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Katrell Christie was a thirty-something former hippie-turned-roller-derby-rebel with an eclectic little tea shop, Dr. Bombay's Underwater Tea Party, in suburban Atlanta.Katrell had no idea on earth that justtwo years after opening her doors, herordinary American life would make a drastic change and so would the lives of women half a world away. I chose the name of my tea shop--Dr. Bombay's Underwater Tea Party --because it sounded whimsical.India wasn't a part of the equation. Not even remotely. I didn't do yoga. I had no deep yearning to see the Taj Mahal or tour Hindu temples. I was not harboring some spiritual desire to follow the path of the Buddha. Indian food? I could take it or leave it. But a regular customer, Cate Powell, raved about a trip she'd taken there as a Rotary Club scholar. Cate was planning to go again to work with a women's handicraft exchange. Her enthusiasm was infectious.'You should come, ' she said after breezing into the shop one day. I didn't give it much thought. It seemed about as likely of happening as me suddenly deciding to mount abid forMiss Georgia Peach.I was a new business owner with work stretching for as far as I could see . . . But Katrell did go. She toured the tea fields of Darjeeling, witnessed the Hindu throngs at the Ganges, and learned to string pearls in the Muslim town of Hyderabad where Cate was working to help market the jewelry. As we work I watch. Some shed their Muslim coverings when they enter the workroom but others remain fully covered, only a glimpse of eyes visible. It's disconcerting. I'm a Southern girl. My mother taught me to throw out a big friendly smile to the world. But with these womentheir faces cloakedI get nothing back. I can't connect. Even worse, I couldn't get my mind off the idea that no matter what these women did they would nev