Why Now? How?

Bring out the brush, said Nani
I need to talk to you.
Where are your songs,
the fire, that feeds the breath?

Picking up a Raga
my silence strummed some notes
but limpid plait sat at the dances
long resigned to being the sideshow.

Hearing this, I dusted the files
of bounded dreams;
spilled on, most faded
always under lock and key.

How do you expect me to sing now
when everyday, as you brushed my hair
you combed away the fire saying
'a girl lives and dies without destiny'?