GANDHI

The Screenplay

By John Briley

EXTERIOR. SKY. DAY.

    The camera is moving toward an Indian city. We are high and far away, only the sound of the wind as we grow nearer and nearer, and through the passing clouds these words appear:

No man's life can be encompassed in one telling. There is no way to give each year its allotted weight, to include each event, each person who helped to shape a lifetime. What can be done is to be faithful in spirit to the record, and to try to find one's way to the heart of the man . . .

    And now we are approaching the city, the squalor of the little shanty dwellings around the outskirts, the shadows of large factories . . . And as we move nearer, coursing over the parched terrain, the tiny fields of cultivation, strands of sound are woven through the main titles, borne on the wind, images from the life we are seeking:
    British: "Who the hell is he?!", lower class British: "I don't know, sir." . . . "My name is Gandhi. Mohandas K. Gandhi." . . . A woman's voice, tender, soft: "You are my best friend, my highest guru . . . and my sovereign lord." . . . A man (Gandhi): "I am asking you to fight!" . . . An angry aristocratic English voice: "At home children are writing 'essays' about him!" . . . the sound of massed rifle fire, screams . . .


EXTERIOR. CITY. DAY.

    And now we are over the city, coming in toward a particular street in the affluent suburbs of New Delhi . . . there are a few cars (it is 1948), and we are closing on a milling crowd near the entrance to one of the larger homes.
    We see saris, Indian tunics, a sprinkling of "Gandhi" caps, several tongas (two-wheeled, horse-drawn taxis) . . . the shreds of sound continue – American woman, flirtatious, intimate: "You're the only man I know who makes his own clothes." Gandhi's laugh . . . The sound of rioting, women's cries and screams of terror . . . An American voice: "This man of peace" . . .
    And as the titles end we begin to pick up the sounds of the street . . . an Australian and his wife, a BBC correspondent . . . all in passing, as the camera finally closes and holds on one young man: Godse.


EXTERIOR. BIRLA HOUSE. DAY.

    Godse steps from a tonga as the crowd begins to move toward an entrance-way at the back of a long wall.

HOUSE SERVANT'S VOICE: He will be saying prayers in the garden – just follows the others.

    In contrast to those about him, there is tension in Godse's face, an air of danger in his movements.
    He glances at two policemen who are talking casually, absorbed in their own gossip – then he looks back at another tonga that pulls up just behind his. Two young men (Apte and Karkare) meet Godse's gaze, and again we get the sense of imminent danger.
    They descend and pay their driver absently, their eyes watching the crowd.
    Sitting along in the shadows of a stationary tonga a little distance down the street an elderly man (Prakash) with a short, close-cropped beard and the taut, sunken flesh of a cadaver is watching . . .
    Apte and Karkare look back at him. There is just the slightest acknowledgment and then Prakash lifts his eyes to the gate, as though to tell them to be about their business.


THE GATE AT BIRLA HOUSE. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    Godse hesitates before approaching the two gardeners who nonchalantly flank the entrance. He stiffens himself, cautiously touches something under his khaki jacket, then glances back at the stoic face of Prakash. Prakash's gaze is as firm and unrelenting as a death's head. Godse turns back, wetting his lips nervously, then moves into the middle of a group going through the gate.


GARDEN. BIRLA HOUSE. EXTERIOR. TWILIGHT.

    A fairly numerous crowd is gathering here, informally filling the area on one side of a walk that leads to a little pavilion – some devout, some curious, some just eager to be near the great man.
    Godse moves forward through them toward the front just as hushed voices begin to remark – "I see him." "Here he comes!" "Which one is Manu?" . . .
    Apte and Karkare move to different sides of Godse, staying a little behind, their movements sly and wary, aware of people watching.
    Featuring Gandhi. We see him distantly through the crowd. The brown, wiry figure cloaked only in loincloth and shawl, still weak from his last fast and moving without his customary spring and energy as he is supported by his two grand nieces, his "walking sticks," Manu and Abha.
    We do not see him clearly until the very last moment – only glimpses of him as he smiles, and exchanges little jokes with some of the crowd and the two young women who support him, occasionally joining his hands together in greeting to someone in particular, then once more proceeding with a hand on the shoulder of each of the girls.
    The camera keeps moving closer, and the point of view is always Godse's, but Gandhi is always in profile or half obscured by the heads and shoulders of those in front. We hear the occasional click of a camera, and we intercut with shots of Godse moving tensely up through the crowd, of Apte and Karkare on the periphery of the crowd, watching with sudden fear and apprehension, like men paralysed by the presence of danger.
    Featuring Godse. He slides through to the very front rank. His breathing is short and there is perspiration around the sides of his temples. And now, for an instant we see Gandhi close from his point of view. He is only a few steps away, but turned to speak to someone on the other side, and Manu half obscures him.
    Godse swallows dryly, tension lining his face – then he moves boldly out into Gandhi's path, bumping Manu, knocking a vessel for incense from her hands.

MANU (gently): Brother – Bapu is already late for prayers.

    Ignoring her, his nerves even more taut, Godse joins his hands together and bows in greeting to the Mahatma.
    And now we see Gandhi in full shot. The cheap glasses, the nut-brown head, the warm, eager eyes. He smiles and joins his hands together to exchange Godse's greeting.
    Godse moves his right hand rapidly from the stance of prayer to his jacket, in an instant – it holds a gun, and he fires point blank at Gandhi – loud, startling – once, twice . . . thrice.
    Gandhi's white shawl is stained with blood as he falls.

GANDHI: Oh, God . . . oh, God . . .

Amid the screams and sounds of chaos we dissolve through to


KINGSWAY. NEW DELHI. EXTERIOR. DAY.
    Close shot. Soldier's feet moving in the slow step, half-step, step of the requiem march . . .
    Full shot. The huge funeral procession – crowds such as have never been seen on the screen massed along the route. People everywhere, clinging to monuments, lamp standards, trees – and as the camera pulls back from the funeral cortege it reveals more and more . . . and more. All are silent. We only hear a strange, rhythmic shuffling, pierced by an occasional wail of grief. We see the soldiers and sailors lining the route, their hands locked together in one seemingly endless chain. We see the two hundred men of the Army, Navy and Air Force drawing the Army weapon-carrier that bears the body of Gandhi.
    And finally we see Gandhi lying on the weapon-carrier, surrounded by flowers, a tiny figure in this ocean of grief and reverence.


THE COMMENTATORS' ROSTRUM. KINGSWAY. NEW DELHI. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    Commentators from all over the world are covering the ceremony. We concentrate on one, let us say the most distinguished American broadcaster of the time, Edward R. Murrow, who sits on the makeshift platform, a microphone marked "CBS" before him, describing the procession as technicians and staff move quietly around him.

MURROW (clipped, weighted): . . . The object of this massive tribute died as he had always lived – a private man without wealth, without property, without official title or office . . .

KINGSWAY. NEW DELHI. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    As the cortege continues on its way, we get shots of the marching soldiers, of the faces of Sikhs, and Tamils, Anglo-Indians, Moslems from the north, Marathas from the south, blue-eyed Parsees, dark-skinned Keralans . . .

MURROW'S VOICE-OVER: Mahatma Gandhi was not a commander of great armies nor ruler of vast lands, he could boast no scientific achievements, no artistic gift . . . Yet men, governments and dignitaries from all over the world have joined hands today to pay homage to this little brown man in the loincloth who led his country to freedom . . .

    We see the throng, following the weapon-carrier bier of Gandhi as it slowly inches its way along the Kingsway.
    Mountbatten, tall, handsome, bemedalled, walks at the head of dignitaries from many lands . . . and behind them a broad mass of Indians. For a moment we see their sandalled feet moving along the roadway and realize their quiet, rhythmic shuffling is the only noise this vast assemblage has produced.

MURROW'S VOICE-OVER: Pope Pius, the Archbishop of Canterbury, President Truman, Chiang Kai-shek, The Foreign Minister of Russia, the President of France . . . are among the millions here and abroad who have lamented his passing. In the words of General George C. Marshall, the American Secretary of State, "Mahatma Gandhi had become the spokesman for the conscience of mankind . . ."

    In the crowd following the bier we pick out the tall, English figure of Mirabehn, dressed in a sari, her face taut in a grief that seems ready to break like the Ganges in flood. Near her a tall, heavy-set man, Germanic, still powerful of build and mien though his white hair and deep lines suggest a man well into his sixties (Kallenbach). He too marches with a kind of numb air of loss that is too personal for national mourning.
    On the edge of the street an American newspaperman (Walker) watches as the bier passes him. He has been making notes, but his hand stops now and we see the profile of Gandhi from his point of view as the weapon-carrier silently rolls by. It is personal, close. Walker clenches his teeth and there is moisture in his eyes as he looks down. He tries to bring his attention to his pad again, but his heart is not in it and he stares with hollow emptiness at the street and the horde of passing feet following the bier.

MURROW'S VOICE-OVER: . . . a man who made humility and simple truth more powerful than empires." And Albert Einstein added, "Generations to come will scarce believe that such a one as this ever in flesh and blood walked upon this earth."

    The camera picks out those who ride on the weapon-carrier with Gandhi's body . . . the stout, blunt, but now shattered Patel, Gandhi's son, Devadas, the strong, almost fierce face of Maulana Azad, now angry at the Gods themselves . . . and finally Pandit Nehru – a face with the strength of a hero, the sensitivity of a poet, and now wounded like the son of a loving father.

MURROW'S VOICE-OVER: . . . but perhaps to this man of peace, to this fighter who fought without malice or falsehood or hate, the tribute he would value most has come from General Douglas McArthur: "If civilization is to survive," the General said this morning, "all men cannot fail to adopt Gandhi's belief that the use of force to resolve conflict is not only wrong but contains within itself the germ of our own self-destruction." . . .

    A news truck is parked in the mass of the crowd. As the cortege nears, the photographers on it stand to snap their pictures. There is a newsreel crew center. The camera features a woman photographer (Margaret Bourke-White) who sits with her legs dangling over the side of the truck, her famous camera held loosely in her hand, unregarded, as she watches the body of Gandhi approach. The intelligent features are betrayed by the emotion in her eyes. For an instant we see Gandhi from her point of view, and read the personal impact it has on her.

MURROW'S VOICE-OVER: Perhaps for the rest of us, the most satisfying comment on this tragedy comes from the impudent New York PM which today wrote, "There is still hope for a world which reacts as reverently as ours has to the death of a man like Gandhi." . . .

    The camera is high and we see the cortege from the rear, moving off down the vast esplanade, its narrowing path parting the sea of humanity like a long trail across a weaving plain . . . and as the shuffling sound of sandalled feet fades in the distance we dissolve through to


RAILROAD. SOUTH AFRICA. EXTERIOR. NIGHT.

    With the camera high we see a railroad track stretching out across a darkly verdant plain, and suddenly the whistle of a train as its engine and light sweep under the camera, startling us as it sweeps across the moonlit landscape.
    Tracking with the train. We begin at the guard's van, dwelling for a moment on the words "South African Railways," then pass on to the dimly lit Third Class coaches in the rear of the train, moving past the crowded Blacks and Indians in the spare wooden accommodation . . . There are two or three such coaches, then a Second Class coach . . . cushioned seats, better lighting, a smattering of Europeans: farmers, clerks, young families. Their clothes indicate the date: the early 1890s.
    The conductor is working his way through this coach, checking tickets . . . The track continues to the First Class coach – linen over the seats, well-lit luxurious compartments. We pass a single European, and then come to rest on the back of a young Indian dressed in a rather dandified Victorian attire, and reading as a Black porter stows his luggage.


FIRST CLASS COACH. SOUTH AFRICAN RAILWAYS. INTERIOR. NIGHT.

    Featuring the young Indian. It is the young Gandhi – a full head of hair, a somewhat sensuous face, only the eyes help us to identify him as the man we saw at Birla House, the figure on the bier in Delhi. He is lost in his book and there is a slight smile on his face as though what he reads intrigues and surprises him. He grins suddenly at some insight, then looks out of the window, weighing the idea.
    As he does the European passes the compartment and stops dead on seeing an Indian face in the First Class section. The porter glances at the European nervously. Gandhi pivots to the porter, holding his place in the book, missing the European, who has moved on down the corridor, altogether. We see the cover of the book: The Kingdom of God is Within You, by Leo Tolstoy.

GANDHI: Tell me – do you think about hell?
PORTER (stares at him blankly): "Hell!"
GANDHI (the eternal, earnest sophomore): No – neither do I. But . . . (he points abruptly to the book) but this man is a Christian and he has written –

    The porter has glanced down the corridor, where from his point of view we can just glimpse the European talking with the conductor.

PORTER: Excuse me, baas, but how long have you been in South Africa?
GANDHI (puzzled): A – a week.
PORTER: Well, I don't know how you got a ticket for –

    He looks up suddenly then turns back quickly to his work. Gandhi glances at the door to see what has frightened him so.
    The European and the conductor push open the door and stride in.

CONDUCTOR: Here – coolie, just what are you doing in this car?

    Gandhi is incredulous that he is being addressed in such a manner.

GANDHI: Why – I – I have a ticket. A First Class ticket.
CONDUCTOR: How did you get hold of it?
GANDHI: I sent for it in the post. I'm an attorney, and I didn't have time to –

    He's taken out the ticket but there is a bit of bluster in his attitude and it is cut off by a cold rebuff from the European.

EUROPEAN: There are no colored attorneys in South Africa. Go and sit where you belong.

    He gestures to the back of the train. Gandhi is nonplussed and beginning to feel a little less sure of himself. The porter, wanting to avoid trouble, reaches for Gandhi's suitcases.

PORTER: I'll take your luggage back, baas.
GANDHI: No, no – just a moment, please.

    He reaches into this waistcoat and produces a card which he presents to the conductor.

GANDHI: You see, Mohandas K. Gandhi, Attorney at Law. I am going to Pretoria to conduct a case for an Indian trading firm.
EUROPEAN: Didn't you hear me? There are no colored attorneys in South Africa!

    Gandhi is still puzzled by his belligerence, but is beginning to react to it, this time with a touch of irony.

GANDHI: Sir, I was called to the bar in London and enrolled in the High Court of Chancery – I am therefore an attorney, and since I am – in your eyes – colored – I think we can deduce that there is at least one colored attorney in South Africa.

    The Porter stares – amazed!

EUROPEAN: Smart bloody kaffir – throw him out!

    He turns and walks out of the compartment.

CONDUCTOR: You move your damn sammy carcass back to third class or I'll have you thrown off at the next station.
GANDHI (anger, a touch of panic): I always go First Class! I have traveled all over England and I've never . . .

MARITZBURG STATION. EXTERIOR. NIGHT.

    Gandhi's luggage is thrown onto the station platform. A blast of steam from the engine.
    A policeman and the conductor are pulling Gandhi from the First Class car. Gandhi is clinging to the safety rails by the door, a briefcase clutched firmly in one hand. The European cracks on Gandhi's hands with his fist, breaking Gandhi's grip and the policeman and conductor push him across the platform. It is ugly and demeaning. Disgustedly, the conductor shakes himself and signals for the train to start. Gandhi rights himself on the platform, picking up his briefcase, his face a mixture of rage, humiliation, impotence. The conductor hurls Gandhi's book at his feet as the train starts to move.
    Gandhi picks up the book, looking off at the departing train. A lamp swinging in the wind alternately throws his face into light and darkness.
    His point of view. The Black porter stares out of a window at him, then we see the European taking his seat again, righteously. The conductor standing in the door, watching Gandhi even as the train pulls out. Then the Second Class coach, with people standing at the window to stare at Gandhi – then the Third Class coaches, again with Blacks and a few Indians looking at Gandhi with mystification and a touch of fear.
    Gandhi stands with a studied air of defiance as the train pulls away – but when it is gone he is suddenly very aware of his isolation and looks around the cold, dark platform with self-conscious embarrassment.
    A Black railway worker looks as if he would like to express sympathy, but he cannot find the courage and turns away from Gandhi's gaze, pulling his collar up against the piercing wind.
    The policeman who pulled Gandhi from the train talks with the ticket-taker under the gas-lit entrance gate, both of them staring off at Gandhi.
    An Indian woman near the entrance sits in a woollen sari, her face half-veiled. A small child sleeps in her arms, and there is a tattered bundle of clothing at her feet. She turns away from Gandhi's gaze as though it brought the plague itself.


MR. BAKER'S LIVING ROOM. INTERIOR. NIGHT.

    Featuring Gandhi. As if a reverse angle from the previous shot, he is angry, baffled, defiant.

GANDHI: But you're a rich man – why do you put up with it?

    We are in a large Victorian parlor in a well-to-do home. Facing Gandhi are Khan, a tall, impressive Indian. Singh, slighter and older than Khan, but wiry and looking capable of physical as well as intellectual strength, and Khan's twenty-year-old son, Tyeb Mohammed.

KHAN (a shrug): I'm rich – but I'm Indian. I therefore do not expect to travel First Class.

    It is said with a dignity and strength that makes the statement all the more bewildering. Gandhi looks around helplessly. We see Mr. Baker, a wealthy white lawyer, whose home this is, poking at the fire, slightly amused at Gandhi's naïveté.

GANDHI: In England, I was a poor student but I –
KHAN: That was England.

    Gandhi is holding a British legal document; he lifts it pointedly.

GANDHI: This part of "England's" Empire!
SINGH: Mr. Gandhi, you look at Mr. Khan and see a successful Muslim trader. The South Africans see him simply as an Indian. And the vast majority of Indians – mostly Hindu like yourself – (there is a moment of blinking embarrassment from Gandhi at this mention of his own religion) were brought here to work the mines and harvest the crops – and the Europeans don't want them doing anything else.

    Gandhi look at Mr. Baker almost in disbelief.

GANDHI: But that is very un-Christian.

    Mr. Baker smothers a smile.

TYEB MOHAMMED: Mr. Gandhi, in this country Indians are not allowed to walk along a pavement with a "Christian"!

    Gandhi looks at Khan incredulously.

GANDHI: You mean you employ Mr. Baker as your attorney, but you can't walk down the street with him?
KHAN: I can. But I risk being kicked into the gutter by someone less "holy" than Mr. Baker.

    He smiles, but his eyes show that it is no joke.
    Gandhi glances from one to the other them – absorbing the inconceivable. And then almost before our eyes his innocence of the world fuses with his anger at the injustice of it all.

GANDHI: Well, then, it must be fought. We are children of God like everyone else.
KHAN (dryly): Allah be praised. And what battalions will you call upon?
GANDHI: I – I will write to the press – here – and in England. (He turns to Baker firmly) And I will use the courts.

    He lifts the documents threateningly.

SINGH: You will make a lot of trouble.

    Its tone is chilling, and Gandhi's firmness is shaken a little.

GANDHI: We are members of the Empire. And we come from an ancient civilization. Why should we not walk on the pavements like other men?

    The sturdy Khan is studying him with a look of wry interest.

KHAN: I rather like the idea of an Indian barrister in South Africa. I'm sure our community could keep you in work for some time, Mr. Gandhi – even if you caused a good deal of trouble. (Gandhi reacts uncertainly.) Especially if you caused a good deal of trouble.

    Gandhi glances at Tyeb Mohammed and Baker, then stiffens, plainly frightened by the challenge, but just as plainly determined to take it.


MOSQUE. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    We see a rather crudely stitched sign: "Indian Congress Party of South Africa." Gandhi, now sporting a moustache, stands with Khan and Singh near a fire that has been started in the open area before the Mosque. A wire basket has been placed on supports over the fire. Before them, a small crowd, mostly Indian (Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims), but with a few Whites drawn by curiosity. Gandhi whispers, trying to ignore the crowd.

GANDHI: There's the English reporter. I told you he'd come.

    We see the English reporter waiting sceptically. Near him, trying to be inconspicuous on the edge of the small crowd, are five policemen (one sergeant and four constables). A horse-drawn paddy wagon is drawn up beside them.

KHAN: You also said your article would draw a thousand people. (If the crowd numbers 100 they're lucky.) At least some of the Hindus brought their wives.

    We see five or six women in saris standing together.

GANDHI: No. I asked my wife to organize that.

    We feature Gandhi's wife, Ba, standing at the front of the women. She possesses a surprising delicacy of feature, with large expressive eyes and a beautiful mouth – but at this moment she is ill at ease and uncertain, forcing herself to do that which she would rather not.

SINGH (alarmed): Some of them are leaving . . .

    Gandhi wets his lips nervously. He glances with a little apprehension at the police, then takes his notes from his pocket and moves to the front of the fire. He holds up his hand for attention. He forces a smile – then starts reading –

GANDHI: Ladies and Gentlemen, we have asked you to gather here to help us proclaim our right to be treated as equal citizens of the Empire.

    It is flat and dull, like someone reading a speech to themselves, and those in the crowd who had hesitated before wandering off shrug and continue on their way. Gandhi is unnerved by it a little but he struggles on – louder, but just as colorlessly.

GANDHI: We do not seek conflict. We know the strength of the forces arrayed against us, know that because of them we can only use peaceful means – but we are determined that justice will be done!

    This last has come more firmly, and he lifts his head to the crowd, as though expecting a reaction. Three or four committed supporters applaud as on cue, but his technique is so inexpert that it draws nothing but blank faces from the bulk of them. He glances nervously at Ba, who is embarrassed for them both now. She wraps her sari more closely around her and her expression is a wife's "I told you so" – sufferance, mortification and loyalty, all in one. Gandhi wets his lips again – and takes a square of cardboard from his pocket – his "pass."

GANDHI: The symbol of our status is embodied in this pass – which we must carry at all times, but no European even has to have.

    He holds it up. A constable glances at the police sergeant.

GANDHI: And the first step to changing our status is to eliminate this difference between us.

    And he turns and drops his pass in the wire basket over the fire. The flames engulf it.
    The police sergeant's eyes go wide with disbelief. The crowd murmurs in shock. At last Gandhi has got a reaction, but the dropping of the card has been as matter-of-fact as his speaking, with none of the drama one might expect from so startling a gesture. Even so, a constable glances at the police sergeant again, "Do we take him?". The sergeant just shakes his head, "Wait."
    Khan moves up to Gandhi as the tremor of reaction ripples through the crowd.

KHAN (quietly): You write brilliantly, but you have much to learn about handling men.

    He takes Gandhi's notes from him, and faces the crowd.

KHAN (the reading not fluent, but firm and pointed): We do not want to ignite . . . the fear or hatred of anyone. But we ask you – Hindu, Muslim and Sikh – to help us light up the sky . . . and the minds of the British authorities – with our defiance of this injustice.

    It is the end of the speech. He looks at the crowd. No one knows quite what to do. Gandhi harumphs – gesturing to a shallow box Singh holds. Kahn turns back, extemporizing rather lamely.

KHAN: We will now burn the passes of our committee and its supporters. We ask you to put your passes on the fire with –
POLICE SERGEANT: Oh, no, you bloody well don't!

    He has stepped forward with his constables, who have faced the crowd, halting the tentative movements of the few committed supporters toward the fire.

POLICE SERGEANT: Those passes are government property! And I will arrest the first man who tries to burn one!

    He is facing the crowd. Behind him, Khan holds himself erect and slowly takes his own card from his pocket. He holds it aloft and then lowers it resolutely into the wire basket. The crowd reacts and the sergeant turns just in time to see it dropped in the flame.

POLICE SERGEANT: Take him away!

    He gestures to a constable, who turns from the crowd and marches to Khan, seizing him by the arm and marching him to the paddy wagon. As he passes the sergeant, the sergeant takes his billy club, and faces the crowd, rapping the club menacingly against his hand.

POLICE SERGEANT: Now – are there any more?!

    Behind him, Gandhi wavers indecisively a moment, then takes the box from Singh and moves to the fire. Ba holds her hand to her mouth – terrified. Again the crowd's reaction turns the sergeant. Gandhi is at the fire. For a second, his eyes lock with the sergeant's – and then nervously, he takes a card and drops it in the wire basket, and another.

POLICE SERGEANT: You little sammy bastard – I –

    He has leapt across the distance between them, knocking the box from Gandhi's hands, sending the cards flying and shoving Gandhi to the ground. He turns and faces the crowd angrily, pointing the billy club threateningly.

POLICE SERGEANT: You want that kind of trouble – you can have it!

    Again, a murmur from the crowd turns him. Gandhi, on his hands and knees, blood trickling from his abraded cheek, has picked up a card from the ground and he leans forward apprehensively, his eyes fearfully on the sergeant, but he drops it defiantly in the basket. The sergeant's fury bursts – and he slams the billy club down on Gandhi's head. Gandhi sags to the ground. Ba screams. She starts to run to him, but the other women seize her.

BA: Let me go!

    She fights loose, but one of the constables takes her firmly.
    The sergeant turns from the commotion to see that Gandhi, his head oozing blood, has crawled to his knees again and is picking up another card. The crowd watches. The newspaper reporter watches. Ba stares in anguish. Gandhi lifts the card. The sergeant stares at him, angry but his emotions somewhat in control after the first blow.

SERGEANT: Stop!

    An instant of hesitation, then Gandhi drops the card into the basket. The sergeant almost stops, but he strikes again. A quiver of distaste at his own act crosses his face as Gandhi sags.
    Ba's anguished face is wet with tears. The newspaper reporter stares without making notes. Khan, at the paddy wagon, watches in wonder.
    Gandhi, his head bleeding badly now, rises to his knees – a breath and he gropes around the ground for another card. His fingers finally clutch one.
    The sergeant stares, his face wracked with uncertainty and confusion.
    Gandhi lifts the card and painfully holds it over the fire, then drops it in the basket.
    The sergeant slams the billy club down again – firmly, but with a manifest reluctance. The crowd watches breathlessly, the newspaper reporter stares. The sergeant draws a breath, grasping the club, but he bites his lip as he sees Gandhi lift his head feebly, his shaking hands, stained with his own blood, groping for another card . . .


GANDHI'S BEDROOM. SOUTH AFRICA. INTERIOR. NIGHT.

    Ba is gently removing Gandhi's suit coat, staring fearfully at a bandage on his head, another along the side of his face. The room is gaslit, overfurnished in the Victorian manner. Middle class. Gandhi sits carefully on the bed, where some newspapers are spread out, English-language ones among them.

GANDHI: You saved the papers.

    Ba reaches forth, gently touching the bandages on his head.

BA: I wish you were still struggling for work in Bombay.

    Gandhi doesn't take his eyes from the papers, but he shakes his head.

GANDHI: I hated that – all the pettiness, the little corruptions. (A reflective grin.) And I was more laughing stock than lawyer.

    He smiles whimsically, then turns back to the papers.

GANDHI: But they needed me here. If I'd never been thrown off that train, perhaps no one would ever have needed me.

    Ba stares at the back of his head, wounded by that remark, bearing it as stoically as he bore the blows against him.

GANDHI (reading): "A high court judge has confirmed that Mr. Gandhi would have been within his rights to prosecute for assault since neither he nor Mr. Khan resisted arrest." – I told you about English law.
BA: As I told you about English policemen.

    Before Gandhi can retort there is a knock on the door.

GANDHI: Yes?

    A small, round ayah (an Indian nursemaid) pushes open the door and proudly admits her charges, Gandhi's sons: Harilal (ten), Manilal (six) and Ramdas (two). They are all dressed in European suits, ties and stiff collars. They step forward, one by one, making the pranam (the Hindu gesture of greeting), then bending and touching the hands and lips to Gandhi's feet in the traditional obeisance of child to father.

HARILAL: We are glad to have you back, Bapu.

    Gandhi smiles.

GANDHI: And I am glad to be back. (He holds his hands out to Ramdas.) Come . . .

    And Ramdas runs to him and Gandhi bends to kiss him as Ramdas put his arms around his neck.

BA: Be careful!

    Gandhi pats him indulgently, then carefully stands erect, looking at them all with satisfaction.

GANDHI: Tomorrow I will tell you what it feels like to be a jailbird.

    The two older boys show the expected apprehension – and interest. Gandhi nods to the ayah. She claps her hands smartly.

AYAH: Come. Come.

    The boys bow and leave like boys used to household discipline. The ayah closes the door and we hear their chatter at they go down the hall.

GANDHI: Just like proper English gentlemen. I'm proud of them.
BA: They are boys. – And they're Indian.

    Gandhi is stretching out on the bed, taking up another paper.

GANDHI: Hm. Will you take this off (he touches the bandage on his cheek)? It pinches every time I speak.

    Ba comes and sits down on the bed beside him, maneuvering so that she can get at the bandage.

GANDHI: Here, you see? Even the South African papers apologize – "a monstrous attack."
BA (of the tape, as she is about to pull it): Are you sure?
GANDHI (impatiently): Yes – I can't talk like this.

    Ba pauses and looks at him mischievously, as though that's not a bad idea. He scowls at her, then recognizes her "joke" and grins.

GANDHI: Pull!

    Ba pulls one of the strands of tape and Gandhi flinches.

GANDHI: Oww!
BA (mockingly): Mr. Khan said they called you brave.

    Gandhi is nursing the moustache; he looks at her wryly.

GANDHI: If you would let me teach you to read, you could see for yourself.

    She leans forward to pull at the remaining piece.

BA: I could have told them you were merely foolish.

    Gandhi is watching her as she leans across him, her beauty and proximity obviously stirring him.

GANDHI: It proves what I told you. If I had prosecuted him as everyone advised – even you – they would have hated me – by showing forgiveness I – ouch!

    She has pulled the other piece.

BA: There . . .

    And she slowly pries the gauze free from the strands of hair above his lip. As she does Gandhi watches her more and more intently, and slips his arms around her back.

GANDHI (as though continuing the argument): You see there is such a thing as moral force – and it can be harnessed.

    Ba examines the bandage and gently touches the wound, but she is aware of his burning eyes and arms around her back.

BA: Not always. You have told me twice now that you were giving up the pleasures of the flesh.

    It slows Gandhi uneasily for a moment and Ba must grin at his discomfiture. He leans back – still holding her, but looking at the ceiling.

GANDHI: I am. I am convinced the holy men are right. When you give up, you gain. The simpler your life the better.

    Ba makes a moue of acceptance and starts to pull free of him – but his arms still hold her. She smothers a smile and lies down, her face next to his, but neither of them looking at each other. A long beat . . . and then Gandhi turns his head. She is aware of his eyes on her, but she doesn't move. Gandhi leans forward and touches his lips to her neck.

GANDHI: I will fast tomorrow – as a penance.

    Ba smiles. Still not looking at him, she places her hand behind his head, gently.

BA: If you enjoy it a great deal you must fast for two days.

    Gandhi laughs . . . and buries her in love.


STREET AND COURTYARD OF GOVERNMENT BUILDING. JOHANNESBURG. EXTERIOR. MORNING.

    General Smuts – sitting erect and imposing on a beautiful chestnut horse – rides down a tree-lined street. He wears civilian clothes with riding boots and breeches. Behind him, a junior British officer rides as escort. He turns into the entrance-way of an imposing building.
    The hooves of Smuts's horse clatter on the cobblestones as the General rides into the courtyard. Two sentries come smartly to attention. A stable boy rushes to take the horse, and a tall civil servant approaches the General busily as he dismounts.

TALL CIVIL SERVANT: The London papers have arrived from the Cape, sir.
SMUTS: Yes – ?

    The tall civil servant checks his notes.

TALL CIVIL SERVANT: The worst was the Daily Mail, sir. They said, "The burning of passes by Mr. Gandhi was the most significant act in colonial affairs since the Declaration of Independence."

    Smuts has given the reins to the stable boy.

SMUTS: Did they? Well, they'll find we're a little better prepared this time. Mr. Gandhi will find he's on a long hiding to nothing.

    And he strides into the building, past the smartly saluting sentries.


GANDHI'S HOUSE. JOHANNESBURG. EXTERIOR. MORNING.

    Gandhi comes from the house door. He carries a briefcase and is still dressed in European clothes, though far less elegant than we have seen him in before. His mien, the cut of his hair, all suggest a passage of time. As he turns, he stops because he is face to face with Charlie Andrews, a very tall, thin Englishman, who wears a rumpled white suit and a clerical collar. He has descended from a horse-drawn taxi that carries his luggage. He too has stopped. For a moment they both appraise each other, neither speaking. Then

CHARLIE: You'd be Gandhi – (Gandhi nods.) . . . I thought you'd be bigger.
GANDHI: I'm sorry.
CHARLIE: I – I mean it's all right. It doesn't matter. (He suddenly steps forward and thrusts out his hand.) I'm – my name is Andrews, Charlie Andrews. I've come from India – I've read a great deal about you.
GANDHI: Some of it good, I hope.

    He turns and waves to the parlor window. The three boys are there – all bigger – and Ba holds a new addition; they all wave. And Gandhi turns back, and starts down the long, hilly street.

GANDHI (to Charlie): Would you care to walk?

    He gestures Charlie on and starts walking.
    Charlie nods uncertainly. He looks back at the cab in confusion, then signals the driver to follow and hurries on to match strides with Gandhi's brisk pace.

GANDHI (noting Charlie's collar): You're a clergyman.
CHARLIE: Yes. I've – I've met some very remarkable people in India . . . and – and when I read what you've been doing here, I – I wanted to help. (He looks at Gandhi, then smiles awkwardly.) Does that surprise you?
GANDHI: Not anymore. (And now he smiles.) At first I was amazed . . . but when you are fighting in a just cause, people seem to pop up – like you – right out of the pavement. Even when it is dangerous or –

JOHANNESBURG SUBURB. EXTERIOR. MORNING.

    They have come to a turning, nearer to town, the area poorer, run-down. Ahead of them three youths (twenty, twenty-one) in working clothes, carrying lunch boxes, lean indolently against a building directly in their path. They react to the sight of Gandhi – fun. Then stride the pavement menacingly. One of them tosses aside his cigarette.

FIRST YOUTH: Hey – look what's comin'!
SECOND YOUTH: A white shepherd leading a brown sammy!
CHARLIE: Perhaps I should –

    Gandhi restrains him and shakes his head.

GANDHI: Doesn't the New Testament say, "If your enemy strikes you on the right cheek, offer him the left"?

    He starts to move forward. Charlie hesitates, then follows nervously, more nervous for Gandhi than himself.

CHARLIE: I think perhaps the phrase was used metaphorically . . . I don't think our Lord meant –

    They are getting closer. The youths laughing, whispering.

GANDHI: I'm not so certain. I have thought about it a great deal. I suspect he meant you must show courage – be willing to take a blow – several blows – to show you will not strike back – nor will you be turned aside . . . And when –

    One youth has flicked his cigarette – hard. It lands at Gandhi's feet. He pauses, looking at the youth.

GANDHI: . . . and when you do that it calls upon something in human nature – something that makes his hate for you diminish and his respect increase. I think Christ grasped that and I – I have seen it work.

    He starts forward again, he is almost on the youths – clearly frightened, but . . .

GANDHI: Good morning.
FIRST YOUTH: Get off the pavement, you bloody –

    And he reaches forth to haul Gandhi from the pavement, but –

A WOMAN'S VOICE: Colin! Colin! What are you doing?

    A woman is leaning out of an upstairs window, looking down at the fracas disconcertedly. It is the first youth's mother and her presence reduces the pitch of his hostility considerably.

FIRST YOUTH: Nuthing . . . nuthing. We were just cleaning up the neighborhood a little.

    A snickering response from the other youths – but they are embarrassed by the questioning disapproval of Colin's mother's attitude. There's no note of apology in her cold stare at Gandhi, but she clearly believes her son should not be doing what he is doing.

COLIN'S MOTHER: You're already late for work. I thought you'd gone ten minutes ago.

    The moment of crisis has passed. Nothing will happen while she is there. Gandhi steps back on the pavement, addressing the first youth.

GANDHI: You'll find there's room for us both.

    And he steps around him, Charlie trailing, as the first youth stares at them sullenly.
    As they stride on, Charlie glancing back –

CHARLIE (relieved): That was lucky.
GANDHI: I thought you were a man of God.
CHARLIE (wittily, but making his point): I am. But I'm not so egotistical as to think He plans His day around my dilemmas.

    Gandhi laughs as they turn the corner.


BUSY STREET. JOHANNESBURG. EXTERIOR. MORNING.

    A busy street in the center of the town. Gandhi and Charlie come around the corner into it.

GANDHI: . . . you could call it a "communal farm," I suppose. But we've all come to the same conclusion – our Gita, the Muslim's Koran or your Bible – it's always the simple things that catch your breath – "Love thy neighbor as thyself" – (He smiles, thinking back at the youths.) not always practiced – but it's something we Hindus could learn a lot from.

    He has paused before an office and a young girl (Sonja) has come from it to speak to him about something of urgency, but she hovers, not interrupting.

CHARLIE: That's the sort of thing you'll be seeking on this "farm" . . .
GANDHI (a smile): Well, we shall try.

    And now he turns to Sonja. Behind her we see the small office "M.K. Gandhi/Attorney." Several clients waits, most of them conspicuously poor. Sonja's tone is loaded with foreboding.

SONJA: They're going to change the pass laws.

    Gandhi absorbs the news stiffly.


SMUTS'S OFFICE. INTERIOR. DAY.

    A strong masculine hand scrawls a signature across a document.

SMUTS'S VOICE-OVER: It's taken time, but it needed to be done fairly. We didn't want to create an injustice simply because Mr. Gandhi was abusing our existing legislation.

    Beneath the signature we see the boldly printed identification: Jan Christian Smuts.

SECOND VOICE: Just one second, sir, please.

    Another angle. A cameraman records the moment with a flash photo. General Smuts, whose presence is equal to his office, addresses someone out of shot as a male secretary removes the document.

SMUTS: But on a short trip, I wouldn't spend too much time on the Indian question, Mr. Walker. It's a tiny factor in South African life.

    The reporter who stands opposite him is Walker, much, much younger, almost boyish compared to the way we saw him at the funeral.

WALKER (a helpless shrug): It's news at the moment. I will certainly report on your mines and the economy – but I would like to meet this Mr. Gandhi.

    Smuts has risen. He knows how to concede with grace.

SMUTS: Of course. We Westerners have a weakness for these – these spiritually inclined men of India. But as an old lawyer, let me warn you, Mr. Gandhi is as shrewd a man as you will ever meet, however "otherworldly" he may seem. But I'm sure you're enough of a reporter to see that.

    The gaze is firm, strong, cynical . . .


TENT. THE FARM. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    The sides are half up, but it is dusty and hot. This is where the magazine Indian Opinion is printed and we see stacks of it lying around. A short Westerner (Albert West) is running the simple printing press which is powered by a crude generator. A small staff helping him. A Sikh, a Muslim, a couple of Hindus, two young boys.
    Gandhi and Walker are approaching the tent from the river, Gandhi discoursing earnestly.

GANDHI: . . . so it's not "spiritualism" or "nationalism" – we're not against anything but the idea that people can't live together.

    They've reached the entrance to the tent, and he gestures in.

GANDHI: You see – Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Jews – even Christians.

    This last remark has been directed toward Charlie Andrews, who sits near them at a cluttered table, typing on an old typewriter. He waves, and Gandhi shouts out to them all over the putt-putt of the generator:

GANDHI: Mr. Walker! Of The New York Times!

    They nod. One of the Hindus bows with his hands clasped together. Gandhi hands Walker a copy of Indian Opinion and they start across the relatively barren field toward some other tents, Walker glancing at the paper. Gandhi watches him, grinning.

GANDHI: Without a paper – a journal of some kind – you cannot unite a community. (A teasing smile.) You belong to a very important profession.
WALKER: Hm. And what should an "important professional" write about your response to General Smuts's new legislation?
GANDHI: I don't know . . . I'm still searching for a "response."
WALKER (a leading question): You will respect the law.
GANDHI (a beat): There are unjust laws – as there are unjust men.

    This carries a weight and apprehension that none of the rest of the conversation has. Walker measures Gandhi with a little surprise.

WALKER: You're a very small minority to take on the Government – and the Empire.

    Gandhi seems trapped by an ineluctable fact.

GANDHI: If you are a minority of one, the truth is the truth.

    Reluctant as it is, it too carries commitment and Walker senses it. But they have come by a site where a building is being erected, and a European (Kallenbach) is perched above a doorway on the half-completed structure, getting a level. Some Indians are working below him. Gandhi turns to him, light-hearted again.

GANDHI: This is Mr. Kallenbach. He is our chief carpenter – and also our chief benefactor. He has made this experiment possible.

    Walker waves his notebook at him and Kallenbach lifts his level in greeting. On his bronzed chest there is a Star of David. Walker looks around, grinning, shaking his head. We see two women in saris trying to quell some squabbling children in the background.

WALKER: Well, it's quite a place, your "ashram" – is that right?
GANDHI: That's right. The word only means "community." But it could stand for "village" . . . or the world.

    Walker looks at him appraisingly.

WALKER: You're an ambitious man.
GANDHI (uncertainly): I hope not.

    A moment of embarrassed doubt, then he starts toward a half-finished building – wooden sides, door, but canvas still covering the roof. It has an awning spread before it. Walker's carriage is tethered nearby, a Black driver standing in the sun, waiting. In the background we see two women cleaning a latrine. Walker glances at the latrine.

WALKER: They tell me you also take your turn at peeling potatoes and cleaning the "outhouse" – is that part of the experiment?

    As we have approached we see a table set for tea under the awning. There are two places. Having set the places, Ba is walking along the side of the building, away from them. She glances at Gandhi tautly and deliberately avoids speaking or acknowledging him.

GANDHI (a little surprised, a little annoyed): Ba – we will need another place set for Mr. Walker's driver.

    Ba looks at him coldly.

BA: I will tell Sora.

    She turns back and walks into the building by the rear entrance. Gandhi is disconcerted by her attitude, but he tries to answer Walker.

GANDHI: It's one way to learn that each man's labor is as important as another's. In fact when you're doing it, "cleaning the outhouse" seems far more important than the law.

    A grin – but forced. When a girl (Sora) comes from the building bringing another cup and place setting, Gandhi calls to the driver.

GANDHI: Please come and join us – you'll need something before your journey back. (He nods to Walker.) Excuse me a moment.

    And he goes into the building, determined to find the source of Ba's aloofness.

GANDHI'S HUT. INTERIOR. DAY.

    Ba is sitting sullenly on a carpet near the rear entrance to the building. She does not look up at Gandhi, but she is aware of his presence. He crosses and stands in front of her with all the irritation of a husband. It is hushed, aware that Walker might overhear them, but bristling with suppressed anger.

GANDHI: What is it?

    Now Ba looks at him hostilely.

BA: Sora was sent to tell me I – I must rake and cover the latrine.
GANDHI: Everyone takes his turn.
BA: It is the work of untouchables.
GANDHI: In this place there are no untouchables – and no work is beneath any of us!
BA (she looks up at him): I am your wife.
GANDHI: All the more reason.

    He holds her gaze as angrily as she holds his.

BA (finally, scornfully): As you command.

    As she starts to rise he grabs her arm, but she pulls free.

BA: The others may follow you – but you forget, I knew you when you were a boy!

    She says it derisively and it stings, but Gandhi is aware of Walker and he fights to hold his temper.

GANDHI: It's not me. It's the principle. And you will do it with joy or not do it at all!

    Ba settles back defiantly.

BA: Not at all then . . .

    For a moment Gandhi stares at her, and she back at him, resentfully. He suddenly reaches down and grabs her arm, pulling her roughly to her feet.

GANDHI: All right, go! You don't belong here! Go! Leave the ashram! Get out altogether! We don't want you!

    It is hushed but violent as he pulls her toward the rear door, opening it to push her out as she struggles against him.

BA: Stop it! Stop it! What are you doing!?

    She lurches free of his grip, glaring at him angrily. For a moment they both stare at each other, shattered by their violence.

BA (bitterly): Have you no shame? I'm your wife . . . (Like lead) Where do you expect me to go?

    Gandhi stares at her breathlessly, his temper subsiding into a dazed remorse. He sinks numbly to a stool, sitting, holding his head in his hands. Ba studies him for a moment – and she sighs, her temper and breathing subsiding too. She moves and kneels before him.

GANDHI: What is the matter with me . . . ?

    A moment, then she soothes the top of his head – like the mother-wife she is.

BA (a beat): You are human – only human.

    Gandhi looks up at her, blankly, abjectly.

BA: And it is even harder for those of us who do not even want to be as good as you do.

    And Gandhi grins weakly. Ba catches it and sends it back, warmer, less complicated by doubts. Gandhi sighs, putting his arms around her and she leans into him so that their heads are touching.

GANDHI: I apologize . . .

    Ba mutters "Hm" and holds him a little firmer. A moment.

GANDHI: I must go back to that reporter.

    Ba nods.

BA: . . . And I must rake and cover the latrine.

    Gandhi holds her back so that he can look at her. She looks at him evenly – no smile, but the warmth still in her eyes.


IMPERIAL THEATER. INTERIOR. NIGHT.

    The theater is packed. The front rows near the stage are held by rich Muslim merchants, the back of the stalls with small traders, peddlers, artisans – Muslim, Hindu, Parsee, Sikh. The gallery is bulging with indentured laborers – largely Hindu. The mood is restless, belligerent.
    On the stage. Gandhi moves forward and he holds up his hand for silence. Seated on the stage are Khan, Singh, three more leaders of the Indian community. Charlie Andrews and Herman Kallenbach sit at the very end of the line of chairs. Gandhi looks around the audience and we see the packed house from his point of view, ending with two plainclothes European policemen conspicuous in seats at the end of the front row. A uniformed policeman stands near them.

GANDHI (to the house): I want to welcome you all!

    A buzz, then applause – loud and defiant. When is subsides Gandhi looks down at the plainclothes policemen, fixing his gaze on them.

GANDHI: Every one of you. (Then, still at them) We – have – no – secrets.

    And again the audience bursts into applause. The policemen just sit like stone – confident, sure, immune to rhetoric.

GANDHI: Let us begin by being clear about General Smuts's new law. All Indians must now be fingerprinted – like criminals. Men and women. (A rising, angry response; Gandhi just waits.) No marriage other than a Christian marriage is considered valid. Under this Act our wives and mothers are whores . . . And every man here a bastard.

    In the gallery a rhythmic pounding signals the anger and protest and is taken up around the hall. The police stare imperturbably. Khan leans towards Singh, nodding to Gandhi.

KHAN: He's become quite good at this.

    Singh smiles at the understatement. Gandhi holds up his hand, silencing the hall.

GANDHI: And a policeman passing an Indian dwelling – I will not call them homes – may enter and demand the card or any Indian woman whose dwelling it is.
A VOICE: God damn them!

    Gandhi just waits.

GANDHI: Understand! He does not have to stand at the door – he may enter.

    Now a violent response – a large, powerful merchant rises in the third row.

MERCHANT: I swear to Allah I will kill the man who offers that insult to my home and my wife! (A guttural cheer; he glares at the police.) And let them hang me!

    Another cheer. When it subsides, Tyeb Mohammed rises near the back, where he is seated with a number of other young men.

TYEB MOHAMMED: I say talk means nothing. Kill a few officials before they disgrace one Indian woman – then they might think twice about such laws!

    The police half rise to look back at him, but there is a smattering of applause and several stand to look back.

TYEB MOHAMMED'S FRIEND: In that cause, I would be willing to die!

    And now there is general applause. Gandhi waits, then

GANDHI: I praise such courage. I need such courage – because in this cause, I too am prepared to die . . . (A response; he looks at Tyeb Mohammed) But, my friend, there is no cause for which I am prepared to kill.

    He looks at the audience. This is the more sober Gandhi they have come to know.

GANDHI: I have asked you here tonight because despite all their troops and police, I think there is a way to defeat this law. Whatever they do to us we will attack no one, kill no one . . . But we will not (the climatic point) give our fingerprints – not one of us.

    He looks down at the police, making the point stick. There is a tentative reaction from the audience, but uncertain.

GANDHI: They will imprison us, they will fine us. They will seize our possessions. But they cannot take away our self-respect if we do not give it to them.
A VOICE FROM THE GALLERY: Have you been to prison? They'll beat us and torture us! I say –
GANDHI: I am asking you to fight – ! (It catches the audience a little, holds them.) To fight against their anger – not to provoke it!

    He has their attention now.

GANDHI: We will not strike a blow – but we will receive them. And through our pain we will make them see their injustice (quickly) and it will hurt, as all fighting hurts! (Utter silence.) . . . But we cannot lose. We cannot. (He looks down at the police.) Because they may torture my body, may break my bones, even kill me . . . (Up to the house) They will then have my dead body – not my obedience.

    And now he gets the response he has wanted. Firm, mature, determined. Gandhi holds up his hand.

GANDHI: We are Hindu and Muslim – children of God, each of us. Let us take a solemn oath in His name that – come what may – we will not submit to this law.

    He looks at the audience. A second, then a merchant stands, signifying his pledge. And then another. Then Tyeb Mohammed and the youths about him. Then all over the theater they begin to stand and on the stage until everyone is standing. It is all done is silence. Gandhi looks at the full theater – all standing. He takes a step forward.

GANDHI (a coarse singing): God save our gracious King . . . Long live our (the audience takes it up) . . . noble King. (And their voices fill the auditorium) God save the King!!

    A prison door slams: we are close on one face, another slam, another face, and again and again in the rhythm of marching feet . . .

MINE AREA. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    Gandhi, Singh and Tyeb Mohammed are leading a large procession of Indian mine workers along a dirt road from a mining complex – sheds, elevator platforms, pulleys – toward a distant city.
    We see crude, handworked banners: "We are Citizens of the Empire," "Justice for All," "One King – One Law" . . .
    Tyeb Mohammed suddenly touches Gandhi's arm and nods ahead.
    Their point of view. A canvas-topped open touring car (circa 1910) pulls out from a turning between two factory buildings and comes towards them.
    Resume Gandhi. There is a little hesitation in the ranks as the car approaches. In it we can see two uniformed policemen and a civilian.
    The car swings across the center of the road and stops right in front of Gandhi.

CIVILIAN: These men are contracted laborers. They belong in the mines.
GANDHI: You have put their comrades in jail. When you free them they will go back to work.

    The civilian smiles slowly. He looks from Gandhi to the miners.

CIVILIAN: I've warned you.
GANDHI: We have warned each other.

    The civilian looks at him sharply, then smiles derisively, signaling the car off. As it pulls away, Tyeb Mohammed and Singh come up to Gandhi, both made wary by the man's evident satisfaction with what has transpired.

SINGH: I don't think that is very good.

    Gandhi watches the disappearing car worriedly, then turns and signals the miners on. They start forward.
    Their point of view. The car rides on past the factory building out of which it turned, and suddenly mounted police come swinging out from the buildings and face the procession.
    Tracking back before Gandhi, Singh and Tyeb Mohammed as they move forward, fear suddenly making their pace more labored.
    Tracking back before the mounted police.

SERGEANT: At the canter – for-ward!

    They come on fast, batons at the ready. Gandhi screws up his courage, marching on. Tyeb Mohammed sets his jaw in defiance. Singh forces himself along at Gandhi's side. The mounted police riding on, batons at the ready.
    Featuring an Indian miner. He is in the front rank of the procession, watching the horses approach. He has a blunt farmer's face.

MINER (half to Gandhi): We should lie down – the horses won't tramp on us. (Then shouting out) Down! Down! Everyone lie down!

    He starts to go down, and others around him, convinced by the authority of his voice.
    The sense of the idea seizes Gandhi, and as the sound of the galloping horses nears, he turns and shouts too.

GANDHI: Lie down! Lie down!

    And the miners begin to go down, some face up, shielding their faces with their hands, some burying their faces in the earth and covering their heads with their hands.
    Close fast traveling, the sergeant's point of view. We arrive at the prone miners.
    Close on Gandhi, his arms crossed in front of his face, staring up, frightened, but determined to bear it.
    Wide angle. The horses cannot bring themselves to gallop over the human carpet; they rear, plunge, swerve.
    Close shot – miner who shouted "down." He is peering through his crossed hands, a tight smile of satisfaction at knowledge confirmed. He turns to see:
    The sergeant thrown off his horse. He lands heavily, scrambles up, furious, darts after it. Mounting, he is enraged to hear laughter.
    Close shot. Singh and the miner who shouted "Down" kneeling, grinning at the chaos.

MINER: The horses have more mercy than the men.

    Singh smiles, but suddenly looks up fearfully. The sergeant looms over them.

SERGEANT: You're right!

    And without taking his booted foot from the stirrup he swings it into the miner's face. The man goes down, bleeding.
    An angry roar from the miners. Several stand and shake their fists. "Bastard!," "God damn you, Englishman!," "Jackal!" The wounded miner himself starts to stagger up.
    The sergeant sweeps them, his eyes glittering – this he can deal with. But –

GANDHI: Lie down! Lie down!

    It is a command, and angry in its own way, but it carries all the weight of his influence on them. They begin to go down again and the sergeant wheels his horse and rides at Gandhi.
    With deliberate, almost fatalistic pace, Gandhi goes first to his knees and then sprawls down flat, his hands over the top of his head, awaiting the blow of the horse's hoof.
    Close shot, the horse's head, its eyes rolling as it swerves again.
    Close shot, the sergeant controlling it, cursing, but unable to make it plunge down on the man.
    Full shot, the sergeant wheeling his horse, angrily – surveying the whole of the procession as they lie sprawled on the ground, his mounted police circling in front of them, not knowing what to do.

SERGEANT: Follow me!

    He turns his horse angrily and gallops back toward the factories.
    Gandhi, Singh and Tyeb Mohammed are looking off at the retreating horses. The car with the civilian has returned in the distance.
    Gandhi looks at the miner who first shouted "Down" – a smile, a nod of recognition and thanks. The miner grins, rubbing at the blood on his face, shrugging off Gandhi's implied praise.
    Featuring the police. The sergeant wheels by the car with the civilian; his police turn their horses, lining up across the road again.
    Their point of view. Gandhi and the miners coming on once more, chanting forcefully. "One King! One Law! One King! One Law!"

SERGEANT: What the hell are we supposed to do now?
CIVILIAN (watching the procession narrowly): Let them march . . . In our own sweet time, in our own sweet way – we'll get them.

SMALL CHURCH. SOUTH AFRICA. INTERIOR. DAY.

    We are close on Charlie Andrews.

CHARLIE: Some of you may be rejoicing that Mr. Gandhi has at last been put into prison.

    The congregation is listening to him stiffly, unsympathetically, and there is more than one murmur of assent at his words. The clergyman who has given Charlie the use of his pulpit sits beneath it, embarrassed, but sticking resolutely to his decision to give Charlie a hearing.

CHARLIE: But I would ask you – assembled here in this house of God – to recognize that we are witnessing something new, something so unexpected, so unusual that it is not surprising the Government is at a loss. What Mr. Gandhi has forced us to do is ask questions about ourselves.

    A few men in the congregation rise and pointedly escort their families from the church. Charlie struggles on.

CHARLIE: As Christians, those are difficult questions to answer. How do we treat men who defy an unjust law – men who will not fight, but will not comply?

    More of the congregation rise and march from the church . . . though a few pointedly do not.

PRISON YARD. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    Small, packed. Gandhi is threading his way in a line for soup. But it is a line that winds through masses of prisoners, some with bowls, eating, some not yet in the line.
    As Gandhi near the two stone blocks that hold the large barrels of soup, he sees that Khan is serving from one of them. He too wears a prison uniform and there is a bandage on his head. When he turns and reacts to the sight of Gandhi  –

GANDHI: They're sparing no one, I see.
KHAN: No. You were the surprise. It's been all over the prison. We thought they'd be too afraid of the English press.
GANDHI: So did I.

    He takes his soup from Khan.

KHAN (acidly): Don't worry about the meat – it's Hindu (referring to the soup) – there's not a trace.

    Gandhi smiles, but they turn as the gate opens and a paddy wagon is backed into the press of prisoners. Khan shakes his head.

KHAN: I don't know who they've left out there to do the work. There can't be one mine left open. Have they touched the women?
GANDHI: My wife publicly defied the law. They've arrested her and four others.
KHAN (angrily): The fools! (He spills some soup.) Sorry . . .
GANDHI: It's split the Government.
KHAN: Well, that's one victory.

    Gandhi looks around the crowded yard at the soiled bandages, the defiant, determined faces.

GANDHI: If we hold firm, it won't be the last.
KHAN: Don't worry – I've never seen men so determined. You've given them a way to fight . . . And I don't think –

    He is distracted by a phalanx of guards (an officer and four men) pushing their way through the prisoners.

PRISON OFFICER: Gandhi! I want Gandhi! Which sammy is it?

    The prisoners are moving back from them resentfully but their glances reveal who Gandhi is. The prison officer's eyes fall on him.

CITY STREET. JOHANNESBURG. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    A side street, but active. Gandhi – now manacled – is being marched down the pavement before two guards. The prison officer strides in front of them. People in the street stop and turn, staring. That part of Gandhi that is still the dandy is discomfited, but there is a growing part of him that defies appearances.
    Featuring a doorway. It is the side door of a large imposing building. The prison officer leads his little procession toward it. He knocks and the door opens. The tall civil servant has been waiting for them. The prison officer reaches forward and undoes Gandhi's manacles.

GOVERNMENT BUILDING. INTERIOR. DAY.

    The tall civil servant, moving with aloof distaste for his assignment, walks ahead of Gandhi, who in turn is followed by one of the prison guards, toward a grand staircase that is at right angles to them (i.e. facing the front of the building). People working in offices pause to stare at Gandhi as he moves along, more uncomfortably aware of his prison garb than ever.
    The grand staircase. The tall civil servant turns and starts up the staircase. Gandhi is even more exposed to everyone's surveillance on the wide, white expanse of the stairway. He hesitates, looking around in discomfort, then follows the tall civil servant on toward the large, white doors at the top of the staircase.

SMUTS'S ANTEROOM. INTERIOR. DAY.

    The tall white doors open, the tall civil servant indicates that Gandhi enter. Gandhi passes two male secretaries, and the tall civil servant scoots decorously around him to knock once on the inner doors. Then he pushes them open and gestures Gandhi in.

SMUTS'S OFFICE. INTERIOR. DAY.

    We have seen it before when Walker spoke to Smuts, but now we see its full breadth – and the imposing figure Smuts makes as he stands behind the grand desk.

SMUTS: Ah, Mr. Gandhi. I thought we might have a little talk.

    He nods to the tall civil servant, who bows and closes the door. Smuts crosses the room toward a small cabinet.

SMUTS: Will you have a glass of sherry?
GANDHI: Thank you. No.

    Smuts looks at Gandhi, a little surprised at the frigid tone of that refusal.

SMUTS: Perhaps some tea?
GANDHI (a shake of the head): I dined at the prison.
SMUTS: Ahh.

    He appraises Gandhi, measuring the irony of his words, his determination. Then with a little sigh at the lost opportunity he replaces the stopper on the sherry, turns and gestures Gandhi on into the room.

SMUTS: Please – please do come and sit down. It's prison I wanted to talk to you about.

    He has indicated a chair near his desk, but as Gandhi goes forward he pauses by a spread of papers from England on a long table near the middle of the room. We see one headline in close shot: "Thousands Imprisoned in South Africa/Mines Close. Crops Unharvested," a subhead, "Gandhi Leads Non-Violent Campaign." He looks at Smuts. Smuts smiles, a passing nod at the papers.

SMUTS: Mr. Gandhi, I've more or less decided to ask the House to repeal the Act that you have taken such "exception" to.
GANDHI (a beat): Well, if you ask, General Smuts, I'm sure it will be done.

    Smuts smiles.

SMUTS: Hm. Of course it is not quite that simple.
GANDHI: Somehow I expected not.

    A wry smile, and he sits on the edge of the chair Smuts has directed him to. Smuts measures him again, not absolutely certain how to deal with him. A pause, and he affects to take Gandhi's irony at face value.

SMUTS: I'm glad to hear you say that . . . very glad. You see if we repeal the Act under pressure (a nod at the papers again) under this kind of pressure it will create a great deal of resentment. Can you understand that?
GANDHI: Very well.

    And Gandhi does understand it – as a guiding principle. Never humiliate your enemy. And his tone conveys it.

SMUTS (a bit surprised): Good. Good. (The bland politician: the compromise.) I have thought of calling for a Royal Commission to "investigate" the new legislation. (He gestures, implying they'll do what they're told.) I think I could guarantee they would recommend the Act be repealed.
GANDHI (waiting for the catch): I congratulate them.

    Smuts does a slight double take, a smile, then the "tough" politician.

SMUTS: But they might also recommend that future Indian immigration be severely restricted – even stopped.

    He measures Gandhi challengingly, obviously expecting some contest. Gandhi mulls it, then

GANDHI: Immigration was not an issue on which we fought. It would be wrong of us to make it one now that we – we are in a position of advantage.

    Smuts stares at him . . . a moment, then

SMUTS: You're an extraordinary man.
GANDHI (his grin; he brushes at his prison garb): I assure you I feel a very ordinary man at this moment.

    And now Smuts smiles with him. He bends suddenly and signs a group of documents.

SMUTS: I'm ordering the release of all prisoners within the next twenty-four hours. You yourself are free from this moment.

    Gandhi stands, a little uncertain about the sudden change in his status. Smuts signs the last document, then sees Gandhi's doubt – and misreads it.

SMUTS: Assuming we are in agreement?
GANDHI: Yes – yes. It's just that . . . in these clothes I'd – I'd prefer to go by taxi.
SMUTS (confused by his hesitation): All right. Fine.
GANDHI: I'm – I'm afraid I have no money.
SMUTS: Oh! (He quickly feels in his waistcoat pockets – and realizes he has no money!) Neither have I. (He reaches forth and touches a buzzer.) I'm awfully sorry.

    The tall civil servant (Daniels) enters.

SMUTS: Daniels, would you lend Mr. Gandhi a shilling for a taxi?

    Daniel stares.

DANIELS: I beg your pardon, sir?
SMUTS (a second thought): How far will you be going, Mr. Gandhi?
GANDHI (a mischievous smile): Well – now that this is settled – I had thought seriously of going back to Indian (he faces the startled Daniel) but a shilling will do splendidly for the moment.

    Still a little confused, Daniels reaches in his pocket and produces a shilling. He hands it to Gandhi.

GANDHI: Thank you. (To Smuts) Thank you both for a very enlightening experience.

    He bows slightly and starts out the door. Daniels immediately starts to accompany him, but Gandhi stops. A beat.

GANDHI (ice): I'm obliged, Mr. Daniels, but I will find my own way out.

    And his own steel shows in the oblique reference to the ignominy of his way in. Daniel bows, and he and Smuts just stare as the uniformed "prisoner" goes out through the grand doors, past the stunned men in the office to the outer doors and on to the grand staircase. The prison guard appears in the doorway, looking off in confusion at Gandhi, then back at the office for guidance. Daniels simply shakes his head "Let him be."
    Finally, when Gandhi has disappeared down the stairs, Daniels turns to Smuts.

SMUTS (a shake of the head): He's either a great man or a colossal fraud . . . Either way, I shall be glad to see the last of him.

THE PIER AT BOMBAY. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    Ship's siren, military band . . . a jubilant crowd on the pier, passengers waving to the receiving crowd. A group of First Class passengers, ninety percent English, look down from the upper deck.
    From their point of view. We see the main section of the pier, a crowd of mostly European civilians on one side. A mass of military on the other: European officers, topees and swagger sticks, Indian cavalry, Gurkha infantry, Sikh lanoers – turbans, rifles, bugles, an Indian military band – a showy awe-inspiring display.
    Featuring two Englishmen. First Class passengers, white suits, Oxbridge accents; one quite young, the other a bit older, both civil servants coming to "administer" India.

YOUNG ENGLISHMAN: By God, he loves it . . .

    Their point of view. A British general is coming down the gangplank accompanied by his ADC. The officer commanding and the Guard of Honor await him.

SECOND ENGLISHMAN: I'm sure he hates it.

    The young Englishman glances at him quizzically. The General has taken the salute and moves to inspect the troops to the accompaniment of the military band.

SECOND ENGLISHMAN: Generals' reputations are being made in France today, fighting on the Western Front. Not as Military Governors in India.

    He is suddenly aware of a well-dressed Indian half-listening to their conversation. He glances at him and the well-dressed Indian simply nods slightly and moves off a little. The second Englishman grimaces at the young Englishman and looks down again.

SECOND ENGLISHMAN: What the devil's going on back there?

    He is looking aft. His point of view.
    Another far less elaborate gangplank extends from the aft section of the ship. Third Class passengers are disembarking here, and on shore, separated by a wire fence from the rest of the pier. A large crowd of Indians is reacting excitedly to someone coming down the gangplank but we can't yet see that person.
    The young Englishman glances back at the well-dressed Indian to make sure of his distance, then speaks quietly.

YOUNG ENGLISHMAN: It must be that Indian that made all that fuss back in Africa. My cabin boy told me he was on board.
SECOND ENGLISHMAN: Why haven't we seen him? (Finding the name) Gandhi?
YOUNG ENGLISHMAN: Yes. That's it. He was traveling Third Class. There he is.

    Their point of view.

    There has been a little hiatus in those disembarking but now Gandhi has appeared, coming down the gangplank with Ba and the children (grown-up sons now), and three or four people behind them, including the tall figure of Charlie Andrews. But Gandhi is wearing an Indian tunic and sandals and he has shaved his hair except for a central section on the top.

SECOND ENGLISHMAN'S VOICE-OVER: God – he's dressed like a coolie! I thought he was a lawyer.

    The young Englishman glances back cautiously toward the well-dressed Indian again, then

YOUNG ENGLISHMAN: After he came out of jail he refused to wear European clothes.

THE PIER. THIRD CLASS AREA. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    Gandhi is smiling, trying to move on, but answering the questions of an Indian journalist.

GANDHI: No, no, I haven't "refused" . . . I – I simply wanted to dress the way my comrades in prison dressed.

    He speaks with an uncertainty and tentativeness that he had lost in South Africa, patently overwhelmed by the reception. An English journalist catches him as he turns.

ENGLISH JOURNALIST: Will you support the war effort, Mr. Gandhi?

    An exuberant woman puts a garland over his shoulders.

GANDHI: I – I have demanded rights as a British citizen, it is therefore my duty to help in the defence of the British Empire.

    He smiles uncertainly again. As he turns he is face to face with an American reporter.

AMERICAN REPORTER: What are you going to do now that you're back in India?
GANDHI: I don't know . . . I don't know . . .

    An Indian reporter has cornered Ba behind him.

SECOND INDIAN REPORTER: As an Indian woman how could you accept the indignity of prison?

    Gandhi half-twists to hear Ba's answer, but his arm is taken by a young Indian (Nehru) in elegant European clothes. Another garland is thrown over his shoulders.

NEHRU: Please, Mr. Gandhi.

    Featuring Ba. Offhand, her eyes on Gandhi ahead.

BA: My dignity comes from following my husband.

    She joins her hands, acknowledging a garland placed around her shoulders, and pushes on after Gandhi. Charlie helps to guide her.
    Featuring Gandhi. The young Nehru, somewhat amused by all the excitement, leads Gandhi through the crowd to a little flower-covered platform. We see a banner: THE CONGRESS PARTY WELCOMES GANDHI.

NEHRU (he too speaks with an Oxbridge accent): Just a few words – then we'll get you to civilization.

    He grins. He has guided Gandhi to the first step of the platform. Another garland is wrapped around Gandhi's shoulders, and in some embarrassment, he mounts the platform. There is a great cheer, but in the silence that follows we hear the military band from across the way as the troops prepare to march off. Gandhi looks around at the crowd. Finally he speaks out.

GANDHI: I – I am glad to be home. (A little round of applause.) I – I thank you for your greeting.

    He makes the pranam and starts for the steps. The crowd is a little disappointed, but they manage a cheer and applause.
    Nehru is standing next to a heavy-set, well-dressed man (Patel). They exchange a wry glance, "Not exactly a world-beater."

    A car door slams. The camera pulls back. Nehru has slammed the door of a gleaming Rolls Royce touring car, the top down. He has seated Gandhi in it beside Patel, taking Gandhi's knapsack. An Indian chauffeur rides in front. The crowd still surges around and Gandhi is looking apprehensively back for Ba.

NEHRU: We'll follow with your wife – don't worry, everything's arranged.

    He grins boyishly, in part to comfort, in part unable to contain his amusement at Gandhi and his evident confusion.

PATEL'S CAR. STREETS OF BOMBAY. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    With Gandhi still looking back anxiously, the car pulls off. He finally turns to Patel.

GANDHI: Who is that young man?
PATEL: That's young Nehru. He's got his father's intellect, his mother's looks and the devil's charm. If they don't ruin him at Cambridge – Wave! Wave! – he may amount to something.

    There are crowds along the street, and Gandhi – in surprise that they are for him – waves tentatively. Patel waves too but he eyes Gandhi rather critically.

PATEL: I must say when I first saw you as a bumbling lawyer here in Bombay I never thought I'd be greeting you as a national hero.
GANDHI: I'm hardly that, Mr. Patel.
PATEL: Oh, yes, you are. It's been two hundred years since an Indian has cocked a snoot at the British Empire and got away with it. And stop calling me Mr. Patel, you're not a junior clerk anymore.
GANDHI (a beat; still hesitant): No.

    They have come to a main thoroughfare. A crowd still lines the streets but it is thin and around and between we see groups of desperate poor, parked on the pavement, staring with blank curiosity at the passing car, but too listless and too out of touch to move from their little squatters' patches.
    Patel looks at Gandhi's clothes rather disapprovingly.

PATEL: The new Military Governor of the North West Province was on that ship. Too bad you came back Third Class – he might have been impressed by a successful barrister who had outmaneuvered General Smuts.

    Gandhi is staring at the street. From his point of view we hold on a gaunt young, aged woman holding a baby wrapped in rags as threadbare as her sari. Another hollow-faced child leans against her.

GANDHI (leadenly): Yes . . . I'm sure . . .

PATEL'S GARDEN. EXTERIOR. DAY.

   A splendid peacock, its tail fanned in brilliant display, lords it on a velvet lawn. A woman in a sumptuous silk sari is trying to feed it crumbs. Behind her, Gandhi's reception is in full spate – silver trays, tables covered in fine linen, Indian servants, a swimming pool, a small fountain, the grounds filled with Indian millionaires and dignitaries gathered with their wives to meet the new hero from South Africa.
    A beautiful and beautifully dressed woman (Mrs. Nehru) stands next to her distinguished husband (Motilal Nehru).

MRS. NEHRU (wittily): No, I leave practical matters to my husband and revolution to my son . . .

    She nods lightly toward Nehru.
    Featuring Nehru who is introducing Gandhi to two men, one tall, slender, ascetic looking, but dressed impeccably (Jinnah). The other with a haunting face – beard, flowing dark hair, the air of a poet or a ruthlessly dedicated radical (Prakash – whom we recognize from the opening sequence in Delhi at Gandhi's assassination).

NEHRU: Mr. Jinnah, our joint host, member of Congress, and the leader of the Muslim League and Mr. Prakash, who I fear is awaiting trial for sedition and inducement to murder.

    Gandhi has bowed to Jinnah, now he looks a little startled at Prakash. Prakash grins and makes the pranam to Gandhi.

PRAKASH: I have not actually pulled a trigger, Mr. Gandhi, I have simply written that if an Englishman kills an Indian for disobeying his law, then it is an Indian's duty to kill an Englishman for enforcing his law in a land that is not his.

    Gandhi nods . . .

GANDHI: It is a clever argument; I am not sure it will produce the end you desire.

    He meets Prakash's gaze firmly, the first moment we have seen any sign of the Gandhi of South Africa.

JINNAH (testingly): We hope you intend to join us in the struggle for Home Rule, Mr. Gandhi.
GANDHI (a pause): I –

    Charlie Andrews touches Gandhi's arm, excusing himself to the others.

CHARLIE: May I? Mohan – I would like you to meet someone.

    Gandhi bows to the others and is led off to an Indian bishop in full clerical robes. Behind him we see Patel regaling a small group with some story of court or society.
    As Gandhi leaves, Jinnah, Nehru and Prakash watch him clinically. Except for the servants, Gandhi is the only Indian male not in European clothes.

NEHRU: He told the press he would support the British in the war.
PRAKASH (acidly): That's non-violence for you.
JINNAH: Is he a fool?

    Nehru grins slowly, thoughtfully.

NEHRU: I'm not certain . . . But I wouldn't be surprised.

    We get a shot of Ba in a gathering of Indian women. She stands listening, seemingly tongue-tied in the sophisticated patter. And we cut to Charlie introducing Gandhi to a man in obvious ill health, but well dressed, looking like the professor, philosopher and elder statesman he is (Gokhale).

CHARLIE: I lied to you, Mohan, when I told you I decided to come to South Africa to meet you. Professor Gokhale sent me.

    Gokhale is pleased, Gandhi amused. He bows very respectfully.

GOKHALE: We're trying to make a nation, Gandhi – and the British keep trying to break us up into religions and principalities and "provinces." What you were writing in South Africa – that's what we need here.

    He has offered his hand during this, and Gandhi has helped him from the garden chair he has been seated on, handing him the cane that is resting against it.

GANDHI (a smile): I have much to learn about India. And I have to begin my practice again – one needs money to run a journal.

    Another grin. Gokhale has started to walk with him, looking at him intently, penetratingly.

GOKHALE: Nonsense. (He turns to Charlie) Go on, Charlie. This is Indian talk – we want none of you imperialists.

    It is brusque but affectionate; we know he regards Charlie as Gandhi does . . . and Charlie does too.

CHARLIE (a mock threat): All right – I'll go and write my report to the Viceroy.
GOKHALE: Go and find a pretty Hindu woman and convert her to Christianity – that's as much mischief as you're allowed.

    He still hasn't smiled, but Gandhi and Charlie have.

ANOTHER PART OF THE GARDEN.

    This is private – beautiful and still. Gandhi walks along slowly, taking the pace of the ailing Gokhale.

GOKHALE: Forget your practice. India has many men with too much wealth – it is their privilege to nourish the efforts of the few who can raise India from servitude and apathy. I will see to it – you begin your journal.
GANDHI: I have little to say. India is an "alien" country to me.

    He grins self-deprecatingly but Gokhale persists.

GOKHALE: Well, change that. Go and find India. Not what you see here, but the real India. You'll see what needs to be said. What we need to hear.

    He pauses and looks at Gandhi – and for the first time he smiles. When he speaks his voice is thick with feeling.

GOKHALE: When I saw you in that tunic I knew . . . I knew I could die in peace. (A dying man's command) Make India proud of herself.

    His eyes are watery with emotion, but he stares at Gandhi rigidly. Cut to

TRAIN. EXTERIOR. NIGHT.

    Indian. Steam. A breed of its own.

THIRD CLASS COACH. INTERIOR. NIGHT.

    Gandhi sits by a window in the dimly lit coach. Ba sleeps on the seat next to him, another member of the party next to her. Gandhi's solemn eyes are studying the huddled humanity in the rocking coach. People are sleeping everywhere, some half-erect on the benches, many on the floor among the bundles and trunks and bedrolls and baskets. Some have children, some are very old. One old man, sleepless like Gandhi, stares back at him across the shadowed squalor of the coach; somewhere unseen a crying baby is soothed by his mother.
    Gandhi looks at the bench across from him. Charlie Andrews, his tall frame cramped in a tiny space between the window looks at Gandhi dozily, a little smile of sufferance, then he closes his eyes again, leaning his head against the rocking window frame.

NARROW STREET. A SMALL TOWN. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    Gandhi is carried along in a ceremonial chair borne on the shoulders of some trotting men. The chair is swathed in flowers, and flowers are being showered on Gandhi by the running children and the crowd lining the narrow street. Ba and Charlie and two others are following in a flower-bedecked ox-cart, lost in the mass of people that are swirling around Gandhi.
    On a building top a British officer watches emotionlessly as Gandhi and the crowd pass below him. On this building and others we see some on his Indian soldiers watching with their rifles beside them.

INDIAN VILLAGES. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    As from a train . . . but the shots are varied; some close of farmers and water buffalo, and ragged children and women in colorful saris carrying pots on their heads, and some distant of villages as units, one and another and another.
    Intercut always with

TRAIN. INTERIOR. DAY.

    Gandhi's face in the window, he and Ba standing, looking out together, neither speaking. Gandhi writing in the cramped chaos of the Third Class coaches. Gandhi sweeping part of the carriage, making disgruntled passengers move as he tries to bring some cleanliness to their surroundings.

RIVER VISTA. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    A broad alluvial plain, the river threading through it, purple and gold in the rising sun. The camera races with the train along the river's edge, the reflected sun glimmering on the windows.

RIVER BANK. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    The sun is high and the train is stopped by the river. People have come out of the coaches to cool their heads with the touch of water, to stretch their legs.
    We see an English clergyman from the Second Class coaches, dipping a toe cautiously into the water, children of some British enlisted soldiers wading, splashing, faces alight with fun.
    And, farther along, the parasols of one or two of the English First Class passengers, a woman dousing her neck delicately with perfume. A British officer, tunic unbuttoned, smoking a long cigar as he walks along in a few inches of water, his trousers rolled up, his shoes off.
    Across the river down from the Third Class coaches a small group of Indian women is squatted by the river's edge, washing clothes. Some carry infants on their backs. Some small children stand near them. Their ritual of washing goes on, but they are all watching the passengers of the train.
    Gandhi stands with Ba and Charlie among the Third Class passengers. Ba cools her face with water. Charlie, his trousers rolled up, plays a tentative splashing game with a skinny little Indian boy. Gandhi is holding a large white head cloth which he is soaking in the water, but his eyes have been arrested by the sight of the women across the river.
    And now we see the women closely from his point of view, the camera panning slowly along them. Their bodies are skin and bone. The clothes they wear, which looked normal from the distance, are rags – literally, shredded rages, one hung on another. The children are hollow-eyed and gaunt, staring listlessly at the train. One boy, with a stump for an arm, aimlessly pushes at the flies that buzz around him.
    Gandhi stands erect, lost now in the revelation of their poverty. His eyes hold on one woman at the river bank. Though her frail face is almost skeletal, it is beautiful but scarred by a severe rash down her cheek and neck. The cloth she is washing is a shredded piece of muslin. Her eyes have met Gandhi's as he watches her.
    Gandhi stares for a moment, a long beat. Then he slowly moves his arm out into the water and, without taking his eyes from her, releases the head cloth he has been rinsing. It floats along on the water down toward the woman.
    She looks from Gandhi to it with sudden excitement, a sense of incredulity. As the cloth nears her, she rises and moves almost greedily out into the water to take it. Her hands snatch at it quickly. Then she stands, looking at Gandhi. The infant on her back shifts, its huge hollow eyes reacting to the movement.
    Gandhi smiles slowly, tilting his head just slightly to her. And now that she has possession of the cloth, her manner calms again. And she looks back at him, and her lips almost part with a tiny smile of thanks.
    Hold Gandhi, staring at her, fighting the pain in his eyes . . .

TRAIN. EXTERIOR. NIGHT.

    Threading like a lighted necklace across the darkness of a vast plain.

TRAIN IN HILLS. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    Climbing green hills – a totally different terrain – and again we intercut, this time the train climbing: a boy and buffalo running a huge, crude grinding wheel, train climbing; farmers in terraced fields, train climbing faster and faster . . . until suddenly with a hoot of the whistle and the screech of brakes it stops!

TRAIN. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    Gandhi is leaning out of a window in a Third Class coach. Ahead of him other passengers are looking too; some have jumped down.
    Gandhi and Charlie jump down too. As they come clear they can see that a military train of an engine and two cars has been derailed ahead of them. A small troop of cavalry are coming slowly along the line of Gandhi's train toward them.
    Featuring the cavalry. They are British and their troop leader is viciously angry.

TROOP LEADER: Clear the way! Get out of the way!

    He is swinging his sword, not lethally, but threateningly at the Indian passengers from the train. His British NCOs are equally angry and deliberately ride close to the passengers, forcing them back against the train.
    Gandhi and Charlie step back. And as the troop goes past we see from their point of view a group of Indian bearers, trotting in the middle of the horsemen, carrying two litters – covered, each hanging by straps from a long pole – and each bearing a badly wounded British soldier; one appears to be dead.

OUTSKIRTS OF VILLAGE. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    The shadow of a train moves slowly along the ground, a sense of tension and foreboding. We hear the engine chugging slowly. The camera lifts. Gandhi and Charlie stand at a window, staring out grimly. Other passengers are looking off too. Ba is seated, staring straight ahead, her face taut, deliberately not seeing what the others are seeing.

GALLOWS. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    Their point of view: On a hill across from the railroad track part of a prison wall is visible. In front of it a thick pole is straddled across two others. From this crude gallows two Indian men hang by the neck. One is in turban and dhoti, the other in a tunic. The sound of the train stopping.

VILLAGE. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    Close shot. Incense rising in shot. The camera pulls back and back. The incense is burning in a bowl sitting before Gandhi on a make-shift platform set in the little valley between the train line and the little hill where the Indian men have been hanged. A small crowd sits in a crescent before him, Ba and Charlie are bent in prayer on the platform behind him. When the camera comes to rest, the edge of the gallows and a portion of one of the hanged men is in the frame. We know we are looking from someone's point of view near the prison wall.
    Finally, Gandhi lifts his head.

GANDHI (at first distant, as from the hill): I ask you to pray for those who died. (Closer) For the English soldiers . . . (a murmur) who were doing what they thought was right. (Closer) And for the brave terrorists whose patriotism led them to do what was wrong.

    The murmur of resistance from the crowd is louder at this. Gandhi shakes his head at the dissent.

GANDHI: It it not my law, it is the law of creation. We reap what we sow. Out there in the fields – and in our hearts. Violence sows hatred, and the will to revenge. In them. And in us.

    He looks up.

HILLSIDE. HIS POINT OF VIEW.

    The troop leader, on horseback, is on the hill beside the gallows. The first view of Gandhi on the platform was his. Some of his troops are lined up beside him. He stares down at Gandhi coldly.

PATEL'S SWIMMING POOL. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    Patel lounges in the water on his back, supported by a large air pillow. Nehru sits at the side of the pool in a swimming suit, his feet dangling in the water. Jinnah sits under an umbrella in an elegant white suit, being served tea by one of three or four servants around. Patel spews a fountain of water.

PATEL: I agree with Jinnah. Now that the Americans are in, the war will end soon. The Germans are worn out as it is . . . (he rolls over, facing Nehru) and our first act should be to convene a Congress Party convention and demand independence.

    Nehru takes an iced drunk from a servant.

JINNAH: And we must speak with one voice – united.

    The others assent. Nehru shakes his head wistfully.

PATEL (it reminds him): Ah – we should invite Gandhi. What the devil has happened to him anyway?
NEHRU: He's "discovering" India.
JINNAH (cynically): Which is a lot better than causing trouble where it matters. Invite him – let him say his piece about South Africa – and then let him slip into oblivion.

    Cut to

TRAIN. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    A fireman heaps coal into an engine's boiler.
    The train passes camera to the Third Class section, which seems besieged by humanity. People cling to the outside of each door and many more are seated on the central wooden planks on the roofs of the two coaches.

THIRD CLASS COACH. EXTERIOR. DAY.

    Gandhi and Charlie are riding on the outside of the coach, hanging on through the door, and both enjoying it immensely. Ba, inside the jammed coach, finds it very unfunny. She has a grip on one of Gandhi's arms.

BA (quietly, private): Please! You're being foolish!
GANDHI: There's no room! And the air is lovely.

    She grimaces severely and tugs at him.

CHARLIE: No violence, please.
GANDHI: Let me hang on with two hands or I will fall.

    Featuring the roof. And Indian squats right on the edge of the roof above Charlie. He is looking down, offering a hand.

INDIAN (over the sound of the engine): Englishman Sahib!

    Charlie, who has been grinning, suddenly looks baffled, not to say appalled.

INDIAN: Come! Come! There is room!

    His hand still dangles in offering to the tall Charlie.
    Another angle. Two other Indians on the roof move to where they can grip the first Indian's other arm, as counterforce to the weight of Charlie.

FIRST INDIAN (to Charlie): Place the foot on the window.

    Featuring Charlie. Hesitatingly, he grips the inside of the window higher, and starts to swing one foot onto the window ledge.

GANDHI (amused, but disconcerted): What are you doing?
CHARLIE (grimly): Going nearer to God!

    Gandhi, baffled a second, sees the outstretched hand above them, and in puckish complicity, helps boost Charlie up.
    Long shot. As Charlie reaches up, his hand is grasped and he starts to scramble and be pulled up to the roof.
    Featuring Gandhi and Ba. As Charlie's leg, assisted by Gandhi, starts to leave its lodging on the window ledge Ba suddenly turns, sees it, and grabs for it in alarm.

BA: Charlie! Be careful!!

    Close shot. Charlie. His face flat on the roof of the train as his arm is still gripped by the Indian, but his leg is being pulled from behind.

CHARLIE (desperately): Mohan – !!

    Resume Gandhi and Ba. Gandhi quickly moves to free Ba's hand from Charlie's leg and almost loses his own grip.
    He grabs the window again.

GANDHI: Let go! You'll kill him!

    Ba is confused.

GANDHI: Let go! Let go!

    With one hand