King of Nothing

To me, he looked like a king.

He sat in the driver’s seat not as a man commuting to work, but as a monarch surveying his domain. The leather steering wheel was his scepter; the tinted windows, his castle walls. He didn’t just drive through Kuala Lumpur; he presided over it. The chaos of the city, the honking motorcycles, the jaywalking pedestrians, the humid haze parted before him, or so it seemed. He moved with a deliberate, unhurried grace that suggested the world bent to his will, rather than him navigating its currents.

In the mythology of a five-year-old, kings are solitary figures. They sit on thrones above the fray, untouched by the mud and noise of the commoners below. They are respected, yes, but they are also alone. I didn’t see his loneliness then. I saw his elevation. I saw the way people stepped aside, the way voices lowered, the way space was cleared for his passage. I interpreted this deference as love, or at least, as the highest form of regard. If everyone feared him, I reasoned, then he must be important. And if he was important, then being his daughter made me important too.

I dressed the part. I learned to sit still, to speak only when spoken to, to keep my emotions tucked away like royal jewels in a vault. I thought that kings didn’t cry, so neither did I. I thought that kings didn’t need help, so neither did I. I built my own throne out of silence and perfectionism, mirroring his posture, mimicking his detachment. I believed that if I could just be regal enough, cold enough, controlled enough, I would earn my place beside him in the front seat.

But kings are prisoners of their own crowns.

I didn’t realize that his "kingdom" was a car. That his "subjects" were strangers who didn’t know his name. That his "power" was just a defensive crouch disguised as authority. He wasn’t ruling the city; he was hiding from it. The tinted windows weren’t there to keep the peasants out; they were there to keep the king in. To keep him from having to interact with a world that felt too loud, too messy, too demanding for a man who had forgotten how to be soft.

A true king serves his people. He listens to their grievances, he shares in their celebrations, he walks among them. My father did none of those things. He observed. He judged. He passed through. He was a king of nothing but his own ego, ruling over a kingdom of one. And I was his heir apparent.

I inherited his crown before I even understood what it weighed. I wore it through high school, through my first relationships, through my career in fashion. I treated people like subjects to be managed rather than humans to be known. I demanded loyalty but offered little warmth. I expected obedience but gave no guidance. I thought I was being strong. I thought I was being noble. But I was just being lonely.

It took years to realize that the crown was fake. That the throne was empty. The power I coveted was actually a curse.

Now, when I look back at that little girl in the backseat, watching her father’s profile against the neon lights of KL, I don’t see a princess. I see a hostage. A hostage to the idea that love is something you earn through status. A hostage to the belief that vulnerability is a weakness fit only for commoners. I have taken off the crown. It was heavy, and it gave me a headache, and it kept me from hearing the music of the street.

I am no longer a king. I am just Saransh. And for the first time, that feels like enough. Because kings are alone. But people? People are together. And I am tired of ruling. I am ready to belong.