Diwali Delights: Office festivities bring chaos and cheer

Every office has that one person who treats Diwali celebrations like a personal mission. In ours, it used to be her, the undisputed queen of festive coordination. She wasn’t self-appointed; we all unanimously agreed she should run the show because, frankly, nobody else could. She’d send those cheerful emails that ended with “Let’s make this Diwali memorable!” and somehow, she always did.

While the rest of us debated whether it was too early to buy sweets, she’d already transformed the office into a mini Bollywood set, picture marigold strings on pillars and diya-shaped fairy lights twinkling along the corridors.

She’d think of everything: Snacks, lunch, drinks, and one year, even a pani puri counter right in the main office. You could hear the sound of puris cracking from one end of the floor to the other. Every year, we play housie, and the prizes are small cash rewards, not that anyone cares. It’s the thrill of yelling “Full House!” before anyone else does that really matters.

This year, there’s a new ‘festivities committee’. A special office support team that doubles up as the festivities committee. Basically, the same spirit continues through another amazing guy who loves organising it with his team of three. He’s the lively heartbeat of every office activity and honestly, the perfect person for the job. The emails are still enthusiastic, though slightly more formal.

Now, one thing is certain: Diwali dressing is non-negotiable. Nobody sends a memo saying mandatory ethnic wear, but we all know it’s implied. I, for one, take it very seriously. Months in advance, I start outfit-hunting like I’m preparing for Lakmé Fashion Week. I’ll haggle with shopkeepers, chase discount codes, and spend hours trying on dupattas until I find the perfect one. And yes, I plan my jewellery like it’s a project with deliverables.

On the other end of the spectrum is one of my favourite colleagues, the office introvert. Brilliant at what he does, but the mere idea of “activities” sends him into hiding. He doesn’t just skip the games; he skips the whole day. Every year, as soon as the first decoration goes up, he conveniently requests work-from-home. We even tried to prank him once by putting his name down for a dance performance, but he never showed up. Now we half-joke about keeping the celebrations secret so he doesn’t find out and vanish. He’s genuinely missed, though, he’s hilarious when he’s around.

Then there are the suggestion specialists. You know the type. They’ll stroll by while you’re struggling to hang fairy lights and casually say, “Let’s order some lanterns. Or maybe a DJ or let’s order special biryani?” They mean well, always brimming with ideas, though mysteriously busy when it’s time to actually help.

And of course, the quiet dress-code rebels, people who prefer their regular jeans or shirts and insist, with a grin, that they’re celebrating in their own way. Fair enough. Every festival needs balance.

Still, the real test of endurance comes from the reel creators. Every office has them, the ones who believe any festival is incomplete without a trending audio clip.

I once made the colossal mistake of volunteering to record one of their reels. “Just hold the phone steady,” they said. Easy, right? Wrong.

It started with them debating the choreography for what felt like a full episode of Dance India Dance. Then came arguments over steps, lighting, angles, and someone who wanted to “record to see how she looks and then do it actually.” After the seventh retake, I faked an urgent work deadline and fled the scene. I ran to the photography department and confessed, “You people have the hardest job. I did seven retakes in twenty minutes.” They just nodded in quiet solidarity, like veterans who’d seen too much.

Eventually, the day ends, there are empty paper plates on desks, some with half eaten samosas, half-drunk chai paper cups, discussions about the event, stories about outfits, and the department head walking in to remind us that, festive or not, deadlines don’t light themselves.

As for me, I pack up my bangles, bindi, and leftover samosas, already knowing I’ll do it all again next year. Because honestly, what’s Diwali in the office without a little chaos, collective excitement, and a perfectly coordinated outfit no one really notices?