I remember vividly, how that spattering of a blackish-green ‘shikakai’ blend I’d been handed down as a family tradition, along with a bottle of thick castor oil, had mucked up an otherwise spotless, dove-white bath tub. To my horror, it started to clog solidly and steadily, and wouldn’t run down the drain even after several powerful prods. I didn’t know whether to begin removing the stains, or dissolving the messy congestion. It didn’t take me long to figure out there was a bundle of hair muddled up in it as well, blame it on the lead content in the water, like my mom said. I guess many desi women here have experienced similar atrocious episodes, especially the ones that believed they could take care of their scalps and tresses just like they did back at home, only to sooner or later realize that grandma’s henna, or methi formula is rather hazardous to the elegance of American baths.

Then there was the time when I began frying pakoras on a dull, rainy evening, triggering the fire alarm, and eventually, a dose of heavy embarrassment that has stayed with me for years. I have since taken refuge in the convenience of ‘Swad’ and other frozen, deep-fried delights, which simply need to be thawed and popped in the oven. Consequently, I don’t spend hours kneading the dough and readying the filling for scrumptious samosas anymore. And speaking of ovens, there was no way to learn what is safe for microwave use a few years ago, when microwaves were unheard of in India. So for a newbie that had just set foot in here, it was a matter of trial and, on occasion, irreparable error.

And that’s not where the awkwardness ends. The initial struggle of getting used to left-hand steering, and the reverse order of many other things, is still fresh in my memory. The sudden, pungent, garlicky odors that emanated from the rajma in my lunch box at work, sending some colleagues into a tizzy; the puzzled look on the librarian’s face when I’d hunted down and picked out a dusty, Satyajit Ray video from a forgotten corner; the subtle surprise on the sales clerk’s face on seeing a string of deftly cut-out coupons pop out of my bag; the confusion I stirred by saying “water, without ice please,” at a restaurant; how I used to get wished on the wrong day for writing my birthday down the wrong way; the tongue-twister effect my name has had on countless Americans - all these incidents have changed my entire outlook on life. I have reoriented the way I cook, eat, talk, write, and to put it mildly, live.

I have fond memories from an age bygone, when my mother made sure I got those weekly warm oil scalp massages, and cleanses with the finest of traditional hair care ingredients, either grown and mixed at home, or hand picked from the maid’s farm. But now I make do with damaging shampoo, cleanser, conditioner, and other mysterious chemical combos, to make my hair look passable. My ‘rice cakes’ baked in a microwavable set of trays, turn out just as swell as my mother’s steamed, pressure-cooked ‘idlis’. My coffeemaker brews Folgers coffee just as fresh as my mother’s ‘Kothas’ blend in a stainless steel traditional kettle.

Also, these days I delight in reading a painstakingly typed out email from my folks, just as I used to, when they sent a hand-written letter tucked coyly inside a tightly wrapped parcel. I see the herbal hair oil pack that my husband sheepishly orders online from an Indian portal, and rejoice secretly. I bake raisin bran cookies from store bought mix for my little one and take pride in it. I enjoy onion rings dunked in mayonnaise, just as much as I would, a platter of samosas with spicy chutney on the side. I soak up the richness of honey bunches of cereal in milk, like I would, of my mother’s ragi porridge. Yet, there’s definitely something amiss - my life definitely isn’t the same as it used to be.

I sometimes wonder - will I hand down a list of the best ready-to-eat brands to my daughter, or actual recipes? Will I teach her the secrets of homemade fresh fruit face packs for glowing skin, or simply buy her those trendy chemical peel-off masks? Well, these are questions that only need to be answered in the long run. For now, I need to read out some stories from ancient Indian mythology to her, at least before she grills me about the Godly ‘dudes’ and ‘dudettes’.