Kashmir's Lost Art of Repair

Fixing things saved money, memory, and the land. Replacing them saves nothing, and Kashmir is losing more than we realise.

- Aaqyb Ashraf

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.