The early years of Nandlal Kapur, the young Indian recruited as a British spy in the 1920s

Nandu didn’t have an office, so to say, in the cantonment. Instead, he had a table and a chair where old files, newspapers, and broken furniture were stored amidst dust and cobwebs. He sneezed every time he entered the damp and dusty room. That Sunday, on a broken chair, he spotted an old newspaper. The headline declared that Lala Lajpat Rai had succumbed to a head injury. He and others had been protesting against the Simon Commission when they were mercilessly beaten up by the British. Something twisted inside Nandu’s chest. He nearly threw up, just about managing to gulp the bitter bile that rose in his mouth. Anger and resentment leapt up in his heart. “They treat us like dogs. We are not even allowed to protest in our own country,” he murmured to himself. His jaw hardened as he said, “Someday, someday soon …” His voice trailed off; he was not quite sure what he could do. He clenched his fist and sat down to master Morse code.

Nandu felt a twinge of guilt brewing inside him. He was working for the British when people his age were fighting for the country’s freedom and embracing death. Brushing aside all thoughts...

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