishing Company

  22 East Market Street, Suite 304

  Rhinebeck, NY 12572

  (845) 876-4861

  monkfishpublishing.com

  For Bill

  “Those who refuse to give credence to the tradition until a diary kept by Ananda has been found, duly authenticated by the authorities of Rajagrha and Vaisali, will have long to wait.”

  —Erich Frauwallner (1898–1974),

  Austrian pioneer in the field of Buddhist studies1

  * * *

  1 Erich Frauwallner, “The Historical Data We Possess on the Person and the Doctrine of the Buddha,” East and West 7 (4), 1957: 309–312. Quoted in David Drewes, “The Idea of the Historical Buddha,” Journal of the International Association of Buddhist Studies 40, 2017: 16.

  Prologue

  “I won’t leave without your blessing,” Siddhartha whispered so softly I wasn’t sure he wanted me to hear. He stood in the carved rosewood doorway of our bed chamber, and in the deepening silence of my refusal, I pulled Rahula closer, praying that our two-day-old son would feel only the beating of my heart and not the bitterness that filled it.

  “You don’t need my blessing. Just go. Find your Dharma.”

  My young husband, who would one day be called the Buddha, didn’t move. He stood in the darkness, across the room from our wedding bed, and I lay on my side with my back to him, staring out the window at a moon waning to a diamond-white crescent. A single star, sharp as betrayal, was poised beside it. It was just before dawn.

  Rahula stirred against my collarbone, a small shifting warmth under the cool silk coverlet. My husband had named him Rahula, the common word for “bond.” But it also meant “fetter.”

  “Yasi,” Siddhartha said, “if you ask me to stay, I will.”

  I looked at him, still standing in the doorway, but he was only a silhouette, his clear eyes and the tender curve of his lips already fading in my memory. Perhaps if I’d seen his face and it had revealed a change, I would have begged him to stay. But in recent months, his look of sadness and revulsion at the sight of my mortal flesh and all the suffering it implied had lodged in my soul, and now I could think of nothing but that look.

  “I won’t change your plans,” I said. “You’re right to cast off your illusions. I only wish you’d done it before we married.” I gazed at the rising crescent moon, which was soon to be effaced by morning sunlight. Already there was a green smear in the eastern sky.

  My husband spoke one last time. “I promise if I find the truth, I’ll bring it home to you and Rahula.”

  I doubted his words. A minute went by, then another. Finally, the breeze shifted and the crickets resumed their refrain. Siddhartha had left, as I knew he would. He was taking the journey I’d once intended for myself.

  Supposedly, the moon was full the night he left. Supposedly, I slept through it all. My version of these events will not be the one told to future generations. I was all but banished from that story. It’s the price I had to pay for the life I chose.

  Book One

  Yasodhara

  1

  When I was ten and my sister Deepa was seven, we met the dog-duty ascetic. We’d endured needlework and hair-plaiting lessons followed by endless instruction on preparing pujas, offerings to the gods. Now we were lolling about in the shade of the mango tree outside the kitchen of our teak residence—palatial by village standards, three stories high—which housed my father’s family and the families of two of his brothers. It had rained earlier; puddles flashed and steamed in the sunshine, and the air was scented with cumin, greenery, and a faint drift of dung. The moist heat weighed us down, and we were hoping a wandering holy man would come along to distract us. If we were lucky, we’d hear stories of distant western lands populated with blue-black demons made of smoke; purple-scaled mermen with arms and chests as pink as raw fish; and spherical people who had two faces, four hands, four feet, and two sets of sex organs—so complete in themselves they never had to marry or search for enemies to vanquish. Holy men tended to come around mealtimes, and Cook, with her jowly grin and brown midriff bulging over her green-striped sari, would direct the more respectable ones to my father’s pavilion and feed the others leftover rice or lentils. Our mother, Pamita—“Ama” to us—was upstairs in the women’s quarters attempting to predict the future from grains of sand and preparing our older sisters for marriage.

  At long last, we saw a holy man in the distance, shambling on all fours between the millet fields, sniffing at puddles and growling. At first, I thought he was an oversized monkey, then I noticed his long gray hair, matted and clotted with mud, all but covering his downturned face. He was also naked.

  “How ugly he is!” I nudged my sister.

  Deepa looked as though she was about to cry, her round little face stretching into an enormous sorrow. She loved to trick us into worrying about her; then she’d burst out laughing. “Yasi, look at his doodle!” She covered her mouth, knowing that her laughter was impertinent. But the audacity of the man’s nakedness—and of the gods for inventing it—captivated us, and we both started laughing.

  “Yasi! Deepa! Stop it!” Cook stood in the kitchen doorway, her thinning gray-streaked hair pulled into a single braid like mine and Deepa’s, her scalp glistening in the heat. “He’s a dog-duty ascetic, and he deserves your respect.”

  “And why?” I demanded.

  “Yes,” Deepa said. “He’s hideous.” The man ignored us, skulking around the clearing, howling under his breath.

  “Don’t look at him,” Cook insisted. “Come inside.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do.” Spoiled, I took advantage of my position as the daughter of the village oligarch.

  Cook snorted. “I’ll tell your mother.”

  Deepa did her about-to-cry performance again, then laughed. “But you won’t,” she said, patting Cook’s brown slab of an arm. “You’re our friend.” Cook liked to listen to the wanderers’ stories, too, and her duty to supervise us while Ama was with our sisters gave her an excuse.

  We needed to stay on Cook’s good side, so I appealed to her authority. “Why should I respect such a filthy man?” I wrinkled my nose at a waft of his odor, considerably ranker than a dog’s.

  “He’s degrading his body to purify his soul,” Cook explained, wiping her curry-stained hands
on her sari.

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. I knew Cook felt the same as we did. Our family followed the old ways, sacrificing to household deities to keep the universe going, then joining our ancestors above the clouds or under the hills—or wherever—then returning to earth, and on and on. My father entertained these wanderers, mainly to hear gossip that might help him marry off his daughters or advance the fortunes of my brother, Jagdish.

  Cook had her eye on the ascetic, who continued sniffing around the bushes. “The dog-duty wanderer believes that when his soul gets pure enough, he’ll enter a state of absorption and never be bothered again with life on earth. If he’s right, someday he’ll be barking among the stars.”

  “Well, then,” I addressed Deepa, my hilarity rising again. “Let’s purify our souls. Arf! Arf!”

  “Arf!” Deepa said, and we both got down on all fours.

  “I pray you won’t be reborn as dogs,” said Cook.

  “But I like dogs!” said Deepa.

  Cook disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a clay bowl full of pan scrapings—chicken bones, stale chapatis, and assorted greasy lumps—and flopped the whole mess on the dirt not far from the dog-duty man. He lunged for it, gobbling it up like a canine, and shambled off into the forest.

  Deepa and I were still on all fours. “We didn’t get our share!” I complained, and Cook suppressed a laugh.

  “Your souls aren’t pure enough,” she retorted, and went back to the kitchen, which by now swarmed with her daughters and grandchildren grinding spices and sifting stones from heaps of orange and ocher lentils.

  I gave Deepa a look. Our dog imitations were about to ripen into a full-blown enactment.