The cars were honking   on the road one morning as I was walking to the park. I walked on and soon found the cause -- a little taxi that had got stuck in the middle of the road. There was sweat on the driver's face as he tried to start the engine again and again -- nothing happened. "No petrol," I said to myself and then found myself getting angry. "Why doesn't the fool move his taxi to the side?" I thought, so did all the others who honked and shouted. He got up tiredly, and the passenger in the taxi got out. He was a young man in a white shirt, who watched the driver try to push it to the side. "Stupid guy!" I said. "Can't he lend a helping hand? " I watched as the poor driver pushed it to the side. Cars, buses and trucks went past cursing ( ) the poor man. The young man took another taxi and went off. The taxi driver began mending his taxi. "Stupid passenger!" I said to him. "He didn't help you!" The taxi driver slowly got up. "Sir!" he asked, "Did you?" I looked at him guiltily, then looked away, and walked away fast, asking myself, "Did I help the poor man push his taxi?" What had I been doing as the traffic jam took place? How had I helped deal with the problem? Did I help the poor man push his taxi? I'd done my bit, with my mouth. But never had I moved to solve the problem. I was shocked with guilt as I heard him asking, "Sir! Did you?" Why did the author feel guilty?
Because he blamed the driver wrongly. Because he didn't help the driver, either. Because he tried to help but failed in the end. Because he didn't persuade the passenger to help.