When extra bling on a lehenga grayed my face, longer sleeves reduced an evening, chappals ended a crucial conversation, and an imperfect skirt didn't let me dandiya, I asked myself: Where does my identity live? . When my dress was short by a long inch and black velvet couldn't conceal tears like woollen could've, when words didn't sugarcoat my silk sari with glitter and when the silence terrified me, I told myelf: Maybe my identity lives in my wardrobe and travels in images on car windows and restaurant doors that secretly show when I peek. These reflections mock empty identities with shiny surfaces. . If you stripped my identity naked- would you see bare, hollow insides of a wardrobe? if my leather suitcase of favorite outfits caught fire, would I suffocate into ropes of charred fabric? maybe I am because I wear to conform.