Kashmir Once Mended Everything, Now It Replaces

I grew up surrounded by things that refused to die easily. In our home, every object held a history, and we treated breaks as invitations to heal rather than excuses to abandon.

My mother's wristwatch stands out clearest in my mind. She wore it through market trips, family gatherings, and long evenings by the fire. When the strap split or the face scratched, she passed it to her maternal uncle. He walked it to the local repairman, and soon enough, it returned, keeping time as faithfully as ever.

That simple act turned the watch into more than metal and gears. It became a silent witness to her life, and fixing it meant holding onto those shared moments.

Our radio shared the same fate.

Voices crackled out one day, then fell silent the next. We lifted it carefully and headed to Aurangzeb's shop, tucked just beyond our doorstep.

He has kept that spot for decades, his workbench cluttered with wires, screws, and stories from the neighbourhood. He poked and prodded with his tools until melodies and announcements flowed again, pulling us back into the world beyond our walls.

Those trips built bonds. Aurangzeb knew our names, habits, and even our favourite stations. He belonged to our community, turning repair into a ritual of connection.

People applied this mindset everywhere. They stitched tears in traditional pherans with precise threads. They resoled shoes worn thin from mountain paths. They reinforced furniture that sagged under the weight of daily use.

Our grandparents and parents saw value in every effort to save what others might toss aside. They embraced repair as a mark of insight, a way to honour resources and avoid needless loss.

Times have shifted dramatically now. Breaks trigger immediate hunts for replacements. I see friends swap out phones with shattered screens for the latest versions, ignoring the quick fixes available nearby.

Appliances break down and end up on the curb, replaced by newer models that promise more features and less trouble. Bags tear, and shopping apps quickly fill with new carts.

In this rush, repair feels outdated, something too slow for lives shaped by instant buying and quick fixes.

Many young people, including some in my own circle, blush at the thought of entering a dusty workshop. We postpone visits or skip them altogether, as if mending signals some kind of defeat in a world that prizes the new.

Our elders push back against this tide.

My uncles still drop by Aurangzeb's for minor tweaks, chatting about old times while he works. Grandparents recount tales of self-sufficiency, urging us to value the artisans who keep traditions alive. This clash exposes a profound change in priorities.

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