Gandhi Page #51

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.

IRWIN:

(calmly)

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

pleasure.

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

IRWIN:

And Fields, keep that salt works

open.

The senior police officer stares at him, then

SENIOR POLICE OFFICER

(delighted)

Yes, sir!

DHARASANA SALT WORKS - EXTERIOR - DAY

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.

AZAD:

I would like admission to the Works.

CHIEF POLICE OFFICER

(equally politely)

I am sorry, sir. That cannot be

allowed.

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.

AZAD:

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

order.

POLICE COMMANDING OFFICER

(finally)

Now!

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

A SMALL INDIAN STORE - INTERIOR - TWILIGHT

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.

WALKER:

(into the phone)

Hello! Ed! Ed! Goddammit, don't cut

me off!

(Then suddenly he's

through.)

Ed! Okay -- yeah -- right.

And he continues urgently reading the story that lies on his

notes on the little stand before him.

WALKER:

"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."

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