Gandhi Page #4

The European and the conductor push open the door and stride

in.

CONDUCTOR:

Here -- coolie, just what are you

doing in this car?

Gandhi is incredulous that he is being addressed in such a

manner.

GANDHI:

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

Class ticket.

CONDUCTOR:

How did you get hold of it?

GANDHI:

I sent for it in the post. I'm an

attorney, and I didn't have time to --

He's taken out the ticket but there is a bit of bluster in

his attitude and it is cut off by a cold rebuff from the

European.

EUROPEAN:

There are no colored attorneys in

South Africa. Go and sit where you

belong.

He gestures to the back of the train. Gandhi is nonplussed

and beginning to feel a little less sure of himself. The

porter, wanting to avoid trouble, reaches for Gandhi's

suitcases.

PORTER:

I'll take your luggage back, baas.

GANDHI:

No, no -- just a moment, please.

He reaches into this waistcoat and produces a card which he

presents to the conductor.

GANDHI:

You see, Mohandas K. Gandhi, Attorney

at Law. I am going to Pretoria to

conduct a case for an Indian trading

firm.

EUROPEAN:

Didn't you hear me? There are no

colored attorneys in South Africa!

Gandhi is still puzzled by his belligerence, but is beginning

to react to it, this time with a touch of irony.

GANDHI:

Sir, I was called to the bar in London

and enrolled in the High Court of

Chancery -- I am therefore an

attorney, and since I am -- in your

eyes -- colored -- I think we can

deduce that there is at least one

colored attorney in South Africa.

The Porter stares -- amazed!

EUROPEAN:

Smart bloody kaffir -- throw him

out!

He turns and walks out of the compartment.

CONDUCTOR:

You move your damn sammy carcass

back to third class or I'll have you

thrown off at the next station.

GANDHI:

(anger, a touch of

panic)

I always go First Class! I have

traveled all over England and I've

never...

MARITZBURG STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT

Gandhi's luggage is thrown onto the station platform. A blast

of steam from the engine.

A policeman and the conductor are pulling Gandhi from the

First Class car. Gandhi is clinging to the safety rails by

the door, a briefcase clutched firmly in one hand. The

European cracks on Gandhi's hands with his fist, breaking

Gandhi's grip and the policeman and conductor push him across

the platform. It is ugly and demeaning. Disgustedly, the

conductor shakes himself and signals for the train to start.

Gandhi rights himself on the platform, picking up his

briefcase, his face a mixture of rage, humiliation, impotence.

The conductor hurls Gandhi's book at his feet as the train

starts to move.

Gandhi picks up the book, looking off at the departing train.

A lamp swinging in the wind alternately throws his face into

light and darkness.

His point of view. The Black porter stares out of a window

at him, then we see the European taking his seat again,

righteously. The conductor standing in the door, watching

Gandhi even as the train pulls out. Then the Second Class

coach, with people standing at the window to stare at Gandhi --

then the Third Class coaches, again with Blacks and a few

Indians looking at Gandhi with mystification and a touch of

fear.

Gandhi stands with a studied air of defiance as the train

pulls away -- but when it is gone he is suddenly very aware

of his isolation and looks around the cold, dark platform

with self-conscious embarrassment.

A Black railway worker looks as if he would like to express

sympathy, but he cannot find the courage and turns away from

Gandhi's gaze, pulling his collar up against the piercing

wind.

The policeman who pulled Gandhi from the train talks with

the ticket-taker under the gas-lit entrance gate, both of

them staring off at Gandhi.

An Indian woman near the entrance sits in a 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.

MR. BAKER'S LIVING ROOM - INTERIOR - NIGHT

Featuring Gandhi. As if a reverse angle from the previous

shot, he is angry, baffled, defiant.

GANDHI:

But you're a rich man -- why do you

put up with it?

We are in a large Victorian parlor in a well-to-do home.

Facing Gandhi are Khan, a tall, impressive Indian. Singh,

slighter and older than Khan, but wiry and looking capable

of physical as well as intellectual strength, and Khan's

twenty-year-old son, Tyeb Mohammed.

KHAN:

(a shrug)

I'm rich -- but I'm Indian. I

therefore do not expect to travel

First Class.

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