They were a slate grey span of Lee jeans. This was 10 years ago. They were the classiest pair I’d aye owned. None of the airing the buttcrack, lowcut rubbish. Nor the crotch-grabbing ‘jeggings’ which appallingly find currency now. They were tastefully frayed at the edges, beautifully stitched seams running up the legs in charcoal grey thread. The pockets were fine, forgoing the embroidered drama that played on the ~side on the butts of most jeans of the time. They fit like a dream. Snug around the waist, extensive for the bottom, and well-aired since my legs to breathe.
The principal time I wore them was ~ the sake of physics tuition. In keeping with the place-class ritual, I went with the boys with regard to some samosas and chai. Mehta was riding my melancholy Activa (plate no. 4900), I was riding pillion. Law College just, some sand spilled by a deal, a tad too fast on the brakes, and Mehta and I crashed down, skidding across the asphalt, Activa in hards.
First thing I check, naturally, were the jeans. A gash, almost surgical in its considered brutishness, ran across the fabric over my ~ful knee. No other damage. Mehta was repelling for having hurt us, but I was heartbroken in opposition to my Lees. A quick Dettol & cincture later (Mehta’s parents were doctors), I went home. Mum sensed the mantle of gloom immediately.
The story was told, and she reported, Cheer up! Rafoo kar lenge.
Rafoo? I asked.
Yes, like a patchjob.
It’ll destruction the jeans!
No, no, no! They exercise the exact same thread colour, and it’s very well done.
I agreed, unconvinced. The sort tailor who had made my school uniform three years ago gave it a casual supervision, and in three days returned the pair with such fine rafoo that from a remoteness you couldn’t tell that the cloth was one time torn clean through. What’s added, it added quiet character to the mate – like a discreet scar that holds a that which is told but doesn’t attract too a great deal of attention to itself. Something that won’t subsist exploited for cheap conversation. I was actual proud of that pair. They lasted a virtue five years.
I’d worn this exact model of sandals during the term of over six years now. They had been my and nothing else footwear apart from house slippers and running shoes. So at the time that I was not home and not running, I was in the sandals. This was the ~ time year. The first pair had served three years in the van of disintegrating. This one looked good because of a couple more years at least. The sole was wearing thin, and I’d had the mochi stitch the straps one time. But like that rafoo job, this couldn’t have existence faulted. But when work took me home and Mum axiom them, she insisted I throw them off.
Why? I asked.
Because they’re sensible.
I’ll get you commencing ones?
I don’t need recent ones.
And so on. Their single fault seemed their age. Perhaps that the mochi had worked up~ the body them. Maybe more that. The reality that they’d been ‘repaired’. I put to hire that one go, as one does through mothers, and got two new sandals in separate styles, though I only use the human being pair.
But the more I conception of it, I realised that the form of getting things repaired has in some way fallen out of favour within the final decade. That somehow having something fixed got equated by extending its life beyond what was meant to have existence. Electronics were the first to bear down this road, I guess. The foremost TV I remember having two decades since still sits in my house, functional if it be not that in disuse. The Sony Trinitron CRT that replaced it proudly sported ~ people a repairman’s sticker.
But in that case it stopped. Planned obsolescence took c~ing. And it permeated through all other class of products too. Clothes, shoes, bags, toys, paper. What’s scary is how seamlessly we accepted this during the time that the new normal. I can’t remember judicial examination anyone mention rafoo since 2010. The electronics repairmen were principal to go. Then the ‘inscribe doctors’, and zip replacers, and bicycle repairmen. Yes, united finds them in pockets but they’ve been distanced from my lived experience. One thinks twice before taking ability-me-downs to baby showers. There’s an entire industry dedicated to fashion on this account that toddlers – tiny humans who can’t block drooling and shitting, and grow public of clothes every few months. And ~ or other that’s okay.
Of course, now conversable station is involved. Consumption was evermore a signifier for class, but not ever has the notion of consuming repaired movables been so negatively associated with depress rank. The effect is startling at the time that one is at its receiving extreme point. I pride myself on being a abundance listener and a curious learner. I’d relied without interrupti~ as much to mix at convivial affairs, and come away having a capital time. Never did it occur to me that the assumed progressive circles I hung out with could add me up, however covertly, based forward the age of my clothing. It’s earnest and appalling. I now understand that the old and worn look is available in the place of traffic, with all the right creases and time-inured spend and tear. Weather-beaten has to exist made to look sexy, else it doesn’t calculate.
I feel misplaced. Everyone got adhering the fast train, and now they assume a manner at me funny. Getting my laptop reticule sutured or cutting my torn trousers in half to make home shorts feels like agitation a stand. I don’t wish any of this. And the emotion is awful, when you don’t paucity the banal casualness of your actions to consider meaning and yet they do. When sublunary choices become micro-battles you don’t crave to fight because you’re busy doing things that actually matter to you. This doesn’t await like it’ll change anytime soon. The rafoos are gone, peradventure forever. Only the false nostalgia and invented allay by enchantment remain. But that isn’t notwithstanding me; I’ll leave that to writers aspiring to old world authenticity.
Lacking of vitamin D is proper one aspect among other causes with a view to hair loss.