On life in Sydney, spoilt milk, and the unexpected making of Rasgulla.
Now that I am in Bangalore, certain memories from our years in Sydney return in the most unexpected ways. Remembering those days in a funny light still brings a smile.
One of those memories is, surprisingly, a fridge.
We had just relocated to Sydney in 2015 for my husband’s project. The first few weeks were busy with all the practical tasks that come with beginning again — finding an apartment, buying furniture, choosing appliances, and trying to create a home in a new country.
Through friends, I learned that it was common for families on temporary assignments to buy second-hand appliances, especially if they planned to return once the project ended. I thought it was not a bad idea at all. We could save some relocation money and put it to better use elsewhere.
After some thorough research, I found an appliance shop in Burwood owned by a Chinese gentleman.
The trick, of course, was finding the right one.
Each appliance was priced according to age, but they were all cleaned, checked, and declared perfectly functional. It seemed like a wise and practical decision.
So, trusting my judgment, I chose two appliances — a refrigerator and a washing machine.
When they arrived, both worked perfectly well.
Until one fine day, the refrigerator decided to reveal its true nature.
That fridge kept me endlessly amused. It seemed to possess a personality entirely of its own. It had a unique way of adjusting its temperature according to the weather outside. If the weather was cold, the fridge became warm. If the weather turned warm, everything inside froze.
Vegetables would emerge so frozen that thawing them only spoiled the taste.
Thankfully, the freezer behaved normally, like the sensible member of the family.
The beeper, however, remained impressively disciplined. It gave me a strict ten-minute window to take something out or place something in. Not a second longer.
Life, of course, has its own sense of humour.
I tried to work with the fridge’s personality for a long time. It taught me to measure my requirements carefully — especially milk, vegetables, and anything easily perishable.
I remember feeling guilty every time the milk spoiled, while at the same time feeling oddly proud of myself for turning it into paneer.
I learned to buy vegetables in smaller quantities, to store them according to the fridge’s moods, and to cook just enough so there would be no leftovers.
I also discovered several paneer recipes for my foodie husband, who happily welcomed paneer in every possible form.
Perhaps the fridge taught me more than inconvenience.
It taught me adjustment, improvisation, and how humour can soften daily frustrations.
And in the end, it chose to leave on a sweet note.
The final spoiled milk led to the unexpected making of Rasgulla — a syrupy dessert made entirely from scratch.
No shortcuts. No ready-made mixes. Just patience, creativity, and one unreliable fridge.
Looking back now, I can only smile.
Some memories stay with us not because they were grand, but because they quietly became part of who we were in that season of life.