“ Ebaba, when did the clock stop working?” I distinctly remember taking a rather dramatic pause before quipping in, “ At exactly the time the clock shows”. Everyone was ardently suckling on mango seeds (a common Bengali ritual during summer) when Ma realised the clock was stuck. The old pendulum clock that sat in our drawing cum living cum bed cum dining room needed frequent winding. One of the most significant formative memories from my childhood involves a joke, and a very good one if you were to ask an eight-year-old me. Editorial Note: Being Feminist is a fortnightly column that features personal narratives documenting the emotions, vulnerabilities and innermost contradictions every feminist encounters while trying to push through various degrees of patriarchy in private, professional and public spaces.
