What We Choose to Repair

I visited the old town area of the city I live in, a place that feels distant from the so-called modern lifestyle yet never completely disconnected from the fact that the world and the people in it are changing. Narrow roads, chaotic streets, loud markets, and still there is a strange, warm nostalgia. A place where they say the customer is king, but the shopkeepers are wise enough to protect both their profits and their relationships. Conversations here don’t feel rushed. Prices are negotiated, jokes are exchanged, and familiarity sits comfortably between strangers. Like every time, this time too, the flâneur in me caught my attention, and it paused unexpectedly at the repair shops. Small spaces with old blue or green painted walls, lovertically sliding metal doors, wooden shutters with big, heavy latches that have been opened and closed for decades. Shops meant to repair sewing machines, mixer grinders, wristwatches, wall clocks, umbrellas, footwear and other things we don’t even think of repairing anymore.

Today, when something stops working, we replace it. It’s quicker, easier, and the market gently nudges us in that direction. Discounts, offers, newer versions, trends, everything leads us towards letting go rather than holding on. Standing there, watching a man patiently fix a watch with tools older than me, I couldn’t help thinking about how deeply this habit has entered our lives beyond objects. Somewhere along the way, we began doing the same with people. In all relationships; romantic, friendships, even family, professional. We’ve grown impatient. A misunderstanding starts to feel like a flaw, a disagreement like damage, silence like the end. Instead of trying to understand, we quietly begin wondering if it’s time to replace.

Back in our childhood, things were used till the very end, repaired till they truly couldn’t be. A fan that made noise, a pressure cooker with a loose handle, a sweater with a small tear. They didn’t see inconvenience; they saw continuity, and they used those things proudly for years, sometimes generations. Even clothes were upcycled. An old saree becoming a quilt (no blanket can match the warmth it has!), a worn shirt turning into a cleaning cloth. Nothing was useless just because it had aged.  I remember my grandfather used to use a pencil till it was completely unsharpenable. Not because he was stingy, but because he believed in utilising things fully, without wasting them. I’m sure you must have experienced something similar in your childhood too. In the same homes, relationships were also repaired. Arguments were followed by silence, then food placed quietly on a plate. Hurt was not always discussed, but it was rarely discarded. People stayed, learned, adjusted. There was concerned scolding that we didn’t mind. Any relative or even a neighbour was allowed to correct us when we went wrong. Yes, I understand it had its downsides too. Boundaries were blurry, voices were sometimes harsh, and not every correction was gentle. It came from involvement, from care, from the belief that staying and correcting mattered more than stepping away.

Maybe having fewer options made us more patient. Maybe it taught us to value what we already had instead of constantly searching for better. Maybe it allowed us to care without turning everything into a personal burden or a source of stress.

Today, we have more choices than ever, more access, more freedom but also less tolerance. We get irritated easily, often hiding behind fancy phrases like “our vibes don’t match,” “I just can’t stand him/her,” or “I don’t like them,” as if discomfort itself is reason enough to disconnect. I feel we are forgetting the fact that differences can coexist beautifully! 

We often tell ourselves we are listening to our gut feeling, that we are choosing peace, that we are setting boundaries and sometimes that is true and necessary. But sometimes I wonder... are we just tired, or a little lazy? Are we using intuition as an excuse to walk away before things demand effort? Are anxious thoughts quietly making decisions for us while we call it clarity or instincts? Are we avoiding accountability and responsibility because staying feels harder than leaving? Boundaries are important; they protect us. But when used without reflection, they can slowly turn into walls, which are build to feel safe in the moment, only to realize later that we’ve locked ourselves into loneliness or regret.

Not everything needs to be fixed, and not every relationship should be saved. Walking away can also be an act of courage. But repair deserves a chance before replacement becomes a habit. Because repair takes effort, trial. It asks us to stay when it would be easier to leave, to listen when we want to defend, to soften when we want to protect ourselves. 

Walking through those old lanes, I realized that maybe what defines us most is not what we let go of, but what we choose to repair. One of the bravest things is trying. I like those old shops standing quietly amidst the chaos, reminding us that longevity is not accidental or something that belongs to the old times. It is intentional. 

In choosing to repair when we can, to pause, to try, to take responsibility, we don’t just preserve relationships. Maybe we slowly relearn how to stay.