FAITH IN LIFE: Paritosh Sen. A Telegraph picture

“Except for venereal disease, I have suffered from everything, including pleurisy, slipped disc and several bouts of malignant malaria, right from my days in Indore,” says Paritosh Sen, whose 88th birthday is being celebrated on September 26.

Galerie 88 has chosen to mark the occasion by organising an exhibition of 88 of his works painted over the past year. Age, a bad back and bronchial problems notwithstanding, Sen still produces a prodigious number of paintings — 130 works in a year — working four hours everyday with short breaks in between. His fingers were flecked with paint at eight in the evening when I met him.

“My technique is such that I am a very fast worker. My experience of over 60 to 70 years is a valuable asset. It has given me a certain facility,” says Sen, whose works are anchored to his powerful drawings that often bristle with satire and can distort form till it is close to caricature, but not quite. Sen’s robust sense of humour and zest for life — his paintings exude a joie de vivre rare in Indian artists — are amazing. “I avoid drinking cold water yet I am often down with bronchitis, when the doctor prescribes antibiotics which riddle your body,” says Sen who was born in Dhaka.

Yet he is not complaining. “If I am active for 300 days in a 365-day year you can’t sniff at that,” says Sen, who is still ramrod straight and maintains a strict regimen.

But he has no patience for the degeneration of the quality of life in Calcutta. “Quality of life? There is no quality of life here. Here, the population is overwhelming. Delhi is a radial city. Calcutta, on the other hand, is squeezed between a river and waterbodies. Moreover, it is economically backward. Things became worse with the influx of refugees,” exclaims Sen.

Yet, Calcutta had a tradition of its own, he asserts. What is worth the mention is that Bengalis publish little magazines on literary matters. But we are losing this spirit. When Taslima Nasrin was threatened at a recent rally in Dharamtala, nobody made a murmur of protest, although they went to town on Nandigram and Singur. Apart from a few things, we have nothing to be proud of, says Sen.

He is more impatient than angry. “What is this thing called Bangla band? It goes against all our traditions. The environment in one’s family is to blame for this. Only Hindi film music is heard in every house today,” says Sen, who also bemoans the steady decline of Bengali films since the death of Satyajit Ray.

Critical he may be, yet this octogenarian is no naysayer. There is adequate proof of that in his street dogs, horny goats, busty women, sadhus sporting dark glasses and squawking chicken headed for the table. He has faith in life.