Gandhi Page #8

Gandhi is stretching out on the bed, taking up another paper.

GANDHI:

Hm. Will you take this off?

(he touches the bandage

on his cheek)

It pinches every time I speak.

Ba comes and sits down on the bed beside him, maneuvering so

that she can get at the bandage.

GANDHI:

Here, you see? Even the South African

papers apologize -- "a monstrous

attack."

BA:

(of the tape, as she

is about to pull it)

Are you sure?

GANDHI:

(impatiently)

Yes -- I can't talk like this.

Ba pauses and looks at him mischievously, as though that's

not a bad idea. He scowls at her, then recognizes her "joke"

and grins.

GANDHI:

Pull!

Ba pulls one of the strands of tape and Gandhi flinches.

GANDHI:

Oww!

BA:

(mockingly)

Mr. Khan said they called you brave.

Gandhi is nursing the moustache; he looks at her wryly.

GANDHI:

If you would let me teach you to

read, you could see for yourself.

She leans forward to pull at the remaining piece.

BA:

I could have told them you were merely

foolish.

Gandhi is watching her as she leans across him, her beauty

and proximity obviously stirring him.

GANDHI:

It proves what I told you. If I had

prosecuted him as everyone advised --

even you -- they would have hated me --

by showing forgiveness I -- ouch!

She has pulled the other piece.

BA:

There...

And she slowly pries the gauze free from the strands of hair

above his lip. As she does Gandhi watches her more and more

intently, and slips his arms around her back.

GANDHI:

(as though continuing

the argument)

You see there is such a thing as

moral force -- and it can be

harnessed.

Ba examines the bandage and gently touches the wound, but

she is aware of his burning eyes and arms around her back.

BA:

Not always. You have told me twice

now that you were giving up the

pleasures of the flesh.

It slows Gandhi uneasily for a moment and Ba must grin at

his discomfiture. He leans back -- still holding her, but

looking at the ceiling.

GANDHI:

I am. I am convinced the holy men

are right. When you give up, you

gain. The simpler your life the

better.

Ba makes a moue of acceptance and starts to pull free of him --

but his arms still hold her. She smothers a smile and lies

down, her face next to his, but neither of them looking at

each other. A long beat... and then Gandhi turns his head.

She is aware of his eyes on her, but she doesn't move. Gandhi

leans forward and touches his lips to her neck.

GANDHI:

I will fast tomorrow -- as a penance.

Ba smiles. Still not looking at him, she places her hand

behind his head, gently.

BA:

If you enjoy it a great deal you

must fast for two days.

Gandhi laughs... and buries her in love.

STREET AND COURTYARD OF GOVERNMENT BUILDING - JOHANNESBURG -

EXTERIOR - MORNING

General Smuts -- sitting erect and imposing on a beautiful

chestnut horse -- rides down a tree-lined street. He wears

civilian clothes with riding boots and breeches. Behind him,

a junior British officer rides as escort. He turns into the

entrance-way of an imposing building.

The hooves of Smuts's horse clatter on the cobblestones as

the General rides into the courtyard. Two sentries come

smartly to attention. A stable boy rushes to take the horse,

and a tall civil servant approaches the General busily as he

dismounts.

TALL CIVIL SERVANT

The London papers have arrived from

the Cape, sir.

SMUTS:

Yes -- ?

The tall civil servant checks his notes.

TALL CIVIL SERVANT

The worst was the Daily Mail, sir.

They said, "The burning of passes by

Mr. Gandhi was the most significant

act in colonial affairs since the

Declaration of Independence."

Smuts has given the reins to the stable boy.

SMUTS:

Did they? Well, they'll find we're a

little better prepared this time.

Mr. Gandhi will find he's on a long

hiding to nothing.

And he strides into the building, past the smartly saluting

sentries.

GANDHI'S HOUSE - JOHANNESBURG - EXTERIOR - MORNING

Gandhi comes from the house door. He carries a briefcase and

is still dressed in European clothes, though far less elegant

than we have seen him in before. His mien, the cut of his

hair, all suggest a passage of time. As he turns, he stops

because he is face to face with Charlie Andrews, a very tall,

thin Englishman, who wears a rumpled white suit and a clerical

collar. He has descended from a horse-drawn taxi that carries

his luggage. He too has stopped. For a moment they both

appraise each other, neither speaking. Then

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