Lion Page #5

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SAROO:

Saroo.

RAMA:

Saroo. And you are from...?

SAROO:

Ganestlay.

RAMA:

It’s not a name that is familiar to

me. But we may be able to find it.

What is your family name?

Saroo looks up at the man, almost shameful. He doesn’t know.

RAMA (CONT’D)

It’s all right, it’s not important.

Rama starts to lie down, and gestures Saroo to lie back down.

RAMA (CONT’D)

Come lie down, I have come so far

to see you.

Saroo blinks twice. Is that a “no thanks” kind of question?

He lies down, tentatively. Rama pulls him in. A tiny bed.

RAMA (CONT’D)

Tell me how you got here, Saroo.

SAROO:

I went to the station with my

brother -

RAMA:

- and your brother is? -

SAROO:

-Guddu. And he went away. And he

didn’t come back -

as Saroo talks, Rama casually strokes his hair - CLOSE, in

Saroo’s eyes:
surely that’s not right SAROO

(CONT’D)

-so I rested on the train. But I

fell asleep. Then I couldn’t get

off. And the train came here.

- Rama nods, murmurs encouragement, keeps stroking

- Noor watches, blankly, from across the room

SAROO (CONT’D)

But I can’t find the train to get

back.

RAMA:

Saroo, you’re a good boy. Are you a

good boy?

Saroo nods earnestly. But also subtly shifts his head.

Rama sits up. Ruffles Saroo’s hair.

RAMA (CONT’D)

I’ll tell you what. I’ll be back

tonight, and I’ll take you

somewhere good.

SAROO:

To my mother?

RAMA:

Somewhere good. And from there

we’ll try to find your mother.

These things are not always easy.

Saroo nods, confused, hopeful. Rama stands.

RAMA (CONT’D)

Stand up for me. Let me see you.

Saroo stands on the bed. Rama admires him, pulls his arms -

like a man admiring strength or beauty in a son. Or

inspecting a horse. Saroo, passive, lets it happen.

Rama holds out his hand. Saroo, clearly not practiced in the

art of hand-shaking, offers his tiny hand.

NOOR:

Say thank you to Rama.

SAROO:

Thank you.

Rama leaves the bedroom, crosses the main room, kisses Noor

goodbye - slight sexual overtone - and passes out the door.

Saroo stands there on the bed, closely observing all this.

It’s all so strange. And not quite right.

The faint sound of children playing, O/S.

INT. NOOR’S ROOFTOP HOME - LATER (DUSK)

Saroo sits, eating, as Noor stirs dhal in a pot.

Another bottle of orange soda in front of him. Untouched.

He stares at the bottle. Then at Noor.

Busy with cooking, she half-sings along to some Bollywood

song on the radio. She looks over to Saroo and smiles.

He looks at the soda again. At Noor. Something stirring

inside him

-and suddenly he simply ups from the table and makes a break

for it - straight out the door.

Noor SCREAMS - revealing the true animal she is.

INT. STAIRWELL, APARTMENT BUILDING - CONTINUOUS (DUSK)

-Saroo takes the stairs at lightning speed, Noor screaming

and chasing O/S behind him -

around one landing, a MAN lurches at him - misses -

Saroo taking those steps faster that he’s ever run before

EXT. PATHWAY OUTSIDE APARTMENT BUILDING - CONTINUOUS (DUSK)

Saroo BURSTS OUT onto the pathway outside the apartment

building and scrambles away, up towards the city lights

EXT. STREETS NEAR HOWRAH STATION - CONTINUOUS (DUSK)

-and into the busy dusk streets. He runs.

And runs, and runs, and runs EXT.

BRIDGE - CONTINUOUS (DUSK)

-right up those stairs to the Howrah Bridge. (This time:

trucks, cars, horns blaring, countless PEOPLE. No wild dogs.)

And this time, Saroo keeps right on running - zigzagging his

way through the CROWDS, a bundle of pure determination.

His little fists clenched. Glancing back, still fearful.

A marathon runner. And now we hear only his breath.

EXT. CALCUTTA STREETS - SOON AFTER (MONTAGE)

We TRACK him in PROFILE: framing consistency, fluid fades and

consistency of tracking speed mean it all looks like one

shot, even though B/G changes and it’s many different shots.

As if he’s running through all of India.

FADE TO BLACK.

OVER the blackness, the sound of RAIN. It pours. It pours.

A SUPER:
TWO MONTHS LATER

Then a tiny voice, coming up over the rain:

SAROO (V.O., PRE-LAP)

Sorry. Sorry.

FADE UP TO:

INT. CONCRETE HIDEY-HOLE - DAY

TIGHT on Saroo’s face - DARK, in the shadows - we’ve no idea

where it is - his face ever grimier.

It’s raining heavily. In the shadowy recess, he’s whispering:

SAROO:

Sorry. Sorry. I’ll come back. I’m

sorry, Ammi ...

EXT. DREAM QUARRY, KHANDWA - DAY (FLASHBACK)

SUDDEN contrast from the darkness to brilliant white light.

A surreal landscape: mythological, prehistoric - rocky,

barren - white dust swirling like a fine talcum mist.

Saroo, scrambling over the rocks, like the first human ever.

SAROO:

Ammi! Ammi!

We’re in a quarry - and there in the distance is Kamla, the

hot winds flapping her sari about - she turns as he nears

KAMLA:

Good boy.

Saroo starts helping - lifts a rock far too heavy for him.

KAMLA (CONT’D)

(laughing as he struggles)

Not this one, Saroo. Get those

little ones.

He gathers a couple of rocks, drops them into her wooden hod.

KAMLA (CONT’D)

Small ones at the back. That’s it.

Look at your muscles!

Saroo grins, flexes his muscles like a bodybuilder.

KAMLA (CONT’D)

(laughs)

Good boy. Good boy.

24

INT. CONCRETE HIDEY-HOLE - DAY

Heart-wrenching - Saroo’s attempts at a nest, at belongings.

A filthy blanket; water bottle; broken toy car; mussel shell.

And another cardboard sheet. Which he’s lying on now, on his

belly, a torn Indian Vogue propped against the wall.

Saroo parks the toy car at the base of the Swiss mountain in

a Breitling watch ad. He loads the seashell onto the roof of

the car and drives it away, making little-child NOISES.

He fills the mussel shell with dirt and tiny pebbles, pushes

it to the corner, tips the contents out. Like Kamla’s hod.

SAROO:

Good boy. Good boy. That’s a good

boy. Good boy.

AUDIO:
the rain easing.

EXT. CONCRETE HIDEY-HOLE - SOON AFTER (DAY)

The sun’s out, everything dripping. Saroo clambers down. (We

see how ingenious his nest is: a 4-feet-cubed concrete recess

between two pylons, 8 feet off the ground, hidden from view.)

The crows look down on him from the telegraph wires.

EXT. RIVERBANK - DAY

Saroo fossicks by the shore, where the garbage ebbs and bobs.

His little “scavenger bag” slung over his shoulder.

A DEAD BODY - a crippled beggar, lips blue, eyes lifeless -

stares at the sky in a death grimace. Saroo stares for a

moment. And then steps over it.

He finds a bent spoon. Inspects it. It looks like some rusted

relic from the Raj - an English serving spoon.

Pleased, he puts it in the scavenger bag.

EXT. STREET - DAY

Saroo sits in a narrow traffic island in the middle of a

crazy busy street - buses and trucks in all directions.

He takes out the spoon, studies it again, straightens it.

Reaching back into the scavenge bag, he places a few grains

of rice and corn on the spoon.

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