Festival Survival: A user manual nobody asked for. By Panchutantra

In India, festivals are less about devotion and more about endurance. Think of them as an Ironman triathlon, except the disciplines are overeating, overspending and over smiling for photos you will regret.

The food round comes first. “One more laddoo” is less an offer than a national emergency code. Relatives insist mithai is calorie free if eaten after midnight. Doctors quietly upgrade their clinics to banquet halls to handle the post festive sugar rush.

Then comes the annual family portrait. You think you’re capturing a memory, but what you’ve really done is audition for a Diwali ad. The Fabindia kurta, the fairy lights, the hand on the diya like it’s a newborn. Congratulations, you’ve just become the poster child for sameness.

Advertising doesn’t help. This is the season when sixty thousand brands copy paste the same headline: “This Diwali…” followed by whatever the intern suggested. “This Diwali, spread light.” “This Diwali, spread joy.” “This Diwali, spread cement.” By the second week, cement, chocolates and credit cards all sound like distant cousins selling you the same mithai box.

Speaking of which, gifting is now a relay race. One kaju katli box is spotted at six houses in three days. Diyas circulate like election promises. And at least one decorative plant has served longer terms than most MPs. The true test of character is whether you can return the exact same gift to the person who gave it to you.

Retail takes the joke further. The unbeatable festival logic: “the more you spend, the more you save.” A ₹50,000 television is pitched as financial wisdom. Banks offer “festival loans,” because nothing says prosperity like borrowing money to buy a gold bangle you don’t need. Your online shopping cart groans with useless items you won’t delete—lest Amazon think you’re clinically un festive.

Workplaces, never ones to miss out, unleash HR. The crown jewel? “Traditional Attire Day.” HR’s revenge for your attendance record. Nothing like seeing colleagues who haven’t ironed a shirt in years attempting a lehenga. Kurta buttons surrender by lunchtime. Tambola prizes include Bluetooth speakers that don’t pair and casserole sets that don’t shut. A celebration of waste in the name of culture.

Gold, meanwhile, continues its annual worship. Families that debate medical insurance for years will mortgage themselves in a heartbeat for bangles. WhatsApp forwards call it “good investment.” Economists call it “national obsession.” Lakshmi, if she were truly watching, would call it “odd priorities.”

And let’s not forget the great Diwali smog. Crackers, sold as patriotism, transform cities into horror franchises. The next morning, Delhi’s air quality index reads like a blood pressure report. Sales of air purifiers spike so sharply they deserve their own festival catalogues. Eco friendly crackers make an appearance too—greenwashing with a fuse.

WhatsApp doesn’t lag behind either. By 6 a.m., GIFs and fireworks memes flood your phone. “May this Diwali bring you joy.” “May this Diwali bring you wealth.” By the tenth message, you want this Diwali to bring you the mute button.

And then the lights war begins. Neighbourhoods compete to see who can out LED whom. Entire apartment blocks glow brighter than an international airport. The wattage could power Nepal, but all anyone sees is: nice sparkle, Sharmaji.

So how to survive? Eat less than your aunt insists. Drink more water than whisky. Smile less in photos—it unsettles relatives. And whenever you hear an ad begin with “This Diwali,” do yourself a favour—blow out the TV, light one diya and call it a win.

Because in India, festivals are not a matter of faith. They are a matter of survival.

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