Ghandi

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 na‹vet‚.

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 he pries at her grip. In the chaos of 
instructions others in the coach are helping Gandhi, and Ba 
senses she is doing something wrong, but is still not sure what. 
She lets go.

Close shot. Charlie. A desperate sigh of relief.

Long shot. Charlie is pulled on up to the top of the coach.

Featuring Charlie as he sits, puffing and recovering from the 
fright.

FIRST INDIAN: 
You see - most comfortable.

Charlie nods grimly.

Featuring Gandhi and Ba. Gandhi, smiling, goes on the tips of 
his toes to get a better view. Ba grabs him desperately.

BA:
Please, God, no!

Featuring Charlie. He looks around at the rest of the 
passengers on the roof, their bundles and baskets clutched beside 
them. Their poverty is appalling, but they are all smiling at 
him, a sense of gaiety made in part by his Englishman's 
participation in their experience. They must shout over the 
train.

SECOND INDIAN
(grinning): Are you Christian, Sahib?

CHARLIE
(nods): Yes, yes, I'm a Christian.

SECOND INDIAN
(proudly): I know a Christian. (Charlie acknowledges it 
politely.) She drinks blood.

Charlie stares at him in surprise.

SECOND INDIAN
(explaining - obvious): The blood of Christ - every Sunday!

He is nodding, smiling, expecting Charlie's understanding. 
And Charlie gives it - somewhat bleakly. Suddenly

GANDHI'S VOICE
(alarmed): Charlie!!

The Indians turn. Charlie turns.

TRAIN AND TUNNEL. EXTERIOR. DAY.

Resume Charlie and the Indians.

FIRST INDIAN:
It's all right, Sahib! Very safe - bend - bend!

All the Indians are crouching. Charlie closes his eyes 
ruefully - he's had better ideas than this - and he gets as flat 
as he can.

TRAIN AND TUNNEL. EXTERIOR. DAY.

The train, with passengers clinging to the sides and riding 
on the top, steams into the tunnel, its whistle sounding.

THE TUNNEL.

Black. A glimmer of light, through steam, the whistle 
echoing.

INDIAN'S VOICE:
Pray to God, Sahib! Now is when it is best to be Hindu!

Close shot. Charlie. In a flash of steamy light, staring 
wide-eyed at the Indian.

Black, and sudden silence.

And we dissolve through to

CONVENTION TENT. INTERIOR. DAY.

High. Coming into focus is a lighted platform, and as the 
scene becomes clearer we see figures on the platform and the 
banner which reads INDIAN NATIONAL CONGRESS
, and we hear the emotional voice of Jinnah at the microphone.

JINNAH
(gradually fading in): We were asked for toleration. We were 
asked for patience. Some gave it and some did not. Well, their 
war is over! And those of us who supported it, and those of us 
who refused must forget our differences!

The camera has been moving in; now it jumps to Jinnah in 
close shot and intercuts with the impact of his fervid delivery 
on the audience.

JINNAH:
And there can be no excuses from the British now! India wants 
Home Rule! India demands Home Rule!!

And the audience cheers him. Newspaper cameramen crowded 
around the platform photograph him. Patel comes forward from the 
back of the platform, clapping. He is chairing the Congress. 
Jinnah bows, taking his notes, gesturing to the auditorium. A man 
made for the spotlight, a man loving the spotlight.

At last he moves back to his place on the platform. Nehru 
clasps his hand in congratulation. Others crowd around him. And 
fleetingly, just in the edge of picture, we see Gandhi - again, 
the only one in an Indian tunic - sitting at the end of the 
second row on the platform. He is just watching the flood of 
enthusiasm for Jinnah.

Featuring Patel approaching the microphone, stilling the 
house with upraised hands.

PATEL:
And let no one question that Mr. Jinnah speaks not just for the 
Muslims - but for all India!

And again the audience cheers and applauds his little coda. 
He raises his hands, stilling them again.

PATEL:
And now I'm going to introduce to you a man whose writings we 
are all becoming familiar with . . . a man who stood high in the 
esteem of our beloved Professor Gokhale . . . a man whose 
accomplishment in South Africa will always be remembered. Mr. 
Mohandas Gandhi.

Gandhi has already started to come toward the podium. He is 
greeted with mild applause, but already the convention is 
performing like a convention now that the spell of Jinnah's major 
speech has dissipated. As Gandhi reaches the podium, Patel 
gestures him to it.

PATEL
(politely): Your journal has made a great impact.

Gandhi nods to him and acknowledges the residue of applause.

GANDHI:
I am flattered by Mr. Patel (His grin.) I would be even more 
flattered if what he said were true.

He means about the journal.

Patel has wandered back toward the others, his mind already 
on them. But he has half heard Gandhi's comment and turns - a 
smile, a politician's flexibility -

PATEL
(loudly; he is away from the mike): But it's true! I - I read it 
. . . often.

Again Gandhi grins - and takes glasses from his sleeve. This 
is the first time we have seen them. He has one slip of paper 
with notes on it which he has put on the podium. He puts his 
glasses on and faces the convention.

GANDHI:
Since I returned from South Africa, I have traveled over much of 
India. And I know I could travel many more years and still only 
see a small part of it.

On the platform, the whispered politics go on. On the floor 
of the convention, some listen, some talk of other things.

GANDHI:
. . . and yet already I know what we say here means nothing to 
the masses of our country.

Nehru has turned, having caught that last remark. He touches 
Patel on the shoulder "Listen."

GANDHI:
Here we make speeches for each other - and those English liberal 
magazines that may grant us a few lines.

And now they are beginning to pay attention on the floor of 
the hall too.

GANDHI:
But the people of India are untouched. Their politics are 
confined to bread and salt.

Jinnah too is listening now - aloofly, challengingly.

GANDHI:
Illiterate they may be, but they are not blind. They see no 
reason to give their loyalty to rich and powerful men who simply 
want to take over the role of the British in the name of freedom.

There is dissent on the floor and on the platform - but it is 
muttered and English "polite." Gandhi goes on.

GANDHI: 
This Congress tells the world it represents India. My brothers, 
India is seven hundred thousand "villages" not a few hundred 
lawyers in Delhi and Bombay. Until we stand in the fields with 
the millions who toil each day under the hot sun, we will not 
represent India - nor will we ever be able to challenge the 
British as one nation.

He takes off his glasses and folds them and in silence starts 
back toward his place on the platform. A cameraman flashes a 
picture, and someone begins to applaud; it is taken up here and 
there, tepidly. On the platform, the leaders join in 
perfunctorily. We see one peasant face (Shukla) - which we will 
come to know - watching from the crowd of outsiders who stand in 
the doorways.

Nehru, who has been looking at Gandhi with interest and some 
surprise turns to Patel.

NEHRU:
Have you read his magazine?

PATEL:
No - but I think I'm going to.

THE TRAIL TO GANDHI'S ASHRAM. EXTERIOR. DAY.

An open touring car struggling along the bumpy trail. Nehru 
drives, four friends as young as he with him, all dressed in the 
same expensive, British manner.

FIRST FRIEND:
This can't be the way!

Nehru is looking a little harassed, from the ragging he is 
taking and from the ride. The ashram is only half-finished, the 
ground unworked, the buildings only partially completed and the 
whole looking like some primitive frontier outpost. They are 
finally brought to a halt by a goat that is tethered right across 
the path.

SECOND FRIEND
(a mocking quote): Yes, I'm sure this is the direction India is 
taking.

The others laugh; Nehru suffers.

SECOND FRIEND:
To think I almost got excited by Mr. Jinnah when all this was 
awaiting me.

ASHRAM. EXTERIOR. DAY.

Nehru has half risen in his seat to address Charlie Andrews, 
who, walking from one somnolent building to another, has stopped 
dead at the sight of the car. He carries sheaves of page proofs.

NEHRU:
We're looking for Mr. Gandhi!

CHARLIE:
Ah, you'll find him under the tree by the river. (He points off, 
then glances at the car.) You'd better leave the car - the ground 
is rather soft.

NEHRU:
Thank you . . . 

He looks around the ashram a little dismally.

FIRST FRIEND
(drolly, as he climbs out): Come on! I'm anxious to meet this 
new "force"!

ASHRAM. TREE BY RIVER. EXTERIOR. DAY.

Gandhi sits under a tree, peeling potatoes. Nehru and his 
friends are sprawled out around him. Beside them, the river; in 
the background the business of the ashram goes on.

GANDHI:
I try to live like an Indian, as you see . . . it is stupid of 
course, because in our country it is the British who decide how 
an Indian lives - what he may buy, what he may sell. And from 
their luxury in the midst of our terrible poverty they instruct 
us on what is justice and what is sedition. (He looks at them, a 
teasing but mordant grin.) So it is only natural that our best 
young minds assume an air of Eastern dignity, while greedily 
assimilating every Western weakness as quickly as they can 
acquire it.

His smile is sardonic, but genuine, theirs embarrassed and 
self-conscious.

NEHRU
(defensively): If we have Home Rule that will change.

Gandhi has finished the last potato. He glances at Nehru then 
drops the potato in the bowl. He lifts the pail of peelings to 
Nehru.

GANDHI:
Would you, please?

Nehru in his fine linen suit takes the pail awkwardly. His 
friends watch with amusement, but they too rise to follow as they 
head for the kitchen.

GANDHI:
And why should the English grant us Home Rule? Here, we must 
take the peelings to the goats.

He re-directs Nehru toward a trough where two or three goats 
are tethered, but he keeps right on talking.

GANDHI:
We only make wild speeches, or perform even wilder acts of 
terrorism. We've bred an army of anarchists but not one single 
group that can really fight the British anywhere.

NEHRU
(surprised): I thought you were against fighting.

They have reached the trough.

GANDHI:
Just spread it around - they like the new peelings mixed with 
the rotting ones.

Nehru has carefully walked around something distasteful on 
the ground, now he dumps the peelings along the trough and 
spreads them "delicately." Gandhi scoops some peelings from the 
trough to feed a goat that nudges him.

GANDHI:
Where there is injustice, I've always believed in fighting. (He 
looks at Nehru.) The question is do you fight to change things, 
or do you fight to punish. (His smile.) For myself, I have found 
that we are all such sinners we should leave punishment to God. 
And if we really want to change things there are better ways of 
doing it than by derailing trains or slashing someone with a 
sword.

He meets Nehru's gaze, and for a moment something deeper than 
argument passes between them. Then something catches Gandhi's 
eye. He looks off. Ba stands, watching him, waiting.

BA:
The fire is ready.

Gandhi turns. The goat is reaching for his bowl of potatoes. 
He pushes it away and starts for the kitchen.

GANDHI:
You see, even here we live under tyranny.

Nehru grins, captured by Gandhi's seriousness, and his humor. 
He hasn't moved, and neither have his friends. They watch Gandhi 
as he carries his bowl of potatoes to Ba.

NEHRU
(reflectively): I told you . . . 

FIRST FRIEND:
Hm . . . but look at him. Some "fighter"! I can see the British 
shaking now.

Gandhi plods on toward the kitchen, carrying the bowl of 
potatoes.

THE RIVER BED AT THE ASHRAM. EXTERIOR. DAY.

Clothes are dipped in the brownish water. Ba and an ashramite 
woman squat by the river, washing clothes. It is long past the 
monsoons and they have had to come far out in the riverbed to the 
water. But they are laughing at their task.

BA:
But it's the ink that is the most diffic -

She stops, because coming along the riverbed toward them is a 
man (Shukla) who looks as though he has come a long, weary way. 
His face is gaunt, his little bundle of belongings pathetic. As 
he nears them, he pauses.

SHUKLA:
I am looking for Mr. Gandhi . . . 

GANDHI'S HUT. ASHRAM. INTERIOR. DUSK.

Shadowed, the end of the day. Gandhi sits cross-legged, 
watching solemnly as Shukla reaches with his fingers into a bowl 
to eat. The fingers are thin, half-starved, like the man himself.

SHUKLA:
. . . I've wanted to speak to you for a long time.

He looks up at Gandhi almost sheepishly. He does not eat yet, 
but his hunger is evident. Ba sits at one side in the shadows 
watching him as intently as Gandhi.

SHUKLA:
. . . our crops . . . we can't sell them . . . We have no money 
. . . but the landlords take the same rent.

His voice is choked and near to tears, resonant with the 
unspoken agony his words mean for him and the others like him. He 
looks at Gandhi nervously for a moment, then puts the food to his 
mouth like a man who is starving, and trying desperately not to 
show it.

Close shot. Ba. The solemn intensity of her gaze reflects her 
identification with the man's agony. She glances up at Gandhi . . 
. 

TRAIN STATION. CHAMPARAN. EXTERIOR. NIGHT.

The camera is low, shooting along the track toward the light 
of an approaching train. From its distant glow we can see that 
people line the platform of the small station, waiting, but we 
cannot tell how thick the crowd may be.

The station house. An open staff car pulls up through the 
press of the crowd. An English captain leaps out and pushes 
aggressively through the mass of bodies toward the platform. 
Again the darkness of the ill-lit station and the angle of the 
camera limit our vision.

ENGLISH CAPTAIN: 
Clear the way there! Get out of the way!

A details of British troops, already on the station, moves in 
his wake, just as aggressive toward the crowd as he is.

SERGEANT PUTNAM:
Sir! Up here!

The sergeant is on the low sloping roof of the station. The 
captain turns briskly to two of his detail.

ENGLISH CAPTAIN:
Give me a leg up, will you!

The two men join hands and the captain is hoisted up with an 
assist from Sergeant Putnam. We hear the train stop in the 
background.

On the roof. The captain stands erect.

ENGLISH CAPTAIN:
What the hell is it, Sergeant?

He is now standing and his face has frozen. It needs no 
answer from Putnam.

ENGLISH CAPTAIN:
Jesus . . . !

He turns his head slowly, his mouth agape at

His point of view. The whole of the obscurely lit platform is 
covered thick with waiting crowds. They engulf the station house, 
back and front, and on the other side of the train more people 
are packed all along its length, and beyond them along the narrow 
street that stretches through the little collection of houses 
adjoining the station, every rooftop is covered - men, women with 
babes in arms, children. There is no excitement, hardly any 
movement - just a vast congregation of people, waiting silently 
is the darkness - and as the camera pans we see that the crowd 
extends, indiscernable, even beyond the range of light.

ENGLISH CAPTAIN
(awed, a little frightened): What the hell is going on?

SERGEANT PUTNAM: 
I don't know, sir. The agent says they got a telegram and it just 
said, he is coming . . . and gave the time of the train.

ENGLISH CAPTAIN:
Who the hell is he?

SERGEANT PUTNAM:
I don't know, sir.

Featuring Gandhi. He has stepped down from the train. Shukla 
guides him, Ba and Charlie a step or two behind. Gandhi moves 
through the silent crowd, his hands in the pranam, bowing a 
little to either side. As he advances, the crowd parts - it is 
almost eerily silent. As their clothes indicate, the area is 
Muslim, so some salaam (a touch of the hand to the forehead) and 
a few tentatively make the pranam back to Gandhi as he moves 
through them. Most of the faces are gaunt and lean. A destitute 
people.

And suddenly there is a commotion and the sound of boots on 
the concrete platform, and the English captain shoves his way 
through to confront Gandhi down the little aisle that was being 
made for him. The sergeant and part of the detail and behind the 
captain.

The captain stares. Then he looks around at the crowd, 
suspiciously, a touch of inner fear, then back to Gandhi.

ENGLISH CAPTAIN:
Who the devil are you?

GANDHI:
My name is Gandhi. Mohandas K. Gandhi.

There is a flicker of recognition, but uncertain. The captain 
stiffens; a steeling of the will. Another glance at the crowd, 
this time with an air of outraged authority.

ENGLISH CAPTAIN:
Well, whoever you are, we don't want you here. I suggest you get 
back on that train before it leaves the station.

GANDHI
(calmly, a glance at the crowd): They seem to want me.

ENGLISH CAPTAIN:
Now look here. I'll put you under arrest if you'd prefer?

GANDHI:
On what charge?

It has the cold assurance of a lawyer, and the Captain is a 
little shaken by it. He glances at Charlie who stands behind 
Gandhi now, and it makes him all the more uncertain.

ENGLISH CAPTAIN:
I don't want any trouble.

He tries to make it severe, but it is a comedown.

GANDHI:
I am an Indian travelling in my own country. I see no reason for 
trouble.

It is firm and there is an edge of assertiveness to it that 
the Captain doesn't like, but Gandhi's unrelenting stare unnerves 
him. He glances at Charlie again.

ENGLISH CAPTAIN:
Well, there'd better not be.

Again, the empty severity of weakness. He looks around, then 
turns and marches off briskly shoving his way through the crowd. 
"Out of my way, there! Come on, move!"

Gandhi smiles reflectively, and the crowd suddenly begins to 
buzz. Where all was silence before there is now the hum of 
excitement. Already he has scored a victory - and as he moves 
forward again, making the pranam, they return it with flushed 
greetings. "Gandhi - Gandhi - Bapu - Gandhiji" . . .

A PEASANT'S DWELLING. INTERIOR. DAY.

The early light of the sun illumines the dwelling. We feature 
a man in middle age, but one who looks ill and drawn (Meha). He 
lies on a straw mat.

MEHA:
For years the landlords have ordered us to grow indigo, for 
dyeing the cloth. Always they took part of the crop as rent.

Gandhi sits cross-legged, listening. It is the kind of 
listening that opens the heart. Behind him a mass of villagers 
sits stoically, outside the dwelling, waiting while their case is 
heard. Meha tries to speak unemotionally but under Gandhi's 
sympathetic gaze his despair keeps cracking through.

MEHA:
But now the English factories make cloth for everyone. No one 
wants our indigo. And the landlords won't take their share. They 
say we must pay our rent in cash.

Near to breakdown, he gestures around the empty house.

MEHA:
What we could, we sold . . . The police have taken the rest. 
There is no food, we -

He cannot go on.

GANDHI:
I understand. (He examines his hands a moment.) The landlords 
are British?

It's a rhetorical question. Meha nods.

Gandhi looks around the crude dwelling, almost nothing 
remains. We see two young men, one seventeen perhaps, the other 
older, and a girl, sixteen. And finally Meha's wife, sitting near 
Ba, the two women listening together but Meha's wife looks like a 
woman who has given up, her hair is dead and hardly combed, her 
sari dirty.

Meha looks at Gandhi and shakes his head hopelessly. Gandhi 
nods . . . He stands slowly.

GANDHI:
What we can do . . . we will try to do.

The words are said bleakly, not to raise false hopes. He 
glances at Meha's wife. Water comes to her eyes, and she lowers 
her head. Ba puts her hands on her shoulders and clasps her to 
her, and the woman breaks, and sobs and sobs . . . 

TILLED FIELD. CHAMPARAN. EXTERIOR. DAY.

Gandhi rides on an open howdah on an elephant, his mind 
locked in sober reflection. Shukla shares the howdah with him, 
but does not dare break Gandhi's black mood.

GANDHI:
Is all Champaran like this, Shukla?

SHUKLA: 
Yes, Bapu . . . (He looks across the field.) The whole province . 
. . hundreds - thousands.

It registers with Gandhi - but inside. A moment.

CHARLIE'S VOICE:
Mohan - !

Gandhi shakes himself from his absorption and looks back. Ba 
and Charlie are mounted on a similar howdah on another elephant, 
both being led by peasant boys. Charlie is pointing behind them. 
Coming along the path is a tall Indian policeman on a bicycle. He 
rides right past Charlie and Ba and comes alongside Gandhi. His 
attitude is superficially polite, but he is full of righteous 
authority.

POLICEMAN
(he knows): Are you Mr. M. K. Gandhi?

GANDHI: 
Yes.

POLICEMAN:
I'm sorry but you are under arrest.

GANDHI:
I am not sorry at all.

It contains more anger than we have seen him display to 
anyone but Ba.

CHAMPARAN CRICKET CLUB. EXTERIOR. DAY.

A ball is hit. The camera pulls back to reveal a lush, 
verdant pitch, white-garbed players, English, a few ladies 
dressed in First World War fashion watching under parasols near 
the clubhouse and in the shade of trees with a few officers and 
civil servants, while Indian servants discreetly serve cool 
drinks.

The batsman has hit a four and we see him run down the pitch 
with his partner until the four is certain, then

BATSMAN
(to the wicket keeper): Who did you say would be buying the 
drinks?

The wicket keeper makes a rude, facetious gesture, but as the 
batsman turns to settle in his crease again

BATSMAN:
Oh, no -

He has looked up. A car is pulling hurriedly in near the 
clubhouse, an officer in it, and people are streaming toward it.

The car. A major is standing on the back seat. An Indian 
corporal drives.

MAJOR:
. . . I've got no idea. All I know is there's a riot or 
something at Motihari in Champaran, and the whole company is 
ordered out.

A VOICE:
It's two days' march!

MAJOR:
That's why the match is off. It's mostly Muslim territory and 
the old man's taking no chances.

Featuring the batsman and some of the players as they walk 
across the field toward the car. They know something's up.

BATSMAN
(disgusted): God, and it's the best innings I've had since 
Oxford.

WICKET KEEPER
(dryly): India's full of grief, old man.

The batsman "takes" on him facetiously, and we cut to

THE COURTHOUSE AND JAIL. MOTIHARI. EXTERIOR. DAY.

A small building on a little Anglicized square. It is 
surrounded by a milling angry throng of peasants.

Featuring the front entrance. The English captain who was at 
the station when Gandhi arrived is on the top step, looking 
harried and tense. A small detachment of Indian troops lines the 
step below him. Charlie Andrews is pushing through the crowd 
toward the captain. As he approaches, the Indian sergeant holds 
up his hand.

CHARLIE
(firmly): I wish to see the prisoner, please.

The captain looks at his clerical collar, his English face, 
his determination.

CAPTAIN
(reluctantly): All right, Sergeant.

Charlie moves through the Indian soldiers and up toward the 
entrance. The captain stares out worriedly over the unruly crowd.

COURTHOUSE JAIL. INTERIOR. DAY.

A basement chamber - dark, thick-walled and poorly lit. The 
camera has panned off a close shot of Gandhi as he turns in his 
cell at the sound of a door opening and approaching footsteps. We 
have seen only his head and shoulders, which are covered in a 
shawl.

A police guard leads Charlie across the rough, unfinished 
floor. As he comes to Gandhi's cell we get a fleeting glimpse of 
Gandhi sitting on a low pallet bed.

Close shot. Gandhi as he recognizes his visitor.

GANDHI:
Charlie -

Reverse on Charlie. He looks down at Gandhi and shakes his 
head.

CHARLIE
(a somber grin): . . . Shades of South Africa.

Close shot. Gandhi. Head and shoulders. He returns the grin, 
but anger and determination still dominate his mood.

GANDHI:
Not quite. They're only "holding me" until the Magistrate's 
hearing. Then it will be prison.

CHARLIE
(sympathetically): Did they take your clothes?

And now we see Gandhi in full shot for the first time. He is 
wearing only a white loincloth, the shawl over his shoulders and 
sandals - the costume he will wear for the rest of his life.

GANDHI:
These are my clothes now.

Charlie studies him a moment, and being Charlie, he 
understands.

CHARLIE
(affectionately): You always had a puritanical streak, Mohan.

He grins, and it elicits a little grin from Gandhi.

GANDHI
(in a tone of defensiveness): If I want to be one with them, I 
have to live like them.

CHARLIE:
I think you do. (A smile.) But I thank God we all don't.

And Gandhi laughs.

GANDHI:
I'm sure your legs are quite as handsome as mine.

CHARLIE:
Ah, but my puritanism runs the another way. I'm far too modest 
for such a display.

And again Gandhi laughs. Charlie turns to the guard.

CHARLIE:
Couldn't I be let in with the prisoner? I am a clergyman.

The police guard hesitates, and then unlocks the cell.

Charlie enters and sits on a little wooden stool opposite 
Gandhi, his long legs awkwardly filling most of the space between 
them. Gandhi has remained seated, pensive. Charlie studies him a 
moment.

CHARLIE
(a bit puzzled): They're calling you "Bapu." I thought it meant 
father.

GANDHI
(wistfully): It does. We must be getting old, Charlie.

A little grin, but his mood remains pensive - and remote.

CHARLIE:
What do you want me to do?

Gandhi looks up - his anger, his determination there, but 
then broken by a hopeless sigh.

GANDHI:
I think, Charlie, that you can help us most by taking that 
assignment you've been offered in Fiji.

Charlie is stunned, and obviously hurt. Gandhi proceeds more 
gently.

GANDHI:
I have to be sure - they have to be sure - that what we do can 
be done by Indians . . . alone.

And now Charlie understands. Gandhi smiles; warmth, and 
sadness. Then he speaks with a determined purposefulness, a 
friend's trust.

GANDHI:
But you know the strategy. The world is full of people who will 
despise what's happening here. It is their strength we need. 
Before you go, you could start us in the right direction.

He has taken some scratched notes from under the bedding and 
handed them to Charlie. Charlie nods. He sighs, and rises slowly.

CHARLIE:
I must leave from Calcutta, and soon. You'll have to say goodbye 
to Ba for me.

Gandhi rises, glancing wryly at the prison walls. He nods.

GANDHI:
When I get the chance.

And now he faces Charlie; this is the moment of farewell.

CHARLIE:
Well, I -

He doesn't know what to say, how to say it. Gandhi meets his 
eyes - a smile that shelters Charlie's vulnerability, returns his 
love.

GANDHI:
There are no goodbyes for us, Charlie. Wherever you are, you 
will always be in my heart . . . 

The very English, very steadfast Charlie fights to contain 
his emotions.

THE COURTROOM. MOTIHARI. INTERIOR. DAY.

It is packed to overflowing; restless. Gandhi sits in the 
dock. One or two sergeants-at-arms are trying to keep order, but 
it the uneven and menacing chanting of "Gandhi . . . Gandhi" 
coming from the mobs outside the courtroom that fills the 
atmosphere with threat.

The magistrate (English) is surveying the courtroom; he 
signals his clerk (English) to him.

MAGISTRATE
(whispered conference): I am going to clear the courtroom.

CLERK
(politely): I'm not sure we'd be able to. And it is a first 
hearing, it's supposed to be public. And he's a lawyer.

The magistrate frowns.

MAGISTRATE
(worried, angry): I don't know where they found the nerve for 
all this.

CLERK:
I'm sure I don't either, but the troops won't be here until 
tomorrow.

MAGISTRATE:
How the press get here before the military?

We see the front row from his point of view. Two or three 
Indian journalists and one European.

CLERK:
That English clergyman sent a number of telegrams yesterday 
afternoon. I understand one of them even went to the Viceroy.

The magistrate receives that news with some alarm. He 
indicates that the clerk take his place.

Gandhi stands. The courtroom is silent, but we can still hear 
the sound of the chanting outside.

MAGISTRATE:
You have been ordered out of the province on the grounds of 
disturbing the peace.

GANDHI
(defiantly): With respect, I refuse to go.

The magistrate stares. The journalists write. The clerk 
swallows.

The magistrate looks around the courtroom and is only too 
aware of the mob outside.

MAGISTRATE
(sternly): Do you want to go to jail?

GANDHI
(not giving him an inch): As you wish.

The clerk lowers his eyes to his pad. The magistrate searches 
the distant wall, the top of his desk, his twitching hands for an 
answer. Finally

MAGISTRATE
(as much sternness as he can muster): All right. I will release 
you on bail of one hundred rupees until I reach a sentence.

GANDHI:
I refuse to pay one hundred rupees.

Again the magistrate stares. And so do the journalists. The 
magistrate wets his lips -

MAGISTRATE:
Then I - I will grant release without bail - until I reach a 
decision.

And now the court explodes. In the chaos of cheering and 
delight, the magistrate rises, looks around the room and heads 
for his chambers.

The journalists are scribbling furiously.

Gandhi turns and starts out of the courtroom. We hear cries 
of "Gandhi! - Gandhi! - Bapu!"

THE COURTHOUSE BALCONY.

Gandhi steps down from the courtroom to the balcony. A huge 
cheer comes up from the massed peasants below. As he smiles down 
at them, he is turned by

A VOICE:
Gandhiji! - Gandhiji! Mr. Gandhi!

Four young Indians - elegantly dressed in English clothes - 
are following him, having plunged through the crowd in the 
courtroom. A beat - and the first young man addresses him over 
the chaos.

FIRST YOUNG MAN
(his accent is as refined as his clothes): Gandhiji - we are 
from Bihar. We received a cable this morning from an old friend 
who was at Cambridge with us. (A smile.) His name is Nehru and I 
believe you know him.

Gandhi reacts - with surprise and caution.

GANDHI:
Indeed.

FIRST YOUNG MAN:
He tells us you need help. And we have come to give it.

Again Gandhi is surprised - but even more cautious. Behind 
him, the crowd begins to chant "Gandhi - Gandhi."

GANDHI:
I want to document, coldly, rationally, what is being done here. 
It may take months - many, many months.

FIRST YOUNG MAN
(they're eager, impressed): We have no pressing engagements.

It sounds casually ironic, but they look determined, even 
angry.

GANDHI:
You will have to live with the peasants. (They nod.) I have 
nothing to pay you. (They only smile.) Hmm.

He is looking at them with a soup‡on of scepticism but he is 
beginning to smell victory. His name echoes around him and is 
taken up even louder as the news spreads to the street.

GOVERNOR'S OFFICE. CHAMPARAN. INTERIOR. DAY.

Almost total silence. The room is long, large and imposing - 
hardwood floors, overhead fans, an aura of wealth and permanence. 
Footsteps pace its acres of space . . . and Sir George Hodge 
comes into frame. He is rich, middle-aged, Tory - and at the 
moment feeling impotent and harried.

SIR GEORGE:
I don't know what this country is coming to!

The Governor, Sir Edward Gait - the portrait of the King 
prominent behind him - is feeling as cornered as Sir George but 
for different reasons. His desk is arrayed with several tall 
stacks of folders - all with exactly the same covers - and on one 
corner of the desk, some folded newspapers. We can just read 
"Gandhi" in a headline. He taps one of the folders irritably with 
his hand.

SIR EDWARD:
But good God, man, you yourself raised the rent simply to 
finance a hunting expedition!

Sir George looks at him - half defensive, half defiant. They 
are old friends - the same school, the same social class, long 
together in India - and their argument is an argument between 
friend who accept the same premises. But even so the Governor 
feels the game has not quite been played fairly.

SIR EDWARD:
And some of these others - (he gestures to the folders again) 
beatings, illegal seizures, demanding services without pay, even 
refusing them water! In India! . . . 

Sir George is staring out of the window, vexed, bristling but 
defensive.

SIR GEORGE:
Nobody knows what it is to try to get these people to work!

SIR EDWARD:
Well, you've make this half-naked whatever-he-is into an 
international hero.

He picks up one of the papers irritatedly, the London Daily 
Chronicle.

SIR EDWARD:
"One lone man marching dusty roads armed only with honesty and a 
bamboo shaft doing battle with the British Empire." (He lowers 
the paper dismally; then the ultimate bitterness) At home 
children are writing "essays" about him.

Sir George looks at him and sighs heavily. Sir Edward stares 
back, then drops the paper back on his desk.

SIR EDWARD:
I couldn't take another two years of him to save my life.

Sir George turns, and paces back toward him. For the first 
time we see Sir Edward's personal secretary (a male civil 
servant) sitting at a small desk and listening with highly 
developed unobtrusiveness.

SIR GEORGE:
What do they want?

It is the first sign of concession. Sir Edward lifts his eyes 
to his personal secretary.

PERSONAL SECRETARY
(reading precisely from a document): A rebate on rents paid. 
(Sir George huffs.) They are to be free to grow crops of their 
own choice. A commission - part Indian - to hear grievances.

Sir George looks from him to Sir Edward. A beat.

SIR GEORGE
(wearily): That would satisfy him? . . . 

SIR EDWARD
(a nod; then pointedly): And His Majesty's Government. It only 
needs your signature for the landlords.

Sir George looks at the document on the secretary's desk. A 
moment. The secretary turns it slowly so it is facing him. Sir 
George looks at it like a snake. The secretary picks up a pen and 
offers it. A second, then Sir George takes the pen and signs 
angrily.

SIR GEORGE:
It will be worth it to see the back of him. (A flourish at the 
end of his signature, then he stands.) We're too damn liberal.

Sir Edward is at the liquor cabinet.

SIR EDWARD:
Perha