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be a recipe for disaster -- one developing-country electrical event, and my computer would be transformed into a sea of melted plastic and fried data. So whenever possible I used battery power, charging up the spare only when I was in the room to put out any fires that might result. Problems with the phone lines, however, proved insurmountable. On my first day in India, I got down on my knees and crawled under the bed in my mid-range hotel room, following a knotted phone cord that simply disappeared into a hole in the wall. So much for phone jacks and modems. I was going to have to find public Internet access. E-mail? The Internet? Nobody in my hotel had heard of it. But the five-star listings in my guidebook yielded more luck. The Hotel Imperial, one of Delhi's finest, told me I could access the Internet through the lone computer and modem in its Business Center. I put on a skirt, grabbed my address book and tried to look nonchalant as I walked through the gleaming marble entrance past liveried doormen. Mr. Jain, the Business Center manager, bowed and greeted me in a lilting voice. I asked him, almost breathlessly, if he had Internet access. "Ah yes," he said, sitting down in his three-piece suit and peering solemnly at the computer screen. With a dignified, almost ceremonial air, he dialed in over a modem that required more than 10 tries to connect, entered a special password and series of codes and then: oh joy. I was connected. It was expensive in local terms, but I didn't care. I told Mr. Jain about my travel plans and asked him whether I could find Internet access in the state of Rajasthan -- or anywhere outside Delhi. He shook his head gravely. I turned back to the computer and typed out a message to my friends, family and editors warning them that I didn't know when, if ever, I'd be online again. I traveled next to Jaisalmer, where an ancient sandstone fort towers over a vast expanse of desert near the Pakistani border. Inside the fort, cows sauntered along cobblestone walkways while women in brightly colored saris swept their doorsteps with twig brooms. Musicians wandered the alleyways, their drums and voices echoing among the golden walls of the havelis. Outside the fort, the desert was scattered with remote tribal settlements that could be reached only by camel or jeep. Throughout the region electricity was limited, telephones were rare and there were more camels than cars. I didn't even think about finding Internet access there. But after a jarring all-night bus ride through the desert, I reached Jaipur -- the capital of Rajasthan and a major business center. I was sure I'd find a way to send e-mail; I was counting on it to file my first story. I called all the five-star hotels, with no luck. This was a bad sign. The staff at my budget "palace" wracked their brains, then recommended a place called the Computer Club. When I got there, three local computer science students told me their modem was broken. They didn't know of any other access site in the city. I shuffled back out to my auto-rickshaw, looking crestfallen. "Broken," I told Ali, the rickshaw driver, as I heaved into the back seat with a sigh. "I don't know where to go next." Ali smiled and reached into his pocket. I had underestimated him. Most rickshaw drivers don't read, let alone type, so I hadn't thought to ask him where I could find Internet access. "Here!" he said triumphantly, pulling out a business card that said "Rajasthan Online." I stared at it, my surprise turning to glee. "Let's go!" We set off through the lung-searing haze of Jaipur's main streets, dodging oncoming trucks and swerving around desperate beggars. Crossing the city, we entered a residential section. Cement-block homes identified this as a middle-class neighborhood, although it was bisected by garbage-strewn dirt roads. We pulled up in front of a house that had a large sign on its front gate: Net Commerze (India) Pvt. Ltd. I got out of the rickshaw and looked around. Women in saris were walking down the dirt road, balancing pots of dried cow dung on their heads. Children played and screeched around us. This was where I was going to find the Internet? I shouldered past some wandering cows to make my way through the gate and rang the bell. An old woman opened the door, told us to wait and slammed it shut again. There was a long pause. Then a young man, impeccably dressed in a business suit, appeared to usher us in. I could only guess that he had been changing hurriedly while we waited out front. His name was Manoj Gajawat, and he was friendly, fluent in English and highly computer literate. In addition to providing Jaipur's only public Internet access, he had launched a Web page for tourist and business information about Rajasthan. In true Indian style, Manoj and Ali stared unabashedly at the computer screen, reading all my e-mail along with me. As I traveled in India, I soon got used to this. There were very, very few things I could do without an audience. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Few travelers stop in Vadodara, the second-largest city in the state of Gujarat. It's a local industrial and commercial center, with little to attract tourists or international businessmen. I arrived there after traveling along the Narmada River with activists who are fighting a massive dam-building scheme. The old town, where I stayed, was filled with crowds and exhaust, temples and vegetable sellers, and a few dilapidated hotels. After a lengthy search, I found a hotel that was not falling to pieces and showered off two weeks of village dust. I downed a huge platter of delicious Gujarati food. Then I turned to the other "essential" -- finding e-mail access. But where to start looking? Vadodara has one five-star hotel, and that hotel has one employee who knows that in the smoky warren of the old town, there is a cybercafe. Once again, this was the city's only public Internet access, charging $3 per hour. I could walk there, dodging beggars and traffic and street-side hawkers, from my hotel. The single Net-connected computer was in high demand. I had to wait, often with three to five others, for my turn. During business hours, the local server was swamped. Only after 6 p.m. did we have a reasonable chance of connecting to cyberspace. Even then, it took 15 to 20 tries before the busy signals gave way to the hoped-for series of crackles and beeps that signaled connection. Following that, you could expect to be disconnected every 10 to 15 minutes, at which point the entire process would start all over again. I was delighted. This was still better than nothing. I was finding that the Internet was, indeed, penetrating India. I waited my turn, talking to the students, housewives and businessmen who were waiting with me. Many of them were getting their first glimpse of the Internet through introductory classes offered by the cybercafe. The young man who managed the place spoke no English or Hindi -- just Gujarati, the regional language. Our entire interaction revolved around a few key phrases: "Possible to use Internet?" "Disconnected!" "Again disconnected." "Excuse me? Big problem. Many times disconnected." "OK, finish -- how much?" All of this was laborious, but for me it was utterly worthwhile. As I traveled in Asia, e-mail allowed me to earn income as a freelance writer and consultant. It enabled me to keep in touch with my friends, family, sublessee and travel agent back home. I could e-mail people in the United States asking for contacts in the next city or background information for my stories and have a reply the next morning. I could stay in touch with fellow travelers as they moved around the continent. In a few cases, I could communicate with new Indian friends and contacts. It would have been unbearably costly and logistically insane to do these things by any other medium. As I traveled deep into new corners of the world, e-mail kept the rest of my planet spinning. Two hours away from Vadodara by train, I reached the larger city of Ahmadabad. In keeping with its standing as capital of Gujarat, India's wealthiest state, I found two connections there. One was in an upscale hotel -- the Holiday Inn -- but its modem was often busy. I followed another lead across the mud flats, to a software development business located near Mahatma Gandhi's ashram. The owner told me he no longer offered public Internet access, but invited me in anyway. I took off my shoes at the door, accepted a cup of chai and settled in. On the wall was a flyer advertising classes entitled "Learn to Surf Internet like a Professional." On my last night in Ahmadabad, I splurged on a room at the Holiday Inn. After seven weeks of grueling budget travel in India, I figured I deserved it. For $98 a night, I got hot showers, CNN, bedtime chocolates -- and wonder of wonders, a phone jack. For the first time I could make my own Internet connection, which would enable me to access AOL. Thus far in India I'd been making do with Hotmail, but I was eager to tap into my other mailbox. I plugged in my laptop and dialed Kat