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 of what could be and what was, he concentrated on the dashes and the dots, and then moved his hand rhythmically on a lever attached to the wooden machine. His ears were filled with the beeps, both the small and long ones. He listened hard to identify the five distinct sounds and increased his speed. He had to memorize the alphabet before cycling home. Focus, Nandu, focus!

Back home, dinner was a ritual that no one could escape. Papaji would sit down, evoke the name of the deity and say thanks for the meal. Next to him would sit his eldest son and then the two younger boys. Their mother, Prito, would stand beside the kitchen door, watchful of everyone’s plate, stepping in to fill up the bowls with dal, or put a hot roti or two on the plates while instructing the housemaid to hurry up.

Occasionally, she would step in to put on their plates some pickle or sweet that she had made in the afternoon. She would always pull her dupatta over her head and walk noiselessly.

Dinner was also the time when Papaji would discuss important issues pertaining to the family, the village, the farmland and, occasionally, politics. Mostly though, he avoided the topic. He was cautious about his sons not getting caught up in politics. The last thing he wanted was to see them jailed or losing their lives in a shootout or lathi-charge.

That night, Nandu carefully broke his roti with two fingers, cleared his throat and addressed his father. “Papaji, I think I have got a job.”

“Yes? Go on,” said Papaji. “Where?”

“Nearby. In Lalaji’s shop. A friend of mine arranged it. I will have to be there till the afternoon. After that, I will go to the cantonment to write some letters, sort the post, maybe take dictation from a junior officer. Lalaji will pay me two rupees per week. I will also get some money from the cantonment. I am not sure how much, but I am hoping it will be eight to ten rupees.”

Papaji chewed contemplatively on a piece of roti. “Good, very good. That means around twenty rupees per month. I was not sure if you would like to sit in a shop and sell clothes. But if that is what you want, go ahead.”

“I am not fond of selling, but I want to learn the trade so that I can have a shop of my own someday. Maybe I can employ people, too. Plus, the money isn’t bad. We can start some repair work in the house with the extra cash. This season, the crops were not good either. And I don’t know how long the local mill will buy our mustard to press oil. The economy of our country is on shaky ground.”

Papaji looked at his wife. “Prito, our son has grown up. He talks about responsibilities and the economy. I think we have brought him up well!” he said with a smile and picked up the tumbler of buttermilk.

The youngest born, Balraj, who was usually quiet, mustered up the courage and addressed his eldest brother.

“Paaji, when you get your salary, will you buy me a cricket bat? I don’t like borrowing one from Jagjit. He gives it to me, but then he acts as if he is doing me a favour.”

Nandu laughed out loud. “Sure, I will. But both you and Dhyanchand need to go to the field and oversee the labourers from now on as I might not have much time. Bebe, I want you to please pack some lunch for me. Two rotis and a bit of pickle will do. You will pack a small box, won’t you?”

Prito Devi smiled. “Your lunch box might also have halwa on some days.”

“I want halwa, too!” Balraj chimed in.

Everyone laughed. Ballu, as Balraj was fondly called, loved his food. The dollops of fat hanging on him were evidence enough. The youngest in the family, he was thoroughly pampered by everyone.

Later that night, Nandu decided to sleep in the open and not in the crowded room with his brothers. He wanted to think. Some careful planning needed to be done. As he pulled his razai around him, he heaved a sigh of relief. So far, everything was going as planned. Everyone was happy, and nothing gave him more contentment than seeing his family smiling and enjoying a meal together.

Nandu started calculating how he would divide his day. He needed to visit the farmland, too. He could not simply dump the responsibility on his younger brothers, especially since he knew that his father wouldn’t have the time either. He also counted how many months he had to learn the trade of silk clothes, coupled with his reading and the time he needed to master other skills. As an informer, he would have to learn how to shoot as well. The thought of holding a pistol made him nervous, yet it gave him an adrenaline rush. He only hoped that he would pass all the tests smoothly. Then, a life full of adventures would open before him, a life that he had always dreamt of.

The trees in the courtyard swayed with the wind. The rustling of the leaves lulled Nandu into deep sleep.

Excerpted with permission form The Silk Route Spy: The True Story of an Indian Double Agent, Enakshi Sengupta, HarperCollins India.