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                                        Written by

                                       John Briley

                                                             Final Draft


               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.

               BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - 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 follow 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.


               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.


               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 

               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.

                         Brother -- Bapu is already late for 

               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... 

               Gandhi's white shawl is stained with blood as he falls.

                         Oh, God... oh, God...

               Amid the screams and sounds of chaos we dissolve through to


               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.


               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.

                              (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 


               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 

               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 

               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, un-regarded, 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


               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.


               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.

                         Tell me -- do you think about hell?

                              (stares at him blankly)

                              (the eternal, earnest 
                         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.

                         Excuse me, baas, but how long have 
                         you been in South Africa?

                         A -- a week.

                         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 

               The European and the conductor push open the door and stride 

                         Here -- coolie, just what are you 
                         doing in this car?

               Gandhi is incredulous that he is being addressed in such a 

                         Why -- I -- I have a ticket. A First 
                         Class ticket.

                         How did you get hold of it?

                         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 

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

               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 

                         I'll take your luggage back, baas.

                         No, no -- just a moment, please.

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

                         You see, Mohandas K. Gandhi, Attorney 
                         at Law. I am going to Pretoria to 
                         conduct a case for an Indian trading 

                         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.

                         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!

                         Smart bloody kaffir -- throw him 

               He turns and walks out of the compartment.

                         You move your damn sammy carcass 
                         back to third class or I'll have you 
                         thrown off at the next station.

                              (anger, a touch of 
                         I always go First Class! I have 
                         traveled all over England and I've 


               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 

               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 

               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 woolen 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.


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

                         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.

                              (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 

                         In England, I was a poor student but 
                         I --

                         That was England.

               Gandhi is holding a British legal document; he lifts it 

                         This part of "England's" Empire!

                         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 
                         were brought here to work the mines 
                         and harvest the crops -- and the 
                         Europeans don't want them doing 
                         anything else.

               Gandhi looks at Mr. Baker almost in disbelief.

                         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.

                         You mean you employ Mr. Baker as 
                         your attorney, but you can't walk 
                         down the street with him?

                         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 

                         Well, then, it must be fought. We 
                         are children of God like everyone 

                         Allah be praised. And what battalions 
                         will you call upon?

                         I -- I will write to the press -- 
                         here -- and in England.
                              (He turns to Baker 
                         And I will use the courts.

               He lifts the documents threateningly.

                         You will make a lot of trouble.

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

                         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.

                         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 
                         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.

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

               We see the English reporter waiting skeptically. 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.

                         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.

                         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.

                         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 --

                         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.

                         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 

               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."

                         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.

                         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.

                         You write brilliantly, but you have 
                         much to learn about handling men.

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

                              (the reading not 
                              fluent, but firm and 
                         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 

                         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.

                         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.


               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 

               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 

               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...


               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.

                         You saved the papers.

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

                         I wish you were still struggling for 
                         work in Bombay.

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

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

               He smiles whimsically, then turns back to the papers.

                         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.

                         "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 

                         As I told you about English policemen.

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


               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.

                         We are glad to have you back, Bapu.

               Gandhi smiles.

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

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

                         Be careful!

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

                         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 

                         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.

                         Just like proper English gentlemen. 
                         I'm proud of them.

                         They are boys. -- And they're Indian.

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

                         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.

                         Here, you see? Even the South African 
                         papers apologize -- "a monstrous 

                              (of the tape, as she 
                              is about to pull it)
                         Are you sure?

                         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.


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


                         Mr. Khan said they called you brave.

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

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

               She leans forward to pull at the remaining piece.

                         I could have told them you were merely 

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

                         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.


               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.

                              (as though continuing 
                              the argument)
                         You see there is such a thing as 
                         moral force -- and it can be 

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

                         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.

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

               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.

                         I will fast tomorrow -- as a penance.

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

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

               Gandhi laughs... and buries her in love.

               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 

                                     TALL CIVIL SERVANT
                         The London papers have arrived from 
                         the Cape, sir.

                         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.

                         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 


               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

                         You'd be Gandhi --
                              (Gandhi nods.)
                         ...I thought you'd be bigger.

                         I'm sorry.

                         I -- I mean it's all right. It doesn't 
                              (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.

                         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 

                              (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.

                              (noting Charlie's 
                         You're a clergyman.

                         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?

                         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 --


               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 

                         Perhaps I should --

               Gandhi restrains him and shakes his head.

                         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.

                         I think perhaps the phrase was used 
                         metaphorically... I don't think our 
                         Lord meant --

               They are getting closer. The youths laughing, whispering.

                         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.

                         ...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...

                         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 

                                     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.

                         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 --

                         That was lucky.

                         I thought you were a man of God.

                              (wittily, but making 
                              his point)
                         I am. But I'm not so egotistical as 
                         to think He plans His day around my 

               Gandhi laughs as they turn the corner.


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

                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.

                         That's the sort of thing you'll be 
                         seeking on this "farm"...

                              (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.

                         They're going to change the pass 

               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.

                         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 

                              (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.

                         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.

                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 

                         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:

                         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.

                         Without a paper -- a journal of some 
                         kind -- you cannot unite a community.
                              (A teasing smile.)
                         You belong to a very important 

                         Hm. And what should an "important 
                         professional" write about your 
                         response to General Smuts's new 

                         I don't know... I'm still searching 
                         for a "response."

                              (a leading question)
                         You will respect the law.

                              (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 

                         You're a very small minority to take 
                         on the Government -- and the Empire.

               Gandhi seems trapped by an ineluctable fact.

                         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.

                         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.

                         Well, it's quite a place, your 
                         "ashram" -- is that right?

                         That's right. The word only means 
                         "community." But it could stand for 
                         "village"... or the world.

               Walker looks at him appraisingly.

                         You're an ambitious man.

                         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.

                         They tell me you also take your turn 
                         at peeling potatoes and cleaning the 
                         "outhouse" -- is that part of the 

               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.

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

               Ba looks at him coldly.

                         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.

                         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.

                         Please come and join us -- you'll 
                         need something before your journey 
                              (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 

                         What is it?

               Now Ba looks at him hostilely.

                         Sora was sent to tell me I -- I must 
                         rake and cover the latrine.

                         Everyone takes his turn.

                         It is the work of untouchables.

                         In this place there are no 
                         untouchables -- and no work is beneath 
                         any of us!

                              (she looks up at him)
                         I am your wife.

                         All the more reason.

               He holds her gaze as angrily as she holds his.

                              (finally, scornfully)
                         As you command.

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

                         The others may follow you -- but you 
                         forget, I knew you when you were a 

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

                         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.

                         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.

                         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 

                         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 

                         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.

                         What is the matter with me...?

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

                              (a beat)
                         You are human -- only human.

               Gandhi looks up at her, blankly, abjectly.

                         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.

                         I apologize...

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

                         I must go back to that reporter.

               Ba nods.

                         ...And I must rake and cover the 

               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.


               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.

                              (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.

                         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.

                         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 

               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.

                         He's become quite good at this.

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

                         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.

                         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.

                         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 

                                     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 

               And now there is general applause. Gandhi waits, then

                         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.

                         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 

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

                         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.

                                     VOICE FROM THE GALLERY
                         Have you been to prison? They'll 
                         beat us and torture us! I say --

                         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.

                         We will not strike a blow -- but we 
                         will receive them. And through our 
                         pain we will make them see their 
                         and it will hurt, as all fighting 
                              (Utter silence.)
                         ...But we cannot lose. We cannot.
                              (He looks down at the 
                         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.

                         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.

                              (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 

               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.

                         These men are contracted laborers. 
                         They belong in the mines.

                         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 

                         I've warned you.

                         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.

                         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.

                         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.

                              (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.

                         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 

               Close shot. Singh and the miner who shouted "Down" kneeling, 
               grinning at the chaos.

                         The horses have more mercy than the 

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

                         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 --

                         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 

               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 

               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.

                         Follow me!

               He turns his horse angrily and gallops back toward the 

               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 

                         What the hell are we supposed to do 

                              (watching the 
                              procession narrowly)
                         Let them march... In our own sweet 
                         time, in our own sweet way -- we'll 
                         get them.


               We are close on Charlie Andrews.

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

               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.

                         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 

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

                         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 

               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 --

                         They're sparing no one, I see.

                         No. You were the surprise. It's been 
                         all over the prison. We thought they'd 
                         be too afraid of the English press.

                         So did I.

               He takes his soup from Khan.

                         Don't worry about the meat -- it's 
                              (referring to the 
                         -- 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 

                         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?

                         My wife publicly defied the law. 
                         They've arrested her and four others.

                         The fools!
                              (He spills some soup.)

                         It's split the Government.

                         Well, that's one victory.

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

                         If we hold firm, it won't be the 

                         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.


               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.


               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.


               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.

                         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.

                         Will you have a glass of sherry?

                         Thank you. No.

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

                         Perhaps some tea?

                              (a shake of the head)
                         I dined at the prison.


               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.

                         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.

                         Mr. Gandhi, I've more or less decided 
                         to ask the House to repeal the Act 
                         that you have taken such "exception" 

                              (a beat)
                         Well, if you ask, General Smuts, I'm 
                         sure it will be done.

               Smuts smiles.

                         Hm. Of course it is not quite that 

                         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.

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

                         Very well.

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

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

                              (waiting for the catch)
                         I congratulate them.

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

                         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

                         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

                         You're an extraordinary man.

                              (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.

                         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.

                         Assuming we are in agreement?

                         Yes -- yes. It's just that... in 
                         these clothes I'd -- I'd prefer to 
                         go by taxi.

                              (confused by his 
                         All right. Fine.

                         I'm -- I'm afraid I have no money.

                              (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.

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

               Daniel stares.

                         I beg your pardon, sir?

                              (a second thought)
                         How far will you be going, Mr. Gandhi?

                              (a mischievous smile)
                         Well -- now that this is settled -- 
                         I had thought seriously of going 
                         back to India
                              (he faces the startled 
                         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.

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

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

                         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.

                              (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.


               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 

                                     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)

                                     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.


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

                         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. 

               An exuberant woman puts a garland over his shoulders.

                         I -- I have demanded rights as a 
                         British citizen, it is therefore my 
                         duty to help in the defense 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?

                         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.

                         Please, Mr. Gandhi.

               Featuring Ba. Offhand, her eyes on Gandhi ahead.

                         My dignity comes from following my 

               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.

                              (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.

                         I -- I am glad to be home.
                              (A little round of 
                         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-

               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 

                         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.


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

                         Who is that young man?

                         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.

                         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.

                         I'm hardly that, Mr. 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.

                              (a beat; still hesitant)

               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' 

               Patel looks at Gandhi's clothes rather disapprovingly.

                         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.

                         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 

               A beautiful and beautifully dressed woman (Mrs. Nehru) stands 
               next to her distinguished husband (Motilal Nehru).

                                     MRS. NEHRU
                         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).

                         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.

                         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...

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

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

                         We hope you intend to join us in the 
                         struggle for Home Rule, Mr. Gandhi.

                              (a pause)
                         I --

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

                         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.

                         He told the press he would support 
                         the British in the war.

                         That's non-violence for you.

                         Is he a fool?

               Nehru grins slowly, thoughtfully.

                         I'm not certain... But I wouldn't be 

               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).

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

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

                         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.

                              (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.

                              (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.

                              (a mock threat)
                         All right -- I'll go and write my 
                         report to the Viceroy.

                         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.


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

                         I have little to say. India is an 
                         "alien" country to me.

               He grins self-deprecatingly but Gokhale persists.

                         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.

                         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 

                                                                    CUT TO:

               TRAIN - EXTERIOR - NIGHT

               Indian. Steam. A breed of its own.


               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.


               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 

               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.


               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 

               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 


               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.

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

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

                         It is 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 

               He looks up.


               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 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 

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

               Nehru takes an iced drunk from a servant.

                         And we must speak with one voice -- 

               The others assent. Nehru shakes his head wistfully.

                              (it reminds him)
                         Ah -- we should invite Gandhi. What 
                         the devil has happened to him anyway?

                         He's "discovering" India.

                         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 

                                                                    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.


               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.

                              (quietly, private)
                         Please! You're being foolish!

                         There's no room! And the air is 

               She grimaces severely and tugs at him.

                         No violence, please.

                         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.

                              (over the sound of 
                              the engine)
                         Englishman Sahib!

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

                         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 

                              (amused, but 
                         What are you doing?

                         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.

                         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.

                         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.

                         Let go! You'll kill him!

               Ba is confused.

                         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.

                         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
                         Are you Christian, Sahib?

                         Yes, yes, I'm a Christian.

                                     SECOND INDIAN
                         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

               The Indians turn. Charlie turns.


               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.


               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:


               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.

                              (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.

                         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 

               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.

                         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.

                         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.

                         Your journal has made a great impact.

               Gandhi nods to him and acknowledges the residue of applause.

                         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 --

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

               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.

                         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.

                         ...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."

                         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.

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

               Jinnah too is listening now -- aloofly, challengingly.

                         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.

                         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.

                         Have you read his magazine?

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


               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 

               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.

                         We're looking for Mr. Gandhi!

                         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.

                         Thank you . . .

               He looks around the ashram a little dismally.

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


               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.

                         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 
                              (He looks at them, a 
                              teasing but mordant 
                         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 

                         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.

                         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.

                         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.

                         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.

                         I thought you were against fighting.

               They have reached the trough.

                         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.

                         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 

               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.

                         The fire is ready.

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

                         You see, even here we live under 

               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.

                         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 


               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.

                         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.

                         I am looking for Mr. Gandhi...


               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.

                         ...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.

                         ...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 


               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 

               A detail 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 

               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

               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, indiscernible, 
               even beyond the range of light.

                                     ENGLISH CAPTAIN
                              (awed, a little 
                         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?

                         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 

                              (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?

                         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.

                         I am an Indian traveling 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"...


               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.

                         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.

                         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.

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

               He cannot go on.

                         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.

                         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...


               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.

                         Is all Champaran like this, Shukla?

                         Yes, Bapu...
                              (He looks across the 
                         The whole province... hundreds -- 

               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.

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


                         I'm sorry but you are under arrest.

                         I am not sorry at all.

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


               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 

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

                              (to the wicket keeper)
                         Who did you say would be buying the 

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

                         Oh, no --

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

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

                         ...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!

                         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.

                         God, and it's the best innings I've 
                         had since Oxford.

                                     WICKET KEEPER
                         India's full of grief, old man.

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


               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.

                         I wish to see the prisoner, please.

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

                         All right, Sergeant.

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


               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.


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

                              (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.

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

                         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 

                         These are my clothes now.

               Charlie studies him a moment, and being Charlie, he 

                         You always had a puritanical streak, 

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

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

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

               And Gandhi laughs.

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

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

               And again Gandhi laughs. Charlie turns to the guard.

                         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.

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

                         It does. We must be getting old, 

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

                         What do you want me to do?

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

                         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 

                         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.

                         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 

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

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

                         When I get the chance.

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

                         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.

                         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.


               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.

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

                         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.

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

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

                         How the press get here before the 

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

                         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.

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

                         With respect, I refuse to go.

               The magistrate stares. The journalists write. The clerk 

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

                         Do you want to go to jail?

                              (not giving him an 
                         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

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

                         I refuse to pay one hundred rupees.

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

                         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!"


               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.


                                     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."

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

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

               It sounds casually ironic, but they look determined, even 

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

               He is looking at them with a soupšon of skepticism 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.


               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 

               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 

                                     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 

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

                                     SIR EDWARD
                         "One lone man marching dusty roads 
                         armed only with honesty and a bamboo 
                         shaft doing battle with the British 
                              (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
                         That would satisfy him?...

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

               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
                         Perhaps. But at least all this has 
                         made the Government see some sense 
                         about what men like Mr. Gandhi should 
                         be allowed, and what they should be 

               He turns, offering Sir George a whiskey in a finely cut glass 
               of crystal.

                                     SIR EDWARD
                         Things are going to change.


               Jinnah moves from under the portico. His shining, expensive 
               car is coming in the drive and stops by him. He opens the 
               back door, but only the chauffeur is in the car.

                              (in annoyance)
                         Where is Mr. Gandhi?

                         He said he preferred to walk, sir. I 
                         followed him most of the way. He's 
                         just turned the corner.

               Jinnah closes the door and looks across at the entrance in 

                         The Prophet give me patience.

                         He came Third Class.

               It's a disdainful comment and he drives the car off toward 
               the garage.

               Gandhi comes around the corner of the wall into the entrance. 
               He is carrying a bedroll and a bamboo walking stick. Herman 
               Kallenbach is with him, dressed informally, also carrying a 
               bedroll. Jinnah makes a "sophisticated" salaam.

                              (with effort)
                         My house is honored.

               Gandhi grins, dismissing the formality.

                              (he makes the pranam)
                         The honor is ours. May I introduce 
                         Mr. Kallenbach. He's an old friend
                              (anticipating Jinnah's 
                         and his interest is in flowers. I 
                         presumed to tell him he could wander 
                         your gardens while we talked.

                              (the suave, but 
                              slightly ironic host)
                         I'll send my gardener. I'm sure you'll 
                         have much to discuss.


               It is spacious, "English." At the door, Jinnah introduces 
               Gandhi to the room.

                         Gentlemen -- the hero of Champaran.

               Again Gandhi grins at the extravagance.

                         Only the stubborn man of Champaran.

               A polite little laugh; Jinnah introduces him.

                         Mr. Patel you know.
                              (Patel bows.)
                         Mr. Maulana Azad -- a fellow Muslim... 
                         recently released from prison.

               Gandhi makes the pranam, studying him with interest after 
               that comment. Azad gives a gentle salaam.

                         Mr. Kripalani.
                              (A bow -- we have 
                              seen him at the 
                              Congress Conference.)
                         And of course you know Mr. Nehru.

               Gandhi turns.

               Featuring Nehru. He stands, awaiting Gandhi's attention. All 
               the others have been dressed in European clothes. The handsome 
               Europeanized Nehru now wears an Indian tunic -- much like 
               the one that Gandhi once wore.

               For a moment Gandhi studies the costume, then a broad smile.

                              (a play on Jinnah's 
                         I am beginning to know Mr. Nehru.

                              (to business: Gandhi 
                              has been admitted to 
                              the power circle, he 
                              is not the power)
                         Well, I've called you here because 
                         I've had a chance to see the new 
                         legislation. It's exactly what was 
                         rumored. Arrest without warrant. 
                         Automatic imprisonment for possession 
                         of materials considered seditious...

               He looks at Gandhi.

                         Your writings are specifically listed.

               Gandhi nods at the "compliment," but they are all angered by 
               the severity of it.

                         So much for helping them in the Great 

                         There is only one answer to that. 
                         Direct action -- on a scale they can 
                         never handle!

               Again the temper of it produces a little silence. Then

                         I don't think so.

               He moves to a servant who stands, holding a large tray with 
               a silver service of tea. Of them all, Nehru's manner is the 
               most naturally patrician and Jinnah watches him with a 
               somewhat envious awareness of it.

                         Terrorism would only justify their 
                         repression. And what kinds of leaders 
                         would it throw up? Are they likely 
                         to be the men we would want at the 
                         head of our country?

               His stand has produced a little shock of surprise. Holding 
               his tea, he turns to Gandhi with a little smile.

                         I've been catching up on my reading.

               He means Gandhi's of course. Jinnah looks at the two of them. 
               Gandhi has removed his sandals and is sitting cross-legged 
               on a fine upholstered chair. Jinnah's eyes rake him with 
               anger and distaste.

                         I too have read Mr. Gandhi's writings, 
                         but I'd rather be ruled by an Indian 
                         terrorist than an English one. And I 
                         don't want to submit to that kind of 

                              (to Nehru -- 
                              diplomatically -- 
                              but with a trace of 
                         I must say, Panditji, it seems to me 
                         it's gone beyond remedies like passive 

                              (in the silence)
                         If I may -- I, for one, have never 
                         advocated passive anything.

               They all look at him with some surprise. As he speaks, he 
               rises and walks to the servant.

                         I am with Mr. Jinnah. We must never 
                         submit to such laws -- ever. And I 
                         think our resistance must be active 
                         and provocative.

               They all stare at him, startled by his words and the fervor 
               with which he speaks to them.

                         I want to embarrass all those who 
                         wish to treat us as slaves. All of 

               He holds their gaze, then turns to the immobile servant and 
               with a little smile, takes the tray from him and places it 
               on the table next to him. It makes them all aware that the 
               servant, standing there like an insensate ornament, has been 
               treated like a "thing," a slave. As it sinks in, Gandhi pours 
               some tea then looks up at them with a pleading warmth -- 
               first to Jinnah.

                         Forgive my stupid illustration. But 
                         I want to change their minds -- not 
                         kill them for weaknesses we all 

               It impresses each one of them. But for all his impact, they 
               still take the measure of him with caution.

                         And what "resistance" would you offer?

                         The law is due to take effect from 
                         April sixth. I want to call on the 
                         nation to make that a day of prayer 
                         and fasting.

               "Prayer and fasting"? They are not overwhelmed.

                         You mean a general strike?

                              (his grin)
                         I mean a day of prayer and fasting. 
                         But of course no work could be done -- 
                         no buses, no trains, no factories, 
                         no administration. The country would 

               Patel is the first to recognize the implications.

                         My God, it would terrify them...

                              (a wry smile)
                         Three hundred fifty million people 
                         at prayer. Even the English newspapers 
                         would have to report that. And explain 

                         But could we get people to do it?

                              (he is half sold 
                         Champaran stirred the whole country.
                              (To Gandhi)
                         They are calling you Mahatma -- the 
                         Great Soul.

                         Fortunately such news comes very 
                         slowly where I live.

                              (continuing, to the 
                         I think if we all worked to publicize 
                         it... all of the Congress... every 
                         avenue we know.

               The idea has caught hold. As the others talk of "papers," 
               "telegrams," "speeches," Jinnah looks over his cup at Gandhi 
               with an air of bitter resignation, but he tries to make light 
               of it.

                         Perhaps I should have stayed in the 
                         garden and talked about the flowers.


               A garden party in full imperial splendor. A military band 
               plays discreetly in the background. Princes, maharajahs, 
               generals, ranking British civil servants and their ladies 
               taking tea on the manicured lawns among the exotic flowers. 
               But over all there is a thread of anxiety, we pick up one or 
               two nervous phrases: "At the West Gate there were no taxis 
               at all!," "Of course, the Army will always be loyal." And 
               the camera picks out a civil servant stepping from a door of 
               the palace carrying a sheaf of telegrams and cable forms.

               He searches the assembled guests, then heads with almost 
               indecorous haste toward his target. It is the Viceroy, Lord 
               Chelmsford. With him, talking quietly, are his aide-de-camp, 
               the Governor of the province and his ADC, and the commanding 
               general of the Army in India. Lord Chelmsford's ADC is the 
               first to react to the civil servant's arrival and his 
               impatient attendance.

                         Sir -- it's Mr. Kinnoch.

               Lord Chelmsford turns expectantly.


                              (hesitant, stunned)
                         Nothing... nothing is working, sir -- 
                         buses... trains... the markets...
                              (Personal, incredulous)
                         There's not even any civilian staff 
                         here, sir... Everything has stopped.

                              (curt, firm)
                         Is it simply Delhi and Bombay?

               His firmness doesn't restore Kinnoch's normal aplomb. He 
               holds the telegrams forward.

                         No, sir -- Karachi, Calcutta, Madras, 
                         Bangalore. It's, it's total.

               He glances at the general.

                              (the ultimate)
                         The Army had to take over the 
                         telegraph or we'd be cut off from 
                         the world.

               That takes the wind out of all of them. Grimly, Lord 
               Chelmsford looks out across the palace's ordered lawns and 

                         I can't believe it...

                         He's going to sell his own paper 
                         tomorrow in Bombay. They've called 
                         for a parade -- on Victoria Road.

                              (clenches his jaw and 
                              turns to the General)
                         Arrest him!

               THE JAIL - BOMBAY - INTERIOR - DAY

               A prison door opens. Gandhi, in prison clothes, is led along 
               a small corridor to a room. The door is held open by a prison 

               ROOM - THE JAIL - BOMBAY - INTERIOR - DAY

               Nehru waits for Gandhi. He rises when Gandhi enters. The 
               guard signals Gandhi to a chair across a small wooden table 
               from Nehru. The guard closes the door, but remains in the 
               room. Nehru's face is a map of concern, but he manages a 
               small smile of greeting.


               Gandhi, who also looks worn, rises his eyebrows whimsically 
               at the use of that name.

                         You too...

               He means "Bapu" -- "Father."

                              (a real smile, but 
                              the same affection)
                         It seems less formal than "Mahatma."

               Gandhi sighs, and their faces and minds go to more somber 

                         Since your arrest the riots have 
                         hardly stopped. Not big --; but they 
                         keep breaking out. I run to stop 
                         them... and Patel and Kripalani -- 
                         they are never at rest. But some 
                         English civilians have been killed, 
                         and the Army is attacking crowds 
                         with clubs -- and sometimes worse.

               Gandhi has listened to it all with a growing sense of despair.

                         Maybe I'm wrong... maybe we're not 
                         ready yet. In South Africa the numbers 
                         were small...

                         The Government's afraid, and they 
                         don't know what to do. But they're 
                         more afraid of terrorists than of 
                         you. The Viceroy has agreed to your 
                         release if you will speak for non-

                              (a sad smile)
                         I've never spoken for anything else.


               The golden dome of the Temple fills the screen, shimmering. 
               The sound of a car, and marching feet. The camera pulls back 
               from the dome, revealing the rooftops, the trees and then 
               suddenly, center of frame, the face of General Dyer -- blunt, 
               cold, isolated in a cocoon of vengeful military righteousness. 
               He is traveling slowly, steadily in an armored car at the 
               head of fifty armed sepoys -- Gurkhas and Baluchis -- 
               immaculate, precise, awesome. Behind them a staff car with 
               Dyer's English ADC and a British police officer. It is a 
               relentless, determined procession, filling the dusty street 
               with a sense of menace and foreboding.


               A large public garden, enclosed by a thick, old, crumbling 
               wall. A large crowd is gathered around a speaker on a platform 
               at one side of the park. It is political, but the crowd is 
               mixed. We see Muslims and Hindus, many of them Sikhs, old 
               men, little children, women with babes in arms. Some donkey 
               carts, a sense of fair-time gaiety.

               We close in on the speaker -- a Muslim. He clutches a copy 
               (we need not see the title) of Gandhi's journal.

                         ...England is so powerful -- its 
                         army and its navy, all its modern 
                         weapons -- but when a great power 
                         like that strikes defenseless people 
                         it shows it brutality, its own 
                         weakness! Especially when those people 
                         do not strike back.
                              (He holds aloft the 
                              clenched journal.)
                         That is why the Mahatma begs us to 
                         take the course of non-violence!


               General Dyer, his armored car, his sepoys, moving toward the 
               gate. Dyer looks ahead calmly.

               His point of view. The Gate of the Bagh. A rickety double 
               gate in the high crumbling wall. On each pillar, poster 
               notices for the meeting: "For Congress -- For Gandhi." In 
               the distance the speaker and the assembled crowd. Nearer, a 
               few vendors, loiterers and children. At the sound of the 
               armored car and marching feet, a few turn in curiosity.

               Another angle. The armored car grinds forward. It won't go 
               through the gates, one fender scraping against the gate post. 
               Dyer gives a quiet order, the car backs away. Dyer jumps 
               down lightly -- a man in splendid condition. He walks through 
               the gate and stands quietly in the at-ease position, hands 
               clasping his swagger stick behind his back. looking off at 
               The speaker -- medium shot.

                         ...If we riot, if we fight back, we 
                         become the vandals and they become 
                         the law! If we bear their blows, 
                         they are the vandals -- God and His 
                         law are on our...
                              (He glances up.)

               Long shot -- his point of view. The two platoons of sepoys, 
               rifles at the port, trot smartly through the gate and fan 
               out on either side of the motionless and dominant figure of 

               Resume the speaker.

                              (soldiering on)
                         ...We must have the courage to take 
                         their anger...

               Medium close -- the sepoys and Dyer. He issues his commands 
               in a quiet and unemotional voice, as though they were on 

                         Port arms, Sergeant Major.

               The sergeant major issues the command. The troops port arms.


               Again, the sergeant major barks the command, the bolts slam 
               back and forth, the magazines clatter.

               Featuring the platform and the front of the crowd. They have 
               all turned now to watch, frozen in incredulity and 
               fascination. The sound of the sergeant major's orders and 
               the sinister rattle of breeches and bolts drifting to them.

                              (almost to himself as 
                              he too is riveted)
                         ...Our pain will be our victory.

               Their point of view. The distant figures facing them.

               Resume the crowd. Numbly they begin to back away, pressing 
               against the speaker's stand, themselves. A man picks up a 

               Their point of view. The small, distant figures of the sepoys 
               again. A word of command. One platoon kneels and takes aim. 
               Another command. The second platoon, standing behind the 
               first, takes aim.

               Featuring Dyer. His ADC approaches. The British police officer 
               stands off to one side.

                         Do we issue a warning, sir?

                         They've had their warning -- no 

               It is final.

               Resume the crowd. A ripple of panic now, everyone pressing 
               back, but still they cannot credit what they see. Only one 
               or two have the presence of mind to push clear and seek 
               shelter. It is too late.

               Close shot Dyer, still calm.

                         Sergeant Major --

                                     SERGEANT MAJOR
                         Take aim!

               Long shot over the sepoys and their sights, the wavering 
               crowd distant.


               Flash shot along the line of sepoys; the rifles jerk and 
               bang. The crowd, running, screaming.

                                     SERGEANT MAJOR

               A dreadful press of panic-stricken people flying toward the 
               walls. And again the crash of rifles. Some fall. Others run 
               off-screen in an aimless, irresistible wave.

               Dyer is walking behind his men, telling them, with a view to 
               maximum accuracy, what he has told them on the firing range 
               (it makes him a little irritable to have to repeat it).

                         Take your time. Take your time.

               He looks off at the crowd. His eyes narrow.

               A group of men are hurling themselves at a breach in the top 
               of the wall, hanging there, scrabbling for a purchase, some 
               disappearing, a few heroic individuals astride the wall 
               reaching down to assist their women and children in the 
               swirling crowd below.



                         Over there.

               He nods. The corporal looks.


               He directs the attention of his neighbors in the firing line 
               toward the new target; they shift their aim.

               A man reaching for a child -- who is also propelled upward 
               by its mother from below -- is hit, falls, so that he and 
               the child crash into the crowd below.

               Sepoys firing ad lib. Dyer watching the effect, careful and 

               Swift tracking a man running through the staggering crowd, 
               over the litter of bodies, his mouth open, his eyes wild. He 
               arrives at a well, throws down the rope and slides down it. 
               Others seize the idea and in panic throw themselves into the 
               well, dropping out of sight.

               Featuring Dyer. Meticulously, he taps a corporal on the 
               shoulder with his swagger stick and indicates the well. The 
               corporal signals his line of men.

               At the well. The gathering crowd -- men, women -- and laced 
               with rifle fire.

               From behind the sepoys we see the whole Bagh, littered with 
               dead and dying, a thick ruck around the well, the walls 
               hanging with wounded and dying, the firing continuing, loud, 
               loud, louder... until --

                                                                    CUT TO:


               Silence. The camera is close as it crosses a table with legal 
               documents. Gradually we hear a muffled cough, whispers, 
               shuffled papers, and it at last comes to a large close shot 
               of General Dyer.

               Another angle. A Commission of Inquiry sits in the large 
               Armory Hall of the Old Fort. Dyer faces a panel of 
               Commissioners: Lord Hunter, presiding, Mr. Justice Rankin, 
               General Barrow, a British civil servant, and an Indian 

               The Commission functions like a public parliamentary committee -- 
               little ceremony, no judicial robes, a small group of public 
               and press, who sit on wooden chairs behind a barrier that 
               isolates the Commission's business.

               Much of that public is English -- fellow officers and 

               A Government Advocate (English) turns to face Dyer.

                         General Dyer, is it correct that you 
                         ordered your troops to fire at the 
                         thickest part of the crowd?

               Dyer glances woodenly at the panel -- a man in some shock at 
               the consequences of what he assumed was an act worthy of 

                         That is so.

               The Advocate looks at him with a degree of disbelief -- more 
               at his attitude than his statement.

                         One thousand five hundred and sixteen 
                         casualties with one thousand six 
                         hundred and fifty bullets.

               A slight reaction from the public section. Dyer's jaw 

                         My intention was to inflict a lesson 
                         that would have an impact throughout 
                         all India.

               He stares at the panel like a reasonable man making a 
               reasonable point. The evasiveness, the only half-buried 
               embarrassment of their response only deepens his own 
               withdrawal into himself.

                                     INDIAN BARRISTER
                         General, had you been able to take 
                         in the armored car, would you have 
                         opened fire with the machine gun?

               Dyer thinks about it. Then unashamedly --

                         I think, probably -- yes.

               A muted reaction from the public section. The Indian barrister 
               stares at him a moment, then simply lowers his eyes to his 

                         General, did you realize there were 
                         children -- and women -- in the crowd?

                              (a beat)
                         I did.

               For the first time there is the hint of uncertainty in his 

                         But that was irrelevant to the point 
                         you were making?

                         That is correct.

               There is just a tremor of distaste quickly suppressed among 
               the panel. Not so quickly in the public section.

                         Could I ask you what provision you 
                         made for the wounded?

               Dyer looks at him quickly. The question is unexpected, even 
               a little "clever." The officers listening clearly resent it.

                              (a moment, then firmly)
                         I was ready to help any who applied.

               And that answer stops the Advocate. He smiles dryly.

                         General... how does a child shot 
                         with a 3-0-3 Enfield "apply" for 

               Dyer faces him stonily, a seed of panic taking root deep in 
               his gut.


               Quiet: the same silence as at the Court of Inquiry. The camera 
               is panning slowly along a section of the wall. We are close 
               and see the bullet holes, the patches of splashed blood, the 
               scratches where fingers have dug at the surface of the wall 
               to claw a path to safety... And finally the camera comes to 
               a close shot of Gandhi, matching that of Dyer, whom we have 
               just left. He is surveying the wall in the now empty park 
               numbly, desolately.

               Nehru stands a few feet away from him, his mood the same, 
               the same benumbed grief and incredulity.

               Resume the wall -- Gandhi's point of view. The camera 
               continues its pan -- bits of human hair matted in the dried 
               blood, and the bullet-ripped foliage, the well, trampled 
               ground around it, little pieces of clothing. Flies buzz around 
               the debris. Abstractedly, Gandhi touches the bucket rope 
               that lies across the surround. Nehru has moved to the other 
               side of the well. Gandhi lifts his eyes to him...

                                                                  FADE OUT:

               FADE IN:


               The imposing capitol building of the British Raj in India. 
               We establish then cut into


               Featuring the Viceroy, Lord Chelmsford.

                         You must understand, gentlemen, that 
                         His Majesty's Government -- and the 
                         British people -- repudiate both the 
                         massacre and the philosophy that 
                         prompted it.

               Chelmsford is pacing along one side of a large conference 
               table. Just in front of this is the "British" side -- two 
               generals (a full general and a brigadier), a naval officer, 
               two senior civil servants, a senior police officer. Across 
               from them is the "Indian" side: Gandhi, Nehru, Patel, Jinnah, 
               Azad. This time Gandhi is in the middle and speaks with the 
               full authority of a leader.

               The Indian side acknowledges Chelmsford's disclaimer -- 
               coolly, but accepting it. That lifts Chelmsford's hopes a 

                         What I would like to do is to come 
                         to some compromise over the new civil 
                         legis --

                         If you will excuse me, Your 
                         Excellency, it is our view that 
                         matters have gone beyond 

               It is spoken with the cold determination of a man still angry. 
               It stops Chelmsford in mid-pace.

                         We think it is time you recognized 
                         that you are masters in someone else's 
                              (It chills, stiffens; 
                              Gandhi proceeds only 
                              an iota softer)
                         Despite the best intentions of the 
                         best of you, you must, in the nature 
                         of things, humiliate us to control 
                         us. General Dyer is but an extreme 
                         example of the principle. It is time 
                         you left.

               The British are stunned almost to speechlessness -- the 
               audacity, the impossibility of it -- and from Gandhi of all 
               people. The senior civil servant, Kinnoch, is the first to 

                         With respect, Mr. Gandhi, without 
                         British administration, this country 
                         would be reduced to chaos.

                              (patient, ironic)
                         Mr. Kinnoch, I beg you to accept 
                         that there is no people on earth who 
                         would not prefer their own bad 
                         government to the "good" government 
                         of an alien power.

                              (indignantly, choked)
                         My dear sir -- India is British! 
                         We're hardly an alien power!

               Gandhi and the others just look at him.

               Chelmsford is realist enough to recognize that a faux pas 
               has been made, and he strives to get the meeting back on the 
               course he intends.

                         Even if His Majesty could waive all 
                         other considerations, he has a duty 
                         to the millions of his Muslim subjects 
                         who are a minority in this realm. 
                         And experience has taught that his 
                         troops and his administration are 
                         essential in order to keep the peace.

               He has deliberately if delicately caught the eye of both 
               Jinnah and Maulana Azad during this. Gandhi knows the trouble 
               this can cause and he answers more for those on his side 
               than the Viceroy's.

                         All nations contain religious 
                         minorities. Like other countries, 
                         ours will have its problems.
                              (Flat, irrevocable)
                         But they will be ours -- not yours.

               Its finality is such that for a moment there is no response 
               at all, but then the General smiles.

                         And how do you propose to make them 
                         yours? You don't think we're just 
                         going to walk out of India.

               His smile flitters cynically on the mouths of the others on 
               his side.

                         Yes... in the end you will walk out. 
                         Because one hundred thousand 
                         Englishmen simply cannot control 
                         three hundred fifty million Indians 
                         if the Indians refuse to co-operate. 
                         And that is what we intend to achieve -- 
                         peaceful, non-violent, non-co-

               He looks at them all, then up at Lord Chelmsford behind them.

                         Until you yourself see the wisdom of 
                         leaving... your Excellency.


               Close shot -- a crystal decanter. The top is lifted, whiskey 

               The camera pulls back. We are still in the Council Room, but 
               time has passed. The Indian delegation has gone, and the 
               British are relaxing as a servant pours.

                              (mocking his exchange 
                              with Gandhi)
                         "You don't just expect us to walk 
                         out?" "Yes."

               And they all laugh.

                         Extraordinary little man! "Nonviolent, 
                         non-co-operation" -- for a moment I 
                         almost thought they were actually 
                         going to do something.

               There are some smiles, but not all of them are quite so 

                         Yes -- but it would be wise to be 
                         very cautious for a time. The Anti-
                         Terrorist Act will remain on the 
                         statutes, but on no account is Gandhi 
                         to be arrested. Whatever mischief he 
                         causes, I have no intention of making 
                         a martyr of him.

               It is an instruction they all find correct.

               FIELD - EXTERIOR - NIGHT

               A roar of approval from a huge crowd. We are featuring two 
               British soldiers, their faces partially lit by a flickering 
               torch light that reveals their tense wariness.

               Another angle. And we can see its cause. A huge crowd is 
               gathered around a platform -- torches sprinkled through it -- 
               and their mood is confident, belligerent. As their defiant 
               roar carries through the night air we see that Gandhi sits 
               cross-legged on the platform. Nehru is with him. Patel, now 
               for the first time in an Indian tunic, and Azad, also in an 
               Indian tunic. Desai, Gandhi's new male secretary, is with 
               them. But it is Ba who is speaking at the microphone, who 
               has brought the shout of defiance from the crowd.

                              (simple, direct)
                         ...but now something worse is 
                         happening. When Gandhiji and I were 
                         growing up, women wove their own 
                         cloth. But now there are millions 
                         who have no work because those who 
                         can buy all they need from England. 
                         I say with Gandhiji, there is no 
                         beauty in the finest cloth if it 
                         makes hunger and unhappiness.

               It is the end of her speech and she makes the pranam and 
               turns away. There is applause and noise, but Ba does not 
               acknowledge it; she simply sits cross-legged behind Gandhi, 
               who is talking with Patel and Nehru. At last he rises, and 
               the noise and applause increase to something like chaos.

               In close shot we see other British soldiers watching on the 
               perimeter of the crowd and they are now made even more wary 
               by the enthusiasm of this greeting. Gandhi fiddles with his 
               glasses, preoccupied; finally he looks out over the crowd 
               and holds up a hand -- almost lazily -- and gradually, but 
               quite definitely, the crowd stills.

                         My message tonight is the message I 
                         have given to your brothers 
                         everywhere. To gain independence we 
                         must prove worthy of it.

               We intercut with the crowd, listening raptly. Gandhi holds 
               up one finger.

                         There must be Hindu-Muslim unity -- 
                              (A second finger.)
                         Secondly, no Indian must be treated 
                         as the English treat us so we must 
                         remove untouchability from our lives, 
                         and from our hearts.

               Neither of these goals is easy, and the audience reaction 
               shows it. Now Gandhi raises a third finger.

                         Third -- we must defy the British.

               And the crowd breaks into stamping and applause. Gandhi lets 
               it run for a time, then stills it with the one small gesture 
               as before.

                         Not with violence that will inflame 
                         their will, but with firmness that 
                         will open their eyes.

               This has sobered the audience somewhat. Now he looks out 
               across them as though seeking something. Then

                         English factories make the cloth -- 
                         that makes our poverty.
                              (A reaction.)
                         All those who wish to make the English 
                         see, bring me the cloth from 
                         Manchester and Leeds that you wear 
                         tonight, and we will light a fire 
                         that will be seen in Delhi -- and 

               There is an excited stir; he silences it.

                         And if, like me, you are left with 
                         only one piece of homespun -- wear 
                         it with dignity!

               Close shot -- the ground. As suitcoats, shirts, vests, 
               trousers, are flung into a pile.

               Featuring the two British soldiers -- later -- on the edge 
               of the crowd, staring off, their faces now brightly lit by 
               darting flames.

               Their point of view. A huge triangular pile burns before the 
               platform, an excited half-naked crowd swirling in the shadows 
               around it. Resume the two British soldiers. They look at 
               each other with a kind of fear a rampant crowd can excite in 
               those who must hold it...


               The small train station near the ashram. Kallenbach stands 
               by a new (early 1920s) Ford touring car, watching as a train 
               pulls into the station.

               As people start to jump off the train he moves forward.

               Featuring Patel, getting out of a compartment marked "Second 
               Class." He lugs a bedroll and a bag. Despite the Indian tunic 
               he now wears he cannot help but look and act like the 
               incisive, patrician lawyer he is under the skin. As he moves 
               through the crowded platform.

                         Excuse me -- just let me get out of 
                         your way, please.
                              (Someone reaches for 
                              his bedroll and bag.)
                         No, thank you, I'll manage.

               He looks up; it is Kallenbach who is the insistent "helper."

                              (joyous -- it's been 
                              a long time)
                         Ah, Herman!
                              (Of the bags)
                         No, no -- don't destroy my good 
                         intentions. I'm feeling guilty about 
                         traveling Second Class.

               Kallenbach is smiling too. He reaches for the bags again.

                         I do it as a friend -- and admirer -- 
                         not a servant.

                         Ah, in that case!

               And grandly, he relinquishes the bags and looks back.

                         Maulana is made of sterner stuff. 
                         Our trains met in Bombay, but he's 
                         back there in that lot somewhere.

               Their point of view. In the chaos of the Third Class we see 
               Maulana Azad coming out of a section of the coach. He is 
               carrying a baby wrapped in rags. The child's mother with two 
               little ones hanging on her has followed him out.

                                     PATEL'S VOICE-OVER
                         There he is -- out Gandhi-ing Gandhi.

               Azad hands the woman the baby and she obviously thanks him. 
               He makes a little salaam to her and moves through the 
               confusion of the platform toward the camera.

               Resume Patel and Kallenbach.

                              (shaking his head at 
                              it all)
                         When I think what our "beloved 
                         Mahatma" asks, I don't know how he 
                         ever got such a hold over us. Is he 

                         Yes. Now that things are moving he's 
                         going to write and only take part 
                         when it's necessary.

               Azad approaches them.

                              (to Patel)
                         It was a Hindu child and it tried to 
                         wet on me.

               He and Kallenbach clasp with their free hands, both grinning.

                         Of course. A Muslim beef eater -- 
                         I'm only surprised he missed.

                         He was a she.

                         Ah, that explains it.
                              (He grins.)
                         Well, do I carry your luggage as 
                         penance or --

                         There's another passenger -- a Miss 
                              (He turns 
                              automatically, as 
                              Patel and Azad do, 
                              toward the First 
                              Class section.)
                         She's the daughter of an English 
                              (Patel and Azad look 
                              back at him in quick 
                              surprise. Kallenbach 
                         She's been corresponding with him 
                         for a year.

               And the camera pans with their glances at they look back 
               with real interest toward the First Class coach.

               Porters are unloading the baggage of two or three passengers 
               here and helping some others (English and Indian) to board.

               In the foreground we see a tall Indian woman in a red sari. 
               Farther along there is a large stack of luggage being added 
               to by a porter. An English woman is hovering about it. She 
               is well dressed, but rather dreary and unprepossessing, and 
               the camera zooms in toward her.

                         And what does the daughter of an 
                         English admiral propose to do in an 
                         ashram -- sink us?

                              (quietly -- his manner)
                         From the looks of the luggage, yes.

               Patel grins. Like most witty men, he loves wit in others.

                         She wants to make her home with us -- 
                         and Gandhiji has agreed.

               Patel groans. They turn back to the train and just as they 
               do, the tall Indian woman in the red sari tips a porter, 
               taking one small bag from him and turns: Mirabehn (Madeleine 
               Slade) is tall, quite pretty and extremely English despite 
               the sari. The minute she turns, she stops on seeing the now 
               startled Kallenbach.

                         You'd be Mr. Kallenbach.

               Kallenbach recovers sufficiently to --

                         ...And you would be Miss Slade.

                         I prefer the name Gandhiji has given 
                         me -- Mirabehn.

               The word means "daughter." Patel and Azad stare at each other 
               in something like bafflement.


               An ox labors along in harness. We follow him for a moment, 
               then move along the traces of the harness to the Ford touring 
               car that it is pulling. In the car Kallenbach and Mirabehn 
               sit in the front seat, Patel and Azad in the back.


                              (of the car)
                         It was a gift and it only worked a 
                         few weeks, but when Gandhi came home 
                         he struck on this idea. He calls it 
                         his ox-Ford. Comfortable -- and yet 
                         more our pace.

               He does what little steering is necessary and Mirabehn smiles 
               at it all, finding everything delightful. She peers ahead in 
               the direction of the distant ashram.

                         Might Mr. Nehru be there too?

                         The irresponsible young Nehru is in 
                         prison -- again. Though there is a 
                         rumor that under pressure from your 
                         country, they will let him out -- 

               Mirabehn has turned to look at him. She has the same 
               sophomoric eagerness and intensity as the young Gandhi.

                         You can't know how closely we follow 
                         your struggle --
                              (to Patel personally)
                         how many in England admired what you 
                         did in Bardoli. It must have taken 
                         enormous courage.

                         Well, in this country one must decide 
                         if one is more afraid of the 
                         government or Gandhi.
                              (Of Azad, Kallenbach 
                              and himself)
                         For us, it's Gandhi.

               Mirabehn is enthralled by the wit, the modesty that underlines 
               the words. She faces Kallenbach.

                              (a note of wonder)
                         And you're German...


                         And do you feel Indian?

               She thinks she does, and that he would want to.


               It surprises, but it doesn't deflate.

                         But you've been with him so long -- 

               Kallenbach, whose size and stillness carry the aura of some 
               great piece of primitive sculpture -- solid, true, 
               disturbingly profound -- searches inside himself for the 

                         ...I'd come to believe I would never 
                         meet a truly honest man. And then I 
                         met one.

               It is so profoundly simple and deeply felt that it obviously 
               touches the deeply emotional Mirabehn.


               Ba has a spinning wheel on the small porch and Gandhi is 
               sitting next to her with another. He is trying to imitate 
               her action -- which is fast and dexterous -- and he gets in 
               a terrible jumble. Ba watches, laughing.

                         Stop -- stop...

               She leans across and tries to extricate his fingers.

                         God gave you ten thumbs.


               And Ba laughs again and Gandhi smiles, tapping her with 
               playful reproval on the top of her bent head. There are 
               footsteps and Gandhi looks up. Patel stands in the doorway. 
               Gandhi's face changes to something like elation. A beat.


               It means "leader" and it is the name the peasants have given 
               Patel. Gandhi uses it with an intonation of novelty and 
               respect. He stands and crosses to Patel, clutching him 
               emotionally, and it brings a bit of emotion from the 
               sophisticated Patel.

               Gandhi holds him back to look at him.

                         What you've done is a miracle. You 
                         have made all India proud.

               Patel gets hold of himself, and affects his usual glib 

                         It must have been the only Non-violent 
                         campaign ever led by a man who wanted 
                         to kill everybody every day.

                         Not true!
                              (He means himself.)
                         The secret is mastering the urge.

               He smiles again, then, his arm still around Patel's shoulder, 
               he turns to greet the others. Azad looks at him, then 
               facetiously, as though to put down Patel.

                         He came Second Class.

               Gandhi laughs again, squeezing Patel's shoulder.

                         Well, we can't expect miracles all 
                         the time.
                              (Then to Azad, more 
                         Your news I understand is not so 

               Azad shakes his head.


               Gandhi reaches forward and touches his hand, and he sees 
               Mirabehn on the porch. For a moment their eyes meet and then 
               Mirabehn moves forward quickly and takes his hand, kissing 
               it, tears running down her cheek. Gandhi touches the top of 
               her head.

                         Come, come -- you will be my 


               The camera is on a row of sandals by the door -- Patel's, 
               Azad's, Desai's, Gandhi's. It pans to the room. Gandhi sitting 
               facing Patel and Azad, Desai in the background, making notes 
               of the discussion. Gandhi is carding fiber to thread as they 
               talk. Mirabehn, seated like the others, is almost in the 
               circle, sitting near Ba, and listening like her. Ba's spinning 
               never stops.

                         ...but then some rioting broke out 
                         between Hindus and Muslims -- violent, 

               Gandhi looks up at Azad, Azad shakes his head solemnly

                         Whether it was provoked...
                              (he shrugs, a hint of 
                         But it gave them an excuse to impose 
                         martial law throughout Bengal.
                              (He looks at Gandhi, 
                              shaking his head 
                         Some of the things the military have 

               But he does not go on. It has a terrible sobriety.

                         Is the campaign weakening?

               Azad shakes his head.

                         The marches and protests are bigger 
                         if anything but with the censorship 
                              (a nod toward Mirabehn)
                         they know more in England than we 
                         do, and it saps the courage to think 
                         you may be suffering alone.

               Gandhi reaches out and touches his hand.

                         They are not alone. And martial law 
                         only shows how desperate the British 

               He holds Azad's eyes, giving strength. Then he turns to 
               Mirabehn, made more aware of her by Azad's reference. For a 
               moment he looks at her sari.

                         Is that homespun? Or cotton from 

               The tone suggests he thinks it is homespun. Mirabehn nods, a 
               little choked that his attention is turned to her.

                         I -- I sent for it, from here. I 
                         dyed it myself.

               Gandhi smiles approvingly. Then a shadow --

                         What do the workers in England make 
                         of what we're doing? It must have 
                         produced hardship.

               Mirabehn beams.

                         It has. But you'd be surprised. They 
                         understand -- they really do. It's 
                         not the workers you have to worry 

                              (A glance toward Ba.)
                         Ba will have to teach you to spin 

                         I would rather march.

                         First spin. Let the others march for 
                         a time.

               Mirabehn nods and looks resignedly at Ba. Ba is spinning. 
               She smiles.

                         First lesson: To march, wear shoes, 
                         to spin, do not.

               Mirabehn looks down at the shoes on her feet -- and then at 
               the others and their bare feet -- and she looks up in 
               grinning, self-conscious embarrassment. Ba smiles at her 

                         I'll teach you all our foolishness, 
                         and you must teach me yours.

               Mirabehn looks at her, accepting the warmth behind the 
               teasing. It is the beginning of an enduring friendship.


               A small town. Featuring the faces of six Indian police 
               constables as a torch light parade passes them. There are 
               enough of them in their group to be watching the marchers 
               with a challenging disdain. The marchers are men in loin-
               clothes and tunics; they brandish torn and ripped English 
               cloth and shout in unison.

                         Home Rule! Long live Gandhi! Buy 
                         Indian! Long live Gandhi!

               We have cut to the parade -- and it is the tail end, going 
               around a corner ahead. Some of the marchers wave their cloth 
               tauntingly at the police. One policeman suddenly steps out 
               and grabs at a piece of cloth waved at him. He pulls it 
               viciously from the marcher.

                         I'll stuff your damn mouth with it!

               He chases the marcher and boots him with his foot. Another 
               marcher runs at the policeman, swinging at him with his piece 
               of cloth.

                                     SECOND MARCHER
                         Leave him alone -- he wasn't harming 

               Another angle -- sudden. He is whacked across the face with 
               a billy club and falls, clutching his face and spouting blood 
               from his nose.

               Another angle. The police are now all attacking, swinging 
               clubs and kicking at the tail-enders of the march. And the 
               tail-enders begin to scream

                         Help! Help us! as they try to scramble 
                         away from the attack. Out of shot we 
                         can still hear the disappearing chant: 
                         "Home Rule! Long live Gandhi!"


               The parade is on this street. A tail-ender, blood streaming 
               down his face, runs around the corner. lose shot -- the tail-
               ender. As he stops

                         Help! Help us!

               Another angle. Some of the marchers turn at the shout.


               A few of the tail-enders watching, some running clear of the 
               police, some being beaten.

               Two police have a man on the ground. One policeman looks up.

                         Hey --

               Their point of view. The corner where the parade has 
               disappeared. It is now packed with more marchers, more 
               flooding in from behind.

               We see the whole street, the marchers massed near the corner, 
               spread out, staring at the police, who are now frozen in 
               their mayhem, staring off at the marchers.

               For a second, utter silence.

               And then the police begin to back away from their victims. 
               The marchers start to move forward. The police draw their 
               guns, and the marchers suddenly run at them, a guttural roar, 
               as though they were one single wild beast.

               Featuring the police. They start to run, some turning to 
               fire at the pursuing crowd, then running on.


               A small building for this small town. A policeman on duty 
               holds the door and the fleeing police, first one, then two 
               more, then the last three, run into the building.

               The crowd surges around it, smashing windows, hurling stones.

               Close shot. English cloth shirts pushed together and ignited.

               Second close shot. Trousers, already aflame, being hurled 
               through a broken window. All around, the noise of the angry, 
               surging crowd, stones raining on the building. Shouts: "Out -- 

               Later. A corner of the building engulfed in flames. The camera 
               pulls back and we see the whole building swept with fire. 
               The heat of it keeps the crowd back but they are still 
               shouting "Out -- Out! -- Out" -- and a sudden cheer.

               At the door of the flaming building. One policeman appears, 
               his face blackened with soot, his hands up over his head. 
               Another appears in the smoke behind him, and they start to 
               come out -- not only the original six but the five or six 
               others who were in the building -- rushing suddenly from the 
               heat of the fire.

               Close shot -- the crowd. We are close on the body of the 
               first policeman as he runs into the crowd and on the instant 
               we see a sword slash at his arm.

               Another angle. The crowd massed around the fallen figure, a 
               flash of the sword going up over the heads -- a breathless 
               pause -- and it comes down again... savagely.

               Later. The flames of the crumbled building. The crowd has 
               gone and we only hear the roar of the flames. The camera 
               pans across the flames, and we see a skull, charred flesh 
               still clinging to it, the eyes black holes, the teeth bare 
               as it burns in the fire.


               Close shot -- Gandhi. His face drawn, stunned, as he stares 
               emptily at the floor. He is sitting on the carpet in the 
               center of the room. A moment of silence and then we begin to 
               hear the tick of a clock, the sounds of others moving in the 
               room, and finally

                                     PATEL'S VOICE
                         That's one bit of news they haven't 

               Another angle. Patel leans with one arm on a table, his mood 
               as devastated as Gandhi's; he is looking at an Indian paper 
               on the table by his hand. A moment then

                                     JINNAH'S VOICE
                         Oh, it's all over the world...
                         India's "non-violence."

               He has been standing, looking out of a window. He turns, and 
               tosses a newspaper on a desk. It is a New York Times and we 
               just glimpse the picture of the severed head lying in the 
               smoldering ashes.

               And now we see Nehru and Azad in the background too. And 
               Desai. Jinnah as usual in a finely cut European suit, the 
               others are dressed in tunics of homespun as they will be to 
               the end.

                         What can we do?

                         We must end the campaign.

               They turn to him -- a sense of surprise, but they don't really 
               believe he means the statement.

                         After what they did at the massacre -- 
                         it's only an eye for an eye.

                              (he hasn't moved; the 
                              same tone)
                         An eye for an eye only ends up making 
                         the whole world blind.
                              (Now he looks up at 
                         We must stop.

                              (a baffled smile)
                         Gandhiji -- do you know the sacrifices 
                         people have made?

               He looks at him. Gandhi doesn't move. Patel looks up 
               hopelessly at Jinnah. Azad keeps his eyes fixed on Gandhi, 
               sensing, fearing what is going to happen.

                         We would never get the same commitment 
                         again -- ever.

               He looks at Gandhi with a mounting sense of annoyance.

               Gandhi is listening, but still withdrawn into himself.

                         If we obtain our freedom by murder 
                         and bloodshed I want no part of it.

                         It was one incident.

                         Tell that to the families of the 
                         policemen who died.

               Jinnah turns away in anger. Patel sighs. Nehru feels helpless 
               but he continues to try.

                         Bapu -- the whole nation is marching. 
                         They wouldn't stop, even if we asked 
                         them to.

               Gandhi stares into nothing -- mulling that. Finally

                         I will ask. And I will fast as penance 
                         for my part in arousing such emotions -- 
                         and I will not stop until they stop.

               Nehru stares at him -- surprised. Azad is not.

                         God! You can be sure the British 
                         won't censor that! They'll put it on 
                         every street corner.

               Gandhi does not react. And Nehru ignores the thought too, 
               because like Azad his mind is already on the real danger.

                         But -- but Gandhiji people are 
                         aroused... they won't stop.

               Gandhi looks up at him -- a resigned fatalism.

                         If I die, perhaps they will...


               Mirabehn walks across the grounds toward Gandhi's bungalow. 
               She carries a small tray with a pitcher and a glass. We see 
               a few people working in the background, and a mass of people 
               camped near the entrance, some sprawled, some sitting, some 
               standing -- all waiting.

               The steps of Gandhi's bungalow. A doctor in a white tunic 
               sits on the porch, reading. On a small table beside him we a 
               stethoscope and the equipment to measure blood pressure. He 
               looks up at Mirabehn as she mounts the steps, and nods. 
               Mirabehn reaches the doorway and is suddenly brought up.


               In the shadows, Ba sits by Gandhi's mat bed. She is holding 
               him as he heaves in a spasm of dry retching, his face to the 
               wall. When he is finished, he lies almost limp in her arms 
               and she gently lowers him to the mat. She strokes his head.

               Mirabehn stiffens herself. She is not yet devotee and nurse. 
               She removes her sandals and walks across the room.

               Ba looks up at her. She glances at the jug and glass, then 
               nods. She turns to Gandhi.

                         I must get ready for evening prayers. 
                         Mirabehn is here.

               She strokes his sweating head again, touches his shoulder 
               and gets up. For a moment the two women hold each other's 
               gaze, then Ba smiles weakly, and leans her head into the 
               taller Mirabehn's shoulder. With her free hand Mirabehn 
               touches Ba's head. Then Ba straightens, and leaves without 
               looking back.

               Mirabehn bends and sits by Gandhi's side.

                         I've brought your drinking water. 
                         May I turn you?

               Gandhi struggles to turn, and Mirabehn helps him. When he 
               turns we see that his face is wet with sweat from the dry 
               heaving and his hands and arms are quivering and he cannot 
               stop them. She looks at him nervously, then pours a glass 
               from the pitcher.

                         There is a little lemon juice in it. 
                         That is all.

               She turns back, and propping up his head, helps him to sip.

                         Herman has gone to meet Pandit Nehru -- 
                         there was a telegram. Almost 
                         everywhere it has stopped.

               Gandhi swallows with difficulty. He pauses, letting his head 
               fall back and she lowers it down to the mat again. He tries 
               to smile.

                         When it is everywhere, then my prayers 
                         will be answered.

               Mirabehn looks daunted by his intractability.

                         Do you find me stubborn?

                              (her own honesty)
                         I don't know... I know you are right. 
                         I don't know that this is right.

               Gandhi signals her down to him. She bends so she is looking 
               at the floor and he is speaking almost into her ear.

                              (hoarse, strained)
                         When I despair, I remember that all 
                         through history the way of truth and 
                         love has always won.

               We intercut their faces, very close, as he speaks.

                         There have been tyrants and murderers, 
                         and for a time they can seem 
                         invincible. But in the end they always 
                         fall. Think of it -- always... When 
                         you are in doubt that that is God's 
                         way, the way the world is meant to 
                         be... think of that.

               During the very last of it Mirabehn has turned her face to 
               him, touched with emotion.

                              (the paternal smile)
                         And then -- try to do it His way.
                              (A tear runs down 
                              Mirabehn's face. She 
                              touches his shoulder. 
                              Gandhi just leans 
                              his head back in 
                         And now -- could I have another feast 
                         of lemon juice?

               Mirabehn straightens up, smiling, wiping the tear from her 
               cheek with mock discipline. She starts to pour water from 
               the pitcher into the glass again, then she turns suddenly, 
               her attention caught.

               Her point of view. The doorway. Nehru stands in it. Kallenbach 
               and Desai are a step or two behind him.

                         Panditji -- come in.

               She stands, moving back from Gandhi.

               Nehru crosses and kneels in Mirabehn's place. Gandhi looks 
               up at him and his eyes light. He moves his shaking hand out 
               and Nehru clasps it. A moment of personal feeling between 
               them, then

                         Jinnah, Patel, all of Congress has 
                         called for the end of non-co-
                         operation. There's not been one 
                         demonstration. All over India people 
                         are praying that you will end the 
                         fast. They're walking in the streets, 
                         offering garlands to the police -- 
                         and to British soldiers.

               It is a victory. Gandhi's face cracks into a tearful grin.

                         Perhaps -- perhaps I have overdone 

               And Nehru chokes with emotion and laughter at the same time. 
               He buries his head on Gandhi's hand, clutching it to him.

               THE ASHRAM - EXTERIOR - DAY

               Bright sunshine. A little boy is pulling a goat by a tether. 
               He turns with a bright smile.

                                     LITTLE BOY
                         Good morning, Bapu!

               Reverse angle. Gandhi is walking, holding Ba's shoulder for 
               support with one hand, and Mirabehn's with the other. It is 
               some days later.

                         Good morning.
                              (Of the goat)
                         Don't let her go. If she bumps me I 
                         am done for.

               The boy grins at Gandhi's feigned alarm.

                                     LITTLE BOY
                         Don't worry. I milk her every day, 
                         she's not --

               The sound of a motor disturbs them. Gandhi turns.

               His point of view. Coming into the entrance, along the bumpy 
               path are two police cars (early 1920s Morris). They have to 
               stop because they are impeded by Gandhi's ox-Ford.

               Four Indian policeman hop quickly out of the second car. A 
               British police superintendent, and his British deputy get 
               more decorously out of the first.

               Another angle. Gandhi has turned with his two props, Ba and 
               Mirabehn. The police are approaching him. Kallenbach is 
               running from the fields. Nehru is hurrying from another 
               building carrying sheaves of page proofs. Other ashramites 
               converge from the fields and buildings.

               The British police superintendent (who is Scottish) stops 
               before Gandhi.

                                     POLICE SUPERINTENDENT
                              (a beat)

                              (it is too absurd)
                         You can't be serious! This man has 
                         just stopped a revolution!

                                     POLICE SUPERINTENDENT
                              (uncomfortably; he 
                         That's as may be. I only know what I 
                         am charged to perform.

               Nehru stares at him and the policemen with growing 

                         I don't believe it -- even the British 
                         can't be that stupid!

                         Panditji -- please, help me.

               It stops Nehru. He looks at Gandhi and sighs in unmastered 
               frustration, but he moves to Gandhi's side. Gandhi turns to 

                         You must help Herman -- and Ba.
                              (He releases her, and 
                              says more loudly to 
                              the others)
                         I have been on many trips -- it is 
                         just another trip.

               He smiles at them, then slips his free hand on Nehru's 
               shoulder and he turns to the superintendent.

                         I am at your command.

               Featuring Gandhi, Ba and Nehru, as they walk to the car behind 
               the somewhat surprised superintendent.

                              (to Nehru)
                         If there is one protest -- one riot -- 
                         a disgrace of any kind, I will fast 

               He looks at Nehru firmly. Nehru knows him well enough now 
               not to argue -- even at this, though his face shows the 

                              (and now he smiles -- 
                              Gandhi to Nehru, 
                         I know India is not ready for my 
                         kind of independence. If I am sent 
                         to jail, perhaps that is the best 
                         protest our country can make at this 
                         time. And if it helps India, I have 
                         never refused to take His Majesty's 

               He laughs and Nehru struggles to join in the joke.


               A quiet hum in a packed courtroom. Armed sepoys line the 

               Featuring Judge Broomfield and the clerk. The Judge is 
               flipping through documents on the case, a troubled frown on 
               his face. At last, he shuts the folder and nods to the clerk. 
               The clerk turns and says in a moderately loud voice --

                         Call the prisoner to the bar.

               The sergeant-at-arms turns and moves to the door at the side 
               of the bench. The courtroom immediately falls silent. The 
               sergeant-at-arms opens the door -- a moment -- and Gandhi 
               enters slowly. He has recovered a bit more, but he still 
               moves slowly.

               Featuring Judge Broomfield. As Gandhi enters, he lowers his 
               glasses, places them on his desk, and rises, facing Gandhi.

               Featuring two English court reporters. One nudges the other 
               in astonishment, signaling off toward the judge.

               Their point of view. The clerk, confused as well as 
               astonished, see the judge standing, facing Gandhi in respect, 
               and dutifully, he too stands.

               Resume the reporters. A disbelieving exchange of glances, 
               the sound of others standing around them. They glance back.

               Full shot -- the courtroom. The whole court rises, the 
               astounded reporters the last of all.

               Featuring Gandhi. He takes the prisoner's stand. He looks 
               around, a little surprised, a little affected by the 
               demonstration. He looks up at the judge. For a minute their 
               eyes meet, the judge makes a little bow to Gandhi. Gandhi 
               reciprocates... and the judge sits down.

               Featuring the reporters shrugging incredulously to each other, 
               as they sit once more.

               Later. The Advocate General is speaking from a folded journal.

                                     ADVOCATE GENERAL
                         ..."Non-co-operation has one aim: 
                         the overthrow of the Government. 
                         Sedition must become our creed. We 
                         must give no quarter, nor can we 
                         expect any."
                              (He looks up at Gandhi.)
                         Signed M. K. Gandhi, in your journal 
                         Young India, dated twenty-second 
                         March of this year. Do you deny 
                         writing it?

                         Not at all.
                              (To the judge)
                         And I will save the Court's time, 
                         M'Lord, by stating under oath that 
                         to this day I believe non-co-operation 
                         with evil is a duty. And that British 
                         rule of India is evil.

               There is a little shock of reaction around the courtroom. 
               The Advocate General smiles with a brittle disdain, then he 
               turns to the judge.

                                     ADVOCATE GENERAL
                         The Prosecution rests, M'Lord.

               The judge nods. He turns, glancing at the empty table for 
               defense counsel, and then to Gandhi.

                                     JUDGE BROOMFIELD
                         I take it you will conduct your own 
                         defense, Mr. Gandhi.

                         I have no defense, My Lord. I am 
                         guilty as charged.
                              (Then testingly)
                         And if you truly believe in the system 
                         of law you administer in my country, 
                         you must inflict on me the severest 
                         penalty possible.

               It is almost a cruel challenge to the obviously humane 

               The reporters scribble, watching the Judge even as they write, 
               because the mere doubt in the Judge's face reflects on the 
               whole position of the British to India.

               Featuring Judge Broomfield. He lowers his glasses soberly, 
               staring at them for a moment.

                                     JUDGE BROOMFIELD
                         It is impossible for me to ignore 
                         that you are in a different category 
                         from any person I have ever tried, 
                         or am likely to try.

               He looks up at Gandhi and his own respect for him is almost 
               poignantly manifest.

                                     JUDGE BROOMFIELD
                              (a long beat)
                         It is nevertheless my duty to sentence 
                         you -- to six years' imprisonment.

               A stunned intake of breath from the whole courtroom, then in 
               absolute silence the clerk scribbles the sentence in his 
               notebook. A pause. The Judge lowers his eyes.

                                     JUDGE BROOMFIELD
                              (a personal statement, 
                              not a real hope)
                         If however His Majesty's Government 
                         could -- at some later date -- see 
                         fit to reduce that term, no one would 
                         be better pleased than I.

               He folds, and refolds his glasses and then without looking 
               at anyone he rises. The court rises and he walks stiffly to 
               his chambers.

               Featuring Gandhi. He stands, staring at Broomfield, and now 
               it is his face that shows the respect.

               INDIAN ROAD - EXTERIOR - DAY

               Long shot. From far above the hills we see a car traveling 
               along the road. Its style tells us some years have passed.

               Featuring Walker -- close. The reporter from the New York 
               Times, whom we first saw as a younger man in South Africa. 
               He is in an open car, turning back to look at something, his 
               face intrigued by what he sees.

                                     COLLINS' VOICE-OVER
                              (English accent)
                         Yes, I'm sure that's exactly what 
                         they hoped. Put him in prison a few 
                         years and with luck he'd be forgotten. 
                         And maybe they'd even subdue him...

               We see from Walker's point of view an Indian woman walking 
               along the road, leading a tall camel that carries sacks of 
               produce. Two young girls in ragged saris walk with her, and 
               a boy of eight leads a smaller camel behind them. They are 
               staring off at the car.

               Resume Walker. He swings back around, fascinated with what 
               he is seeing of India. The car is an early 1930s Morris Minor.

                         Well, he certainly wasn't forgotten! 
                         And as soon as he got out he was 
                         back tramping the country, preaching 
                         non-violence and demanding a free 
                         India. Everybody knows another 
                         showdown's coming -- but when, and 
                         over what --

               He shrugs, "Nobody knows"...

                         Well, I read you account of that 
                         crowd in Calcutta and that he was 
                         twisting the Lion's tail again...

               Collins has suddenly slowed the car, then swerves around a 
               pair of elephants hauling logs.

                         ...and I knew something had to give. 
                         And I was determined to be here when 
                         it did.

                         How does a reporter in Central America 
                         learn that Gandhi was born in 
                         Porbandar anyway?

                         Oh, I've been a Gandhi buff for a 
                         long time.

               Collins glances at him in surprise as he steers the car around 
               another procession of camels heading toward the port.

                         He certainly makes good copy.
                              (A laugh.)
                         The other day Winston Churchill called 
                         him "that half-naked Indian fakir."

               Walker smiles too, but it soon passes.

                         I met him once.

               Collins looks at him in real surprise.

                         You mean Gandhi?

                         Back in South Africa...
                         long time ago.

                         What was he like?

                         Lots of hair... and a little like a 
                         college freshman -- trying to figure 
                         everything out.

                         Well, he must've found some of the 

               He honks as he goes around a wooden-wheeled cart.


               Simple. Austere. Filtered light. Featuring Gandhi -- close. 
               He is looking straight ahead.

               Reverse angle. Across the emptiness of the temple, Ba faces 

                              (a step forward)
                         "In every worthy wish of yours, I 
                         shall be your helpmate."

               Another angle featuring Walker and Collins, who are sitting 
               alone, in the cool shadows of the temple, watching with 
               fascination as Gandhi and Ba repeat their marriage ceremony 
               for them, Walker jotting notes occasionally, but his eyes 
               always glued to Gandhi and Ba, who are in part lost in 
               memories and echoes of a significance only they can know.

                              (a step)
                         "Take a fourth step, that we may be 
                         ever full of joy."

               Wide shot. Showing the two of them before the altar of the 
               temple, moving closer to each other.

                              (a step)
                         "I will ever live devoted to you, 
                         speaking words of love and praying 
                         for your happiness."

               Close shot -- Gandhi.

                         "Take a fifth step, that we may serve 
                         the people."

                         "I will follow close behind you and 
                         help to serve the people."

               Featuring Walker, now too entranced by the ceremony, by the 
               depth of layered emotions in Gandhi and Ba's voices and eyes 
               to take any notes...

                         "Take a sixth step, that we may follow 
                         our vows in life."

                         "I will follow you in all our vows 
                         and duties."

               Ba and Gandhi. Near to meeting now.

                              (a last step)
                         "Take the seventh step, that we may 
                         ever live as friends."

               Ba takes the last step, so that they are face to face. A 

                         "You are my best friend... my highest 
                         guru, and my sovereign lord."

               For a moment their eyes hold -- the many dreams, and hopes 
               and pain -- the love of many years.

               Walker watches, his own face taut with emotion.

               Resume Gandhi and Ba. And Gandhi slowly lifts his hand.

                         Then I put a sweetened wheat cake in 
                         her mouth.

               He touches Ba's lips with his extended fingers and she kisses 
               them gently.

                         And I put a sweetened wheat cake in 
                         his mouth.

               She has lifted her fingers to his mouth and he kisses them 

               Featuring Walker and Collins both touched, the overtly cynical 
               American obviously even more than the likeable Englishman.

               Gandhi turns to them.

                         And with that we were pronounced man 
                         and wife.
                         We were both thirteen...


               A tiny, beautiful city rising steeply out of the Arabian Sea 
               with tall, thick-walled buildings, half-fortresses, half-
               homes, their white walls tinted amber and gold now by the 
               early light of the sun.

               Featuring Gandhi, sitting on a promontory watching the sunrise 
               in solemn meditation... He becomes aware of the sound of 
               footsteps and he turns to see Walker approaching, a little 
               knapsack over his shoulder. Gandhi smiles. Walker comes to 
               his side, looking out over the bay and city, truly impressed.

                         It's beautiful.

                         Even as a boy I thought so.

               Walker looks down at him. Gandhi scowls up in the early light.

                         Trying to keep track of you is making 
                         me change all my sleeping habits.

               Gandhi smiles.

                         And you've come all this way because 
                         you think something is going to 

                              (Then weightedly)
                         Is it?

                         Perhaps. I've come here to think 
                         about it.

               They both watch the waves beat on the shore a moment, the 
               changing hues of the sunrise on the whites of Porbandar.

                         Do you remember much of South Africa?

                         A great deal.

                         I've traveled so far -- and thought 
                         so much.
                              (He smiles in self-
                              mockery, and turns 
                              toward the city.)
                         As you can see, my city was a sea 
                         city -- always filled with Hindus 
                         and Muslims and Sikhs and Jews and 
                              (He looks at Walker.)
                         The temple where you were yesterday 
                         is of my family's sect, the Pranami. 
                         It was Hindu of course but the priests 
                         used to read from the Muslim Koran 
                         and the Hindu Gita, moving from one 
                         to the other as though it mattered 
                         not at all which book was read as 
                         long as God was worshipped.

               He looks out to sea, and we intercut his face with Walker's, 
               the sea, and the town itself as the sun turns it white.

                         When I was a boy I used to sing a 
                         song in that temple: "A true disciple 
                         knows another's woes as his own. He 
                         bows to all and despises none... 
                         Earthly possessions hold him not." 
                         Like all boys I said the words, not 
                         thinking of what they meant or how 
                         they might be influencing me.
                              (He looks at Walker... 
                              then out to the sea 
                              again, shaking his 
                         I've traveled so far... and all I've 
                         done is come back home.

               Walker studies him as this profound man reaches, in his middle 
               years, a profound insight.

               Featuring Gandhi staring out to sea, his mind locked in 
               reflection, and suddenly his head lifts, his eyes become 
               alert, he is caught by some excitement which he weighs for a 
               moment, then he stands, his manner suddenly tingling with 

               Walker stares at him, then at what Gandhi seems to be looking 

               His point of view. The waves lapping the shore below them.

               Walker turns back to Gandhi, puzzled. But there is no 
               mistaking the sudden glow in Gandhi's face.

                         You know what you're going to do.

               Gandhi looks at him, a teasing smile.

                         It would have been very uncivil of 
                         me to let you make such a long trip 
                         for nothing.

               The grin broadens, and then he starts briskly down the 
               promontory. Walker scrambles up after him.

                         Where are you going?

               Gulls fly over them, squawking in the growing light. Gandhi 
               pauses, looking up at the gulls, then back down to the sea.

                         I'm going back to the ashram
                              (then firmly)
                         and then I'm going to prove to the 
                         new Viceroy that the King's writ no 
                         longer runs in India!

               He turns from the sea to Walker, his eyes confident, elated, 
               then he continues on down the promontory. Still baffled, 
               Walker glances at the sea, at him, then hurries after.

               Full shot. The waves running against the shore...


               Close shot -- the Viceroy, a "new one," Lord Irwin.


               Another angle. He is looking in astonishment at his principal 
               secretary. His ADC, a general, a brigadier, a senior police 
               officer are with him. Like him they hold the same offices, 
               but are a new team.

                                     PRINCIPAL SECRETARY
                         Yes, sir. He is going to march to 
                         the sea and make salt.

               Irwin looks at him, still trying to penetrate the significance 
               of the act. The senior police officer helps.

                                     SENIOR POLICE OFFICER
                         There is a Royal Monopoly on the 
                         manufacture of salt, sir. It's illegal 
                         to make it or sell it without a 
                         Government license.

               Irwin has listened; it's beginning to make a little sense.

                         All right -- he's breaking the law. 
                         What will he be depriving us of, two 
                         rupees of salt tax?

                                     PRINCIPAL SECRETARY
                         It's not a serious attack on the 
                         revenue, sir. Its primary importance 
                         is symbolic.

                         Don't patronize me, Charles.

               The principal secretary blanches.

                                     PRINCIPAL SECRETARY
                         No, sir. I -- in this climate, sir, 
                         nothing lives without water -- or 
                         salt. Our absolute control of it is 
                         a control on the pulse of India.

               Irwin looks at his ADC, then paces a bit, pondering it.

                         And that's the basis of this 
                         "Declaration of Independence"?

                                     SENIOR POLICE OFFICER
                         Yes, sir. The day he sets off everyone 
                         is supposed to raise the flag of 
                         "Free India." Then he walks some two 
                         hundred and forty miles to the sea 
                         and makes salt.

               A moment as Irwin considers it, then it is the general who 

                         I say ignore it. Let them raise their 
                         damn flags, let him make his salt. 
                         It's only symbolic if we choose to 
                         make it so.

                                     PRINCIPAL SECRETARY
                         He's going to arrive at the sea on 
                         the anniversary of the massacre at 

               Irwin has turned to him. And this makes up his mind.

                         General Edgar is right -- ignore it. 
                         Mr. Gandhi will find it's going to 
                         take a great deal more than a pinch 
                         of salt to bring down the British 

               He is concerned enough to be angry, but certain enough to be 

               THE ASHRAM - EXTERIOR - DAWN

               It is very early, the light just beginning to break, and we 
               are looking out across the river toward the distant town, 
               and against the pink glow of the sky we can see people in 
               groups wading across the river toward the ashram. And suddenly 
               a mass of people, hidden by the embankment, appear at the 
               top of the steps coming up from the river, and the camera 
               lifts slightly with their movement and we see that they are 
               but the forerunners of a long tendril of humanity that 
               stretches across the river, all the way back to the distant 
               outskirts of the city.

               And around the ashram many fires are burning, people are 
               cooking breakfast, some are packing knapsacks for the journey, 
               others are strewing the path from the ashram with leaves.


               Quiet, just the buzz of activity from outside the building. 
               Gandhi lies on a mat and Ba and Mirabehn are massaging him 
               with oil as he checks page proofs, an oil lamp by his side. 
               Nehru sits cross-legged next to him, taking the proofs as 
               Gandhi finishes them. Maulana Azad sits to one side. Behind 
               them Desai is making notes on Gandhi's instructions.

                              (to Nehru)
                         ...the real test will come if I am 
                         arrested. If there is violence we 
                         lose all our moral advantage. This 
                         time it mustn't happen.

               He looks at Nehru and Azad solemnly to emphasize the point. 
               Nehru nods; a little smile.

                         We're not beginners anymore. We've 
                         been trained by a strict sergeant 

               He means Gandhi of course, and Gandhi accepts the reference, 
               but it is the acceptance of the strict sergeant major: "Don't 
               fail me." Then he looks to Azad.

                         If I'm taken, Maulana is to lead the 
                         march. If he is arrested, Patel, 
                         then Kripalani, then yourself.

               Nehru nods. Ba moves to massage the top of Gandhi's head.

                         You should be relaxing.

               Gandhi grins, looking at Mirabehn, who is massaging his legs.

                         I'm sure I'm fit for at least five 
                         hundred miles.

                         You should ride the pony. It is not 
                         necessary to walk to prove the point.

               Gandhi looks at Nehru, a benign shrug.

                         I have two of them bossing me now.

               Nehru smiles. He stands, having taken the last proof sheet. 
               Azad rises with him.

                         We must get these to the printer.
                              (He looks down at 
                         I know it will succeed. Even my mother 
                         is prepared to march.

               Gandhi is pleasurably impressed with that.

                         And Jinnah?

                              (a beat)
                         He's waiting. He's not prepared to 
                         accept it will mean as much as you 

                              (smiles confidently)
                         Wait and see... wait and see...

               He leans back and closes his eyes. Ba rubs his head 
               soothingly. Nehru bends and squeezes his arm in farewell. 
               Gandhi nods, not opening his eyes. Nehru and Azad smile at 
               Ba and leave.

               THE ASHRAM - LATER - EXTERIOR - DAY

               The sun higher, but still early light. A green, white and 
               saffron flag (the colors of India) is pulled up an uneven 
               pole. The sound of gentle clapping.

               Gandhi is off to one side, just in front of the veranda of 
               his bungalow, not paying attention to the ceremony. Ba and 
               Mirabehn watch from the veranda as Pyarelal (Desai's new 
               assistant), with a knapsack over his own shoulders, hands 
               Gandhi his. As Gandhi slips it on, the ashramite boy whom we 
               saw with the goat hands him a long staff. And Gandhi moves 
               around the edge of the bungalow, heading toward the entrance 
               of the ashram.

               A long line of ashramites and marchers stretches from opposite 
               the flagpole to the entrance of the ashram. As Gandhi walks 
               briskly along it, they turn, ready to follow him.

               When he nears the entrance Gandhi sees Walker standing in 
               front of a collection of newsmen, cameramen, a newsreel crew. 
               He begins to smile, Walker returns it. Gandhi pauses by him.

                              (of the press)
                         You've done me a great service.

                              (a grin, then a play 
                              on Gandhi's words to 
                         It would have been uncivil of me to 
                         have let you make such a long trip 
                         for nothing.

               Gandhi smiles. He turns back toward his bungalow. Ba and 
               Mirabehn stand there watching, Desai with them. Gandhi holds 
               their gaze a second, then turns and starts forward. Pyarelal 
               takes up a position next to him, the marchers follow.

               Featuring Walker. He steps back, letting Gandhi proceed into 
               the range of the cameras on his own. The crowd around the 
               entrance throws flowers in Gandhi's path, some calling out, 
               "Long live Mahatma Gandhi!"

               Gandhi passes the cameramen and starts along the trail.


               A thinner crowd here, but going all along the path. To one 
               side we see two police cars drawn up, and several policemen 
               (a British officer, a British sergeant, and four Indian 
               constables) lined up near them.

               As Gandhi nears them Walker moves up beside him. Some of the 
               newspaper cameramen trot behind to get the picture of Gandhi's 
               arrest. Among the newsmen we see Collins.

               Featuring Gandhi and Walker, Pyarelal just behind them all 
               glancing ahead at the police, who are now quite near.

                         Is it over if they arrest you now?

                         Not if they arrest me -- or a thousand -- 
                         or ten thousand.
                              (He looks at Walker.)
                         It is not only generals who know how 
                         to plan campaigns.

               Walker smiles -- a little uneasily -- for they are now near 
               the police. Gandhi nods to them amiably as he passes along 
               in front of them. Walker is turning, watching for a move 
               from the police but begins to grasp that there may be none. 
               He hurries along closer to Gandhi again, one eye still on 
               the police.

                         What if they don't arrest you? What 
                         if they don't react at all?

               Gandhi glances at him. Walker too wears a knapsack. Gandhi 
               nods to it, though never breaking his pace.

                         Do you still have your notebook?
                              (Walker fumbles for 
                              it; Gandhi goes right 
                              on talking.)
                         The function of a civil resister is 
                         to provoke response. And we will 
                         continue to provoke until they 
                         respond, or they change the law. 
                         They are not in control -- we are. 
                         That is the strength of civil 

               He nods politely toward the British police officer at the 
               end of the police line. Walker stops, letting the procession 
               march on by him, looking at the British police officer, then 
               writing busily in his notebook. Collins stop by him.

                         What'd he say?

                         He said he's in charge...


               A dusty approach to a dusty little village. Both sides of 
               the track are lined with peasants holding flower petals and 
               leaves, all gazing expectantly down the road. Behind them 
               the village is strung with the green, white and saffron colors 
               of Independence.

               Two large policemen stand arms-akimbo at the front of them 
               all, their postures imposing and threatening, though the 
               impression is somewhat weakened by the children skirting 
               around them.

               A little band of drummers and flute players suddenly begins 
               to play. The crowd starts to jump up to see, and the flower 
               petals begin to float in the sky. "Gandhi! Long live Mahatma 

               Another angle. Gandhi and the procession of marchers and 
               ashramites stride down the dusty road toward them.

               A newsreel truck and crew ride along about two-thirds of the 
               way back. A car of cameramen and reporters tails at the end.

               Featuring Gandhi. He looks at Walker, walking along a few 
               paces behind him, at the side of the procession. He is wiping 
               sweat from his face.

                         Are you going to walk all the way?

                              (a weary grin)
                         My name is Walk-er. And I intend to 
                         report it the way it is.

               Gandhi smiles and turns back. He shakes his head.

                              (to himself)
                         "My name is Walk-er"...

               And grinning at it, he passes by the policemen and into the 
               cheers of the crowd.

               Long shot, high. As the procession trails into the village, 
               we see several villagers, knapsacks or bundles strung over 
               their shoulders, run around the police and join the end of 
               the procession.


               In the dark a large group of students comes stumbling, 
               laughing, across the ditch that separates the road from the 
               field. The student leader gets clear of the ditch and comes 
               upon Pyarelal and Walker. They are standing near a group of 
               American newsmen playing poker by a campfire. He addresses 
               Pyarelal good-naturedly.

                                     STUDENT LEADER
                         We've come to join the march. What 
                         do we do?

                         Be sure you're awake in the morning.
                              (It comes from a 
                              knowledge of students. 
                              He smiles and nods 
                         Find a place to sleep.

               The student leader follows his gaze and the camera pans off 
               with his glance. We see that the numbers have grown immensely. 
               Fires dot the field and spread and spread and spread. Behind 
               Walker and Pyarelal the newsreel truck and three cars for 
               reporters are spread out around the fires. We identify a 
               couple of Frenchmen and a Japanese. Walker looks at Pyarelal 
               and shakes his head in wonder at it all.

               TREE - EXTERIOR - DAWN

               A small Indian boy is high in a dead tree. Below him a couple 
               of bone-thin cattle graze in the early light as he stares 


               The huge procession stretched out along the road.

               Resume the boy. He grins as though he is privy to some great 


               A blunt, rotund, powerful-looking woman (Sarojini Naidu) in 
               an outrageously colorful sari strides along the dusty road 
               as though she could cover another thousand miles -- and means 
               to. The sound of hundreds of marching feet, of cars, some 
               distant singing. The camera lifts and pulls back. We see 
               that Naidu is marching just behind Gandhi, like a determined 
               lieutenant, and that the procession has grown even greater. 
               Two newsreel trucks now, four cars of reporters, some people 
               riding donkeys, some walking with camels trailing, loaded 
               with belongings.

               And at the "Y" junctions the newsreel crews suddenly go into 
               action because another enormous procession is waiting to 
               join the first, mingling already, making one immense column 
               of humanity.

               And as they pass the camera up close we see an extraordinary 
               variety of participants: old, young, students, peasants, 
               ladies in saris and jewels, Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, Christian 
               nuns, Untouchables, merchants, some vigorous and determined, 
               others disheveled, tired and determined.

               Suddenly the sound of waves and gentle wind.


               The camera closing fast (helicopter) as the silhouette of a 
               man appears running up a sand dune, lifting his arms to the 
               sky and the camera sweeps over him and up, revealing a 
               crescent of beach and ocean, and for a second it holds on 
               the sea as it did at Porbandar, then pivots to the truly 
               astronomical crowd thronging the shore, an immense wheel of 
               human beings, and in its hub a gathering around Gandhi. We 
               descend on that center, recognizing the newsmen, Walker, 
               Pyarelal, Sarojini Naidu, and at last Gandhi picking up a 
               handful of natural salt and lifting it high.

               During the last of this

                                     GANDHI'S VOICE-OVER
                         Man needs salt as he needs air and 
                         water. This salt comes from the Indian 
                              (The salt crystals 
                              are added to an urn 
                              already partially 
                              full. The camera 
                              pulls back and Gandhi 
                              lifts the urn. All 
                              around him the 
                              pressing crowd: 
                              newsreel cameramen, 
                              reporters -- Walker, 
                              Collins, Naidu, 
                              Pyarelal. Firmly)
                         Let every Indian claim it as his 

               A wide-angle shot.

               Gandhi in the center of the wildly cheering crowd, the camera 
               pulling back and back... and the shot becomes black and white, 
               and we hear the music of Movietone News.

                                     ANNOUNCER'S VOICE-OVER
                         ...and so once more the man of non-
                         violence has challenged the might of 
                         the British Empire.

               And with that we get the Movietone Music tag and as the film 
               fades, the lights go up on


               A couple of civil servants move about to raise the window 
               shades while Lord Irwin stares at the blank screen set up in 
               his office. The general, the brigadier, the senior police 
               officer, Irwin's ADC and the principal secretary are all 
               present. The two men who ran the projector are quietly 
               dismantling it.

               Finally, Irwin turns to the senior police officer, who 
               fidgets, but answers the implied questions.

                                     SENIOR POLICE OFFICER
                         They're making it everywhere, sir -- 
                         mobs of them -- publicly. Congress 
                         leaders are selling it on the streets 
                         of Delhi.

               Irwin sighs.

                         We're being made fools of around the 

                         Isn't there any instruction from 

               Irwin nods.

                         We're required to stop it.
                              (He stands, his mind 
                              made up.)
                         And stop it we will.
                              (He looks at the senior 
                              police officer.)
                         I don't care if we fill the jails, 
                         stop it. Arrest anyone, any rank -- 
                         except Gandhi. We'll cut his strength 
                         from under him. And then we'll deal 
                         with the Mahatma.

               For the first time he is truly angry.

               WALL BY A BEACH - EXTERIOR - DAY

               A young British subaltern trots up to the wall and looks 
               down. His face falls.

                                     BRITISH SUBALTERN
                         Oh, my God!

               The beach. Subaltern's point of view. Packed with people 
               making salt, selling salt, buying salt.

               Resume the British subaltern. He looks back.

               His point of view. Behind him there is an open military truck 
               and about twenty sepoys. Formidable for an ordinary crowd, 
               nothing to handle this. The subaltern stiffens bravely and 
               signals the men somewhat unconvincingly from the truck.

                         Right -- jump to it -- clear this 


               Men, women and children are making little paper packets of 
               salt from piles heaped along long tables. A group of policemen 
               barge into the room, knocking tables and salt and paper in 
               every direction with their lathis, seizing some of the 
               volunteers for arrest.

               In the chaos an old man calmly picks up a piece of paper 
               from the floor, a handful of salt, and folds another packet.


               Nehru is on the back of a big open truck that is stationary 
               in the street. The truck is loaded with boxes that contain 
               salt packets and Nehru and eight or nine others are selling 
               them to people who flock about the truck. The sound of horses. 
               Nehru lifts his head.

               Mounted Indian police are coming down either side of the 
               street, a wave of foot police running forward down the center.

               Some of the people run, others deliberately stand fast.

               The mounted police converge on the truck. Nehru is grabbed, 
               and hurled so that he half falls, half leaps to the street. 
               One of the men with him is knocked along the ground by a 
               policeman. He is young and vigorous and he swivels on the 
               ground as though to strike back. Nehru lunges toward him.

                         No violence, Zia!

               And a lathi is brought smashing across the side of Nehru's 
               head. He is knocked to his knees; blood streams from his 
               head. He feels the side of his head, the blood soaking his 
               hand. He struggles to his feet, facing the policeman who has 
               struck him.

                              (repeating quietly, 
                              as though to Zia)

               It stops the policeman for a second, and a sergeant suddenly 
               intrudes, recognizing Nehru.

                         You're Nehru --

                         I'm an illegal trader in salt.

               The sergeant sighs grimly.


               The desk lights are on. Irwin, the senior police officer, 
               the principal secretary. Tension, fatigue, frustration as 
               the senior police officer outlines the situation.

                                     SENIOR POLICE OFFICER
                         ...There's been no time to keep 
                         figures, but there must be ninety -- 
                         a hundred thousand under arrest.
                              (Grimly, incredibly)
                         And it still goes on.

                         Who's leading them?

                                     SENIOR POLICE OFFICER
                         I don't know! Nehru, Patel, almost 
                         every Congress Official is in jail... 
                         and their wives and their children -- 
                         we've even arrested Nehru's mother.

                                     PRINCIPAL SECRETARY
                         Has there been any violence?

                                     SENIOR POLICE OFFICER
                              (distracted, offhand)
                         Oh, in Karachi the police fired on a 
                         crowd and killed a couple of people 
                         and --
                              (and this hurts)
                         and in Peshawar the Deputy Police 
                         Commissioner lost his head and... 
                         and opened fire with a machine gun.
                              (He looks up at them 
                              quickly, defensively.)
                         But he's facing a disciplinary court! 
                         You can't expect things like that 
                         not to happen when --

                         I believe the question was intended 
                         to discover if there was any violence 
                         of their side.

               The senior police officer looks up, realizing his gaffe and 
               wishes desperately he could relive the last couple of minutes.

                                     SENIOR POLICE OFFICER
                         Oh, no, sir -- no, I'm afraid not.

                                     PRINCIPAL SECRETARY
                              (again the 
                              Machiavellian mind)
                         Perhaps if we arrested Gandhi, it 
                         might --

               He means incite violence. The Viceroy ponders it -- favorably.

                              (to senior police 
                         He's addressed this letter directly 
                         to you, has he?

                                     SENIOR POLICE OFFICER
                         Yes, sir, he has. The usual -- India's 
                         salt belongs to India -- but then he 
                         says flatly that he personally is 
                         going to lead a raid tomorrow on the 
                         Dharasana Salt Works.

                         Thank him for his letter, and put 
                         him in jail.

               The senior police officer is brought up by the chill 
               directness of it. He looks at Irwin and the principal 
               secretary for a moment in uncertainty. Then

                                     SENIOR POLICE OFFICER
                         Yes, sir. Yes, sir. It will be my 

               As he turns to leave Irwin speaks -- almost offhandedly.

                         And Fields, keep that salt works 

               The senior police officer stares at him, then

                                     SENIOR POLICE OFFICER
                         Yes, sir!


               Barbed wire stretches on either side of the stockade-like 
               entrance. Above the gate we see the sign DHARASANA SALT WORKS. 
               Before it six British police officers and two Indian police 
               officers command a large troop of Indian policemen. They 
               face their opposition, unmoving, tense. The camera pans from 
               them, across a sloping dip in the ground, to a huge group of 
               volunteers lining up to face the police as tautly as the 
               police face them.

               Walker is off to one side, climbing to stand in the back of 
               Collin's car. He watches, looking tensely from one group to 
               the other, almost terrified by what seems about to happen.

               Collins leans against the back of the car near him, watching 
               with an equally appalled expectancy. There are two other 
               reporters near them.

               From Walker's point of view. We see Mirabehn and some Indian 
               women quietly placing stretchers and tables of bandages near 
               a group of tents where the volunteers have been housed.

               Walker turns back to the two opposing groups at the Salt 
               Works entrance. We hear only a shuffle of feet, the clank of 
               a lathi against a metal police buckle. The air itself seems 
               breathless with tension.

               Featuring Azad. He has approached the chief police officer. 
               He stops before him politely.

                         I would like admission to the Works.

                                     CHIEF POLICE OFFICER
                              (equally politely)
                         I am sorry, sir. That cannot be 

               Azad looks at him a second, then glances at the troops. He 
               is clearly afraid, but there is an air of tragic inevitability 
               in his face.

               He moves back to address the volunteers.

                         Last night they took Gandhiji from 
                         us. They expect us to lose heart or 
                         to fight back. We will not lose heart, 
                         we will not fight back. In his name 
                         we will be beaten. As he has taught 
                         us, we will not raise a hand. "Long 
                         live Mahatma Gandhi!"

               He turns and starts down the dip toward the gate and the 
               waiting lathis of the police.

               A series of shots, as Azad leads the first row of volunteers 
               down and up the dip.

               We intercut Walker, frozen, watching the inevitable onslaught, 
               the British police commanding officer ready to give the first 

                                     POLICE COMMANDING OFFICER

               And with the volunteers a foot from them, the police strike 
               with their lathis. A groan of empathic anguish from the 
               waiting volunteers, but then we get A series of shots As the 
               next row moves forward and the horror of the one-sided mayhem 
               proceeds heads are cracked, faces split, ribs smashed, and 
               yet one row of volunteers follows another, and another into 
               the unrelenting police, who knock bleeding bodies out of the 
               way, down into the dip, swing till sweat pours from their 
               faces and bodies.

               And through it we intercut with Mirabehn and the Indian women 
               rescuing the wounded, carrying them on stretchers to be 
               bandaged. We see Walker helping once or twice, turning, 
               watching, torn between being a professional spectator and a 
               normal human being. And always the volunteers coming, never 
               stopping, never offering resistance.

               And finally on sound there is an insistent click, click, 
               click, like a thud of the lathis but becoming clearly the 
               slap of an impatient hand on a telephone cradle and out of 
               the carnage of the salt works we dissolve to


               Close shot -- a telephone cradle being pounded.

               Walker is at the phone at a table in the corner of the small, 
               cluttered store. His clothes are matted with blood and dirt.

                              (into the phone)
                         Hello! Ed! Ed! Goddammit, don't cut 
                         me off!
                              (Then suddenly he's 
                         Ed! Okay -- yeah -- right.

               And he continues urgently reading the story that lies on his 
               notes on the little stand before him.

                         "They walked, with heads up, without 
                         music, or cheering, or any hope of 
                         escape from injury or death."
                              (His voice is taut, 
                              harshly professional.)
                         "It went on and on and on. Women 
                         carried the wounded bodies from the 
                         ditch until they dropped from 
                         exhaustion. But still it went on."

               He shifts the mangled notes and comes to his last paragraph. 
               He speaks it trying only half successfully to keep the emotion 
               from his voice.

                         "Whatever moral ascendance the West 
                         held was lost today. India is free 
                         for she has taken all that steel and 
                         cruelty can give, and she has neither 
                         cringed nor retreated."
                              (On Walker close. His 
                              sweating, blood and 
                              dirt-stained face 
                              near tears.)
                         "In the words of his followers, 'Long 
                         live Mahatma Gandhi.' "


               Silence. The camera moves across the empty room and discovers 
               Irwin, standing by himself, looking out of the window down 
               into the street.

               Closer. His numb, motionless face is stirred to consciousness 
               by something outside. He focuses somberly on it.

               EXTERIOR - DAY

               Through the formal entrance comes a single black car. A 
               motorcycle policeman precedes it.


               The black car pulls up before the front of the palace and 
               stops. There is no sign of activity. It is as though the 
               building and grounds are deserted except for Irwin alone in 
               his office.

               Gandhi gets out of the car. He too is alone. In his dhoti 
               and shawl he starts to mount the grand stairs.

               Wide angle. The great palace, the magnificent entrance, and 
               the little man in the dhoti, who in a sense has conquered it 
               all, marching to the great doors. Two Gurkhas spring to 
               attention and the doors are swung open.


               The principal secretary, with a look of faint distaste for 
               someone out of shot, discreetly moves out of the doors, and 
               closes them behind him.

               Featuring Gandhi, just inside the door. He is looking across 
               the wide office.

                         I am aware that I must have given 
                         you much cause for irritation, your 
                         Excellency. I hope it will not stand 
                         between us as men.

               Reverse angle. Irwin is in shadows behind his desk looking, 
               still, in some kind of shock, staring at Gandhi.

                         Mr. Gandhi, I have instructions to 
                         request your attendance at an All-
                         Government Conference in London to 
                         discuss -- to discuss the possible 
                         Independence of India.

               He faces Gandhi stiffly.

               The whirr of a camera, and a swift cut to


               Wide screen, but slightly under-cranked with the bad cutting 
               and predictable music of the old newsreels.

               A. Gandhi, Mirabehn and Gandhi's secretary, Desai, waving 
               goodbye from the boat deck of their ship as it sails -- 
               Mirabehn is holding the tether of a goat -- all of them 
               smiling at the camera like voyagers everywhere.

               B. Gandhi on the steps of Kingsley Hall in the East End of 
               London being greeted by a cheering crowd. Mirabehn holds an 
               umbrella over him as he takes a bouquet from a little child. 
               The now gray-haired Charlie Andrews beams possessively at 
               his side.

               C. Gandhi, in his dhoti, waving to a small crowd as he enters 
               the gates of Buckingham Palace. A London bobby watches.

               D. Gandhi, taking his seat at the conference table among the 
               formally -- in some Maharajahs' cases, elaborately -- dressed 
               delegates. A gavel is struck and Ramsay MacDonald begins his 
               opening address.

                         I think our first duty is to recognize 
                         that there is not one India, but 
                         several: a Hindu India, a Muslim 
                         India, and India of Princely States. 
                         And all these must be respected -- 
                         and cared for -- not just one.

               Beneath its unctuous political veneer it is blatantly divisive 
               and clearly reveals the true intent of the Conference. As 
               Gandhi looks at MacDonald, we read on his face his perception 
               of the sad truth.

               E. Gandhi, Mirabehn and Charlie walking under an umbrella in 
               the rain, their heads bent in glum conversation.

               F. Gandhi being welcomed and kissed by a group of millworkers 
               outside a large mill entrance identified by the sign 
               GREENFIELD COTTON MILL, LANCASHIRE. He is hugged and squeezed 
               by some hefty female millworkers, all grinning happily, Gandhi 
               not least.

               G. Gandhi in a radio studio, seated at a table, a large 
               microphone labeled "CBS" before him, technicians and Mirabehn 
               in the glass booth behind him, Walker across the table from 
               him, the "On the Air" sign bright...

                              (to Walker)
                         Do I speak into that?

               Walker cringes, glancing at the lighted "On the Air" sign. 
               He signals "Yes" frantically.

                         Are they ready? Do I start?

               He glances at the booth. Everybody including Walker and 
               Mirabehn are nodding "Yes." Gandhi shrugs, grins at everyone's 
               excitement, and begins.

                         I am glad to speak to America where 
                         so many friends exist that I know 
                         only in my heart.

               As the speech continues in the thin, static-y tones of 
               thirties' radio, we see Mirabehn and the technicians listening 
               in the control room./ Walker, across the table from Gandhi./ 
               The outside of Broadcasting House./ The Empire State Building 
               and Manhattan./ A mid-western farmhouse./ A thirties' radio 
               set in a thirties' American living room./ A family, listening, 
               kids playing on the floor, half ignoring it, the mother 
               ironing, the father in an armchair, a newspaper open.

                                     GANDHI'S VOICE
                              (continuing over all)
                         I think your interest and the world's 
                         has fallen on India, not only because 
                         we are struggling for freedom, but 
                         because the way we are doing so is 
                         unique as far as history shows us. 
                         Here in Europe mighty nations are, 
                         it seems, already contemplating 
                         another war, though I think they, 
                         and all the world, are sick to death 
                         of bloodspilling. All of us are 
                         seeking a way out, and I flatter 
                         myself that perhaps the ancient land 
                         of India will offer such a way. If 
                         we are to make progress we must not 
                         repeat history, but make history. 
                         And I myself will die before I betray 
                         our belief that love is a stronger 
                         weapon than hate.

               H. Gandhi shaking hands with MacDonald outside No. 10 Downing 
               Street, MacDonald smiling the politician's smile, Gandhi 
               smiling rather sadly.

               I. Gandhi on the deck of a boat, sitting on a deck chair, 
               wrapped in blankets, staring somberly out to sea. Reverse 
               angle: the wake of the boat in the vast ocean.

               THE ASHRAM - EXTERIOR - DAY

               The gentle sounds of the country. A girl of twelve leads a 
               limping goat slowly across the grass. She pauses and looks 
               up questioningly.

               Reverse angle -- close. Gandhi is watching from the porch of 
               his bungalow. We can tell he is sitting and turned to watch 
               the goat, but we see only him and a portion of the bungalow 
               behind him.

                         It is only a sprain. Take her to the 
                         river, and we'll make a mud-pack for 
                         her. Go -- I won't be long.

               He turns back.

               Another angle. He is spinning (expertly), and gathered on 
               the porch with him are Nehru and Jinnah and Patel and Azad 
               and Kripalani. Desai and Pyarelal are inconspicuously in 
               attendance as always, Pyarelal now clearly sharing Desai's 
               role as secretary.

                         So the truth is, after all your 
                         travels, all your efforts, they've 
                         stopped the campaign and sent you 
                         home empty-handed.

               He is in his white suit, the black-ribboned pince-nez. He 
               sits on a wicker chair, Nehru and Patel lean against the 
               railing, Azad and Kripalani sit on the floor like Gandhi.

                         They are only clinging to old dreams
                              (looks up from his 
                              spinning to Jinnah)
                         and trying to split us in the old 
                         way. But the will has gone -- 
                         Independence will drop like a ripe 
                         apple. The only question is when
                              (another glance at 
                         and how.

                         I say when is now -- and we will 
                         determine how.


               Gandhi winds up what he has done, and starts to rise.

                         They are preparing for war. I will 
                         not support it, but I do not intend 
                         to take advantage of their danger.

                              (blithely, but to the 
                         That's when you take advantage.

               Gandhi has moved toward the steps. He stops and looks at 
               Patel. A wry, gentle smile.

                         No. That is just another way of 
                         striking back. We have come a long 
                         way together with the British. When 
                         they leave we want to see them off 
                         as friends.
                              (He starts down the 
                              steps and heads for 
                              the river.)
                         And now, if you'll excuse me, there 
                         is something I must attend to.

               Featuring Nehru. He looks at Jinnah and shrugs. Jinnah takes 
               it less philosophically and his eyes burn with anger as he 
               watches Gandhi head for the young girl with the injured goat.

                         "Mud packs."


               Gandhi is moving with the stream of passengers disembarking 
               from the Third Class section. Ba and Mirabehn are struggling 
               along behind him, Desai and Pyarelal completing the little 
               group. They pass a newspaper stand: "Hitler's Armies Sweep 
               On." As they move out into the flux of the station we see 
               many uniforms, the sense of a nation readying for war.

               A British captain stands before a full platoon of Indian 

               As Gandhi approaches, a British Lt. Colonel and his Adjutant 
               (a Captain) move out from one side of the troops.

                                     BRITISH COLONEL
                         Mr. Gandhi -- sir.

               Gandhi stops, looks up at him, at the troops behind him.

                                     BRITISH COLONEL
                         I have instructions to inquire as to 
                         the subject of your speech tonight.

               Gandhi shakes his head with a weary grin.

                         The value of goat's milk in daily 
                              (Into his eyes)
                         But you can be sure I will also speak 
                         against war.

               The British Colonel signals back to the troops.

                                     BRITISH COLONEL
                         I'm sorry, sir. That can't be allowed.

               As a detail marches up to them, the colonel's adjutant speaks 
               gently to Ba.

                         It's all right, Mrs. Gandhi. I have 
                         orders to return with you and your 
                         companion to the Mahatma's ashram.

                         If you take my husband, I intend to 
                         speak in his place.

               She stares at the adjutant belligerently. He looks flummoxed.

               Later. Long shot -- high. The colonel and his adjutant 
               striding toward the exit of the station. Following behind 
               them, a detail of six soldiers accompanying Gandhi. The camera 
               tracks across the platform and we see they are being followed 
               by a detail of six soldiers accompanying Ba. And the camera 
               tracks again and we see they are being followed by a detail 
               of six soldiers accompanying Mirabehn!


               A jeep bounces along the road. It is driven by an American 
               lieutenant and his passenger is a woman dressed in an American 
               War Correspondent's uniform (Margaret Bourke-White). As the 
               jeep passes the camera we pan with it and see the walls of a 
               palace ahead.

                         Stop! Wait a minute!

               The jeep slithers to a stop, and Bourke-White grabs a camera 
               that is strapped around her, stands, and takes a picture of 
               the palace.


               The palace looks evocative -- a lonely, incongruous building.


                         It was the Aga Khan's palace, but 
                         they've turned it into a prison.

               Bourke-White slips back down into her seat; we see the arm 
               band on her jacket: "Press." The lieutenant starts the jeep 
               up and they head toward the gate, where we see a British 
               soldier on guard.

                              (shouting over the 
                         They've got most of the leading 
                         Congress politicians in this one. 
                         But Nehru and some others are over 
                         in Dehra Dun. Your timing's pretty 
                         lucky. They had your Mr. Gandhi cut 
                         off from the press but last month 
                         his personal secretary died and 
                         they've let up on the restrictions.

               Bourke-White just absorbs it, staring at the palace, taking 
               in the experience with the appetite of her breed, and her 
               own particular sensitivity.


               Gandhi sits by the window that is grilled rather than barred. 
               He is spinning in a shaft of light -- and looking off -- as 
               we hear a camera click and the rustle of movement. His hair, 
               only half-gray in London, is now white.

                         Yes, I have heard of Life Magazine.
                              (A smile.)
                         I have even heard of Margaret Bourke-
                         White. But I don't know why either 
                         should be interested in an old man 
                         sitting in prison when the world is 
                         blowing itself to pieces.

               Bourke-White -- who has been moving, crouching to shoot him 
               and the light -- sags back against the wall, relaxing at 
               last. She has a smile as penetrating and warming as his.

                              (a beat -- and she 
                         You're the only man I know who makes 
                         his own clothes.

               Gandhi grins and glances toward his dhoti.

                         Ah, but for me that's not much of an 

               Meaning he doesn't wear many clothes. Bourke-White bursts 
               into an appreciative radiance -- already she has assessed 
               him, and been won.


               Gandhi walks along, Bourke-White loping along beside him, a 
               little distance away, listening, but searching too for an 
               angle, a moment that is right.

                         No -- prison is rather agreeable to 
                         me, and there is no doubt that after 
                         the war, independence will come. My 
                         only worry is what shape it will 
                         take. Jinnah has --


               She has Gandhi in the foreground, a soldier on the wall above 
               and behind him.

                         Now go on -- just as you were.

               Gandhi shrugs but suffers it. We feature him, low, from her 
               point of view, as he walks on, the soldier pacing on the 
               wall in the background.

                         "...what shape it will take." Jinnah 
                         has -- what?

                              (at first disconcerted, 
                              but then flowing)
                         Jinnah has -- has cooperated with 
                         the British. It has given him power 
                         and the freedom to speak, and he has 
                         filled the Muslims with fears of 
                         what will happen to them in a country 
                         that is predominantly Hindu.
                              (He stops, lowering 
                              his head gravely.)
                         That I find hard to bear -- even in 

               She clicks.


               A spinning wheel works rapidly. The camera lifts. Gandhi is 
               at the wheel and he is smiling off at Bourke-White, who is 
               trying ineptly to imitate him on another spinning wheel. The 
               garden they are in has gone to seed a bit, but with latticed 
               fretwork in the walls dappling sunlight on the grass and 
               shrubs it is still beautiful.

                              (archly, but 
                              emphatically of the 
                         I do not see it as the solution of 
                         the twentieth century's problems!

               She's grinning at her own frustration and she keeps trying, 
               but there's no doubt she means it. Gandhi's smile broadens. 
               Wryly he lifts his own "product" -- a tiny roll of thread.

                         I have a friend who keeps telling me 
                         how much it costs him to keep me in 

               And they both laugh... a guard on the wall distantly looks 
               at them wonderingly.

                              (a bit more seriously)
                         But I know happiness does not come 
                         with things -- even twentieth century 
                         things. It can come from work, and 
                         pride in what you do.
                              (He looks at her 
                         It will not necessarily be "progress" 
                         for India if she simply imports the 
                         unhappiness of the West.

               And she responds to the sophistication of that observation. 
               He pivots around, moving beside her, and slowly demonstrates 
               the process, taking her hands, guiding her. Bourke-White 
               watches him as much as the wheel.

                         But do you really believe you could 
                         use non-violence against someone 
                         like Hitler?

                              (a thoughtful pause)
                         Not without defeats -- and great 
                              (He looks at her.)
                         But are there no defeats in this war -- 
                         no pain?
                              (For a moment the 
                              thought hangs, and 
                              then Gandhi takes 
                              their hands back to 
                              the spinning.)
                         What you cannot do is accept 
                         injustice. From Hitler -- or anyone. 
                         You must make the injustice visible -- 
                         be prepared to die like a soldier to 
                         do so.

               And he smiles a little wisely at her.

                         Is my finger supposed to be wrapped 
                         around that?

                         No. That is what you get for 
                         distracting me.

                         What do you expect when you talk 
                         like that?

                              (trying to unravel 
                              the mess)
                         I expect you to show as much patience 
                         as I am now.

               His tone is not altogether patient. She looks at him in 
               surprise and he sighs tolerantly. Then reflectively

                         Every enemy is a human being -- even 
                         the worst of them. And he believes 
                         he is right and you are a beast.
                              (And now a little 
                         And if you beat him over the head 
                         you will only convince him. But you 
                         suffer, to show him that he is wrong, 
                         your sacrifice creates an atmosphere 
                         of understanding -- if not with him, 
                         then in the hearts of the rest of 
                         the community on whom he depends.

               Bourke-White looks at him and there is enough sense in this 
               argument to give her pause.

                         If you are right, you will win -- 
                         after much pain.
                              (He looks at her, 
                              then smiles in his 
                              own ironic way.)
                         If you are wrong, well, then, only 
                         you will suffer the blows.

               She stares at him, and we know she thinks him much more 
               profound than she had thought initially.


               Ba, Mirabehn and Bourke-White sit on straw mats around the 
               room, an oil lamp is the only light. It is women's talk, but 
               Ba is defending her husband, speaking simply, but with total 

                         ...not at all. Bapu has always said 
                         there were two kinds of slavery in 
                         India -- one for women, one for the 
                         untouchables -- and he has always 
                         fought against both.

               Bourke-White accepts it at face value. She opens another 
               line of inquiry.

                         Does it rankle, being separated from 
                         him this way?

               Ba pauses.

                         Yes... but we see each other in the 

                         But not at night...

               She's terribly curious, but she doesn't want to offend. Ba 
               sees both the curiosity and the hesitancy. She smiles across 
               at Mirabehn, then

                         In Hindu philosophy the way to God 
                         is to free yourself of possessions -- 
                         and the passions that inflame to 
                         anger and jealousy.
                              (A smile.)
                         Bapu has always struggled to find 
                         the way to God.

                         You mean he -- he gave up --
                              (how to phrase it, 
                         married life.

               Again Ba smiles.

                         Four times he tried -- and failed.
                              (Mirabehn and Bourke-
                              White grin. The older 
                              woman gives a wistful 
                         But then he took a solemn vow...

               She shrugs... the implication is it was a long time ago.

                         And he has never broken it?

                              (a beat)
                         Not yet.

               She looks at them soberly and then they all burst into 
               laughter like girls.


               Military move quietly but urgently in and out around the 
               main entrance. Two military ambulances are drawn up nearby.

               A British major comes down the steps quickly. He is almost 
               at the bottom when a British army doctor starts to go up 
               them. The major signals him to one side. They talk quietly 
               and confidentially.

                         I've got permission to move her -- 
                         he can go too.

               The doctor shakes his head.

                         She's had a coronary throm -- a 
                         serious heart failure. She wouldn't 
                         survive a trip. It's best to leave 
                         her -- and hope.

               The major looks defeated and depressed by the news.

               BA'S ROOM - INTERIOR - TWILIGHT

               Ba lies on a mat, a pillow beneath her head, her eyes closed, 
               her breathing short. Mirabehn sits next to her, rubbing a 
               hand up and down her arm.

               Gandhi sits a little distance away, staring at the floor and 
               into nothingness. Pyarelal sits inconspicuously behind him.

               Azad and Patel come to the doorway, Patel makes the pranam 
               toward Ba and holds it as he obviously prays. Azad has bowed 
               his head and he too is clearly making some prayer for her. 
               Finally Azad takes just a step forward.

               Gandhi looks up at him. For a moment he folds his hands 
               absently, then he stands. He moves to Ba's side and kneels. 
               She does not open her eyes.

                         It is time for my walk -- I won't be 

               Ba's eyes flutter open. She holds her hand out to him and he 
               takes it. When he goes to release it, she clutches it. Gandhi 
               hesitates, and then he sits, holding Ba's hand in his lap. 
               He looks across at Mirabehn and nods for her to go.

               Mirabehn smiles weakly, gives Ba a last little rub of farewell 
               and stands.

               The doorway. Patel stands, letting Mirabehn pass before him 
               and do down the corridor with Azad. He looks back.

               His point of view. Gandhi sitting, holding Ba's hand, his 
               eyes once more on the floor in their empty stare.

               Another angle -- later. The light has changed. A fly moves 
               along a small section of the floor that still contains a 
               ribbon of the dying sunlight.

               Gandhi still sits, holding Ba's hand, staring into 

               The doctor appears in the doorway. He pauses, nods amiably 
               to Gandhi, though Gandhi does not react to his presence at 
               all. Moving quietly, the doctor goes to the other side of Ba 
               and crouches, and lifts her wrist to feel her pulse. He holds 
               it for a moment, then lifts his eyes in doubt and sudden 
               fateful apprehension. He glances at her, then slowly lowers 
               her arm and puts the branches of his stethoscope in his ears. 
               He puts the acoustic bell over her heart... a moment, and he 
               lifts it slowly, his face confirming for us what he and we 
               already know: there is no heartbeat. He glances at Pyarelal, 
               who only lowers his eyes. The doctor turns his head slowly 
               to Gandhi.

               Gandhi. His point of view. His posture is utterly unchanged, 
               Ba's hand still in his lap, his eyes still staring emptily 
               at the floor in front of him, but suddenly tears begin to 
               run down his cheeks. He does not move, there is no change in 
               his empty stare, but the tears continue to flow.


               The funeral pyre burns, its work almost done.

               Mirabehn, Patel, Azad, Pyarelal, stand with other prisoners 
               and the military wardens in solemn obeisance to the dead -- 
               and the living, for Gandhi sits a little distance from the 
               pyre, wrapped in his shawl, staring at the dying embers in 
               tragic and impenetrable isolation as though he may never 
               move again.

               Close shot -- Mirabehn watching him her face wet with tears.


               Extreme close shot. A piece of cloth, shimmering in a stiff 
               breeze... For a moment we hold it in silence and then we 
               hear the sound of an aircraft growing louder and louder. And 
               slowly the camera pulls back and we see that the cloth is 
               part of a pennant of the nose of an aircraft.

               We cut from the pennant to see the aircraft stopping before 
               a reception area, a carpet rolled out toward its door.

               An Indian regimental band strikes up martial music. A 
               detachment of Indian Royal Air Force comes to attention at 
               the shouted command of their NCO.

               Featuring the aircraft doors. An elaborately dressed military 
               aide opens the door and Lord Louis Mountbatten, resplendent 
               in naval uniform, steps out onto the platform. He pauses and 
               renders a salute.


               Nehru, Lady Mountbatten and dignitaries. English and Indians 
               watch as Mountbatten approaches a group of microphones 
               identified as NBC, CBS, BBC, etc.

                         We have come to crown victory with 
                         friendship -- to assist at the birth 
                         of an independent India and to welcome 
                         her as an equal member in the British 
                         Commonwealth of Nations.
                              (A little smile.)
                         I am here to see that I am the last 
                         British Viceroy ever to have the 
                         honor of such a reception.

               He grins in his youthful, beguiling manner and makes the 
               pranam to the cheering crowd.

               It is cut off by the sound of a door being opened, close.


               Jinnah stands by one of the great pillars of the immense 
               portico. It is a break in their Independence Conference, and 
               as he lights a cigarette, a weary Gandhi approaches him with 
               Azad. Jinnah's anger is clearly too deep to be left at the 
               conference table. He slaps his lighter shut and addresses 
               Gandhi in hushed but fiercely felt words.

                         I don't give a damn for the 
                         independence of India! I am concerned 
                         about the slavery of Muslims!

               Nehru and Patel are approaching from the conference room, 
               both of them looking worn and angry too. Jinnah raises his 
               voice deliberately so Nehru will hear.

                         I will not sit by to see the mastery 
                         of the British replaced by the mastery 
                         of the Hindus!

                              (patiently, not yet 
                              believing it can't 
                              be settled)
                         Muslim and Hindu are the right and 
                         left eye of India. No one will be 
                         slave, no one master.

               Jinnah sneers at the idea, though he cools a little.

                         The world is not made of Mahatma 
                              (He looks at Nehru 
                              and Patel.)
                         I am talking about the real world.

                         The "real India" has Muslims and 
                         Hindus in every village and every 
                         city! How do you propose to separate 

                         Where there is a Muslim majority -- 
                         that will be Pakistan. The rest is 
                         your India.

                              (a forced patience)
                         Mohammed -- the Muslims are in a 
                         majority on two different sides of 
                         the country.

                         Let us worry about Pakistan -- you 
                         worry about India.

               Gandhi is staring at Jinnah trying to fathom the source of 
               his anger and fear. He turns to see that Mountbatten has 
               been standing in the open door to the conference room, as 
               torn as Gandhi by the conflict, feeling it best controlled 
               in formal discussion.

                         Gentlemen, perhaps we should 

               Gandhi nods, and reluctantly the adversaries move back to 
               the conference room. Gandhi is last through the door. He 
               pauses by Mountbatten, a little sigh -- "How difficult, how 
               difficult" -- then he puts a friendly hand on Mountbatten's 
               shoulder and the two of them enter together.


               Featuring Godse waving a black flag and shouting.

                              (with others)
                         Death to Jinnah! Death to Jinnah!

               We have pulled back and we see a whole gathering of Hindu 
               youths near the entrance to the ashram. Many wave black flags. 
               A couple of trucks that have brought them, and a car, are 
               along the path. Kallenbach is stepping out of an old 1942 
               open Austin that he has put in a waiting position near the 
               entrance to the path. The chanting shout "Death to Jinnah!" 
               suddenly dies. The youths -- and Kallenbach -- look back 
               toward the ashram.

               Featuring Gandhi's bungalow. Nehru has stepped out onto the 
               porch and he glares at the youths. It is his presence that 
               has silenced them.

               Kallenbach smiles.


               Gandhi is rising from the floor, where his spinning wheel 
               sits. He stops, halfway up, listening, then, a weary sigh.

                         Thank God, they've stopped.

               Mirabehn is spinning across the room. She lifts her head as 
               a signal to someone out of shot.

               Gandhi's two grand nieces, Manu and Abha, who help Mirabehn 
               now that Ba is gone, rise quickly at Mirabehn's signal, Manu 
               to help with his shawl, Abha to hold his sandals so that he 
               can slip into them.

                         I'm your grand uncle but I can still 
                         walk either of you into the ground 
                         and I don't need to be pampered this 

               It's cross -- he's worried about other things. Mirabehn just 
               smiles at it. Gandhi looks down at Abha, and taps her sharply 
               on the top of the head.

                         Finish your quota of spinning.

               She nods obediently, the flicker of a smile around her mouth, 
               youthful, irrepressible. The beauty of it almost saddens 
               Gandhi. He taps her again -- gently -- and goes out.


               Kallenbach shoos a chicken from the back seat of the Austin 
               and dusts off the seat. He steps back out.

               Gandhi is approaching with Nehru and Azad, Pyarelal trails 
               close behind. We have seen Azad and Pyarelal come out on the 
               porch behind Nehru. As Gandhi near the car a Hindu youth 
               with a black flag calls to him.

                                     HINDU YOUTH
                         Bapu -- please. Don't do it!

               They are all awed, timid even in his actual presence, and 
               the mood of their gathering has changed altogether. Gandhi 
               looks at the youth and the line of others.

                         What do you want me not to do? Not 
                         to meet with Mr. Jinnah?
                         I am a Muslim!
                              (He stares at them, 
                              then relents.)
                         And a Hindu, and a Christian and a 
                         Jew -- and so are all of you. When 
                         you wave those flags and shout you 
                         send fear into the hearts of your 

               He sweeps them sternly with his eyes, all his fatigue and 
               strain showing.

                         This is not the India I want. Stop 
                         it. For God's sake, stop it.

               And he lowers his head and moves on to the car, where 
               Kallenbach holds the door for him, Nehru, Azad and Pyarelal 

               Another angle. As they get into the car, we see the car that 
               sits by the two trucks that have brought the youths. In the 
               back seat we see two men, one of whom is Prakash (The bearded 
               man at Gandhi's assassination).


               Jinnah is on the small balcony of this elaborate room. He is 
               looking down in a slightly supercilious manner. As usual he 
               is impeccably dressed.

                         Now, please, if you've finished your 
                         prayers, could we begin with business.

               He has been looking at Gandhi, who sits on the floor of the 
               large room some distance from him, just lifting his head 
               from prayers.

               Nehru, Patel and Azad are on the same side of the room as 
               Gandhi. They rise from prayer as Jinnah comes down the steps 
               to them. Gandhi hesitates, then begins.

                         My dear Jinnah, you and I are brothers 
                         born of the same Mother India. If 
                         you have fears, I want to put them 
                         to rest.
                              (Jinnah listens 
                              skeptically. Gandhi 
                              just glances in 
                              Nehru's direction.)
                         I am asking Panditji to stand down. 
                         I want you to be the first Prime 
                         Minister of India
                              (Jinnah raises an 
                              eyebrow of interest.)
                         -- to name your entire cabinet, to 
                         make the head of every government 
                         department a Muslim.

               And Jinnah has drawn himself up. His vanity is too great not 
               to be touched by that prospect. He measures Gandhi for a 
               moment to see that he is sincere, and when he is satisfied 
               with that, he turns slowly to Nehru, Patel and Azad.

               Nehru glances at Patel. They have all been taken by surprise 
               by the offer -- and do not feel what Gandhi feels. Nehru 
               looks hesitantly at Gandhi.

                         Bapu, for me, and the rest,
                              (his hand gestures to 
                              Patel and Azad)
                         if that is what you want, we will 
                         accept it. But out there
                              (he indicates the 
                         already there is rioting because 
                         Hindus fear you are going to give 
                         too much away.

                         If you did this, no one could control 
                         it. No one.

               It bears the stamp of undeniable truth. Gandhi's eyes sag 
               with the despair of a man whose last hope, whose faith, has 
               crumbled around him.

               Jinnah smiles cynically, he spreads his hands "See?"

                         It is your choice. Do you want an 
                         independent India and an independent 
                         Pakistan? Or do you want civil war?

               Gandhi stares at him numbly.


               On a platform in the foreground Mountbatten and Nehru. A 
               band plays the Indian National Anthem loudly and there is 
               the roar of a tremendous crowd as the green, white and saffron 
               flag of India is raised on the flagpole.


               On a platform in the foreground Jinnah and a British 
               plenipotentiary. A band plays the new Pakistani National 
               Anthem loudly and there is the roar of a tremendous crowd as 
               the white, green with white crescent, flag of Pakistan is 
               raised on the flagpole.

               THE ASHRAM - EXTERIOR - DAY

               Silence. The little flagpole is empty, the rope dangling, 
               flapping loosely down the pole.

               Gandhi sits on the porch of his bungalow, spinning. The hum 
               of the spinning wheel. Inside we can just see Mirabehn, 
               spinning too. But apart from that, he is alone; the whole 
               ashram seems deserted. We hear the sound of a bell on one of 
               the goats, fairly distant.


               Featuring Kallenbach. He is taking the goat and tethering it 
               near the path of the ashram. He stills the bell with his 
               hand. As he ties it the camera angle widens and we see 
               Margaret Bourke-White sitting on the grass, watching 
               Kallenbach and looking off toward Gandhi's bungalow.

                         Aren't you being a little 

               Kallenbach looks at her. Her tone criticizes more than his 
               stilling the goat's bell.

                         Tomorrow. Tomorrow photograph him.

                         I came all this way because I believed 
                         the picture of Independence Day was 
                         of him here alone.

               Kallenbach stands and looks across at her, judging, then 
               appealing to her humanity.

                         It is violence, and the fear of 
                         violence, that have made today what 
                         it is... Give him the dignity of his 

               Bourke-White grabs a clump of grass, twists it free, and 
               sighs. She tosses the grass vaguely at the goat.

                         And while we're sitting here feeding 
                         goats, what will happen to all the 
                         Muslims in India and the Hindus in 

               Kallenbach stops, staring absently at the ground ahead, then

                         Gandhi will pray for them...


               The camera is high (helicopter) and moving and from its 
               position we meet and then pass over an immense column of 
               refugees -- ten, twenty abreast -- moving down one side of 
               the railroad track toward camera. Women, children, the sick, 
               the aged, all burdened with bedding, utensils, household 
               treasures, useless bric-a-brac and trudging with them every 
               type of cart, wagon, rickshaw, pulled by donkey, camel, bike, 
               oxen. It stretches endlessly to the horizon. Tiny green, 
               white and saffron flags here and there indicate that it is a 
               Hindu column and spotted through it we see people in fresh 
               bandages, some on stretchers, sticking out like radioactive 
               tracers in the huge artery of frightened humanity.

               And the camera lifts and tilts, slowly swinging to the 
               opposite direction, and as it does, reveals another vast 
               column across the track, several yards away, moving in the 
               opposite direction: veiled women in purdah, the crescent 
               flag of Muslim Pakistan here and there. As the camera levels 
               and speeds along it, we see that this column too reaches to 
               the horizon, that it too carries its wounded.

               An unbelievable flood of desperate humanity.

               EXTREME CLOSE SHOT

               The sound of the vast refugee column. A woman's arms cradle 
               a baby in swaddling. Blood has seeped through the swaddling 
               in three or four places, some of it dried. Flies buzz around 
               it. And suddenly we hear the woman's sobs and she rocks the 
               baby and we know it has stopped moving, stopped breathing, 
               and a male hand gently touches the back of the baby, checking, 
               and the camera pans up to the face of a man.

               Again in extreme close shot so we cannot tell whether they 
               are Hindu or Muslim. And the man's eyes knot, and he swings 
               out of shot as he runs in fury and rage at the other column.

               LONG SHOT - HIGH

               The two columns -- and a howl of hate and grief! And the 
               camera sweeps to where men are running at each other across 
               the track, some already fighting. Knives, pangas, hatchets; 
               women screaming and running; a besieged wagon tipped.

               Another angle. And as the fighting grows more fierce streams 
               of men from each column run back to partake, but the bulk of 
               the two columns hurries off, scrambling, running, some leaving 
               their bundles, fleeing the meleÚ in terror.


               A Muslim pulled through broken glass in an urban market shop./ 
               Night: a Hindu temple daubed with blood, the bodies of women 
               and children strewn before it; screams, the sound of 
               fighting./ Mud and straw houses burning, figures running 
               through them./ A city street: a truck crashes into a barricade 
               of rickshaws and bales, and is set upon by a swarm of knife- 
               and panga-bearing men. From the back of the truck opponents 
               with swords and clubs leap into battle.

               NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY

               Chaos. It and the adjoining office have been made into 
               something like operations rooms. Military and civilian aides 
               move back and forth. Telephones at work everywhere. A huge 
               map on the wall is constantly having data changed by people 
               receiving messages there.

               Nehru is glancing at a telex message; he turns and gives it 
               back to the military aide who's given it to him.

                              (fast, curt)
                         No. There just are not that many 

                                     MILITARY AIDE
                         What's he to do?

                         What he can!

               He turns. Patel has a message he was going to present to 
               him. He hesitates, grins dismally, and crumples the message -- 
               "No use." Nehru sags. He looks at Patel with haggard eyes.

                         He was right. It's insane -- anything 
                         would have been better.

                         Have you found him?

               Nehru nods solemnly.

                         He's in Noakhali.

               Patel reacts to that -- surprise, apprehension.

                         He's tramping from village to village -- 
                         no police, no troops -- trying to 
                         quell the madness single-handedly.
                              (He sighs, half in 
                              admiration, half in 
                              hopeless exasperation 
                              at the old man's 
                         Maulana has gone to bring him back.

               Patel nods grimly -- the noisy chaos of the room. Someone 
               shouts at Nehru, "Prime Minister!"

               CLOSE SHOT - GANDHI

               In silence -- looking tragic, tired and defeated. He is 
               sitting in his characteristic manner, staring down at the 
               carpet before him.

                                     NEHRU'S VOICE
                              (dull, lifeless)
                         What you have done in Noakhali is a 
                         miracle, Bapu, a miracle, but millions 
                         are on the move -- millions. There 
                         is no way to stop it... and no one 
                         can count the dead.

               The camera angle has changed. We are in


               Patel and Azad are there and Pyarelal of course, and with 
               them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first 
               time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group.

                         In Calcutta it's like civil war. The 
                         Muslims rose and there was a 
                         bloodbath, and now the Hindus are 
                         taking revenge -- and if we can't 
                         stop it there'll be no hope for the 
                         Hindus left in Pakistan.

                eye for an eye making the whole 
                         world blind.

               It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words.

                         Aren't there any troops to spare?

                              (tense, fragile)
                         Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in 
                         Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the 
                         peace now. And each fresh bit of 
                         news creates another wave of  mad... 

               He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost 
               stopped him.

                         Could we cut all news off? I know --

                         Bapu -- please. Where are you going.

                              (sounding like an old 
                         I don't want to hear more...

               He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal 
               moves tentatively to open the door.

                         We need your help!

                         There is nothing I can give.

                         Where are you going?

               Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly.


               CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT

               We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, 
               of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and 
               occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of 
               artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses 
               is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group 
               of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild 

               On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light.

               CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF

               The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting 
               streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn 
               and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan.

               A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his 

                                     POLICE COMMISSIONER
                         Sir, please, I don't have the men to 
                         protect you -- not in a Muslim house. 
                         Not this quarter.

                         I am staying with the friend of a 

               There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: 
               "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!"

               Gandhi peers down.

               His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying 
               torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and 
               soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four 
               black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold 
               knives still wet with blood.

                                     A YOUTH
                         There he is!

               A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands 

                                     HINDU YOUTH LEADER
                              (his voice emotional, 
                         Why are you staying at the home of a 
                         Muslim! They're murderers! They killed 
                         my family!

               Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, 
               and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses 
               for a moment, staring down at the youth:

                         Because forgiveness is the gift of 
                         the brave.

               He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, 
               but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message.

                         To hell with you, Gandhi!!

               An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies

                              (to the youth)
                         Go -- do as your mother and father 
                         would wish you to do.

               It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother 
               and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's 
               eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish 
               and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him 
               the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," 
               "Death to Muslims!"

               Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police 
               commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest 
               respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile.

                         I have lived a lifetime. If I had 
                         shunned death -- or feared it -- I 
                         would not be here. Nor would you be 
                         concerned for me.
                              (He lets it sink in 
                              then he takes the 
                              commissioner's arm 
                              and moves back toward 
                              the center of the 
                         Leave me -- and take your men.
                              (An understanding 
                              touch of the arm.)
                         You have more important things to 
                         worry about.

               The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what 
               to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of 

               HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY

               An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke-
               White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded 
               women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who 
               is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors 
               behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses 
               hardly have room to move.

               Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he 
               moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul 
               Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and 
               there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a 
               cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye.

                         Bapu... Allah be with you...

               There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now.

                         And with you.
                              (He touches her 
                              wrinkled hand.)
                         Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... 

               And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him.


               A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, 
               rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach 
               the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. 
               The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break 
               from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- 
               organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some 
               dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several 
               Hindu black flags.


               He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. 
               The same activity going on in the background.

                         No! There will not be a Hindu Police 
                         and a Muslim Police. There is one 

               An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He 
               doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his 
               head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the 

               In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH!

               Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly 
               to his aide.

                         Why must I read news like this in 
                         the paper?

               The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers 
               his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already 
               has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh.

                         Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will 
                         go -- Friday.

                                     THE AIDE
                         Four days?

               Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes.

               TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY

               The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but 
               here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black 
               flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police 
               and soldiers. They are looking off to


               It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting 
               people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past 
               them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," 
               and make the pranam to the eminent men.

               In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's 
               "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears 
               someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy 

               Nehru pauses as he lowers his head.

               His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side 
               of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he 
               finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire 
               and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his 
               jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits 
               near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. 
               Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with 
               Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has 
               stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. 
               She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at 
               him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, 
               almost reflexively, for her camera.

               CLOSER ON GANDHI

               Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's 
               eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, 
               and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His 
               hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him.


               Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. 
               He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel.

                              (He looks him over.)
                         You have gained weight. You must 
                         join me in the fast.

               Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are 
               on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is 
               crouched, her camera framing the three of them.

                              (wittily, warmly)
                         If I fast I die. If you fast people 
                         go to all sorts of trouble to keep 
                         you alive.

               Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him.

                         Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I 
                         could have come earlier. But your 
                         fast has helped. These last days 
                         people's minds have begun to turn to 
                         this bed -- and away from last night's 
                         atrocity. But now it is enough.

               Gandhi shakes his head.

                         All that has happened is that I've 
                         grown a little thinner.

               It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote 
               for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion.

                         Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students 
                         of all ages are marching here in 
                         Calcutta -- for peace.
                              (The real point)
                         And five thousand Hindu students are 
                         marching with them. It is all 

               Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From 
               her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it 
               against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response.

               Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad 

                         I'm glad -- but it will not be enough.

               Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, 
               and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction 
               that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. 
               Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A 
               forced smile.

                         Bapu, you are not so young anymore.

               Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's 

                         Don't worry for me -- death will be 
                         a deliverance.
                              (There is water in 
                              his eyes, but his 
                              words have the weight 
                              of a man truly 
                              determined to die.)
                         I cannot watch the destruction of 
                         all I have lived for.

               Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi 
               means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by 
               the same realization.


               An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, 
               grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds 
               of distant fighting.

               TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT

               The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to 
               Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on 
               his side. He seems almost out of touch.


               Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks 
               into the microphone his voice is very weak.

                         Each night before I sleep, I read a 
                         few words from the Gita and the Koran, 
                         and the Bible...
                              (we intercut with 
                              Bourke-White and 
                              those on the roof 
                         tonight I ask you to share these 
                         thoughts of God with me.

               And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but 
               seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in 
               little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the 
               back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups.

                              (the books are there, 
                              but he does it from 
                              memory of course)
                         I will begin with the Bible where 
                         the words of the Lord are, "Love thy 
                         neighbor as thyself"... and then our 
                         beloved Gita which says, "The world 
                         is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor 
                         is in truth thyself"... and finally 
                         the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all 
                         hatred from our hearts and recline 
                         on couches face to face, a band of 

               He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she 
               starts to sing softly.

                         "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the 
                         circling gloom..."

               Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking 

                         "The night is dark, and I am far 
                         from home, Lead thou me on..."

               TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY

               Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before 
               Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More 
               mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many 
               still with black flags.

               Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough-
               looking man who carries himself with the authority and power 
               of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside 

               Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to 
               Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely 
               and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where 
               the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild 
               with anger and shock.

                         Who dares say such things! Who?!
                              (And he is running at 
                              them and they spread 
                              in fear.)
                         Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are 
                         you?! Kill me first!

               The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they 
               stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, 
               terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, 
               apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare.

               Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with 

               TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY

               We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a 
               picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of 
               Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's 
               Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly 
               put to one side.

               Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at 
               her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers 
               them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly 
               in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly.

                         His pulse is very irregular -- the 
                         kidneys aren't functioning.

               Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing 
               Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- 
               and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi 
               smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain.

                         Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. 
                         It was he who called on the Muslims 
                         to rise; he is telling them now to 
                         go back to their homes, to lay down 
                         their arms.

               Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back 
               at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind.

                         Think what you can do by living -- 
                         that you cannot do by dying.

               Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is 
               no change in his attitude.

                         What do you want?

                              (a moment)
                         That the fighting will stop -- that 
                         you make me believe it will never 
                         start again.

               Nehru looks at him hopelessly.


               A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage 
               near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not 
               yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the 
               loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent 
               rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes 
               as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to 
               a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others 
               sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over 
               all this.

                         ...Sometimes it is when you are quite 
                         without hope and in utter darkness 
                         that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji 
                         is dying because of our madness. Put 
                         away your "revenge." What will be 
                         gained by more killing? Have the 
                         courage to do what you know is right. 
                         For God's sake, let us embrace like 

               TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT

               Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a 
               wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. 
               We hear a little clank of metal.

               Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear 
               black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around 
               their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more 
               powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are 
               dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and 
               guns at Gandhi's feet.

               Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof 
               watch fascinated, a little frightened.

                                     GOONDA LEADER
                         It is our promise. We stop. It is a 

               Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting 
               anything that is mere gesture.

                         Go -- try -- God by with you.

               The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly 
               and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly 
               he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of 
               Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it 
               forcefully on Gandhi.


               Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks 
               immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up 
               a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in 
               emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there 
               is a wild menace in  that instability.

                         Eat! I am going to hell -- but not 
                         with your death on my soul.

                         Only God decides who goes to hell...

                              (stiffening, aggressive)
                         I -- I killed a child...
                              (Then an anguished 
                         I smashed his head against a wall.

               Gandhi stares at him, breathless.

                              (in a fearful whisper)
                         Why? Why?

               It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self-
               inflicted wound.

                              (tears now -- and 
                         They killed my son -- my boy!

               Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the 
               height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at 

                         The Muslims killed my son... they 
                         killed him.

               He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he 
               means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi 
               meets his pain and wrath. Then

                         I know a way out of hell.

               Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate 

                         Find a child -- a child whose mother 
                         and father have been killed. A little 
                         boy -- about this high.

               He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his 

                         ...and raise him -- as your own.

               Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink 
               of light, but it does not illumine his darkness.

                         Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. 
                         And that you raise him as one.

               And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he 
               swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. 
               But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his 
               knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving 
               body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional 
               greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi 
               reaches out and touches the top of his head.

               Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. 

                              (gently, exhaustedly)
                         Go -- go. God bless you...


               Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, 
               but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of 
               somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups 
               around the courtyard. A distant cough.

               Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for 
               action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his 
               throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading 
               the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. 
               We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU 
               GOES ON FAST.

               In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a 

               A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad 
               officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men 
               run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on!


               A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior 
               riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The 
               sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more 
               engines revving up.

                         Yes, sir, yes, sir,
                              (He holds up his hand 
                              to the senior officer)

               He glances up at the senior riot squad officer.

                              (writing, from the 
                         Accident, "Christie crossroads," a 
                         lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I 
                         have it.

               He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the 
               information slip to another constable behind the desk.

               The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear 
               him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs 
               heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and 
               turns and walks slowly to the door.


               The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the 
               doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence 
               returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A 
               bird caws once or twice.

                         I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. 

                                     SENIOR OFFICER
                         Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle...


               It lies in silence.

               TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY

               Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the 
               fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the 
               first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, 
               no gunfire.

                         Bapu, there's been no fighting -- 
                         anywhere. It has stopped -- the 
                         madness has stopped.

               We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, 
               Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind 
               Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal.

               Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her 

                         It is foolish if it is just to save 
                         the life of an old man.

                         No... no. In every temple and mosque 
                         they have pledged to die before they 
                         lift a hand against each other.

               His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad 
               nods "It's true." Then Patel


               Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks 
               down, then lifts his head to Azad.

                         Maulana, my friend, could I have 
                         some orange juice... Then you and I 
                         will take a piece of bread together...

               The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their 
               faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to 
               him, and Nehru clutches it. Then

                         You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. 
                         I have fasted only a few hours and I 
                         accomplished what you could not do 
                         in as many days.

               It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes 
               light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other 
               hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying 

               BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY

               As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The 
               crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see 
               a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, 
               three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves.

               BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY

               Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to 
               capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera

                         That is how you eat muli.

               Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click 
               of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way.

                              (to the photographer)
                         I'm not sure I want to be remembered 
                         that way.

               It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now 
               and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite 
               subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, 
               who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, 
               who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is 
               working on papers with him but grins at this.

                         Don't worry, with luck you may not 

               And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. 
               Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of 
               pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's.

                         No, he'll be remembered for tempting 

               It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a 
               picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, 
               eyes round.

                         Mickey Mouse.

               Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. 
               But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly 
               shaken by the implication in Patel's words.

                         You really are going to Pakistan, 
                              (Gandhi shrugs, and 
                              she chides too)
                         You are a stubborn man.

                              (a grin, in the mood 
                              of their "flirtation")
                         I'm simply going to prove to Muslims 
                         there, and Hindus here, that the 
                         only devils in the world are those 
                         running around in our own hearts -- 
                         and that's where all our battles 
                         ought to be fought.

               Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. 
               He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help 

                         And what kind of a warrior have you 
                         been in that warfare?

               She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two 

                         Not a very good one. That's why I 
                         have so much tolerance for the other 
                         scoundrels of the world.

               He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel.

                         Ask Panditji to -- to consider what 
                         we've discussed.

               Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke-
               White moving with him.

                              (of the photographs)

                              (a plea)
                         One more.

               He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at 
               the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning 
               to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way 
               with women.

                         You're a temptress.

               She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling 
               distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera.

                         Just an admirer...

                         Nothing's more dangerous, especially 
                         for an old man.

               He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; 
               they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White 
               watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the 

               She turns to Mirabehn.

                         There's a sadness in him.

               It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes 

                         He thinks he's failed.

               Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him.

                         Why? My God, if anything's proved 
                         him right, it's what's happened these 
                         last months...

               Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound 
               cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking 
               through in her voice and on her face.

                         I am blinded by my love of him, but 
                         I think when we most needed it, he 
                         offered the world a way out of 
                         madness. But he doesn't see it... 
                         and neither does the world.

               It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at 
               Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." 
               He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among 
               the crowd assembled there.


               Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on 
               Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the 
               crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the 
               crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," 
               "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who 
               makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head.

                         Allah be with you.

               Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads 

                              (to someone)
                         Brother, Bapu is already late for 

               Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam.

               Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, 
               wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi 
               as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping 
               through his white shawl.

                         Oh, God... oh, God...

               Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. 
               The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, 
               they suddenly scream and begin to cry.

                         Bapu! Bapu!

               FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY

               Blackness. Silence.

               A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke.

               The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the 
               blackness is smoke rising from a fire.

               And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around 
               that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, 
               sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see 
               Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the 
               drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha...

               THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY

               A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward 
               a barge and a mass of people in the distance.

               And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. 
               Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- 
               containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it, Azad 
               and Patel a little behind him. And as the barge floats down 
               the river, Nehru bends and lifts the urn...

               Featuring Nehru. He swallows, restraining his own emotion, 
               and slowly, ritualistically, sprinkles the ashes over the 

               And as they spread, we hold on that stretch of the river, 
               the flowers swirling languidly around it as the dark, timeless 
               current moves them toward the sea.

                                     GANDHI'S VOICE
                              (weak, struggling, as 
                              he spoke the words 
                              to Mirabehn)
                         ...There have been tyrants and 
                         murderers -- and for a time they can 
                         seem invincible. But in the end they 
                         always fall. Think of it -- always... 
                         When you are in doubt that that is 
                         God's way, the way the world is meant 
                         to be... think of that.

               And slowly the camera begins pulling back, leaving the 
               flowers, the brown, rolling current as though leaving the 
               story of Gandhi, going far out, away from the great river, 
               reaching higher and higher, through streaks of clouds as end 
               titles begin.

               And through them, once more we hear, dimly, reminiscently, 
               through the rushing wind:

               "At home children are writing 'essays' about him!"... the 
               croaky voice singing, "God save our gracious King"... Dyer: 
               "Sergeant Major --," the Sergeant Major: "Take aim!," Dyer: 
               "Fire!," the sound of massed rifle fire, screams... "You are 
               my best friend... my highest guru, and my sovereign lord." 
               "Who the hell is he?," "I don't know, sir." "My name is 
               Gandhi. Mohandas K. Gandhi."... the sound of rioting, women's 
               screams, terror... "Find a child -- a child whose mother and 
               father have been killed. A little boy... about this high."... 
               "He thinks he's failed."... "Long live Mahatma Gandhi!... 
               Long live Mahatma Gandhi!"

                                         THE END


Writers :   John Briley
Genres :   Drama

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