Sudas on the birth of his daughter

It seemed that S. did not make much of a fuss about it, but in reality he suffered generally from having a very flawed memory, a memory that prevented him from remembering the important events of his life seamlessly; he saw them in fragments and often, when questioned, invented events out of thin air to get rid of the embarrassment.
In certain cases, however, such as when he was asked to recount the birth of his daughter Viren and its circumstances, he did not invent – he smiled – thus making himself look like an idiot but at least not an amnesiac. Of course, if he had had to write about it, the smile would not have been visible… What to do? He hoped the story would be experienced like one of those frescoes from which antiquity has subtracted important but not fundamental parts, and sometimes the sight of some empty plaster mysteriously amalgamates with the painting, turning it into a fractured whole, but not without fascination.
The first thing he remembered was that he had longed for that child. He imagined that his daughter, who was forming in her mother’s womb, was also forming in his imagination and that there was a mutual relationship between the two events. His imagination, like his memory, was fragmentary, but this definitely did not influence the development of the foetus, and the child immediately showed itself to be whole and not in pieces.
S. and his wife had searched for the little being’s name while meditating in a forest of ancient chestnut trees. It was his wife, who in terms of imagination was second to none, who ‘saw’ the name: Viren. Since the chestnut trees were also definitely in favour of it, the girl would be called like this. It’s not a very common name, so what happened at the time of the birth registration sounds very unusual.
“Excuse me, ma’am, could you be my witness?”
In the municipal office, there was only the public official, Viren’s father and a lady who was very helpful when asked. “Your name?” “Virna.”
S., who in terms of imagination, however fragmentary, was third to none, jolted. Here was the sign that this child was expected not only by him, but by the cosmos. He concentrated on the paperwork and on what the clerk was asking him to do. It took only a few minutes, but when he turned to speak to the woman, she was no longer there, gone.
S. tried to refrain from thinking about angels, but now he did, at least a little.
They had chosen a hospital where the Leboyer method was practised.
It wasn’t just around the corner, but it was said to be particularly suitable for those who rejected violent birth with the traditional smack on the baby’s bottom. There was also the possibility of listening to the music that the mother, who was a musician, had played to her guest in the belly for nine months.
S. really wanted to be present at the birth. And the hospital workers whom he had asked permission had not objected. But then their vague sketch of a smile should have alerted S. He was, however, a bit blinded by the desire to see the long-awaited baby girl as soon as he could, a little by the desire to comfort, support and help the birthing woman; and a bit, but he could not say so, to affirm his presence as a male participant.
There was a nun who didn’t let him out of sight. Who knows why? Everyone else, including the mother, simply ignored him, gently keeping him at a distance. Then the child came out and it was a wonder.
They placed her on her mother’s chest, and the mother responded with a wild expression of joy; wild, yes, because she was no longer the woman S. had known. She could have roared with happiness… she was absolutely glowing!
No one slapped the girl, they put her on a table and left her there to listen to the music that her mother had composed and nursed her with for nine months. Viren made strange noises, moaning but not crying. She was probably rehearsing her voice.
S. felt absolutely superfluous, useless, and even if he as much as sketched a few cooperative gestures, it was clear as day that the mother was enough to herself, fully realised.
The nun kept S. in her sight and she did well because at one point he found himself trying to balance himself in a room that was magically spinning around and the ceiling looked like the floor and ‘AlĂ©’, everyone was whirling around while S. felt how he was losing his foot.
“Come, daddy.” The nun caught him and dragged him out of the room. S. couldn’t feel anything; he only felt like lying on the floor, but the nun was quick to offer him a stretcher.
This is how, in a nutshell, S. remembers the landing of his long-awaited daughter Viren, with an unusual name whose etymon has to do with courage and rebellion against stereotypes – and was never more appropriate.
Translated by Punya with edits by Madhuri, based on the Italian version edited by OTI (October 2023) (oshotimes.it)
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