Gandhi Page #7

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.

BA:

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.

SERGEANT:

Stop!

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

sags.

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

confusion.

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...

GANDHI'S BEDROOM - SOUTH AFRICA - INTERIOR - NIGHT

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.

GANDHI:

You saved the papers.

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

BA:

I wish you were still struggling for

work in Bombay.

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

his head.

GANDHI:

I hated that -- all the pettiness,

the little corruptions.

(A reflective grin.)

And I was more laughing stock than

lawyer.

He smiles whimsically, then turns back to the papers.

GANDHI:

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.

GANDHI:

(reading)

"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

law.

BA:

As I told you about English policemen.

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

GANDHI:

Yes?

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.

HARILAL:

We are glad to have you back, Bapu.

Gandhi smiles.

GANDHI:

And I am glad to be back.

(He holds his hands

out to Ramdas.)

Come...

And Ramdas runs to him and Gandhi bends to kiss him as Ramdas

put his arms around his neck.

BA:

Be careful!

Gandhi pats him indulgently, then carefully stands erect,

looking at them all with satisfaction.

GANDHI:

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

smartly.

AYAH:

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.

GANDHI:

Just like proper English gentlemen.

I'm proud of them.

BA:

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

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