I used to think the dogs in our neighborhood survived off scraps. Every night, they’d disappear around 8:30, and I wondered where they went. One evening, I followed them to an old stone bench, where an old man named Arun was feeding them. He told me they used to come with his granddaughter, Mira, who passed away in a car accident two years ago.
“She taught them to trust people,” he said. “Now, maybe they’re taking care of me too.”
I started bringing food, and soon, others joined. What began as a tribute to Mira turned into a movement for stray animals. Arun, though, remained humble. He continued feeding the dogs at the same spot every night.