I am amazed sometimes at the reflective nature of visual stimulation from the big screen; moving images, vistas and wonder, storytelling and contemplation. The movie I saw last night astounded in its beginning. The panoramic scenes from the sky drawing down to the story of a young Hindu Indian boy—cute and entrancing, innocent and engaging—became metaphysical in the sense of a greater story of being lost, a naïve childish soul whirled away from his home. Based upon a true story, the young boy ventures, unwarranted and against the will of his mother, away from his home with his older brother, hoping to join his brother in an elderly adventure. Seeking to experience life with his brother beyond his time, the boy becomes exhausted, falling asleep upon a train station bench. Waking, his brother nowhere in sight—in truth his brother struck and killed by a train, the boy wanders the train station searching, eventually falling asleep once again, this time upon a train, a decommissioned train waiting to travel across India. The boy is brought forth from sleep by the rustling of the moving train. Alone, he is locked in the train as it travels a thousand plus kilometers away from his home, into Bengali land and a foreign language he cannot understand. Every scene with the vivacious child is precious, expertly filmed and presented. The ending becomes too melodramatic, relying too much upon emotion and tears, yet the beginning of the movie proved to be a remarkable cinematic experience.