I cannot imagine the hullaballoo, the rumpus, the veritable sheer chaos, my birth most certainly brought to the palace of Saye Al-Nuur. My poor mother. What a trial to go through for her first-born. Eighteen hours and several minutes into her labor of body, mind, and soul, my tiny body was finally delivered unto the world. I am told that after my mother’s triumphant cries and joyful teary gasps, there was nothing but silence for at least a full minute. Or two. My mother looked around at the two dayehs holding the bloody sweat-soaked towels, then over at my father, Emperor Tajir.

            “Ahem—” my father said, “my queen...” he trailed off.

            “Well? How is the child? Do we have a son? A daughter? Let me see!” There was more awkward silence and the dayeh shuffled their feet. No one spoke.  Right about then, the adorable first cries of a newborn pierced the heavy, damp air. Three people in the room visibly jumped and took several steps back. By now, my mother had had enough and sat up looking around.

            “Where is he?” She asked, even now her motherly instincts telling her that I was, in fact, male. She looked around, confusion and joy turning into tense worry. She followed the sound of the squeaky little cry and looked down at the bed. If I could have seen with my own eyes at this point in my life, I am sure my mother’s face completely drained of all color.

            My father’s voice shook as he swallowed deeply and said, “Where—is the child?” Once again, motherly intuition guided her hands and she reached down, feeling the warm, wet, newly birthed body of the squalling infant before her. She jerked her hand back and looked up with wide eyes at the two terrified dayehs next to her. At this point, the Emperor of Roshyaan fainted and hit the blue and white mosaiced tile floor with a hearty thud. The rather descriptive sounds of effort and intermittent screams of childbirth were now replaced with my mother’s screams of horror. One of the dayehs ran out of the room holding her hand over her mouth and sobbing hysterically. The other unfortunate midwife stood mute, looking like a garden statue that had just seen a flying carpet descend majestically complete with fairy choir and fanfare, bearing to earth a handsome and wealthy emir to beg her hand in marriage.

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            My mother had just birthed an invisible child into the world. I was there, present, yet I was not there. She lifted me from the bed and brought me close. I was there in her arms, she could feel me, feel my skin against hers, feel my heart beating in my tiny chest, the warm slimy wetness of my downy soft baby curls. But mother could not see me with her eyes. I was really, truly invisible. Extra, extra most definitely invisible. How my mother kept from flinging my moist little body into the pile of sheets like I was the dismembered tail of some deceased rat, I do not know, yet am truly grateful for.

            And that is how Prince Ravi Al-Raj of the Kingdom of Roshyaan came to be. I, an innocent babe working out how to take my first breaths, somehow managed to turn effort, pain, and anticipation into a confused cacophony of brouhaha and epic perturbation. (This would, in fact be the story of my life, so stay tuned.) I was the invisible prince. And one day, I would be Emperor.