As an Indian kid growing up in the State, my mothers did everything they could to create a little feeling of their ancestral moor in our small-minded Midwestern town. There was always classical Indian music, full of sitars and harmoniums, clanging on the weekends. My father-god often changed into a traditional kurta shirt in the evenings, after office. Our residence ever carried the strong fragrances of the spices and herbs of my parents’ favorite dishes, which seemed to permanently embed themselves into our furniture cloths, robes and even our bark.