Maneka stormed out of the conference room, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. Her hands trembled as she gripped her phone, dialling furiously.
“Riya, can you believe this?” she hissed the moment her friend picked up. “That idiot Karan completely ruined the presentation! And Meera—useless, as always—didn’t have the right data. I had to salvage the whole thing!”
On the other end, Riya sighed. “Maneka, breathe. What happened?”
“What happened?” Maneka scoffed. “I work my tail off, and yet, thanks to them, my reputation is at stake! I swear, it’s like the whole world is against me!”
Her rant was cut short by a loud screech. In the heat of anger, she hadn’t noticed the speeding bike heading straight for her. With a sickening thud, the rider crashed into her side, sending her sprawling onto the pavement. A sharp, burning pain shot through her ankle.
The biker, a young man with frantic eyes, rushed to help. “I—I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”
Maneka, despite the pain, found herself glaring. “You blind or what? This is your fault!”
A small crowd gathered, murmuring among themselves. A passerby muttered, “She wasn’t even looking.” Another added, “Typical—always someone else’s fault.”
Their words stung more than her injury. As the biker helped her up, guilt flickered through her rage. Had she really been so lost in blaming others that she hadn’t even seen the danger ahead?
At the hospital later, as the doctor wrapped her ankle, Riya arrived, concern etched on her face. “That was a close one,” she said, sitting beside Maneka. “But I need to ask—when will you stop blaming everyone for everything?”
Maneka winced—not just from the injury, but from the weight of the question.
Riya held her gaze. “This accident? It wasn’t just the biker’s fault. You were distracted, caught up in your anger. Just like at work. Just like everywhere. When things go wrong, you look for someone to blame. But Maneka, blaming is just a way to drag your past pain into the future. Until you stop, you’ll keep living in the same loop of frustration.”
Maneka opened her mouth to argue—but nothing came. The truth was too clear. She had spent years pointing fingers, never once realizing how much she had trapped herself in a cycle of negativity.
That night, as she lay in bed, her bandaged foot propped up, she replayed every moment—the failed presentations, the fights, even the accident. And she saw it all differently.
The next morning, when her phone buzzed with a message from Karan about another client pitch, she paused. Instead of firing off a sarcastic reply, she typed something new:
“Let’s work on this together. I trust you’ve got it covered. Let me know how I can help.”
For the first time in years, she felt light. Free.
Because she finally understood—blame was a prison. And she had just taken the first step out of it.