India, Nov. 16 -- "You were engaged in a deeply intellectual conversation on his reverse ageing," pinged this author's phone with several photos and this text, suitably punctuated by winks and smileys. The sender, a friend's son, had to indulge in a bout of mandatory leg-pulling after being drenched in affection less than a few hours. Oh, the ungrateful youth! Those photographs from the special screening of Farhan Akhtar's latest film, 120 Bahadur, based on the Battle of Rezang La fought between Indian and Chinese soldiers on November 18, 1962, may suggest otherwise, but the film indeed demands something pretentiously intellectual. (I get to rehash my seminar notes here.) This isn't a review of the latest war film from the makers of Lakshya, arguably one of the best in the genre, because of a conflict of interest, but an inquiry. Why do films based on wars become a big deal in countries like India? A simple answer is because wars are a big deal. Everywhere and across time. "War is the father of all and the king of all; some he has made gods, and some men; some slaves and some free," pronounced Heraclitus, the Greek philosopher. Wars - like crises in general - are moments of testing and redefinition of identity. They force individuals and nations to confront who they believe they are, and who they wish to become. "Pretentious" scholarship supports this view. Historian Hans-Ulrich Wehler, for instance, argued in 1985 that wars reinforce the bond between State institutions and national identity. India's post-Independence wars with its neighbours have produced a surge of pride that embedded the armed forces deeply into the country's post-war nationalism. Memorials, parades, and patriotic cinema have become not just commemorations, but rituals of belonging. Anthony D Smith, a scholar of nationalism, notes that nations sustain themselves through shared myths and memories that link past, present, and future in a continuous thread of meaning. For any attempt to deconstruct the nationalistic fervour that pervades almost every corner of India's political, cultural, and intellectual landscape today, tracing its narrative roots is required. To understand the nationalism of today, one must revisit the nationalism of yesterday. This echoes Nietzsche's idea that history exists "for the purpose of life". National identity thrives on stories - those we tell about ourselves and those we choose to remember. Cultural mythmaking, moral exceptionalism, and a sense of righteous pride together fuel the imagination of the nation. Storytelling, then, is not incidental to nationalism - it is its very lifeblood. Stories give coherence to history and legitimacy to collective identity. In India, this dynamic is visible everywhere from political rhetoric and cinema to textbooks and street names. Primo Levi, reflecting on the aftermath of war, reminded us that storytelling is both an ethical act and a means of survival. Nations, too, rely on stories not necessarily because they are accurate, but because they make emotional and moral sense. The line between fact and myth blurs; what matters is what feels true. In South Asia, where India remains locked in recurring tensions with China and Pakistan, Charles Tilly's famous dictum - "war makes States and States make war" - takes on new meaning. In postcolonial contexts, wars not only consolidate States but also reshape how nations see themselves. India's nationhood, like that of many others, rests not merely on institutions or borders, but on the stories it tells about courage, sacrifice, and righteousness. Films, memorials, and cultural rituals are the modern temples where these myths are renewed. They don't just celebrate history; they transform it into moral destiny. As scholars Rieber and Kelly noted, nations often define themselves by imagining an "enemy". And India's cinematic and cultural portrayals of mostly Pakistan, with a smattering of China, have long played that role. Nationalism, in the end, is both imposed and internalised. It lives in the State, but also in the stories ordinary people carry within. And in decoding these stories, whether through film, literature, or memory, we begin to understand not only what the nation is, but what it believes itself to be. So, whether Farhan Akhtar physiologically resembles the legendary officer Major Shaitan Singh, who led 120 soldiers during the last stand against China in 1962, whether the film has recreated the fight scenes convincingly (it has), whether the dialogues are more performative than realistic, the film is a competent reflection of our national preoccupations and anxieties. Such films do not necessarily lend themselves to aesthetic evaluation, but become a case study on how narrative forms produce a sense of civic righteousness and emotional consensus. This, also, is the way nationalism operates: Creating and believing in an idea that people like us in situations like ours once attempted great things against all odds. Things greater than reverse ageing....