The beauty of the Taj Mahal is overshadowed by some of the world's ugliest poverty. Credit:AP It is against this backdrop that generations of western travellers have sought the authentic Indian experience. But with most taking the same well-worn route, the fast-paced, seemingly unregulated, and often unforgiving tourism industry that has sprung up in response means they get anything but. From Delhi's infamous dodgy travel agents to train station clerks who demand an extra "tax," to the rickshaw drivers who scoop huge commissions for delivering green tourists to waiting shopkeepers, the scams come thick and fast. Falling for them is a right of passage. Indeed, I fell for more than one and I'm mostly okay with that. Why shouldn't struggling locals make as much from us westerners as they can? After all, no matter how tight our travel budget, we are always going to come out of it the better off. Moreover, given all the wealth the West has taken from the subcontinent over the past couple of centuries, I am the last to begrudge some of them reclaiming it, rupee by rupee. When you are in the thick of it, however, it can feel demoralising. Every conversation seems burdened by the weight of an expected transaction, including for solo females, a sexual one. A few days of this and you start to feel like the losing player in a game where the aim is to separate you from all your money as quickly as possible. As one young Welsh man I met said sadly, "I feel like a walking cash machine."

All of which means that, on the tourist trail at least, the chances of a genuine connection seems impossible. My frustrated attempts at honest conversations with local shopkeepers and street vendors I spoke to led either to a lighter wallet or inappropriate sexual invitations or both. Not that meaningful encounters with local hawkers is what all tourists are after. But, in the relatively short time I was there, I was never quite clear on what it is we are after. Is travelling really only about ticking off the major attractions, avoiding the beggars, and insisting shopkeepers knock the equivalent of an extra $1 from the price of harem pants that are marketed as Indian but sold exclusively to tourists? To be clear; I do not blame Indians for this. Rather, I suspect our enduring love of "doing India" appears to have fomented a situation where enterprising and desperate locals seek to profit by giving us what they think we want. But what we get is an imitation of the real thing. It feels exploitative to be a part of this, to waltz in from another, wealthier country, get ushered into the famous sites, hang out with other westerners, and then waltz away again. On to the next city, the next attraction, the next "experience." Despite all the work I do trying to undermine it, I too am a beneficiary of white, western privilege.

Of course, this state of affairs is not limited to India. Perhaps it's the fact I am no longer a wide-eyed backpacker on my first Big Trip, or my anti-colonialist politics talking here (and colonialism has certainly left its mark here), but it feels as though in India, all pretence is abandoned and what we are left with is the stark, ugly reality of privilege and inequality. By the start of my fifth and final week, it dawned on me that, to all intents and purposes, in India I am a "white person." Disheartened at how often western tourists were approached by locals for selfies (the whiter-looking, the more their image is sought), at first I had the luxury of distancing myself from these particular interactions, of kidding myself I had more in common with the locals than the white tourists they seemed to idolise. But when, in the absence of an actual European-descended tourist, I was also asked to pose in family happy snaps, it became uncomfortably clear to me the lens through which I was viewed. Certainly, the compliments on my "fair" skin and warnings not to spend too much time in the sun or risk becoming "dark like us" were meant to flatter. But they sent a brutal message that, despite all the work I do trying to undermine it, I too am a beneficiary of white, western privilege. From walking the streets on my own, to the thousands of rupees I withdrew from the ATM without blinking, to the bikini I wore by the lake in the tiny southern town of Hampi, where tourists sunbake on ancient ethereal boulders while astonished Indian men gather to gawk at the unusual antics of "white people"; all of these signalled a status and privilege that, relative to much of the local population, I had in abundance.