EXODUS by Shyam Popat 'Pilot' shyam.popat91@gmail.com +44 7912 623 323 18.01.20 ii. Commemorating 50 years since the journey of the Ugandan Asians in 1971/72. Inspired by true events. DIALOGUE NOTE: The dialogue will alternate between English, Gujarati and Swahili, depending on context. ii. ARCHIVE -- UGANDAN ASIAN CRISIS -- 1971 Queues of restless UGANDAN ASIANS clutch British Protected Persons Passports -- Stores with Asian names host CLOSING DOWN sales -- Row after row of CARS and BUSES clog the way to Entebbe -- The beaming GENERAL IDI AMIN DADA, covered in medals -- A POLICE CHECKPOINT, luggage looted and left to rot -- APCs roll through a village, loose SOLDIERS open fire -- SYCOPHANTS dance in the street -- Crates of possessions spread the airport tarmac -- Confused CHILDREN watch take-off, jets loaded with REFUGEES -- Then, DARKNESS. And out of the mist, a familiar sight, seen from above -- ENGLAND crawls into view -- Ugandan Asian FAMILIES disembark, windy grey drizzle -- Rows of British VOLUNTEERS take down the details of the arriving weary families -- Endless queues, that great British tradition -- CHILDREN, scattered, a new confusion -- As we pass a sign at the city limits, reading: WELCOME TO LEICESTER CUT TO BLACK. INT. BARRACKS. RAF STRADISHALL - DAWN SUPER: RAF STRADISHALL, SUFFOLK. NOVEMBER, 1971. Morning dew on the windows, pale skies outside. A dozen REFUGEES sleep in a dozen beds, fit for soldiers. MAN (O.S.) What if I can’t? 2. WOMAN (O.S.) You can. I know you can. The voices are quiet, soft, spoken by lovers in the morning. Nestled in the corner of the room, the Woman sits up in her cot. 28, loyal to a fault, her cogs always whirring. This is ARCHANA MEHTA. ARCHANA You just have to believe it. The Man rests his head on her lap. 28, all surface confidence and exposed nerves, the weight of the world on his shoulders. This is PRATIK MEHTA. PRATIK You don’t know for sure. ARCHANA I saw it in the stars. PRATIK You’re an astrologer now? ARCHANA Only for you. A small kiss between them -- too many people around for any more. Pratik sits up, yawns, shakes off the sleep. PRATIK Goodbye, lazy mornings. Archana looks deep into his eyes. Measuring him. ARCHANA Ready? He returns the gaze. Determined. PRATIK Ready. EXT. LANE - MORNING A row of FAMILY MEMBERS, lined up for the goodbye. A MINIBUS idles beside them. 2. 3. Wrapped in thin layers, Pratik drops his heavy suitcase before his father KARAMCHAND (60s, perpetually grumpy) and mother ROOPAL (60s, acerbic). Pratik dips low to touch their feet and gain their blessing. They touch his head, their blessings confirmed. ROOPAL Call us every day, you hear me? PRATIK I hear you, Ma. She hugs him tight. ROOPAL My good boy. KARAMCHAND He’s going to miss the bus. Pratik releases, turns to his father -- KARAMCHAND (CONT'D) You have the address? (off Pratik’s nod) Show me. Pratik digs into his pocket -- has he lost it? -- pulls out a slip of paper, an address scribbled on it. KARAMCHAND (CONT'D) His uncle was a good friend. He’ll treat you right. Remind him about the uncle. PRATIK OK, Pa. A thin, awkward embrace. They release quickly. Pratik moves on to -- NIKHIL, 19. Long hair, denim jacket, taking to the 70s as well as anyone. Doing his best to stay strong. Pratik takes him by the arms, eldest to youngest sibling. PRATIK (CONT'D) Take care of them, yeah? I’m counting on you. CHHAYA, 23, LEAPS into Pratik, knocks the air out of him. 3. 4. PRATIK (CONT'D) Woah! Easy. CHHAYA I’m gonna miss you, bro. PRATIK Hey-hey-hey... you’ll be joining me in no time. Chhaya doesn’t respond, deep in his arms. Pratik relents, eases into the hug. PRATIK (CONT'D) I’ll miss you too, chick. He looks beyond her, last in line -- To Archana. Uplifted. Proud. Quietly devastated. She holds their son MAHESH (2) in her arms. Pratik kisses him softly on the forehead. Holds them close. A silent farewell between husband, wife and child. INT. MINIBUS - MOMENTS LATER The engine revs, the DRIVER fit to go. Pratik squeezes past seated UGANDAN ASIANS, all young men of working age, to find a seat by the window. The bus departs. Pratik waves goodbye to his receding family. EXT. GATE - MOMENTS LATER The minibus crawls to a stop before the wide gate. A handlebar-mustached VOLUNTEER pulls the wire fence open. The bus continues its slow progress out of the disused air force base. The gate shuts firm behind. SUPER: EXODUS 4. 5. INT. MINIBUS The English countryside flies by the B-road outside. Pratik’s eyes are fixed straight ahead, out through the windscreen. It’ll go faster if he wills it. He roots into his pocket, takes out the slip of paper. It reads: 14 ST ALBANS ROAD, LEICESTER. VISHAL CHUDASAMA. On its reverse, a crudely-drawn map. All shaky arrows and indiscernible street names. The rumble of the engine makes it impossible to decipher. Anxious, he pockets it again, returns to his vigil. EXT. TRAIN STATION CAR PARK - DAY The parked minibus door slowly opens. The tired Driver lights a cigarette. Pratik is first out. He drags his heavy case across the tarmac. The rest follow at a leisurely pace. A few wary eyes land on this group of nomads. Pratik does his best to ignore them, speeds on to the entrance. INT. TRAIN CARRIAGE - DAY Pratik sits by the window. He keeps his case between his legs, one hand glued to it. This time, he’s lost to the rolling fields outside. EXT. PLATFORM. TRAIN STATION - DAY The train departs, after dropping off its load, to reveal -- A weary Pratik and a sign: CITY OF LEICESTER. Pratik shivers as he drags his case along. It’s colder in the Midlands -- his thin layers won’t cut it out here. INT. TRAIN STATION ENTRY/EXIT - DAY A banner reads: UGANDAN ASIANS WELCOME! In the corner beneath it squats a trestle table, manned by two VOLUNTEERS. On the table, a mound of donated COATS. 5. 6. Pratik emerges from his platform, focus fixed on the map drawn on his slip of paper -- As the Volunteers tend to a large FAMILY, who search through their wares for the right sizes -- And Pratik passes them by, missing the stand entirely. EXT. ST. ALBANS ROAD - DAY A long row of identical terraced homes. You can barely see where they end. Pratik marches down the pavement, searching -- PRATIK Fourteen... fourteen... He lands on it. Squeezes through the knee-high gate. Raps on the door. Nothing. He tries to peek through the murky front room window -- but the curtains are tightly drawn. He can just about make out a single mattress on the floor. He knocks again. Anyone home? Movement... Footsteps... Pratik readies himself... The door opens to reveal VISHAL (24, curt, businesslike), dressed in the sparkling white t-shirt-and-cap-combo of the local chippy. VISHAL You’re late. Not the welcome he was expecting. PRATIK Sorry. Trains, isn’t it. Pratik slides in past him. Vishal checks out for nosy neighbours, shuts the door firm. 6. 7. INT. FRONT ROOM. VISHAL’S HOUSE - DAY PRATIK (O.S.) How’s your uncle? VISHAL (O.S.) Always had a scam, that guy. I’m sure he’s doing just fine. Vishal leads Pratik inside, hits the lights, to reveal -- The mattress on the floor, a small chest of drawers and a wall-mounted heater have converted the lounge into a passable bedroom. VISHAL (CONT'D) Rent’s £2.50 a week. Two weeks max. You’ll need to have found your own by then. No late check-outs. I’m fully booked til the new year. Pratik checks out the digs. Not great -- but it’ll do. He tries the heater. No luck. VISHAL (CONT'D) Kitchen is yours. No dishes left in the sink overnight. Here’s your key, I don’t have a spare. He passes the key, shuts the curtains fully -- VISHAL (CONT'D) Toilet’s out back. Shared. Not recommended. There’s a pub across the road that has one, indoors, a nice one, but they don’t like you using it -- especially if they’re watching football. Always buy a pint if you do. Pratik tests the mattress. It’ll do. PRATIK Anything else? VISHAL That’s it. Follow the rules and we won’t have a problem. You got your work permit? Pratik lies on the mattress, stretches, moans in pleasure -- PRATIK Yep. The hunt starts today. 7. 8. VISHAL Alright, well, the job centre’s not far -- but don’t use this address on your forms, or else it’s my head. I’m already taking a risk having you lot here. And you can’t work at the chippy, they’re already overstaffed. (reining it in) I’m just saying. Everyone’s always asking and the answer’s no. PRATIK Vishal. Relax. I’ll make my way. A brief lull in conversation. Pratik’s glad for it. VISHAL I think I saw you a few times? Back in the day, at school. You were a few years ahead. PRATIK Maybe. I didn’t go much. I was always in the kitchens with Dad. God, those teachers hated me. Vishal chuckles. Toys with his cap. Unsure how to phrase it -- VISHAL Sorry. About the business. PRATIK It’s... It is what it is. VISHAL Is he OK? Your Dad? PRATIK The camp’s not good for him. For any of them. I just need to -- to settle. VISHAL (grins, nostalgic) He used to give me those cassava after school -- you know, the coal- roast masala ones? You guys, honest to God, you made the best cassava in Jinja. Your mum didn’t even charge me half the time. Pratik acknowledges the irony. Vishal chooses not to. 8. 9. Instead, Vishal dons his cap -- VISHAL (CONT'D) Lock the door when you leave. And then he’s gone. The front door SLAMS shut. Pratik sits in the memory for a beat. A life now past. Then he’s on his feet, swiftly digging through his suitcase, tossing clothes, toiletries -- PRATIK Come on... He finds his prize. Pulls out an ENVELOPE. Opens it. Inside are six PLANE TICKETS. Different departure points, different arrivals, all across the Western world. EXT. COMMERCIAL STREET. LEICESTER - DAY A busy road, leisurely PEDESTRIANS window shopping. Pratik stands at the window of the job centre, browsing opportunities stacked in the shop window. A large queue of CLIENTS waits beside. One gives him the stink eye. No jumping the queue. But Pratik’s not in the queue. He’s got eyes on the travel agency opposite -- Inside, a happy CUSTOMER shakes the hand of the MANAGER and leaves. The Manager gives instruction to an AGENT and retreats into the back office. INT. TRAVEL AGENCY - MOMENTS LATER Pratik tap-tap-taps his foot, a nervous tick. He’s sat at the Agent’s desk, complete with model airplane. His eyes glued to the backroom -- The Agent speaks to her Manager, his tickets in her hands -- Tap-tap-tap -- A decision is made -- Tap-tap-tap -- 9. 10. The Agent returns to Pratik -- Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap -- AGENT So. We’ve had a discussion. PRATIK Yes? AGENT (sighs) I’m sorry, Mr Mehta -- Pratik’s heart sinks into his shoes. PRATIK No. No ‘sorry’. AGENT I -- apologise -- but we’re no longer able to sell these back to the airline. PRATIK I don’t understand. I paid two hundred -- She passes the tickets over. Pratik doesn’t take them. She places the tickets on the desk. PRATIK (CONT'D) This is a mistake. Call them. AGENT I can’t do that, I’m afraid. PRATIK Listen to me. I need this money. I’m not leaving without my money. A tense beat. The Agent tightens. Pratik tries to rein it in. PRATIK (CONT'D) This is everything I have. (softer) Please. She sympathises, but her hands are tied. Pratik sees it in her eyes -- he’s got no chance. AGENT I’m sorry, Mr Mehta -- 10. (MORE) 11. PRATIK Stop. MANAGER (O.S.) How are we over here? The Manager bobs over. He tries to keep it cheerful, but his body language says otherwise. MANAGER (CONT'D) Nearly finished? Pratik is a stone. Rooted to the spot. He folds his arms. AGENT He’s not -- he doesn’t accept the decision. PRATIK Last week, you take the tickets. I’ll call my friend and he will tell you -- last week, you gave him the money. MANAGER That was last week -- PRATIK So what? You want more? You want a bribe? MANAGER (hushed) Alright , voices, please. PRATIK How much? Pratik GRIPS the tickets. MANAGER They still in the camps, are they? Pratik doesn’t answer -- he doesn’t need to. The Manager sizes him up. MANAGER (CONT'D) (sighs) Listen. You seem like a decent chap. But it’s over. It’s finished. The airlines complained, Government got wind and that was that. (MORE) 11. MANAGER (CONT'D) 12. I’m not saying I agree with it -- Lord knows I did well out of the whole... but there it is. We all knew it was coming. Pratik’s can’t compute -- or he won’t. AGENT (softly) You could do it last week. But you can’t do it anymore. PRATIK But I paid. Full price. MANAGER You paid for exclusive access to an expired loophole. That’s all. You gambled and you lost. OK? (beat) Anything else? Pratik SLAMS a fist on the table. The Agent JUMPS in her seat. The model airplane FALLS. The Manager is totally unfazed. MANAGER (CONT'D) Listen to me very carefully, Mr, uh... AGENT Mehta. MANAGER These are not a means of currency retention for fleeing Africans or whatever you are. They are not travelers cheques. They are plane tickets. They are for flying. Yes? He takes the tickets, reads -- MANAGER (CONT'D) So if you’d still like to travel from -- Paris to Toronto, departing next Monday at four in the morning, then -- you’re free to do so. Pratik looks ready to kill him. The Manager looks him back, dead in the eye. MANAGER (CONT'D) 12. (MORE) 13. The Agent can’t make eye contact with either one. MANAGER (CONT'D) I think you’re looking down the barrel on this one, mate. He holds the tickets out to Pratik. After a beat, Pratik takes them. Admitting defeat. The Manager strides away, after a confident pat on the Agent’s shoulder. AGENT ...Can I get you some water? Eventually Pratik nods. The Agent scurries away. EXT. COMMERCIAL STREET - DAY Pratik emerges in a red mist. He marches across the street towards the job centre queue, dazed. A less-than-satisfied CLIENT exits, their JOB CENTRE WORKER calls out for -- JOB CENTRE WORKER Next! The queue moves forward one. The Clients shuffle forward. The Job Centre Worker gives a wary look towards -- A Luton van parked up, its DRIVER (40s, a Midlands Del Boy with yesterday’s five o’clock shadow) haranguing some of the waiting Clients. This is HARVEY. HARVEY (O.S.) I ain’t got all bloody day. Who’s interested, eh? No response. No-one wants to deal with him -- or lose their spot in the queue. WORKER Oi! HARVEY Oh, leave it out -- (calls out) (MORE) 13. HARVEY (CONT'D) 14. Cash in hand! That’s what you’re all bloody here for, ennit? Pratik’s all ears. He hurries over, but he’s got ground to cover -- PRATIK Hello! The Worker BANGS on the van door. WORKER If you don’t move right now, I’m calling the police. HARVEY What ya waiting for? WORKER I will. I’ll do it. HARVEY Do it then! The Worker recedes, back inside -- Harvey blinks first -- HARVEY (CONT'D) Oh, for fuck’s sake -- (to the Clients) Ungrateful bastards. And SPEEDS away -- PRATIK Hello, sir! Stop! Pratik PACES after the van, but it’s already on its way. An engine against a pair of legs. No prize for guessing who wins. Pratik runs and runs and runs -- PRATIK (CONT'D) Hello!!! But it’s no use. The van accelerates. Pratik starts to struggle. Winded, he gives up the chase. He turns back to the onlooking queue. All eyes on him. One more indignity in a day of -- BEEP-BEEP! The van, up ahead, is now parked by the side of the road. HARVEY (CONT'D) 14. 15. Off Pratik. Not sure he’s seeing straight. Harvey pops his head out the window. HARVEY Come on then, get a move on! Pratik catches his breath, jogs up and hops into the passenger seat. The van pulls out and speeds away. INT. BARRACKS - DAY Archana sits at a desk, working through a loan application. ARCHANA One-four-two-six. One-four-two- six... She cross-references papers strewn across the surface. After a search, she finds what she’s after. ARCHANA (CONT'D) OK. Good. ROOPAL (O.S.) (sing-song) Who’s my favourite? You! Behind her sits Roopal on her cot, playing with Mahesh. Karamchand sleeps soundly beside them. ROOPAL (CONT'D) He needs feeding soon. ARCHANA I’ll make chai in a minute. ROOPAL (to Mahesh) Mummy’s making chai! Oooooh! KARAMCHAND (as he sleeps) Chai... A soft knock at the door. A look between Roopal and Archana. ARCHANA Who is it? 15. 16. FATIMA (40s, cheerful, timid) limps in. Her hands clasped in respectful greeting, loose papers caught between them. FATIMA It’s me. Archana’s straight out of her seat -- but Roopal gives Fatima the stink eye. ARCHANA Fatima! Come, sit -- (finds a chair, takes the papers) What are these? FATIMA They always want more, these banks. ARCHANA Leave it with me. (drops them on the desk) I was just about to make some chai. You’ll have some? (to Mahesh) And for you, huh? FATIMA Oh, no, that’s not necessary -- KARAMCHAND (wakes up) Chai? Mahesh whines and stretches his arms out to Archana. She can’t resist. ARCHANA Oh, my baby. Come here. Archana takes Mahesh from a disappointed Roopal. ARCHANA (CONT'D) Tea, Ma? ROOPAL There’s no sugar. ARCHANA Sugar. OK. Sugar. (to Fatima) Give me two minutes. I want to hear all about Kamal’s wedding, hm? 16. 17. Archana rushes out, Mahesh in her arms. Easy enough with the weight of her duties. Karamchand goes back to sleep. He never really left it. Leaving Roopal and Fatima, alone. FATIMA So how are you finding it here? Beat. ROOPAL Too many people. EXT. BARRACKS. RAF STRADISHALL - DAY Row after row of barracks, organized in a grid. Archana hurries across the lane to the block opposite. A few REFUGEES smoke by the door. ARCHANA Do you have sugar? REFUGEE Sorry, we’re out. She tries the next one. ARCHANA Sugar? A few shakes of the head. Archana rocks Mahesh, put out... As she spots two COOKS, across the way, ferrying washed pots and pans, into -- INT. KITCHEN. MESS HALL - DAY The kitchen is ABUZZ with activity. VOLUNTEERS and CAMP DWELLERS, all women, working together to prepare lunch. ARCHANA (to Mahesh) Shh... Archana passes through them, unnoticed. She finds what she was looking for: a small bag of sugar -- 17. 18. And DROPS IT -- As she turns straight into SHERMAN NORRIS (65, ex-colonial Camp Administrator, answerable only to God and the Home Office). Flanked by AIDES on his daily inspection. ARCHANA (CONT'D) Mr. Norris. The floor is COVERED. All eyes fall on Archana. Norris doesn’t blink. ARCHANA (CONT'D) Sorry -- Archana puts Mahesh down and starts to clean up the spill with her hands. Norris and his Aides pass by. One makes a note. Eventually, Archana is handed a dustpan and brush by one of the other Women. ARCHANA (CONT'D) Thank you. Archana cleans up, ashamed. Mahesh rubs his hand in the sugar. EXT. MESS HALL. RAF STRADISHALL - MORNING We trace a woman’s HAND -- Along her fingers, across a stainless steel spoon -- To a mound of bright red CHILLI POWDER. The hand belongs to Chhaya. She scatters the spice over a huge POT of simmering curry. Reds and yellows and greens -- you can almost taste it. She’s among a dozen other Ugandan Asian AUNTIES, quietly preparing cauldrons served by gas canisters. The kitchen’s not big enough to feed the sheer numbers here. Chhaya adds another spoon of chilli, as one of the older Aunties comes over to taste -- AUNTIE Needs salt. She throws in a heaped spoon of salt -- and another -- 18.