The Realities of Travel and Poverty in India

The center of every India city is packed with energy . . . and people

Introduction: A Hard Truth on the Road

 

Before we came to India, a friend offered me some advice.

“Just remember,” she said gently, “you’ll see things you can’t unsee.”

And she was right.

There are no two ways about it: India is full of wonder—color, history, sacred rivers, crumbling palaces, spices that rearrange your sinuses, and people who will make you feel like the world is a more beautiful place than you thought possible.

And I absolutely love India for all that.

But there’s something else, too. Something that doesn’t get the glossy brochure treatment. Something no travel influencer filters into their sunrise yoga reel from Rishikesh.

Poverty.

Real poverty. Not the "my Airbnb didn’t have hot water" kind. The kind that leaves you standing on a street corner, blinking too fast, because you're not sure where to look or how to feel. The kind that gets under your skin, and gives you the feels, and—if you're lucky—makes you learn something. Or even do something.

Now, let me be clear: You do not come to India to see poverty. The people you’ll see are not tourist attractions. They are not "content." They are human beings, and their suffering is not yours to collect or comment on like it's a line item on your bucket list. But if you come to India and somehow manage to avoid seeing poverty—glaring, gut-wrenching, soul-stirring poverty—then you haven’t really been to India.

That sounds rough, I know. But travel can’t be comfortable all the time. That's the difference between a tourist and a traveler. A tourist collects experiences. A traveler gains perspective. And one of the things you will see in India, if you keep your eyes open, is the reality that millions of people live with less security, fewer choices, and more daily struggle than many travelers can imagine.

You don’t need to have all the answers. I certainly don’t. But you do need to be ready. Ready to feel small. Ready to feel helpless. Ready to ask yourself some hard questions, and to wrestle with answers that are complicated and incomplete.

And maybe, if you're willing, ready to respond in whatever way feels human, and humble, and right.

The Flies Knew Before We Did

Our most difficult travel day—by a long shot—was the journey from Agra to Gorakhpur, en route to Lumbini, Nepal. The day had already unraveled. Delays. Crowds. Heat. Hunger. And somewhere along the line, we found ourselves sprawled on the grimy floor of a train platform in New Delhi, just waiting.

It was crowded, even by Indian train station standards. But eventually, we claimed a small rectangle of floor—just enough for our weary family to sit without elbowing strangers or falling into open luggage. Right next to us sat a family huddled together on the ground. And lying beside them was an elderly man, partially covered with a blanket.

Which seemed strange.

It was hot. Not “I wish I had a fan” hot. Not even “I miss air conditioning” hot. It was “why does my sweat have sweat?” hot. You don’t wrap yourself in a blanket on a day like that—not without a reason.

The first clue was the flies.

Now, India has a lot of flies. This isn’t breaking news. But this was next level. The man’s blanket was crawling with them. Absolutely swarming. It was like every fly in a five-kilometer radius had received an urgent group text saying: “It’s happening. Blanket. Platform 7. Come now.”

I don’t know what it was about that blanket that was a siren song to the area’s flies. But it couldn’t have been good. They were flies.

And then the man moved.

The blanket shifted, and we caught a glimpse of skin. Except it didn’t look like skin—not exactly. His arms, his back, his shoulders were mottled with sores. Raw, open sores. It was like something out of a plague journal. Biblical-level affliction. And there he was, lying quietly, surrounded by his family, surrounded by flies, and surrounded by us—just another moment in the chaos of a Delhi train station.

No one screamed. No one fussed. Most people didn’t even seem to notice.

And that’s the part that stuck with me.

Because this wasn’t a spectacle. It wasn’t a scene. It was just life, happening in the open. Life with all its fragility, all its suffering, all its unapologetic realness—right there in front of us, on the same ground we were sitting on.

I don’t know what condition he had. I don’t know if anyone was able to help him. I don’t even know where he was going, or if he had a ticket.

All I know is that in that moment, India didn’t give us a sanitized, curated travel brochure. It gave us the truth. And the truth had sores.

On Slum Tours, Respect, and Showing Up the Right Way

Let’s talk about slum tours.

Yes, they’re a thing. Especially in Mumbai. And yes, the very phrase “slum tour” sets off alarm bells. It sounds exploitative. Voyeuristic. Disrespectful. Like you’re turning someone’s hardship into your afternoon enrichment activity before heading back to the hotel for a rooftop lassi.

We debated it. A lot.

I study international development, so poverty isn’t just something I encounter—it’s something I think and teach about. And I believe that real travel isn’t just about seeing the easy parts of the world. It’s also about understanding the difficult parts. But there’s a line between understanding and gawking—and we didn’t want to cross it.

So, we approached carefully.

First, we didn’t book anything labeled a “slum tour.” We chose a “Dharavi tour”—one that focused on the specific history, economy, and community of one of Asia’s largest slums. Second, we booked it through an NGO that puts the majority of its tour proceeds back into community development in Dharavi itself. And third—I left my camera behind.

This wasn’t a trip for the ‘gram. It wasn’t about storytelling. It was about showing up, listening, learning, and then leaving quietly.

You can make a strong argument either way on these kinds of tours. We’ve skipped them in the past. But occasionally, we’ve also chosen to go. We did a township tour in Johannesburg, for example, under similar conditions: community-run, educational in focus, and grounded in dignity.

If you’re considering a tour like this, here’s my advice: proceed with caution and conscience. Ask who benefits (poverty tourism can lead to an increased demand for human trafficking). Ask what kind of narrative is being told. Ask if you’re there to learn—or to perform learning.

And then listen. Really listen.

Because what we found in both Dharavi and Soweto was not a performance of poverty. We found pride. We found resilience. We found people who welcomed us not because they were eager to show off how hard life was, but because they were proud of their communities and the lives they were building.

If you engage with humility and go to understand—not to feel grateful or collect moral merit badges—I think these tours can be valuable for everyone involved.

But ultimately, you do you. Just don’t do harm. And maybe leave the selfie stick at home.

A branch of the Gramin Bank, a microfinance institution that makes very small loans to people who generally do not have any collateral

What About the Begging?

Let’s not sugarcoat it: you’ll see beggars in India. Lots of them. Constantly. Everywhere. At train stations. Outside temples. On the medians between lanes of snarled traffic. You’ll see children tapping on your taxi window. Old women crouched in the shade of a market wall. Mothers with infants, barefoot in the dust.

And if you have a heart, it will break a little. Maybe a lot.

So what do you do?

Well, that depends. But here’s what I’ve learned:

Giving money—especially to children—is often not the kindness it feels like. In fact, it can be exactly the opposite. When travelers give freely to begging children, it creates a market. And like all markets, demand shapes supply. Adults learn that there is money in putting kids on the street. And in some of the ugliest cases, those adults are not the children’s parents or guardians at all. Some children are trafficked or "employed" by begging syndicates. There are even heartbreaking cases where children have been intentionally disfigured—burned, blinded, or maimed—to make them more profitable beggars. That’s not generosity. That’s complicity.

Even without this Dickensian nightmare, the more income children get from begging, the more likely they (or their families) are to choose begging over schooling.

So what should you do instead?

If you want to help, help smart. Support reputable local organizations doing long-term work in child welfare, education, women’s empowerment, or housing. Whatever aspect you think best. These groups understand the local context and are working at the root, not the surface. Look online. It is easy to find a place to support.

When I go out on shorter trips, I will often contact a local school and ask if there are any supplies I can bring to them. I will end up loading every spare inch of my luggage with pens, erasers, pads of paper. Whatever they tell me they need. If you help provide school supplies, you are simply providing access to some tools for the people to help improve their own futures.

But what about that one person you pass in the street who looks like they just really, truly need help?

Then give if it seems right—but give thoughtfully. Offer food, not money. Bottled water. A banana. A packet of biscuits. Something immediate and nourishing, with no strings and no market distortion.

Make eye contact. Smile. Offer dignity.

And don’t worry too much about whether the person has a deal with the local market to return that bottle of water or milk you donated for cash. If you are generous, someone might take advantage of you at some point. Be generous anyway.

And maybe ask yourself the deeper questions later, when you’re sitting on the train or back at the guesthouse: How do I want to engage with poverty when I travel? How do I want to see people—not just look at them?

Because travel isn’t just about what you see. It’s about how you see. And what you do next.

We are pretty used to sketchy toilets, but India tested our olfactory stamina at times