EXTERIOR - SKY - DAY

               The camera is moving toward an Indian city. We are high and 
               far away, only the sound of the wind as we grow nearer and 
               nearer, and through the passing clouds these words appear:

               "No man's life can be encompassed in one telling. There is 
               no way to give each year its allotted weight, to include 
               each event, each person who helped to shape a lifetime. What 
               can be done is to be faithful in spirit to the record, and 
               to try to find one's way to the heart of the man..."

               And now we are approaching the city, the squalor of the little 
               shanty dwellings around the outskirts, the shadows of large 
               factories... And as we move nearer, coursing over the parched 
               terrain, the tiny fields of cultivation, strands of sound 
               are woven through the main titles, borne on the wind, images 
               from the life we are seeking:

               British: "Who the hell is he?!", lower class British: "I 
               don't know, sir."... "My name is NAME_1. NAME_2 NAME_3. 
               NAME_1."... A woman's voice, tender, soft: "You are my best 
               friend, my highest guru... and my sovereign lord."... A man 
               (NAME_1): "I am asking you to fight!"... An angry aristocratic 
               English voice: "At home children are writing 'essays' about 
               him!"... the sound of massed rifle fire, screams...

               EXTERIOR - CITY - DAY

               And now we are over the city, coming in toward a particular 
               street in the affluent suburbs of New Delhi... there are a 
               few cars (it is 1948), and we are closing on a milling crowd 
               near the entrance to one of the larger homes.

               We see saris, Indian tunics, a sprinkling of "NAME_1" caps, 
               several tongas (two-wheeled, horse-drawn taxis)... the shreds 
               of sound continue -- American woman, flirtatious, intimate: 
               "You're the only man I know who makes his own clothes." 
               NAME_1's laugh... The sound of rioting, women's cries and 
               screams of terror... An American voice: "This man of peace"...

               And as the titles end we begin to pick up the sounds of the 
               street... an Australian and his wife, a BBC correspondent... 
               all in passing, as the camera finally closes 