Princess Sultana's Daughters

that
he thought I had employed a new and more enthusiastic hairdresser
when in reality I was behaving like a child by pulling it out.
    I was quick to snap an ugly retort, unfairly
accusing Kareem of loving none but himself, which was why I, alone,
had to keep watch over our children.
    Gently impatient, Kareem got a distant look
in his eyes, and I felt as if he left me without leaving the room.
When his spirit returned, he said that he had been trying to
remember a comforting verse he had once read about the rearing of
spirited children. Kareem recited, “ You may give your children
love, but not your thoughts, for they have their own
thoughts .”
    “Kahlil Gibran,” I said.
    “What?”
    “That verse, it is from The Prophet .
And it was I who read that particular verse to you while we were
awaiting the birth of our firstborn.”
    Kareem’s stern face softened as a smile
parted his lips, and I wondered if he was remembering the happy
moments so long ago that we had spent with our infant son.
    That was not the case, for he complimented me
by saying, “Sultana, you are an amazing creature. How can you
remember such a thing?”
    Kareem had always marveled at my memory, for
once I’d read or heard something, my recall never failed in
accuracy.
    I was pleased with his recognition, but the
causes of mydiscontent were too deep and varied to be so easily
dissolved. In a collision with my children, my mad passion had
blinded me to my husband’s clear and logical mind. With no one else
to battle, I continued to snarl at my husband. In contempt I
compared Kareem with Nero, the mad fiddler of Rome, blind to
disaster even when his kingdom was aflame.
    Angered by my repeated insults, Kareem
thought better of his solicitous sympathy and left me alone to
consider his parting observation, which was not comforting. His
spiteful words were, “Sultana, you have it all. Yet, you fear
everything and understand nothing. I predict that you will, one
day, be committed to an institution built especially for the
insane.”
    I hissed like a snake and Kareem left, not to
return for two days.
    Shortly after our heated exchange, I was
unconsciously twisting my hair with one hand while idly thumbing
through one of my many foreign publications when I read an article
in an Ameri- can magazine that told of a rare disease that strikes
females only, causing women to pull their hair out until they
become completely bald. Once bald, those unfortunate women then
progress pulling out and eating their eyebrows, eyelashes, and body
hair.
    I let go of my hair. Did I have that disease?
I ran to view my image in the mirror, and to search through my
scalp for bald spots. My hair did seem thin. Now I was truly
worried, for I had never cured myself of vanity and had no
inclination to be bald! Besides, in the Muslim religion, it is
forbidden for a woman to be bald.
    Time proved that I did not have the disease,
for unlike the women in the article, my attachment to beauty helped
me to quickly cure myself of the habit.
    Despite retaining my hair, I feared that I
had lost my passion for life, and I told myself that if my
debilitating depression was not conquered, my old age would be
premature and triumphant. Feeling sorry for myself, I imagined that
I would suffer a slow death through the gradual diminution of my
senses.
    I was saved from my self-destructive behavior
by my dearest sister.
    Sara, a contemplative genius, was sensitive
to my dulled lust for life, and she began to spend many hours by my
side, humoring me with her undivided attention. Sara understood my
feelings perfectly and knew that worry over Abdullah and Amani now
ruled my life.
    My sister looked upon me with great pity when
I tearfully told her, “Sara, if I had to live my life over again, I
do not believe that I could survive it.”
    Sara’s mouth curved upward in a half smile as
she wryly observed, “Sultana, few of our family would survive if
you were to live your life again.”
    Our laughter filled the room.
    My sister was so dear. Sara was not without
problems of her own. She herself was burdened with an unruly child,
yet she came to my aid at a time of great need. While four of my
sister’s five children strove for perfection, Nashwa, Sara’s
teenage daughter, born on the same day as Amani, relished
controversy.
    In strictest confidence, Sara told me to be
thankful that Amani had attached herself to religion, for Sara had
the opposite problem with Nashwa. Her daughter was wildly