Two winters ago, I travelled with my family through various cities in India. We stayed in the home of close friends in Mumbai, but in all other parts of the country we were tourists. The beauty and exoticism of the things I saw impressed me - the countryside, the wildlife, the palaces of marble and stone. But the extreme poverty that I saw impressed me just as much.

 A truth, often overlooked by foreigners distracted by tapestries and the clamor of street monkeys, is that the caste system in India has caused deep economic division. The caste system, an age-old hierarchical class structure, groups the Indian people into cascading levels of wealth. Those born into higher castes descended from generations upon generations of wealth, and those at the bottom are rendered impoverished. This system was introduced thousands of years ago, and succeeded in creating persistent societal creases of divide. The immense poverty that occurs as a way of life for those at the base of the social pyramid is something India would like to hide from tourists. 

 The most obvious manifestation of this that I observed was the dichatomic dissonance between the enforced order of the Taj Mahal and the disorder of the slum-like area surrounding it. The Taj Mahal, one of the seven wonders of the world and a primary site for tourism in India, is well-groomed. The tour guide was so proud of the Taj Mahal, as he should be; it is magnificent. And though the area within the towering stone-wall encroachment was very nicely-kept, the marble steps were free of litter, the water that ran in the fountains was clear, it was not so easy for me to overlook the chaotic scrambling of beggars just outside. In actuality, that the site of the attraction had been painstakingly cleaned and ordered made the squalor of the surrounding areas all the more visible to me. 

 The enforcement of cleanliness is a show for a non-Indian audience, one who may be disquieted by a beggar or two interrupting their tour of the edifice, but is prepared and expected to push those unpleasant images of life out of the forefronts of their minds. The tragedy of this divide is that the care applied in preserving the vestige of tidiness is done so that foreigners may comfortably enjoy their tour, for a moment removing the harshness of life just beyond the attraction from their consciousnesses. As tourists, we may glimpse the economic disparity and inequality it creates, but we often fail to internalize it. 

 It is interesting, too, that India has built a tourism spectacle over a palace of death (the Taj Mahal was built as a mausoleum), white and clean and majestic, when the surrounding buzz of activity, the poverty and included, is messily, colorfully alive. Many families set up campground the building knowing it is bound to be flooded with foreigners flocking to see it. Children and adults alike are constantly peddling and pushing for a cent, euro, or rupee. The streets are loud, chaotic, and fascinating. 

Can they really convince themselves that the polished beauty of the marble palace makes the poverty immediately surrounding its boundaries any less obvious? As a tourist, I was struck by the divide between filth and the semblance of cleanliness. But isn't it unfortunate that Western-approved cleanliness becomes the goal, rather than the colors, patterns and noises of India in its organic state of beauty? That the noise and commotion, a perhaps hard to stomach, but integral parts of life in India are sources of shame? Contrasting greatly with the surrounding area, the Taj Mahal is framed to be enjoyable for those bringing foreign dollars into the economy, those who do not belong to any caste, as they are not Indian.