Gandhi Page #3

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

RAILROAD - SOUTH AFRICA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT

With the camera high we see a railroad track stretching out

across a darkly verdant plain, and suddenly the whistle of a

train as its engine and light sweep under the camera,

startling us as it sweeps across the moonlit landscape.

Tracking with the train. We begin at the guard's van, dwelling

for a moment on the words "South African Railways," then

pass on to the dimly lit Third Class coaches in the rear of

the train, moving past the crowded Blacks and Indians in the

spare wooden accommodation... There are two or three such

coaches, then a Second Class coach... cushioned seats, better

lighting, a smattering of Europeans: farmers, clerks, young

families. Their clothes indicate the date: the early 1890s.

The conductor is working his way through this coach, checking

tickets... The track continues to the First Class coach --

linen over the seats, well-lit luxurious compartments. We

pass a single European, and then come to rest on the back of

a young Indian dressed in a rather dandified Victorian attire,

and reading as a Black porter stows his luggage.

FIRST CLASS COACH - SOUTH AFRICAN RAILWAYS - INTERIOR -

NIGHT:

Featuring the young Indian. It is the young Gandhi -- a full

head of hair, a somewhat sensuous face, only the eyes help

us to identify him as the man we saw at Birla House, the

figure on the bier in Delhi. He is lost in his book and there

is a slight smile on his face as though what he reads

intrigues and surprises him. He grins suddenly at some

insight, then looks out of the window, weighing the idea.

As he does the European passes the compartment and stops

dead on seeing an Indian face in the First Class section.

The porter glances at the European nervously. Gandhi pivots

to the porter, holding his place in the book, missing the

European, who has moved on down the corridor, altogether. We

see the cover of the book: The Kingdom of God is Within You,

by Leo Tolstoy.

GANDHI:

Tell me -- do you think about hell?

PORTER:

(stares at him blankly)

"Hell!"

GANDHI:

(the eternal, earnest

sophomore)

No -- neither do I. But...

(he points abruptly

to the book)

but this man is a Christian and he

has written --

The porter has glanced down the corridor, where from his

point of view we can just glimpse the European talking with

the conductor.

PORTER:

Excuse me, baas, but how long have

you been in South Africa?

GANDHI:

(puzzled)

A -- a week.

PORTER:

Well, I don't know how you got a

ticket for --

He looks up suddenly then turns back quickly to his work.

Gandhi glances at the door to see what has frightened him

so.

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