There is something deeply reassuring about soanpapdi. No matter how badly the world behaves, you can always count on that little box of flaky sweetness to turn up at your doorstep during Diwali. Nobody quite knows how this innocent-looking sweet became the undisputed champion of festive recycling, but it managed what few Indian institutions have achieved: universal recognition without universal affection. The soanpapdi dabba became the Diwali equivalent of a hot potato, except that nobody wanted to eat the potato either. It travelled between households with the stamina of a government file, passing through so many hands that its original purchaser could have been dead for three generations and the box would still be doing the rounds.

You gave it to your neighbour. Your neighbour gave it to her cousin. Her cousin sent it to a colleague. The colleague presented it to the building sweeper, who probably gifted it to the courier-delivery-executive-son in law. Somewhere, a soanpapdi box was completing its eighth Diwali without its contents ever having been disturbed.

But the gifting industry, never one to let a perfectly good opportunity go stale, has moved on. Soanpapdi is old hat. Today's Diwali hamper comes with chocolate rocks, roasted quinoa, chia seeds, flax seeds and turmeric-coated almonds. If you are particularly unlucky, you might receive all five in a box big enough to house a microwave.

The chocolate rocks are my personal favourite. Somebody takes a few nuts, coats them in chocolate of questionable quality, puts them in a tin, wraps the tin in foil, places it in a box and then packs the box into another box. By the time you reach the contents, you have worked harder than you did all week. What emerges resembles a handful of construction debris that has had an expensive makeover.

The label, naturally, calls them artisanal, handcrafted and premium. The nuts look as though they were the last ones left after three other manufacturers had a look. And the price? Enough to make you wonder whether the chocolate was harvested by monks on a remote mountain, transported by hand and blessed by a chocolatier with a French surname.

When did giving someone a gift become an elaborate way of saying, "I spent a lot of money, but I have absolutely no idea what you like"?

India has never had a shortage of perfectly respectable Diwali gifts. In North and Western India, dry-fruit dabbas have long been the dependable choice for relatives, clients and business associates, particularly around Diwali and the beginning of the new financial year. Almonds, cashews, pistachios and raisins. Nothing particularly adventurous, but at least you knew what you were getting. There is also the quiet satisfaction of knowing that the person who gave you the dry fruits is probably receiving a similar box from someone else. The business community can exchange almonds until the end of time, and nobody needs to pretend that a cashew represents a transformative emotional experience.

Down South, there is mixture, or micchar, as many of us affectionately call it, rava laddus whose claims of generous ghee content deserve independent verification, and ribbon pakoda, which sometimes bears as much resemblance to a ribbon as to a spiral galaxy that a toddler draws. Then there is Diwali leghyam, the bitter, medicinal preparation that supposedly helps the digestive system cope with the festive excesses.

We eat enough mixture and snacks (okay, let’s call them bhakshanams) to keep a cardiologist occupied for the afternoon, follow it up with sweets, and then swallow a spoonful of lehyam as though we have negotiated a settlement with our arteries. Tradition is a wonderful thing. Particularly when it lets us believe that one medicinal spoonful can undo three days of deep-fried enthusiasm.

At least these gifts have a fighting chance of being eaten. Nobody needs to explain the appeal of good mixture or a well-made laddu. You open the box, help yourself and, if the contents are good, quietly hide some before the rest of the household finishes them.

Then the wellness brigade entered the festive hamper business, and apparently everything we had eaten for generations became insufficiently sophisticated.

Suddenly, Diwali required quinoa. Not just quinoa, but roasted quinoa, presented as though it were a rare discovery rather than something you might struggle to persuade your family to eat on an ordinary Tuesday. Somewhere, a marketing executive decided that cashews were boring, sweets were passé and what every Indian household desperately needed was a packet of tiny grains to celebrate the festival of lights.

I would genuinely like to meet the person who opens a Diwali hamper, discovers roasted quinoa and says, "Oh, lovely! Just what I was hoping for."

The seeds are another matter. Pumpkin, sunflower, chia, flax. There are enough of them in some hampers to start a small agricultural enterprise. They sit in neat little compartments, looking terribly important, while the recipient wonders whether to eat them, plant them or keep them in the cupboard until somebody comes along who might appreciate them.

Turmeric-coated choco-almonds are equally inspired. Turmeric has been sitting in our kitchen cupboards for generations, perfectly content to be turmeric. Now it needs to coat an almond along with melted chocolate, enter a luxury tin and acquire a price tag that suggests it has completed a management programme.

Of course, online delivery has made the whole business easier. Blinkit and other quick-commerce platforms mean you can send someone a festive hamper without leaving your sofa or remembering what they actually enjoy eating. A few taps and your social obligations are sorted.

The packaging is particularly entertaining. You order a tin of some famous regional delicacy, and what turns up is a decorative container with a modest morsel of Iruttu Kadai halwa, Mathri or therattipaal sitting at the bottom. There is enough empty space to accommodate the giver's conscience.

The product photograph promised a feast. The actual contents suggest a complimentary sample.And then comes the WhatsApp message: "A little something for you this Diwali. Hope you like it!” Of course you do. You like it so much that you are already wondering whether your neighbour has received one too.

The real fun begins after Diwali. The chocolate rocks remain unopened because nobody wants to waste something so expensive. The quinoa is reserved for a day when the family feels unusually health-conscious, usually the “Post Diwali and Pre-new year dieting phase”. The seeds are transferred to a glass jar and forgotten. By the time anyone remembers the turmeric-choco-almonds, they have been in the cupboard long enough to qualify for permanent residency.

Come next Diwali, someone orders another hamper containing much the same assortment, possibly for the very person who gave them the first one. Relationships are now sustained by an annual exchange of food nobody eats, accompanied by messages nobody quite means and photographs everyone dutifully likes.

The saddest part is that we usually know what the people in our lives enjoy. We know who loves kaju katli, who would happily demolish a box of Mysore pak, who looks forward to good mixture and who considers dry fruits a perfectly acceptable gift. Yet, come Diwali, we abandon common sense and choose something because the box looks expensive and the website calls it a bestseller.

Perhaps we could try something radical this year. Buy people what they like. Give them a small box of sweets instead of an elaborate hamper containing enough packaging to fill a recycling bin. Or visit them, sit down and have a proper conversation. It may cost less than the chocolate rocks and leave considerably fewer people disappointed.

As for soanpapdi, I suspect it is having a quiet laugh. It never pretended to be a superfood, never needed a nutritional disclaimer and never charged a premium for looking like a handful of rubble.

So, if you receive a tin of chocolate rocks this Diwali, thank the giver warmly. Admire the packaging. Put it away somewhere safe.

You might need it next year.