Why recycled Diwali gifts are twice blessed: It’s the larger thought that counts

Reading it felt a bit like glimpsing a collective Indian diary of sentiment and self-awareness, sprinkled with generosity and guilt in equal parts. It turns out we are a nation of philosophers when it comes to gifts.

Some respondents spoke movingly about choosing “something meaningful that the person wouldn’t buy for themselves." Others emphasized “utility," “sustainability" or the goal of “creating happy memories."

And then, there were the realists, those who confessed to the quiet if slightly shame-faced ritual of re-gifting. They are, I suspect, the unsung economists of our times—the ones who’ve understood that love, like matter, cannot be created or destroyed, only transferred from one social circle to another.

Re-gifting, of course, has a bad reputation. It’s viewed as the moral equivalent of reheating leftovers for a dinner guest. Yet, as I read through the survey’s findings, it struck me that perhaps we’ve been too harsh on recycled gifts.

In a world obsessed with sustainability and circular economies, isn’t re-gifting simply emotional recycling? The Ferrero Rocher box that’s been to more Diwali parties than you have isn’t wasteful—it’s well-travelled. The candle-holder that made its way from a cousin to a colleague and then to the neighbour’s house-warming is practically an heirloom now, a symbol of continuity and efficiency.

The survey’s beauty lay in how seriously people took gifting as a philosophy. There was deep thought behind the smallest of choices—who gets what, why and with what intention.

“Something that brings a smile," said one. “A gift that the receiver will use regularly," said another. One participant insisted on “sustainable and environmentally friendly" gifts, which is a noble goal until you realize that half of India’s Diwali gifting ecosystem runs on decorative candles and bath salts.

Yet, their underlying sentiment—a desire not to burden others with clutter—was both practical and profound. A useful gift, by this logic, is not just a reflection of thoughtfulness, but an act of respect for the receiver’s limited shelf space.

And then there’s the sociology of gifting. Every Diwali, the ritual becomes an intricate dance of reciprocity. One must not gift too much, lest it feel performative; nor too little, lest it feel indifferent. Gifting reveals hierarchy, affection, guilt and strategy all at once.

The Ken’s survey even hinted at this invisible calculus—how some people base their gifting budgets on “what gifts they received in the past." Others confessed that the “gift shouldn’t be so over the top that it makes the receiver uncomfortable." Gifting, then, is not merely an economic act; it’s an emotional market governed by fairness, signalling and cultural norms.

Which brings us to Diwali. In theory, it’s a festival of light, symbolizing renewal and generosity. In practice, it’s also the season when one must navigate a social maze of sweets, hampers and corporate “gestures of appreciation" that arrive in boxes large enough to fit small furniture. It is also the time when our recycling economy hits peak efficiency.

To view this cynically is to miss the point. India’s gift economy, in its glorious chaos, tells us something essential about how we manage social bonds. A gift, even when recycled, carries with it a trace of care—a whisper of the original giver’s intent. It may have changed hands, but it still performs its social function: it acknowledges, connects and completes the ritual. The act of passing something on, after all, can be a form of thoughtfulness.

In a way, the recycled gift is a perfect metaphor for modern Diwali. As we drown in abundance, we crave meaning. The problem isn’t that we have too little to give, but that we have lost the art of giving thoughtfully. Perhaps the real luxury today isn’t a new gadget or premium hamper, but attention—the act of actually thinking about what would delight someone rather than what looks impressive.

Maybe that’s why so many survey respondents said their favourite gifts were those that created memories: a handwritten letter, a shared experience, a book inscribed with a personal note. Gifts, one said, “should remind you of the person who gave it every time you use it." That, to me, is the gold standard. Because the true worth of a gift lies not in its price, novelty or packaging, but in its emotional half-life—how long it lingers in memory once the ribbon is untied.

So, this Diwali, when you open that glossy box that suspiciously resembles one you gave last year, take a moment before you sigh. It’s not a failure of imagination; it’s the quiet triumph of a circular conscience. In an economy where we recycle paper, plastic, and even opinions, surely love deserves its own second chance. Perhaps the spirit of gifting lies not in the gift’s novelty, but in the care it conveys. And if that isn’t the perfect metaphor for a recycled Diwali gift, I don’t know what is.

These are the author’s personal views.

The author is professor, economics and executive director, Centre for Family Business & Entrepreneurship at Bhavan’s SPJIMR.