The Defining Eyes of the Artist — a preamble to Paritosh Sen’s A Tree in My Village

A Tree in My Village is a condensed English rendition of a vignette from Paritosh Sen’s Jindabahar. Entirely handwritten by the artist himself, Sen merged his refined calligraphy with detailed illustrations. Initially issued as a spiral-bound portfolio by the National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad, where Sen held the position of artist-in-residence, it was subsequently published by Tulika Publishers, Chennai, as a typeset book in 1998. The moss-green, coffee-table format was later released by Popular Prakashan, Mumbai, in 2006. Paritosh Sen, at the age of 88, formally inaugurated the publication during his painting exhibition held in April/May 2006 in Kolkata. To define Sen as a connoisseur of nature would be an understatement. His intricate depiction of the village where he was raised was not merely for literary flair but also a sign of his devotion to nature and its humanitarianism. The introductory remarks will support my claim: “Our village in Bangladesh was dotted with numerous ponds, lakes and canals. The rivers were not far either. During the monsoon, each home became an island. We had to row our little dinghy to visit our neighbours and to buy our provisions from the marketplace. Because of this abundance of water, strong sun and intensely humid climate, during most of the year, nature made Bengal into a great showpiece of its munificence. The astounding variety of lush tropical flora and fauna was like a Vedic hymn in praise of Creation.”

Early in this memoir, Sen introduced the Arjuna tree — the protagonist, if it can be called so — with a hint of his mind, which was not far from science despite his profound knowledge of the arts. Therefore, when he first mentioned the Arjuna tree, he noted its botanical name. Additionally, while describing the majestic tree, Sen integrated his inherent interest in history and architecture. Sen compared the tree to the Gomateshwara statue in Shravanabelagola, Karnataka, a significant Jain pilgrimage site. It’s a 57-foot sculpture of Lord Bahubali, one of the tallest monolithic figures in the world: “On the north eastern bank of the large pond, situated at the far extremity of our home, where we did all our bathing and washing, stood a giant Arjuna tree (Terminalia Arjuna), rising nearly a hundred feet in the sky and dominating the entire landscape. It was so huge, so dense, that it seemed like a small forest. Its thousand branches spread like outstretched arms in all directions. Its majestic height dwarfed every other tree in the village. Its powerful build, magnificent proportions and statuesque three-dimensionality were reminiscent of the monolithic ninth-century Jaina figure at Sravanabelgola in Mysore — one of the greatest landmarks in Indian classical sculpture.” Sen contemplated the age of the Arjuna tree and referenced the Great Temple of Abu Simbel, constructed by Pharaoh Ramesses II, situated in southern Egypt. This rock-cut temple is renowned for its four colossal statues of Ramesses adorning its façade. Sen combined historical truths and literary elements with exceptional finesse. “Looking at it, one got the impression that it was as old as the temple of Rameses the Great, erected on the golden sands of Nubia, nearly three millennia ago. It had such an air of eternity about it and it seemed to proclaim, ‘I was, I am, and I shall ever be.’” Submitting to societal hierarchies and remaining within the comfort zone are equally prevalent among humans as they are among other living entities. The towering Arjuna tree was a “world unto itself, as living and eventful as the human world, if not more so.” Nevertheless, as Sen noted in his memoir, the fauna communities thriving on the tree “seemed to be so happy living in it that they would not exchange it for any other place in the world.” He observed the prevailing order and realised a “complete social hierarchy prevailing from the top to the bottom of the tree. For example, the big buzzards occupied its crown. Immediately below nested the kites and the falcons. Then came the ravens and crows. In the next rung lived the green parrots, the kingfishers, the common mynahs, the robins, the tailor birds and so on.” Sen infused his characteristic sense of humour by filing the tree's “uncanny resemblance to a modern high-rise building, in which the more affluent own the best flats, enjoying light and air and the best view of the surrounding landscape.” What is an artist without compassion? What is an artist without a heart? A heart that naturally wells up for others in pain — for others in distress. At dusk, as the birds settled on the Arjuna tree, they often had trouble with their neighbours. Sen, with his deep attachment to the small birds, painted the narration with great empathy. Please check the use of “healing juice” from marigold leaves, which is still common in the countryside, for minor to moderate cuts and bruises:

“Such fights frequently ended up in a bloody mess. Sometimes I would discover a badly injured mynah or bulbul gasping behind a shrub that grew around the trunk of the tree. I would gently pick it up, carry it home and bandage its tender broken leg with a hot paste of white lime and turmeric. Or I would carefully clean its wound on the head with absorbent cotton and apply the healing juice of the marigold leaves. I would then feed it with earthworms and Bengal grams and soon nurse it back to health.” It is the eyes that define an artist. Eyes that perceive things differently — a gaze that visualises objects in ways most people can’t even imagine. It is then the brush or the colour that leaves an impression. Yet, it’s the eyes that truly make all the difference. In this candid memoir, Sen demonstrated this once again with remarkable skill, helping readers see his true gem: “It is a truism that the quality and direction of light inevitably bring about a change in the appearance and mood of an object. The transformation of the Arjuna tree during different hours of the day fascinated me endlessly. For example, when it caught the first rays of the sun, it looked like a great yogi in deep meditation facing the east, his right hand held in the posture of compassion, as one sees in a figure of Gautama Buddha, with flocks of common blue pigeons circling it as if in obeisance. During high noon when the sun is overhead, the harsh mercury-white light and the lamp-black shadows so accentuated its three-dimensionality that it not only looked much larger than its actual size but also fierce and aggressive, ready to take on the legendary demons like Sumbha and Nisumbha, Taraka and Puloma, and the others who rocked Heaven itself. And in the light of the setting sun, the tree would assume the form of a royal charioteer ready to set off in his many-splendored vehicle towards the western horizon.” A Tree in My Village is Sen’s boyhood celebration in print, depicted through calligraphy and illustrations, with multiple objectives. Although readers get a chance to explore his childhood fun times: Sen's narration of the tug-of-war between the black and red ants, the ghostly events involving his cousin, or the sudden disappearance of Jogesh Bhatial, the village folk singer, from the canal behind the Arjuna tree, the book fundamentally emphasises one of the core principles of civilization: a dignified coexistence. This coexistence entails humans, flora, non-human living beings, and even spirits residing as neighbours, flourishing together in various ways until disrupted by unforeseen intruders. Although the book is part of Sen's autobiography, it also aligns well with the fields of Eco-literature and nature studies, effectively communicating its message to a wider audience: “It was under the Arjuna tree I first became aware of the mysteries and wonders of creation. It was there also that I learned another fundamental truth — the inalienable right of all life to co-exist. This right was commonly respected except at moments when hunger and the instinct for survival drove them to acts of aggression.”