Genre:War Drama| Year:2025 | Duration: 160 mins | Director:Razneesh Ghai| Medium:Theatre (PVR Cinemas) | Trailer:HERE | Language: Hindi | Cast: Farhan Akhtar, Raashil Khanna, and others | My rating: 3.5/5
Favourite Dialogue:“Unka khoon uss mitti mein zaroor milega sahab, aur jo khoon milega who unki chhaati ka hoga peeth ka nahi”
120 Bahadur is based on the real-life sacrifice of the 120 soldiers of Charlie Company, 13 Kumaon Regiment of the Indian Army at the Battle of Rezang La during the 1962 Sino-Indian War. It chronicles the extraordinary courage of 120 Indian soldiers who stood their ground against 3000 Chinese troops. The film focuses on Major Shaitan Singh Bhati (played by Farhan Akhtar), showcasing the grit, sacrifice, and valour of soldiers fighting in the brutal cold and high altitude of Ladakh. The story is narrated through the memories of a surviving soldier, and it unfolds as a tribute to the heroism of a band of brothers whose courage came at the highest cost.
The film’s strongest suit is its war sequences and immersive realism. The battle sequences at Rezang La, rifle fire, bayonet charges, final close-quarters combat, the harsh terrain, bone-chilling cold, and the almost claustrophobic desperation when ammunition runs out are realised with a fierce intensity that’s rare for many modern Hindi war films. The film features brilliant cinematography by Tetsuo Nagata, with breathtaking shots of snow-covered mountains, freezing desolation, and the starkness of high-altitude warfare. The film mostly avoids glorifying war for its own sake and is a sober portrayal of the events. This sincerity gives the film humility as it doesn’t frame itself as a triumphant spectacle, but a respectful tribute and remembrance.
Farhan Akhtar delivers a thoughtful performance. He largely avoids the larger-than-life histrionics often associated with Bollywood war heroes. Instead, he feels rooted, authoritative yet human, decisive yet burdened. At the same time, the supporting cast, many of them lesser-known actors, bring the infantrymen to life with grit, camaraderie, humour, and vulnerability. Their messy friendships, small conversations, homesickness, and occasional fears humanise what might otherwise have been just a war drama with guns and trenches.
However, the film seemed to have weak character development; their individual stories were barely sketched out. This makes certain deaths feel less impactful emotionally, more like casualties on a battlefield than deeply personal losses. Because of that, while the collective sacrifice hits home, personal grief and tragedy often don’t. The film’s narrative isn’t always smooth, as flashbacks to family life, interspersed with the lead-up to battle, sometimes break the tension. The prelude drags at times, and the buildup to the climax lacks the steady escalation that such stories need for maximum impact.
I felt that the depiction of Chinese soldiers has been overly simplified and tends to lean towards caricature: monolithic, villainous, almost cartoonish, robbing them of nuance or complexity. This weakens the moral weight of the conflict and reduces it to a binary ‘good vs evil’ war movie. In parts, storytelling relies heavily on familiar Bollywood popular drama of last-minute motivational speeches, montage-heavy sequences, formula flashbacks and emotional beats, which keep the film from feeling fully original.
120 Bahadur is not a perfect film, but it is an earnest, important one. It doesn’t glamourise war, and it doesn’t demand you leave the theatre cheering mindlessly. Instead, it makes you reflect on duty, courage, and sacrifice. As a cinematic recreation of a tragic but heroic moment in India’s history, the film succeeds more often than it fails. Its war sequences are unflinching and immersive; its portrayal of brotherhood and sacrifice is heartfelt; its lead performance is measured and credible.
But beneath the combat and solemn patriotism, it made me think that India’s rural society holds the backbone of India’s defence forces. The film also has a sociological moment where rural identity, class, caste, and nationhood intersect. The men of Charlie Company came largely from agrarian communities, especially the Ahir (Yadav) belt of Haryana and Western UP. Their lives before the war were shaped by farming cycles, monsoon anxieties, livestock, joint families, and deeply rooted village cultures. The film becomes a testament to how rural young men, in search of dignity, livelihood, and service, become the face of national defence but rarely the face of national storytelling.
Despite its narrative shortcomings, 120 Bahadur performs a cultural service of returning Rezang La to public consciousness.
Delhi slips into a public health emergency as air pollution reaches hazardous levels every winter. The government responds by invoking the most stringent measures under the Graded Response Action Plan (GRAP III and IV), suspending all construction and demolition activities, halting infrastructure projects, and restricting dust-generating work. These steps are necessary and justified for pollution control and the health of people. However, the cost of Delhi’s clean air policies is disproportionately borne by construction workers and daily wage labourers, whose livelihoods are abruptly and completely cut off.
Delhi has a massive daily wage construction labour force, estimated between 10-12 lakhs workers, with only around 5.4 lakhs officially registered (around 2.6 lakh active). Construction restrictions under GRAP III and IV are designed to curb particulate pollution, particularly PM10, a major contributor to Delhi’s smog. However, the construction sector is sustained almost entirely by informal labour. Migrant workers, hired through layers of contractors, work without written contracts, income security, or social protection. When work stops, wages stop instantly. There are no savings to fall back on, no paid leave, and often no local support systems. For these workers, a week-long (or longer) pollution shutdown can mean hunger, unpaid rent, mounting debt, or forced return to their native places under distress.
The injustice lies in the fact that these workers are not the architects of Delhi’s pollution crisis. Air pollution is the result of long-term structural failures, like unchecked urbanisation, rising private vehicle use, industrial emissions, poor public transport planning, weak enforcement of environmental norms, and regional factors like stubble burning. Construction workers operate within this system, responding to demand created by the city’s growth. Yet, when pollution peaks, their labour is the first to be criminalised, as if survival itself were an environmental offence.
The common defence of GRAP rests on a false dichotomy between public health and livelihoods. This framing assumes that income loss is a tolerable short-term sacrifice in the interest of long-term health. For daily wage labourers, livelihood and health are inseparable. Loss of income leads to undernutrition, stress, untreated illness, and increased vulnerability. Clean air achieved by pushing workers out of their wages is a policy failure and not a public health success. India’s environmental governance has consistently overlooked this social dimension. While regulations effectively restrict polluting activities, there is little institutional thought given to compensating those who lose income due to regulatory action.
On 18th December 2025, the Delhi Government announced financial assistance of INR 10,000 through Direct Benefit Transfer (DBT) to registered construction workers affected by the curbs under GRAP. While this is a welcome announcement by the Government, a clear policy solution is required in the long run for the provision of minimum wages to construction workers and daily wage labourers, both registered and unregistered, for the duration of GRAP shutdowns. This compensation should not be framed as charity or welfare, but as a rightful payment for income loss imposed by public policy in the interest of collective well-being. If the state mandates a halt to work for environmental reasons, it must also accept responsibility for the economic consequences of that mandate.
The most viable way to finance this support is through a dedicated ‘pollution tax.’ Delhi already collects various environment-linked charges, including green cess on vehicles, environmental compensation from polluting industries, and penalties for regulatory violations. These revenues can be consolidated into a Pollution Mitigation and Compensation Fund. Additional sources could include congestion charges in high-traffic zones, higher fees on large real estate developments, and stricter fines on construction firms that violate dust-control norms. Those who contribute most to pollution should bear the cost of its social mitigation.
Beyond immediate compensation, such a policy would also strengthen environmental compliance. When workers are protected from income loss, resistance to pollution-control measures will also decline. Environmental regulation will become a shared responsibility rather than an imposed punishment. Over time, this approach can build public trust in pollution governance, which is currently eroded by perceptions of unfairness and elite insulation from consequences.In the longer term, Delhi must move towards cleaner construction technologies, year-round dust control enforcement, better urban planning, and formalisation of labour. But these structural reforms will take time. Until then, compensating workers during pollution-induced shutdowns is a matter of basic justice. Environmental policy that ignores inequality risks becoming morally hollow and politically fragile. Clean air should be a shared achievement, not one built on empty stomachs and silent suffering.
I witnessed women weaving change in the villages of Assam through their skills, cultural heritage, hard work, perseverance, and collective will. Standing in a courtyard in Kamrup district, watching a woman at her traditional loom, I was struck by how quietly revolutionary this simple, everyday act truly is. The rhythmic motion of her hands, the steady concentration on her face, and the vibrant threads stretching across the loom were far more than craft; they were a statement of agency, identity, and economic empowerment. In that moment, it became clear that weaving in Assam is not merely a livelihood. It is a living narrative of resilience and progress, written by women who have refused to be left behind.
In much of rural India, the conversation around women’s empowerment often centres on what needs to be ‘given’ to women: access, opportunities, rights, financial inclusion, and public safety. All of these are undeniably essential. Yet what struck me in Kamrup was how much women were already giving to their families, to their communities, and to the preservation of an age-old cultural tradition. Assam’s weaving heritage is legendary, and most rural households have a loom. The women I met weave not only exquisite textiles like Mekhela Chadors, Gamosas, stoles, saris, but also new pathways for themselves, stitch by stitch.
The woman in the photograph, Jonali Das, from Paschim Bagta village, sits on a traditional handloom, made using local materials, framed by a raw brick wall and a sandy earthen floor. Nothing in this setting reflects modern machinery or industrialized production. Yet it reflects something far more important: dignity in work and pride in cultural identity. Her loom is more than a tool; it is a symbol of continuity. Generations of Assamese women have learned to weave from their mothers and grandmothers. The craft is deeply entwined with rituals, festivals, and the wider cultural ethos of the region. In many communities, a girl’s weaving skill is a marker of her readiness for adulthood. It is a quiet but powerful form of cultural education.
But the picture also reveals another truth: despite the beauty and value of these textiles, most weavers earn very little. The informal nature of the craft, the lack of organized supply chains, exploitative middlemen, limited access to raw materials at fair prices, and the absence of direct market linkages keep them trapped in low-income cycles. The fact that such a skilled craftswoman is working in a semi-open shed with bare tools is a reminder that heritage alone cannot sustain livelihoods unless the systems that support them evolve.
What struck me during conversations with the weavers was their clarity. They were not seeking charity. They were asking for fair access to better looms, training on contemporary designs, consistent market demand, and opportunities to sell directly. Their ask was not a transformation from the outside, but an enabling ecosystem that amplifies what they already excel at.
Local institutions like cooperatives, women’s self-help groups, producer companies, and artisan clusters play a pivotal role in negotiating prices, ensuring raw material supply, and aggregating products for larger orders. In Kamrup, I saw tremendous potential for women-led collectives that could own the entire value chain, from sourcing raw silk yarn of Eri and Muga to designing contemporary designs to managing logistics with digital tools. A decentralized, community-owned model would allow profits to remain in the village while giving weavers a bargaining voice.
There is also an urgent need to tell the stories behind these weaves. Consumers today increasingly seek authenticity, sustainability, and connection. Assam’s handloom sector embodies all three. Each Mekhela Chador woven on a traditional loom is not just a garment; it is hours of meticulous labour, generations of inherited technique, and the cultural soul of a community. Yet the lack of branding and storytelling often reduces these textiles to mere commodities. If India can celebrate Banarasi silk and Kanchipuram saris globally, there is no reason why Assam’s weaves cannot enjoy similar recognition, with the right investment, visibility campaigns, and market linkages.
Government programs like the National Handloom Development Programme and Deendayal Upadhyaya Grameen Kaushal Yojana have made efforts to support weavers. But ground realities show that the most impactful interventions are those that engage women directly, respect their lived knowledge, and co-create solutions rather than imposing them. Capacity building must happen in their language, in their community spaces, and at timings suitable to their daily responsibilities.
Most importantly, the narrative around rural women must shift. Too often, they are portrayed as vulnerable, needing rescue. The woman in the photograph, and countless others like her, are not symbols of vulnerability, but are symbols of strength. They run households, care for children and the elderly, manage farms, participate in community activities, and still take out time to weave. Their contribution to the rural economy is enormous, even though much of it remains invisible and unpaid.
As I watched the fabric slowly take shape on her loom, I realised that weaving is also an act of hope. Every thread layered over another is a gesture of belief in tomorrow, belief that their craft will survive, that their daughters will inherit both the skill and the opportunity to thrive, and that their labour will be valued fairly. If India is to build a truly inclusive development story, it must begin by recognising and uplifting such women, not through charity, but through partnership.
In the villages of Assam, women are already weaving change. They only need the rest of us to stop standing on the sidelines and start supporting the revolution they have begun.
(Cover Image: Jonali Das, Pashchim Bagta village, Kamrup rural, Assam)
Philanthropy has been a force for good across continents, building hospitals, funding schools and universities, feeding communities in crises, taking action to solve social challenges, and underwriting research. While intending to create positive and lasting change in people’s lives and strengthening communities, often, take the form of that giving is the classic ‘donor → beneficiary’ pipeline, which has serious limits. When well-meaning philanthropic entities simply transfer money or material goods to presumed beneficiaries without sharing power, listening deeply, or tracking outcomes with humility, aid can be inefficient, short-lived, and even harmful. To move from transactional charity to transformative social change, philanthropy must evolve toward participatory, locally led, and evidence-based models that empower communities to define problems, choose solutions, and steward resources. Several philanthropic models need to evolve into a new, pluralistic philanthropy that can deliver better, fairer, and more sustainable impact.
The donor-beneficiary model often centres on donors’ priorities. Funders set agendas, design programs, select implementing partners, and measure success by indicators they choose, often from a distance. This creates several structural problems, like,
Power asymmetry occurs whendonors decide what counts as a problem and which solutions are legitimate. Communities become recipients rather than partners, and local knowledge is sidelined, reducing relevance and local ownership.
Templates developed for ease of scale often ignore social-cultural and political nuances at the local level. Programs that look good in donor reports may fail on the ground due to ‘One-size-fits-all interventions.’
Short funding horizons and volatility of donorswithgrants tied to campaign cycles, leftover funds, or financial year budgets can stop abruptly, leaving services unsustainable and organisations stranded.
When philanthropy substitutes for systemic public investment, it can relieve governments of responsibility or create dependency among groups who lack the voice to advocate for longer-term change.
Donors are accountable to boards or taxpayers, with limited accountability to the communities they aim to serve; evaluation is often internal and narrowly framed.
These limitations are not theoretical as reviews of philanthropic practice repeatedly find that participation is often performative, i.e., consultation exercises without power transfer. Scholarly and practitioner literature has called out the gap between rhetoric and sustainable commitment to community-led approaches. This is the moment for a pivot to an evolved philanthropic approach that can complement the traditional giving through,
Participatory and community-led decision-making: Communities should help set priorities and co-design programs. Participatory grant-making moves power to those closest to problems, bringing lived experience into funding decisions and increasing the legitimacy and likely effectiveness of interventions.
Local leadership and capacity building: Funding should invest in local institutions (community groups, cooperatives, NGOs, social enterprises), and not only project outputs. That means unrestricted core support, leadership development, and multi-year commitments that enable organisations to mature and adapt.
Data-driven learning and accountability: Rigorous use of data and learning systems can help tailor solutions, track impact, and course correct. Data must be used ethically, with local ownership and attention to privacy and power dynamics.
When combined, this approach will shift philanthropy from a mere supplier of goods to an enabler of agency. Some good practices from around the world show how participatory and locally led philanthropy can function in practice, and who can act as torchbearers for philanthropic communities in their regions.
Indian philanthropic institutions combine traditional grant-making with newer models. Tata Trusts has invested heavily in the Data-Driven Governance (DELTA: Data, Evaluation, Learning, Technology, and Analysis) framework for strengthening local governance and planning. Their approach works with government entities and communities to build data systems that inform local decision-making rather than impose external solutions. This demonstrates how philanthropy can facilitate evidence-based public systems while engaging local institutions rather than bypassing them.
Azim Premji University and Foundation have made community engagement in educational work prominent, emphasising long-term partnerships with local schools and communities rather than one-off interventions. Their community engagement model underscores the importance of listening, iterative learning, and strengthening public institutions rather than substituting for them.
In Southeast Asia, funder collaboratives demonstrate a shift from isolated donors to pooled funds that support locally relevant priorities. The Asia Community Foundation’s 30×30 Southeast Asia Ocean Fund, launched in January 2025, is a recent example. The fund pools resources to protect coastal and marine ecosystems with an emphasis on inclusion and equity, supporting local stewards and communities rather than exporting conservation blueprints. Collaborative funds like this allow donors to align with regional expertise, reduce duplication, and focus on communities affected by interventions.
The USA has been an incubator for participatory grant-making experiments. Major foundations and movements, spurred by crises such as the COVID-19 pandemic and racial-justice mobilisations, have explored models that transfer decision-making authority to communities. For instance, mainstream philanthropic institutions like Ford Foundation have published reflections on why participatory grant-making mattered during crises and how it can be institutionalised, noting its capacity to surface local priorities and accelerate equitable responses. While the U.S. landscape is mixed (with many foundations still operating traditionally), the growing body of practice shows that community-led funding can be both rapid and rights-respecting when donors cede control.
The literature and practice of participatory and community-led philanthropy are growing across Africa, rooted in traditional values of solidarity, mutuality, and shared support. Researchers and practitioners have documented participatory grant-making and community governance innovations, arguing that ceding decision rights to local actors helps align funding with local priorities and sustains outcomes. While capacity and infrastructure challenges exist, the momentum toward locally governed funding systems is notable in contexts where external donors historically dominated the agenda. Recent examples of participatory grant-making (such as Harambee in Kenya, Ujamaa in Tanzania, and Ubuntu across the continent) synthesise these trends and highlight both promise and challenges.
Participation, local leadership, and data are crucial for effective philanthropy because they shift power dynamics, increase relevance and impact, and improve decision-making based on evidence rather than assumption. This approach moves away from traditional, top-down models toward more equitable, efficient, and sustainable processes. Participatory philanthropy and grant-making processes will lead to,
Greater relevancewhen communities help design interventions, uptake and adaptation increase. Local actors understand cultural norms, political constraints, and practical hurdles that external project designers often miss.
Sustainabilityof programs that are owned by communities beyond the grant cycle. Unrestricted support and capacity building enable organisations to respond flexibly to emerging needs.
Data systems that include local stakeholders enable rapid feedback loops, like what’s not working can be quickly spotted and fixed, and successes can be scaled responsibly, improving impact through iterative learning.
Participatory philanthropy is not neutral, as it intentionally rebalances power by giving those affected by problems a say in solutions.
Cost-effectiveness through local knowledge increases returns on investment.
To evolve to the new and effective models of philanthropy, funders should take practical steps such as shifting money and power by moving a significant percentage of grant money into participatory processes and community-governed pools. They should offer multi-year, unrestricted funding and simplify application and reporting requirements. Investing in intermediary infrastructure is crucial, so supporting local philanthropy platforms, community foundations, and capacity builders, incubators, and accelerators who can channel funds and help communities administer grants is essential. Building data partnerships with communities by funding local data systems, such as community scorecards, participatory monitoring, and open data platforms that are owned and governed by communities, while ensuring ethical data practices, is also important. Co-designing evaluation frameworks with community actors to develop success metrics that prioritise outcomes valued by the community, such as economic stability, dignity, and local governance, rather than just donor KPIs, is very much required. Additionally, funders should reward adaptive learning by creating grant mechanisms that allow for iteration of ‘pilot-learn-adapt-scale’ rather than penalising change as ‘failure.’ Lastly, funders should role model humility and plan for their responsible exit by strengthening local institutions so they can sustain without perpetual external support.
However, it’s important to understand that not every ‘participatory’ label signals a real transfer of power. Donors must avoid superficial practices, like convening consultations for optics, creating advisory committees without decision rights, or funding only projects that align with preselected agendas. Genuine participation requires structural changes like in the boards, budgets, and governance processes, that reflect shared authority.
Philanthropy has great potential to speed up solutions to poverty, climate change, governance problems, and social inequality. To shift from charity to meaningful change, funders need to be willing to relax control, invest in local leaders, and support strong, community-led data and learning systems. Examples from India, Southeast Asia, the U.S., and Africa demonstrate various approaches such as data partnerships that improve governance, pooled funds that empower local stewards, and participatory grant making that changes who makes decisions. Effective, equitable, and sustainable change emerges when those affected by problems help define and lead the response. Philanthropy’s evolution from a one-way pipeline of resources to a platform for shared power is not just desirable, it’s necessary if we want charitable funding to do more than temporarily relieve suffering. They must catalyse systems that let communities thrive on their own terms.
Download Philanthropy Assessment Tool, a practical self-assessment for equitable and transformative philanthropy by funders, family offices, foundations, and CSR.
(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed are those of the author and do not purport to reflect the views or opinions of any organisation, foundation, CSR, non-profit or others.)
As we celebrate the sparkle of Diwali festivities with lights, the Indian economy, too, is glowing with festive energy. Diwali is not only a cultural and spiritual event but also an economic phenomenon that mobilizes consumption, trade, and emotion on a scale unmatched by any other festival in India. It is a festival where faith, finance, and family come together to illuminate not just homes but entire markets.
Diwali blends culture and commerce. Traditionally marking the return of Lord Ram to Ayodhya after 14 years of vanavasa (exile), the festival has evolved into India’s largest consumption cycle. According to industry estimates, Diwali season alone accounts for 30–40% of annual sales in sectors like jewellery, automobiles, electronics, apparel, and consumer goods.
In 2024, India’s festive spending during Diwali week was estimated at INR 3.2 lakh crore, reflecting a 17% rise over 2023, driven by rising disposable incomes, pent-up post-pandemic demand, and digital retail penetration. Retail chains, e-commerce platforms, and even microenterprises depend on this period to recover annual profits. For small traders, Diwali is often the difference between a good year and a bad one. The festival also synchronizes the Indian economy’s emotional rhythm—consumer sentiment peaks as the festival approaches, heightened by work bonuses, gifts, and an almost cultural belief that new purchases bring prosperity.
Two days before Diwali, Indians celebrate Dhanteras, considered the most auspicious day to buy gold, silver, or anything of value. Historically, this practice was rooted in agrarian prosperity cycles during which, farmers who had completed the harvest season invested their earnings in tangible assets like metals. Today, the sentiment remains, but the scale has exploded. The symbolism has migrated from the vault to the marketplace, aligning tradition with modern consumption.
Diwali’s economic landscape has been radically redrawn by digital commerce. In 2024, online festive sales crossed INR 90,000 crore, driven by e-commerce platforms like Amazon, Flipkart, and Meesho. Tier-II and Tier-III cities accounted for more than 60% of new shoppers, an indication that India’s digital inclusion is now deeply linked with its festive economy.
Algorithms have replaced astrologers in predicting purchasing patterns. AI-driven recommendations, influencer marketing, and digital payment ecosystems like UPI have made the act of buying faster and impulsive. While urban consumers enjoy massive discounts, small offline retailers struggle to match online prices. Many traditional businesses like sweet shops, garment stores, and gift outlets are now adapting with hybrid models, selling on WhatsApp or through community platforms. The local bazaar is not dying; it is simply going online.
Behind the glitter of malls and advertisements lies a quieter but equally powerful story of the informal and rural economy that powers Diwali. Across India, millions of artisans, potters, weavers, and small manufacturers depend on the season for a significant portion of their income. From handmade diyas in Bihar to terracotta idols from Bankura, paper lanterns in Maharashtra, and bamboo crafts from Northeastern states, Diwali sustains local creative economies that embody both tradition and entrepreneurship. In recent years, several NGOs and social enterprises have helped rural producers connect directly with urban buyers through digital platforms. For instance, self-help groups (SHGs) supported by government programs like NRLM (National Rural Livelihoods Mission) and private CSR initiatives now sell festive handicrafts on e-commerce sites and social media. The “Make in Village” movement during Diwali is becoming a quiet counter-narrative to imported mass-produced goods. Every diya sold is not just a source of light but a livelihood.
Gifting is central to Diwali’s economic ecosystem. From corporate gift hampers to sweets exchanged among families, the ritual symbolizes goodwill, reciprocity, and status. In 2024, India’s corporate gifting industry was valued at ₹12,000 crore, with strong growth projected for 2025. Beyond sweets and dry fruits, companies now gift experiences like wellness vouchers, eco-friendly hampers, and handmade products to reflect social consciousness and sustainability. The gifting economy also reveals deeper social psychology. Gifts during Diwali are not just commodities; they are currencies of relationship. In economic terms, they create “social capital”, the trust and goodwill that sustain business and personal networks alike.
In last decade or so, Diwali’s environmental impact has come under scrutiny. Delhi is the best (or worst) example of this intense air pollution from firecrackers making the environment unbreathable, plastic waste from packaging, and excessive electricity consumption have led to rising calls for a Green Diwali. The market is responding with conscious choices. In 2025, the sale of eco-friendly crackers and biodegradable decorations is expected to grow by 30%. Solar-powered lighting, organic sweets, and recycled packaging are becoming mainstream. Conscious consumers, especially younger urban Indians, are now demanding sustainable alternatives that align celebration with responsibility. The shift from conspicuous consumption to conscious consumption marks a new chapter in the economics of Diwali, one where prosperity is measured not just by spending, but by sustainability.
However, Diwali’s prosperity is not evenly distributed. Inflation affects the purchasing power of lower-income families who often face higher food and fuel prices during the season despite the recent GST reforms, which has significantly brought down the prices of most of the consumer goods. While the urban affluent splurge on gadgets and gold, many households cut back on essentials.
This divergence reflects the broader K-shaped recovery post-pandemic of the Indian economy, where upper segments surge ahead while those on the lower segments struggle. The festive glow, though radiant, hides shadows of inequality. For small retailers, rising input costs and competition from online giants have squeezed margins. For daily wage earners, the festival may mean temporary income spikes but little long-term security. Diwali illuminates both the promise and paradox of India’s growth story.
At its core, Diwali celebrates renewal of hope, homes, and human spirit. Economically too, it acts as a reset button for the nation’s consumer sentiment. The act of cleaning homes, buying new things, and lighting lamps mirrors the cyclical nature of economic optimism. For policymakers and economists, the festive season is a real-time barometer of demand. For families, it’s a reminder that prosperity is not just about wealth, but about togetherness and gratitude. In many ways, Diwali teaches an enduring lesson in economics that growth is sustainable only when it is inclusive, joyful, and mindful.
The economics of Diwali is not just about expenditure, but it is also about the exchange of energy, emotion, and enterprise. It reflects India’s evolving story of modernization rooted in tradition, digital transformation anchored in ritual, and capitalism softened by culture. The future of India’s festive economy will shine brightest when it balances profit with purpose, growth with gratitude, and consumption with conscience.
Happy and Prosperous Diwali to you and your loved ones!
Manu Mayank 