City of Joy

FADE IN:

TITLE SEQUENCE.

EXT. BIHAR - DAY (DAWN, SUMMER, MID-1980)

Heat that has mass. That rises off the parched earth inshimmering waves. After a moment, we see what appear tobe figures coming out of the haze, one by one. A familywith their few belongings: HASARI PAL, 33, his wife,

ALOKA, 28, and their children, daughter, AMRITA, 13,

sons MANOOJ and SHAMBU, 11 and 9; HASARI'S MOTHER and

FATHER. They embark toward the night, the rising sunbehind them.

EXT. ROADSIDE - BUS STOP - DAY (DAWN)

Hasari's Father passes a gourd of precious water. Hasari

serves the children first. Shambu gulps entirely toomuch, the others forcing him to stop by a unified forceof will. Embarrassed, he passes the cup to his brother,

who sips, as does his sister. Aloka barely wets herlips, insisting on leaving the last drops for Hasari.

And now, a rooster tail of dust rises up behind theapproaching bus and the old parents bid farewell to theirson's family. There is an intense sadness at leavingthe land and Hasari's Mother clings to him...

HASARI:

I'll send money soon.

His Mother nods, as Hasari erupts in a small cough which,

by habit, he suppresses. His Mother crushes Aloka to

her.

HASARI'S MOTHER

Don't let the children out of yoursight. Not for a moment.

Now the children. She wants to keep them here even asthe old man touches her, reminding her she must let them

go.

HASARI'S MOTHER

Help your parents. Don't fightwith each other. And, Manooj,

stay away from the cinema, do youhear?

Shambu, his eyes big as saucers, whispers to hisgrandma...

(CONTINUED)

2.

CONTINUED:

SHAMBU:

I don't want to go. There are bad

men with long knives who stealchildren.

That does it:
Hasari's Mother dissolves in tears, but

the old man nevertheless unlooses her insistently fromthe children. Aloka and the children get on the bus asthe old man embraces his son.

HASARI'S FATHER

A man's journey to the end of hisobligations is a very long road.

Yours begins here.

EXT. ROADSIDE/INT. BUS - DAY

There's not an empty inch inside the little vehicle or

on top. The passengers are silent. A woman breast feeds

a baby. Several passengers fan themselves. Many sleep.

The Pals squeeze wearily into the rear seat.

MANOOJ:

(to his neighbor)

Our farm has died, so we are

moving to Calcutta to become rich!

Hasari and Aloka look at each other: If only it were thepursuit of wealth and not survival. The woman understands.

And now the BUS GRINDS forward and the Pals look

back. Hasari coughs, suppresses it... as silence falls.

The elder Pals stand huddled together in the dust and wesee, nestled behind a boulder at the roadside, a tiny,

blue flower -- beautiful and fragile, but like all thingsalive, determined to live... and we hear the sound of a

DOZEN VOICES CHANTING a quiet mantra in unison as we -

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. ASHRAM - ANOTHER FLOWER - DAY

This flower floats gently in a bowl of water. The TITLES

END as we PULL BACK SLOWLY to reveal a dozen Anglos,

several Indians, and one Kenyan seated cross-leggedbefore an aging Yogi, who's quietly urging the supplicants

to find "their light, allow your white light tofill your spirit's eye." Above, ceiling fans move theair.

(CONTINUED)

3.

CONTINUED:

As we PAN the group, we see that everyone has his/hereyes closed in earnest meditation... until we COME TO anAmerican, MAX LOEB, 29, who pops open first his right eye-- looks to his right and left -- closes his right eyeand opens his left eye -- looks left and right... andthen, instead of continuing the mantra and the search forhis white light, expels a stream of air through hispursed lips, making a vibrating, flatulent sound, oneindicative of sizeable frustration and dismissal.

MAX:

Get serious.

Around him, other single eyes pop open, searching for thesource of this unmeditative sound. Max nods and smiles

a wry smile as if to say: This just ain't doin' it forme, folks.

INT. SPARTAN ROOM - TRUMPET - DAY

Max closes the trumpet case and starts chucking hisclothes and books in a knapsack and a small valise. We

notice the Hebrew letter chai on a gold chain around hisneck. His girl friend, BETSY KAHN, overdressed somewhatin an Indian style, endeavors to exercise the inner peaceshe's been pursuing...

BETSY:

I swear to God, you never giveanything enough time! What did

you expect in five days, Max?

MAX:

Only what they promise in thebrochure: Inner peace, serenity,

and a nice chant that gets rid ofthis rock in my gut. E.S.T., theydo you in a weekend.

BETSY:

I would really appreciate it ifyou wouldn't be terribly glib justnow, Max.

That's okay with Max, who's willing to eschew communication

of all kinds and just finish heaving his stuff inthe valise.

BETSY:

Am I to assume you'll be at theairport in Calcutta a week fromtomorrow?

(CONTINUED)

4.

CONTINUED:

MAX:

Impossible to predict, Betsy IleneKahn. Maybe you better give me myticket.

BETSY:

Screw you, Max -- I paid for it!

How many times am I going to letyou walk out on me and come back?

MAX:

I think only you can answer that,

Betsy Ilene Kahn.

She slaps him.

MAX:

Do you really think that's anappropriate way to get rid of yourWestern rage, Bets?

She swings at him again. He catches her hand hard in his

fist.

MAX:

One slap is romantic. Two would

call for retaliation... Lend me a

hundred dollars.

She yanks free, begins to chant her mantra as he grabshis knapsack and valise and goes out the door. Now,

she's silent and, in the simplest sense, deeply hurt.

She can't help herself; she cares. We STAY WITH her

a moment as we -DISSOLVE

TO:

EXT. COUNTRY AIRPORT (ASSAM) - WINDING ROAD - DAY

Cool, lush hills. A little pack of single-engine two-

and four-seaters. Max, in shorts and University ofMiami T-shirt, hot, sweaty, appears around a bend in theapproach road.

INT. AIRPORT - WAITING ROOM

A small service desk. A CLERK, who doubles as Ground

Control on the microphone, passing on the prevailing windand the active runway. We hear the STATIC-BACKED VOICE

of a PILOT, giving his call numbers, then announcinghe's clear for immediate takeoff on the active runway.

The Clerk CLICKS off and finds Max.

(CONTINUED)

5.

CONTINUED:

MAX:

How you doin'?

The Clerk gives Max a warm smile.

CLERK:

Hello.

MAX:

I've always wanted to walk into alittle airport just about likethis one and ask the guy at thecounter the following question.

Ready?

The Clerk nods; he's at Max's ervice.

MAX:

When's the next flight to anywhere?

CLERK:

To Bombay. Tomorrow, at one

o'clock in the afternoon.

A beat --- the Clerk with his smile, Max with his, one

simply warm, the other giving off simmering heat.

EXT. AIRPORT - LOW ANGLE - DAY

Max sits on the ground, up against the building, playinga jazz line quietly and rather well on his trumpet. A

pair of well-shod feet ENTER the FRAME. Max looks up.

ANOTHER ANGLE:

The rubicund face of VEEJAY CHATTERGEE, 50, and more

British than Churchill. Behind him, his cherubic wife,

RAVI... and making her way toward the enclave of smallplanes, their daughter, MANUBAI, 26.

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