Nestled upon the bemired estuary of the Sarawak River, the narrow streets of Kuching witnessed the rhythmic marching of soldiers and the scattered steps of frolicking children, the rumbling wheels of haphazardly-assembled rickshaws and the lockstep of sauntering lovers. Akin to the settlements around it, the social and political hierarchy of Kuching culminated upon an European, a representative of empire, of foreign-imposed dominion and colonial exploitation. However, the lord of Kuching did not reside in a governor's mansion, he did not owe his legitimacy to a throne in London or an assembly in Paris, his own standard billowed in the wind, overlooking the hurried port workers and the landscape dyed a shade of bright viridian.

In Kuching, the head of the white dominus was adorned with a stately crown. His residence was a palace, his councillors were courtiers, and his name was graced with the elegant honorific of Raja. The royal sceptre of state was brandished by an adventurer, and the weight of his decrees left an unerasable mark upon the city. Even as his banners were torn from their poles, replaced with the white and red colors of another imperial master, one could not help but notice the lingering remnants of the regime. The old stone fort retained its conspicuous English style despite the new soldiers standing atop its sentries; the seals of the royal house were still engraved onto hurriedly concealed plaques; and the syllables of the old king's name still occasionally popped into hushed conversations over bowls of laksa. The spectre of the past still haunts Kuching, refusing to abandon its identity.