He sat on the bench shivering as much with fear as with cold, and not guilty of what he had done. Guilt seldom bites one as much as cold does and when one is almost in the state of nature, guilt seems to be of little importance anyway. But this gentleman who happens to be the leading character of our story won’t have cared a fig for guilt even in the warmest of the clothes.
He had been beaten black and blue by the police and his brown body bore the fresh wounds in fleshy red, but that shouldn’t let you stray in the region of colors for that isn’t our concern and now, please control your thoughts and allow the story to pick up pace. So, as the wretched beaten soul sat in an anxious state of mind on a bench in the police station observing the bustle of the men in uniform around him, he sensed a quick, uniform movement about the place. The voices paused in a certain discipline and the shoes stomped the ground. The Police Inspector had arrived.
A shoal of police constables, yes a shoal – for they hold a certain fragrant similarity to the  fishes, rushed to the Inspector’s desk and arranged an already arranged litter of a numerous things. As the Inspector had his seat, a sub-Inspector walked forth and handed him a file.
“What’s the matter?” the Inspector asked burying his head in the file.
“This man is a boot-polish guy at the railway station. Last night, he had a customer who refused to pay him his money after getting the boot polished. There was a brawl over it and this man killed the customer smashing a small stone against his skull. Strange was the fact that after committing the murder, he hadn’t fled far away. We found him a few hours after the incident had taken place. He was eating peacefully near a grocery store a couple of kilometers away from the railway station. We had his medical check up done. No consumption of liquor or any thing else that would numb his senses. He is perfectly normal but his body is weak. The doctor said that he must have been hungry since a few days. We have had this man’s statement taken in written after a little effort”, the sub-Inspector said.
The Inspector looked impressed.
“Strange”, he said, “how much does a boot polish cost?”
“Around five rupees probably, sir”, the sub-Inspector answered.
The Inspector looked at our man and said, “Five rupees, is that the cost of a man’s life? Don’t you feel guilty?”
But our leading character, the man held guilty, was not guilty, and the biting cold wasn’t the only reason.