A few days after I left India, I went out to buy a pair of trousers.
I saw a small crowd outside a small shop in a dusty neighbourhood of Mumbai.
A couple of men were selling a small cloth, which was made of a soft, pinkish-grey fabric.
The women were wearing their Indian clothes.
They had worn their clothes for years, and now they were ready to show it off to the world.
I decided to try them on, and they felt warm and fuzzy.
They also felt like a modern, stylish Indian woman.
I bought a small black cotton dress, which I liked.
It was made with a thick, warm fabric, and it fit well.
I put on a pair, and a woman from the crowd approached me and asked, “Where are your clothes?”
“Oh, I bought them on my way home,” I said, laughing.
“It’s a good idea, I don’t want to disappoint them.”
It was the first time I had ever bought Indian clothes in a store, and I felt a sense of pride.
After all, they are the new fashion, and there is no one else like me.
A few months later, I walked into a store in New York City and saw a different Indian woman in a similar outfit.
She asked if I was Indian, and when I told her that I was, she was impressed.
She was wearing the same clothes, and she seemed so beautiful.
I felt that she had made the decision to wear Indian clothes, after all, I had spent a year in India, and since then I have become an American citizen.
My experience in India and my Indian friends is something that makes me feel proud and connected to my roots.
I am proud to be an American.
But my roots are Indian.
And that makes it hard to see my Indian heritage in people I don-t know, or who are not as close to me.
We often feel uncomfortable when we talk about our roots.
When I see people wearing Indian clothing, it’s often a reflection of how close we are to them.
In a recent Facebook post, I read about a young Indian man who was told by his parents that he was a member of a tribe called the Haji.
But the tribe did not exist, and this young man was forced to wear clothes that looked like Indian clothing.
“I felt very sorry for him,” his mother said.
But I am not one of them.
I know that my parents do not understand my background.
I was born in the United States, in a place where I have Indian roots.
They have helped me in many ways.
For instance, I was able to attend college with my mother in the US.
When my mother and I first got married, I did not even know that I would be able to leave the country.
I think it was because of that experience that I felt so comfortable in my home.
I have lived in India since I was four years old, and while I have grown up, I have never felt a connection to my Indian roots because I am from a country where I do not have roots.
In the US, I do have some Indian roots, but I have been able to work in the American labour market.
It is not because of my roots, it is because of the jobs I have done.
The job market has allowed me to grow up in a different way.
My parents do know that there are Indian-American families in the city where I live.
And they know that the Indian-Americans are working in the same industries.
They do not need to explain it to me, because I have heard it before.
And I feel a connection.
As an Indian American woman, I am also connected to people from my own heritage.
I remember my first trip to India when I was five.
We went to a school in Delhi that was famous for its Punjabi and Urdu films, and we saw films about Indian children who had been kidnapped by the British in India.
In one of those films, a child was kidnapped by a British officer, and he and his colleagues were kidnapped and held in a prison.
They were released only after their father, who was a Punjabis, was given a bribe.
I knew the name of my father.
He was the president of the Indian American Student Association, and his wife was a well-known politician from Delhi.
When the kidnappers took our children, the Punjis held them in a cell.
The British sent one of their officers to interrogate the Punjamis, and the Pun Jamis said to him, “You are a traitor.”
The officer said to them, “Sir, I’m not going to torture you.
I want to kill you.”
They said, “We are the Punjas.”
The man said to his officers, “Do you want to be tortured?”
And he said, yes.
They said to their