We don't fix things anymore

 WE DON'T FIX THINGS ANYMORE

From repair culture to replace culture—how time, status and convenience reshaped what we discard

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Growing up in Allahabad, a quiet North Indian city on the banks of the Ganges, broken things rarely stayed broken in our minds. They were simply waiting—unfinished, not over. A torn school bag, a punctured tyre, a silent radio—none of it felt like an ending. Only a delay in repair.

There was an unspoken rule: if it could be fixed, it would be fixed.

Wastage was frowned upon almost instinctively. “Why buy new if it can be repaired?” was common sense, not advice.

Shoes went to the cobbler until they were barely the same pair. Bicycle tires carried layers of puncture repairs like memory. School bags survived years of use with stitching, patches and reinforcement that made them stronger with time. Furniture wobbled for decades, held together by nails, gum, tacks and refusal to discard.

Repair was practical, not polished. Gum, cello tape, nails, hammer, needle and thread—whatever was available became the toolkit of survival. Broken handles were tied back. Loose joints tightened. Cracked buckets were given “one more chance” that often lasted years.

Every neighbourhood had its repair men—the cobbler, tailor, cycle repair man, carpenter, electrician, mechanic. Small shops filled with grease, spare parts and quiet confidence that most things could be fixed.

Every home had a toolbox, and young boys and men were expected to be reasonably adept at repair—taps, switches, pipes, hen coops, hedges, gates… you name it. Fixing things was part of growing up, not an optional skill.

The radio repair shops were the most fascinating. Radios lay open like mechanical puzzles—coils, valves, wires, tiny components exposed like secrets. Yet with patience and a soldering iron, silence would become sound again. A flicker, a crackle—and music returned as if nothing had ever gone wrong.

Gramophones and record players were treated with equal care. Needles were replaced, turntables adjusted, static patiently removed. Nothing was discarded while it still had a second life.

This habit extended into homes without instruction. Sewing machines were permanent fixtures—heavy, reliable, always ready. Sewing kits held threads, needles, buttons, hooks and safety pins in old tins. Clothes were mended without fuss. Socks were darned, seams stitched, tears closed as routine. A missing button was incidental, not waste.

Books too were preserved, not replaced. School textbooks were stitched when they fell apart. Torn pages were pasted with gum. Brown paper covers were renewed repeatedly. Even notebooks were reinforced, because wasting pages was unthinkable.

The principle was simple: use carefully, repair quickly, discard rarely.

That world has quietly slipped away—and with it, a fundamental shift in how we relate to objects.

Time has become the decisive factor. It is often quicker and more convenient to buy new than to wait days for a repair. What once demanded patience is now replaced at the drop of a hat. Repair, in many cases, feels inconvenient and out of step with modern life.

There is also a social dimension. Objects are no longer only used; they are seen. Phones, cars and everyday items signal taste, status and position. To replace is to appear updated and relevant. Keeping up has become an unspoken paradigm shift in behaviour rather than a conscious choice.

Modern life adds further pressure—more guests, more expectations, more visibility. Homes are more exposed, lifestyles more compared. What once stayed private is now constantly on display. In such a setting, repair can feel like falling behind rather than being resourceful.

And waste has followed naturally. Food is bought in excess, stored in abundance, and discarded in equal measure. Refrigerators are full beyond need. Cupboards overflow. Consumption has drifted from necessity into habit—often wasteful without intent.

The shift is subtle but unmistakable—from repair as instinct to replacement as reflex.

And somewhere in that shift, something quieter has gone missing: not just thrift, but respect—for things, for effort, and for the simple dignity of making something last.