![]() The five-year-old-who had never ventured unaccompanied beyond his small town-was now wandering alone through a bustling train station. ![]() Saroo had to wait a few more hours before the train arrived at the next stop. “It was a lot like being in a prison, a captive,” he recalled, “and I was just crying and crying.” ![]() He had no food, no money, and no idea how far he had gone or was going. Unable to move to another carriage while the train was in motion, Saroo ran back and forth through the car, calling for his brother, to no avail. “ Bhaiya!” Saroo screamed, the Hindi word for brother. There was no one else in the carriage, and, outside, the blurred grasslands were unrecognizable. Saroo had no idea how long he had been asleep and jumped up from his seat. When he woke, sunlight was streaming through the windows and the train was moving quickly through the countryside. As the boys made their way out of the coop-holding their shirts like hammocks, full of eggs-two security guards came after them, and they were separated. One day, Guddu took Saroo on a road he’d never seen before, to a factory where Guddu had heard that they might be able to steal eggs. On one occasion, he was arrested for loitering at the train station. Guddu spent his days searching passenger trains for fallen coins. Guddu, then aged nine, had assumed his role as the man of the house. His father, Munshi, had abandoned the family two years earlier. He lived there with his mother, Kamala, who worked long hours carrying bricks and cement, two older brothers, Guddu and Kullu, and a younger sister, Shekila. Home was a tiny mud-brick house with a tin roof. When night fell, he would walk a couple miles home. He played barefoot under the downpour as trains passed nearby. ![]() ![]() It was just a small river flowing over a dam, but to five-year-old Saroo Munshi Khan it felt like a waterfall. ![]()
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