Rainwater gushed in thin rivulets along the cracked stone edges of Azad Maidan, pooling into shallow, muddy mirrors that reflected hundreds of umbrellas—bright reds, deep blues, polka dot patterns and floral sprays. It was August rain, the kind that doesn’t fall politely in drizzles but slams into the city with a relentless, drumming roar. A woman in her late fifties adjusted her scarf, her umbrella tilted at an awkward angle to shield herself and the mongrel pressed against her knees. Her voice rose above the rain as she shouted into the crowd: “We are not criminals for feeding them! We are their only family!”