How this Diwali taught me to buy with intention

In our household, celebrating and preparing for Diwali is a gradual process—one that begins long before the first diya is lit or the first rangoli drawn. The date, inscribed on the lunar calendar, goes up on the fridge months ahead so that every member of the family takes charge of their respective tasks. The air fills with familiar scents and sounds: ghee sizzling in a pot, the laughter and chatter of family helping roll and stuff samosas and sweets in large batches, and the mix of Bollywood music and bhajans blasting in our kitchen while we prepare. In New York, our family architects a replica of the Diwali my parents knew in India, where the festival is a collective effort of families gathering with lists, menus and timetables—orchestrating the holy chaos of food, décor, prayer, and celebration. Each of us claims our domain. I orchestrate the wardrobes for all five days, my father curates an arsenal of gifts, and my brother runs all errands, picking up groceries for the mithai and pakoras that will multiply across our kitchen. But it's the cleansing that begins first.

My mother leads the ritual. In addition to all the other preparations, it is the cleaning that matters most to make the home ready for the goddess Lakshmi, whose arrival demands purity, order, and openness. My mother starts by emptying kitchen cabinets, scrubbing the bathrooms and polishing silverware to an unearthly gleam. She’s also sorting through clothes and deciding which pieces to donate or discard. She clears out boxes of souvenirs, old trinkets and decorations that have not been used for years. But there's a paradox embedded in this preparation. The very act of clearing space has become synonymous with making room for more. In fact, Diwali marks an uptick in retail fervor, a season when gold, homeware, textiles, and decorative objects are common gifts. We clean to welcome prosperity, yes, but somewhere along the way, prosperity became conflated with acquisition. 

Writer Pooja Shah and her husband during Diwali.

Courtesy of Pooja Shah

When my husband and I moved to London from New York in early 2023, we shipped most of our belongings via cargo and spent months with an emptier house than we’d expected. In that absence, I realized how little of what I owned I truly missed. When the boxes finally arrived, the unpacking was a reckoning of how much I had accumulated and how many objects I had kept more out of habit than affection.

For Diwali this year, as I worked through each of my drawers with forensic attention, I wasn’t simply clearing dust. I was also questioning my consumption. What if we reimagined this year's ritual? What if our tribute to Lakshmi wasn't measured in new purchases but in space reclaimed?

In No New Things, Ashlee Piper names this phenomenon as conditioned consumerism, or the force that hijacks our time, money, creativity, and joy. Piper’s story is one that many might relate to. She began a “no new things” challenge in 2013 and ended up extending it for nearly two years, paying off $22,000 in debt and saving $36,000—all while transforming her relationship with her stuff. She reminds us that buying begets more buying: “Once we buy something, it sets off a chain reaction…where consumerism quickly conglomerates into overconsumption,” she writes in her book.

A chalk drawing of a rangoli design for Diwali.

Courtesy of Pooja Shah

As I scrub walls and sort through piles of clothing, I’m asking similar questions: Do I want to make room for more? Or do I want to live with less, but with meaning? In truth, the older I grow, the more rooted I become in the latter, even when influencers and social media are constantly encouraging me to buy their endorsed products across the beauty, fashion, and technology sectors. The data supports this awakening. According to research commissioned by YNAB, 64 percent of people regret their impulse purchases, while more than half acknowledge their possessions as sources of stress. Seventy percent express a desire to buy less. We know, collectively, that we're drowning in excess, but are we ready to surface out of it?

I know that a handwritten letter, a thoughtfully chosen secondhand gift, or an experience shared with someone dear carries more weight than the temporary satisfaction of a new purchase, but the temptation is always there. That’s why this year, just like Piper, I want to focus on non-material things, rather than the fleeting dopamine hit of a new item arriving at my door.

I will admit I feel guilty when parting with a lehenga I haven’t worn in a decade or the old Ikea plates that sat in my college dorm. But letting go doesn’t mean replacing them. This Diwali, I want the festival of lights to awaken not the glimmer of consumerism, but the quiet radiance of intention. The goddess doesn’t seek shopping bags. She seeks an open heart. True abundance, I’m learning, isn’t in what I keep, but in what I release.