Shikasta

Now the moon was past its full, appearing later each evening, the torches were again exerting their strong emotional effect on everyone.

Abruptly, on the ninth night, George Sherban, who had said practically nothing at all during the actual sessions, came forward to remark, and in a casual way - which a

They had, however, been expecting a summing up, but all he said was: "I rest my case, and call upon John Brent-Oxford to speak."

At first there was a strong reaction. But it changed from disappointment to approval, and the young people were saying to each other that this was a correct, if daring approach.

The silence was absolute. The old white did not stand up. No one expected it: all knew his health was poor. Sitting in his chair, from which he had not moved for all those sessions, he said, clearly, but with no effort to be heard:

"I plead guilty to everything that has been said. How can I do anything else?"

Silence again.

He did not say anything more. Muttering began, angry laughter, then a stirring, and indignation.

This tension was broken by some young man calling out in the jeering but good-humoured way which was, it is clear, very much the note or style of the "Trial": "Well, what are we going to do? Lynch him?"

Laughter. Some of our agents report that they did not find the moment amusing. There was lacking, claimed Tsi Kwang, a proper respect for "the healthy verdicts of history."

There was also considerable confusion, and a good deal of anger.

After some minutes the old white held up his hand for silence and spoke again:

"I want to ask all of you present: Why is it that you, the accusers, have adopted with such energy and efficiency the ways you have been criticising? Of course some of you have been given no alternative: I refer to the North American and the South American Indians, for example. But others have had a choice. Why is it that so many of you who have not been forced into it, have chosen to copy the materialism, the greed, the rapacity of the white man's technological society?"

With which he stopped speaking.

There was indignation, and a loud murmur of talk, which became a clamour.

Then George Sherban called up, "Since it is nearly midnight, I suggest we call a halt and resume the discussion at four a.m. as usual."

The tiers emptied fast. That night very few people left the camp. It was seething, and pervaded by a spirit which, after very carefully perusing the reports, I am going to take the liberty of describing as jocular.

The four hours were spent in energetic discussion. Everywhere they were speculating about the defence they were about to hear. They were joking that it was obvious that the white man, always in the right, was about to accuse them, particularly those nonwhite nations which had taken efficiently to industry and technology - which I am happy to say includes us - of many of the crimes he had been accused of. In a spirit of part anger, part burlesque, in hundreds of conversations between couples, among groups, in "seminars," these probable accusations were being framed and elaborated, and even offered to the old white for use. Our agents all expressed indignation at this turn of events, calling them frivolous and insulting.

Towards dawn it rained: another heavy shower. Just as there was a movement to the amphitheatre to light the torches, it rained again. It was a wet, and even chilly dawn. The word went around that the session was cancelled, to give the amphitheatre time to dry out. A great many went to sleep where they were, because of the easing of the tension due to the drop in temperature - and due also, to the general feeling of anticlimax.

As they woke again, through the morning and early afternoon, the conversations and debates began anew, but on a lower note, more seriously, with less laughter. But the mood was one of amiability.

It is clear now, reading the reports, that the "Trial" had in fact ended. At the time though, there was a certain eagerness to know what would happen next.

It was lucky that it rained, but if it had not, I feel that events would have petered out in much the same way.

By five the amphitheatre was dry, and the delegates crammed the seats.

Everyone was looking towards the old white, with many ironical speculations as to what line he would take, but it was George Sherban who went into the centre, held up his arms for silence and began:

"Yesterday the accused made a counteraccusation. It is one that I know has been thought about and discussed ever since. But today I want to put forward a self-criticism, which I feel we may agree is not outside the spirit of this gathering of ours."

This was unexpected. Not a sound from anybody. The woman Sharma Patel came forward to stand beside him.

"We have heard for many days now, accounts of the ill-treatment by the white-ski

This was greeted with a great roar of sardonic laughter, and from various places around the vast gathering came singing. "I have an Indian grandfather," "I have a Jewish grandmother."

He held up his hand, the noise stopped, and he remarked, "As it happens, a Jewish grandfather, from Poland. And of course it now seems at least possible that this ancestor of mine originated with the Khazars and not in Israel or anywhere near it, so that gives me two non-European grandparents out of four. But otherwise, of course, I am that common mix, Irish-Scotch, both of them subject races."

Another roar of laughter. There was a danger the singing would start again, but he stilled it.

"I want to make a single observation. It is that for three thousand years India has persecuted and ill-treated a part of its own population. I refer of course to the Untouchables. The unspeakable treatment meted out to these unfortunate people, barbaric, cruel, senseless - " these words were thrown up, one after another, with pauses between, like challenges, up into the tiers as he turned slowly around to face every part of the audience - "this unspeakably cruel treatment is matched for baseness by nothing the white races have ever done. At this time millions upon millions of people in the subcontinent of India are treated worse than the white South Africans ever treated any black - as badly as any white oppressor ever treated a black man or woman. This is not a question of a year's oppression, a decade's persecution, a century's ill-treatment, not the results of a short-lived and unsuccessful regime like the British Empire, not a ten-year outburst of savagery like Hitler's regime in Europe, not fifty years of savagery like Russian communism, but something built into a religion and a way of life, a culture, so deeply embedded that the frightfulness and ugliness of it apparently ca

At this he stepped aside and Sharma Patel took his place.

"I, an Indian born and bred, ally myself with what our comrade has said. I am not an Untouchable. If I were, I would not be standing here. Because I am not, I am able to stand forward now to say that I heard nothing during the days we have sat here listening to the indictments, that ca

With which she went back to stand with her group, and George Sherban followed her.