Yesterday, she was a young girl
playing hopscotch barefoot
on broken streets, unmindful
of the drop of perspiration
trickling down her cheek,
laughing at those silly boys
when they slipped on their marbles.

Yesterday, she was sixteen
reading short stories aloud
in her tiny blue-walled classroom
when she saw her brother standing in the doorway.
Father had sent bhaiya for her.
It was time now for her to look pretty
with flowers in her hair
and kohl in her eyes
so she could be sent away
to a new home.

Yesterday, she bent over a pile of red chilies in the verandah,
picking out the ones grandma
would want to grind in to dinner that night.
She ran back to her thatched roofed hut,
clutching them in her hand
just to be first in line
for sugarcane and marigold bracelets.

Today, shadows dance on the mud caked walls
by the light of an oil lamp
and bring back memories of those who passed on
and left her here, alone.

Today, she sits in the light of the late afternoon,
tracing the shadow of the window with her old fingers,
hands leathery, the wrinkles carved by time.

Hands that once churned butter, chopped wood,
and came together in prayer
now lay by her side, resigned,
aching to feel.

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Poetry by Neha Bawa
"When Tomorrow Came" appeared in the Spring 2005 "Consequences" issue of Eye Contact.

Bio: Neha Bawa is a junior at Seton Hill University, pursuing a Bachelor of Arts degree in literature. "Life," she says, "changes in heartbeats."