Sir Ganga Ram - 1947

It was close to the border between two countries that had until very recently been part of one whole. By some lucky, or unlucky - for some of the residents of the manor - twist of a man’s mind, a man, who until he demarcated the two had never been to the whole, it had found itself in the new, smaller country. It was a magnificent building, had been a magnificent building, huge, imposing, ivy creeping up the sides of the walls. Now the foundations still stood but what they stood for was unsure. The building was showing signs of age, it had been well preserved when those barbarians, the colonizers had built it. Now that the educated minority were taking and divvying up the country amongst themselves, those magnificent institutions were slowly being forgotten, forlorn, forsaken. The people were cheering with joy and jubilation as they established themselves as masters in their own right, and in that happiness, in that arrogance were letting the country, now countries, that they had inherited fade into obscurity.

The building was large, its edges rounded by the wear and tear of the elements, lights flickering, windows shattered and un-repaired. The steel grilles around the windows still stood. For how long though? The apple and mango trees that it encircled still smelled good and boasted fresh fruit. For how long though? It was grey, and cracks lined the walls. The air tasted of madness and of lives fully loved and lived, and of something deeper. Something sour. The hairs on the backs of those that visited rose, and they assumed it was just because of the purpose the place served. They were only partly right.

This place was long forgotten, and as such, it was the perfect place. It was easy to get permits from the governments in chaos, scrambling as they were to put together systems in place for a people that were only used to being ordered, and had no initiative of their own. Even if people did find out, who would give a singular fuck about the ones society had declared fucked up and sent to be fixed, knowing full well that they could not.

This was where it had begun, in 1947. This was where the conversion experiments had begun. They had began testing in secret, testing the madmen, the forgotten ones. Someone had tried to warn the world about Sir Gangha Ram hospital, waxing poetic about it, in hopes that people would visit, but none did. None cared. And he too, was soon taken care of. 

This was where he had started to build files, a few miles from Lahore, started to build files on people, files that were still tests in reading and manipulating people. No one but the philanthropist millionaire knew that though. Everyone thought they were running psychology experiments, which they were, claiming that it was in order to help these people, which they werent. Though if you think about it, they were trying to help all people. For the one day he knew would come. The one day where him and the two friends he had just lost would roll the dice in that room.