Ministry of Other People’s Sons by Susmita Mukherjee

Every respectable nation has a Ministry of Something Important. The Republic of Grand Intentions had a Ministry of Agriculture, although its farmers regularly demonstrated outside it with empty sacks; a Ministry of Labour, where very few people had ever laboured; a Ministry of Health, which advised citizens to remain healthy while hospitals ran short of beds; and, naturally, a Ministry of Peace, housed in the largest government building in the capital and consulted mainly on ceremonial occasions. It also had a Department of Necessary Sacrifices, an institution so indispensable that nobody could remember when it had been established. Its official responsibility was to explain why sons had been sent to distant borders, daughters were working in factories producing military supplies, villages had been reduced to rubble, and bread had become a luxury. Above the entrance, in letters of gold, was the departmental motto: YOUR SUFFERING IS PROOF OF YOUR PATRIOTISM.

Generalissimo Prosper V. Magnificent adored the motto. He had it printed on school notebooks, army blankets, postage stamps and packets of biscuits. An attempt to print it on currency was abandoned after the Finance Minister pointed out that the national currency was already losing value fast enough without being burdened by patriotism. The Generalissimo was offended, ordered his portrait onto the notes instead and considered the matter settled.

He had never fought in a war. During his military career, he had once visited a training camp during a thunderstorm and been photographed holding an umbrella while sixteen cadets stood behind him in the rain. The photograph was enlarged, framed and displayed in military museums beneath the caption THE COMMANDER WHO STOOD WITH HIS MEN. Nobody mentioned the umbrella.

The President had come to power promising that the Republic would never again be humiliated by its neighbours. Humiliation was a useful political word because it could not be weighed, measured or independently verified. He spoke of wounded pride, historic destiny and the sacred soil of his ancestors, although the particular soil he had in mind belonged to a neighbouring country whose borders had moved several times over the previous century. Government historians produced maps proving that the disputed valley had always belonged to the Republic. Historians who produced maps proving the opposite were no longer employed.

For a while, Magnificent had been satisfied with opening bridges. He had cut ribbons at twelve of them and appeared in newspapers beside fourteen others. Bridges were useful, but they had become inadequate to his ambition. Nobody carved a bridge-opener into a mountain. Nobody composed patriotic songs about the twelfth bridge. Nobody invited a man who opened bridges to military conferences where men with medals listened gravely while he spoke.

War offered better possibilities. It supplied uniforms, medals, maps covered with arrows, solemn music, military bands and enormous photographs. A politician could acquire historical importance without constructing anything that might later require maintenance. Domestic problems could also be rearranged to suit the occasion. Rising unemployment became an opportunity for military recruitment; increasing food prices became evidence of wartime sacrifice; overcrowded hospitals became proof that soldiers were sleeping in trenches to protect the nation. When journalists asked why billions had been spent on weapons while schools still had leaking roofs, they were accused of lacking patriotism, which was considerably cheaper than answering them.

The Generalissimo summoned his advisers.

“Can we have a war?” he asked.

His Foreign Minister hesitated. “There is no immediate justification.”

“Then find one.”

The Defence Minister cleared his throat. “We have several historical grievances.”

“How old?”

“Some are four hundred years old.”

“Too old?”

“On the contrary. They have had plenty of time to become sacred.”

Three weeks later, the Republic announced that it had been forced into war. The President appeared before the nation in a dark uniform decorated with medals nobody had seen him earn. Behind him stood generals whose expressions had been carefully arranged between solemnity and obedience. He spoke for forty-two minutes about peace. The Republic, he explained, had exhausted every alternative. He had prayed, consulted historians and military experts, and listened to several elderly men with impressive beards. All had agreed that the only remaining road to peace was through a sufficient quantity of explosives.

“We do not seek war,” he declared. “History has chosen us.”

History, which had not been consulted, remained silent.

Among the first soldiers sent to the border was Private Arjun Das, nineteen years old, who had joined the army after his father’s small workshop closed. The recruitment officer had mentioned regular meals, a uniform and the possibility of a government pension. Nobody had mentioned artillery. Arjun had a younger sister preparing for an examination and a mother whose knees had begun to trouble her. Before he left, she packed sweets into his bag although sugar had become expensive. His father stood beside the door with the expression of a man who had run out of useful advice. Arjun promised to return before the festival.

At the border he discovered that patriotism weighed considerably less than a rifle and lasted considerably longer on television.

The government called the soldiers heroes before any of them had done anything heroic. Their photographs appeared on billboards beneath slogans about courage. Families received letters informing them that their sons were defending civilisation. The letters were printed on expensive paper. None contained information about when the soldiers would return.

Arjun’s first letter home was four pages long. He described the cold, the food and a sergeant who snored. His mother was not told about the first shelling, and his sister was spared the story of the young soldier who died beside a road. There were some sounds that did not belong in family letters, particularly the sound of a frightened man calling for his mother.

In the capital, the President began receiving invitations. Foreign governments wanted photographs with him, international broadcasters wanted interviews and newspapers called him decisive. A professor of geopolitical studies announced that Magnificent possessed a rare understanding of the psychology of war. Asked to explain this understanding, the professor said that the President had correctly predicted that war would create national unity. He was immediately appointed to a government committee.

Meanwhile, the Department of Necessary Sacrifices was working overtime. Its director, Sir Percival Proper, was a thin man with an excellent education and no military experience. He had never fired a weapon, but he could pronounce artillery terms in three languages. Each morning, he received casualty figures and converted them into acceptable language. Dead soldiers became “completed national obligations.” Destroyed homes became “temporary residential disruptions.” Refugees became “patriotic relocations.” Starving civilians became “participants in wartime austerity.” A failed military operation became a “strategic learning event.”

One morning, an assistant entered his office carrying a casualty report.

“Two hundred civilians have been killed, sir.”

Sir Percival looked up from his tea. “Two hundred?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can we make that sound smaller?”

The assistant studied the report.

“Two hundred instances of civilian sacrifice?”

“Too honest.”

“Collateral national contribution?”

“Better.”

“Most were children.”

Sir Percival sighed.

“Then omit the demographic details.”

His staff admired his vocabulary.

The Department soon issued a booklet entitled Understanding Sacrifice for Citizens. Page fourteen contained a photograph of a burning house beneath the caption OUR HOMES ARE WHERE OUR COURAGE LIVES. Page twenty-three advised citizens to reduce bread consumption because wheat was needed by the army. Page thirty-one instructed them to remain optimistic. Page thirty-two announced another increase in the price of bread.

The poor were particularly encouraged to remain optimistic. They had the most experience.

Near the frontier, optimism had become difficult.

Pushpa lived in a village once known for its vegetable market and a temple beneath an old banyan tree. Her husband repaired bicycles, her eldest son worked in a garage, and her younger children went to school. Nobody in the family had ever drawn a border on a map, attended a diplomatic conference or appeared on television to discuss national destiny.

After the bombardment, Pushpa’s house had no roof. Her husband was missing. Her eldest son joined the army. The younger children learned to identify aircraft by sound. Government notices described the village as a temporary inconvenience. Pushpa called it home. The distinction mattered to her.

In the capital, the war remained remarkably comfortable. The President’s residence had several layers of security, thick windows and a private generator. Cabinet ministers attended meetings on carpets imported from countries that officially supported neutrality. Their children studied abroad. Their drivers carried emergency fuel. Their refrigerators contained food that did not appear in ordinary shops.

At one cabinet meeting, the Finance Minister announced that the treasury was nearly empty.

“Can we borrow more?” asked the President.

“From whom?”

“Anyone who likes us.”

“Nobody likes us.”

“Then anyone who dislikes our enemies.”

The proposal was praised as an imaginative financial policy. A loan was obtained. The war continued.

President Victor Ironov of the neighbouring Republic discovered that war was useful to him too. His popularity had been falling, his economy was failing, and citizens had begun asking whether another government might be worth trying. He announced that Grand Intentions had threatened the survival of his nation. His advisers reminded him that there had been no such threat.

“Then we must explain the threat better,” he said.

He called his citizens to defend the motherland.

The motherland, like the fatherland, was always remarkably enthusiastic about receiving the bodies of young men.

Both presidents spoke of honour. Both invoked history. Both promised never to surrender. Neither had asked the mothers. The war became a contest between two men who could not afford to lose and two populations that could not afford to continue.

Newspaper maps showed territory gained and lost each week. The arrows moved backwards and forward. Television commentators celebrated every movement. A village captured on Monday was liberated on Thursday and recaptured on Saturday. The same ruined railway station appeared in photographs under three different captions. The dead, being incapable of changing sides, were not included on the maps.

Arjun survived the first year. He survived the second. By then, the boy who had left home with sweets in his bag had learned how quickly a human body could become an object. He had seen men die while shouting for their mothers and watched soldiers search the pockets of dead enemies for cigarettes, photographs and identity papers. Once, he carried an injured enemy soldier to a medical post because the man was young, bleeding and frightened, and because the words he used when calling for his mother were the same words Arjun’s own mother used when she worried about him. One of his comrades later asked why he had helped an enemy.

“He was dying,” Arjun said.

His comrade laughed. “That’s what happens in war.”

Arjun looked at him. “That’s what happens to people.”

The army eventually gave him a medal. He kept it in a drawer.

Pushpa received a letter informing her that her eldest son had been killed while defending the nation. The letter congratulated her on her family’s contribution to history. She read it twice. Then she went to the government office and asked when she would receive his body. The clerk consulted a file.

“Madam, the remains are still being identified.”

“Where?”

“At the military facility.”

“Can I see him?”

“That may not be possible.”

“Then give me his things.”

“There is a standard procedure.”

Pushpa stared at him.

“My son was not standard.”

The clerk looked down at the desk. He had no form for this.

After five years, the war had produced enough dead people for both governments to claim victory. Generalissimo Magnificent announced that the enemy had been decisively weakened. President Ironov announced that the enemy had been decisively repelled. The diplomats announced that both sides had shown admirable restraint. The generals announced that military strength had made diplomacy possible. The economists announced that financial exhaustion had made both possible.

The widows said nothing.

Finally, a peace agreement was signed in a magnificent hall. The two presidents shook hands for the cameras. Each had privately instructed his staff to ensure that his country’s flag appeared slightly larger in the photographs. They praised courage, sacrifice and peace. The agreement was called the Historic Peace Accord. Both men claimed credit for it. Magnificent said his military pressure had forced the enemy to negotiate. Ironov said his military resistance had forced the enemy to negotiate. The diplomats said diplomacy had made peace possible. The dead, having made no statement, were not quoted. Peace returned slowly.

Soldiers came home carrying medals, injuries and habits that did not fit easily into civilian life. Some could not sleep. Some drank. Some avoided crowded streets. Some discovered that the country which had called them heroes now found them inconvenient.

Factories did not reopen immediately. Fields did not repair themselves. Roofs did not rise from rubble. The dead did not return because the war was over.

Arjun came home three years after his mother had stopped asking when he would return. His father had died. His sister had left school and found work in a factory making uniforms. The workshop had been demolished to make space for a military warehouse. His mother recognised him immediately and then touched his face, checking without words whether all of him had come back.

That night she asked whether the war had been worth it. Arjun had spent years learning that some questions were heavier than rifles.

“No,” he said.

She did not ask anything more.

Pushpa returned to the village where her house had stood. A concrete foundation remained, along with a broken cooking pot and a tree that had survived the shelling. She planted flowers beside it. When her younger daughter asked whether they would build another house, Pushpa said, “One day.”

The government had already built a monument nearby. It was enormous. At its centre stood a bronze soldier holding a rifle and staring heroically toward the horizon. Beneath him were engraved the words: THEY GAVE EVERYTHING FOR THE NATION. The monument had cost more than rebuilding the village. Nobody considered this a contradiction.

Generalissimo Magnificent retired three years later. His memoir, My War for Peace, became an international bestseller. Six hundred pages contained speeches, maps, photographs and explanations, but not one admission of error. Universities that had once criticised him awarded him honorary degrees. Conferences on conflict resolution invited him to speak. His fee for a single lecture exceeded the annual income of several families who had lost their homes in his war.

He died peacefully in his bed at eighty-two. Three days of national mourning were declared. Television stations broadcast his speeches throughout the night. Foreign dignitaries attended the funeral. The President’s successor described him as a giant of history. Nobody mentioned the umbrella. Nobody mentioned Pushpa. Nobody mentioned the soldier who had died with a photograph of his children in his pocket. Nobody mentioned Arjun’s mother.

History had no difficulty remembering Generalissimo Magnificent. It remembered his speeches, medals, treaties and portraits. It remembered his famous declaration that the Republic would never bow. History was less interested in the people who had bowed beneath collapsing roofs.

Years later, the Department of Necessary Sacrifices was closed. The government announced that the nation had entered a new era. A smaller department was immediately established. It was called the Department of National Memory. Its first project was a museum celebrating the war.

The museum was magnificent. Uniforms, medals, flags and maps filled its galleries. One exhibit reconstructed a trench with realistic sound effects; visitors could press a button and hear artillery fire. Children were encouraged to take photographs beside a tank. At the exit stood a gift shop. It sold miniature medals, toy soldiers and mugs bearing the Generalissimo’s face. Commemorative editions of My War for Peace occupied an entire shelf. Above the cash counter was an inscription: NEVER FORGET. A schoolboy visiting the museum stopped before a wall covered with photographs of generals.

“Where are the people?” he asked.

His teacher looked at the photographs. No mothers were waiting outside hospitals, no children beneath school desks, no farmers beside burned fields, no soldiers writing letters they would never finish, no fathers carrying photographs of sons who had become names on stone. The teacher pointed towards a display case.

“Those are the heroes.”

The boy looked at the medals.

“Who gave them the medals?”

The teacher had no answer.

Outside, Pushpa sat beneath the old banyan tree in the rebuilt village, watching her grandchildren play beside the flowers she had planted on the foundation of her house. Arjun had found work repairing machines in another city. His letters were short. He never mentioned the army.

In the capital, a new President was preparing his first speech. He had been elected on a promise to restore the nation’s greatness. His advisers were already arranging the photographs. The Defence Minister had found an old map. The Foreign Minister had discovered a historical grievance. The Finance Minister had discovered that the treasury was nearly empty.

Somewhere in the basement, the Department of Necessary Sacrifices still had its old printing press. Nobody had remembered to switch it off.

Susmita Mukherjee