There is usually something in every home that has outlived its usefulness. It could be an old watch that no longer tells the correct time, a chair that has seen better days, or a piece of furniture that has followed the family from one house to another. Replacing it might be easier, and sometimes cheaper, but the thought of letting it go is difficult. Not because of what it is worth, but because of who it reminds us of, or the memories associated with it.

At 72, Shakil Ahmed still sleeps on a bed he bought nearly 30 years ago. It is a single bed made of sheesham wood, with a short headboard and traditional carvings. Over the years, it has been polished and repainted, but Ahmed has never considered replacing it. The bed once belonged to his mother, and for him, that is reason enough to keep it.

Ahmed remembers how pleased his mother was when he bought it for her. She loved the bed and would proudly tell her friends about it. In the final years of her life, when her declining health left her mostly bedridden, it became the place where much of the family's time together was spent.

Her grandchildren would sit beside her or climb onto the bed to sleep. She would tell them stories, share meals with the family and laugh with them, even as her movements became increasingly restricted. For Ahmed, those everyday moments have stayed with him long after his mother's death.

“Even today, whenever I look at it, I can picture my mother sitting there with a smile on her face,” he says.

The bed has accompanied Ahmed through the years, even as he has moved between homes and travelled frequently. Although it has needed occasional maintenance, he says he has never paid much attention to how much was spent on keeping it in good condition. The quality of the wood has helped it survive, but it is the memories associated with it that make him unwilling to part with it.

There have been suggestions that he should replace the bed with something newer. Ahmed has always refused. He continues to sleep on it and says knowing that it belonged to his mother brings him comfort.

For someone else, it might simply be an ageing piece of furniture, old-fashioned and easily replaceable. For Ahmed, however, keeping the bed is a way of holding on to the years when his mother was still around, surrounded by the family.

And he is not the only one willing to keep an old possession long after replacing it might seem the more practical choice.

The cost of holding on

At the Liaquatabad Furniture Market in Karachi, 63-year-old Faryad Iqbal regularly comes across customers who would rather repair an old piece of furniture than buy a new one. Some bring beds, others chairs, stools or wooden storage boxes that have been in their families for generations. According to Iqbal, around 30 per cent of his customers come to him with old or inherited furniture.

While older furniture is often made from stronger wood, years of use can weaken its joints, damage its base or loosen the fittings. Polishing is among the most common requests, but some customers are particular about retaining the original material and design, even when repairs become expensive.

“Even if the wood is broken, they ask us to use the same wood, despite it being expensive. They want the same look and feel,” says Iqbal.

Matching the original wood and craftsmanship can sometimes cost more than buying new furniture. Yet, for many of his customers, changing the appearance is not an option.

Iqbal recalls a customer who repeatedly brought in his grandfather's chair for repairs. Eventually, the chair became too weak to withstand regular use. Rather than discard it, the man placed it in his room, where it remains unused.

“Most of them want to preserve the original look, which is a really difficult job to do,” Iqbal explains.

For some customers, restoring furniture means making it usable again. For others, like the man with his grandfather's chair, simply being able to keep it is enough.

Family heirlooms

Not every possession is kept because of memories of someone who has passed away. Some are preserved because they have become part of a family's traditions, passed from one generation to another with the expectation that the next will care for them just as carefully.

For 68-year-old Naila Latif, that responsibility came in the form of a gold necklace that, according to her family's history, dates back to 1928. For generations, it has been passed from a mother-in-law to the eldest daughter-in-law. Naila was the fourth generation to receive it, and she has since handed it over to her eldest son’s wife.

The necklace has three gold coins on either side, with stones and beads arranged between them and a traditional gold design at the centre. Rather than hanging from a gold chain, it is held together by a thread, a detail the family has deliberately preserved.

Over the years, the necklace has been polished occasionally, and the thread has been replaced once. But changing its original appearance has never been considered necessary.

When Naila received it as a new bride, her mother-in-law explained its history and the tradition associated with it. Years later, Naila found herself having the same conversation with her daughter-in-law, explaining where the necklace had come from and why it needed to be kept safe. “You don't realise it when it's passed on, but in a way, it keeps the family ties strong and preserves the family history,” she says.

While Naila’s family necklace has changed hands for nearly a century, 39-year-old Areeba Iqbal's attachment to her grandmother's brass paandaan began with childhood visits.

Whenever Areeba visited her grandmother, she was fascinated by the hexagonal brass container, decorated with traditional designs reminiscent of the pre-Partition era. She remembers being asked to bring it to her grandmother and then watching as she prepared paan, taking ingredients from its separate compartments.

Iqbal had wanted the paandaan since childhood. Two years ago, when her grandmother, now in her 90s, received a new steel one from her son, she decided to give the old brass container to the granddaughter who had always admired it.

“Although I don't use it, having it with me is a dream come true,” says Areeba.

She keeps it in her room and occasionally opens it to revisit those childhood memories. Karachi's weather means the brass requires regular attention, so every four to six months she takes it to a jeweller for polishing, with specific instructions not to rub too hard and damage its decorative patterns.

Areeba hopes to pass the paandaan to her daughter one day, along with the stories of how her grandmother used it. For Naila, passing on the necklace means continuing an established family tradition. For Areeba, it is a chance to begin one of her own.

The voices that remain

When Shahid Ismail's father returned to Pakistan from the United Kingdom in the 1960s, he brought home a reel-to-reel tape recorder with two large circular reels and a set of speakers. Such machines were rare in Pakistan at the time, and for Ismail, who was around eight years old, it soon became a source of fascination. His father would use it to record conversations at home, sometimes asking his children to speak into it, tell stories or simply talk to one another.

Nearly six decades later, the 70-year-old still has the machine, along with many of the recordings his father made. What began as ordinary family conversations have become some of his most treasured possessions, particularly since his father's death.

The tapes contain the voices of Ismail and his siblings as children, their conversations and stories, and moments when their father would offer advice about life. At the time, the children did not always understand what he was trying to teach them. It was only years later, as they grew older and began dealing with the responsibilities of adult life, that some of those conversations started to make sense.

“Some of the things our father told us didn't seem useful back then. But now, as adults, we can relate to what he was saying,” says Ismail.

Listening to the recordings also brings back memories of the family being together. The voices may be older recordings, but for Ismail, they still carry the familiarity of those childhood days. “It feels like I go back to those days, sitting in the same room with all my siblings,” he says.

Keeping the recorder working, however, has become increasingly difficult. The machine occasionally jams because of wear and tear in its internal components, while the tapes themselves have become fragile with age. Some portions of the recordings have already been lost because of damage, despite Ismail's efforts to repair and preserve them.

For years, the family has relied on the same technician to keep the machine running. Fareed Hassan, now 65, repaired the recorder when it belonged to the senior Ismail and continues to look after it. After repeated visits for a particular fault, Hassan even taught him how to fix the problem himself.

Hassan has been repairing tape recorders for more than 30 years. He first became familiar with the equipment while living in Saudi Arabia. After returning to Pakistan, he began experimenting with repairs at a time when such machines were expensive and owners preferred fixing them rather than purchasing replacements. He eventually opened his own repair shop.

Today, repairing these machines requires considerably more effort. Many of the components used in older tape recorders are no longer manufactured, leaving Hassan dependent on whatever spare parts he can find. He has kept several old machines in his workshop, removing components from them whenever another recorder needs repairing.

“There are some parts which I make myself to keep the tape recorder working,” he explains.

Even that is not always enough. Hassan says there are occasions when he tells customers their machines cannot be repaired because the necessary parts are unavailable. Some become upset and insist that he try again, prompting him to look for alternatives or make replacement components. Such work can take considerable time, particularly because he must avoid damaging other ageing parts.

His children also work with him, but their attention is largely on newer electronics, including LCD televisions, mobile phones and sound systems. Hassan understands why. Repairing older equipment is time-consuming and generally less profitable. Still, he continues because he has seen how much these possessions mean to their owners.

“I feel the emotions attached to people who want their old things repaired, and that is why I do it,” he says, although he is uncertain how much longer he will be able to continue.

Ismail, meanwhile, has already transferred his family recordings into digital form to protect what remains of them. But he has no intention of giving up the original recorder. He wants his children and grandchildren to experience the recordings through the same machine that once filled his childhood home with familiar voices.

“Now we send thousands of voice notes, and they get lost somewhere among all the others,” he says. “Things like these tapes are gold.”

What we leave behind

What happens to these possessions when the people who have cared for them are no longer around is something their owners have also begun to consider. After spending years protecting old furniture, jewellery and household objects, many hope that the next generation will find a reason to keep them.

For Naila, that responsibility has already passed to her daughter-in-law, along with the gold necklace and the story behind it. Areeba, meanwhile, hopes her daughter will one day take care of the brass paandaan that she spent much of her childhood admiring. Whether her daughter will feel the same attachment to it remains to be seen, but Areeba wants her to know how it was used and why her grandmother treasured it.

Ismail has similar hopes for his father's tape recorder. Although he has preserved the recordings digitally, he wants his children and grandchildren to hear them on the original machine, just as he did growing up. Keeping it working may become more difficult with time, but for now, he continues to have it repaired.

For Ahmed, the question is what will become of his mother's bed. He believes his brothers and sons, who were equally close to her, will understand why he has kept it for so long. He hopes one of them will continue looking after it when he no longer can.

“My brothers share my sentiments and understand the emotional value of the bed,” he says. “My sons also loved and cared for their grandmother deeply.”

Ahmed has never been particularly concerned about how much it costs to maintain the bed. What matters to him is that it remains in the family, where the people who knew and loved his mother can continue to look after it.

For now, he is content knowing that whenever he wants to remember her, he still has something his mother once loved and was so proud to call her own.