The Economics of Modern Diwali: A Festival of Gifts or a Grand Corruption Fair?

Diwali has undergone a striking transformation. For many ordinary people, it is still a beloved and eagerly awaited festival—especially for children whose excitement lights up the atmosphere. But for the “special” class, Diwali has become something far more strategic: a profitable annual enterprise. What should be a cultural celebration has quietly evolved into an organized system of “ethical bribery,” disguised under the glowing wrap of festive gifts. Beneath the lamps and lanterns hides the roaring marketplace of corruption.

Ironically, around Diwali each year, the Central Vigilance Commission observes “Vigilance Awareness Week.” In 2025, this is set to take place between October 27 and November 2 across various ministries and departments. For many corrupt officials, it is nothing more than a ritualistic formality. Only a handful of truly honest officers implement it in spirit, using it to send out a strong and principled message. But the glittering wave of Diwali “gifts” often turns this observance into a mockery.

The nexus between the business class and corrupt officials has dramatically reshaped Diwali, turning it into the prime festival of economic crime. On this occasion, all government conduct rules collapse without a trace. A few symbolic raids may take place before or after the festival—ritualistic performances meant to create headlines. Crores worth of unaccounted cash, jewelry, and valuables are seized in a handful of cases; the media fans the flames of sensation; and after a brief uproar, everything quietly returns to business as usual.

In truth, Deepavali has become Upahaaravali—a festival of gifts for the privileged. The gift economy surrounding Diwali runs not in crores, but in lakhs of crores. No one asks where such staggering sums originate or where they vanish. The reality is chilling: much of this wealth comes from public funds—money that belongs to citizens. The business class pockets government funds and then tosses a neatly wrapped slice of it like a bone to officials, who lunge for it eagerly. In other words, bribes aren’t paid from private pockets but from the public exchequer!

The machinery of gifting is highly organized. Government officials cancel leave and avoid travel in the days around Diwali, glued to their seats from morning till late evening—lest a “precious package” arrive in their absence. To avoid sharing with colleagues, many senior officers even set up special gift-receiving arrangements at home. Neighbors observe closely: Did they get more or did we? Sometimes, it is these watchful neighbors who end up spilling the secrets.

The givers, meanwhile, begin preparations months in advance. They edit their last year's list and re-evaluate who deserves a bigger “investment” this time, based on how much work or favour was secured earlier. The quality and visibility of gifts depend on the recipient’s influence. The most powerful receive invisible gifts—cash, luxuries, favours—while others are contented with visible ones. Even within departments, employees exchange gifts under the banner of festivity. What better excuse than Diwali to settle favors, secure postings, or express “gratitude” for a foreign trip or lucrative desk?

Temporary staff play their own role in this shadow economy. Many contractual workers have to work on Diwali itself—cleaning homes and offices of their superiors. The filth that piles up afterward tells a darker tale of the “festival of light.”

An amusing yet alarming fact is that both government and private players engage in corruption within the corruption! Those responsible for distribution sometimes swallow the entire loot themselves, leaving crumbs for others—or none at all—without the giver ever finding out.

There are rare officers—exceptions to this corrupt tradition—who refuse any gift. But even they cannot escape the system. If a gift is rejected, it quietly arrives at their home anyway, and their names remain permanently inscribed in the gift ledgers. Acceptance or refusal makes no difference—the record ensures they’re part of the list.

As millions of earthen lamps glow across the nation, Diwali illuminates more than homes. It exposes the underbelly of an economy where patriotism bows to foreign luxury, and the dream of “self-reliance” is drowned in imported temptation. Environmental debates, too, flare up around Diwali and then fade into tokenism—just as the pious concern for Yamuna river resurfaces briefly during Chhath only to disappear again.

The true “Diwali miracle” today lies not in lighting lamps, but in how cleverly economic crime gets sanctified in the name of tradition.