My first retail job in Australia was selling perfumes and garments at a department store, where I met many amazing people of all ages and backgrounds. But I never was a “brand-conscious” buyer, and I couldn’t afford to shop there once I left the place without my staff discount.
So, on a recent stroll through some of Melbourne’s thrift shops, I came across an old carrom board. It was sitting in the corner behind a stack of lamps and half-broken toys – the wood faded, the net pockets a little torn and the striker missing. Most people would’ve walked right past it. But for me that board was like a doorway back to my childhood.
There’s something special about op-shops. They’re not just stores; they’re treasure chests of forgotten stories. For just $10, I brought home a piece of my past.
For anyone who doesn’t know, carrom is a tabletop game played on a square wooden board – somewhere between billiards and table shuffleboard – that’s hugely popular across south Asia. Players sit on the floor or low stools, flicking small wooden discs called “carrom men” into corner pockets using a heavier striker. There’s a red queen at the centre, worth the most points, and the aim is to sink your pieces before your opponent does.
But carrom is more than just a pastime, it’s part of the social fabric of the region, played by children and grandparents alike – often with the same battered board that has lasted for decades.
The moment I touched that board I could feel the smooth powder on my fingertips, just like the one we had at home growing up. Ours sat permanently in the living room, balanced on a table that was slightly too small. My cousins and I would crowd around it for hours, legs crossed, arguing over fouls and cheering when someone pocketed the queen.
The sound of a striker hitting the coins – tok, tok, tok – was the soundtrack of our summer evenings. Sometimes the electricity would go out, as it often did in Karachi, and we’d light candles to keep playing by the flickering light. Carrom was how we learned patience, teamwork and how to laugh at our mistakes. It was how cousins became friends and neighbours became family. Every game ended with good-natured teasing, a few mock fights and someone calling for “just one more round”.
When I wasn’t playing carrom, I was probably at the arcade near our street. Those machines were glowing worlds of sound and colour: Street Fighter, Metal Slug, Tekken. We’d save up coins or, if we were broke, use metal washers that could trick the machine into giving us a few extra minutes of play. Some kids swapped tokens, others borrowed or traded. I took it a step further by trading unwanted tokens for all sorts of foreign coins the kids had tried at the machines, to grow my vintage coin collection.
The weekend I brought the carrom board home, my kids were curious – they’d never seen anything like it. At first they were clumsy, flicking the striker too hard and sending it flying off the board. But soon they got the hang of it. The living room filled with laughter and shouts of victory, the same energy I remembered from years ago. For once, no one was glued to a screen.
It struck me how something so simple – wood, coins and powder – could hold so much joy. Watching my kids play, I felt like time had folded in on itself. The same game that filled my childhood days in Karachi was now echoing in our Melbourne home.
Perhaps that’s the quiet magic of op-shops. They connect the past and present in ways you don’t expect. Every object on those shelves has lived another life; a wedding dress worn once, a dinner set passed down through generations, a collection of books donated after someone’s move. When you buy something from an op-shop, you’re not just recycling – you’re keeping someone’s story going.
• Shadi Khan Saif is an editor, producer and journalist who has worked in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Germany and Australia
