HEN I WAS NINETEEN, I was first enveloped by the feminine principle, albeit in a hidden form. As I arrived on the Delhi tarmac straight f r om Nebraska and inhaled the scent of smoke, urine and feces, rotting fruit, and incense, I knew I was home. F r om that moment on, the sway of brilliant saris, the curve of water jugs, the feel of chilis under my fingernails, and the pulse of street music called me back to something long forgotten. As I gazed into the faces of leprous beggars, wheedling hawkers, and the well-oiled rich, I was shocked into a certain equanimity I could not name. The only way I could express it was to say that I suddenly knew what it meant to be a woman. On subsequent trips, I have had similar responses, the slowing of my m i n d and a deep relaxation in the pores of my body, calling me f r om ambitions of daily life to an existence more basic and fundamental, calling me home.