I've heard that Slumdog Millionaire is an exaggerated Hollywood version of what the slums of India are like; that it isn't a true representation of India. Maybe it's my American vision, but it's definitely what I saw in India in the spring of 2008. Watching Slumdog, I could smell it.

That's the first thing you learn about India - it has a scent that, as a foreigner, you never get used to. It's not just one smell. It's layer after layer, becoming something I could never identify except to call it "India." The first layer is the ash. Indians cremate their dead according to the Hindu faith, and, with a population of more than one billion and growing, the daily burnings can overwhelm a newcomer. Under the blanket of ash, you breathe in air filled with marigolds, sweat, spices, excrement, incense, and animals.

The very sight of India is powerful and beautiful in its struggle to create its own identity in the global community. It boasts of its economic growth and its democracy on the world front, but hides its fight to educate and provide rights for the booming population. Women's rights, infanticide, employment, and waste disposal are some major issues in India that I rattle off the top of my head, and there are a lot more. India is a study in contrast. It's like an exotic flower trying to bloom in the middle of a trash heap. India is a study in contrast. It's like an exotic flower trying to bloom in the middle of a trash heap.

Many of the people I traveled around India with were deeply affected by the poverty they witnessed. It becomes a separate entity there, hovering over its people, providing a barrier between them and the rest of the world. Between the dying caste system - strong vestiges and prejudices remain - and the sheer number of destitute people, it seems impossible for them to escape this veil of poverty. This is why Slumdog Millionaire is a huge hit in India. The movie and the real-life rag-to-riches stories of some of its actors gives Indians a hope that maybe they too can become millionaires.

It wasn't until one particular night that I came to truly understand the extremity of their poverty. We were at a train station in New Delhi, about to catch the 10:30 train back to Chennai. The entrance to the platform was packed with people lying on the floor. Some inhabitants were in sleeping bags, but most slept on threadbare blankets. We had to tiptoe around the bodies, not an easy task when you're also carrying your luggage. At first I thought that all these people were waiting for some late night or morning train. It didn't take me long to realize that this was only the smallest fraction of India's homeless, looking for a place to rest.

Once on the platform - an open-air place with little light - we had quite some time to wait. The train was running late. Those living at the station who weren't asleep gravitated to us, as if our clean faces and bags that communicated untold wealth were a siren. 

One man insisted on polishing my friend's shoes. He politely declined. He was wearing dark tennis shoes that probably shouldn't take polish. But in the dark of the night our polishing friend probably couldn't see that, or if he could, he simply didn't care. Despite my friend saying over and again that he wasn't going to pay the man, he still bent down and started polishing the shoes. My friend tried to walk away, but he was only followed by the man, scrambling after him on his knees.

My friend probably could have just given the man a little money and he'd have been on his way, but there's always the knowledge that if you give money to one person, suddenly you have to give money to everyone. And while we had more money than these station-dwellers, it wasn't enough to share with everyone without endangering ourselves.

There's also the fact that for many of India's poor, begging is their job. They have informal begging schools, teaching people the best way to con foreigners out of their money. I encountered a few professional beggars myself and learned to just turn a blind eye to most of the "suffering" I witnessed. It sounds cruel, but you have to take self-protection measures in a world where you suddenly are a minority in a way you've never experienced before.

We did have some extra food and water on us, and we gladly gave some to the children living around the platform. And here is where I witnessed India's greatest tragedy. One little girl in particular had accumulated quite a bit of water and food from us, and she was proudly walking to her sister, chattering away excitedly.

It was almost too much for her to carry, so she set down a water to show some other item to her sister, who was stretched out weakly on a bench. As the sister reached out a hand to warn the girl that she should keep an eye on the water, an adult man walked by and smoothly snatched it up. He was too big for her, so the two girls sadly watched him walk away. In a dark corner, two grown men got into a fistfight over a bag of chips we'd donated.

We knew better than to interfere any further in a culture we could barely understand. India we had met and exchanged pleasantries with, seeing some of its brightest displays and its proudest monuments. But this wasn't quite India. This was some sub-culture. It was an underground world where people struggled to exist.

I witnessed a side of it first-hand that night, and it shocked me to my core. Watching Slumdog Millionaire, I felt that it wasn't a story about India. It was a testament to this hidden reality. That is what makes Slumdog a great film, for it shows that dark side of humanity that rarely gets acknowledged but unfortunately is inescapable for so many.