Three rings. The sum total of his possessions. Plus a rupee. He has half a mind to bury the rings somewhere before going away. The utter lack of any feeling forbids him from giving them to a fellow being. He wears them instead.
He chances upon an unopened packet of food while scouring the refuse bin. There is my last meal, he says to himself.
He picks it up and moves over to the other side of the road. He lays it open on the footpath. Your food always deserves a clean pair of hands, he remembers. Ever fastidious.
He walks on to wash his hands at the fount at the far end of the street.